All Write, Already!

So Jess and her hubby are going to be travelling cross-country in order to visit family and friends, and will be staying with me & my chica here in Cleveland for a few days.
I am terribly excited about this, because it will be the first time I've seen her in years, and I'll finally meet her other half!
Therefore, let the topic be
Reunions!

The pages blur.
I turn up the radio, to drown out the sound of my teeth chattering.
It's got to be 10 degrees, maybe less, in here.
I've been going blind lately, so if I am to succeed, I need to put my glasses on.
My breath immediately fogs the lenses.
I pull them off, breathe heavily on them, wipe the condensation off with the back of my gloves, and perch them back on my nose.
The frames are freezing now. They stick to my temples, threatening to become a permanent fixture on my face.
I shiver again. The pages 0of the newspaper in my hands blur again.
Damn.
It's too cold in here to even read.

That commercial, that guy facing a hump?
He's supposed to get over it.
Well, I can't get over the fact that my life could be half over.
Today I turn thirty-seven
and I can see both halves from here.
The past, dead weight to some, is still alive
as I read last night. The dead live there still.
I'm alive on the hump as the flood waters rise,
waiting to drown in the future,
but the flotsam of the past litters the water
and I can only swim for so long.
I gulp air greedily, shallowly, and descend to the water.
It's cold.

In honor of the fact that I read some of the junk I wrote in front of a chilled audience Monday, the topic for Tuesday is

Cold Readings.

Have at it!

I'm obliged to write about rock concerts. Midnight Oil and They Might Be Giants played in what was then Sandstone, near Kansas City, in about 1993 or 1994 and definitely rocked my world! Both groups were at their peak, and I felt lucky to have seen them play. I saw TMBG one more time in the fall of '96 in Boston at a free show, and it wasn't nearly as cool. And now that Midnight Oil has officially broken up, we'll never see their like again.

I am sitting here, going through 7.2 days worth of classic rock in my iTunes database, listening to REO Speedwagon's Roll with the Changes. I love this band -- almost as much as I love Journey (see entries below) -- and I'm taken back to an amazing night when I saw REO, Bad Company, Foreigner and Styx performing at a benefit for victims of the WTC attacks on 9/11 and the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.
Rock to the Rescue was the name of the show, and they had a total of 30 different bands and artists perform two shows, first at the Meadowlands and then the following night at Cleveland's Gund Arena. I sat in the third row. I caught Tommy Shaw's guitar pick during "Boat on the River". I got to meet Edgar Winter, who stood next to me and sang along during a set by Sam Moore of Sam and Dave fame.
For a long time, I thought the greatest show I would ever go to in my life would have been the inaugural Rock Hall of Fame Show back in 1995, but I was wrong. Rock to the Rescue was simply an unbelievable, unforgettable show.
That being said, what was your favorite Rock Concert?

is "The King of Useless Trivia"
I have so much stupid, useless, inconsequential crap stuck in my brain:
What is the official name for Paraplegic Rugby?*
Did you know what the first official Gold Album was?**
What are Merlin's "Words of Power" in the film Excaliber?***
My brain is so full of this sort of ridiculous crap that it crowds out the stuff I need.

*it's called Murderball. No shit. Teams of four ram their wheelchairs against opponents while trying to carry a ball across the end of a basketball-sized court. Players must dribble the ball every 10 seconds. If the player's chair is stopped or overturned, the player must pass the ball to a teammate. Players are ranked by the amount of paralysis they suffer from, on a .5-ranked scale of 1 to 3, and teams must keep at least 8 points-worth of players on the floor at all times.

**an Edison cylinder recording of Enrico Caruso singing O, Sole Mio!

***Annal Nathrak, Uvos Bethud, Dokiel Dienveh!

Television fanatics!
I can barely spend ten minutes
watching a slice of DVD,
while they hunker under pillows,
overstuffed like couches,
absorbing their celebrity du jure.
To be honest
I get plenty of that
mumbo jumbo
lounging at odd angles in office chairs
via CRT rays.
I call mine "responsive entertainment"
because I decide what to watch or read
or even post
but in the end the information I pursue
still amounts to distraction.

Today's topic is Trivia.

Maybe I should have used small font.

Okay. Here are my demands.

I demand that other people besides BlankPhotog and myself post in this journal.

I demand that people hiring through jobs posted on the internet send thank you letters and acknowledge receipt of your resume and coverletter.

I demand that the US withdraw all but a skeleton crew from Iraq.

I demand that we get back in the routine of actually posting every day. I will hold myself accountable to this demand if these demands are met.

I demand that news about Michael Jackson be banned from the front page. Gossip columns and the interior of the Arts section are more than good enough for that slimeball.

I demand that the current US Administration, including Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert, Majority Leader Tom Delay, and the entire RNC resign, effective immediately.

I demand at least two more scoops of raisins in my Raisin Bran.

I demand that the rest of you list your demands.

Now!

Today's topic is Demands.

Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill!

-S.

I've always rebelled against the Wearin' O' The Green and the wretched excess that accompanies St. Patrick's Day, for a number of reasons:
1. I'm a quarter Irish, but I'm 100% Episcopalian. Good old C-of-E. Strains of Monty Python wave through my mind as I think of growing up at the local Cathedral. I wore Orange, of course, and got ridiculed by my classmates, who didn't understand.
2. Today is one of the holiest days on an Irish calendar. Today is meant to be spent in solemn contemplation, fasting and prayer. In Dublin today, everyone is at church, and most of the bars are closed until sundown. Tourists are, to be sure, very surprised and disapointed.
3. I may be a quarter Irish, but I also trace back to Pictish and Celtic roots. The "snakes" that our beloved St. Patty drove from Ireland, were, in fact, Celtic Druids and holy men, who were massacred by Patrick and his band of zealots. March 17th is the last day of their crusade, the day the high druid died, burned on a stake while being put to the question. We Christians sure were an awfully knid and considerate bunch, eh? Still are, if we use our American Christian President as an example of strong faith and moral turpitude...
4. I think the green dye they put in the Bud Light tastes really nasty, and it gives me the runs. Nothing like a case of the green squirts.
5. My skin looks strange when I wear green. I get all pale and pasty, like I'm undead or something. Great for movie-making, terrible for everything else. When I was a kid, my mom bought me a dark green suit. It cost nearly $50 -- in 1977 that was an awful lot of money -- and I wore it twice, because I just looked ghastly in it.

I'll be celebrating St. Paddy's day at work, where I earn the green.
Since I'm an eighth Irish, I feel that's enough.
It's also where I spread the most blarney.
This morning I dreamt I'd been offered an off-track promotion, the whole desk had gone wireless and moved into a one-story breakroom, and I'd been told by a paraplegic director that I smelled good as she grabbed my neck and held it as long as she was allowed. I told another woman that I finally felt we were doing great, that we'd be OK, and she said we always had been. This is after fighting a leprechaun-ish Bob Barker at a trolley stop in Boston and having a hot camping date with a woman I can't picture now. Still, the work part of the dream was the most pleasant and reassuring of the mess.

Bob Barker's pot of gold wasn't anywhere in sight, by the way.

Bathroom stall poesy
"Joe will blow you for a price"
Hiway diner jerks

My schedule has shot to hell in a handbasket.
I have been unemployed for the last two months, and the days are starting to blur together into one seamless mass of now, interrupted by fitful attempts at sleep. Don';t ask me what day it is, I really have no clue.
I was planning to post a topic yesterday, seeing as it was my turn. I spent 14 hours at a film festival yesterday, validating parking and answering stupid-people-questions. I have a huge sign less than 15 feet behind me that says
RESTROOMS in 4-foot neon letters. It's brighter than the sun.
People kept coming up to me and asking where the bathroom was.
So that was going to be my topic.
I think this space needs a little bathroom humor 'bout now, anyway. So have at it!

Day after day I get up, hit the snooze, and the pillow hits my head with a smack. It's either that or get up and write. This morning, one eye would not open at all, and I had to coax it to crack with a book. Reading, ah, said the left eye. The right eye hit that snooze. Both, at this late hour, are ready to slam the pillow and fuggedaboutit. But first, this missive.

You all and I all know that if we don't write, there's no project. There's no excuse not to write a ten minute bullshit paragraph like this once in a while. To post a topic? Please. The fact that we're sick, busy, tired, bored, uninspired, lazy, cozy, or only one eye is open won't cut the mustard. Guilt won't get us to write -- fine. Anticipation of what the other guy might write to your topic won't get us to post one -- fine. The sensation of writing not inspiring to you? No fun, is it? Well, fine.

But I'm having fun just taunting you all with the fact that I managed to put one letter in front of another once again. It's not that I'm inspired, or upset, or anything for that matter. I just know that this isn't a novel, babies, it's just a couple damn paragraphs and it doesn't have to be a big deal. It's recyclable, throwaway, flushable as TP. But it's *out there* and you might want to either get yourself removed from it if you're not going to participate, or participate.

Throw a spitball at me, wouldya? But write a *word* on it before you chew the paper. And have a little fun with this shite, yo.

in the morning. It was really funny, having to do with the idea that I was, like, a storner, which was causing my inability to write.
It's gone now, and I don't know where it went. I remember clicking "publish post" and walking away, and heading downtown to work at the Cleveland International Film Festival, and when I got home, the essay was nowhere to be found.
Of course, now I can't remember exactly what I wrote, and frankly, I'm too tired to try to rewrite it again.
Is this what you would call rewriter's block?

This is only one of the writing projects I am involved in since last year. The other, lincolnwriters.com, hasn't quite caught on to the extent I'd like but we haven't hit critical mass yet... There will be a reading Tuesday, March 29 for anyone who posts in the designated area on the site to read their works, at 7 p.m., at Crescent Moon Cafe in Lincoln, just up the street from 8th & M. Please join us, online or in person!

I'd like to say that I'm constantly inspired to write, but it's not true. I usually desire to write, and sometimes have something on the tip of my tongue to express, but it's still difficult to pry the words from their coffins. Thus the need for both frequent journaling and projects like these. Ted Kooser, the recent Poet Laureate from Nebraska, tells that his poetry often springs from morning walks and journaling at his home near Garland, NE. I'm not journaling so early in the morning but I'm trying to maintain some kind of daily habit to keep the wheels greased for whatever might come. To that extent, my writing is more infused with the angst and traumas of daily life, and is less meditative than that of dear old Ted.

But then you've probably gathered that. ;)

Incidentally, I like this topic so well I'm advocating its continuation until we find a better one... or at least until tomorrow.

Writer's Block

That is all.

Show me the goddamned spinach! That Olive Oyl, she's one skinny motherfucker. Her face could melt a fuckin' glacier though! And Brutus? Please, he's a fat fuck. No way is a chick like Olive goin' for him. He'd crush the shit out of her! And Wimpy can kiss my ass if he thinks I'm going to buy him a fuckin' hamburger.

My finace is not a stevedore, or a longshorewoman, but it's fairly obvious that there have been members of these fine industries in her lineage.
She makes Blue Streaks look like whimpers.
For Lent, she gave up swearing. It's been absolutely hilarious, listening to her struggle. She has taken to reviving old non-swear curses as a means to project her emotions. "Drat," "Dang," and "Shoo!" have all become part of her daily lexicon.
Last week, she said "shit," paused a second, said, "oh, fuck, I didn't mean to say that," then, realizing her second gaffe, turned beet red and stormed off to the bedroom, muttering "darn darn darn darn darn!" under her breath. I decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and declined the opportunity to comment.
If that weren't good enough, a fervent "Jumpin' Jehosaphat" came leaping from her tongue yesterday.
My best friend looked at me and said "huh?"
I said, "fuck if I know."
That's when she hit me...

The topic today is Curses.

What are you fuckin' waiting for? Post, damnit!

1. I was going to write another Journey review. but I figured the joke was old.
2. My apologies for not posting for a few days. My mind needed a break for a few days and my fiance and I took a well-deserved escape to the country.

It was the bent spoon that showed him the way out. Day after day in the mess hall, looking at that same spoon, he conceived the tunnel, he visualized himself using that spoon to achieve his freedom, one spoonful of dust and grime at a time, and he hammered that spoon into a trowel in his mind so many times that mere execution of the plan was superfluous: He had already engineered his escape where it mattered.

Yes, I'm hijacking Dexx's topic until and unless.

The topic is indeed, Escape!

Blogaway, blogaway, blogaway all.

The ambulance went careening into the hospital like email into your AOL inbox. With a start, it stopped, and soon a crowd of onlookers gathered. They were all wearing a lot of bright tidy-whitey colors and carrying books and papers and stethoscopes. They didn't do anything, mostly because the doors were locked and no one was coming out. So they stood around smoking cigarettes and making chitchat about ER. This lasted a good 10 minutes before someone asked the magic question, "Is there someone actually hurt or ill in there or what?" And the doors exploded open! Literally. They were packed with plastique. And then there were plenty of actually hurt people, let me tell you what. Welcome to Kandahar.

I'm sorry I missed posting a topic today, and I'm sorry to hear your dad is in the hospital. Give him the generic good wishes of one of your random internet friends for me.

I am actually going to be in a hospital at some point this year. I'm going to be having some surgery. I know I'm not looking forward to having various tubes removed (thankfully, I'll be anesthetized during the insertion) and the god-awful itching of knitting flesh. However, I *am* looking forward to JELLO!

...but we kinda need a topic today, huh?

Well, since I'm about to go there to visit my not-too-healthy father, the hospital comes to mind.

He couldn't figure out what was wrong. People turned their heads or at least eyes away from him whenever he spoke now. There's something compulsive, he thought, about having to say whatever's on your mind. However vulgar or inappropriate or just inconvenient. Turetts Syndrome, almost, except his compulsion was sarcasm. He couldn't help injecting a note of negativity into everything. And now, it was going to get him fired. HR laws, save me now! he thought.

Ah well. Better to go down in flames with a nasty joke in ones' mouth.