An Artie Lange Exclusive
LOVE LETTERS FROM STEAKBELLIE'S PARENTS.
I stole these from his parents' attic. I told them I was looking for my cat. Amazing insight into the molding of an eating giant.
October 15, 1970
Tina,
As first dates go, last night was one of the best. Your hair shined luminously thanks to the buffet-heating lamp. Pulling chairs directly up the wing bar was so thoughtful and a good use of our time. I think I love you.
I hope this doesn’t scare you but I feel so comfortable talking with you and sharing my feelings about what makes a good Bolognese.
I hope we can go out again sometime.
Affectionately,
Ted
P.S. Thanks for putting out in the back of my Pacer. I knew that bubble hatchback would come in handy!
December 25, 1970
Dear Ted,
Merry Christmas, sweetheart. I can’t believe it has been two whole months! You continue to charm me with your affectionate ways. Renting the Hickory Farm store for an intimate dinner last evening was so sweet. This morning, I literally pooped one of those cheese logs with the nuts on top, still intact. Don’t laugh at me silly. At least I knew the sausage was wrapped (not yours, I hate the feel of condoms in my ass).
Ted, I hope this feeling never ends. Well, I do hope the feeling of constipation ends; eating an entire Yule Time Family Cheese Pack was probably not a good idea. The feelings for you (and that fucking awesome heroin you scored) are so real, so strong. I do love you!
Our first holiday together; may there be many, many more.
Luv,
Tina
January 1, 1971
Tina,
I hate the fact that we fought last night. I am so sorry. I thought you wanted to see me with another man.
Please let me make it up to you. I’ll take you to Beefsteak Charlie’s and we can feed each other the shrimp cocktails, and laugh as we eat a half a head of iceberg lettuce covered in blue cheese dressing and bacon bits. A bottle of Martini and Rossi will be brought to the table, for sure. Tina, nothing would make me happier than sharing a half gallon of snapper soup with you and downing a box of those oyster crackers. Baked potatoes? Let’s get two each. Filled with butter and sour cream. Broccoli? You bet, boiled until it loses all its color (just as you like it). Of, course we will have to order the surf and turf. I’ll order you an extra large t-bone and a school of flounder (just don’t fill up on white bread, hee hee!). Cheesecake with canned cherries will be served as dessert. Of course, we will have a Sanka, nothing but the best.
Please let me make it up to you. I love you, Tina, and I want the new year to start off right. We are meant to be together.
Yearning for you,
Ted
January 3, 1971
Dear Ted,
I don’t care that you had gay sex. Do you think I’m that shallow? I think man-on-man action is very beautiful and natural. Should we ever have kids, I am going to make sure they experience man love by the time they go to a state school to study art.
I’m angry because you ate the last piggy in a blanket without even asking me. I thought we had a deal. We wait by the kitchen door and highjack all the hors d'oeuvres before they make their way to the guests. That was our deal. The tray leaves the kitchen and we get to work, every eater for him or her self. Imagine how shocked I was to find you, head first in the oven, eating frozen mini-weenies that were just put in a few seconds before.
Rules matter, Ted. You may not agree but I think there should be an accredited organization that sets standards and officiates the gurgitation habits of people like us. I mentioned it to the Shea brothers as we did lines of coke and they agreed. They are such nice guys with beautiful straw hats. I’d FOCE either of them if given the chance (sorry about the spelling, my Smith Corona manual typewriter sometimes gets stuck and I have to use what letters still work).
Ted, I want us to be together. I want us to be a team and spit on those Goddamn, baby-killing, pig soldiers as they arrive off the tarmac. But you need to be aware of my feelings and the fact that you are standing on my foot. The pain is so great I am left speechless; hence the letter which I will hand to you now.
Love,
Tina
February 22, 1971
Dearest Ted,
I can’t believe you got drafted, sent to boot camp, and 4-f’d all in the course of two days. What did you do to make the Army dismiss you so quickly?
Ted, I am writing with some news. Good news I hope. I am pregnant. That’s right. I am going to have a baby. The father is one of the following:
Dean Martin
Joe Namath
Dick Nixon
The cast of Laugh-in (they really socked it to me!)
Willis Reed
Neil Armstrong
The stock boy at Grants
Kurt Vonnegut
Walter Cronkite
Cop who let me off with a warning
You
In fairness, I will ask everyone for blood test, to eliminate people. I hope you are the father, Ted. I do. I do.
I love you forever and am sorry if this news comes as a surprise or hurts you,
Tina
WESTERN UNION
TO: TINA
CANCEL ALL BLOOD TESTS
I WILL BE THE CHILD’S FATHER
IF BOY, WE WILL NAME STEAKBELLIE.
IF GIRL, WE WILL NAME MADONNA
IF BLACK, WILLIS REED’S BABY.
TED
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Ford is Dead
GM sure to follow
Sleep well President Ford. You were a good man and deserve kudos for saving the presidency at a time of crisis. Also, I like your son in When Harry Met Sally. I don't know his name but he plays Sally's boyfriend at the airport. Very handsome.
Most of all, I liked your character on the Simpsons. "Homer, do you like beer and nachos? Would you like to come over my place and have beer and nachos and watch football?" Ha ha, Hee hee. Very funny.
They say bad news comes in threes. Who will be next? Kobiyashi? Estelle Getty? Jack Klugman? We are losing the 1970's. Very sad.
GM sure to follow
Sleep well President Ford. You were a good man and deserve kudos for saving the presidency at a time of crisis. Also, I like your son in When Harry Met Sally. I don't know his name but he plays Sally's boyfriend at the airport. Very handsome.
Most of all, I liked your character on the Simpsons. "Homer, do you like beer and nachos? Would you like to come over my place and have beer and nachos and watch football?" Ha ha, Hee hee. Very funny.
They say bad news comes in threes. Who will be next? Kobiyashi? Estelle Getty? Jack Klugman? We are losing the 1970's. Very sad.
On a happy note, there was an Iris sighting on the great Steakbellie's blog. Wow! I'd love to hear all about the first semester at school.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
James Brown is Dead
Gun dealers, domestic violence centers, translators mourn the loss of "one great customer"
Colls, NJ, December 26, 2006-- Papa may have a brand new bag, but the Godfather of Soul is looking for a barely used coffin. James Brown, the enigmatic singer who taught generations of white kids how to look lame while feeling cool is dead.
His last words, according to his longtime publicist and bail bondsman Gilbert Fallon, "I don't feel so good."
In other news, the Dow opened down 600 points, largely a response to the announcement that Johnson & Johnson will close down its hair straightening division due to an anticipated drop in sales.
Gun dealers, domestic violence centers, translators mourn the loss of "one great customer"
Colls, NJ, December 26, 2006-- Papa may have a brand new bag, but the Godfather of Soul is looking for a barely used coffin. James Brown, the enigmatic singer who taught generations of white kids how to look lame while feeling cool is dead.
His last words, according to his longtime publicist and bail bondsman Gilbert Fallon, "I don't feel so good."
In other news, the Dow opened down 600 points, largely a response to the announcement that Johnson & Johnson will close down its hair straightening division due to an anticipated drop in sales.
Friday, October 06, 2006
I'm Free!!!
It has been a harrowing few months laid up in a lumpy hospital bed at the Center for Indigent Care in Halifax. I want to thank Steakbellie for wiring me the money to pay my cable bill and finally freeing me from that Nova Scotian prison.
Tetanus is not something to joke about, and lockjaw is not something one wants to experience in the throes of passion. But this is what happened: a hooker is dead, a good pair classic Pro-Keds have been torn to shreds, and I have paid the price by losing four months of my life, which I will never get back.
I can't say this has been an entirely awful experience. Thanks to my Haitian orderly, the man whose name I never learned but whose counsel I will never forget, I have come to understand that life does not exist for the purpose of gluttonous eating, a prideful need to self-promote, or a lustful zeal for attention. No, I have come to reject my slothful best buddy whose envy of my blog has unleashed his wrath and has opened me up to ad hominem attacks. Without sounding overly bitter, I must tell you how betrayed I feel by this friend. We will call him "EDL NAMBLA--charter member" for the purposes of clarity.
While my Haitian friend sponged my lower back sending a steady stream of warm soapy water down the contours of my ass and thighs to its terminus—a gentle pool of liquid on the center of my threadbare gray sheets just below my relaxed and dangling balls, he said something unintelligible yet at the same time uplifting. Since I don't speak Creole, his actual words meant nothing to me. What I heard, though, was prophetic.
“Mister Artie, if you can come to accept your own failings, you will begin to understand that right or wrong, good or bad, have no relative importance. The human life is as frail as a gosling’s feather. Now bend over so I can thoroughly clean your bud cheese.”
I did as he said to do and then cried the cry of Hemingway and Thoreau before me, a manly cry that signified neither sensitivity nor sadness, it was merely a literary device to spice up a rather mundane plot line.
I am too hardened to go on with my story. Perhaps I will continue at a latter day. I am back. I am well. And I look forward to hearing from you, my literary friends.
I am attaching a photo of my last day in the hospital, taken by one of Nova Scotia’s greatest photographers, groundzeroprodukt. Isn’t he the best!!!
I am still bed-ridden in the pic, my Haitian friend is in the white coat on the right.
It has been a harrowing few months laid up in a lumpy hospital bed at the Center for Indigent Care in Halifax. I want to thank Steakbellie for wiring me the money to pay my cable bill and finally freeing me from that Nova Scotian prison.
Tetanus is not something to joke about, and lockjaw is not something one wants to experience in the throes of passion. But this is what happened: a hooker is dead, a good pair classic Pro-Keds have been torn to shreds, and I have paid the price by losing four months of my life, which I will never get back.
I can't say this has been an entirely awful experience. Thanks to my Haitian orderly, the man whose name I never learned but whose counsel I will never forget, I have come to understand that life does not exist for the purpose of gluttonous eating, a prideful need to self-promote, or a lustful zeal for attention. No, I have come to reject my slothful best buddy whose envy of my blog has unleashed his wrath and has opened me up to ad hominem attacks. Without sounding overly bitter, I must tell you how betrayed I feel by this friend. We will call him "EDL NAMBLA--charter member" for the purposes of clarity.
While my Haitian friend sponged my lower back sending a steady stream of warm soapy water down the contours of my ass and thighs to its terminus—a gentle pool of liquid on the center of my threadbare gray sheets just below my relaxed and dangling balls, he said something unintelligible yet at the same time uplifting. Since I don't speak Creole, his actual words meant nothing to me. What I heard, though, was prophetic.
“Mister Artie, if you can come to accept your own failings, you will begin to understand that right or wrong, good or bad, have no relative importance. The human life is as frail as a gosling’s feather. Now bend over so I can thoroughly clean your bud cheese.”
I did as he said to do and then cried the cry of Hemingway and Thoreau before me, a manly cry that signified neither sensitivity nor sadness, it was merely a literary device to spice up a rather mundane plot line.
I am too hardened to go on with my story. Perhaps I will continue at a latter day. I am back. I am well. And I look forward to hearing from you, my literary friends.
I am attaching a photo of my last day in the hospital, taken by one of Nova Scotia’s greatest photographers, groundzeroprodukt. Isn’t he the best!!!
I am still bed-ridden in the pic, my Haitian friend is in the white coat on the right.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Bad Literature about a Great Man.
The young doctor ran his sinewy fingers through his dark wavy hair. He paused and sighed, measuring his thoughts; buying some time. His jaw was square, his teeth were white and straight, and his skin--dark and moist--was fertile ground for the black stubble of a 14-hour workday. He was all together a beautiful man: probably hated by his high school classmates, envied by his fellow med schoolers, and worshiped by his neighbors and everyone else without a Mercedes convertible and beachfront home in Stone Harbor.
His life was as smooth as China silk, but his body language at that moment was 60 grit rough.
I hate doing this, he thought.
Giving patients bad news is not something he was good at. Mostly, because he hadn’t had much practice. First in his class at Hopkins, a choice residency at the Mayo Clinic, an esteemed fellowship at the Cleveland Clinic—Young Doc had, indeed, faced adversity in his career. In fact, he was usually brought in on the most difficult cases. Yet for Doc, adversity was like a fertilizer: deepening his roots in medicine and blossoming his creativity for a solution. He was bad at delivering bad news, because he was so good at delivering good news.
But today would be different. For this case he had no answers. The patient had three boys--all blonde, all deeply in love with their father, all nervous and unsure of what would come next. They huddled on the bed around their father like survivors on a life raft, their limbs tangled, heads and hands everywhere, they struggled for real estate on the narrow mattress.
Doc thought of his own children, three girls, whose ages probably matched-up perfectly with these three kids. In order to gain some private time with his patient, he tipped the kids off to the ice cream in the doctors’ lounge freezer. “Help your self,” he said, “and feel free to watch some TV, too.”
As the children left, the patient could see the doctor’s hazel eyes turn a shape of somber. Lids lifted, eyes down, the patient could see in his doctor’s out-of-focus gaze a telegraphed punch of bad news. That is a merciful thing to do, he thought, giving me some time to brace myself before impact.
As the doctor began to preface his prognosis, the patient’s mind turned to a simpler time, when physical goals were measured by time and distance, not dogs and buns. His ears tuned in to the doctor as he transitioned his speech to the things that matter.
“Mr. Steakbellie, I am afraid there is nothing we can do for you,” he apologized. “Your intestines are hundreds of yards long and able to pass mountains of food, but only at a measured pace, only in reasonable amounts.”
“The eighteen hotdogs you ate in twelve minutes were just too much for your intestines to handle. Your stomach did its job. It expanded to meet the demand. But the food bottlenecked in your small intestine. It’s like a six lane highway full of traffic narrowing to a hiking path. Those Nathan’s are a jackknifed tractor-trailer to your system.”
“Mr. Steakbellie, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this…” tears began to roll down the doctor’s cheek, he trembled with the next few words, “but you have to pass those hot dogs and buns on your own. I can’t help you. Eighteen hot dogs, you see, is a lot of food to eat in twelve minutes.”
Eighteen hot dogs are a real lot to eat in eighteen minutes.
The young doctor ran his sinewy fingers through his dark wavy hair. He paused and sighed, measuring his thoughts; buying some time. His jaw was square, his teeth were white and straight, and his skin--dark and moist--was fertile ground for the black stubble of a 14-hour workday. He was all together a beautiful man: probably hated by his high school classmates, envied by his fellow med schoolers, and worshiped by his neighbors and everyone else without a Mercedes convertible and beachfront home in Stone Harbor.
His life was as smooth as China silk, but his body language at that moment was 60 grit rough.
I hate doing this, he thought.
Giving patients bad news is not something he was good at. Mostly, because he hadn’t had much practice. First in his class at Hopkins, a choice residency at the Mayo Clinic, an esteemed fellowship at the Cleveland Clinic—Young Doc had, indeed, faced adversity in his career. In fact, he was usually brought in on the most difficult cases. Yet for Doc, adversity was like a fertilizer: deepening his roots in medicine and blossoming his creativity for a solution. He was bad at delivering bad news, because he was so good at delivering good news.
But today would be different. For this case he had no answers. The patient had three boys--all blonde, all deeply in love with their father, all nervous and unsure of what would come next. They huddled on the bed around their father like survivors on a life raft, their limbs tangled, heads and hands everywhere, they struggled for real estate on the narrow mattress.
Doc thought of his own children, three girls, whose ages probably matched-up perfectly with these three kids. In order to gain some private time with his patient, he tipped the kids off to the ice cream in the doctors’ lounge freezer. “Help your self,” he said, “and feel free to watch some TV, too.”
As the children left, the patient could see the doctor’s hazel eyes turn a shape of somber. Lids lifted, eyes down, the patient could see in his doctor’s out-of-focus gaze a telegraphed punch of bad news. That is a merciful thing to do, he thought, giving me some time to brace myself before impact.
As the doctor began to preface his prognosis, the patient’s mind turned to a simpler time, when physical goals were measured by time and distance, not dogs and buns. His ears tuned in to the doctor as he transitioned his speech to the things that matter.
“Mr. Steakbellie, I am afraid there is nothing we can do for you,” he apologized. “Your intestines are hundreds of yards long and able to pass mountains of food, but only at a measured pace, only in reasonable amounts.”
“The eighteen hotdogs you ate in twelve minutes were just too much for your intestines to handle. Your stomach did its job. It expanded to meet the demand. But the food bottlenecked in your small intestine. It’s like a six lane highway full of traffic narrowing to a hiking path. Those Nathan’s are a jackknifed tractor-trailer to your system.”
“Mr. Steakbellie, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this…” tears began to roll down the doctor’s cheek, he trembled with the next few words, “but you have to pass those hot dogs and buns on your own. I can’t help you. Eighteen hot dogs, you see, is a lot of food to eat in twelve minutes.”
Eighteen hot dogs are a real lot to eat in eighteen minutes.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Feetsprints
One day at work I was asleep under my desk. It was OK, because I put on my schedule that I had a lunch meeting in Coney Island. Then I walked around the office that morning huffing and puffing. "Damn it, I have to go all the way to Coney Island for a meeting. Can you believe that?" I'm not sure anyone cared, just like they didn't care that I slept under my desk, but I want to be responsible. I want to be a team player. So I lie to them.
Anyway, while sleeping I had a dream. I was walking along the beach with Jesus as many scenes from my life flashed in the sky. As I watched the part where Terry Harkin, his brother Mike and I played strip spin the bottle in 4th grade, I also noticed two sets of feetsprints. Actually mine was a shoe print. I was wearing my new Merrill hiking boots which I bought at JDR Shoe Outlet for $54.
Jesus was handsome and black, like Denzel Washington only with holes in his hands and feet.
"Do you get angry that most images of you show a white guy with long hair, my Lord?" I asked of him.
"Look at the scenes from your life, my son. Besides, there probably shouldn't be any graven images of me, I think. I never was quite sure about that one."
"One what?"
"What?"
"What?"
"You said you weren't quite sure about that one. One what?"
"Oh, commandment.”
“Huh?”
“Just watch the scenes from your life.”
So I did as the Lord said, what he commanded, and wondered if that makes eleven commandments. I was unsure whether I could ask him if it was indeed eleven, though I imagine it must actually be something like the 14,688 commandment. I mean if Yahweh orders two Whoppers Junior (thanks Bill Safire) at Burger King does that count as one or two commandments?
Watching my life flash in the sky was pretty darn impressive. I was most touched by the scene of Dad and I sitting in the bar across from Shea Stadium listening to the eighth and ninth inning of the game. We never stayed for the end of the game. They cut off the beer after the seventh.
“Lord, did you have anything to do with that Bukner error in 1986? If so, thanks,” I said. I meant it too.
“I did, as a matter of fact. I was watching the interviews after game 5 and Roger Clemmens said his success was due to his improved slider. Not once did he thank the Lord almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all that is seen and unseen, for his Cy Young Award.”
“Black people always thank you first. I saw the Ebony-Jet Vibe Awards to satisfy a multicultural requirement in college.”
“That’s true; they do. That is why I want them in heaven first and thus subject them to poverty, violence, drug use, racism, disease, and a systematic genocide. They are my people. By the way, where did you go to College?” he asked.
“Montclair,” I answered.
“Ah, blessed are the stupid…”
As my life kept flashing before my eyes I was sad because Jesus never copywrited or trademarked all those cool things associated with him. If he had any business sense, he’d be so freakin’ rich right now even Bill Gates would worship him (I think Gates converted to Judaism in a failed attempt to get into Wharton back in 1979).
Instead of being a self-supportive Messiah, each Sunday we all have to kick in a few bucks to keep him in a good pair of sandals. I do get a kick out of my dad, though. He always checks the “Other contribution” on his church envelope and writes in “$500” in big permanent marker. He makes sure to drop it a few times before the offering, giving other people a chance to see what a big shit he is. Week after week he did this. Inside the envelop was a poorly photocopied picture of some lady’s ass. Damn Dad liked that picture. There had to be about 2,000 copies to be found all around our house.
“You didn’t do grunge very well,” He said, commenting on my Nirvana tribute band, Smells Like Teen Hormones.
“I thought all flannel was alike, and my hair wouldn’t lie flat like Eddie Veder.”
“Hmmm.”
Could you beat up superman?”
“Superman isn’t real.”
“So you say, but if he was real, could you beat him up? He had some pretty wild powers.”
“I could beat up Superman.”
“Batman?”
“Road kill.”
“Green Lantern?”
“I’d extinguish him.”
“How about Popeye?”
“He’s not a super hero.”
“Who said anything about superheroes, Lord? I just asked if you could win in a fight. Besides, you just proved yourself to be a stooge who is controlled by DC Comics and Marvel.”
“I’m nobody’s stooge. I’m the Lord.”
We kept walking, our silence interrupted only by Jesus’ commentary on Tom Cruise (he never should have fired his old publicist, and Elron Hubbard is actually a nice guy. Too bad he’s in hell.)
As my life continued to flash in the sky, the scene became the present. I was watching from above as Jesus and I walk side-by-side, holding hands in a non-gay way. It was all in real-time. I guess the FCC doesn’t control Godly visions.
When if first became apparent to me, I groaned from deep within. Disappointment and despair quickly overcame me. What had I been living my life for? Does Jesus not have my back? I needed to say something.
“Lord there is no feetsprints. No feetsprints. You say in the Bible (or was it Reader’s Digest?) that you would stay by my side no matter what, no matter where. You died on the cross for the forgiveness of my sins. I go to church each week and ardently believe garbage men, and not scientists, are the only people on Earth worthy of destroying embryotic stem-cells. And now I see that you have left me, no feetsprints!” I sobbed uncontrollably. My faith was not just shaken, it was smacked around and kicked to the curb.
“My son, you cry for no reason,” saidth the Lord. “The reason you seen no feetsprints, is because we are in the parking lot. There is no sand in the parking lot, hence no feetsprints.”
“Can I have a ride home, Jesus?”
“Sure kid, hop into my Hummer. I have Sirius and XM.”
“It must be good to be Jesus.”
“It is, kid, it is.”
One day at work I was asleep under my desk. It was OK, because I put on my schedule that I had a lunch meeting in Coney Island. Then I walked around the office that morning huffing and puffing. "Damn it, I have to go all the way to Coney Island for a meeting. Can you believe that?" I'm not sure anyone cared, just like they didn't care that I slept under my desk, but I want to be responsible. I want to be a team player. So I lie to them.
Anyway, while sleeping I had a dream. I was walking along the beach with Jesus as many scenes from my life flashed in the sky. As I watched the part where Terry Harkin, his brother Mike and I played strip spin the bottle in 4th grade, I also noticed two sets of feetsprints. Actually mine was a shoe print. I was wearing my new Merrill hiking boots which I bought at JDR Shoe Outlet for $54.
Jesus was handsome and black, like Denzel Washington only with holes in his hands and feet.
"Do you get angry that most images of you show a white guy with long hair, my Lord?" I asked of him.
"Look at the scenes from your life, my son. Besides, there probably shouldn't be any graven images of me, I think. I never was quite sure about that one."
"One what?"
"What?"
"What?"
"You said you weren't quite sure about that one. One what?"
"Oh, commandment.”
“Huh?”
“Just watch the scenes from your life.”
So I did as the Lord said, what he commanded, and wondered if that makes eleven commandments. I was unsure whether I could ask him if it was indeed eleven, though I imagine it must actually be something like the 14,688 commandment. I mean if Yahweh orders two Whoppers Junior (thanks Bill Safire) at Burger King does that count as one or two commandments?
Watching my life flash in the sky was pretty darn impressive. I was most touched by the scene of Dad and I sitting in the bar across from Shea Stadium listening to the eighth and ninth inning of the game. We never stayed for the end of the game. They cut off the beer after the seventh.
“Lord, did you have anything to do with that Bukner error in 1986? If so, thanks,” I said. I meant it too.
“I did, as a matter of fact. I was watching the interviews after game 5 and Roger Clemmens said his success was due to his improved slider. Not once did he thank the Lord almighty, maker of Heaven and Earth, of all that is seen and unseen, for his Cy Young Award.”
“Black people always thank you first. I saw the Ebony-Jet Vibe Awards to satisfy a multicultural requirement in college.”
“That’s true; they do. That is why I want them in heaven first and thus subject them to poverty, violence, drug use, racism, disease, and a systematic genocide. They are my people. By the way, where did you go to College?” he asked.
“Montclair,” I answered.
“Ah, blessed are the stupid…”
As my life kept flashing before my eyes I was sad because Jesus never copywrited or trademarked all those cool things associated with him. If he had any business sense, he’d be so freakin’ rich right now even Bill Gates would worship him (I think Gates converted to Judaism in a failed attempt to get into Wharton back in 1979).
Instead of being a self-supportive Messiah, each Sunday we all have to kick in a few bucks to keep him in a good pair of sandals. I do get a kick out of my dad, though. He always checks the “Other contribution” on his church envelope and writes in “$500” in big permanent marker. He makes sure to drop it a few times before the offering, giving other people a chance to see what a big shit he is. Week after week he did this. Inside the envelop was a poorly photocopied picture of some lady’s ass. Damn Dad liked that picture. There had to be about 2,000 copies to be found all around our house.
“You didn’t do grunge very well,” He said, commenting on my Nirvana tribute band, Smells Like Teen Hormones.
“I thought all flannel was alike, and my hair wouldn’t lie flat like Eddie Veder.”
“Hmmm.”
Could you beat up superman?”
“Superman isn’t real.”
“So you say, but if he was real, could you beat him up? He had some pretty wild powers.”
“I could beat up Superman.”
“Batman?”
“Road kill.”
“Green Lantern?”
“I’d extinguish him.”
“How about Popeye?”
“He’s not a super hero.”
“Who said anything about superheroes, Lord? I just asked if you could win in a fight. Besides, you just proved yourself to be a stooge who is controlled by DC Comics and Marvel.”
“I’m nobody’s stooge. I’m the Lord.”
We kept walking, our silence interrupted only by Jesus’ commentary on Tom Cruise (he never should have fired his old publicist, and Elron Hubbard is actually a nice guy. Too bad he’s in hell.)
As my life continued to flash in the sky, the scene became the present. I was watching from above as Jesus and I walk side-by-side, holding hands in a non-gay way. It was all in real-time. I guess the FCC doesn’t control Godly visions.
When if first became apparent to me, I groaned from deep within. Disappointment and despair quickly overcame me. What had I been living my life for? Does Jesus not have my back? I needed to say something.
“Lord there is no feetsprints. No feetsprints. You say in the Bible (or was it Reader’s Digest?) that you would stay by my side no matter what, no matter where. You died on the cross for the forgiveness of my sins. I go to church each week and ardently believe garbage men, and not scientists, are the only people on Earth worthy of destroying embryotic stem-cells. And now I see that you have left me, no feetsprints!” I sobbed uncontrollably. My faith was not just shaken, it was smacked around and kicked to the curb.
“My son, you cry for no reason,” saidth the Lord. “The reason you seen no feetsprints, is because we are in the parking lot. There is no sand in the parking lot, hence no feetsprints.”
“Can I have a ride home, Jesus?”
“Sure kid, hop into my Hummer. I have Sirius and XM.”
“It must be good to be Jesus.”
“It is, kid, it is.”
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Bring Me the Head of Charlie Brown
| Charlie Brown is on the run from the Peanuts Gang after the Great Pumpkin puts a bounty on his head in this wild animated student short by Jim Reardon. | |
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Sunday, July 30, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
Writing Exercise # 2
Use these 10 words:
ivy, squat, mizzenmast, iguana, rivulet, muzzle, xerography, twosome, foyer, decibel
Extra credit for using all ten in the order given, and/or for creating a piece which uses all ten words in 75 words or less. 1,200 words max.
Dear Yale alumni,
Ivy League Schools can squat down and kiss my state-college beanbag. I don’t care if your forefathers rode proudly on the mizzenmast of the Mayflower; my dad crossed the border from Mexico by riding in a wooden crate along with a hacking and evidently horny iguana. Think your granddaddy was special for wearing a big belt-buckle and wooden shoes? Mi papi had to endure a rivulet of salamander semen on his journey.
Go ahead, muzzle me, you oligarchs. There are others like me ready to preach the truth. Get rid of one of us, and another two will reproduce: the xerography of social justice, I call it. You are portrayed as wholesome, but your desires don’t stop with a twosome; fucking people, all people not you, is a genomic trait. It’s in your over-privileged DNA.
By the way, Eli, you run this country like I get the runs from mole sauce: predictably and with the end result of everything going down the shitter. Is this what $40,000 a year tuition got you?
I concede I am not a refined person. What you call I foyer, I call a hallway. But what you call leadership, I call “can’t lead for shit”. Tune me out, if you want. Have your symphonies and espresso makers drown me out. Just remember, what ever you do, I’ll amp things up one more decibel
Better invest in a hearing aid company, because when I get through, I’ll have burst out your damn eardrums.
Si Se Puede,
John Radcliff Smythington
Amherst, MFA, ‘94
Use these 10 words:
ivy, squat, mizzenmast, iguana, rivulet, muzzle, xerography, twosome, foyer, decibel
Extra credit for using all ten in the order given, and/or for creating a piece which uses all ten words in 75 words or less. 1,200 words max.
Dear Yale alumni,
Ivy League Schools can squat down and kiss my state-college beanbag. I don’t care if your forefathers rode proudly on the mizzenmast of the Mayflower; my dad crossed the border from Mexico by riding in a wooden crate along with a hacking and evidently horny iguana. Think your granddaddy was special for wearing a big belt-buckle and wooden shoes? Mi papi had to endure a rivulet of salamander semen on his journey.
Go ahead, muzzle me, you oligarchs. There are others like me ready to preach the truth. Get rid of one of us, and another two will reproduce: the xerography of social justice, I call it. You are portrayed as wholesome, but your desires don’t stop with a twosome; fucking people, all people not you, is a genomic trait. It’s in your over-privileged DNA.
By the way, Eli, you run this country like I get the runs from mole sauce: predictably and with the end result of everything going down the shitter. Is this what $40,000 a year tuition got you?
I concede I am not a refined person. What you call I foyer, I call a hallway. But what you call leadership, I call “can’t lead for shit”. Tune me out, if you want. Have your symphonies and espresso makers drown me out. Just remember, what ever you do, I’ll amp things up one more decibel
Better invest in a hearing aid company, because when I get through, I’ll have burst out your damn eardrums.
Si Se Puede,
John Radcliff Smythington
Amherst, MFA, ‘94
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
A Must Read
So I've gotten into the business of eyeing and promoting new talent. Not in the Irene Cara--Fame way, but that's not a bad idea. No, I have found the universe's next great blogger. Bert Bananas. As best I can tell, Bert is 90 years old, hasn't left his home county in the last 20 years, and is a 4 handicap. All of those things are purely speculative, but I suspect he will tell you otherwise if he cares to.
Make sure to stop by his site and say hi. Tell him Unlce Artie sent you.
And definitely make sure you read his archives; there are some really funny commentaries, especially this one.
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Because Iris told me to....
Iris had one of these tagging exercises on her blog. I figure I'll do the same. Here is my life exposed for all to enjoy as breif snapshots of time.
Ten Years Ago
In was working at the American Red Cross in Philly. Living with Carol on Naudain Street and dating Liz. I still hadn’t completed my graduate degree, though I was only a class away. I was starting to make plans to attend the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which turned out to be a blast. Likely, I weighed about 188 pounds, and though I had chronic back pain and exercised infrequently, I was still able to crank out 8-minute miles on the treadmill. I was 26 years old.
Five Years ago
I was planning my wedding, which was two months away. I was living with Barbara in a one-bedroom attic apartment in Oaklyn. We paid $500 in rent. Lot’s of free time in my childless world. I would spend several days a week at PSC and liked to get my coffee at Three Beans in Haddonfield. I was working at the same place I am now. I think I’ve gotten better at what I do, but I may be kidding myself.
One Year ago
One year ago was a Sunday, and chances are I was caring for the twins and playing with the Ruy-guy. The weekend was sandwiched in between meetings in Edison on schools and transportation and Monday’s market development in Delaware. In both instances I got a free lunch. Vacation would be but a week away. Not only would I enjoy the beautiful OBX summer, but my daughters would be christened at sunset at a beautiful sound-side church. I was also doing the Atkins diet for the first time. I melted away 20 pounds in two weeks.
Yesterday
I read an interesting article on the United States Patent Office which is now the American Portrait Gallery and part of the Smithsonian. It is an architecturally stunning building and serves as the focal point between the White House and the Capitol. I plan on visiting it next time I am in DC. I was supposed to meet my athletic trainer for an initial meeting yesterday but he canceled. That bastard will have to pay for the inconvenience he caused. I will eat a can of pinto beans before our next meeting.
Iris had one of these tagging exercises on her blog. I figure I'll do the same. Here is my life exposed for all to enjoy as breif snapshots of time.
Ten Years Ago
In was working at the American Red Cross in Philly. Living with Carol on Naudain Street and dating Liz. I still hadn’t completed my graduate degree, though I was only a class away. I was starting to make plans to attend the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, which turned out to be a blast. Likely, I weighed about 188 pounds, and though I had chronic back pain and exercised infrequently, I was still able to crank out 8-minute miles on the treadmill. I was 26 years old.
Five Years ago
I was planning my wedding, which was two months away. I was living with Barbara in a one-bedroom attic apartment in Oaklyn. We paid $500 in rent. Lot’s of free time in my childless world. I would spend several days a week at PSC and liked to get my coffee at Three Beans in Haddonfield. I was working at the same place I am now. I think I’ve gotten better at what I do, but I may be kidding myself.
One Year ago
One year ago was a Sunday, and chances are I was caring for the twins and playing with the Ruy-guy. The weekend was sandwiched in between meetings in Edison on schools and transportation and Monday’s market development in Delaware. In both instances I got a free lunch. Vacation would be but a week away. Not only would I enjoy the beautiful OBX summer, but my daughters would be christened at sunset at a beautiful sound-side church. I was also doing the Atkins diet for the first time. I melted away 20 pounds in two weeks.
Yesterday
I read an interesting article on the United States Patent Office which is now the American Portrait Gallery and part of the Smithsonian. It is an architecturally stunning building and serves as the focal point between the White House and the Capitol. I plan on visiting it next time I am in DC. I was supposed to meet my athletic trainer for an initial meeting yesterday but he canceled. That bastard will have to pay for the inconvenience he caused. I will eat a can of pinto beans before our next meeting.
The Donald is losing it.
I just watched the Miss Universe Pagent and was greatly disappointed that there was not one contestant from outside the galaxy. What's up Trumpster, your flair for the self promotion does not extend beyond the planet Earth?
Miss Universe is fun. No talent needed. I am amused by contests that reward genetic superiority (OK, and maybe some surgical genius, as well). I guess Trump can get away with this because he is, well...Trump. If Hitler tried to organize a beauty contest, I imagine he would catch some flack. Then again, I am not sure Hitler's judges would be fair to Miss Israel.
By the way, Miss Puerto Rico won. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't Puerto Rico a territory of the US? Is it fair that the US get's more than one entry? I think Guam might have had a contestant as well, so that makes three.
Given Puerto Rico's status as a terristory of the US, I wonder if Junior will invite Miss Universe to the White House. I know Clinton would.
I just watched the Miss Universe Pagent and was greatly disappointed that there was not one contestant from outside the galaxy. What's up Trumpster, your flair for the self promotion does not extend beyond the planet Earth?
Miss Universe is fun. No talent needed. I am amused by contests that reward genetic superiority (OK, and maybe some surgical genius, as well). I guess Trump can get away with this because he is, well...Trump. If Hitler tried to organize a beauty contest, I imagine he would catch some flack. Then again, I am not sure Hitler's judges would be fair to Miss Israel.
By the way, Miss Puerto Rico won. Correct me if I am wrong, but isn't Puerto Rico a territory of the US? Is it fair that the US get's more than one entry? I think Guam might have had a contestant as well, so that makes three.
Given Puerto Rico's status as a terristory of the US, I wonder if Junior will invite Miss Universe to the White House. I know Clinton would.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
In Loch Loman's nave,
near the Abbey of Columbia
come the earthly bed of Wallace, Campbell and Doune before.
Here lies the boy of red tartan
and his mouth earns the pie.
Mossy cradle,
wooded nymphs:
an infant wails in hunger.
On Aberdeen's hills
a clan's blood washes over.
"Ne'er agin, me Celts,
O' Scotland calls fer ye whole."
From Bobby Burns' hand
it passed to him.
Neither words,nor fame.
Just a hunger.
Just a hunger.
Just a hunger.
A chit from Brittania.
Eat on, Macwing!
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Literally...
OK, this is a lame post, but I want to address the fact that many people use the word "literally" when they really meant "figuratively." Sorry to my elitist friends who consider this post close kin to Indians working at 7-11 humor, but this is Literally/Figuratively all I have to offer.
Let's play a game. I'll give you some personal claims and you decide whether they are true or false.
I literally…
…Shit myself when someone played a practical joke and pretended to rob me.
…Died in a hospital operating room.
…Choked on my own vomit after reading Smelmooo’s Tuesday’s Top Five.
…jumped for joy after a Marine recruiter told me I was qualified to enlist.
…cried after seeing Kurt Gibson on a Wheaties box
…ate a serving of ravioli that could have fed a family of eight.
…pummeled a guy into unconsciousness for giving me a bad advice.
…laughed so hard I began to hyperventilate.
…spent so much time in the library that a librarian offered me a cot to sleep on.
…risked my life attempting to steal a mannequin from department store.
…dumped over 500 gallons of toxic chemicals into the Delaware River
…Became the first person to pee in the university’s new swimming pool.
…sang my way out of a traffic ticket.
…begged my way into losing my virginity.
…sold more candy for a school fundraiser than the rest of my class, combined.
…, from the age of 8 to 16, watched more TV each day than I slept.
...lost thousands of dollars betting on college football.
OK, this is a lame post, but I want to address the fact that many people use the word "literally" when they really meant "figuratively." Sorry to my elitist friends who consider this post close kin to Indians working at 7-11 humor, but this is Literally/Figuratively all I have to offer.
Let's play a game. I'll give you some personal claims and you decide whether they are true or false.
I literally…
…Shit myself when someone played a practical joke and pretended to rob me.
…Died in a hospital operating room.
…Choked on my own vomit after reading Smelmooo’s Tuesday’s Top Five.
…jumped for joy after a Marine recruiter told me I was qualified to enlist.
…cried after seeing Kurt Gibson on a Wheaties box
…ate a serving of ravioli that could have fed a family of eight.
…pummeled a guy into unconsciousness for giving me a bad advice.
…laughed so hard I began to hyperventilate.
…spent so much time in the library that a librarian offered me a cot to sleep on.
…risked my life attempting to steal a mannequin from department store.
…dumped over 500 gallons of toxic chemicals into the Delaware River
…Became the first person to pee in the university’s new swimming pool.
…sang my way out of a traffic ticket.
…begged my way into losing my virginity.
…sold more candy for a school fundraiser than the rest of my class, combined.
…, from the age of 8 to 16, watched more TV each day than I slept.
...lost thousands of dollars betting on college football.
Monday, July 17, 2006
What did Smelmooo purchase for $2.23?
The great Smelmooo recently posted about a shopping encounter in which he received too much change. That is all well and good, but what I want to know is this, What DID Smelmooo purchase for $2.23?
The great Smelmooo recently posted about a shopping encounter in which he received too much change. That is all well and good, but what I want to know is this, What DID Smelmooo purchase for $2.23?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Is Popeye a superhero?
Well, he did have supernatural powers. I mean, I've been eating spinach for years and have yet to kick the ass of a bearded brute. He kept peace and order in his little universe, AND he had a uniform (navy issued).
Why does Marvel and DC get to decide superhero status? Isn't it time Popeye gets his due?
Maybe the great Birdy can chime in. Also, and I don't know a lot about comics, but how does Thor end up a superhero? Isn't he an actual Norse God? Are there other comics that use historical or religous characters as the hero. Is Jesus marketable?
Well, he did have supernatural powers. I mean, I've been eating spinach for years and have yet to kick the ass of a bearded brute. He kept peace and order in his little universe, AND he had a uniform (navy issued).
Why does Marvel and DC get to decide superhero status? Isn't it time Popeye gets his due?
Maybe the great Birdy can chime in. Also, and I don't know a lot about comics, but how does Thor end up a superhero? Isn't he an actual Norse God? Are there other comics that use historical or religous characters as the hero. Is Jesus marketable?
Monday, July 10, 2006
Writing Exercise #1
“Have you been laying eggs on my desk all week?” asked Delbert Smidge, his question as baffling as his taste in clothes, a gray satin jacket with an elastic waistband that performs a Heimlich Maneuver grip around his ample belly.
The jacket was so old that even the stains of cheesesteak grease and cheap newsprint had faded over time. For all his sluggish style, I must admit, circa 1983 fashion worked well for Smidge. Like his histrionic hairwhip, the jacket had the unintended consequence of revealing instead of concealing. It belong to him in the same unfortunate way that Bob Dole’s limp hand both explained his past and helped shape his present.
“I guess by you silence, you are either deaf or ignoring me,” Smidge snickered, his voice full of self-congratulation. He was a hostile and harsh boss. This was borne not out of some stern style of managerial excellence, but out of fear that his brother, who owned the business, might shut down the company and leave Smidge jobless. In six years, the business that Smidge captained had turned a profit just once.
Like Smidge himself, that old jacket no longer added value, but hung on for dear life, the beneficiary of someone else’s charity. Or is it the desperate need for a friend that kept both Smidge and the jacket so close?
Quite frankly, I was surprised that Members Only still has members, but any investigation on my part into the cult of 80s garb will have to wait. After all, it is only three days until the Concrete Technology Convention in Atlantic City, and if we are to make a lot of sales, we have to focus.
My name is Ramona, and I am Mr. Smidge’s Marketing Director at Beck and Call, a specialty advertising company based out of Keyport, New Jersey. You know, we are a company that sells all those giveaways that other businesses use to attract customers.
My title is probably more impressive than it is. I am Beck and Call’s only other employee. I answer phones (Smidge says he can’t be bothered), design layouts (I have an Associates in Design), and attend trade shows, which are our primary source for business (thanks to my flirtatious ways and 36c breasts).
Specialty Advertising has changed a lot in the six years that Smidge and I have been together. Why just last week, the company in Oaxaca that makes all those foam beer can coolers shut down their plant and will re-open in a month as North America’s sole provider of foam cell-phone holders that fit into your car’s cup holder.
The difference between the two products is more than the distinct diameter openings and the object it cradles. It’s about the future; about creating a need in a mind that doesn’t even know your product exists. Beer coolers were yesterday. Cell phone holders are tomorrow. And Smidge’s jacket is forever (hee hee).
“Boss, did you get the double-stick tape we need for AC?” I asked.
“But what about my question?”
“What question?”
“About laying eggs on my desk. Aren’t you curious about what I mean?”
Actually I was very curious. Ever since he borrowed from the library Catch-22 on audiotape, Smidge is always coming-up with these stupid questions. And I giggle as he carries on the witless banter with me. It is actually one of the things I like about the little shit: his inability to know when someone is laughing at him and not with him.
“I don’t have time, boss. I’ve got orders to fill and you still haven’t fixed the copier.”
“But these eggs, they aren’t ordinary eggs,” he giggled
“They’re not?” Damn, he drew me in!
“We’ll yeah they are…normal eggs, that is. But do you know what an egg is?”
Is he fucking serious? He asks me if I want to know what he was talking about and now I have to answer his questions?
“They are eggs, boss…from a chicken, I guess. Hey, did you order two rooms at the Econo Lodge? There is no way in hell, I’m bunking with you again.”
“They’re periods!” he exclaimed, gleeful and by the looks of the slight bulge in his Hagar slacks, maybe even titillated.
“What?”
“They are periods. Chickens drop eggs, just like you do. The eggs you eat are unfertilized chicken periods,” Smidge was red with excitement. “What I was getting at is were you on the rag this week, you know, laying eggs on my desk?”
I hope his brother does close this shit hole down. That little bastard makes me wear low top blouses at the convention, screams at me, and subjects me to listen to his douche bag comments.
Let’s see what kind of business he generates without me, when all he has is his lousy personality, bad hairwhip and that Goddamned jacket.
Fucking Smidge.
Fucking eggs.
Fucking Members Only jacket.
“Have you been laying eggs on my desk all week?” asked Delbert Smidge, his question as baffling as his taste in clothes, a gray satin jacket with an elastic waistband that performs a Heimlich Maneuver grip around his ample belly.
The jacket was so old that even the stains of cheesesteak grease and cheap newsprint had faded over time. For all his sluggish style, I must admit, circa 1983 fashion worked well for Smidge. Like his histrionic hairwhip, the jacket had the unintended consequence of revealing instead of concealing. It belong to him in the same unfortunate way that Bob Dole’s limp hand both explained his past and helped shape his present.
“I guess by you silence, you are either deaf or ignoring me,” Smidge snickered, his voice full of self-congratulation. He was a hostile and harsh boss. This was borne not out of some stern style of managerial excellence, but out of fear that his brother, who owned the business, might shut down the company and leave Smidge jobless. In six years, the business that Smidge captained had turned a profit just once.
Like Smidge himself, that old jacket no longer added value, but hung on for dear life, the beneficiary of someone else’s charity. Or is it the desperate need for a friend that kept both Smidge and the jacket so close?
Quite frankly, I was surprised that Members Only still has members, but any investigation on my part into the cult of 80s garb will have to wait. After all, it is only three days until the Concrete Technology Convention in Atlantic City, and if we are to make a lot of sales, we have to focus.
My name is Ramona, and I am Mr. Smidge’s Marketing Director at Beck and Call, a specialty advertising company based out of Keyport, New Jersey. You know, we are a company that sells all those giveaways that other businesses use to attract customers.
My title is probably more impressive than it is. I am Beck and Call’s only other employee. I answer phones (Smidge says he can’t be bothered), design layouts (I have an Associates in Design), and attend trade shows, which are our primary source for business (thanks to my flirtatious ways and 36c breasts).
Specialty Advertising has changed a lot in the six years that Smidge and I have been together. Why just last week, the company in Oaxaca that makes all those foam beer can coolers shut down their plant and will re-open in a month as North America’s sole provider of foam cell-phone holders that fit into your car’s cup holder.
The difference between the two products is more than the distinct diameter openings and the object it cradles. It’s about the future; about creating a need in a mind that doesn’t even know your product exists. Beer coolers were yesterday. Cell phone holders are tomorrow. And Smidge’s jacket is forever (hee hee).
“Boss, did you get the double-stick tape we need for AC?” I asked.
“But what about my question?”
“What question?”
“About laying eggs on my desk. Aren’t you curious about what I mean?”
Actually I was very curious. Ever since he borrowed from the library Catch-22 on audiotape, Smidge is always coming-up with these stupid questions. And I giggle as he carries on the witless banter with me. It is actually one of the things I like about the little shit: his inability to know when someone is laughing at him and not with him.
“I don’t have time, boss. I’ve got orders to fill and you still haven’t fixed the copier.”
“But these eggs, they aren’t ordinary eggs,” he giggled
“They’re not?” Damn, he drew me in!
“We’ll yeah they are…normal eggs, that is. But do you know what an egg is?”
Is he fucking serious? He asks me if I want to know what he was talking about and now I have to answer his questions?
“They are eggs, boss…from a chicken, I guess. Hey, did you order two rooms at the Econo Lodge? There is no way in hell, I’m bunking with you again.”
“They’re periods!” he exclaimed, gleeful and by the looks of the slight bulge in his Hagar slacks, maybe even titillated.
“What?”
“They are periods. Chickens drop eggs, just like you do. The eggs you eat are unfertilized chicken periods,” Smidge was red with excitement. “What I was getting at is were you on the rag this week, you know, laying eggs on my desk?”
I hope his brother does close this shit hole down. That little bastard makes me wear low top blouses at the convention, screams at me, and subjects me to listen to his douche bag comments.
Let’s see what kind of business he generates without me, when all he has is his lousy personality, bad hairwhip and that Goddamned jacket.
Fucking Smidge.
Fucking eggs.
Fucking Members Only jacket.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Don't let the poop get to you (Redux)
(a short story about a friend)
It is a sad, sad story that needs to be told. He decided to give cross-country a try, knowing that there were many months until baseball season began and the conditioning might do him so good. As with most eighth graders, he approached the first cross-country practice with the laser-sharp intensity of an ADD kid without his Ritalin. But that would change.
Growing up in his comfortable South Jersey town, running was not the sport of choice for either the ambitiously encouraging parents or their under appreciative kids. Folks in his community could afford the hockey equipment, the basketball camps, and the private coaches; his parents were no different. Running, it was thought, was something you did to prepare and excel in another sport; it wasn't a worthy sport in and of itself. People in M-land where he lived weren't running to escape their abusive parents or crack-infested neighborhoods. These families all had cable with HBO and Showtime. They didn't want an escape, they wanted more time to watch Batman and still make it to the Flyers game sitting in their father's corporate seats.
The other fall sports failed to interest him. The star soccer players have been playing on traveling teams since kindergarten, the esoteric sports like crew were still a few years away from catching-on at the middle school level, and football was forbidden according to his over-protective mother.
So cross-country became a sport of last resort, but also a depository for his dreams of stardom. He watched the 1984 Olympics and saw what success did for Carl Lewis and Edwin Moses. Maybe he was to be the country’s next great runner. He did, after all, do fairly well in the elementary school field days. Granted, he knew nothing about the sport, a 3.1-mile race through woods and over hills and across uneven plains of grass. What he did know was that he wanted to succeed, to be a star.
His first practice began sharply 15 minutes after the final bell at school. Harriers were to get into their gym clothes and muster in the gymnasium for a pep talk from coach. Like many of his fellow classmates, he was not wearing the newest running shoe from Nike. He was outfitted with large boxy white basketball shoes that made his spindly legs even more awkward. He knew this to be the case, but he thought of Secretariat and Seattle Slew. They once were gangly colts themselves and needed time and the proper training to win. This stage, too, would pass.
The course they would run that day would take them around the perimeter of the middle school and adjoining high school. Coach wouldn’t run with them. He was heavy and unhappy. He wanted to coach varsity football but couldn’t land a job. He did this for the $1,500 stipend and nothing else.
The young runners, about a dozen in all, darted across the field at an unusually rapid pace. Arms flailed, legs swung haphazardly, and heads bobbed. It was obvious that everyone shared a few common traits. First, they had no idea how to run--the pace, the fluid motion, the economical strides, all lost on them. And secondly, they all wanted to be the best. If effort were results it would be a 12-way dead-heat for first.
He got off to a good start, all things considered. He wasn’t with the lead group (who would be walking in another quarter-mile) but he wasn’t with the back-packers either (they’d be walking in another quarter mile, too). The group he was with would be turning onto the high school property in a minute and the burning in his lungs convinced him that gold medals would not come without a little pain.
Hitting the long stretch that ran parallel to the soccer fields, he and his fellow runners glumly encountered their next obstacle. It sounded its presence on the heel strike and spread its terror through the harriers gasping mouths and noses.
The green, green fields they were traversing didn’t get so lush by accident. True to the community’s agricultural past, natural treatments were used to treat the grounds, and if he wasn’t again recalling Secretariat and Seattle Slew, he should have been. They were running through a field of horse manure.
The weaker yearlings around him already halted their strides, sensing that manure was like quicksand, the more you struggle the worse it gets. He would not be shaken-up by equine waste, however. Just he and another boy, an equally awkward kid who appeared more at home in a science lab than a dual meet ran shoulder to shoulder.
The course was now ¾ done and he was amazed at how a distraction like horseshit could erase the pain. Looking down at his shoes, now no longer white but a scuff-filled prism of brown to gray, he wondered what his mother would think.
As the flittering thoughts of a scolding mom came and went, he now thought bigger thoughts--of victory, triumph, and adulation…all things that would soon be his.
His pace quickened with anticipation of the finish and he gulped in oxygen as if it were golf balls to be swallowed. His running mate, super geek, was now but a shadow on the ground. He had fallen behind by several links and would not be a challenge today.
Knee lifts were getting higher, heels were hitting hamstrings, and oxygen debt was just a mere inconvenience for the next 45 seconds. He was in the homestretch.
Coach would probably recommend he run with the high school varsity, he thought, even though his races would be limited to the few schools that fielded a middle school cross country team.
“I’ll progress so much more with the varsity,” he gasped between strides. The finish was but 200 meters away. “Villanova’s good but if I really want to be great, I should go to Arkansas.” To him, it was not to early to think of colleges.
In actuality he floundered to the finish, but with his heart racing so fast he felt like one of those Japanese express trains: sleek and steel, silent and swift. With his final strides, he bounded in self-adulation. He had done it. He had finished first. It would not be his last time victorious, he thought, but there can only be one first, first. How could he mark the occasion?
Other students—cheerleaders, and dententionees waiting for the late bus started to stare at him in amazement. “Probably saw my finishing kick," he thought, hands on knees struggling to catch his breath.
Actually, it was his apple red face and back full of horse feces that engaged the other students. His shoes were now caked with muddy horse slop…an inch added to the bottom, a half-inch around the edges.
He couldn’t find coach outside so he hustled toward the locker room. If anyone beat him to the coach, it might be assumed that they finished first. He couldn’t let that happen. He worked too hard for this and wanted to reap the rewards: an ‘atta boy’ from coach.
Inside the locker room there was silence, except for the leaking faucet and hum of the air conditioner. The only sound he would hear was that of his own groan. A note was on the chalkboard.
I went home. Don’t mess up the place. See you tommorow (sic) --Coach
“Burning lungs!
horse dung!
rubber legs! s
mell like rotten eggs!
and now coach is gone!
what went wrong!
He would learn that the solitude and loneliness of running extends beyond the run itself and weaves itself into the fabric of one’s life. He needed more. Coach would not see him tomorrow or the next day. He would never return. His running career was over, and with it went the dreams of glory.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
New Business Venture a Success!
So this chick named Iris comes to my studio. She's the quiet-type--not prone to offer eye contact or a warm smile. She seems special, though. So I give her a chance to do some "modeling." Besides, I like goth. Goth sells in my world of Internet porn.
I am a business man. I employ two men, one with an incurable itch in his private area; the other a 30-ish year-old who thinks he is a bartender and constantly offers people drinks. Most people would consider these two not worth hiring, but I won't give up on them, not even when Itchy's asthma kicks-in during taping and his panting is unwelcomely audible.
As Iris mumbles to herself, "I'm doing this for Stalebellie...I'm doing this for Stalebellie," (whatever that is!) I can't help but feeling good about myself. I love giving young women the opportunity for fame and fortune. I am a pretty good director, too. I gave Iris her cues for disrobing and diddling. Doing this right is more of an art than a science, but I seem to have mastered the technique. My guess is the upstanding citizens who pay to view my web-site-- all with jobs, girlfriends/wives, and clean keyboards--appreciate my contributions to helping young women like Iris.
I felt so good about myself when she left. I imagine I made her day...maybe, her week, month or year! Not everyone is cut out for this type of work, but Iris has that special it. She'll be back; I know it. Underneath that dyed hair and heavy eye-liner lies the soul of a true performer.
She probably put my business card by the phone and plans on calling me for more work tomorrow. That happened, I imagine, only after she went out and celebrated her new career by treating herself to dinner or a nice drink.
I kind of see Iris an a TGI Fridays person, maybe a Starbucks-gal. Either way I am glad I could make her happy. I hope she never forgets the feeling I offered her today. Just one more way Artie Lange helps make the world special!
So this chick named Iris comes to my studio. She's the quiet-type--not prone to offer eye contact or a warm smile. She seems special, though. So I give her a chance to do some "modeling." Besides, I like goth. Goth sells in my world of Internet porn.
I am a business man. I employ two men, one with an incurable itch in his private area; the other a 30-ish year-old who thinks he is a bartender and constantly offers people drinks. Most people would consider these two not worth hiring, but I won't give up on them, not even when Itchy's asthma kicks-in during taping and his panting is unwelcomely audible.
As Iris mumbles to herself, "I'm doing this for Stalebellie...I'm doing this for Stalebellie," (whatever that is!) I can't help but feeling good about myself. I love giving young women the opportunity for fame and fortune. I am a pretty good director, too. I gave Iris her cues for disrobing and diddling. Doing this right is more of an art than a science, but I seem to have mastered the technique. My guess is the upstanding citizens who pay to view my web-site-- all with jobs, girlfriends/wives, and clean keyboards--appreciate my contributions to helping young women like Iris.
I felt so good about myself when she left. I imagine I made her day...maybe, her week, month or year! Not everyone is cut out for this type of work, but Iris has that special it. She'll be back; I know it. Underneath that dyed hair and heavy eye-liner lies the soul of a true performer.
She probably put my business card by the phone and plans on calling me for more work tomorrow. That happened, I imagine, only after she went out and celebrated her new career by treating herself to dinner or a nice drink.
I kind of see Iris an a TGI Fridays person, maybe a Starbucks-gal. Either way I am glad I could make her happy. I hope she never forgets the feeling I offered her today. Just one more way Artie Lange helps make the world special!
Friday, March 03, 2006
To properly celebrate Woman's History Month, I will write about ex-girlfriends and other women I have encountered. All names have been changed to protect the subjects. I write these not from a misogynistic viewpoint, but from a place of sincere appreciation. I would not trade my experiences, my relationships, for all the graft in Tom DeLay's overseas bank accounts.
You so horny but me so hungry
It is true. I dumped a girl not because of boredom or aspirations for a better girlfriend. In the end, I did it because I was hungry, really hungry.
This story takes place about a month or two after Sally Slingblade (previous story). There were other women (and girls) in between. Maybe I'll get to them later.
I'll forgo flowery language and get to the point. Betty was big-boobed. I met her in a theatre class. We went to a play together (My Fair Lady?) and the second act started, not with "The Rain in Spain," but with tongue in mouth and hand on crotch. We made it back to the dorm, rolled in the hay for a few hours and seemed to hit it off well, physically speaking.
Betty was a free-spirit, sexually expressive, and fairly interesting conversation. Problem: she was a commuter. Big deal, you say. What does that have to do with things?
My answer is, a lot, about 1,000 calories a day.
Being a commuter, one has a lot of spare time in between classes--too long of a drive to head home after every class; too close to justify paying room and board. My sojourns to the dining hall were almost always met with a greeting from young Betty, eager for my company and maybe a free ham sandwich.
Back then, the dining hall was not an all you can eat buffet. You were allowed one pass through the serving area, had a choice of the entrée, two of either burgers or dogs, or some rancid cold cuts (do they really think people eat pimento loaf?). Never wanting to be an ungracious host, I’d always ask Betty what she wanted and my plate would be filled with food for two.
Problem was, it wasn’t food for two. It was food for maybe 1.5, and thus I was only getting .75 of a meal. I led a pretty active lifestyle back then—running biking, classes, studying, student government, partying. I just didn’t think it would be possible to carry-on like this. When dinner interludes turned into three squares a day for young Betty, I realized that things would have to change.
Sexually speaking I was still pretty green (I think she was my third) and I enjoyed the steady diet of hump. It wasn’t an easy call, but I made the decision that Betty would have to go. My meals had to return to their original form: MY meals.
I suppose you could say I was growing up. I chose that which is necessary to live over that which is desired to live well—asparagus over ass, oatmeal over oral, hamburgers over hand manipulation.
I broke things off without ever giving her the real reason for my dissatisfaction. I think I said something to the effect of, “I like you, but I want to see other people, perhaps an anorexic.”
I hope Betty has fond memories of me (I always do). She was a cool kid and now holds the position of story number two in ArtieLange’s salute to Women’s History Month.
You so horny but me so hungry
It is true. I dumped a girl not because of boredom or aspirations for a better girlfriend. In the end, I did it because I was hungry, really hungry.
This story takes place about a month or two after Sally Slingblade (previous story). There were other women (and girls) in between. Maybe I'll get to them later.
I'll forgo flowery language and get to the point. Betty was big-boobed. I met her in a theatre class. We went to a play together (My Fair Lady?) and the second act started, not with "The Rain in Spain," but with tongue in mouth and hand on crotch. We made it back to the dorm, rolled in the hay for a few hours and seemed to hit it off well, physically speaking.
Betty was a free-spirit, sexually expressive, and fairly interesting conversation. Problem: she was a commuter. Big deal, you say. What does that have to do with things?
My answer is, a lot, about 1,000 calories a day.
Being a commuter, one has a lot of spare time in between classes--too long of a drive to head home after every class; too close to justify paying room and board. My sojourns to the dining hall were almost always met with a greeting from young Betty, eager for my company and maybe a free ham sandwich.
Back then, the dining hall was not an all you can eat buffet. You were allowed one pass through the serving area, had a choice of the entrée, two of either burgers or dogs, or some rancid cold cuts (do they really think people eat pimento loaf?). Never wanting to be an ungracious host, I’d always ask Betty what she wanted and my plate would be filled with food for two.
Problem was, it wasn’t food for two. It was food for maybe 1.5, and thus I was only getting .75 of a meal. I led a pretty active lifestyle back then—running biking, classes, studying, student government, partying. I just didn’t think it would be possible to carry-on like this. When dinner interludes turned into three squares a day for young Betty, I realized that things would have to change.
Sexually speaking I was still pretty green (I think she was my third) and I enjoyed the steady diet of hump. It wasn’t an easy call, but I made the decision that Betty would have to go. My meals had to return to their original form: MY meals.
I suppose you could say I was growing up. I chose that which is necessary to live over that which is desired to live well—asparagus over ass, oatmeal over oral, hamburgers over hand manipulation.
I broke things off without ever giving her the real reason for my dissatisfaction. I think I said something to the effect of, “I like you, but I want to see other people, perhaps an anorexic.”
I hope Betty has fond memories of me (I always do). She was a cool kid and now holds the position of story number two in ArtieLange’s salute to Women’s History Month.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
In Like a Lion
Here is letter number two.
The Honorable Donald H. Rumsfeld
Secretary of Defense
1000 Defense Pentagon
Washington, DC 20301-1000
Dear Secretary Rumsfeld:
Greetings from Philadelphia! It is not exactly Iraq, though there are some areas of town that seem like a few thousand bombs hit it.
My name is MacWing and I am a contestant in the nationally famous Wing Bowl, a competitive eating event performed at the Spectrum in front of more than 15,000 people. I am a true believer in what you are trying to accomplish and believe it is the duty of every American, even the illegal ones who cross our border and work at our restaurants, hotels, factories, construction sites, and Wal-Mart’s, to support our troops. Support our troops, I say, because they are on the front lines supporting us!
Anyway, Wing Bowl is a huge media event and will draw the attention of hundreds of thousands of listeners and viewers—most in the important male 18-24 demographic. I want to find someway to properly recognize everything you have done to promote peace through military action. You are a true patriot and think it deserves to be recognized. I’m not sure if you were in the military, but I imagine you must have been since you know so much.
I am a very big admirer of yours. When I found out you walked everywhere and carry around a pedometer, I went and got one myself. Too bad, because of your position, you can’t start a business and endorse a particular brand of pedometer. I bet you’d make a lot of money. If you are interested in this when you retire as Secretary of Defense, let me know. Maybe I can do a testimonial or something.
Back to my point. I am trying to find someway to recognize you, your sacrifices, and the way you have handled yourself at those press conferences (Wolf Blitzer can be really unfair!). I haven’t come up with a good idea yet (a paper mache statue?), but am working on it. I wanted to give you advance notice and seek your input to anything you’d might like to see. By the way, is there a chance I could get a picture of you? That would really be great and help a lot. You could autograph it or not, but if you do I am MacWing and not McWing. Also, you are more than welcome to come to the event if you wish. I get 10 free tickets and I’d love to bump my friend Rob since he is a Democrat and voted for that Draft Dodger John Kerry.
Thanks in advance for your help, but more importantly thank you for your contributions to making this country the greatest in the world, the land of the brave and the home of the free.
Sincerely,
Here is letter number two.
The Honorable Donald H. Rumsfeld
Secretary of Defense
1000 Defense Pentagon
Washington, DC 20301-1000
Dear Secretary Rumsfeld:
Greetings from Philadelphia! It is not exactly Iraq, though there are some areas of town that seem like a few thousand bombs hit it.
My name is MacWing and I am a contestant in the nationally famous Wing Bowl, a competitive eating event performed at the Spectrum in front of more than 15,000 people. I am a true believer in what you are trying to accomplish and believe it is the duty of every American, even the illegal ones who cross our border and work at our restaurants, hotels, factories, construction sites, and Wal-Mart’s, to support our troops. Support our troops, I say, because they are on the front lines supporting us!
Anyway, Wing Bowl is a huge media event and will draw the attention of hundreds of thousands of listeners and viewers—most in the important male 18-24 demographic. I want to find someway to properly recognize everything you have done to promote peace through military action. You are a true patriot and think it deserves to be recognized. I’m not sure if you were in the military, but I imagine you must have been since you know so much.
I am a very big admirer of yours. When I found out you walked everywhere and carry around a pedometer, I went and got one myself. Too bad, because of your position, you can’t start a business and endorse a particular brand of pedometer. I bet you’d make a lot of money. If you are interested in this when you retire as Secretary of Defense, let me know. Maybe I can do a testimonial or something.
Back to my point. I am trying to find someway to recognize you, your sacrifices, and the way you have handled yourself at those press conferences (Wolf Blitzer can be really unfair!). I haven’t come up with a good idea yet (a paper mache statue?), but am working on it. I wanted to give you advance notice and seek your input to anything you’d might like to see. By the way, is there a chance I could get a picture of you? That would really be great and help a lot. You could autograph it or not, but if you do I am MacWing and not McWing. Also, you are more than welcome to come to the event if you wish. I get 10 free tickets and I’d love to bump my friend Rob since he is a Democrat and voted for that Draft Dodger John Kerry.
Thanks in advance for your help, but more importantly thank you for your contributions to making this country the greatest in the world, the land of the brave and the home of the free.
Sincerely,
Tuesday, February 28, 2006
Please Respond Mr. President!
I wrote these letters for a pal. I'm not sure they ever saw the light of day, but think they are worth sharing. I'll post one a day. Enjoy!
I wrote these letters for a pal. I'm not sure they ever saw the light of day, but think they are worth sharing. I'll post one a day. Enjoy!
The Honorable William Jefferson Clinton
William J. Clinton Foundation
55 West 125th Street
New York, NY 10027
Dear President Clinton:
In the 154 years since this great country was first formed, there has been only two great presidents: Benjamin Franklin and you. Allow me to introduce myself, I am MacWing, a competitor in Philadelphia’s 610am -WIP Radio’s Wing Bowl, a competitive eating contest scheduled for the morning of February 3, 2006.
More than 15,000 people attend Wing Bowl which is held at the CoreStates Center/First Union Center/Wachovia Center. I qualified for Wing Bowl by eating 2 pounds of Haggis in four minutes. Have you ever eaten Haggis? I imagine a worldly man like you has eaten Haggis. Perhaps you had it when you were a Road Scholar at Cambridge or at one of those State Dinners like the one in the movie The American President. By the way, do you like movies about the president? Which was the most realistic? Do you have a favorite? I love The American President. I think Annette Benning is really pretty and Michael Douglas is the type of guy I want to be when I turn 70.
Anyway, as part of Wing Bowl, I am allowed to have an entourage to enter the arena with me. It is a big honor since I am only allowed to have 10 people. I wanted to see if you wanted to join my entourage. Having a former President would be a real hoot. I imagine you would have to have the secret service with you, but I don’t think WIP would count those brave people as part of my group.
I know it must seem silly, for me to make this request, but like my wife tells our kids: you never know if you can do something unless you try. I figure I’d give it a try.
Thank you so much for your consideration. Sorry for the short notice but I just qualified.
Sincerely,
William J. Clinton Foundation
55 West 125th Street
New York, NY 10027
Dear President Clinton:
In the 154 years since this great country was first formed, there has been only two great presidents: Benjamin Franklin and you. Allow me to introduce myself, I am MacWing, a competitor in Philadelphia’s 610am -WIP Radio’s Wing Bowl, a competitive eating contest scheduled for the morning of February 3, 2006.
More than 15,000 people attend Wing Bowl which is held at the CoreStates Center/First Union Center/Wachovia Center. I qualified for Wing Bowl by eating 2 pounds of Haggis in four minutes. Have you ever eaten Haggis? I imagine a worldly man like you has eaten Haggis. Perhaps you had it when you were a Road Scholar at Cambridge or at one of those State Dinners like the one in the movie The American President. By the way, do you like movies about the president? Which was the most realistic? Do you have a favorite? I love The American President. I think Annette Benning is really pretty and Michael Douglas is the type of guy I want to be when I turn 70.
Anyway, as part of Wing Bowl, I am allowed to have an entourage to enter the arena with me. It is a big honor since I am only allowed to have 10 people. I wanted to see if you wanted to join my entourage. Having a former President would be a real hoot. I imagine you would have to have the secret service with you, but I don’t think WIP would count those brave people as part of my group.
I know it must seem silly, for me to make this request, but like my wife tells our kids: you never know if you can do something unless you try. I figure I’d give it a try.
Thank you so much for your consideration. Sorry for the short notice but I just qualified.
Sincerely,
XXX
PS. May I have an autographed picture?
Saturday, February 25, 2006
There is a God and She is just
If you haven't yet heard the story of Jason McElwain, a senior at Greece Athena High School in Rochester, NY, I am so sorry for you.
With only four minutes left in the varsity basketball, Athena coach Jim Johnson signaled for McElwain to get in the game. Excitedly, he sprinted onto the court. In his haste he forgot to check-in with the scorekeeper.
You'll forgive Jason this transgression. You see, this was his first varsity game of the year. In fact, this was his first varsity game ever. Until that day, the 18-year old was the team manager, a kid whose unbridled love of basketball and his classmates and his unending enthusiasm shines incandescently on the dark wintry days of his upstate New York school.
Oh, by the way, Jason has autism. He didn't learn to speak until he was six. He spends his day in special ed classes.
The crowd was packed that night with Jason's classmates. They knew this was the first time the boy would wear a team uniform. His coach made no promises he would enter the game, but the crowd let the coach know their desire. The Jason chants started at tip-off and never died throughout the game.
With 4:02 left, Jason got the call. Getting to this point hadn't been easy for Jason. His autism is a condition that has made some people uncomfortable to be around him. Obviously the kids at Athena don't feel that way
"A couple weeks ago he missed practice because he was sick and you feel differently when he's not around because he brings humor and life to the team," says Athena basketball player Levar Goff.
Getting the ball on the right arc, Jason,--a runt of a kid, 5’ 7” and no more than 125 pounds--heaved a three point attempt, his chance to fulfill a dream, to score a bucket.
The ball was so far off the mark that it made pre-Iraqi intelligence look accurate. The gym groaned a collective groan and Jason, head in hands. back peddled on defense. The good hearted coach Johnson wondered if it was a mistake, playing McElwain. His apprehension got worse when Jason missed a lay-up their next time down the court.
Jason's father told Johnson not to worry. Jason is fearless, he said. He is not afraid to fail.
And fail, he wouldn't. Getting the ball at the same place of his first failed attempt, Jason pushed-up line-drive shot that rattled on the rim and then fell as the frenzied crowd’s excitement rose to deafening levels.
Jason was red with excitement. A fun-loving special-needs kid, his warm and accepting classmates, a kind and generous coach--this is a cast of characters and a story on par with Rudy (which, unlike the story of Jason, is heavily embellished).
But it doesn’t end there. He scored again (3 pointer), and again (3 pointer), and again (3), and again (3), and again (3). With time running out he lofted his last shot, with his foot on the line, it was a two pointer. It too went in.
Jason McElwain, the Athena High School Boys Basketball Team Manager, a kid who recognizes his handicap but refuses to bow to either its effects or the cruel prejudices it creates, scored 20 points in 4 minutes. It should be pointed out that the other team, while not exerting the defensive pressure of Duke, gave no freebies to Jason. He earned them on the perimeter. He made six of eight shots from three point range.
As time ran out, the students stormed the court; Jason was hoisted onto the shoulders of his teammates and eagerly accepted the adulation of the thousand or so people in attendance.
"This is the first moment Jason has ever succeeded and is proud of himself. I look at autism as the Berlin Wall, he cracked it," says Jason's mom, Debbie McElwain."I've had a lot of thrills in coaching and I've coached a lot of wonderful kids, but I've never experienced something like this ever in my life, you know other than my own personal family things. My emotions, I couldn't stop crying," says Athena head coach Jim Johnson.
Jason spent an hour afterwards signing autographs. His last nine days have been filled with interviews and children knocking on his door wanting to meet the star of Greece Athena High School. Disney has called about the rights to his story.
As someone else put it, “Because he is autistic -- Jason says he's used to feeling different. But never this different - never this wonderful.”
Wonderful, indeed! Wonderful for him. Wonderful for the rest of us, who continue to search for what Jason already has. Not fame, but a dream, a passion, a respect for the credo of “do unto others,” a credo that was rewarded dollar-for-dollar, bucket-for bucket, on that winter New York night.
Thursday, February 23, 2006
OK, OK. The great 25b suggested I put an end to the politicking and write more stories. I think he may have gotten overly turned-on by the sponge bath description from two days yore and that creeps me out. But I do value his opinion.
That said, I'd love to write more short stories, but unfortunately I am not that complete of a thinker and most of my ideas dig no deeper than Fox News reporting on Iraq. I wish I had Birdy's focus, but I ams what I ams (poop poop).
Oftentimes I will come up with an idea for a character, and before the words leave my lips, they evaporate from thought. Good ideas but gone ideas. Let's see what's going on in Artie's head; maybe a story will arise.
A guy who buys two identical lottery tickets, that way if someone else wins, he is guaranteed two shares.
A guy who proudly wears a WWJD bracelet, but always guesses wrong with regard to Jesus' likely actions (Jesus would steal that i-pod because music should be free, not something to be paid for).
A guy who becomes infatuated with eating contests. He alienates his family in the vain search of glory and is only saved after his youngest son gets run over by a car. Instead of getting help, the guy orders 60 Buffalo wings from his cell phone and then asks if the delivery guy could bring extra napkins for the blood (the kid lives).
A guy who becomes consumed with posting top five lists in his blog ( I know...I'm getting really weird!).
It really isn’t much, but like I said, I forget my ideas almost before I think them. Tomorrow is another day. Oooh, another one!!!
A 12-year old boy whose only goal in life is to get the title role in the musical Annie. I think I will go with this one!!!
Man on the White Horse
Iraq seems to be slipping further and further into the abyss. Sunnis and Shiites are all but at war with each other; their common disdain of our actions has not been enough to keep them at relative peace.
Iraq, like the former Yugoslavia, is a mishmash of cultures that have battled each other for centuries. Also like Yugoslavia, it took a dictator to get things calm, and anarchy rose upon their leaving office (death for Tito, arrest for Hussein).
Is it too early to start discussing the partitioning of Iraq into separate countries? Can we begin to consider if a benign dicator is desirable or even possible?
I'd love to see an interim cost-benefit analysis of our endeavors. Question: if our costs continue to rise, will our objectives have to change. In other words, creating a Democracy might be good enough for $400 billion, but do we want total control over all oil at $2 trillion? I don't say that jokingly. At what point do we have to say f*** our principles, we need money, and their oil is our rich uncle.
I'm a big believer in "as circumstances require." I never would have went to war with Iraq and the radical Muslim world, but now that we are waist high in our own feces, should we peaceniks consider what actions we must take to make this worth it?
Iraq seems to be slipping further and further into the abyss. Sunnis and Shiites are all but at war with each other; their common disdain of our actions has not been enough to keep them at relative peace.
Iraq, like the former Yugoslavia, is a mishmash of cultures that have battled each other for centuries. Also like Yugoslavia, it took a dictator to get things calm, and anarchy rose upon their leaving office (death for Tito, arrest for Hussein).
Is it too early to start discussing the partitioning of Iraq into separate countries? Can we begin to consider if a benign dicator is desirable or even possible?
I'd love to see an interim cost-benefit analysis of our endeavors. Question: if our costs continue to rise, will our objectives have to change. In other words, creating a Democracy might be good enough for $400 billion, but do we want total control over all oil at $2 trillion? I don't say that jokingly. At what point do we have to say f*** our principles, we need money, and their oil is our rich uncle.
I'm a big believer in "as circumstances require." I never would have went to war with Iraq and the radical Muslim world, but now that we are waist high in our own feces, should we peaceniks consider what actions we must take to make this worth it?
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