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.
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