Fireball
At six, my uncle took me to the St. Louis Zoo and passing the waterfowl and Turacos a gorilla caught on fire. An electrical cable exploded above her head and swung through her chest shooting bright red fireballs that made the woman to my left vomit onto the plaque in front of her. The gorilla was on fire and we all watched her burn. She stood on her back legs and raised her arms out, trying to keep them safe. There were about nine of us there, including my uncle and myself. It was silent. There was the snapping of flames, a shout coming from the female zookeeper.
My uncle slung me over his shoulder and rushed away. My head bobbed up and down as he climbed over twigs and shrubs.
She hadn’t moved.
It was awful. I Saw her land on her back
Dragging mud on her heels.
4.02.2009
Forthcoming: Glenn Beck
See this man to your left.Harsh criticism is coming his way via Ben Spanner.
I just.....he's just so......
awful.
More to come.
3.30.2009
The sun will respect every face on the deck, the hour the ship comes in.
I want to tell you
something short,
"I love you."
It's not
that I can't tell you in long form. I could go on and on, really.
I
can say you fill me up
with everything
I
didn't have before. You
make me believe I can sing
really
very
loud.
But that's not my style.
And it's sure as hell not yours.
So meet me in 20
and I promise
to remember your name
kind of
for always.
something short,
"I love you."
It's not
that I can't tell you in long form. I could go on and on, really.
I
can say you fill me up
with everything
I
didn't have before. You
make me believe I can sing
really
very
loud.
But that's not my style.
And it's sure as hell not yours.
So meet me in 20
and I promise
to remember your name
kind of
for always.
2.26.2009
Greenwald on Rove. Classic.
http://www.salon.com/opinion/greenwald/2009/02/26/rove/
Excerpt: Either way, Rove, as always, is the living and breathing embodiment of the limitless deceit which our political discourse not only permits but rewards. Just imagine what it says about our country that Karl Rove -- Karl Rove -- knows he can sermonize against people who "cheapen" rather than "enrich" the "dialogue of our age" without suffering any reputational damage for such side-splitting dishonesty. To the contrary, other than Matt Drudge, no individual is more adored by the establishment journalists of The Liberal Media. As Gloria Borger of CNN and U.S. News reverently put it: "when Rove speaks, the political class pays attention -- usually with good reason."
2.24.2009
Unedited Rant No. 1
Act 1: Outrage
You sycophant! How dare you jump me at the threshold, quarter after 11 with your pseudo adoration and your complete shimmering veneer, almost coated with sticky shitty shtick! I have a sudden flashback of when Mrs. Hohman would tell us to stand in the door frame in case of an earthquake.
It's like a play! Almost as if Arthur Miller wrote it with the skill of a fifth grader and the attention span of a 103-year old vocal sea turtle, shell cracked and swimming/floating on shoreline! My apartment might as well reek of carbon monoxide, but who's Willy?
Act 2: Homecoming
It's 11:45 pm. His boots are soaked. Half due to the Chicago bite and half because his walk from the blue is 15-20 and the webbing between toes is starting to drip.
He unlatches the door.
"Oh, hey!!!!!!!!!!! You just getting home too????????!!!!!!!?????????"
Just getting home - [juhst] [get-ing] [hohm]: to arrive suddenly, and generally within a time frame coinciding in a timely manner
Apparently this is not the case. In an attempt to show that the person speaking shares-in-the-14-hour-work-day, the person is obviously lying. If it was the case, the living room would not have her dinner (finished and probably well-cooked), her homework, and two beers deep while watching syndicated cop dramas.
But it does not really matter to him. He grunts and heaves his satchel onto his desk, knocking over a book and a bottle opener. Destination - bed, shower, beer. ETA - as soon as possible.
Another grunt and he is in the hallway. Almost to his room. Almost. And then.
"Oh hey, just a heads up, I had one of your beers. Sorry man, I just had to have one."
Flapping at the wind with helicopter arms, he's trying to make it to the fridge. Trying to see. Needs to know. Yes, he confirms it - the last beer is not there.
Act 3: Turn the key
He is now in the shower. The steam is rising high in the isolated space. Arthur Miller style. Only substituting waiting for death with sleeping, and the search for life fullfillment with being content to end the day with a frothy beverage. Both of which have escaped both Lohman and Spanner.
91 days until move out.
THE END
(Editor's note: This was not meant to be depressing, as it was a character study in the WHAT IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH IS WRONG WITH MY ROOMMATE sort of way. She's a nice girl, just out to lunch. Constantly)
You sycophant! How dare you jump me at the threshold, quarter after 11 with your pseudo adoration and your complete shimmering veneer, almost coated with sticky shitty shtick! I have a sudden flashback of when Mrs. Hohman would tell us to stand in the door frame in case of an earthquake.
It's like a play! Almost as if Arthur Miller wrote it with the skill of a fifth grader and the attention span of a 103-year old vocal sea turtle, shell cracked and swimming/floating on shoreline! My apartment might as well reek of carbon monoxide, but who's Willy?
Act 2: Homecoming
It's 11:45 pm. His boots are soaked. Half due to the Chicago bite and half because his walk from the blue is 15-20 and the webbing between toes is starting to drip.
He unlatches the door.
"Oh, hey!!!!!!!!!!! You just getting home too????????!!!!!!!?????????"
Just getting home - [juhst] [get-ing] [hohm]: to arrive suddenly, and generally within a time frame coinciding in a timely manner
dʒʌst
Apparently this is not the case. In an attempt to show that the person speaking shares-in-the-14-hour-work-day, the person is obviously lying. If it was the case, the living room would not have her dinner (finished and probably well-cooked), her homework, and two beers deep while watching syndicated cop dramas.
But it does not really matter to him. He grunts and heaves his satchel onto his desk, knocking over a book and a bottle opener. Destination - bed, shower, beer. ETA - as soon as possible.
Another grunt and he is in the hallway. Almost to his room. Almost. And then.
"Oh hey, just a heads up, I had one of your beers. Sorry man, I just had to have one."
Flapping at the wind with helicopter arms, he's trying to make it to the fridge. Trying to see. Needs to know. Yes, he confirms it - the last beer is not there.
Act 3: Turn the key
He is now in the shower. The steam is rising high in the isolated space. Arthur Miller style. Only substituting waiting for death with sleeping, and the search for life fullfillment with being content to end the day with a frothy beverage. Both of which have escaped both Lohman and Spanner.
91 days until move out.
THE END
(Editor's note: This was not meant to be depressing, as it was a character study in the WHAT IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH IS WRONG WITH MY ROOMMATE sort of way. She's a nice girl, just out to lunch. Constantly)
2.21.2009
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