Saturday 31 December 2011
Monday 12 December 2011
Digging My Own Grave
I smoke, drink, and love women. These things are dangerous to your health, and should all have warning labels. Only two of them do.
When I have a cigarette, I am not sharing the nervousness and disease every other smoker has ever had. My pathology is my own. A hacking cough is all the physicality it demands. The knowledge I always have something in my face that doesn't ask I pay more attention to it or threaten to go home to 'mother', provides my release. Pall Mall has never hurt my feelings, only damaged my heart.
I love to drink. I like being dizzy and ditsy and pretty for no reason. My beer listens to what I say, and when I empty it of sweet ale, the bottle doesn't bitch about how I was satisfied first. I don't feel ashamed to express my gratitude with a vociferous belch and a nap after the deal is done. My last beer never nags me about my next drink. Most importantly, I can revel in the fact that not using a coaster just feels better and more natural. The 'tall boy' is my only reason for a pregnant pause.
The Women I have known have one thing in common. No matter the mix of desire and ice that gave them their flavours, they satisfied a thirst. Many men in this fast food world believe everything has a price and is equally replaceable. Like a cigarette, one brand is the same as another. Blue and Canadian are virtually indistinguishable. Women are blonds, brunettes and redheads. Some are long and lean, some are big and busty. In my life I have left an obvious trail of all three. There is one subtle difference. Even if I did think of women as garbage, I know, for a fact, I would recycle and compost.
DaBuoy
When I have a cigarette, I am not sharing the nervousness and disease every other smoker has ever had. My pathology is my own. A hacking cough is all the physicality it demands. The knowledge I always have something in my face that doesn't ask I pay more attention to it or threaten to go home to 'mother', provides my release. Pall Mall has never hurt my feelings, only damaged my heart.
I love to drink. I like being dizzy and ditsy and pretty for no reason. My beer listens to what I say, and when I empty it of sweet ale, the bottle doesn't bitch about how I was satisfied first. I don't feel ashamed to express my gratitude with a vociferous belch and a nap after the deal is done. My last beer never nags me about my next drink. Most importantly, I can revel in the fact that not using a coaster just feels better and more natural. The 'tall boy' is my only reason for a pregnant pause.
The Women I have known have one thing in common. No matter the mix of desire and ice that gave them their flavours, they satisfied a thirst. Many men in this fast food world believe everything has a price and is equally replaceable. Like a cigarette, one brand is the same as another. Blue and Canadian are virtually indistinguishable. Women are blonds, brunettes and redheads. Some are long and lean, some are big and busty. In my life I have left an obvious trail of all three. There is one subtle difference. Even if I did think of women as garbage, I know, for a fact, I would recycle and compost.
DaBuoy
Friday 9 December 2011
The Real McCoy
I was watching a late night infomercial, (sadly, not the one with women's undergarments) when someone asked me if I was being my authentic self. Of course I was, wasn't I?
All my life I have done what I was told. I learned all my lessons, and stayed the course. I went to church AND synagogue. I am a genuine dyed in the wool, home-spun, boy next door. My entire demeanour breathes wholesome rascal. I was a Boy Scout. How could I be anything else?
I admit I am prone to having my train of thought wander off track and veer into the occasional drunken rant. From time to time I have let the windmills of my mind grind the grain of my distemper into a flour of angst and scorn. After that I usually get baked and sup upon the bitter sweet breads of my imaginings.
Am I being authentic, or cranky?
What if it is more than just crankiness? What if I am a curmudgeon? Could it be I am one property away from berating the presence of children and their caterwauling? The smell of lavender, mothballs and cardigans begins to fill my senses. I need a 'step in tub', and a 'snuggie'. Why is it so DAMN cold in here?
Perhaps a pleasant blended drink to placate the jangle of my underdone nerves. The rattle of the Christmas claptrap has my festive balls on edge. I need a hobby.
Just sayin'...
All I know for sure is I need to stop the hurt that aches in my heart. Mostly it is gas, but it could be an indicator of an underlying condition. I might have acute angina. Please don't stare. It makes people uncomfortable.
It is another day, and so far nobody died. Wait, let me check my pulse first...
DaBuoy
All my life I have done what I was told. I learned all my lessons, and stayed the course. I went to church AND synagogue. I am a genuine dyed in the wool, home-spun, boy next door. My entire demeanour breathes wholesome rascal. I was a Boy Scout. How could I be anything else?
I admit I am prone to having my train of thought wander off track and veer into the occasional drunken rant. From time to time I have let the windmills of my mind grind the grain of my distemper into a flour of angst and scorn. After that I usually get baked and sup upon the bitter sweet breads of my imaginings.
Am I being authentic, or cranky?
What if it is more than just crankiness? What if I am a curmudgeon? Could it be I am one property away from berating the presence of children and their caterwauling? The smell of lavender, mothballs and cardigans begins to fill my senses. I need a 'step in tub', and a 'snuggie'. Why is it so DAMN cold in here?
Perhaps a pleasant blended drink to placate the jangle of my underdone nerves. The rattle of the Christmas claptrap has my festive balls on edge. I need a hobby.
Just sayin'...
All I know for sure is I need to stop the hurt that aches in my heart. Mostly it is gas, but it could be an indicator of an underlying condition. I might have acute angina. Please don't stare. It makes people uncomfortable.
It is another day, and so far nobody died. Wait, let me check my pulse first...
DaBuoy
Wednesday 30 November 2011
Do Theoretical Physicists Exist...
The world is populated with fictional characters. An endless list, from Ali Baba to Robert Zimmerman. Names we are more familiar with than our neighbour's. Everywhere we don't look, Santa lurks. The Tooth Fairy slides her moneyed hands under your pillow and into your dreams. Jesus is in every school. People who don't exist are becoming the newest majority, and we may not stand a ghost of a chance.
Like Jacob Marley and his knockers we are haunted by the spirits we consume, and we find them dry.
Christmas past and Christmas presents. Every box we open contains a plethora of Pandora's chocolates. Take a bite. Every savoury filling was made by someone who doesn't exist. Moist and creamy, the sweet trickle of flavour slides down our throat, making our bells jingle and filling our stockings with something to tell the Baby New Year not to do.
We love Thor's day, and the promise of soon being hammered. It is the rabbit test of holidays, especially Easter and its bunnies. Hugh Hefner has been bed hopping for years, and though his tales are fluffy, men prick up their ears at the thought. Though we never expect it to happen, sometimes a Delilah or a Mata Hari walks into our life and we are screwed.
Shadows hide underneath every light, and they all have names. Real or imagined, every person you know is in some way haunted by the ghosts of every person, he or she, has ever known. My only word of caution...
Wear a condom.
DaBuoy
Like Jacob Marley and his knockers we are haunted by the spirits we consume, and we find them dry.
Christmas past and Christmas presents. Every box we open contains a plethora of Pandora's chocolates. Take a bite. Every savoury filling was made by someone who doesn't exist. Moist and creamy, the sweet trickle of flavour slides down our throat, making our bells jingle and filling our stockings with something to tell the Baby New Year not to do.
We love Thor's day, and the promise of soon being hammered. It is the rabbit test of holidays, especially Easter and its bunnies. Hugh Hefner has been bed hopping for years, and though his tales are fluffy, men prick up their ears at the thought. Though we never expect it to happen, sometimes a Delilah or a Mata Hari walks into our life and we are screwed.
Shadows hide underneath every light, and they all have names. Real or imagined, every person you know is in some way haunted by the ghosts of every person, he or she, has ever known. My only word of caution...
Wear a condom.
DaBuoy
Occupy The Cracks
There is a whole in the flag. It is torn and tattered. The colours have run. There is no one to salute the mast of our social disease. Our beliefs are as titanic as our consumerism, and the iceberg of a limp and flaccid economy has pushed at the entrance of our lifestyles. The lifeboat, that is, our social safety net is full of holes. We are lost at sea and Wilson has left to do an endorsement deal with Beckham.
Where are our balls?
The money we stuffed in the mattress for our retirement has been devoured by the bedbugs of our own greed and avarice. Living in a world free of DDT (how do you spell that?), has pulled the loose thread of indifference. The fabric of our society is coming unravelled, while a noble few attempt to create a ball of yarn and tales that might weave a path and shuttle us back in the direction of progress. We write with Sean Penn and Robin Wright and all the while we lose sight of the movie playing right in front of our eyes, We are so busy with the spectacles of expenditure, we fail to see the nose on our face in spite of ourselves.
Do not despair, faithful readers. There is an answer.
We must gather the poor together. We must give voice to the disenfranchised. We must join hands and with a common course, push them all into the cracks. Once the rend in our civilization has been puttied with the sweat, grit, and bodies of the underclass, we can proudly step over them and into a bright, brave, bold, new world.
DaBuoy
Where are our balls?
The money we stuffed in the mattress for our retirement has been devoured by the bedbugs of our own greed and avarice. Living in a world free of DDT (how do you spell that?), has pulled the loose thread of indifference. The fabric of our society is coming unravelled, while a noble few attempt to create a ball of yarn and tales that might weave a path and shuttle us back in the direction of progress. We write with Sean Penn and Robin Wright and all the while we lose sight of the movie playing right in front of our eyes, We are so busy with the spectacles of expenditure, we fail to see the nose on our face in spite of ourselves.
Do not despair, faithful readers. There is an answer.
We must gather the poor together. We must give voice to the disenfranchised. We must join hands and with a common course, push them all into the cracks. Once the rend in our civilization has been puttied with the sweat, grit, and bodies of the underclass, we can proudly step over them and into a bright, brave, bold, new world.
DaBuoy
Monday 28 November 2011
The Happiest Tragedy
Death is all pervasive. It rides the warmth of every ray of light. It fills the air of the sea breeze. It is the darkness that creates the shadows. It is the source of our dreams and fears.
Heimlich knew.
We choke back the nasty thought that maybe we are already dead. We clutch the remote control like a monkey clings to a tree branch; certain, unaware, and desperate. Thank goodness our "Friends" are there for us. A few presses of the buttons and we are safely among competent doctors in the "ER". We are better seated than those centre squares.
For Heisenberg, it was a certainty.
You can know where you are, but never how fast you are moving. You can fathom your speed, and be fated to ignorance as to where the HELL you are. The road trip of our existence has no GPS. We know the roads, highways and bi-ways, but what of the on ramps and off ramps? Is love merely a Tim Horton's Truck stop along the way? Does Family merely mean another reason to stop for ice cream? Do we sound stupid when we continually say, "are we there, yet"?
At least I know exactly who and what I am DOING and NOT doing... most of the time
DaBuoy
Heimlich knew.
We choke back the nasty thought that maybe we are already dead. We clutch the remote control like a monkey clings to a tree branch; certain, unaware, and desperate. Thank goodness our "Friends" are there for us. A few presses of the buttons and we are safely among competent doctors in the "ER". We are better seated than those centre squares.
For Heisenberg, it was a certainty.
You can know where you are, but never how fast you are moving. You can fathom your speed, and be fated to ignorance as to where the HELL you are. The road trip of our existence has no GPS. We know the roads, highways and bi-ways, but what of the on ramps and off ramps? Is love merely a Tim Horton's Truck stop along the way? Does Family merely mean another reason to stop for ice cream? Do we sound stupid when we continually say, "are we there, yet"?
At least I know exactly who and what I am DOING and NOT doing... most of the time
DaBuoy
Wednesday 23 November 2011
Are We There Yet?
It is more about the journey than it is the destination.
Bullshit.
I have travelled, and (basketball aside), I am most relieved when, both I, and my luggage reach their final destination. Somewhere in the world I love, is a scattering of clothing and toiletries that sought the path less travelled and whose fates now remain unknown. Many a mint held fast by a pillow bears a trace of my DNA (I drool when I sleep). If there is one set of footprints on a beach, it was mine as they longed to get back to my room.
I have been 'layed over' as airports shut down. Port holed by ships that would not sail. Lobbied by hotels with no vacancy. I have even made a park bench my boudoir, lest you be judged.
Travelling without heed to your destination is homelessness. Personally, I don't trust people who disrespect the nature of plumbing simply because they would rather be wandering and wondering about the nature of something or someone else. While they are looking out for #1, they tend to find themselves lip deep in #2.
We didn't tear up all that valuable farmland to build concrete jungles, just so we could starve to death from artistic malnutrition. Our gut feelings are the destination of the yogurt that is the cultural bond that glues us all together. Forgetting this creates a bland journey. We need the fruit bottoms of society to flavour existence.
It is, in truth, not about where you are going or how you get there, but about the fat guy next to you who hogs the armrest.
DaBuoy
Bullshit.
I have travelled, and (basketball aside), I am most relieved when, both I, and my luggage reach their final destination. Somewhere in the world I love, is a scattering of clothing and toiletries that sought the path less travelled and whose fates now remain unknown. Many a mint held fast by a pillow bears a trace of my DNA (I drool when I sleep). If there is one set of footprints on a beach, it was mine as they longed to get back to my room.
I have been 'layed over' as airports shut down. Port holed by ships that would not sail. Lobbied by hotels with no vacancy. I have even made a park bench my boudoir, lest you be judged.
Travelling without heed to your destination is homelessness. Personally, I don't trust people who disrespect the nature of plumbing simply because they would rather be wandering and wondering about the nature of something or someone else. While they are looking out for #1, they tend to find themselves lip deep in #2.
We didn't tear up all that valuable farmland to build concrete jungles, just so we could starve to death from artistic malnutrition. Our gut feelings are the destination of the yogurt that is the cultural bond that glues us all together. Forgetting this creates a bland journey. We need the fruit bottoms of society to flavour existence.
It is, in truth, not about where you are going or how you get there, but about the fat guy next to you who hogs the armrest.
DaBuoy
I Have The Munchies Again
If food ruled the world, no one would starve.
I know, what does food know about anything. Could I be bored by a burrito or perhaps besieged by a bagel. I am better than food, and I refuse to be steered by a steak. How could I be helped by a gyro when my trans fats need zero.
My every predatory move carefully tracked. Bar codes etched into my collective consciousness, so we wolves don't dine and dash. My lion eyes shielded behind dark lenses so my cutting glances go unnoticed. A swipe of my Air Miles card scratches and tears into the meat of the middle class.
I fight to be heard.
I dance and sing and screw. I crave to live in a world of like-minded creatures. Feasting and devouring the sweet warmth of each other's company. Free to take what we desire and keep what we love. Blood stained incisors dripping with the mechanization that feed us all in an orderly manner. I will be entertained between hunt and pursuit. My appetites will be satiated in comfort and in style.
I am Man, and I am a warrior species.
I am master of my destiny, and diviner of my own fortunes.
If food ruled the world,
we would all know how to fight.
Dabuoy
I know, what does food know about anything. Could I be bored by a burrito or perhaps besieged by a bagel. I am better than food, and I refuse to be steered by a steak. How could I be helped by a gyro when my trans fats need zero.
My every predatory move carefully tracked. Bar codes etched into my collective consciousness, so we wolves don't dine and dash. My lion eyes shielded behind dark lenses so my cutting glances go unnoticed. A swipe of my Air Miles card scratches and tears into the meat of the middle class.
I fight to be heard.
I dance and sing and screw. I crave to live in a world of like-minded creatures. Feasting and devouring the sweet warmth of each other's company. Free to take what we desire and keep what we love. Blood stained incisors dripping with the mechanization that feed us all in an orderly manner. I will be entertained between hunt and pursuit. My appetites will be satiated in comfort and in style.
I am Man, and I am a warrior species.
I am master of my destiny, and diviner of my own fortunes.
If food ruled the world,
we would all know how to fight.
Dabuoy
Is There Anybody Out There...
"You are here", is the first line of the Existential Handbook. After that it gets complicated.
We post signs everywhere. Most of them illustrate for us the moral certitude of needing to be someplace else. No loitering, no parking, no solicitors, no junk mail, post no bills, no habla English. Everyone knows where they are going and where they have been, yet few seem to grasp where they are. We shake hands and hear names all the while wandering into thoughts about the cost of Purell and wart removers. We watch a movie and dream of hot rides and stiff drinks. Our clothes slide brightly about our worlds as we contemplate another costume change.
What were we talking about?
Attention deficit disorder is the new awareness.
If you didn't have the patientence to read that last sentence, you may already be there.
hear hear!
You probably know all about me. I have a blog, I Twitter, I hardly ever don't friend someone on Facebook. I am single. I haven't met anyone yet.
This month the 7 billionth human was born. What makes them so special?
I wonder...
DaBuoy
We post signs everywhere. Most of them illustrate for us the moral certitude of needing to be someplace else. No loitering, no parking, no solicitors, no junk mail, post no bills, no habla English. Everyone knows where they are going and where they have been, yet few seem to grasp where they are. We shake hands and hear names all the while wandering into thoughts about the cost of Purell and wart removers. We watch a movie and dream of hot rides and stiff drinks. Our clothes slide brightly about our worlds as we contemplate another costume change.
What were we talking about?
Attention deficit disorder is the new awareness.
If you didn't have the patientence to read that last sentence, you may already be there.
hear hear!
You probably know all about me. I have a blog, I Twitter, I hardly ever don't friend someone on Facebook. I am single. I haven't met anyone yet.
This month the 7 billionth human was born. What makes them so special?
I wonder...
DaBuoy
Tuesday 22 November 2011
gimme gimme some loving...
Unless you learn
to be selfish,
your relationships will
never work.
I know what you're going to say.
Love is about giving
and sharing
and buying her
a diamond.
It's about
long walks and
candle light...
WRONG
Love is about dirty lingerie and taking out the trash - and anyone who has been in a long term relationship knows there is a LOT of overlap.
Give me a kiss is a command. Love never gives kisses freely. Each peck on the cheek has a cost. Every hold of the hand is virtually passing cash. The Barter ship of romance is designed for perfect storms. The hatches are all battened down, sealing the deal. Every man becomes the cabin boy of his affection's desires, and the Captain of his destiny is the ever present notion of the idea of a perfect moment.
The truth is smeared make-up,and sticky stains that keep a black light busy. Bitches about dishes. Nags about price tags. The bone of contention that dogs us.
What cost Love...
to be selfish,
your relationships will
never work.
I know what you're going to say.
Love is about giving
and sharing
and buying her
a diamond.
It's about
long walks and
candle light...
WRONG
Love is about dirty lingerie and taking out the trash - and anyone who has been in a long term relationship knows there is a LOT of overlap.
Give me a kiss is a command. Love never gives kisses freely. Each peck on the cheek has a cost. Every hold of the hand is virtually passing cash. The Barter ship of romance is designed for perfect storms. The hatches are all battened down, sealing the deal. Every man becomes the cabin boy of his affection's desires, and the Captain of his destiny is the ever present notion of the idea of a perfect moment.
The truth is smeared make-up,and sticky stains that keep a black light busy. Bitches about dishes. Nags about price tags. The bone of contention that dogs us.
What cost Love...
Monday 21 November 2011
He said 'flag'
Flags are popular. Flags have always been in vogue. Every nation's Must Have.
The question is, what does your flag say about you?
Is your flag on the play? Does it illuminate the rockets red glare? Does it allow for careful treading or do you have to watch your step?
They say the colours of a flag never run, but I am fairly sure I saw a flag in pastels. Do they also come in acid wash and button fly?
Is it a freak flag, and does it fly? Was it stolen or is it firmly planted in blood stained soil.
Did you have a say in its design or was it thrust at you from failing hands?
Does it fit you or do you fit it?
Flags are burning, salting the earth and leaving civilians for dead.
A flag can lead to pole sitting. Many a man is remembered for being at half mast.
I know I wave my flag when my hands are not busy doing what is necessary.
DaBuoy
The question is, what does your flag say about you?
Is your flag on the play? Does it illuminate the rockets red glare? Does it allow for careful treading or do you have to watch your step?
They say the colours of a flag never run, but I am fairly sure I saw a flag in pastels. Do they also come in acid wash and button fly?
Is it a freak flag, and does it fly? Was it stolen or is it firmly planted in blood stained soil.
Did you have a say in its design or was it thrust at you from failing hands?
Does it fit you or do you fit it?
Flags are burning, salting the earth and leaving civilians for dead.
A flag can lead to pole sitting. Many a man is remembered for being at half mast.
I know I wave my flag when my hands are not busy doing what is necessary.
DaBuoy
Where Did Everybody Go?
Things seem to be disappearing. I distinctly remember there being more things in the universe. I'm not talking your run of the mill nouns. I'm discounting the elements, simply because, they will always be. What seems to be missing are the intangible things I was raised with, man's nobler pursuits.
A mere decade ago I could walk a block away and find nude jello wrestling. Now it seems there is no room for that bouncy sweet dessert. The only time jello and breasts meet these days, is in a hospital ward.
I used to look at every street corner, and now where there are coffee shops, I see only the memory of taverns where a man could go and share his ignorant racist views with people of a similar ilk. Now that hatred is reserved for the hipsters and their barristas.
I walk past schoolyards and past parks reminiscing about bullies and bloodshed, supervised by underpaid and overworked teachers and can not help but smile.
Some things never change.
DaBuoy
A mere decade ago I could walk a block away and find nude jello wrestling. Now it seems there is no room for that bouncy sweet dessert. The only time jello and breasts meet these days, is in a hospital ward.
I used to look at every street corner, and now where there are coffee shops, I see only the memory of taverns where a man could go and share his ignorant racist views with people of a similar ilk. Now that hatred is reserved for the hipsters and their barristas.
I walk past schoolyards and past parks reminiscing about bullies and bloodshed, supervised by underpaid and overworked teachers and can not help but smile.
Some things never change.
DaBuoy
Sunday 25 September 2011
Props To The 'G'...
I have noticed how much of today's television programming is little more than agenda-driven propaganda. Many of you might say the biggest offenders are the 24-hour news channels such as Fox and CNN. I disagree. I say the biggest antagonist to our freedoms and way of life is a cartoon known as The Simpsons. In a time of rampant waves of immigration, the Springfield characters are not wholesome Anglo-Saxons or Caucasians, but in fact yellow.
Of all the naturally occurring shades of skin tone, why yellow? I'll tell you why. To assuage our unease with the growing threat of Asia and her Communist denizens. These Chinese colourings jaundice our perceptions of what the nuclear family really is. While standing around the water cooler, which was made in Korea, I have heard co-workers laugh at the moronic antics of Homer. What I was really witnessing was the mainstreaming of incompetence. Where once the American dream was one filled with astronauts and doctors, we are told to blindly accept the under-achieving buffoonery of the Simpsons. This is a slippery slope. Homer works at a power plant always moments away from 'China Syndrome'. Coincidence?
You might think my conclusions faulty... this is what 'they' would like. If Homer or some other citrine-shaded person wandered into your town and started picking crops would you be comfortable? Should you? Once you are comfortable with the Simpsons and their off-colour comedy, how long is it before you are practically welcoming hordes of sunshine-tinted people who are taking jobs away from the rest of us.
The masses might be alright with a 'typical community' of lutescent layabouts, but I know this is only the thin edge of the canary conspiracy that threatens the darkness of our cultural coalmine. The glorifying of the amber-fication of America is the reason you see so many Asian buffet-style restaurants. They literally have us lining up to eat they way they do. If you are what you eat, are we slowly becoming Chinese? Sure most of us have played chess and strolled through zen gardens, but when I see people talking about the uplifting nature of Confucianism, I realize the aurulent ardour has taken hold.
I am against the ash blond armies massing at our borders, because I am no yellow belly. I am descended from brave frontier men and women who bested the natives with the force of their ideals, and who continue to crush the notion of difference every day. The Simpsons may be yellow as a quince, however I will not let them add a honey-tinged temperament that leads to a sexual bisque of liberalization. My cultural soup has crackers.
Dabuoy
Of all the naturally occurring shades of skin tone, why yellow? I'll tell you why. To assuage our unease with the growing threat of Asia and her Communist denizens. These Chinese colourings jaundice our perceptions of what the nuclear family really is. While standing around the water cooler, which was made in Korea, I have heard co-workers laugh at the moronic antics of Homer. What I was really witnessing was the mainstreaming of incompetence. Where once the American dream was one filled with astronauts and doctors, we are told to blindly accept the under-achieving buffoonery of the Simpsons. This is a slippery slope. Homer works at a power plant always moments away from 'China Syndrome'. Coincidence?
You might think my conclusions faulty... this is what 'they' would like. If Homer or some other citrine-shaded person wandered into your town and started picking crops would you be comfortable? Should you? Once you are comfortable with the Simpsons and their off-colour comedy, how long is it before you are practically welcoming hordes of sunshine-tinted people who are taking jobs away from the rest of us.
The masses might be alright with a 'typical community' of lutescent layabouts, but I know this is only the thin edge of the canary conspiracy that threatens the darkness of our cultural coalmine. The glorifying of the amber-fication of America is the reason you see so many Asian buffet-style restaurants. They literally have us lining up to eat they way they do. If you are what you eat, are we slowly becoming Chinese? Sure most of us have played chess and strolled through zen gardens, but when I see people talking about the uplifting nature of Confucianism, I realize the aurulent ardour has taken hold.
I am against the ash blond armies massing at our borders, because I am no yellow belly. I am descended from brave frontier men and women who bested the natives with the force of their ideals, and who continue to crush the notion of difference every day. The Simpsons may be yellow as a quince, however I will not let them add a honey-tinged temperament that leads to a sexual bisque of liberalization. My cultural soup has crackers.
Dabuoy
Saturday 24 September 2011
Tuesday 20 September 2011
Rabbit's Foot (or 0.3048 m)
What is the nature of luck. I personally, don't believe in luck. I think we either see and seize opportunities, or we are blinded to them and leave them scattered along the roadside as we journey through life. It is with this in mind, I write. I have no idea what words will spill onto the page. I am merely going to continue writing and hope that 'luck', Mistress and lady that she is, appears and blows on my literary attempts, resulting in a blog of memorable proportions.
For me this blog has become an annoying itch I must scratch, yet the scratching only amplifies the itch. I am hoping the itch hits twenty-one and someday I will earn scratch for my work. I am attempting to play the scribe's lottery in hopes of being recognized as worthy of the title 'author'. I am spinning the roulette wheel of creativity and letting the chips fall where they may. Is this odd? Will I come up even? The ball is in play, and the wheel turns the tables until there are only winners and losers. Perhaps I should try baccarat.
My bookie is hoping I get lucky. Of course he is playing the numbers game. He knows without a doubt most of us are losers. He counts on it. So do most people trying to make money. No matter what happens bankers have a sure thing.
I tried counting on being a card, but we all know you get kicked out for counting cards. Math is frowned upon when gambling. Lady Luck probably finds it all to be tedious.
Some of you might consider this experiment to be art. Another realm of luck. Each delicate smear of the paint, as it dances with the bristles of the brush can be either a critical mess or a breathtaking work of beauty and contemplation. I think artists are the optimists of the wagering world. Every creation tempts fate, destiny, and the boundaries of good taste. Everyone loves poker playing dogs, but what of their forgotten creator. Velvet Elvis, we hardly knew ye.
I suppose the ultimate answer lies in the hands of the critics.
After reading this, are you all in?
Dabuoy
For me this blog has become an annoying itch I must scratch, yet the scratching only amplifies the itch. I am hoping the itch hits twenty-one and someday I will earn scratch for my work. I am attempting to play the scribe's lottery in hopes of being recognized as worthy of the title 'author'. I am spinning the roulette wheel of creativity and letting the chips fall where they may. Is this odd? Will I come up even? The ball is in play, and the wheel turns the tables until there are only winners and losers. Perhaps I should try baccarat.
My bookie is hoping I get lucky. Of course he is playing the numbers game. He knows without a doubt most of us are losers. He counts on it. So do most people trying to make money. No matter what happens bankers have a sure thing.
I tried counting on being a card, but we all know you get kicked out for counting cards. Math is frowned upon when gambling. Lady Luck probably finds it all to be tedious.
Some of you might consider this experiment to be art. Another realm of luck. Each delicate smear of the paint, as it dances with the bristles of the brush can be either a critical mess or a breathtaking work of beauty and contemplation. I think artists are the optimists of the wagering world. Every creation tempts fate, destiny, and the boundaries of good taste. Everyone loves poker playing dogs, but what of their forgotten creator. Velvet Elvis, we hardly knew ye.
I suppose the ultimate answer lies in the hands of the critics.
After reading this, are you all in?
Dabuoy
Monday 19 September 2011
What Manner of Hero Is This?
We live in the age of villainy. I see it every day and its blinding glare reflects our desires back at us in shades of blood red, and bile green. Conversation revels in the glistening smear of death and tax evasion. Max is no longer mad, once he has his pound of flesh.
When I was growing up we adored George Baily and his fragile Savings and Loan. We cheered when Rooster Cogburn softened his grit to accommodate a young girl in distress. We Went Wonky for Willy and his dreams of chocolateering. Today things are different.
Darth Vader, killer of young padewan, destroyer of civilized worlds, struts to a hummable tune and makes us smile as he threatens a Princess with torture and interrogation. All the colours of the rainbow leave us laughing as we delight in the severed ears and gut shots of those 'pesky' Reservoir Dogs. Alice and her raccoon eyes have shattered the looking glass while making more of herself to smash corporate structure. We gobble popcorn to the brutal ballet of a thousand different roundhouse kicks as jaws crack, spines break and legs fracture.
We look to reality for those who would inspire and lead. Our eyes fill with ponzi schemes and big business buyouts of our 'mom and pop' futures. Once 401 was a future of retiring pressures, now it is merely a number. Stand in line for the scraps of hope they dangle before us. If you can do it to THEM first, you win. The one who dies with the most toys wins.
We watch as the zombie count mounts, and fail to consider their undying zest for life. We cheer when Vlad is left ashen, ignoring the centuries he as endured and the loves he has forsaken for survival. When the Death Star explodes, we 'hoot' and 'holla', but no one thinks of the hard working stormtroopers who enlisted to 'get an education', 'see the universe', and 'be all they can be'.
At the end of the day, there are no heroes and villains, merely people trying to live with their choices.
Dabuoy
When I was growing up we adored George Baily and his fragile Savings and Loan. We cheered when Rooster Cogburn softened his grit to accommodate a young girl in distress. We Went Wonky for Willy and his dreams of chocolateering. Today things are different.
Darth Vader, killer of young padewan, destroyer of civilized worlds, struts to a hummable tune and makes us smile as he threatens a Princess with torture and interrogation. All the colours of the rainbow leave us laughing as we delight in the severed ears and gut shots of those 'pesky' Reservoir Dogs. Alice and her raccoon eyes have shattered the looking glass while making more of herself to smash corporate structure. We gobble popcorn to the brutal ballet of a thousand different roundhouse kicks as jaws crack, spines break and legs fracture.
We look to reality for those who would inspire and lead. Our eyes fill with ponzi schemes and big business buyouts of our 'mom and pop' futures. Once 401 was a future of retiring pressures, now it is merely a number. Stand in line for the scraps of hope they dangle before us. If you can do it to THEM first, you win. The one who dies with the most toys wins.
We watch as the zombie count mounts, and fail to consider their undying zest for life. We cheer when Vlad is left ashen, ignoring the centuries he as endured and the loves he has forsaken for survival. When the Death Star explodes, we 'hoot' and 'holla', but no one thinks of the hard working stormtroopers who enlisted to 'get an education', 'see the universe', and 'be all they can be'.
At the end of the day, there are no heroes and villains, merely people trying to live with their choices.
Dabuoy
Monday 12 September 2011
Can Buy Me Love
I have heard it said that everyone can be bought. That people are a dime a dozen, and a thought is only worth a penny. We buy labour and advice. We can purchase the machinery of our destruction as well as the devices of our desire. Ultimately, we ask ourselves, can we buy love?
A friend once told me, a puppy is love in a furcoat. Puppies are bought and sold the entire world over. They are loved and happy. They lead productive lives. They work and contribute to the community. Aside from leaving a mess on occasion, they are good neighbours. Are they bought and sold?
A man can buy the ride of his dreams: fully upholstered, fully appointed, fully pimped out. He can treasure that car and fret and fawn over every part, bolt, and wingnut. He can wax upon it. Work it into a lather. He can own it until his dying day. Is it only about registration and VIN numbers?
Samuel Clemens wrote, "As an example to others, and not that I care for moderation myself, it has always been my rule never to smoke when asleep and never to refrain when awake." These are the words of a man in love. Not just a habitual user, but a man with a passion for his endeavour. His waking moments alight with a cleansing fume that clears away the smoke and mirrors. A caprice? An affair? A courtship? For the price of a nickel, was this how he knew satisfaction?
Can you direct me to the tobacconist? I am suffering from a lack of love.
Perhaps a hobby is what I need? Golf? Is there a course that would billow my sails? What would cause me to leave the comfort of my plush seat and stroll along the greens in search of a ball? Do I want to play it rough? What is the lure of that damn hole? Eighteen is the legal limit for the game. Would I cheat just to impress my friends with my scores? Can I love the constant questioning? Will my drive prove to be sufficient?
Sigh
It seems love is so common it can practically be purchased anywhere you roam. Love is packaged and sold. Love is marketed and exchanged. Love is bartered and bargained. There is no doubt love is for sale. Love CAN be bought; however, TRUE love chooses to stay.
Dabuoy
A friend once told me, a puppy is love in a furcoat. Puppies are bought and sold the entire world over. They are loved and happy. They lead productive lives. They work and contribute to the community. Aside from leaving a mess on occasion, they are good neighbours. Are they bought and sold?
A man can buy the ride of his dreams: fully upholstered, fully appointed, fully pimped out. He can treasure that car and fret and fawn over every part, bolt, and wingnut. He can wax upon it. Work it into a lather. He can own it until his dying day. Is it only about registration and VIN numbers?
Samuel Clemens wrote, "As an example to others, and not that I care for moderation myself, it has always been my rule never to smoke when asleep and never to refrain when awake." These are the words of a man in love. Not just a habitual user, but a man with a passion for his endeavour. His waking moments alight with a cleansing fume that clears away the smoke and mirrors. A caprice? An affair? A courtship? For the price of a nickel, was this how he knew satisfaction?
Can you direct me to the tobacconist? I am suffering from a lack of love.
Perhaps a hobby is what I need? Golf? Is there a course that would billow my sails? What would cause me to leave the comfort of my plush seat and stroll along the greens in search of a ball? Do I want to play it rough? What is the lure of that damn hole? Eighteen is the legal limit for the game. Would I cheat just to impress my friends with my scores? Can I love the constant questioning? Will my drive prove to be sufficient?
Sigh
It seems love is so common it can practically be purchased anywhere you roam. Love is packaged and sold. Love is marketed and exchanged. Love is bartered and bargained. There is no doubt love is for sale. Love CAN be bought; however, TRUE love chooses to stay.
Dabuoy
Sunday 11 September 2011
Being Wrong Can Feel Soooo Right
The phrase, "you're right," is something we are taught to seek out; much the same way a pig looks for truffles, or an arsonist looks for matches. It is the Pavlovian response that confirms acceptance. The gold star that signifies excellence. The A+ on our test of self-determination.
We are told a myriad of things as we grow, change, and experience our worlds. All of them seem to pale beneath the burning weight of being wrong or right. These concepts illuminate our strengths and flaws, until we either learn to embrace our failures and the fiery passion that spawned them, or collapse beneath the hefty burden of expectation, that being correct creates.
Our reputations are built on our ability to be consistantly infallible. We envisage a world of our own ambition and desire, hoping not to be proven wrong. We calculate the odds that others will confirm our assumption, and we will truly become what we claim to be. The man who paints is called 'artist'. The scribe is lauded as writer and author. The politican learns to understand corruption.
Being wrong is liberating.
When the drunk is sober we commend him, praising him for what he has not done. When the criminal tarries, and avoids nefarious action, we say that they are on the path to rehabilitation. When the husband takes out the garbage after having failed on many occasions to rise to his duties, the wife is often inspired to encourage and reciprocate.
Our deficiencies, when openly admitted and accepted, spotlight our triumphs with an undeniable intensity. As children we are cooed and coddled for simply pooping or tying our shoes, skills most of us exhibit on a daily basis with scarcely an acknowledgement. The disabled person knows how much consternation these activities create. The handicapped empathize with a million consecutive failings and truly appreciate the rare victory.
Should we ride the short bus to the station of our own incompetence? Should we don the protective helmet of our own idiocy? Should the healthcare worker of our deadbeat decorum be our constant companion?
For every one of us who sets the heights of accomplishment, there must be others who plum the depths of tribulation.
Grab a glass and drink yourself into oblivion. Steal the hearts of a dozen pretty things. Start an unruly gathering and disrupt the expected.
It feels good.
Dabuoy
We are told a myriad of things as we grow, change, and experience our worlds. All of them seem to pale beneath the burning weight of being wrong or right. These concepts illuminate our strengths and flaws, until we either learn to embrace our failures and the fiery passion that spawned them, or collapse beneath the hefty burden of expectation, that being correct creates.
Our reputations are built on our ability to be consistantly infallible. We envisage a world of our own ambition and desire, hoping not to be proven wrong. We calculate the odds that others will confirm our assumption, and we will truly become what we claim to be. The man who paints is called 'artist'. The scribe is lauded as writer and author. The politican learns to understand corruption.
Being wrong is liberating.
When the drunk is sober we commend him, praising him for what he has not done. When the criminal tarries, and avoids nefarious action, we say that they are on the path to rehabilitation. When the husband takes out the garbage after having failed on many occasions to rise to his duties, the wife is often inspired to encourage and reciprocate.
Our deficiencies, when openly admitted and accepted, spotlight our triumphs with an undeniable intensity. As children we are cooed and coddled for simply pooping or tying our shoes, skills most of us exhibit on a daily basis with scarcely an acknowledgement. The disabled person knows how much consternation these activities create. The handicapped empathize with a million consecutive failings and truly appreciate the rare victory.
Should we ride the short bus to the station of our own incompetence? Should we don the protective helmet of our own idiocy? Should the healthcare worker of our deadbeat decorum be our constant companion?
For every one of us who sets the heights of accomplishment, there must be others who plum the depths of tribulation.
Grab a glass and drink yourself into oblivion. Steal the hearts of a dozen pretty things. Start an unruly gathering and disrupt the expected.
It feels good.
Dabuoy
Wednesday 7 September 2011
Perchance To Dream
Dream is a funny word. Some say it comes from the Pig Latin; D(e) - the prefix for the removal of, and Ream - a standard stack of papers representing nothing. This of course is merely a fantasy definition. A hope for real meaning in a world that has no explanation.
The interpretation of dreams is something paychics and psychiatrists both offer to their clientele. Men and women who claim to know more about what we desire in our hearts than we ourselves might comprehend.
How do you feel about your mother? I'm having those flying dreams again. Are you basically happy? Why should I grin like an idiot all the time. Why are you unsatisfied? Maybe Viagra. Is there something killing me I can't understand? I'm not afraid of mortality. Does your life have meaning? I looked in your desk.
This all seems like a chimera, a mirage of empty echoing questions that serves only to fill a bank account and occupy an hour.
What of the dream unshared? The unspoken poem attracts no love. The unheld hand gloved or not is made cold by this reality. If we have wings, aren't we obliged to at least understand what flight means to us?
The permanence of these haunting specters threatens to drive us to madness. Leaving the dreamer to contemplate cars and abandoned mansions of imagination.
Great leaders have dreams. Or do we only share the same common lie? Pretending the world is better than it is, and hoping someone else sees our base delusions and joins us in our trance.
We all dream. We know the word from childhood as surely as we know the nature of our piggies. We carry our rainbows in business suits and speculations. Our future is as certain as the thought that draws our next breath. We sleep and dream. We grow silent and dream. We laugh and dream. We find the only constant is love and passion.
Dabuoy
The interpretation of dreams is something paychics and psychiatrists both offer to their clientele. Men and women who claim to know more about what we desire in our hearts than we ourselves might comprehend.
How do you feel about your mother? I'm having those flying dreams again. Are you basically happy? Why should I grin like an idiot all the time. Why are you unsatisfied? Maybe Viagra. Is there something killing me I can't understand? I'm not afraid of mortality. Does your life have meaning? I looked in your desk.
This all seems like a chimera, a mirage of empty echoing questions that serves only to fill a bank account and occupy an hour.
What of the dream unshared? The unspoken poem attracts no love. The unheld hand gloved or not is made cold by this reality. If we have wings, aren't we obliged to at least understand what flight means to us?
The permanence of these haunting specters threatens to drive us to madness. Leaving the dreamer to contemplate cars and abandoned mansions of imagination.
Great leaders have dreams. Or do we only share the same common lie? Pretending the world is better than it is, and hoping someone else sees our base delusions and joins us in our trance.
We all dream. We know the word from childhood as surely as we know the nature of our piggies. We carry our rainbows in business suits and speculations. Our future is as certain as the thought that draws our next breath. We sleep and dream. We grow silent and dream. We laugh and dream. We find the only constant is love and passion.
Dabuoy
ARE YOUUUUUUU! The Call of The Wild
My life is about one thing, the pursuit of a curative for my own restless nature. In younger days I was misdiagnosed as having a fear of commitment. I now know this to be a lie. Aside from a healthy dose of experientially learned caution, I don't particularly indulge in fear. I have found it tends to dull the flavour of things, leaving a musty wet blanket over the fires of passion and happiness.
I am a sensualist. I am always seeking the next foolhardy adventure, the newest thrill, another conquest. My head continually in the clouds, I still manage to maintain a firm footing with my old favourites. Good food, drink, and conversation, all honing my wit and keeping the senses sharp. The graceful saunter of a pretty girl accelerating my heart with possibilities. The fanciful flight of music and song played with friends taking me on previously unheard journeys.
I love to putter. Tending the garden brings me pleasure. Fixing the million different things that seem to need my attention gives me a sense of home and hearth. The idea of a cozy corner where I can curl up like a kitten thrills the more subtle tones of my nature. I love to feed and nourish the people in my life with the simple gestures of a smile and a joke.
and then it happens...
That invariable moment where I can not be soothed or assuaged. Each sensation merely a reminder I am nowhere I want to be. Each tick of the clock reverberating within my bones and demanding with every fibre of my soul, I run. Run far, run fast, run down, run away, run out, run off. I want to keep my run on sentence from being run of the mill.
Most of the time there is only one answer.
Are you going my way?
Dabuoy
I am a sensualist. I am always seeking the next foolhardy adventure, the newest thrill, another conquest. My head continually in the clouds, I still manage to maintain a firm footing with my old favourites. Good food, drink, and conversation, all honing my wit and keeping the senses sharp. The graceful saunter of a pretty girl accelerating my heart with possibilities. The fanciful flight of music and song played with friends taking me on previously unheard journeys.
I love to putter. Tending the garden brings me pleasure. Fixing the million different things that seem to need my attention gives me a sense of home and hearth. The idea of a cozy corner where I can curl up like a kitten thrills the more subtle tones of my nature. I love to feed and nourish the people in my life with the simple gestures of a smile and a joke.
and then it happens...
That invariable moment where I can not be soothed or assuaged. Each sensation merely a reminder I am nowhere I want to be. Each tick of the clock reverberating within my bones and demanding with every fibre of my soul, I run. Run far, run fast, run down, run away, run out, run off. I want to keep my run on sentence from being run of the mill.
Most of the time there is only one answer.
Are you going my way?
Dabuoy
Tuesday 6 September 2011
Casey Jonesing
How do you stop a train wreck? The simple answer would be to ban locomotives. The problem with this is the simple act of making something illegal only increases desire. Prohibition only succeeded in popularizing jazz music. No smoking policies simply teach people what a visible minority feels like. Making the selling of sex against the law only encourages marriage. Someone would only invent a new type of train to demolish.
We could hope for a hero to swoop in and save us from ourselves, but let's be honest, anyone who would dress up and play the part has probably seen, studied, and been involved in a few train wrecks himself. The cure and the disease often look exactly the same. Perhaps a vaccine? A shot in the caboose might seem ideal at first, but on closer examination, it seems to only leave us with a sleeker engine for our own destruction .
Gomez Addams knew the truth. We can never avoid the train wreck, the best we can ever hope for is to be in control of how and when our untimely collisions occur. Until then, you can find me in the barcar, drinking heavily and making sure my emotional baggage is securely stowed.
Dabuoy
We could hope for a hero to swoop in and save us from ourselves, but let's be honest, anyone who would dress up and play the part has probably seen, studied, and been involved in a few train wrecks himself. The cure and the disease often look exactly the same. Perhaps a vaccine? A shot in the caboose might seem ideal at first, but on closer examination, it seems to only leave us with a sleeker engine for our own destruction .
Gomez Addams knew the truth. We can never avoid the train wreck, the best we can ever hope for is to be in control of how and when our untimely collisions occur. Until then, you can find me in the barcar, drinking heavily and making sure my emotional baggage is securely stowed.
Dabuoy
Monday 5 September 2011
Passion Play
Passion is the first step to a four letter word. I have seen the car wreck of desire laying overturned in the ditch of life. We all gawk and stare, wondering if we are going to be next.
We wake up every day with the preconceived notion that we can live without indifference and ennui. Somehow we get this idea into our heads and we insist on revving our dreams to the redline in a quest for the elusive and vague energy called passion.
We run and caffeinate our drab existence with the heavy breathing of unfullfilled promises. Each moment of the day hungering for the energy of, we know not what. Food, sex, fashion, friendship, all intermingling. Drenched and dripping with the gooey concept of what we want and what we have.
We find ourselves living stories that have no ending and hoping to end the stories that have only middles, and only the slightest of beginnings. Reading between the lines of blank pages. Lounging on the sofas of our legal pads. Holding tight to the tooth-marked pencil that scribbles and doodles our inconsistancy away with idle habits.
We hold our breath in anticipation of the word we dread and also pray to utter. The restless longing to say what we all know.
FUCK
Dabuoy
We wake up every day with the preconceived notion that we can live without indifference and ennui. Somehow we get this idea into our heads and we insist on revving our dreams to the redline in a quest for the elusive and vague energy called passion.
We run and caffeinate our drab existence with the heavy breathing of unfullfilled promises. Each moment of the day hungering for the energy of, we know not what. Food, sex, fashion, friendship, all intermingling. Drenched and dripping with the gooey concept of what we want and what we have.
We find ourselves living stories that have no ending and hoping to end the stories that have only middles, and only the slightest of beginnings. Reading between the lines of blank pages. Lounging on the sofas of our legal pads. Holding tight to the tooth-marked pencil that scribbles and doodles our inconsistancy away with idle habits.
We hold our breath in anticipation of the word we dread and also pray to utter. The restless longing to say what we all know.
FUCK
Dabuoy
Saturday 3 September 2011
What Rhymes With Orange
Oranges, poranges, who cares.
A "friend of mine" asked the question, "why should we read poetry".
If I had only one answer it would be about the necessity for limericks and Nantucket, however, there is always more than one answer and almost as many questions.
I could haiku all over you and fill your couplets with verse for the worse.
I could A B A you with fanciful thoughts until you changed your schemes.
The words could roll from my mighty pen until the paper only yields to sweet thoughts and the notion of passion contained and unleashed.
I refuse.
What use is poetry? It does not feed babies. It only inspires pain, with its insistance upon raw, visceral intrusion. It stabs at beauty while it slices moments of lost desire. Poetry mocks our inertia and forces us to wallow in better times of nostalgia.
Why do we need to read poetry?
The empty words of long gone poets ring in our coarser natures and peal like church bells calling us to improve our dreams and build a better reality.
In other words, poetry prevents us from being alone... Chicks dig it.
Dabuoy
A "friend of mine" asked the question, "why should we read poetry".
If I had only one answer it would be about the necessity for limericks and Nantucket, however, there is always more than one answer and almost as many questions.
I could haiku all over you and fill your couplets with verse for the worse.
I could A B A you with fanciful thoughts until you changed your schemes.
The words could roll from my mighty pen until the paper only yields to sweet thoughts and the notion of passion contained and unleashed.
I refuse.
What use is poetry? It does not feed babies. It only inspires pain, with its insistance upon raw, visceral intrusion. It stabs at beauty while it slices moments of lost desire. Poetry mocks our inertia and forces us to wallow in better times of nostalgia.
Why do we need to read poetry?
The empty words of long gone poets ring in our coarser natures and peal like church bells calling us to improve our dreams and build a better reality.
In other words, poetry prevents us from being alone... Chicks dig it.
Dabuoy
Friday 2 September 2011
Let's Make a Deal
Accept what's in the envelope. Choose the curtain. Take the box.
Pick up a chance and walk away rich or get zonked. This is the nature of any deal. We grope forward into the unknown, hoping to understand the unknowable, and having faith our decisions will result in success.
Look at your cards. Try to second guess your competition. Don't go bust. Learn the art of the bluff. Hope for a wild card and float it down the river while the chips fall where they may. All the while, jokers mocking your choices with grins of potential.
Snake eyes.
Your life hanging on a roll of the dice. Will you be a boxcar willy? Can you make the hard eight? Will your last words be a craps game?
All deals have one common denominator. A non-divisive fact. Every bargain has one loophole that needs to be filled. Dig in your nails and feel your clause. The easy money knows, no one will make a deal without a passion or love for something. Even if, when all is said and done, that longshot is only self-love.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
Dabuoy
Pick up a chance and walk away rich or get zonked. This is the nature of any deal. We grope forward into the unknown, hoping to understand the unknowable, and having faith our decisions will result in success.
Look at your cards. Try to second guess your competition. Don't go bust. Learn the art of the bluff. Hope for a wild card and float it down the river while the chips fall where they may. All the while, jokers mocking your choices with grins of potential.
Snake eyes.
Your life hanging on a roll of the dice. Will you be a boxcar willy? Can you make the hard eight? Will your last words be a craps game?
All deals have one common denominator. A non-divisive fact. Every bargain has one loophole that needs to be filled. Dig in your nails and feel your clause. The easy money knows, no one will make a deal without a passion or love for something. Even if, when all is said and done, that longshot is only self-love.
Winner, winner, chicken dinner.
Dabuoy
Thursday 1 September 2011
Holy John Hancock...
Names. We are born without names. At the moment of our first breath, all we are is noise and moisture. We are silent travellers uttering our desires, needs and wants with our actions, until of course, we have a name. Once that happens we learn to have a signature. We learn to make a mark. Identity in cursive script.
Now what?
Sign up for something.
Scratch your itch on the paper they thrust at you. Get a T-shirt. Here's my card. Free samples. A limited time offer in exchange for your sound reason. Write your rights in a single stroke of the double-edged Bic.
When I learned to scrawl my monicker, AKA, my nom de plume. The quills of my bristling attitude became the feathers of my existence. I was continually dipping into the inkwell of my future. This left me with one need and one need only.
Show the world I knew who I was.
Sign your work. Sign language. Sign of the times. Sign, sign everywhere a sign. Mortgage, loan, proof, self, curses from your cursive.
With handwriting so bad, you could be a doctor. The world wanting to hear your heart. An autograph slowly carved on the memory of another. Almost the same as your sister, mother, father, brother; a cousin in literacy and formality. Have a seat, we'll be with you in a moment.
My friend asked me what I signed up for.
I don't know.
Dabuoy
Now what?
Sign up for something.
Scratch your itch on the paper they thrust at you. Get a T-shirt. Here's my card. Free samples. A limited time offer in exchange for your sound reason. Write your rights in a single stroke of the double-edged Bic.
When I learned to scrawl my monicker, AKA, my nom de plume. The quills of my bristling attitude became the feathers of my existence. I was continually dipping into the inkwell of my future. This left me with one need and one need only.
Show the world I knew who I was.
Sign your work. Sign language. Sign of the times. Sign, sign everywhere a sign. Mortgage, loan, proof, self, curses from your cursive.
With handwriting so bad, you could be a doctor. The world wanting to hear your heart. An autograph slowly carved on the memory of another. Almost the same as your sister, mother, father, brother; a cousin in literacy and formality. Have a seat, we'll be with you in a moment.
My friend asked me what I signed up for.
I don't know.
Dabuoy
Wednesday 31 August 2011
Purge the Growing Threat!
I have noticed an alarming new trend in modern culture. A boom that threatens the future of mankind. A cultural scourge. This disasterous stage of mankind's adolesence can be summerized in one word: optimism.
I look around at a world filled with famine when there should be feasting, and ask why no one makes an effort to help. My vista of life is marred by poverty where there should be plenty. The panorama of my existence is obstructed by the concrete wall of war, yet peace, should be pervasive. The fickle finger of fate seems to point to one source, the optimist.
Ennui might at first seem to be the reason, but when you think about it, how could life be so hectic if we had all donned a suit of indifference? It is in fact, the cause of the optimist.
With sincere smiles, the optimist wanders about with the greasy assumption on their lips that 'it will be alright'. Past bums and ghettos, cruelty and hate, the optimist skips and whistles a song of 'someone will think of something'.
Why leave the comfort zone of your own delusion when there are others to slog through the filth and grime of reality. Men and women who live with constant reminders of the inadequacies of their chosen fields. Doctors who know they are fighting a losing battle with death and disease. Firemen who face flame and risk their lives knowing all they are doing is stemming the flow of destruction that has already occurred. Scientists groping into the darkness for ideas that may never come. Single parents who must create a perfect childhood with barely enough resources to clothe and feed, let alone teach and fill a life with dreams.
While the world wobbles in its eccentric orbit, optimists sit and while away precious resources believing that it will all resolve itself. Government will protect our rights. Corporations will safeguard our jobs and economic future. Science will think of a cure. Fast food is mostly healthy.
Worst yet, the optimists lure our best and brightest into their tender trap. What reason could make a sane person want to endure the horror of reality's built in defeat, when we could all sit on sofas playing video games and sipping sodas? What great minds have already been lost to the evil optimists? How many budding artists 'nipped', before they had experienced the pain that brings passion? The question pales when we can all click our ruby slippers and find ourselves safe at home.
Ultimately we must ask...
What can be done about optimists, before it's too late.
Dabuoy
I look around at a world filled with famine when there should be feasting, and ask why no one makes an effort to help. My vista of life is marred by poverty where there should be plenty. The panorama of my existence is obstructed by the concrete wall of war, yet peace, should be pervasive. The fickle finger of fate seems to point to one source, the optimist.
Ennui might at first seem to be the reason, but when you think about it, how could life be so hectic if we had all donned a suit of indifference? It is in fact, the cause of the optimist.
With sincere smiles, the optimist wanders about with the greasy assumption on their lips that 'it will be alright'. Past bums and ghettos, cruelty and hate, the optimist skips and whistles a song of 'someone will think of something'.
Why leave the comfort zone of your own delusion when there are others to slog through the filth and grime of reality. Men and women who live with constant reminders of the inadequacies of their chosen fields. Doctors who know they are fighting a losing battle with death and disease. Firemen who face flame and risk their lives knowing all they are doing is stemming the flow of destruction that has already occurred. Scientists groping into the darkness for ideas that may never come. Single parents who must create a perfect childhood with barely enough resources to clothe and feed, let alone teach and fill a life with dreams.
While the world wobbles in its eccentric orbit, optimists sit and while away precious resources believing that it will all resolve itself. Government will protect our rights. Corporations will safeguard our jobs and economic future. Science will think of a cure. Fast food is mostly healthy.
Worst yet, the optimists lure our best and brightest into their tender trap. What reason could make a sane person want to endure the horror of reality's built in defeat, when we could all sit on sofas playing video games and sipping sodas? What great minds have already been lost to the evil optimists? How many budding artists 'nipped', before they had experienced the pain that brings passion? The question pales when we can all click our ruby slippers and find ourselves safe at home.
Ultimately we must ask...
What can be done about optimists, before it's too late.
Dabuoy
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