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

Just Scuzz

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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

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

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 Moment of Silence for 911

Dabuoy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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