Everyone is entitled to at least one strange fetish but it has to be consensual, folks! And when it goes so far as to involve children and poop, makes me wanna call the cops!
I just got back from climbing in the White Mountains, so I'm especially sensitive to this little bit of fecal tom-foolery. Sigh.
From the Associated Press:
Man admits crawling into outhouse pit _ again
(AP) – 23 minutes ago
PORTLAND, Maine — A Maine man caught peering up at a girl from below an outhouse toilet seat four years ago stands accused of crawling into another pit toilet on White Mountain National Forest property in New Hampshire. A federal affidavit indicates a 49-year-old man confessed to repeating his previous act on Memorial Day.
Federal agents sought the man out after a 9-year-old boy saw him climbing out of a toilet at the Hastings Campground. Two witnesses saw him walk away from the outhouse.
Forest Service special agent William Fors wrote that the man initially said he climbed into the waste-filled pit to retrieve a T-shirt. Four years ago, he said he was retrieving his wedding ring.
Fors wrote the man eventually confessed climbing into outhouse pits on more than two occasions.
Showing posts with label minnesota. Show all posts
Showing posts with label minnesota. Show all posts
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
MGMT, "KIDS"
Damn, this video is so wrong to this poor little baby! And I think that's his mother in the video. But the song plays on 89.3 FM, and it's a great song!
For some reason, I can't copy and paste the code (only half of it pastes), so here's the link. The band is called Management and the song is called "KIDS":
Video of MGMT with "KIDS"
If you can make any sense of the lyrics, you're a better man (or woman) than me...
Lyrics courtesy of MetroLyrics.com
You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice was too loud.
We like to watch you laughing.
You pick the insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
For some reason, I can't copy and paste the code (only half of it pastes), so here's the link. The band is called Management and the song is called "KIDS":
Video of MGMT with "KIDS"
If you can make any sense of the lyrics, you're a better man (or woman) than me...
Lyrics courtesy of MetroLyrics.com
You were a child,
crawlin' on your knees toward it.
Makin' mama so proud,
but your voice was too loud.
We like to watch you laughing.
You pick the insects off plants.
No time to think of consequences.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
The water is warm,
but its sending me shivers.
A baby is born,
crying out for attention.
Memories fade,
like looking through a fogged mirror
Decisions to decisions are made and not fought
But I thought,
this wouldn't hurt a lot.
I guess not.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Control yourself.
Take only what you need from it.
A family of trees wantin',
To be haunted.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Matt and Kim
I love the group Matt and Kim. They're real-life sweethearts, met in art school, and live in Brooklyn, which adds to their other-worldly appeal. Kim's face when she drums is like this other-worldly ecstasy. I wish I had a hobby that drove me to such orgasmic heights. They look like they really enjoy performing .... oh, and they take their shirts off in every video I've seen!
MATT AND KIM - YEA YEAH
MATT AND KIM - YEA YEAH
Monday, June 15, 2009
POEM ABOUT GOD AND DROWNING
POEM ABOUT ALL OF HUMANITY AND EVERYTHING, EVERYWHERE, ALL AT ONCE
It's said that God provides
but then how do you explain
drowning
I hear the battle hymn of the Christian faithful
in the moments before the explosion
of that doomed flight over New York
the one where the body parts of Latin travelers
landed in the back yards of their loved ones
or the harbor
Maybe you can draw some parallel to Job
but Job woke from his nightmare, tested
and I know some never rise
They land in Chernobyl, Auschwitz, ovens
The Hebrews debate the old word, Timshel
Thou shalt triumph over sin (predestination; some of us are effed)
Do thou triumph over sin (obedience; go flog yourself)
Though mayest triumph (hope)
I believe in God, I'll stick with hope
knowing, as I do, that sometimes
it just don't float.
-- END --
It's said that God provides
but then how do you explain
drowning
I hear the battle hymn of the Christian faithful
in the moments before the explosion
of that doomed flight over New York
the one where the body parts of Latin travelers
landed in the back yards of their loved ones
or the harbor
Maybe you can draw some parallel to Job
but Job woke from his nightmare, tested
and I know some never rise
They land in Chernobyl, Auschwitz, ovens
The Hebrews debate the old word, Timshel
Thou shalt triumph over sin (predestination; some of us are effed)
Do thou triumph over sin (obedience; go flog yourself)
Though mayest triumph (hope)
I believe in God, I'll stick with hope
knowing, as I do, that sometimes
it just don't float.
-- END --
Monday, June 1, 2009
So I was in the bathroom today at work, feeling groggy... when I was overcome by a story, sumpthin' fierce, I tell ya. It's pretty brutal, but it doesn't start out that way. I've been reading McSweeny's fantastical stories or something of the like, and this one jumped out at me...
Considering how awful my niece has behaved recently, I think the motivation here is clear: kids can act like animals! Here goes:
A little girl is sitting in her third grade classroom, and she sees a guy dressed in a monkey suit poking his head in the door. No one else sees him at first. The monkey suit is obviously a suit, brownish, but the eyes and hands are freaky. They don't look suit-like. They look real.
He keeps popping his head in, catching her attention, disappearing. She sits near the back of the close, sideways, so she has a good view of him. But other kids start noticing too.
The story switches to little vignettes -- her uncle once wore a monkey mask like this, to scare her at the zoo; her father told her a monkey had once bit him, and he'd been sick for days, nearly died; there is a bratty girl in her class who has big bags under her eyes but who is popular just by being so aggressive and mean in her personality, that girl has a little tag-along follower, and the bratty girl implies to the other girls she may have been molested, though she does so as a boast, like "I've kissed boys twice my age!" (she's nine); the protagonist of the story doesn't get along with the bratty girl, though the protagonist is also quietly popular with two other girls always competing to sit next to her on the school bus. She's just as happy to sit alone, though, and stare out the window, plotting what she's going to draw next. she's an artist. Also, in first grade, the teacher loved her so much, she brought her an apple (she read it in a book), and on the last day the teacher hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. You're wonderful, she thought to herself, or something like that. But she had the same teacher for second and third grade, and this one doesn't seem to care much for her, and has her sit at the back of the class.
The mean girl with the bags under her eyes eventually sees the monkey (by this time, a little nervous ripple is going through the class; only the teacher is busy preparing her lesson at the chalk board while the girls work in teams on projects). She and her tag-along friend look scared. The monkey motions to her, and the girl walks to the back of the room, near the exit, turns to the class, curtsies sadly, head bowed, eyes downcast, and walks out in the direction of the monkey.
Insert a vignette here.
Now, back to the classroom. The monkey, who has stooped, monkey like movements, is suddenly back in the doorway, howling. Even the teacher turns around. THe girl recognizes him. Of course! So familiar, he is! He raises himself up to his full height. Then he swivels so his upper body is out of eyesight. He's reaching for something .... it's the bratty girl's body! She's all broken up and stuff, with her head facing the wrong way, looking lifelessly at the classroom (I forgot to mention it's an all-girls academy). The monkey tosses the body into the classroom, where it knocks the teacher's desk. Everyone screams and goes running, most kids jumping out the window. One girl lands and her ankle goes pop. Another girl helps her.
Hey, I did say it's a brutal story, and I've been reading fantasy / horror type stories!
The monkey jumps into the classroom and rips up the teacher, gnashing at her eyes and throat with his hands (he's wearing a monkey mask, so no mouth).
The fat girl in the classroom is frozen. The protagonist is frozen. The tag-along to the bratty girl is hiding in the corner.
The monkey looks at the fat girl, who pees herself. He bows and motions for her to leave. She can't. He does a mighty kick, like a spinning drop kick and slaps her in the ass with his monkey foot. She goes half-running, half-hurtling for the door, safe and unharmed. SHe escapes. he turns to the tag-along in the corner, grabs her, and breaks her neck. Then he turns to the protagonist, who has done nothing all this time but stare.
He kinda takes a seat on the floor next to her, so he's looking up at her. After a long moment, she says, "You've really made a mess here." The monkey looks sad, downcast, stares at the floor. "Please try to be neater next time, okay?" The monkey looks up, and she kinda strokes his head and scratches him under the chin. His eyes are fascinated and familiar. They begin to giggle together. The end.
Wow. I dunno if I could ever write this one, and if I had the talent to do it justice, who would publish it!
The intro quote, beneath the title, would say: "Little girls and ferocious men in monkey suits are not always so distinct."
Man, I think I could be a horror writer, if only I'd practice the craft. My mind works in such a way that I can see odd moments, some beautiful, some awful, some just bizarre. I just need a little stimulus and it comes -- scenes, vignettes. I combine something I heard, with something I've read, with something I've experienced, and poof! The scene is in my head. But I never write it down in time. And by the time I do, it's crap. Maybe it was always crap.
I really want to slow down the moment of recognition so that when she sees the monkey and recognizes who it is in the doorway, she thinks to herself:
The monkey!
Stella gasped in recognition as the monkey raised himself to his full height, suddenly occupying every inch of the doorway, arms outstretched and anger bellowing. For the first time, he was making noise, and it was a terrible noise. His howls sounded like monkeys screaming before some tribal animal war; but not just one monkey, so many of them, a dozen at least, all of them furious and committed to clawing and biting whatever enemy, real or perceived, had the misfortune of standing before them.
The monkey! The monkey! The monkey!
Every girl saw and heard the monkey now. How could they not? Even Mrs. Rosen saw and heard. There was so much screaming. Fat Lucy was crying and so was tag-along Susie. So were the others. The monkey suddenly swiveled his upper body down to the side, his legs planted in the doorway but his torso obscured. He was reaching for something out of eyesight.
And then it was in his arms, offered to the classroom like a gift. It was bitchy bratty Cassie, or what was left of her. Her head hung crazily, facing the girls with wide, lifeless eyes, a red ribbon of blood threading her nose to her chin. Her body faced the wrong direction, a broken doll. He'd snapped her neck.
The girls were all screaming, all crying, even Mrs. Rosen was crying. The monkey was in the room now, lifting bitchy bratty Cassie above his head. And then he threw her.
She cut through the air like a flopping sack, legs and arms a jumble, and hit the hard front of Mrs. Rosen's table with a ka-thump. A second whump as she bounced to the floor. Chest to the ground, Cassie's doll head stared up toward the desks to the right of Mrs. Rosen, her eyes still open. Tag-along Susie met her lifeless gaze and instantly became silent. She could no longer scream or cry. They stared at each other, the living girl and the dead.
The monkey was upon everyone now, chasing the wannabe-twins and the tall girl and the shortest of the short. Girls were pushing open the window, crawling over the sill. It was a half-story drop. They dropped. Stella saw dark-haired Annie land awkwardly, her left foot splayed on its side. She moaned. Jenny Liu was helping her up, pulling her to her feet. They were running off now, Annie limping. They would be safe.
The monkey pressed his face close to one of the new girls and growled, his monkey paws in the air; an awful noise. She screamed, then ran around him to the window, another found the door. He chased after another, then another. But they all made it away. Well, almost all.
The monkey locked stares with Mrs. Rosen.
"Please," she whispered, clutching at her own face.
But it was too late. The monkey was sailing through the air, ripping at her eyes and at her throat. Stella hadn't noticed anything like claws on the monkey before, but they must have been there now. It was short work; a disaster. The monkey was relentless.
Mrs. Rosen's ruined body sank in shreds to the floor, a scrap of her falling from the monkey's paws a moment later, a bloodied afterthought. Only three girls remained. The monkey turned for a moment to tag-along Susie, who still had not made a new sound. He turned to Fat Lucy. She was crying quietly, her chin bubbling, standing in the middle of the room. The monkey looked Lucy up and down, up and down, then dropped to his haunches. A large wet stain formed across her pants.
He raised himself up a bit. And then the monkey bowed.
With a little flourish of his bloodied monkey paw, he motioned from his bow toward the door. Fat Lucy stood still as the earth itself, a lake of tears slipping off her face. The monkey righted himself and bowed again. Again, with the flourish of his hand. She was free to go.
Fat Lucy did not move. The monkey raised himself, reared back, rocked, and Lucy's chubby face became amazingly taut. This would be the end for her.
The monkey moved to the left quickly, then back to the right, snapping his legs around him in one 360-degree rotation. A roundhouse kick. His monkey paw hit Fat Lucy square in the seat of her pants; her body, lifted, swam toward the exit a centimeter ahead of her feet. She was out the classroom exit and tumbling down the hallway. She caught her balance by the landing. She was down the steps and off through the schoolhouse doors. She was almost home.
Other than the impression of his monkey toes in her ass, she was safe.
Then the monkey turned toward Tag-along Susie, who had finally taken refuge in the corner. She was curled in a ball, arms clasped around her head, still in silence. The monkey stepped forward. Grabbed her up in his arms. Stella couldn't see what was happening, with the monkey's brown body blocking her view. She heard a snap. Susie fell to the ground. Her eyes caught Stella straight-on from the corner, her body was crumpled toward the wall.
Susie was dead.
The monkey wasn't finished.
He turned toward Stella. He looked down at her from his full height. Stella looked up from her chair. She hadn't moved, screamed or cried. She had just watched.
He took one step, then another. He was right there before her now.
He dropped slowly to the ground, beside and beneath her. She stared into his wild, human eyes.
They remained there for a long moment, an eternity. The room was no longer a room but a ruins of desks and chairs, three bodies, broken glass, papers and books, pens and pencils, art projects that would never be finished. It was a disaster.
"Oh monkey," Stella said finally, "you've really made a mess here."
The monkey dropped his gaze toward the floor, and a sag went into his shoulders.
Stella shook her head.
"It's okay," she said, taking his cheek in one hand and lifting his face, scratching the top of his fuzzy head with the other. "Just try to be neater next time, you promise?"
The monkey looked at her, his joyful, familiar eyes fascinated and shining. He snorted. Stella giggled. They would be good together, this team, she seemed to be saying. And they both laughed until they fell down dizzy, happy to be so alive.
THE END
Considering how awful my niece has behaved recently, I think the motivation here is clear: kids can act like animals! Here goes:
A little girl is sitting in her third grade classroom, and she sees a guy dressed in a monkey suit poking his head in the door. No one else sees him at first. The monkey suit is obviously a suit, brownish, but the eyes and hands are freaky. They don't look suit-like. They look real.
He keeps popping his head in, catching her attention, disappearing. She sits near the back of the close, sideways, so she has a good view of him. But other kids start noticing too.
The story switches to little vignettes -- her uncle once wore a monkey mask like this, to scare her at the zoo; her father told her a monkey had once bit him, and he'd been sick for days, nearly died; there is a bratty girl in her class who has big bags under her eyes but who is popular just by being so aggressive and mean in her personality, that girl has a little tag-along follower, and the bratty girl implies to the other girls she may have been molested, though she does so as a boast, like "I've kissed boys twice my age!" (she's nine); the protagonist of the story doesn't get along with the bratty girl, though the protagonist is also quietly popular with two other girls always competing to sit next to her on the school bus. She's just as happy to sit alone, though, and stare out the window, plotting what she's going to draw next. she's an artist. Also, in first grade, the teacher loved her so much, she brought her an apple (she read it in a book), and on the last day the teacher hugged her hard and kissed her on the cheek. You're wonderful, she thought to herself, or something like that. But she had the same teacher for second and third grade, and this one doesn't seem to care much for her, and has her sit at the back of the class.
The mean girl with the bags under her eyes eventually sees the monkey (by this time, a little nervous ripple is going through the class; only the teacher is busy preparing her lesson at the chalk board while the girls work in teams on projects). She and her tag-along friend look scared. The monkey motions to her, and the girl walks to the back of the room, near the exit, turns to the class, curtsies sadly, head bowed, eyes downcast, and walks out in the direction of the monkey.
Insert a vignette here.
Now, back to the classroom. The monkey, who has stooped, monkey like movements, is suddenly back in the doorway, howling. Even the teacher turns around. THe girl recognizes him. Of course! So familiar, he is! He raises himself up to his full height. Then he swivels so his upper body is out of eyesight. He's reaching for something .... it's the bratty girl's body! She's all broken up and stuff, with her head facing the wrong way, looking lifelessly at the classroom (I forgot to mention it's an all-girls academy). The monkey tosses the body into the classroom, where it knocks the teacher's desk. Everyone screams and goes running, most kids jumping out the window. One girl lands and her ankle goes pop. Another girl helps her.
Hey, I did say it's a brutal story, and I've been reading fantasy / horror type stories!
The monkey jumps into the classroom and rips up the teacher, gnashing at her eyes and throat with his hands (he's wearing a monkey mask, so no mouth).
The fat girl in the classroom is frozen. The protagonist is frozen. The tag-along to the bratty girl is hiding in the corner.
The monkey looks at the fat girl, who pees herself. He bows and motions for her to leave. She can't. He does a mighty kick, like a spinning drop kick and slaps her in the ass with his monkey foot. She goes half-running, half-hurtling for the door, safe and unharmed. SHe escapes. he turns to the tag-along in the corner, grabs her, and breaks her neck. Then he turns to the protagonist, who has done nothing all this time but stare.
He kinda takes a seat on the floor next to her, so he's looking up at her. After a long moment, she says, "You've really made a mess here." The monkey looks sad, downcast, stares at the floor. "Please try to be neater next time, okay?" The monkey looks up, and she kinda strokes his head and scratches him under the chin. His eyes are fascinated and familiar. They begin to giggle together. The end.
Wow. I dunno if I could ever write this one, and if I had the talent to do it justice, who would publish it!
The intro quote, beneath the title, would say: "Little girls and ferocious men in monkey suits are not always so distinct."
Man, I think I could be a horror writer, if only I'd practice the craft. My mind works in such a way that I can see odd moments, some beautiful, some awful, some just bizarre. I just need a little stimulus and it comes -- scenes, vignettes. I combine something I heard, with something I've read, with something I've experienced, and poof! The scene is in my head. But I never write it down in time. And by the time I do, it's crap. Maybe it was always crap.
I really want to slow down the moment of recognition so that when she sees the monkey and recognizes who it is in the doorway, she thinks to herself:
The monkey!
Stella gasped in recognition as the monkey raised himself to his full height, suddenly occupying every inch of the doorway, arms outstretched and anger bellowing. For the first time, he was making noise, and it was a terrible noise. His howls sounded like monkeys screaming before some tribal animal war; but not just one monkey, so many of them, a dozen at least, all of them furious and committed to clawing and biting whatever enemy, real or perceived, had the misfortune of standing before them.
The monkey! The monkey! The monkey!
Every girl saw and heard the monkey now. How could they not? Even Mrs. Rosen saw and heard. There was so much screaming. Fat Lucy was crying and so was tag-along Susie. So were the others. The monkey suddenly swiveled his upper body down to the side, his legs planted in the doorway but his torso obscured. He was reaching for something out of eyesight.
And then it was in his arms, offered to the classroom like a gift. It was bitchy bratty Cassie, or what was left of her. Her head hung crazily, facing the girls with wide, lifeless eyes, a red ribbon of blood threading her nose to her chin. Her body faced the wrong direction, a broken doll. He'd snapped her neck.
The girls were all screaming, all crying, even Mrs. Rosen was crying. The monkey was in the room now, lifting bitchy bratty Cassie above his head. And then he threw her.
She cut through the air like a flopping sack, legs and arms a jumble, and hit the hard front of Mrs. Rosen's table with a ka-thump. A second whump as she bounced to the floor. Chest to the ground, Cassie's doll head stared up toward the desks to the right of Mrs. Rosen, her eyes still open. Tag-along Susie met her lifeless gaze and instantly became silent. She could no longer scream or cry. They stared at each other, the living girl and the dead.
The monkey was upon everyone now, chasing the wannabe-twins and the tall girl and the shortest of the short. Girls were pushing open the window, crawling over the sill. It was a half-story drop. They dropped. Stella saw dark-haired Annie land awkwardly, her left foot splayed on its side. She moaned. Jenny Liu was helping her up, pulling her to her feet. They were running off now, Annie limping. They would be safe.
The monkey pressed his face close to one of the new girls and growled, his monkey paws in the air; an awful noise. She screamed, then ran around him to the window, another found the door. He chased after another, then another. But they all made it away. Well, almost all.
The monkey locked stares with Mrs. Rosen.
"Please," she whispered, clutching at her own face.
But it was too late. The monkey was sailing through the air, ripping at her eyes and at her throat. Stella hadn't noticed anything like claws on the monkey before, but they must have been there now. It was short work; a disaster. The monkey was relentless.
Mrs. Rosen's ruined body sank in shreds to the floor, a scrap of her falling from the monkey's paws a moment later, a bloodied afterthought. Only three girls remained. The monkey turned for a moment to tag-along Susie, who still had not made a new sound. He turned to Fat Lucy. She was crying quietly, her chin bubbling, standing in the middle of the room. The monkey looked Lucy up and down, up and down, then dropped to his haunches. A large wet stain formed across her pants.
He raised himself up a bit. And then the monkey bowed.
With a little flourish of his bloodied monkey paw, he motioned from his bow toward the door. Fat Lucy stood still as the earth itself, a lake of tears slipping off her face. The monkey righted himself and bowed again. Again, with the flourish of his hand. She was free to go.
Fat Lucy did not move. The monkey raised himself, reared back, rocked, and Lucy's chubby face became amazingly taut. This would be the end for her.
The monkey moved to the left quickly, then back to the right, snapping his legs around him in one 360-degree rotation. A roundhouse kick. His monkey paw hit Fat Lucy square in the seat of her pants; her body, lifted, swam toward the exit a centimeter ahead of her feet. She was out the classroom exit and tumbling down the hallway. She caught her balance by the landing. She was down the steps and off through the schoolhouse doors. She was almost home.
Other than the impression of his monkey toes in her ass, she was safe.
Then the monkey turned toward Tag-along Susie, who had finally taken refuge in the corner. She was curled in a ball, arms clasped around her head, still in silence. The monkey stepped forward. Grabbed her up in his arms. Stella couldn't see what was happening, with the monkey's brown body blocking her view. She heard a snap. Susie fell to the ground. Her eyes caught Stella straight-on from the corner, her body was crumpled toward the wall.
Susie was dead.
The monkey wasn't finished.
He turned toward Stella. He looked down at her from his full height. Stella looked up from her chair. She hadn't moved, screamed or cried. She had just watched.
He took one step, then another. He was right there before her now.
He dropped slowly to the ground, beside and beneath her. She stared into his wild, human eyes.
They remained there for a long moment, an eternity. The room was no longer a room but a ruins of desks and chairs, three bodies, broken glass, papers and books, pens and pencils, art projects that would never be finished. It was a disaster.
"Oh monkey," Stella said finally, "you've really made a mess here."
The monkey dropped his gaze toward the floor, and a sag went into his shoulders.
Stella shook her head.
"It's okay," she said, taking his cheek in one hand and lifting his face, scratching the top of his fuzzy head with the other. "Just try to be neater next time, you promise?"
The monkey looked at her, his joyful, familiar eyes fascinated and shining. He snorted. Stella giggled. They would be good together, this team, she seemed to be saying. And they both laughed until they fell down dizzy, happy to be so alive.
THE END
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Matt and Kim, "Lessons Learned"
They're just the cutest...!!!
I would do this in Times Square, too. Provided I could keep my socks on until the end...
I would do this in Times Square, too. Provided I could keep my socks on until the end...
Saturday, April 18, 2009
25 saddest songs of all time?
I won't pretend to know all these songs, but here's a list I found of the 25 saddest songs of all time. I certainly agree with some of these, like BRICK by Ben Folds Five, and Jeff Buckley's version of HALLELUJAH.
Listen here:
http://www.spinner.com/2007/05/04/the-25-most-exquisitely-sad-songs-in-the-whole-world-no-11/
Listen here:
http://www.spinner.com/2007/05/04/the-25-most-exquisitely-sad-songs-in-the-whole-world-no-11/
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Eviction Notice -- a little free write about love and stuff
I sat through a couple of half-day writing seminars at the LOFT literary center (a.ka. OPEN BOOK) in Minneapolis recently. One of them was a bit repetitive, so as I sat in the audience, I got inspired to work on a little piece.
Here it is. Don't know what, if anything, I will do with this, but I'm thinking of calling it "Eviction Notice":
EVICTION NOTICE
Back when we were living together, but shortly before the end, my last serious girlfriend angrily informed me I was not 'detail-oriented' enough. She was territorial about the kitchen and offered this criticism as we shelved canned vegetables together in a lower cabinet. She had more than a tone. Soon afterward, I called my older sister in New York to complain.
"You're not," she confirmed.
Ah, well.
I have learned this much from love: There are things we try to police in ourselves and improve in ourselves, but ultimately we are who we are, until we are changed. I still think my ex-love over-reacted. They were, after all, just vegetables.
Before I keep going, I should say that I am writing this in a certain context: sitting through an eight-hour writing seminar to which I've shown up 39 minutes late on a chilly Saturday morning in downtown Minneapolis; the elections of 2008 are just behind us; my rent is not due but the alarm clock we all keep at the back of our minds keeps fluttering back to the date, as if it were.
An hour's drive north, a 28-year-old man I interviewed in prison on Wednesday must at this moment be by laying in bed in his cell, no doubt meditating on his 2-year-old son, dreaming of his next visit. The prison unit is on "lockdown" because of acts of violence between prisoners, and except for my interview, he and the other men have not left their cells in days.
I had met his child for the first time two days earlier; he called every man "dada," even those flat images of men he saw flickering by on the television screen. Mother had divorced father months earlier. I'd written about them both, back before the child was born, in more hopeful days.
Last night, over goodbye drinks for a departing co-worker, I heard an old story about a school administrator who had a habit of popping Viagra pills and then walking down supermarket aisles in his spandex shorts. My co-workers thought they got him, eventually, on indecent exposure.
I am imagining a middle-aged man, hair like Caesar, pale as most Minnesotans are pale, round at the waist, dressed like an entrant in the Tour de France, trundling to a wide-eyed older woman in the dairy aisle, she of the big blue hat and the winter scarf, the crisp, refrigerator air doing nothing to cool the chemical want between his legs, his offering obvious but never mentioned, a silent hello protruding from beneath small talk about the rising price of Kemps milk.
What no one will understand later and what he cannot fully explain is that this is more than a thrill ride, an obscene bat attack on an unsuspecting mailbox, a sexualized cow tipping. He is not doing this because he can. He is doing this because he must.
I am glad I am not him. Or her.
But I am not sure how it was determined that I be neither of them, that I am me and not them. The soul is unique; our actions are self-chosen; but that's not the half of it. What more, I can't say.
-- cut: There was something else I was going to tell you here, but I have forgotten. --
But consider this:
At the prison I mentioned earlier, the very large associate warden came out to the guest lobby to talk to my photographer before the interview. "You're wanted in New Mexico," the very large associate warden said. "There's a warrant for you -- something about a moving violation."
"But!" my photographer said. "That was! Years ago! I thought! I paid that!"
My photographer has two or three kids. He has a wife he took to the hospital on Monday with what he prays is a cold. He did not want to be locked up with the hurt and the deadly here in Minnesota, not for breaking the speed limit a lifetime ago in New Mexico. His heart beat faster.
They did not arrest him. He promised to get to the bottom of things, to make amends.
Do you know this joke?: "How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans." The writing coach is now telling this joke to the class, and it is apropos.
That is life though. All that planning that we who call ourselves professionals pour into ourselves, it's to move us forward in one direction. But we only set the compass and head out and pray. Where we end up -- that's fate or chance or what have you.
Here's another thought: Who we are when we're miserable or tired and who we are when the sun hits us after a long gray morning are sometimes so different, it's like we've forgotten ourselves and suddenly noticed the forgetting. "I'm back," you want to say. "I feel myself again. I didn't realize I was gone but I'm back."
This may be how an alcoholic feels during lucid times. This feeling hits me often.
That girlfriend I told you about, the one of the canned vegetables. She was beautiful, that one, but it would never have worked between us. When she told me to move out, I asked her why. She said: "I'm not going to tell you. You never listen."
Ah, well.
Let me close the way a good meal starts. Here's my prayer. Here's my constant prayer: I want to let go of self-recrimination without giving up my perpetually-interrupted commitment to self-improvement; to hate my disorganization less while working on it more; to accept me without losing sight of a better me. I want to learn from the past without being tethered to it; I want to forgive everyone, including myself.
I want next year to be better than the last. I want it all fixed up and better. I want all these things and many more. But I expect nothing.
Okie dokie then. Alright. Amen.
Here it is. Don't know what, if anything, I will do with this, but I'm thinking of calling it "Eviction Notice":
EVICTION NOTICE
Back when we were living together, but shortly before the end, my last serious girlfriend angrily informed me I was not 'detail-oriented' enough. She was territorial about the kitchen and offered this criticism as we shelved canned vegetables together in a lower cabinet. She had more than a tone. Soon afterward, I called my older sister in New York to complain.
"You're not," she confirmed.
Ah, well.
I have learned this much from love: There are things we try to police in ourselves and improve in ourselves, but ultimately we are who we are, until we are changed. I still think my ex-love over-reacted. They were, after all, just vegetables.
Before I keep going, I should say that I am writing this in a certain context: sitting through an eight-hour writing seminar to which I've shown up 39 minutes late on a chilly Saturday morning in downtown Minneapolis; the elections of 2008 are just behind us; my rent is not due but the alarm clock we all keep at the back of our minds keeps fluttering back to the date, as if it were.
An hour's drive north, a 28-year-old man I interviewed in prison on Wednesday must at this moment be by laying in bed in his cell, no doubt meditating on his 2-year-old son, dreaming of his next visit. The prison unit is on "lockdown" because of acts of violence between prisoners, and except for my interview, he and the other men have not left their cells in days.
I had met his child for the first time two days earlier; he called every man "dada," even those flat images of men he saw flickering by on the television screen. Mother had divorced father months earlier. I'd written about them both, back before the child was born, in more hopeful days.
Last night, over goodbye drinks for a departing co-worker, I heard an old story about a school administrator who had a habit of popping Viagra pills and then walking down supermarket aisles in his spandex shorts. My co-workers thought they got him, eventually, on indecent exposure.
I am imagining a middle-aged man, hair like Caesar, pale as most Minnesotans are pale, round at the waist, dressed like an entrant in the Tour de France, trundling to a wide-eyed older woman in the dairy aisle, she of the big blue hat and the winter scarf, the crisp, refrigerator air doing nothing to cool the chemical want between his legs, his offering obvious but never mentioned, a silent hello protruding from beneath small talk about the rising price of Kemps milk.
What no one will understand later and what he cannot fully explain is that this is more than a thrill ride, an obscene bat attack on an unsuspecting mailbox, a sexualized cow tipping. He is not doing this because he can. He is doing this because he must.
I am glad I am not him. Or her.
But I am not sure how it was determined that I be neither of them, that I am me and not them. The soul is unique; our actions are self-chosen; but that's not the half of it. What more, I can't say.
-- cut: There was something else I was going to tell you here, but I have forgotten. --
But consider this:
At the prison I mentioned earlier, the very large associate warden came out to the guest lobby to talk to my photographer before the interview. "You're wanted in New Mexico," the very large associate warden said. "There's a warrant for you -- something about a moving violation."
"But!" my photographer said. "That was! Years ago! I thought! I paid that!"
My photographer has two or three kids. He has a wife he took to the hospital on Monday with what he prays is a cold. He did not want to be locked up with the hurt and the deadly here in Minnesota, not for breaking the speed limit a lifetime ago in New Mexico. His heart beat faster.
They did not arrest him. He promised to get to the bottom of things, to make amends.
Do you know this joke?: "How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans." The writing coach is now telling this joke to the class, and it is apropos.
That is life though. All that planning that we who call ourselves professionals pour into ourselves, it's to move us forward in one direction. But we only set the compass and head out and pray. Where we end up -- that's fate or chance or what have you.
Here's another thought: Who we are when we're miserable or tired and who we are when the sun hits us after a long gray morning are sometimes so different, it's like we've forgotten ourselves and suddenly noticed the forgetting. "I'm back," you want to say. "I feel myself again. I didn't realize I was gone but I'm back."
This may be how an alcoholic feels during lucid times. This feeling hits me often.
That girlfriend I told you about, the one of the canned vegetables. She was beautiful, that one, but it would never have worked between us. When she told me to move out, I asked her why. She said: "I'm not going to tell you. You never listen."
Ah, well.
Let me close the way a good meal starts. Here's my prayer. Here's my constant prayer: I want to let go of self-recrimination without giving up my perpetually-interrupted commitment to self-improvement; to hate my disorganization less while working on it more; to accept me without losing sight of a better me. I want to learn from the past without being tethered to it; I want to forgive everyone, including myself.
I want next year to be better than the last. I want it all fixed up and better. I want all these things and many more. But I expect nothing.
Okie dokie then. Alright. Amen.
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