Good sorts

I arrive at Bard hours early, because I am done working and want to be elsewhere with haste. All day, I have been in distrait. In Plato's The Republic, he said a just man who is thought unjust is ultimately happier than an unjust man who is thought just. The unemployment board on New York does not agree with Plato, deciding shenanigans must be afoot given that I substitute taught often prior to December 23rd and then didn't again until after January 3rd. The fact that undoubtedly occurs to you - that this is winter recess for most every school in the United States - does not occur to the bureaucrats, who have opted to believe that my industry is tantamount to deception and thus have kept my benefits for a month so far and will continue to ...

This needs to get nipped in the bud before it happens. Seriously, guys, I know you are getting tired of my crazy political ramblings and at some point the three people in the Internet who still read this will go outside and look at the sun or something, but for the record: Ron Paul has lost his fucking mind. There's no gleeful smile across my face, no usual sense of sarcasm, just an odd feeling that allowing this man to continue at the helm of the Internet will only lead to the tragic end of the human race.

The medical doctor who thinks global warming is a conspiracy between volcanoes,

She really is a very good dance partner.

The nameless hipster woman tells us that it doesn't matter if Jacki and I are any good so long as we are having fun. "For all we care, you can just do this the whole time." Then she launches into a finger waggle, limb flailing mockery that manages to be coordinated and skillful. One would have no trouble putting her on a crash diet, ditching her facial jewelry, and turning her into a convincing flapper.

"If I could dance like that," I assure her, "I wouldn't need you to explain how to do the basic step again. Could you, please?"

Jacki and I focus on our footwork for the first few attempts, though we bravely dance through our ...

Writer's Block is like a shark on the head

I have been struggling to write (and the irony is not lost on me that I am writing about difficulties writing). It is not because I have Melanie for my houseguest this week, as it extends weeks prior to her presence, since I finished my final revision of We Shadows. In fact, our affection tends to begin to shake loose my inspiration, but even these divine nudges aren't enough to return my literary fluidity.

Last night, I dreamt of three of my characters, something that has never happened before. They weren't close to my favorite characters (Ash, Seth, and Dryden), nor was my dream of them helpful in fleshing out their book once I woke. But the message was plain to me: ...

You're not from around here, are you, boy? Okay, well, maybe no one has said this to me yet. Still I get the looks and, believe it or not, I respect the passion. Maybe it is the hatred I show for the word "wicked" or my ability to pronounce words correctly. I stick out like a sore thumb, a sore thumb with a grasp on the English fucking language that eludes these people like the letter "R". I was trying to be respectful of this area, I was willing to allow myself a gentle transition into my new life. It has occurred to me that ...

Suitable nineties

It isn't that I am not enjoying their company, but that I would rather be dancing. The sole reason I am out on this frozen night, wearing little more than a black t-shirt and jeans, is that I am giving solo dancing another chance. When last I visited Cabaloosa, I was rewarded with a cougar trying to pounce on be because I had dared to let her dance in my proximity for the duration of an unromantic eighties pop song. Nineties Night with Jacki and crew had to be safer.

I couldn't know just how safe until I made my excuses and leave Jacki, John, and crew at Bacchus to finish up their second plate of dancing fuel. I pay my three dollars at ...

She is just lucky she has a cute pout

"I have something that you aren't going to like," Melanie says. I hate conversations that start this way. She goes on to explain that, while the plan had always been that she would be returning to me Saturday, she has opted to prolong her stay with her parents for another four days, so her mother won't have to be alone once her father leaves on a trip.

This leaves me no reasonable response. I am disappointed to have this long weekend snatched away from me so she can spend more time in a town she has done little more than bitch about with parents to whom she had made me feel she was overfull (as any adult might be after a solid month of contact with one's parents). I ...

Sweet Jesus, what sort of mad man would make an exhibit that shoots mace in your eyes?

This isn't helping. Christ, the water is making it worse.

Okay, if everyone has recovered, we're going to be moving on now.

Excuse me, it appears that my wife and I have gotten a bit turned around in your wonderful museum. Which way to the door, young man?

Oh no, I don't think so, Mr. Wilson. It's back to the euthanasia exhibit for the both of you.

Do you have something you want to tell the kids, Mr. Biggles?

BWHAAAAAA

Mr. Biggles?

BWHAAAAAA

It appears that Mr. Biggles has forgotten how to communicate, which means one of you has been thinking dirty thoughts again. Assume the position of revelation!

I think we can all agree that this would not be a good look for me now.

I scour my closets for fodder for the biannual Recycling Party, where we try to pawn off those articles of clothing and appliance that we may have outgrown, but which have life in them. My mistake may be in asking Melanie for her input, as she has certain hesitations about my wardrobe.

"Oh god, the bird shirt," she immediately gasps, referring to a somewhat stiff green shirt with a white bird embroidered below the breast.

"Already in the pile."

"You're so good. And anything made of velour. The nineties are over."

"I don't think that ...

Why are we even out here?

You will see. I was up here before with Billy and came across these things. It is hard to explain. You want to get quiet now.

Tick tick tick tick tick

Reek reek reek

What the fuck are those things?

There are four of them now?

You know when you sound surprised, it is not exactly reassuring.

Look, when I was up here before, it was just the two, which means...

They are breeding.

Tick tick tick

Reek reek reek

Try not to not to make any noise, they do not seem to like it.

The one in front keeps looking at me; it feels like it is burning a hole in my soul.

REEEKKKKK

MOVE!

Get it off of me.

Christ, I loved you. I have to go. I have to go.

They are raping my eyes. Their hook shaped penises are pushing into my brain.

Tick tick tick

Reek reek reek

"I think I'll skip Movie Night tonight," I say.

"What? No! Why?" Melanie says.

"I'm feeling a little under the weather..."

"No, you have to go. Every time you see them, you establish yourself more as their friend!"

"So, I have to go tonight because you want to be besties with Ilana?" I ask, cutting the subtext.

There is a pause on the other end of the line. "Well, yes, but you need better friends anyway."

"I went to brunch with Tom. I think I am their friend."

"Fine, but go anyway."

Melanie feels, and I do not disagree, that I need to reinvigorate my social sphere thanks to the exodus of Stevehen and the apparent extinction of my friendship with Xenology: Come On, Party People 01/13/2010

She is good at this party thing

Parties are scary. Don't pretend you don't know. They tend to be held in enclosed spaces, peopled by strangers eating to fill the spaces between words they cannot hear over the music. Yes, the pretense is to gather friends and have a concentrated amount of fun to celebrate a milestone, but the actuality is phobia-inducing.

As a child, I feared parties slightly more than I enjoyed them. I recall once, at five or six, inch-worming my way out of my bedroom, covered in a gold sleeping bag to observe through a hole in the zipper my parents' friends. These were not strangers (these same friends have attended our Easter egg dyeing since time immemorial), but they were here under the auspices of a party and were therefore not to ...

How John Lennon got started

If everyone waited to be ready to have children, our species would die out. If you have any instinct toward reproduction, you leap first and build what wings you can on the way down. Or you simply forget to take your birth control pill or wear a condom and deal with the logical consequences.

Still, it often seems one must make the choice between spawning and living out those fantasies one accumulates through high school and college. Despite this, many can't seem to wait to begin a family. Judging from smiling pictures of Baby's First Christmas, I don't think most people regret their decision to become parents as soon as they are in a relationship that could sustain it (or sooner).

My ...

Tell us a story, Master Frog.

Yes, tell us a story of the old days.

Very well, little ones, gather around closely. Long before the pond, there was the swamp. Before the swamp, there was a wide field of grass. Before I came to the land, it stood calling to our people.

Master Frog, how can that be? We allow the swamp to exist, do we not? The teachings tell us so.

We live in harmony with the Mother Swamp. Tomorrow, if we were to begin the great journey, Mother Swamp would provide for others.

What others? There is only our clan, only our beliefs. The teachings tell us so. If we were to leave the swamp, it would die. The others that came would only arrive to a barren wasteland. We are the beginning and the end of the cycle, to teach otherwise would be to teach against the Will of the Log.

The rules written on the log serve a different time, little one.

You speak of blasphemy.

"Blasphemy" is a horrid term used by those that seek the power of the swamp for their own means.

This is the teachings of a madman.

Cleanse him with ...

This is how I look most of the time I am writing

"I'm sorry, you said you've visited Austria? What time of year?" I ask the perfumed woman on the other end of the table, talking over Tom's head. Even as I ask, I struggle to remember her name, something with a K.

"August, why?"

"Ah, no good for me. I am doing research about the Krampus, for a story. He's one of Santa's helpers in Austria, the bad cop to Santa's good cop. Only, instead of coal in the stockings, the Krampus beats women with birch switches and drags naughty children to hell. I wanted to know the cultural logic for Santa teaming up with a murderous demon." Ideally, I was hoping that someone would mention the ...

How about "give half your stuff to people who will need and appreciate it"? Because throwing away your worldly possession becomes littering in short order.

I would be happier if everyone who sincerely posted to this site suffered a sudden urinary tract infection.

...I may cry.

Wait... a political cartoon that is both amusing and accurate? The hell?

Here is a fun little ethical test: Are you on the side of brutal gang rapists? If yes, you are wrong. See how easy it is?

Does she seem uncomfortably disproportionate to anyone else? As though she might have some spinal issues or have been badly photoshopped?

"Sexy MILF" earns me a wag of the finger. She approves, however, of "librarian fetish".

How are you supposed to get your condoms home from the store? Because, when I had a girlfriend who was not on the pill, I don't recall I single time I bought fewer than twenty condoms at a time. Thus making me the King Gigolo.

I am completely in favor of kids doing this, mostly because there are far too many stupid children and this seems like a good way to self-select out of the gene pool.

Having known several Pagans, I see absolutely no way in which this will be quickly abused, resulting in this site being referenced on Dateline as proof that all Pagans are predators.