Tupac

There are times, when doves cry, and angels get their wings, that all majestic things in this world align: when moonbeams and daffodils coalesce to form the perfect amalgam of heavenly light and shrubbery. These times are best spent with a grandfather, and a glass of lemonade or peppermint schnapps. You look lovingly at one another, knowing what has happened and what will happen. You are world wary, and weary, and you’ve seen wooden machinations and swords made of mint. You and your grandfather can do anything together. You can climb rainstorms and taunt milquetoast passersby. A hayride through Satan’s pit is merely a galoshes romp to you and granddad. He’s seen the birch and you’ve seen the quail perch. But the quail was flying!! It was really flying. And the perch was empty, and there was no quail. You cried to your elder, “where is the godforsaken quail,” to which he replied, “the quail is in you, my son.”

It becomes clear to you then that your grandfather is an American Indian, and you are his grandson, “Running Quail,” so you smile knowingly at your grandfather, recognizing the beauty of your heritage, one of land mastery, and harmonious earth ties. Your grandfather scowls at you, and remarks, “wipe that smile off your face, you miserable little runt. You ate the last of our lunch quail, and I’m still darn hungry.” It dawns on you then that your grandfather is not an American Indian, nor are you a descendent thereof, but instead what you thought was a delicious chicken lunch was actually quail, and to make matters worse, it was the only quail in North America that possessed the gift of flight.

Weeping, your grandfather lies in a hedge, ashamed and desperate, swatting aimlessly at an imaginary bicyclist named Pierre. You know you must escape, but to where? A discotec? Spain? Montreal? No, you must go to the place where you have been called since your youth. The place that sing songs your soul, past the wind tousled cotton crops, through thunderclap cavern, and beyond the green ocean’s edge. You’re going back to Cali, Cali, Cali. You’re going back to Cali, rising, surprising, advising, realizing…

Why no canoe, mommy?

It took me going to medical school to realize that what I thought was merely a third leg is actually my penis. This is going to take some getting used to. I had to go to Mexico to find a cute little boutique that sold shoes in threes rather than pairs. I'll have to tell Pablo the bad news. Plus there's that whole relearning to walk thing. Oh well, maybe I can teach it to type. We'll see where this goes. I'll keep you posted.

Why would a monsoon do that to such a sweet child?

Yorba Linda, CA is just shy of the most pleasant place in the universe, save for the Save the Whales Foundation in South Wales, UK. I went bronze shopping three years back with my wax attic. It was a winter's eve and the air was crisp, like a duck hit with a neutron bomb, and I can still remember my wax attic turning to me in the dead of night just days before and whispering "hey, you want to go bronze shopping in a few days? I mean, we are in Wales for Chissake, and I hear the bronze is practically jumping out of its sheath.” How could I deny her? I had never seen my wax attic look so atticy. To be honest, I had never seen her look so much like an attic since I found her huddled amongst the leaves in a gully near the Charles River in New England. The thing that surprised me most wasn’t that she was an attic, but that she was made entirely of wax. Nevertheless, she had an eye for candy and we were fast friends. I stored all my old magazines inside her and some of my high school letterman jackets, of which I have 3200. We would take long walks to the candy store and she would force me to buy outlandish treats like jujubes and licorice whips when all I really wanted was an ABBA-ZABA and three minutes alone.

This brings me to the present, where not only has my friend and attic, Liz Claiborne, killed a marmot and insulted a farmer’s entire patch of rhubarb, calling it “fucking red celery,” but she’s also declared herself the queen of Mars, which I find to be somewhat far-fetched. She quickly clarified that she meant Mars Bars, as in the delicious chocolate treat. We then promptly left that crap scene, went to the grocery store, and liberated the entire stock of Mars Bars, all while my friend, the queen, shouted expletives and declared that by exercising Prima Nocta she would keep the evil Mars corporation at bay by making love to each piece of chocolate individually, after which point she planned to shame it by making it recite the alphabet in brail while gargling salt water (I don’t know how the hell this is accomplished, but who am I to argue with a wax attic who has recently become the queen of Mars?). Then we melted the chocolate down in the tub and got naked and I went inside my friend. Inside the attic. And it was there that I died, in a river of chocolate and wax and fragmented memories.

You ever made a biscuit?

My mom used to make the very best porridge, until one day she was attacked by a bear named Goliath. This bear was abnormally small, weighing 37 pounds. Goliath tore at my mother with his gargantuan claws, and stole her porridge. My mother was left crying with a tattered parasol and three confused children. Then something amazing happened. Goliath came back through the kitchen window and bandaged my mother's leg. He then prepared porridge for the entire family, including our cat Oscar. It was on this special day that Goliath grew several sizes larger and became a real bear. He now weighs 590 pounds and eats asparagus with makeshift utensils composed of old molasses and sprigs of thyme. Recently, it was reported that Goliath became an ophthalmologist and lives in outer Queens, providing medical care to underserved inner city youth. It seemed to me the first time I met Goliath that he was destined for this path. I find it rather beautiful that he was able to overcome his personal hardships and achieve his dream of eyesight for all.

Mainstream politics as I see them today

The mainstream politics of the United States can best be described as proliferating. The degree to which this proliferation has occurred is humbling in many respects. The true belief that a substituent group is wholly subsidiary to another conglomerate no longer holds true in today’s bustling business climate. Truth be told, fewer and fewer small businesses can capitalize on small growth bond options as they did a mere decade ago. Nonchalance has been replaced with fortitude in many of the mid-sized corporations and this has lead to a massive overhaul of the justice system, heretofore referred to as “American Justice.” The quality of health care is substandard at best and is looked upon by many third world countries as being beyond the complexities demanded by business contracts. The true litmus test is a litany of statements, and we cannot feign ignorance when it comes to the economy of the nation. Whetherford Fine Taxes and Sundries Corporation stated in their September report that whaling off the shores of New Mexico was failing and the economical impact of this can be felt from the Michigan corn fields to the Appalachian coal plains. This is not a matter of what your whaling operation can do for you, but what you can do for your whaling operation. If we are to rise up and meet the challenges of a new age then we must also be resolute in our conviction to overturn the rebellious nature of the logging industry et al. Clean streets make for clearer rivers and thus can only lead to business parks with the purest intentions for a just and great nation as ours. The boom and bust of this economy has finally breached the bear market. It is time to push forward. Clear headedness and a sense of responsibility will heal this ailing sense of accomplishment. Rise up and realize your true worth. The biscuit is in your basket!!

This list will bastardize your kids!!

Four Jobs You've Had In Your Life
1. Finger counter
2. Toe counter
3. Counter counter
4. Counter mounter

Four Movies You Could Watch Over And Over
1. Million Dollar Baby
2. Shawshank
3. Goonies
4. Maverick (new)

Four Places You've Lived
1. My mommy's
2. My daddy's
3. In a time clock
4. BeefBrisketland

Four TV Shows You Love To Watch
1. Chest X-ray ovision
2. Skin Inc.
3. Lost in Inebriation
4. I got flack for that? Shit, you gots to be kidding me?, The Movie

Four Places You've Been on Vacation
1. Kid and play's house when they still lived there
2. Kid and play's house after they moved out
3. Andy Rooney's Den
4. Wax museum of the mind in Toronto

Four Websites You Visit Daily
1. wheatwallet.com
2. sea-sanction.net
3. I'llbetyouafleamarket'schanceinhell.org
4. I'veneverevenseenadingo.com

Four Of Your Favorite Foods
1. Sock pasta
2. Rock lobsta
3. Cheese that knocks your teeth out
4. Chilean young boy face

Four Places You'd Rather Be
1. At a 'word of mouth' convention
2. Raking leaves at a morgue
3. Rafting the wild seas of europe
4. In a think tank

Four Albums You Can't Live Without
1. The peapods - She sells sea shells
2. The anthropods - Which wicker basket daddy?
3. Wunderkind - Beast Baste Race
4. Sworn Enemy of Disco - I've always hated that crappy outfit

Four People To Tag With This Meme
1. The writer of papa don't preach, the song
2. The originator of floodgates
3. A tin can
4. A harried nun with a flamethrower

The War of 1812

There was this guy who was really tough and he sold stuff out of a small bag. He would go from township to town and force people to buy trinkets and useful objects, such as dishwashers and gumdrop dispensers. One night he traveled too far off the beaten path and he was severely beaten by Christians in wooden helmets. The man was displeased, but not completely thwarted. He sought refuge in an enormous hammock built by squirrels during the war of 1812, during which time it served as an armament and a tennis court for the aristocrats of Southern Ireland. Slowly, over the course of 23 years, the man regained his strength by eating a steady diet of grubs, worms, and Eggs Benedict. He emerged from his hammock cocoon, a stronger, more skilled salesman than he could have ever imagined. He strode confidently from village to village and sold insanely valuable items and worthless baubles for the same price. He was unstoppable until, when en route to a Maine Bed and Breakfast, he was accosted in a forest by a group of ill-willed Presbyterians. They wore hockey sticks and beat him with goalie masks as part of a new church campaign called “Beat People in a Novel Way Week.” The salesman escaped to Montréal where he later killed himself when he realized he was in Canada.