I never signed the Magna Carta
Just a janitor exploding
to dust
I never invented sliced bread
Just a janitor exploding
to dust
I never raped the tyrant's son
Just a janitor exploding
to dust
I never climbed Chomalungma
Just a janitor exploding
to dust
I never had a threesome with a twelve year-old and her grandmother
Just a janitor exploding
to dust
I never was stranded on a smokestack, rescuing myself one brick at a time
Just a janitor exploding
to dust
I never wrote this poem
Just a janitor exploding
to dust
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
mascot memories
Let me say up front that, like most sane people, i'm not a mascot fan. When confronted by a six-foot Mickey Mouse or Power Ranger or doughnut, my response is "That's fine, now go". I suppose it's because most mascots are corporate shills. The ones that aren't find some other way to be annoying, probably because they're so attention-seeking (if a huge mongoose walked down the street wanting nothing from nobody, then you might have something).
However, as a working actor, i happily confess i've donned the mascot duds from time to time.
It usually wasn't pure prostitution, most of the gigs were non-corporate or so goofy that i didn't care.
Here's my mascot history, in case you wondered why that huge possum touched you like he knew you. Maybe it was me, or maybe you just got felt up by a possum.
It started in FL as a Keystone Cop. One of my acting buddies, Jason, got us the gig. He and i stood by the highway, for some housing development, engaging in asshatery and gesturing at the company offices as cars sped past. It was a gig, man, it was a gig.
Jason roped us another paycheck, from Dunkin Donuts. Farmer Joe and a seven-foot egg with an inflating motor inside. You might think that Farmer Joe was the plum assignment, but my face wasn't visible inside the egg, so i didn't have to really "commit to character". What the hell kind of character is "egg", anyway? We hit some of the shops, and did one radio interview. I didn't say anything, i was an egg.
At the Greek cafe where i ran my first theater, Tony the owner asked me to do something once a week to create a buzz. Out front every Sunday for months, i created some new goofiness. A baby new year. A hayseed fishing out of the puddle in the parking lot. A mermaid. All five Village People. Tony always gave me a twenty, and the most wonderful Greek omelet ever. I was the baby new year another time, at a birthday party my friends threw for a friend. They asked me to do a striptease. In front of a hundred people, i happily did so.
In New York, i played Sponge Bob at least forty times, for a children's health service. It was an unofficial suit; my boss didn't want to pay royalties. I also did Spiderman once. I sometimes talked as Bob, but usually not. The kids asked WAY too many questions that quickly revealed me as the pretender i was. One night i had the costume and a girlfriend who loved Bob, and i wore it as we walked around the Village hand-in-hand.
I played Santa Claus, giving out presents in a children's hospital. The hospital was in the heart of an orthodox Jewish neighborhood, and i had to arrive there in costume. It was many blocks from the subway. The looks old Santy got from the locals were priceless.
I played a salty fisherman, handing out free newspapers. Possibly the most bought-soul day of my life.
I played Elvis. The first time was in a Broadway theater, as one of fifty Elvi in a memorial service for a producer. The second time was at an office party, where i downed the only shot of my life. It was so watered-down, i didn't feel a thing.
I played Adam (fig leaf and not-all) for Vitamuffin, at a food show. Three of the colder days of my life...they had a tiny space heater for each of us, which basically meant that a 1'x1' patch of our skin was warm, and nothing else. I saw other Adams in later years...i suspect they didn't ask me back because i wasn't conventionally handsome enough.
I did some kind of feline, or other mammal, for a private party. I may have been serving drinks, or not. My memory is hazy, but i promise it wasn't one of those "take the kitty in the bedroom" parties.
I played an astronaut at a business expo, for an internet company started by one of the losers of The Apprentice.
And the gem in my mascot history, the off-the-charts amazing Bananas, the monkey. Hit the "mascot" label to your right.
However, as a working actor, i happily confess i've donned the mascot duds from time to time.
It usually wasn't pure prostitution, most of the gigs were non-corporate or so goofy that i didn't care.
Here's my mascot history, in case you wondered why that huge possum touched you like he knew you. Maybe it was me, or maybe you just got felt up by a possum.
It started in FL as a Keystone Cop. One of my acting buddies, Jason, got us the gig. He and i stood by the highway, for some housing development, engaging in asshatery and gesturing at the company offices as cars sped past. It was a gig, man, it was a gig.
Jason roped us another paycheck, from Dunkin Donuts. Farmer Joe and a seven-foot egg with an inflating motor inside. You might think that Farmer Joe was the plum assignment, but my face wasn't visible inside the egg, so i didn't have to really "commit to character". What the hell kind of character is "egg", anyway? We hit some of the shops, and did one radio interview. I didn't say anything, i was an egg.
At the Greek cafe where i ran my first theater, Tony the owner asked me to do something once a week to create a buzz. Out front every Sunday for months, i created some new goofiness. A baby new year. A hayseed fishing out of the puddle in the parking lot. A mermaid. All five Village People. Tony always gave me a twenty, and the most wonderful Greek omelet ever. I was the baby new year another time, at a birthday party my friends threw for a friend. They asked me to do a striptease. In front of a hundred people, i happily did so.
In New York, i played Sponge Bob at least forty times, for a children's health service. It was an unofficial suit; my boss didn't want to pay royalties. I also did Spiderman once. I sometimes talked as Bob, but usually not. The kids asked WAY too many questions that quickly revealed me as the pretender i was. One night i had the costume and a girlfriend who loved Bob, and i wore it as we walked around the Village hand-in-hand.
I played Santa Claus, giving out presents in a children's hospital. The hospital was in the heart of an orthodox Jewish neighborhood, and i had to arrive there in costume. It was many blocks from the subway. The looks old Santy got from the locals were priceless.
I played a salty fisherman, handing out free newspapers. Possibly the most bought-soul day of my life.
I played Elvis. The first time was in a Broadway theater, as one of fifty Elvi in a memorial service for a producer. The second time was at an office party, where i downed the only shot of my life. It was so watered-down, i didn't feel a thing.
I played Adam (fig leaf and not-all) for Vitamuffin, at a food show. Three of the colder days of my life...they had a tiny space heater for each of us, which basically meant that a 1'x1' patch of our skin was warm, and nothing else. I saw other Adams in later years...i suspect they didn't ask me back because i wasn't conventionally handsome enough.
I did some kind of feline, or other mammal, for a private party. I may have been serving drinks, or not. My memory is hazy, but i promise it wasn't one of those "take the kitty in the bedroom" parties.
I played an astronaut at a business expo, for an internet company started by one of the losers of The Apprentice.
And the gem in my mascot history, the off-the-charts amazing Bananas, the monkey. Hit the "mascot" label to your right.
wrobber, a cop
A painting i posed for, by Jansson Stegner (http://janssonstegner.com/home.html). The real thing is seven feet high. I've posed for him many times, and always have a hoot, talking about things that white boys who grew up in the eighties talk about.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
the path
There's a twisted old man inside of you
Lurking therein, a rotten cunt too
The raped child inside, so easily you find
To your inner pedophile priest you're blind
You dream of the freedom fighter you might be
Denying your baby-killing mercenary
Torturer, turncoat, prisoner of conscience
They all might have your name
If you'd been Gandhi, you'd have lived his life
As Hitler, you'd have done the same
The book of life is open
Grab your quill, pre-written it ain't
But the path of least resistance
is trod by demon and saint
Lurking therein, a rotten cunt too
The raped child inside, so easily you find
To your inner pedophile priest you're blind
You dream of the freedom fighter you might be
Denying your baby-killing mercenary
Torturer, turncoat, prisoner of conscience
They all might have your name
If you'd been Gandhi, you'd have lived his life
As Hitler, you'd have done the same
The book of life is open
Grab your quill, pre-written it ain't
But the path of least resistance
is trod by demon and saint
Monday, June 21, 2010
wroad wrap
The Minnesota storms that cut short day two of the Nature Valley Grand Prix, had fatalities.
The day three stage was in downtown Minneapolis. It felt more like an eastern city (a little). Day four was at the University of Wisconsin -Stout, my first foray into that fair state. The final day was in Stillwater, Minnesota. Minnesotans and Wisconsinites were lovely, green people. Not overly diverse, but lovely.
Our team won. I didn't get to see the race from closer than fifty feet, and i got the sense that bike racing may be the worst spectator sport ever. The bikers go by in a flash, so how a fan might follow it all, is a puzzle to me.
My booth moved from day to day, in relation to my neighbors. I made some nice connections, and my booth was the most popular. People just loved that PB. Many came back for multiple visits (because of my roguish charm...and, uh, the PB). I got a little punchy toward the end of the last two days, partly from the heat and partly from being a staff of one with no reprieve. I ate a lot of peanut butter, and not a few Nature Valley granola bars. They're actually better than you remember (not a lot, but a little). When i sealed up the company boxes to be shipped back to NY, i included goodies and memorabilia from the festival (basically a lot of Nature Valley granola bars).
How often people think about sex, is always a popular topic of conversation. Do men think about it more than women? I've never bought that one at face value.
But it may be an interesting insight, to list the women i found time to be attracted to on my trip into the heart of America. If i've forgotten one or two, i hope i'll be forgiven. I mean, i was in the midst of dozens of professional female athletes, so my focus may have......
There was Margarita, the hotel maid i met the first day. We talked, made eyes at each other, then i never saw her the rest of the trip.
There was Kate, who worked the booth that sold our team jerseys. We were neighbors twice and actually got to talk a bit, mostly about the two sides of her personality, bad-ass party girl and silly sweet. On the last day, i gave her a case of PB, she gave me a jersey, and i told her she made me almost wish i was more of a bad-ass.
There was Carly, my neighbor on day three. I could only steal an occasional fleeting moment with her. She was as gentle as a sigh, and it almost felt like she was taken with me, too. I had sex/love/baby fantasies about her. She wasn't at the show on day four, and by the time i looked for her at the end of day five, she was gone.
There was Lisa, who worked the Jelly Belly booth, and somehow got it into her head that my name was Tony. She was so enthusiastic i didn't want to correct her, and eventually told her that Tony was my middle name. She was a bit of a Latin sex kitten, very talkative with men. Even though she was made-up and probably not my type, i maintained a little flirtation with her.
There was Liz. Her booth partner and i spent hours trying to guess her heritage. I finally narrowed it down to South America, but gave up. The attraction was mild, but a pleasant diversion.
There was the quiet Latina flight hostess on my trip back.
And just think...were i gay, might i have had sex with some or all of them?
The winner? Cynthia. A sport photographer who visited my booth twice, the last time on the final day. She was Asian, so very sunshiney, and thin with a shirt full of goodies. I don't know whether she was attracted to me, or whether a crazy wildflower might be her type at all, but if she'd asked me to, i'd have followed her to Menomenie or Mars. I was tempted to call Mary the assistant festival co-ordinator, to see if i might score some Cynthia contact info. I weighed flimsy pretexts against the simple truth. I'm currently letting my professionalism negate those plans, but haven't given up 100%. Mary liked me, and might go out of her way to help me.
Farewell, land of lotsa lakes! You still owe me a gopher.
The day three stage was in downtown Minneapolis. It felt more like an eastern city (a little). Day four was at the University of Wisconsin -Stout, my first foray into that fair state. The final day was in Stillwater, Minnesota. Minnesotans and Wisconsinites were lovely, green people. Not overly diverse, but lovely.
Our team won. I didn't get to see the race from closer than fifty feet, and i got the sense that bike racing may be the worst spectator sport ever. The bikers go by in a flash, so how a fan might follow it all, is a puzzle to me.
My booth moved from day to day, in relation to my neighbors. I made some nice connections, and my booth was the most popular. People just loved that PB. Many came back for multiple visits (because of my roguish charm...and, uh, the PB). I got a little punchy toward the end of the last two days, partly from the heat and partly from being a staff of one with no reprieve. I ate a lot of peanut butter, and not a few Nature Valley granola bars. They're actually better than you remember (not a lot, but a little). When i sealed up the company boxes to be shipped back to NY, i included goodies and memorabilia from the festival (basically a lot of Nature Valley granola bars).
How often people think about sex, is always a popular topic of conversation. Do men think about it more than women? I've never bought that one at face value.
But it may be an interesting insight, to list the women i found time to be attracted to on my trip into the heart of America. If i've forgotten one or two, i hope i'll be forgiven. I mean, i was in the midst of dozens of professional female athletes, so my focus may have......
There was Margarita, the hotel maid i met the first day. We talked, made eyes at each other, then i never saw her the rest of the trip.
There was Kate, who worked the booth that sold our team jerseys. We were neighbors twice and actually got to talk a bit, mostly about the two sides of her personality, bad-ass party girl and silly sweet. On the last day, i gave her a case of PB, she gave me a jersey, and i told her she made me almost wish i was more of a bad-ass.
There was Carly, my neighbor on day three. I could only steal an occasional fleeting moment with her. She was as gentle as a sigh, and it almost felt like she was taken with me, too. I had sex/love/baby fantasies about her. She wasn't at the show on day four, and by the time i looked for her at the end of day five, she was gone.
There was Lisa, who worked the Jelly Belly booth, and somehow got it into her head that my name was Tony. She was so enthusiastic i didn't want to correct her, and eventually told her that Tony was my middle name. She was a bit of a Latin sex kitten, very talkative with men. Even though she was made-up and probably not my type, i maintained a little flirtation with her.
There was Liz. Her booth partner and i spent hours trying to guess her heritage. I finally narrowed it down to South America, but gave up. The attraction was mild, but a pleasant diversion.
There was the quiet Latina flight hostess on my trip back.
And just think...were i gay, might i have had sex with some or all of them?
The winner? Cynthia. A sport photographer who visited my booth twice, the last time on the final day. She was Asian, so very sunshiney, and thin with a shirt full of goodies. I don't know whether she was attracted to me, or whether a crazy wildflower might be her type at all, but if she'd asked me to, i'd have followed her to Menomenie or Mars. I was tempted to call Mary the assistant festival co-ordinator, to see if i might score some Cynthia contact info. I weighed flimsy pretexts against the simple truth. I'm currently letting my professionalism negate those plans, but haven't given up 100%. Mary liked me, and might go out of her way to help me.
Farewell, land of lotsa lakes! You still owe me a gopher.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
on the wroad 2 (nowhere)
Ah, the vagaries of living on a planet with an unpredictable ecosystem...an oncoming storm with 60mph winds shut down the bike festival today after only a couple hours. We didn't get to see the riders tossed around like matchsticks, sadly.
Where will GPS technology take us? How long before cars come equipped with radar which tracks the positions of all other vehicles, and automatically slows down and diverts any vehicles in danger of colliding? That radar will eventually track all objects, period. Add GPS and cruise control...anyone care to take any wagers on whether within this century, actual driving will become a quaint memory?
Of course, technological advances always come with unintended humor. When using GPS on a long trip, it can be a very long time between audio commands. So that begs the question...which unobservant driver has set the world record for the longest drive past their destination, when a GPS had shut off accidentally?
ABE: Martha, what the hell are we doing in Saskatchewan??
MARTHA: Zzzzzzzzzzzz.
Where will GPS technology take us? How long before cars come equipped with radar which tracks the positions of all other vehicles, and automatically slows down and diverts any vehicles in danger of colliding? That radar will eventually track all objects, period. Add GPS and cruise control...anyone care to take any wagers on whether within this century, actual driving will become a quaint memory?
Of course, technological advances always come with unintended humor. When using GPS on a long trip, it can be a very long time between audio commands. So that begs the question...which unobservant driver has set the world record for the longest drive past their destination, when a GPS had shut off accidentally?
ABE: Martha, what the hell are we doing in Saskatchewan??
MARTHA: Zzzzzzzzzzzz.
on the wroad with wrob
Goooooooooo Gophers!
It is gophers, isn't it?
I'm in Minnesota, the land of lotsa lakes.
It is lakes, isn't it?
Cut me a little slack. Ain't seen a lake or gopher yet.
I'm in the beautiful twin cities. And they are. If Minneapolis is as lovely as St. Paul, i could get lost here a while. I'm on a five-day trip for my peanut butter company, spreading the love at the Nature Valley Bicycle Festival, home to the men's/women's Nature Valley Grand Prix, the first professional bike race i've ever seen. I'm not in the monkey costume. Bananas can't do it all himself, and i'm a show of one this time...plus, it would be cruel to stick someone in that costume for an outdoor, day-long summer event. I'm giving and selling peanut butter and gifts, and providing loving support (i.e. tubs of PB) to the Peanut Butter & Co. TWENTY12 women's team. All proceeds go to the team. We started sponsoring them this year, and this is the first i've met them.
What a long, peculiar trip it's been, and i haven't even gotten to day two.
I set my alarm clock for 4AM, to get my 8:15 flight. My sleep was short and fitful. That day, i had started feeling a phantom shoulder injury. It may be a tear, of which i've had a couple in my life. A bad one can keep your arm from raising over your head, and take years to heal. I have no memory of injuring it, but during the night, the pain every time i shifted was enough to wake me up. Working the festival solo, i was going to have to lift a lot of boxes of product, too. Ah well. It may not be a tear though, as last night's sleep involved much less pain.
My trip started with a brain fart of prodigious proportions. I arrived at JFK Airport in a timely manner...only to suddenly realize that my flight was out of LaGuardia. I've only flown out of New York from JFK and Newark, and somehow...the word "LaGuardia" on all my documents just hadn't sunk in. I now had to get from Bumblefuck, Brooklyn to north Queens in, oh, half an hour.
I made it in less than an hour, thanks to an Airtran that cuts through some barren NY wasteland, possibly created in part for morons like myself. I got through LaGuardia security (losing only a water bottle and toothpaste, and not the handleless screwdriver i'd feared losing) with enough time to get breakfast and a paper. On the flight, i mostly slept and did healing meditation.
Arrived at M/St.P Airport, i went to get my rental car. We'd booked a mini-SUV. Hertz didn't have the car we'd booked. In my rental experience, reserving a specific car is a lot like predicting what color baby my sister is going to have next. Pretty much a crapshoot.
RENTAL AGENT: (to you) Well...nope, we don't seem to have that'n today. Hey Ron, whatta we got?
RON: We got this'n here.
RENTAL AGENT: Izzit runnin'?
RON: Uh...yup.
RENTAL AGENT: (to you) Same rate. Good 'nuff?
The agent asked me if a "Yukon" was okay. I asked whether it had storage space (i don't know much about cars, see). I'm now pretty sure "Yukon" is Swahili for "pregnant water buffalo". A couple of my NY bedrooms have been smaller than this thing.
Once i was on the road, i had my first-ever experience with a "GPS"! Great googily, it boggles the mind to think where we're headed, in terms of technology doing the work for you. Will the GPS soon be telling us that the driver in the Saab behind us got handed divorce papers today, and has had four fuzzy navels? And how long will it be before children ask us what exactly a "map" is? Of course, listen to me, with my equally preposterously-coddled mindframe. Me and my "maps"...the spirits of Lewis and Clark shake their heads in shame.
Despite my Luddite ways, i almost like the GPS.
And then, in the swank hotel parking lot, i backed up...and a REARVIEW VIDEO appeared on my mirror. Great effing googily. I wanted to find some strangers, and ask them to put on a little skit behind me.
The first day of the festival was wonderful. There were a lot of booths, but not many food stands. Many people told me i was the best booth by far. That's a fair cop. Our peanut butter is awesome in more ways than one. We have eight flavors, the two you'd expect, plus cinnamon raisin, maple, honey, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and spicy. I'm the guy behind the booth, and i'm nibbling away too.
It was a looooong day. Working alone will do that. No food or bathroom breaks. I was never swamped, but it was a slow and unending stream. Actually, probably the best pace to have. You have time to talk with everyone, and offer as many tastes as they want.
I'm not sure whether i'll have more of these non-monkey trips. I ended up feeling short-changed during contract negotiation. Ugh, negotiation, money...but as much as i love this job, i wouldn't do it for free. The original offer i was given, extrapolated to a yearly salary of $24,000. For an international company needing someone with a high level of integrity/knowledge/people skills, that seems low. To be paid less than the cost of the hotel, or the car rental, doesn't exactly scream appreciation.
But that's minor, in the big picture. I had a whole lot of fun, and made a whole lot of people happy.
Nice work if you can get it.
P.S. The color of my sister's babies isn't really unpredictable, but wouldn't that be cool if it were?
It is gophers, isn't it?
I'm in Minnesota, the land of lotsa lakes.
It is lakes, isn't it?
Cut me a little slack. Ain't seen a lake or gopher yet.
I'm in the beautiful twin cities. And they are. If Minneapolis is as lovely as St. Paul, i could get lost here a while. I'm on a five-day trip for my peanut butter company, spreading the love at the Nature Valley Bicycle Festival, home to the men's/women's Nature Valley Grand Prix, the first professional bike race i've ever seen. I'm not in the monkey costume. Bananas can't do it all himself, and i'm a show of one this time...plus, it would be cruel to stick someone in that costume for an outdoor, day-long summer event. I'm giving and selling peanut butter and gifts, and providing loving support (i.e. tubs of PB) to the Peanut Butter & Co. TWENTY12 women's team. All proceeds go to the team. We started sponsoring them this year, and this is the first i've met them.
What a long, peculiar trip it's been, and i haven't even gotten to day two.
I set my alarm clock for 4AM, to get my 8:15 flight. My sleep was short and fitful. That day, i had started feeling a phantom shoulder injury. It may be a tear, of which i've had a couple in my life. A bad one can keep your arm from raising over your head, and take years to heal. I have no memory of injuring it, but during the night, the pain every time i shifted was enough to wake me up. Working the festival solo, i was going to have to lift a lot of boxes of product, too. Ah well. It may not be a tear though, as last night's sleep involved much less pain.
My trip started with a brain fart of prodigious proportions. I arrived at JFK Airport in a timely manner...only to suddenly realize that my flight was out of LaGuardia. I've only flown out of New York from JFK and Newark, and somehow...the word "LaGuardia" on all my documents just hadn't sunk in. I now had to get from Bumblefuck, Brooklyn to north Queens in, oh, half an hour.
I made it in less than an hour, thanks to an Airtran that cuts through some barren NY wasteland, possibly created in part for morons like myself. I got through LaGuardia security (losing only a water bottle and toothpaste, and not the handleless screwdriver i'd feared losing) with enough time to get breakfast and a paper. On the flight, i mostly slept and did healing meditation.
Arrived at M/St.P Airport, i went to get my rental car. We'd booked a mini-SUV. Hertz didn't have the car we'd booked. In my rental experience, reserving a specific car is a lot like predicting what color baby my sister is going to have next. Pretty much a crapshoot.
RENTAL AGENT: (to you) Well...nope, we don't seem to have that'n today. Hey Ron, whatta we got?
RON: We got this'n here.
RENTAL AGENT: Izzit runnin'?
RON: Uh...yup.
RENTAL AGENT: (to you) Same rate. Good 'nuff?
The agent asked me if a "Yukon" was okay. I asked whether it had storage space (i don't know much about cars, see). I'm now pretty sure "Yukon" is Swahili for "pregnant water buffalo". A couple of my NY bedrooms have been smaller than this thing.
Once i was on the road, i had my first-ever experience with a "GPS"! Great googily, it boggles the mind to think where we're headed, in terms of technology doing the work for you. Will the GPS soon be telling us that the driver in the Saab behind us got handed divorce papers today, and has had four fuzzy navels? And how long will it be before children ask us what exactly a "map" is? Of course, listen to me, with my equally preposterously-coddled mindframe. Me and my "maps"...the spirits of Lewis and Clark shake their heads in shame.
Despite my Luddite ways, i almost like the GPS.
And then, in the swank hotel parking lot, i backed up...and a REARVIEW VIDEO appeared on my mirror. Great effing googily. I wanted to find some strangers, and ask them to put on a little skit behind me.
The first day of the festival was wonderful. There were a lot of booths, but not many food stands. Many people told me i was the best booth by far. That's a fair cop. Our peanut butter is awesome in more ways than one. We have eight flavors, the two you'd expect, plus cinnamon raisin, maple, honey, dark chocolate, white chocolate, and spicy. I'm the guy behind the booth, and i'm nibbling away too.
It was a looooong day. Working alone will do that. No food or bathroom breaks. I was never swamped, but it was a slow and unending stream. Actually, probably the best pace to have. You have time to talk with everyone, and offer as many tastes as they want.
I'm not sure whether i'll have more of these non-monkey trips. I ended up feeling short-changed during contract negotiation. Ugh, negotiation, money...but as much as i love this job, i wouldn't do it for free. The original offer i was given, extrapolated to a yearly salary of $24,000. For an international company needing someone with a high level of integrity/knowledge/people skills, that seems low. To be paid less than the cost of the hotel, or the car rental, doesn't exactly scream appreciation.
But that's minor, in the big picture. I had a whole lot of fun, and made a whole lot of people happy.
Nice work if you can get it.
P.S. The color of my sister's babies isn't really unpredictable, but wouldn't that be cool if it were?
Monday, June 14, 2010
hippie, bjork-girl
WOMEN 47-48
hippie chick
When i returned to college for graduate studies, i met an outdoorsy deadhead with a good job, new Volkswagen, and sunny personality. She was forty or fifty pounds overweight, but attractive. We hung out a good deal. I let things become a bit sexual one night, but felt another indecisive episode coming on. I apologized for letting things go too far, and we lost touch. Was it just my shallowness? Probably.
Bjork-looking girl
I can't even remember her name now, someone i met at a Philosophy Club meeting, a troubled young woman with the same ancestry as Bjork, who gave me a social disease (this woman, not Bjork). We never had sex proper, but she gave me molluscum, a fungus. She always pushed men away before they could hurt her. Her roommates begged her to "give this guy a chance". She opened to me a bit, and i probably would have pursued it further had i not met Meghan.
hippie chick
When i returned to college for graduate studies, i met an outdoorsy deadhead with a good job, new Volkswagen, and sunny personality. She was forty or fifty pounds overweight, but attractive. We hung out a good deal. I let things become a bit sexual one night, but felt another indecisive episode coming on. I apologized for letting things go too far, and we lost touch. Was it just my shallowness? Probably.
Bjork-looking girl
I can't even remember her name now, someone i met at a Philosophy Club meeting, a troubled young woman with the same ancestry as Bjork, who gave me a social disease (this woman, not Bjork). We never had sex proper, but she gave me molluscum, a fungus. She always pushed men away before they could hurt her. Her roommates begged her to "give this guy a chance". She opened to me a bit, and i probably would have pursued it further had i not met Meghan.
Lies and Legends
LIES AND LEGENDS (THE MUSIC OF HARRY CHAPIN)
THEATER 34
-fall 1991
The Pennington Players did shows year-round, not just the summer musical. Dramas and comedies. I heard that they were going to do a Harry Chapin show. I'd have traveled anywhere to do it, but by coincidence it was my old company. It's barely an exaggeration to say that Harry's music had been my only friend in my late teens. I auditioned. The director seemed a good guy. It became obvious that my knowledge of, and dedication to, Harry's music, was unique among the auditioners. I told the director but needn't have worried, he said i'd have been cast anyway. There were five people in the cast, none of whom i'd worked with. Michelle, twenty and talented and fun, played the ingenue. Bobbi Mendel, whom i'd met and whose stepdaughter was a Youth Clubber, played the older woman. Craig Mills, a sweet man with a very sweet voice, plus another nice guy and myself, were the male singers. I played the comic guy. I re-connected with John Kling and Betty Henninger, who did production work. The show was a pretty straightforward song review, with piano/cello accompaniment, and doing Harry's music was sweet, sweet joy. I warmed up before shows, singing Harry songs the others had never heard. We rehearsed and performed in a church in Pennington. My solo numbers were "Halfway to Heaven", "Salt and Pepper", and "Odd Job Man". They were great. "Halfway" isn't comic, it's a scorcher about sexual temptation. Many of the numbers were group efforts, and we worked wonderfully together. "Danceband On the Titanic" was particularly funtastic. The funniest thing was an ongoing giggle we backup singers shared during "Tangled Up Puppet". It was the two girls and i singing one word each, "puppet", "tangled", and "oo-ooh", over and over. I was "tangled". At some point in rehearsal our part started to strike me as incredibly silly, and i began to laugh. I'm not sure they understood why i was laughing, but before long, Michelle and Bobbi couldn't get through the song without laughing too. Many times we were stopped with shouts of "What the HELL is wrong with you backup singers??" By opening, we could get through the number, as long as i didn't glance at either of them.
THEATER 34
-fall 1991
The Pennington Players did shows year-round, not just the summer musical. Dramas and comedies. I heard that they were going to do a Harry Chapin show. I'd have traveled anywhere to do it, but by coincidence it was my old company. It's barely an exaggeration to say that Harry's music had been my only friend in my late teens. I auditioned. The director seemed a good guy. It became obvious that my knowledge of, and dedication to, Harry's music, was unique among the auditioners. I told the director but needn't have worried, he said i'd have been cast anyway. There were five people in the cast, none of whom i'd worked with. Michelle, twenty and talented and fun, played the ingenue. Bobbi Mendel, whom i'd met and whose stepdaughter was a Youth Clubber, played the older woman. Craig Mills, a sweet man with a very sweet voice, plus another nice guy and myself, were the male singers. I played the comic guy. I re-connected with John Kling and Betty Henninger, who did production work. The show was a pretty straightforward song review, with piano/cello accompaniment, and doing Harry's music was sweet, sweet joy. I warmed up before shows, singing Harry songs the others had never heard. We rehearsed and performed in a church in Pennington. My solo numbers were "Halfway to Heaven", "Salt and Pepper", and "Odd Job Man". They were great. "Halfway" isn't comic, it's a scorcher about sexual temptation. Many of the numbers were group efforts, and we worked wonderfully together. "Danceband On the Titanic" was particularly funtastic. The funniest thing was an ongoing giggle we backup singers shared during "Tangled Up Puppet". It was the two girls and i singing one word each, "puppet", "tangled", and "oo-ooh", over and over. I was "tangled". At some point in rehearsal our part started to strike me as incredibly silly, and i began to laugh. I'm not sure they understood why i was laughing, but before long, Michelle and Bobbi couldn't get through the song without laughing too. Many times we were stopped with shouts of "What the HELL is wrong with you backup singers??" By opening, we could get through the number, as long as i didn't glance at either of them.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
"BACK FROM THE DEAD"
2009
-by Spinal Tap
They have returned, to return again.
Derek, Nigel, and David walk among us, and the underworld is the better for it.
The songs on this well-stocked album fall into three categories: new songs, faithful re-recordings, and alternate arrangements of Tap classics. At their best, these offerings are worthy of anything the boys have ever done (and that's a standard to make mere mortals blanch).
The new songs are brilliant, none moreso than the title track...you'll be singing the title line over and over as you walk through your days, giving the word "dead" their comedically-nonpareil up-swooped vocalese.
The re-recordings (these would be the new originals, then) are alternately wonderful and forgettable. Some of them play out almost lifelessly, compared to the originals. Others are brilliant, particularly "Big Bottom" and "Stonehenge". Steve Vai and John Mayer get a few licks in, too.
The alternate mixes of the classics are the tracks you'll seek out first, and you'll never tire of them. "Sex Farm" gets a funkified treatment, and "Flower People" a reggae mix. Musical euphoria. "Jazz Odyssey" gets a couple sequels, too.
The only painfully missing element, one the semi-anthological nature of this album screamed for, is the studio version of "Lick My Love Pump" that Tap's legion of fans have been waiting generations for. Also disappointing is the accompanying dvd. They couldn't make one video? It's simply the lads in the studio talking a bit about each track, and it feels like the toss-off it is. They weren't trying too hard to really be in character, they're reaching for the jokes, and it shows. If that's a bit harsh, they long ago proved that they could re-create the magic of their characters beautifully (if you've never seen their appearance on VH1's The List, you've missed a priceless piece of rock history).
-by Spinal Tap
They have returned, to return again.
Derek, Nigel, and David walk among us, and the underworld is the better for it.
The songs on this well-stocked album fall into three categories: new songs, faithful re-recordings, and alternate arrangements of Tap classics. At their best, these offerings are worthy of anything the boys have ever done (and that's a standard to make mere mortals blanch).
The new songs are brilliant, none moreso than the title track...you'll be singing the title line over and over as you walk through your days, giving the word "dead" their comedically-nonpareil up-swooped vocalese.
The re-recordings (these would be the new originals, then) are alternately wonderful and forgettable. Some of them play out almost lifelessly, compared to the originals. Others are brilliant, particularly "Big Bottom" and "Stonehenge". Steve Vai and John Mayer get a few licks in, too.
The alternate mixes of the classics are the tracks you'll seek out first, and you'll never tire of them. "Sex Farm" gets a funkified treatment, and "Flower People" a reggae mix. Musical euphoria. "Jazz Odyssey" gets a couple sequels, too.
The only painfully missing element, one the semi-anthological nature of this album screamed for, is the studio version of "Lick My Love Pump" that Tap's legion of fans have been waiting generations for. Also disappointing is the accompanying dvd. They couldn't make one video? It's simply the lads in the studio talking a bit about each track, and it feels like the toss-off it is. They weren't trying too hard to really be in character, they're reaching for the jokes, and it shows. If that's a bit harsh, they long ago proved that they could re-create the magic of their characters beautifully (if you've never seen their appearance on VH1's The List, you've missed a priceless piece of rock history).
Friday, June 11, 2010
jinn
Rub my lamp, you won't find gold
But i'll tickle your butt when you get old
Rub my belly, not for gems nor fame
For love without fear, life without shame
Rub my bottle, i've no high style
I'll brave the demons to know your smile
Rub my tummy, i ain't your dad
Just the truest friend you never had
Rub my lamp, i'll rub your feet
We'll laugh and dance, this life so sweet
But i'll tickle your butt when you get old
Rub my belly, not for gems nor fame
For love without fear, life without shame
Rub my bottle, i've no high style
I'll brave the demons to know your smile
Rub my tummy, i ain't your dad
Just the truest friend you never had
Rub my lamp, i'll rub your feet
We'll laugh and dance, this life so sweet
Thursday, June 10, 2010
this burn
Last weekend i was cleaning out some boxes which had lain in storage for years, and discovered some papers.
They made my spirit recoil.
I felt burning shame, one of those spirit-maiming emotions i've travelled so far from.
The papers contained words i'd written as an eighteen year-old.
The nature of my shame makes it hard for me to write this...as though my words could never be other than clod-footed, inelegant lies. (go away, go away, here be lies, here be lies...) I was ashamed that i had managed in my pitiful adult existence to convince a few wretches that i was any kind of worthy writer. The shame was so sharp that it invalidated any word i've ever spoken, or any word i might ever write. Were i to meet a person who wrote such words, an eternal gag order would be insufficient.
Euthanization might be proper.
It took me a day or two before i was smiling at myself, as we all must.
It's rare that we get a window into our past that really throws us. We all construct our lives in such a way that we forget or eliminate people or things that might expose us in a way we do not wish to be seen. We're constantly offering to the world the story of our life, editing into oblivion any element we don't happen to like very much.
What threw me?
Two college newsletters from a high school youth club i'd been a part of. Off at institutions of higher learning (nah, screw that, i went to West Chester University, which only became a "university" because it sounded better), we each sent home a paragraph on our lives, which were then assembled and mailed out to everyone. At the time i wrote my paragraphs, they seemed a delightful, perfect expression of who i was.
I suppose they were.
To read them now, through the eyes of anyone who might have seen them back then, puts a burning lump in my guts and makes me reassess anyone who had dealings with me during those years.
I don't offer those words to you here. They went back into storage. Am i protecting you, or myself? Both.
The words are so mawkish, so stilted, so excruciatingly self-conscious and disconnected, that were i to meet someone who wrote such words, i might take them by the neck and shout "WHY ARE YOU FUCKING TRYING SO HARD???"
It's bizarre to understand the person i was from the age of fifteen to twenty. In some ways, i was genuinely living a state of grace. But it was also a state of denial, and almost megalomania.
I was the happiest person in the world (or you couldn't have convinced me i wasn't, which amounts to the same thing). At fifteen, i had a teen identity crisis. I decided i didn't like who i was, in the eyes of others. So i became someone new. I stopped eating meat. I stopped drinking. I stopped eating sweets. I began lifting weights. My interest in theater turned into a grand passion. I became enormously upbeat and outgoing.
Those were some years. My college freshman year, i recall bursting out loud laughing while walking down the street, just because it was so AMAZING to be alive!
Ah, youth?
I've never had a problem cherishing the strange person i was in those years...even once i understood why that part of my life happened, it was still easy to embrace it as a time of immense joy which has ever and always informed who i am. We all should be so lucky once or twice in our lives.
Nor did i ever whitewash my memory of those years...it's just that i'd never before had such a stark window into that time, wherein i could so easily see myself, and realize for the first time how out of synch my self-perception probably was with other's perceptions of me.
Eventually, through theater and one special professor who helped me break down walls i hadn't imagined existed, i realized i'd been living inside a profoundly elaborate defense mechanism.
Such that one future day, i would rediscover some long-stashed words, and cringe at what i once was.
Do i ever seem hard on fools and hypocrites? Yes, but that's a pale shadow of how hard i learned to be on myself, as a youth.
No child or pubescent you've ever known has gotten the full measure of human love they've needed. Most of us survive, but none of us thrive, and we spend the rest of our lives chasing the ghost of the person we were meant to be.
They made my spirit recoil.
I felt burning shame, one of those spirit-maiming emotions i've travelled so far from.
The papers contained words i'd written as an eighteen year-old.
The nature of my shame makes it hard for me to write this...as though my words could never be other than clod-footed, inelegant lies. (go away, go away, here be lies, here be lies...) I was ashamed that i had managed in my pitiful adult existence to convince a few wretches that i was any kind of worthy writer. The shame was so sharp that it invalidated any word i've ever spoken, or any word i might ever write. Were i to meet a person who wrote such words, an eternal gag order would be insufficient.
Euthanization might be proper.
It took me a day or two before i was smiling at myself, as we all must.
It's rare that we get a window into our past that really throws us. We all construct our lives in such a way that we forget or eliminate people or things that might expose us in a way we do not wish to be seen. We're constantly offering to the world the story of our life, editing into oblivion any element we don't happen to like very much.
What threw me?
Two college newsletters from a high school youth club i'd been a part of. Off at institutions of higher learning (nah, screw that, i went to West Chester University, which only became a "university" because it sounded better), we each sent home a paragraph on our lives, which were then assembled and mailed out to everyone. At the time i wrote my paragraphs, they seemed a delightful, perfect expression of who i was.
I suppose they were.
To read them now, through the eyes of anyone who might have seen them back then, puts a burning lump in my guts and makes me reassess anyone who had dealings with me during those years.
I don't offer those words to you here. They went back into storage. Am i protecting you, or myself? Both.
The words are so mawkish, so stilted, so excruciatingly self-conscious and disconnected, that were i to meet someone who wrote such words, i might take them by the neck and shout "WHY ARE YOU FUCKING TRYING SO HARD???"
It's bizarre to understand the person i was from the age of fifteen to twenty. In some ways, i was genuinely living a state of grace. But it was also a state of denial, and almost megalomania.
I was the happiest person in the world (or you couldn't have convinced me i wasn't, which amounts to the same thing). At fifteen, i had a teen identity crisis. I decided i didn't like who i was, in the eyes of others. So i became someone new. I stopped eating meat. I stopped drinking. I stopped eating sweets. I began lifting weights. My interest in theater turned into a grand passion. I became enormously upbeat and outgoing.
Those were some years. My college freshman year, i recall bursting out loud laughing while walking down the street, just because it was so AMAZING to be alive!
Ah, youth?
I've never had a problem cherishing the strange person i was in those years...even once i understood why that part of my life happened, it was still easy to embrace it as a time of immense joy which has ever and always informed who i am. We all should be so lucky once or twice in our lives.
Nor did i ever whitewash my memory of those years...it's just that i'd never before had such a stark window into that time, wherein i could so easily see myself, and realize for the first time how out of synch my self-perception probably was with other's perceptions of me.
Eventually, through theater and one special professor who helped me break down walls i hadn't imagined existed, i realized i'd been living inside a profoundly elaborate defense mechanism.
Such that one future day, i would rediscover some long-stashed words, and cringe at what i once was.
Do i ever seem hard on fools and hypocrites? Yes, but that's a pale shadow of how hard i learned to be on myself, as a youth.
No child or pubescent you've ever known has gotten the full measure of human love they've needed. Most of us survive, but none of us thrive, and we spend the rest of our lives chasing the ghost of the person we were meant to be.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
peace songs
One of Paul McCartney's better songs has slipped under the radar for many years, "Peace In the Neighborhood". A cut from OFF THE GROUND, it had never impressed me overmuch until i heard the live version on PAUL IS LIVE. I can't discern anything specifically different, but it feels like they went on the road and figured out a way to play it that far outshone the studio track. It's bouncy and joyous, one of those recordings that compels you to bounce around with happiness.
The other gem i've discovered is almost a spiritual doppelganger to the first: "Peace is Just a Word", off the Eurythmics' album PEACE. Annie and Dave had been doing their own projects for ten years, when they reunited in 1999 for this largely-ignored album (and not without reason - the rest of the album is unimpressive). This stunningly moving and powerful song wasn't a single. It's one of the few songs i know, of which i am virtually incapable of not crying upon hearing it. The lyrics take you to a place of utter hopelessness with the human condition:
Stop the world
Turn out the sun
I'm so tired of it turning round
Stop the world
Call it a day
Leave it all behind
Leave it that way
Peace is just a word
Is just a word
If humanity couldn't cry over our own condition like this, or strive for joy as movingly as Paul's song, we'd be fully lost, instead of just mostly.
The other gem i've discovered is almost a spiritual doppelganger to the first: "Peace is Just a Word", off the Eurythmics' album PEACE. Annie and Dave had been doing their own projects for ten years, when they reunited in 1999 for this largely-ignored album (and not without reason - the rest of the album is unimpressive). This stunningly moving and powerful song wasn't a single. It's one of the few songs i know, of which i am virtually incapable of not crying upon hearing it. The lyrics take you to a place of utter hopelessness with the human condition:
Stop the world
Turn out the sun
I'm so tired of it turning round
Stop the world
Call it a day
Leave it all behind
Leave it that way
Peace is just a word
Is just a word
If humanity couldn't cry over our own condition like this, or strive for joy as movingly as Paul's song, we'd be fully lost, instead of just mostly.
chiropracticum
For the first time in my life, i've allowed my vertebrae to be touched by a chiropractor. In general, i've always lumped spine professionals in with other medicos: snake-oil quacks happy to pick your pocket. Drug company lapdogs. As Carlin said, doctoring is just guesswork in a white coat. Some people have said wonderful things about chiropractors, but the biggest criticism i've heard is that they get you hooked. You need to return for undending readjustments, to stave off the aches and pains of skeletal life. So i've avoided them, just as i've avoided any doctor or drug.
But for the past few years, i've suspected that something in my neck has been out of alignment. When i would do stretching exercises, there were crackling noises in my neck. I adjusted by doing neck stretches from a handstand position. This diminished the crackling, but not entirely. Then last month i wrenched my neck, and was out of commission for over a week. For the first couple nights, my sleep was fitful due to the pain, and the act of raising my body from a prone position made me cry out. When i went to the chiropractor two weeks later, i'd resumed heavy labor, but the pain wasn't 100% gone.
The chiropractic experience was...not surprising, but fascinating. I felt pretty comfortable in the chiropractor's presence, he seemed a decent fellow. During the questioning period, he seemed to think that my blood pressure would be abnormally high, but this didn't turn out to be the case. After the preliminaries, came the moment we were all awaiting: me facedown on an inclined table. He touched and prodded, then warned me that something shocking was coming.
Indeed it was. He held my shoulder, and pushed my head a certain way. POP-PUH-DUH-POP-POP! He then did a mirror move on the right side of my neck, but this only produced a tiny pop. It wasn't...painful, but it wasn't exactly pleasant, either. It was a little exciting, i suppose, and it didn't feel like he had done anything wrong.
I walked away feeling quite bizarre. For the next couple days, i carried my head lightly, just on the off chance it might fall off.
The results? Positive, i reckon. The crackling in my neck seems to be mostly, if not entirely, gone. More compellingly, the remnants of pain i'd been feeling (when i read with two pillows under my head) are gone.
And though he did invite me back for future adjustments at half the price of the initial visit, he didn't sell me snake oil.
No, he gave it to me.
Anybody want some analgesic samples for $5 a pop?
(postscript: a couple months later, i still feel better and looser, yet there's a slight feeling of almost-injury which i can feel in my neck from time to time)
But for the past few years, i've suspected that something in my neck has been out of alignment. When i would do stretching exercises, there were crackling noises in my neck. I adjusted by doing neck stretches from a handstand position. This diminished the crackling, but not entirely. Then last month i wrenched my neck, and was out of commission for over a week. For the first couple nights, my sleep was fitful due to the pain, and the act of raising my body from a prone position made me cry out. When i went to the chiropractor two weeks later, i'd resumed heavy labor, but the pain wasn't 100% gone.
The chiropractic experience was...not surprising, but fascinating. I felt pretty comfortable in the chiropractor's presence, he seemed a decent fellow. During the questioning period, he seemed to think that my blood pressure would be abnormally high, but this didn't turn out to be the case. After the preliminaries, came the moment we were all awaiting: me facedown on an inclined table. He touched and prodded, then warned me that something shocking was coming.
Indeed it was. He held my shoulder, and pushed my head a certain way. POP-PUH-DUH-POP-POP! He then did a mirror move on the right side of my neck, but this only produced a tiny pop. It wasn't...painful, but it wasn't exactly pleasant, either. It was a little exciting, i suppose, and it didn't feel like he had done anything wrong.
I walked away feeling quite bizarre. For the next couple days, i carried my head lightly, just on the off chance it might fall off.
The results? Positive, i reckon. The crackling in my neck seems to be mostly, if not entirely, gone. More compellingly, the remnants of pain i'd been feeling (when i read with two pillows under my head) are gone.
And though he did invite me back for future adjustments at half the price of the initial visit, he didn't sell me snake oil.
No, he gave it to me.
Anybody want some analgesic samples for $5 a pop?
(postscript: a couple months later, i still feel better and looser, yet there's a slight feeling of almost-injury which i can feel in my neck from time to time)
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
the "w" is silent
Like many thinking people in western society, i have an ambivalent relationship with my name. The sound of one's name, by dint of incalculable repetition, generally feels comfortable and "natural". There are times, however, when i step back, objectify my name, chop its aural components apart, and suddenly it feels alien and no possible part of my subjective reality.
The origins of one's name, and the relationship to those who chose it, can affect our feeling toward said name. Parent-child issues can make one embrace one's name...or decidedly not.
Beyond that, i myself feel a sadness and disconnect on the most basic level, vis a vis how we name our children. I've always been drawn to native american societies where children don't receive their adult name until the teen years, at which time the chosen name is a reflection of individuality, and not how our parents happened to be feeling before we even existed.
There are times when i abstract myself from my name, "Rob", and feel the hopelessly derivative, generic quality of it. Petrie-Redford-Lowe-Base-Reiner-Thomas ugh. The patrilineal nature of my last name is enough to assure that i'll never feel comfortable with that, either.
I did embrace a tribal name once, Shineyoung, as a last name replacement. But the trouble with this was it flew in the face of that aspect of my personality which commands that i embrace what i am...in general, there's a sense of inauthenticity and insubstantiality connected with one who changes their name in this society. It feels a little like someone trying too hard.
However, a new name is at hand.
A shift in the wind.
A way to navigate these issues with deftness. There will be no "in your face" quality to my new name, in day-to-day human interactions. This is a change of subtlety, a protest of pith, an affirmation of grace. It's dastardly subversive, because you and she and everyone will use it whether or not there's any intention of doing so. It's sly and winking, an embrace of that part of me that is always ready to tell the world "do not EVER take yourself too seriously, and if you make it to the end of life without having laughed yourself silly once a day, something went wrong."
The suggestion came, oh irony, from my mother. She meant it as an offhand joke, never imagining i might run with it.
But i'm gonna.
I'm not saying it's the answer to a lifelong search, or that i've finally found a home. At the end of the day, it's just another collection of characters connected to a specific (but flexible) aural sound. I'm not saying i've finally found "me".
But maybe i've found something.
Citizens of the world, i give you the me of today, and perhaps my tomorrows.
It's wry and wrighteous.
It's a new whorld.
Say hello to wrob. Wrob wolf shineyoung rosenberger.
Poopiepants? That's just a nickname, sillies.
The origins of one's name, and the relationship to those who chose it, can affect our feeling toward said name. Parent-child issues can make one embrace one's name...or decidedly not.
Beyond that, i myself feel a sadness and disconnect on the most basic level, vis a vis how we name our children. I've always been drawn to native american societies where children don't receive their adult name until the teen years, at which time the chosen name is a reflection of individuality, and not how our parents happened to be feeling before we even existed.
There are times when i abstract myself from my name, "Rob", and feel the hopelessly derivative, generic quality of it. Petrie-Redford-Lowe-Base-Reiner-Thomas ugh. The patrilineal nature of my last name is enough to assure that i'll never feel comfortable with that, either.
I did embrace a tribal name once, Shineyoung, as a last name replacement. But the trouble with this was it flew in the face of that aspect of my personality which commands that i embrace what i am...in general, there's a sense of inauthenticity and insubstantiality connected with one who changes their name in this society. It feels a little like someone trying too hard.
However, a new name is at hand.
A shift in the wind.
A way to navigate these issues with deftness. There will be no "in your face" quality to my new name, in day-to-day human interactions. This is a change of subtlety, a protest of pith, an affirmation of grace. It's dastardly subversive, because you and she and everyone will use it whether or not there's any intention of doing so. It's sly and winking, an embrace of that part of me that is always ready to tell the world "do not EVER take yourself too seriously, and if you make it to the end of life without having laughed yourself silly once a day, something went wrong."
The suggestion came, oh irony, from my mother. She meant it as an offhand joke, never imagining i might run with it.
But i'm gonna.
I'm not saying it's the answer to a lifelong search, or that i've finally found a home. At the end of the day, it's just another collection of characters connected to a specific (but flexible) aural sound. I'm not saying i've finally found "me".
But maybe i've found something.
Citizens of the world, i give you the me of today, and perhaps my tomorrows.
It's wry and wrighteous.
It's a new whorld.
Say hello to wrob. Wrob wolf shineyoung rosenberger.
Poopiepants? That's just a nickname, sillies.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
this flesh
I present my corporeal reality, inasmuch as i have a conscious relationship to it. At the risk of endorsing a mind-centered view of the universe, we'll start at the point farthest from the head, and work our way thereto.
FEET - A slender size 10, excellently-arched. Averagely-proportioned toes, with barely-visible hairs (the longest being 3/4") on the upper knuckle of the largest two. A big toe was hairline-fracture broken once or twice (self-diagnosis); perhaps volleyball injuries, which took a couple months to heal. One year-long bout with minor athlete's foot.
LEGS - Disparaged by some as "chicken legs", but shapely. Faster and stronger than average. A thin, barely-visible 1" rock-climbing scar on the right thigh. Light, fine hair.
KNEES - Repetitive stress injuries, in the form of frayed ligaments (self-diagnosis). Tight tenderness after a few hours of climbing. Use of braces alleviates this (plus meditative self-healing, mayhap). After several years, the left knee may be healed completely.
SKIN - Fair, and abnormally soft. I tan, but neither quickly nor deeply. I burn easily. Chicken pox as a child. Moderate teenage acne, diminishing but never entirely disappearing as an adult. A few shoulder freckles, which multiply a bit under repeated sunlight. A handful of small hand warts over the course of my lifetime. A handful of red moles, some raised as high as 1/8".
ASS - Abnormally rounded gluteals, for the males of my family. The occasional pimple.
PENIS - 1/4" shorter than average, 1/2" wider, hanging to the right. A blocked sebaceous gland left a pinhead-sized mark on the underside, below the head. A grower, not a shower. A social disease, molluscum, passed through once. Light-colored, average bush. Victim of infant genital mutilation (i.e. circumcision).
TORSO - Athletic. Measurements (35-28-36) more common to a female. Light hair patch mid-chest and on nipples (longest appx. 2"), plus strays on the back shoulders. Fine treasure trail.
NAVEL - Rare innie/outie hybrid.
INTESTINES - Almost entirely free of nicotine, alcohol, caffeine, or any drug, even aspirin.
ARMS - Well-muscled, with veins that make blood-drawers ooh. Blonde, downy hair. Longest underarm hair 3". Rotator cuff injuries to both shoulders: the right one required two years of healing.
HANDS - Slender, and smaller than average. One hairline-fracture broken pinkie (self-diagnosis), the result of poor ambulatory technique. Thick 3/4" scar on mid-knuckle underside of right pinkie, with possible nerve damage, the result of a shattered turtle bowl. In a physical, set an unofficial record for most repeated finger strikes in sixty seconds.
SKULL - Deep-set eyes, sharp jaw and cheekbones, and a pebble-sized bump on the front left top of head.
EYES - Hazel as a youth, blue as an adult; changeable. Near-sighted, with 20/40 vision. I wear glasses for night driving and watching entertainment. One color band missing, which prevents me from distinguishing certain shades of green and brown. The first sign of aging in this specimen has come in the form of laugh lines.
EARS - Excellent. Getting hairier. One rounded, one pointed (make your own Spock observation; i certainly did).
TEETH - Strong, uniform (with the help of adolescent braces), naturally off-white, with two or three small cavities over my lifetime. Wisdom teeth yanked. Back left upper premolar cracked, root-canaled, and replaced. Tiny chip behind right top center incisor, the result of a bad bench-press technique.
NOSE/LIPS - Full enough that i got referenced to having negroid blood, in childhood...perhaps even by myself. Fine sniffer.
HEAD HAIR - Light brown, fading to blonde in sunlight. A red beard which comes in as a goatee. Full unibrow (longest hair 1.5"), of which a few in the middle have gone white, due to plucking.
BRAIN - Arachnoid cyst, non-treated by doctor recommendation. 156 IQ. One childhood concussion, resulting in stars, and no loss of consciousness.
OVERALL - Mostly Germanic, with some Scots, and possibly Norwegian ancestry. Blood type O negative, the universal donor. 5'10", one hundred thirty-five pounds, with 1.9% body fat.
FEET - A slender size 10, excellently-arched. Averagely-proportioned toes, with barely-visible hairs (the longest being 3/4") on the upper knuckle of the largest two. A big toe was hairline-fracture broken once or twice (self-diagnosis); perhaps volleyball injuries, which took a couple months to heal. One year-long bout with minor athlete's foot.
LEGS - Disparaged by some as "chicken legs", but shapely. Faster and stronger than average. A thin, barely-visible 1" rock-climbing scar on the right thigh. Light, fine hair.
KNEES - Repetitive stress injuries, in the form of frayed ligaments (self-diagnosis). Tight tenderness after a few hours of climbing. Use of braces alleviates this (plus meditative self-healing, mayhap). After several years, the left knee may be healed completely.
SKIN - Fair, and abnormally soft. I tan, but neither quickly nor deeply. I burn easily. Chicken pox as a child. Moderate teenage acne, diminishing but never entirely disappearing as an adult. A few shoulder freckles, which multiply a bit under repeated sunlight. A handful of small hand warts over the course of my lifetime. A handful of red moles, some raised as high as 1/8".
ASS - Abnormally rounded gluteals, for the males of my family. The occasional pimple.
PENIS - 1/4" shorter than average, 1/2" wider, hanging to the right. A blocked sebaceous gland left a pinhead-sized mark on the underside, below the head. A grower, not a shower. A social disease, molluscum, passed through once. Light-colored, average bush. Victim of infant genital mutilation (i.e. circumcision).
TORSO - Athletic. Measurements (35-28-36) more common to a female. Light hair patch mid-chest and on nipples (longest appx. 2"), plus strays on the back shoulders. Fine treasure trail.
NAVEL - Rare innie/outie hybrid.
INTESTINES - Almost entirely free of nicotine, alcohol, caffeine, or any drug, even aspirin.
ARMS - Well-muscled, with veins that make blood-drawers ooh. Blonde, downy hair. Longest underarm hair 3". Rotator cuff injuries to both shoulders: the right one required two years of healing.
HANDS - Slender, and smaller than average. One hairline-fracture broken pinkie (self-diagnosis), the result of poor ambulatory technique. Thick 3/4" scar on mid-knuckle underside of right pinkie, with possible nerve damage, the result of a shattered turtle bowl. In a physical, set an unofficial record for most repeated finger strikes in sixty seconds.
SKULL - Deep-set eyes, sharp jaw and cheekbones, and a pebble-sized bump on the front left top of head.
EYES - Hazel as a youth, blue as an adult; changeable. Near-sighted, with 20/40 vision. I wear glasses for night driving and watching entertainment. One color band missing, which prevents me from distinguishing certain shades of green and brown. The first sign of aging in this specimen has come in the form of laugh lines.
EARS - Excellent. Getting hairier. One rounded, one pointed (make your own Spock observation; i certainly did).
TEETH - Strong, uniform (with the help of adolescent braces), naturally off-white, with two or three small cavities over my lifetime. Wisdom teeth yanked. Back left upper premolar cracked, root-canaled, and replaced. Tiny chip behind right top center incisor, the result of a bad bench-press technique.
NOSE/LIPS - Full enough that i got referenced to having negroid blood, in childhood...perhaps even by myself. Fine sniffer.
HEAD HAIR - Light brown, fading to blonde in sunlight. A red beard which comes in as a goatee. Full unibrow (longest hair 1.5"), of which a few in the middle have gone white, due to plucking.
BRAIN - Arachnoid cyst, non-treated by doctor recommendation. 156 IQ. One childhood concussion, resulting in stars, and no loss of consciousness.
OVERALL - Mostly Germanic, with some Scots, and possibly Norwegian ancestry. Blood type O negative, the universal donor. 5'10", one hundred thirty-five pounds, with 1.9% body fat.
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