Wednesday, March 22, 2006

But it's always with trust that the poison is fed with a spoon

Ipod; therefore Ipoot
A Short Story (Not Based on Actual Events)

It's 5:47am and of course I am up before the 6:30 alarm sounds. After a night of extinguishing my stress fire with several rum and cokes this tends to happen. Now for the rollover test. Staring at the ceiling laying completely still feels comfortable, but once I rollover to get out of bed it could all go to shit. So here we go...roll to the left...feet on the ground...BOOM...I feel seasick. Meandering to the bathroom is a chore in itself, but the cold tiles send shockwaves through my barefeet to my brain. A piping hot shower is my only savior right now. As I go to turn the "H" knob all the way to the right I notice something. The sides of my fingernails are stained with a sticky dark red substance.
Blood!? God I hope not. Did I try to steal the karaoke mic again because I didn't like they way they were covering Bowie? No. Karaoke night is Thursday, and I am pretty sure it's Thursday morning. Then it hits me almost as hard as my current hangover. It was the leftover wings that I ravaged when I got home earlier this morning. I vaguely remember not breathing while eating them, and then not brushing when it was all over.
My shower feels great, but I need to sit down due to my current state of nausea. The water snapping on my back reminds me of how I am going to get pounded at the office today. What will be my saving grace today? Will someone pull a fire alarm? Will there be an real fire so we can all leave? Maybe they will tell me I have been working so hard lately that I should just pack it in and take the day off? That's ludicrous, but a kid's gotta dream. If the powers that be don't hate me they will give me enough courage to approach the plethora of hot women at my office today. This would be much better than staring at them with my mouth open while I hold the elevator door. Finally talking to one of the beauties would make this morning amazing considering the circumstances.
I skip the shaving part because I am late and it better suites my current state. Hop in my 15 year old Honda Accord. You know the one with the headlights that pop out of the hood. My headlights are popped and I make my way to the train station. As I begin to step out the car I look the the right and see a crumpled pack of Parliaments resting on my dirty floor. Having a smoke could devastate me even more by seriously increasing the hangover. So I grab the crusty pack and hed to the platform of the train station.
The match is lit and the smoke has begun. The first drag isn't too rough, but it can only get worse. I stare down my nose at the tiny Parliament writing on the cig and it seems to be staring right back at me. I leave about a quarter left and throw the butt onto the tracks. Now lightheaded and just all around funky feeling I stare at the burning cigarette. I am staring so intently that I don't even notice the roar of the train as it stops causing me to jump back like a complete asshole on the platform.
Of course there isn't an open seat on this hunk of shiny metal so I sit on the outside of a three seater. The window seat would have been tops, but I settle for the outside. My IPod is my only saving grace right now. The question is what do I listen too throughout this soon to be harrowing ride? I settle for Neil Young's Cowgirl in the Sand and the train starts to roll. Something else begins to roll with the train and it's my stomach. I silently vow to never drink a rum and coke again as I close my eyes to escape the situation. I try to concentrate on Neil's poetry, but even that can't sure me right now. Sweat beads are forming along my forehead so I wipe it off and glance back to see if anyone is witnessing my suffering.
My quick glance reveals two of the stellar women from my office chatting. My first thought is that they are talking about how dilapidated I look. My face is extremely pale at this point and I fear the "water under the tongue pre-vomit feeling." It's a feeling of helplessness when you reach this stage because there is no turning back. If I have to puke where should I aim? The floor? Maybe get off at the next stop and put on a show for those waiting for the train? My eyes stay closed and I fight it.
I am fighting along with the mean guitar ripping through one of Neil's masterpieces. We fight it out together. It gives me strength as the train nears my stop. I am starting to feel less nautious at this point, but I lose it for a second when have a flashback. I conjure up images of the straw of my drink not leaving my lips and my late night/early morning feast. Then I finally arrive at my stop.
I stand up to get off the train and feel better knowing that I am about to get some fresh air. Stepping off the train I stop for a minute so I can pick a perfect song as I walk to work. I pick Bowie's Life on Mars hoping to cue it perfectly so it kicks in as I reach the top of the escalator. It's little things like this that you need to start off the day right. The jam didn't quite kick in when I wanted it too but it satisfies as I start my walk.
I look around for the good looking gals from work, but they are nowhere in sight. As I am walking my nausea turns into SEVERE gas pains. The kind that doubles you over until you bust some serious ass. So the song plays,

"sailors fighting in the dance hall
oh man look at those cavemen POOOOOOOT!!!"

Wait a second that wasn't part of the song! What was that tremendous farting noise? There isn't a cloud in the sky so it can't be thunder. Has my Ipod malfunctioned? Nope...none of the above. It was me. It was all me as I was lost in song not even thinking about my surroundings. My Ipod sent me to another realm where people can't hear your music playing or your gas passing. Too bad I was the only one in this little world of mine. I then turn as red as the wings I housed last night, which caused this onslaught of agony. Should I even look back?
If it is the ridiculously good looking women from work I will have to jump in front of a bus. If anyone I hope that I farted in the direction of some Hipsters or Jimmy Buffet fans. With the way this day has been going it's most likely the women.
So I dare to look behind and see nothing. Not a person in sight. No hipsters, parrot heads, or hot chicks. Just a homeless man sitting on the ground, who has placed his "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" sign on the concrete as his shoulders shake. He can't control his laughter as he witnessed this overblown debacle. I look at him for a second, smirk and continue my journey to the office.
As I enter the office I suddenly feel better than I did five minutes ago. The nausea and gas pains have subsided. The anxiety of working hung over has left my soul. I push the up button on the elevator and of course the beauties are right behind me as the ding sounds and the door opens. I hold the door for them, but this time my mouth isn't wide open. I have a huge smile on my mug and greet them with a friendly hello.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

If you think that a kiss is all in the lips...Come got it all wrong

With the world relentlessly mourning the death of Superman's wife an american legacy has been swept under our star spangled carpet. Artist Gordon Parks passed away, and good luck trying to find a mention of it from the national television media. A modern day renassiance man who left an imprint on virtually all artistic mediums died, Tuesday at the ripe old age of 93. We mourn a woman who without a doubt contributed something to society, but has she accomplished or given as much as Parks? Some will argue that Parks' legacy is one that is restricted to a smaller fan base, and that Dana Reeve...well was the wife of Christopher Reeve. We all felt so horrible for Reeve when he was paralyzed, and he consumed headlines then and at the time of his death. We forgot one thing. Reeve had a wonderful life before his accident. He was FUCKING SUPERMAN, but we all choke back the tears because his handsome face is now covered with tubes for breathing. He lived a life before his death that most people never even dream of. Not to take anything away from the devastation that the Reeve family has endured, but lets looks at some other american "icons." Look at Gordon Parks.


Gordon Parks, an American legend
By Jym Wilson, USA TODAY

Gordon Parks looked like an artist.
"Nothing came easy," Parks wrote in his autobiography. "I was just born with a need to explore every tool shop of my mind."
By Marsha Halper, Miami Herald via AP
With his shock of white hair, grand mustache and seemingly ever-present pipe, Parks was a 20th-century Renaissance man. He worked as a photojournalist, fashion photographer, filmmaker, composer, novelist, poet and painter. (Related story: Parks' unique American perspective)
But Parks, who died Tuesday at age 93, was best known for his compassionate yet gritty 1940s documentary photography of the lives of black Americans — first with the post-Depression Farm Services Administration and then with Life magazine. At the same time, he was shooting high fashion for Vogue magazine as a contemporary of the likes of Richard Avedon and Irving Penn.
He also was a film pioneer, becoming the first African-American to direct a film for a major studio in 1969. The Learning Tree, a drama, was based on his 1963 autobiographical novel about growing up in Kansas in the 1920s. He also wrote the script and the score.
In a considerable departure, Parks' next movie was Shaft. The 1971 hit starring Richard Roundtree as hip detective John Shaft is considered a classic of the blaxploitation genre. And it of course featured the catchy theme song by Isaac Hayes, which won an Academy Award. He made several more films, including Shaft sequel Shaft's Big Score.
In 1998, the Parks photographic retrospective Half Past Autumn was mounted and toured the country for years. In 2000, it attracted "flocks" of visitors to the California African American Museum in Los Angeles, says executive director Charmaine Jefferson. A former New York City cultural affairs commissioner and head of the Dance Theatre of Harlem, she says she spent a memorable evening with Parks listening to music he composed for a ballet.
She says he will go down as "one of the great photographers of our time" but also will be remembered for his music, his writing, his films, even his costumes. "He was so multitalented," she says. "He could do it all. And we were so proud of him."
Parks himself was always striving. In a 1998 interview with PBS' Newshour, he said: "My life to me is like sort of a disjointed dream. ... It was a constant effort, a constant feeling that I must not fail, and I still have that. ... There's another horizon out there, one more horizon that you have to make for yourself and let other people discover it."
Contributing: Maria Puente

Wednesday, March 01, 2006

Don't let your silly dreams...fall in between

Breaking the Wedge

There is an epidemic sweeping throughout drinking establishments in America, and it has been a problem since bars only offered whiskey to scratch your drinking itch. It happens evey night no matter how many people are there or how drunk the patrons are. You will realize it when your back is turned while ordering a drink or simply standing and chatting with a friend. What is the big fuss you ask? BAR DEMONS...thats what. What is a Bar Demon?

Bar Demon\ BAR de MUN\ noun :
One who walks through a bar with no regard for those standing within a 2 foot radius. Bar Demons have the ability to cause chaos for those trying to enjoy a night out. Bar Demons usually aren't even aware that they are furiously bumping into everyone around them because they are too intoxicated to realize.

There is nothing like standing at the bar and enjoying a drink when you are suddenly struck hit and run style. Your drink is all over your jeans, and you are left looking around like someone threw a spitball at you from the back of the class. Demons have the ability to vanish after they strike. "Excuse me" is not a phrase that Demons hold in their vocabulary. They don't feel the need to be courteous, and thats why they carry the Demon moniker.
They strike at all hours of the night from all angles. They lurk in the shadows of the bathroom line and wait until there is a good crowd to crash through leaving the victims helpless. More mental than physical harm is done by these Demons, but they could care less. They creep through the thick fog and blast the innocent all night without a "Sorry", "My Bad", "My Biscuit" or "Are you OK?"

They are different types of Bar Demons racing throughout the bar circuit. Here are some of the different species:

The Special Teamer:
Usually a smaller female with frizzy hair who goes head down and pushes through the crowd. She doesn't look back nor does she look forward. Her glazy eyes stay fixated on the ground as she shuffles through. She leaves the patrons stunned as she continues to walk away after she knocks you into your friend so hard that your front teeth leave an imprint on their forehead.

The Leaner:
Usually as younger male who cannot hold his liquor or balance past 8 pm. The Leaner has been known to place all of his weight on people waving money at the bartender for attention. He is relentless with his leaning and will not stop until the person in front of him is left on the ground soiled in bar sludge. The Leaner usually finds himself bloodied and toothless in the gutter by the end of the night because of his actions. He is without a doubt the most despised demon.

The Steak:
The Steak is the most powerful demon of them all because of his physical atrributes and demeanor. He walks through the crowd like an ogre who has just ransacked a village of hut-dwellers. He knows he is sending people flying all over the bar, but is fully aware that no one will say peep to him because of his stature. The Steak is usually wearing something form fitting to let everyone know he means business. Some Steaks have been known to let their golden chains hang over the chest hair by undoing the top 3 buttons. Even if the Steaks smashes you...don't say a word to him.

With all these smoking bans being imposed throughout the States you would think they would try to ban Demons. Anyone carrying the traits of a Bar Demon should be immediatley ejected from the bar and sent to jail. No questions asked. These disturbances must stop, and we need to start writing letters to State Reps. to solve this deplorable situation. If they banned Demons people wouldn't even complain about smokey bars. They would be happy knowing they will be guarded from all Demons until the last call.