Meaning will not be found at 3am cruising the empty streets of a dead mill town. Not down vacant, alley cat passages that cut along the granite chunk river. Not behind the flake paint walls of lean-to tenement buildings. Not left nor right down dead-end-life-threatening-blvds. Scary is the insomniac gambling on the turn of the wheel..fingers crossed, door ajar...waiting to make that leap into the fresh. Risking all for that chance to sleep anew. Its 3am

Vlad

I was just walking into my living room and a bat the size of a toaster oven was doing laps around the ceiling light. Having had my share of encounters with these little bastards I showed no fear and understood that it would have to make a pit stop sooner or later and it would be at that point that I could grab it and toss it back into the wild. HOWEVER, this behemoth took three laps, hung a left and pulled a Houdini on me. I have been looking for the last two hours and I can't for the life of me figure out where in the hell it went. Now, like I said, I had no fear. But...that statement was made when I was still maintaining visual contact. The idea that this prick could be roosting over my bed kind of gives me the willies. I am debating whether or not to build a mosquito net out of Q-Tips and 8mm film.

Super

Everyone at some point in their lives believes that they have some sort of supernatural powers that separate them from the rest of the population. I'm not talking about tying a towel around your neck and running around the living room chasing the cat when you were, like, 27. I mean legitimate "ESP" kinds of weirdness. Some believe they are capable of guessing the future while others profess the ability to leave their bodies under deep meditation. Back when I used to imbibe in man-made hallucinogens I truly believed that I could breath through ice cream and that with enough backing and blotter acid I would someday perform at the Lincoln Center. Now that decades have past since my last "voyage" the only thing that I can hold up as an example of anything even remotely supernatural is that I can sometimes see through my eye-lids late at night. Really! And when I finally get my fingers to shoot lasers it will be ass kicking time.

Certain cross to bear.

I drove by a woman today who was talking to herself. She was really over-emphasizing her words and in the brief seconds it took to pass her I think what she said was "I know for a fact when the world will end" or "I now have a cat whose Zen won't bend." I would have been useless on both counts so I went for a coffee and a fruity thing.

Think Before You Joke

I was making spaghetti today and realized I needed a can of whole tomatoes. I drove down to the market and grabbed a can and as I was walking down the aisle I noticed a sorry looking kid stocking shelves. Besides collecting tolls on the interstate I cannot think of a more mind numbing job than stocking supermarket shelves. So I thought I would make the kid laugh. Holding out the can and with a serious expression on my face I asked him if my canned tomatoes were fresh. Well, he looked at the can, looked at me, looked at the can and then kind of got a glazed look in his eyes. Realizing I wasn't dealing with Lenny Bruce I brought the can up to my nose, sniffed it and said "yep, they're fine" and walked away. Pick your targets wisely.

Insanity

I watched a fantastic documentary last night over at Fitchburg State College. Created by former student Melanie Perkins it is one of the more powerful pieces I have seen in a great while.


"Have You Seen Andy?" is the personal story of a childhood friendship abruptly ended by the tragic abduction of a young boy. On a hot summer day in August 1976, ten year-old Andy Puglisi was playing along with dozens of other children at the Higgins Memorial Pool in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Then suddenly, he disappeared. Twenty-two years later, filmmaker Melanie Perkins, Andy's childhood friend, begins her search for answers in this feature-length documentary.

Image Sells

How fucking dumb do advertisers think we are to believe that they can take a television personality, throw a product in their hand and expect us to get a hard-on for that product simply because this personality says "ya gotta have it"? Well, let me rephrase that: why are we so dumb that we fall for this shit? First of all I have never been a big celebrity fan. I certainly enjoy watching sports and going to the movies if I know a certain player or actor will be performing. But that's where it ends. I am aware that there is no relationship beyond my reach of the remote control. I don't know them and they don't know me. Ultimately when it comes time to pay the bills or figure out why my balls itch they are not going to be there with a checkbook or ointment. So I find it fascinating that celebrity endorsements are considered high value marketing for advertisers. What qualifications does someone who plays a doctor on TV have in trying to get me to buy a fucking car during a commercial break? Maybe the line between fantasy and reality is just a little too thin and some people truly want to believe that these recognizable faces somehow understand their needs or that through some act of loyalty they will be just a little more like them. There has to be some form of mental breakdown because there is no other reason why a 19 year old, 300lb hog farmer from Nebraska should ever believe that if he eats a certain brand of burger he too will be able to dunk a basketball. But he continues to do so. Well people, the sad truth is that celebrities don't really give a shit if you buy that product or not. For a fat check they would sell diamond studded designer colostomy bags. You have to remember that these people have no more of a clue about life than the guy pissing on a dumpster behind the bus stop. Their success should never be confused with omniscience.
Advertisers are pimps by nature and celebrities are simply pseudo-pimps hired to whore a certain product. I find it difficult to buy something that needs to be "jazzed" up by Tiger Woods. If there is a product out there that performs the same function as the one with the "Swoosh" then I am buying it. If there isn't then just say that and stop all this celebrity nonsense.

You think...therfore I am.

I met a man once who had an interesting take on the existence of heaven and hell . He believed that heaven/hell is simply how others remember you after you are dead. If these memories are good then you must have lived a decent life and your reward is to "live" on as a benevolent loop in the minds of others. If you were a cock then the opposite would follow; you being eternally viewed as an ephemeral douche bag. However, unless you were Mother Theresa or Pol Pot whose memory will live on indefinitely, there is going to come a time after you are dead and buried that you WILL be forgotten. Yes, sketchy as it sounds, within four or five generations there will not be a soul walking this planet that will be able to remember who the fuck you were, what you did or how you fit into the family album. Then what? What does heaven become? It's kind of a "get out of hell card free" for petty criminals and those guilty of high crimes that were never brought to justice. If there is no memory of those crimes then, for all intents and purposes, they did not happen. And if you were a Willy Loman and spent your life doing the right thing but were so completely under the radar that even YOU almost forgot your existence, then brother, you will be as forgotten as the shit you took last Wednesday. So, I guess the suggestion would be, if one wishes to attain heavenly memory status, that you should live grand and leave a lasting impression (good or bad) because inevitably...poof...you are vapor.

Attica!!!!

You never know what will brighten your day. This morning I got up and drove over the hill to get a cup of coffee. As I rounded a bend there were three cars stuck behind a school bus. So I queued up and sat...and sat...and sat. After a couple of minutes I thought about giving a friendly tap on the horn to remind the bus driver that her anger at getting slapped around by her drunk husband shouldn't be used the following day in the form of a yellow, 6000lb passive-aggressive weapon. Just as I was ready to lean on the horn I heard another car begin to blast its horn. Never one to draw attention to myself I was pleased that someone else was taking the initiative. No sooner had I thought this than a cop, seated in his personal SUV directly in front of me, jumped out of his car, ran up to the honking car's window and began a roid-raged litany that would have put a chimpanzee to shame. He pointed at the school bus, pointed at a couple of wide eyed children staring out the back window and then stuck his finger through the open window of the car into the face of the driver. The beauty of it all was that the driver had to have been no less than 80 years old. The cop was relentless. As the bus pulled away the cop continued to scream at the driver. Now the line behind me was beginning to get agitated at the cop for holding up the line but not a soul dared honk. After a few more nasty gestures the cop stormed back to his vehicle, slammed the door and spun out around the old man. The poor old bastard was on queer street. He had his head so far up his ass after that that he ran a stop sign in front of me and nearly clipped a car. I kind of felt sorry for him but at the same time....better him than me.

Go Speed Racer...Go!!

A few weeks ago I was building a deck on this old couples house a few towns over. While digging a hole I uncovered an old mud covered Match-Box car that looked strangely familiar. Cleaning it off with the garden hose I was stunned to find that it was the original "Mach-V" driven by that "Demon on wheels" Speed Racer himself! To me this was/is the Holy Grail of all the toys ever manufactured. In the early seventies you could take your "Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots" and Light Brites and shove them up your ass. But give me the Mach-V and a pile of dirt and the world became a fantasy land of evil assassins and narrow escapes. Every kid in the world wanted to be Speed Racer (except for the neckerchief). We watched that cartoon with fanatic enthusiasm. Merely listening to the opening music often caused epileptic seizures of delight. Even though we've traveled around the sun many more times than I would like to admit and responsibilities often dictate a jettisoning of childish nostalgia I will always keep a pile of dirt in the back yard specifically for the Mach-V. And if you try and take it from me I'll bite your damned leg.

A Day At The Symphony

I caught her out of the corner of my eye doing what appeared to be an elderly impression of some soft shoe tap dancing. Knowing that the grand gesture of swinging arms and seemingly uncontrollable stagger steps were a sure sign of a finale I spun to my right to catch the big finish. The expression on her face wasn’t one so much of fear as it was of the inevitable and she would accept this with as much dignity and style as one would expect in Boston’s Symphony Hall.
Purse wind-milling in one hand and cane tossed like a stick grenade two aisles to her left she scat danced out of control to her knees and then used her face to wax the leg of the mahogany chair I sat upon. The first thought that came to my mind was Howard Cosell’s famous cry “down goes Frazier, down goes Frazier…!” The second thought was “damn! I probably could have caught her had I not taken for granted the extreme difficulties the elderly have consummating a bowel movement let alone highly choreographed, impromptu dance moves on an inclined walkway.” The last thought was, as I stared at her motionless body, “I bet I crack a rib if I have to perform CPR.” However, she was a trooper. I dropped down to my knees and told her to stay on the ground. She was having none of that and tried to get up. I stuffed my arm under hers and hoisted her to her feet. She looked like she had gone a couple of rounds with a bottle of Valium with her wig askew and glasses dangling from her right ear. I asked her where it hurt….besides MedicAid. She pointed to her face and I tried to discern any new trauma that wasn’t a liver spot. She appeared remarkably unhurt. Straightening her glasses and faux follicles she was handed her cane and ushered away by the, um, ushers.
Every now and then I would glance back to make sure that she wasn’t taking a little catnap. Then I began to think that sitting there in Symphony Hall at ninety with a mild concussion and probably wondering why the Red Sox have taken the field with tubas under their arms isn’t all that bad. At that age I wouldn’t give a flying fuck if I pulled a cartwheel into three rows of concertgoers. Cheers to her for getting the hell out of the house and having the dignity/senility to put her ass in that chair after what many younger people would have considered an event ending embarrassment. I just hope my wig stays put when I start taking my tumbles.

Can I get that "to go"?

I went to visit the Department of Psychology at Clark University today in order to get some information on their Doctoral program in clinical psych.I met with the department secretary and she filled me in on the requirements and a few tales of success. When I asked her the approximate time one takes to pass through the program she told me that most students will defend their dissertation in their sixth year. When she said this I literally shit a four-course French dinner right there on the department floor. Six F'n years!!! That would make me fortyyy...OLD. I was kind of hoping they had one of those accelerated courses where you "could be diagnosing clients in as little as six to eight weeks." Square one...again....again...and again.

This . . . This is . . . This is not . . . This is this this is not . . . this is . . . is this . . . not . . . is this?