A post for Ms. Burdg

... because it's not a sentence either. But hey, it's not fifty words either. Instead, it's a T-shirt I saw on my way back home the other day. It said, "Keep Memphis Weird" to which I yelled from my car, "Rock on," while holding a rock fist in the air. Never mind it was a school zone. Never mind she had a group of kids, five- to six-year-olds, and a baby stroller following her as she crossed Locust Street. Never mind that there were all kinds of parents and their offspring around. "Rock ON!" And I cranked my radio as loud as it could possibly go while drifting past the school busses and nervous parents.
"Keep COMO Weird!"





Languish and heart-rend. ... -- Listless,




(For real, summertime so far, is ... how should I put this ... )

Just walked in the pad and, what's this, missed cellular call? From Ms. Wright! I actually got nervous while calling back. "What does she want," I asked, heart stirring. Romance? Passion?
Alas, such is the reason: "You at Eastgate? Josh and I (also a minor) need alcohol." My heart sank.

OK, my story for tomorrow's yielded no copydesk calls. This can only mean two things: it's so goddamn brilliant I'll be given $20, or I've got a lot to answer for. ... Actually, neither makes sences/. Ironically, that's exactly why I'm writing, to add ballast to tonight (avoid m-w.com for thiss'en).

I'm in the midst (server crash) of an article, which Mr. Britten described a "dirty, business story," — Kinda like describing Ms. Smythe. HA! In all seriousness, Mr. Britten's right. And while I'm at it (clarity that is), Ms. Amur's not the ballast of emotions.
"The Unbearable Lightness of Being," is.

Sentimental Sunday

It's not too often one faces a moral dilemma. You know, something that cuts right to the core, past the bone and cartilage into the red and steadily beating matter. Saturday night something like that occurred. It was perfect in that really destructive kind of way; as perfect as the electrical impulse must be around the plastique in order to implode the uranium.

OK, so you know the man doesn't love her. You know that she's miserable. You know that he's verbally abusive. You can speculate the rest. Basically, it's not right. And, you've been flirting with his sister all week. When he talks to you, he seems to approve of you getting together with his sister. But, there's no respect to be had of the man. Your heart really sinks to think of what his girl is going through. You talk to her in snipets and receive a vibe from her as if to say, "I'm really a great person. I'm just so in love with him, I've got to stay with him. Maybe, if things ever cool down, and we split up. It's not so bad, even when it's really bad..." And you can tell it gets really bad.

*edit*ing too much *edit* will turn your *edit* into *edit* on crack.

I suppose I should talk about Missourian, The Missourian that is. I find it to be a lot of fun. My editors are real people, that is to say, I feel like I can absorb an entire range of human emotion from them at any given hour. Plus Ms. Amur is there for ballast. ... (OK, that's a joke. And I don't want to offend the only reader I have. ... Or do I? (no)) But overall, The Missourian makes me worry. See folks, I'm not so much of a "good" writer. Sure I can make phone calls and dictate what they say between transitional graphs to congeal around a story of timely significance, but is that all it takes? No. You need to be fucking knuckled over with journalism; you need to be able to find it at 3 a.m. and inject the ink with a clean needle. My drug of choice is music.
But you know, having my guitar stolen might just be a blessing then. I definately won't have enough money to find a suitable replacement. My only choice of legal high would then be journalism (or alcoholism, which in some circles can be translated into the same thing).

So, "Does anybody got any plungers?"

I could've been napping two minutes or weeks (correct answer: 2 hours). Incredibly Deep Sleep. I awoke to a source calling my cellular. I hadn't given them the number, and I hadn't interviewed her; both my source claimed. Nevertheless, I just completed the interview and story in (confirmed) 45 minutes.

Let's get real for a second. Smack in the middle of my Mojo's set, the Copy Desk calls me up. So embarrasing, especially when I hung up to finish the song. It was the last song performed on the guitar before it was stolen last night. Alas, such is life.

She'd be laughing at me if she'd ever call me back. "You know, you really should lock up your car," she'd said. I'd always replied that I've stolen so much already a theft on me would only level the playing field. GODDAMMM I wish I could play guitar right now!

Love's in the air. I've written a lovy-dovy lead for a lovy-dovy obituary. And, I've been named best man for a wedding. I'm the totally righteous ringbearer/flower freak. And, because it's a marriage of two divine scrabbling vessels of aphrodite-esque imagery, I'll be Zeus, adding Thor-like ballast (in my dreams!).

Songs've always come in twos. I just wrote two. Anyway, the better one ("My arms around you") is about Ms. Walker. I called her immediately afterward up I got her voicemailbox. It's probably weirdo/lame things like this that screw me over: "Hey, I just wrote a song about you babyee!"

Sentimental Sunday

Flinged again
Yet another girl of my dreams has me pulling my brains loose from their shell. Oye vey!
Here's an approximate quote I've delivered about three times in the past 12 months.
"I'm not a yo-yo. I'm not there only to fill the final hours of your day with 'quality time.' If we have to stop seeing each other to prove this to you then..."
I mean, I really liked her. I even played with her dog. We have all the same interests. Our first date was probably the best I can even imagine. Our first kiss was so goddamn good it'd be wrong to just type out how it happened (but it made me dizzy in the best way). She and I were weirdly and strangely alike. I really can't quite describe exactly how cool she is because she's one of those ones you have to just see for yourself, Kinda like The Matrix.
It seems that the trend developing is that there's nothing I can do or say to keep from driving women away--because I've no control. And there's always another man in the picture. In this case, some guy named "Diablo." That's right, you read right, "Diablo." Probably a magician or a TV-reality personality, DJ, self-professed ladies man, motorcycle operator, spanish wrestler, or something. And this mystery guy is the one I'm up against; whom I might lose to, and there's every indication this fate is so.
Alas, such is life.
I'm telling you: about two weeks, or about two months. That's my expiration date. Is there anyone out there who's not entangled with another man, or who's in the onerous process of disentangling herself from someone?
Say, maybe I'll get the resident ladies man Mr. Kravitz to take me out. I'll be his wingman! Yeah, I'll meet some sorority girl dancing, and I'll try the crew-cut frat-fella approach:
"Hey, nice tatas."
"Thanks. *sip* I'm totalllly dunk."
"Whatcha drinkin'?"
"Tropsss."
"You're cute, ... and chill. Wanna ball?"
"Sure. *guzzle* Yuurr hot [a'la Paris Hilton]. Just let me say goodbye to my boyfriend."

Lesser of two goods
Seriously, which is it going to be? Kohl's or Eastgate? Kohl's has better scenery, but Eastgate is just too fucking easy. You know, as I ask, I know the answer. It's going to be the job that's the most fun. It always is. Why else would anyone work? (food. *segue to...*)

Change
I was at Wal-Mart rolling the 400 pennies I'd collected from the floor of my apartment and car so that I could purchase a frozen pizza dinner when Mr. Kravitz called me up. And I lost count. But it's OK. He flipped the bill for dinner that night. Sure it was alcohol-based, but dinner is dinner and beggers cannot be choosy.

On the road, you pony up
So coming back from my daytrip to the old country I picked up two emo fellas with their thumbs outstretched and backpacks strapped. Nate, and some other kid. Good kids, too. A little stinky, but still totally cool. And... can you believe... they had NO! [*edit*]! Unbelievable.

Where everybody knows your name
I attended the orientation for The Missourian, a newspaper job/class that I'll be participating in until my time at MU is over, and perhaps a little more afterward.
1) I've no doubt upset Mrs. Lawrence already, as she called by cellular last night to inquire necessary factuals regarding my first c-l-i-p. This call I missed. Big mistake I know.
2) My skull was likened to a large clawwed animal at the orientation by Mrs. Brixley. This was before the entire group of 55 journalism students that I'll be working among. How embarrasing, no? I'd asked her sometime last week if I should cut my hair and she graciously obliged me to save the money on a haircut because my freak flag doesn't seem to give her much flack.
3) The small group of very capable looking journalism students, which I'll be working alongside this summer in my section, Muse, probably now register me (aside from the freak flag) as the kid that took care of Mr. Wallstin's canine. Mr. Wallstin enlightened the small erudite group of students, all female except me, of the story I refer to as the Christmas Eve/Jack the dog story (which is outlined in an earlier entry). Of course, the small, extremely sexy, smart, and too-cool-seeming group has yet to be enlightened to the entire story, which actually might be a good working metaphor for how I begin my j-o-b at The Missourian.

Dedicate
And of course no blog entry on my little fucker would be complete without some coded messages: Muffintop, I've stop parking on the street (what a terrible name). The past 10-entry fiction is dedicated to you.
Such a pathetic waste of time. Alas, such is life.

LLIP 10

Time doesn't mean much between two lovers. Relationships retain the original dynamic—however passionate, delicate, masochistic, violently loving. We'd burn alive then, we'd burn alive today. Changes with time merely highlight how we're eternal, immortal, undead.

But, with each new one, I'm exposed the same self-designed way: body, not soul.

LLIP 9

I saw Julie two years ago at the liquor store near my father's house. She was with a large man: clean white shirt, thin face-framing beard, cell phone activated while purchasing champagne. Her fire seemed gone, but she burned alive seeing me: body, not soul; like before, like the rest.

NNN

LLIP 8

Two years later I met Mr. H randomly and we got high while the 9/11 scare ebbed around us. Julie was history. He was fronting some band in Oklahoma, and playing "Deathmetal Love Song." I didn't believe him, because whenever we had practiced it he never sang the chorus right.

NNN

LLIP 7

Julie's body was no temple. She was not holy, but perfect. Scars from abuse and masochism set her ample bodice and cold, white skin free. There was no time for "It's not what it looks like." I couldn't control myself. It was brutal, instinctual lust. Their pain was my pleasure.

NNN

LLIP 6

My plan was to seduce her. I'd be a crazier bastard than Mr. H. I'd be the one to throw cocktails at windows, random punches in get-togethers, guitars from moving vehicles. But it didn't work. I never took her destructive soul, only her battle-fit body. That was enough for explosions.

NNN

LLIP 5

I was jealous of Mr. H for having Julie: full of insanity, fire, explosive velocity, passion. That song I wrote was hers, but nobody knew. The only time we played it was once above flatrock. Minutes afterward they finished the whisky and fucked on the S10. Did my song contribute?

NNN

LLIP 4

"Living Life In Pause" comes from the first time we all got together and recorded. Someone brought some recorder and turned it on, beside the Graffix bong and disappearing ounce. Great fucking time; metal and softies, too. After about four hours Mr. H realized the recorder's pause button was stuck.

NNN

LLIP 3

Julie was a fatalistic, black lipstick, whisky-drinking, fire-breathing fox that never failed to turn me on. Brutally sexy. Mr. H and she were one very close and volatile couple. Divisive explosions proved their immortal flesh and spirit desire for one another. I fed from her erratic, emotional, animalistic, wreckingball action.

NNN

LLIP 2

Mr. H had empty black eyes and hair, both surrounded by violently alive light blue highlights. He was the band's singer. This was back before 2000, back when we were crazy enough to fuck around with cinder blocks and cars, smash random homes, become so incredibly high, and play music.

NNN

LLIP 1

I wrote a song a long time ago called "Deathmetal Love Song" in which I described what I considered at the time to be an forbidden, unconventional joining of souls and spirits and etcetera. The band "Living Life In Pause" and Julie, Mr. H's then-girlfriend, were on my mind today.

NNN

Three strips of bacon. Three large eggs. Three slices of colby & Monterey jack cheesy. Three cups of coffee. Three tomato plants watered. Three songs before leaving. Three trips back up to the apartment--forgetful Phil. Three pens. Three quarters. Three times the third team member (CC-J) has blown me off.

Sentimental Sunday

***Breaking News***
Exiting the Student Recreation Conglomorate, I caught a glimpse of Mr. Harris running, ... let me finish, ... In Short Shorts! Short Shorts! That's right, the kind that those crazy left-handed people wear. If you see Mr. Harris, you may punch him in the stomach and tell'em it's from our good friend, me, P-bone.

Sadly, Mr. Harris' lady-leg-lavishing attire is not the subject of this Sunday. "And you know what? Ten minutes ago I was on the verge of publishing quite the controversial entry. This is not that entry. My mind changed because of the nature of the entry. Two May graduates in the journalism school are the subject of the entry. Both graduates are given equal highlight of cheers and jeers in the entry. The craft (you can punch me in the stomach for that word choice) of journalism is not mentioned in either of the respective cheers and jeers in the entry. I love ____ and ____ dearly, both the graduates in the entry.
Why did I not publish the entry? What is so controversial within the confines of the parameters of the vagueries of the borders of the zone of the entry? This entry will not disclose the afforementioned designated limits of the entry? Nor will it discuss the controversy therin, ... the entry? Fuck!"
Take a drink.
"I will tell you that one is a good friend who gives me deserved moral jabs, who's absolutely convinced of my unintelligence, who'll probably do really great. The other is a lover with whom I shared a great deal of passion and hurt, and passion, who'll probably do really great. Really really great. Mr. _____ and Ms. ______ I congradulate you on graduating from the School of Journalism," is pretty much what I said in the entry.

Now don't forget to really nail Harris in the stomach for me.

Drinking=Good Times? I can think of quite a few times in which I became obnoxious and petty when drinking. How's about people just go snorkeling instead? Would that work? Probably not. Everyone's a lush these days. "It's fucking college! Who're you to talk, liquor-store pawn!" Happy Cinco de Mayo Everyone!

In a past life I lived on the rez in Arizona mining some strange glowing rocks for some strange fellas in suits. I'd come home with a pile and the wife, kids and I would watch them glow as the sun went down. No firewater, honest! *cough* Back to work.

This one is dedicated to that Glenlivet-drinkin', worldwide thinkin', man-purse carryin', please-no swearin', social-player-at largin', own-party dodgin', journalism diggin', no-nose pickin', ladies-eye catchin', London-high fashion, global-media sensation, mountain-uvvva man, (6'7", 263 lbs., runssaada 40 in 2 seconds; legends say he once fought away 1,000 Romans with a dog's femur bone).

I love driving. When I drive I have the sound cranked to distortion, windows/top down, cigarette burnin', whiskey flowin', fast-food chompin', cell-phone talkin'; and I do not use my brakes when I operate my fancy italian car. Say it loud: "Fuck da G-rides! I want da machines that're makin' em!"

2 for Tuesday

How lame am I? -- A question I regularily pose then answer. Yet another answer!!!
I was unaware that Tool was even working on a new album, let alone releasing one today. Tool's very good, or, "They fuckin' rock man," in my opinion. Why? It's mostly the drums. I shoulda known.

*edit* 11:01 p.m.
This's the lead to a research paper I've apparently spent the last five hours writing: "It’s Tuesday, May 2, and the new Tool album is up for sale in myriad retail stores across the nation." The paper ends with an Elvis Costello quote from "Radio Radio". Good thing I'm lucky!

What's to stop me from turning the key, mashing the pedal down and blowing this J-town? Nothing. I'm as free as the fucking wind! The Wind goddamnit! Though, I'd miss out on my final tasks for classes; and miss out on both my jobs. No more academia. Where's the downside!