My admiration for anyone who blogs politics goes far beyond pedestrian respect. It staggers my mind because there isn’t enough medication in a Pfizer factory to sedate my yearning to burn things down when I get heated about government behavior or taste the frenzy of a debate examining family values and social priorities. “Normal” folks, good people, warm-hearted, gracious Americans, citizens that care about the future, the world and their friends are not immune to the exhilaration of someone prodding their political buttons. Pacifists and militants alike, when it comes to politics, they all become volatile soapbox orators, scathing scribes with passion fueling their righteous fightin’ words. I love that. I love anything that ignites conversation which may or may not lead to one side cracking (because once outbursts are borne from emotions, all the political rhetoric in the world won’t validate whatever point was being made). Social arguments allow the blood of communication to flow unfettered and despite opposite sides of fences or polarized beliefs, heavy-duty debates bring unlikely people together for a common vent session.

Regretfully, I’ve yet to find the courage to really get down and dirty in a political debate. Particularly because I waffle on all sorts of things. Capital punishment, abortion, torture, war, the poor, minorities, whitey, big government, small towns, just to name a few. It’s like discussing astronomy: “Oh, you say Pluto is no longer classified as a planet? Well, now I have very little confidence in the “fact” that the Pistol Star of the Quintuplet Cluster is truly a blue hypergiant that emits more energy in 20 seconds than our sun produces in a year.” My question is, is our understanding about interstellar dust and luminous blue variables any more accurate than what we think we know about tribal clashes in Africa and an intifada in Mesopotamia? Probably not.

In our wonderful community of complaints, we all got something that sticks in our craw, legislators, media pundits, commander in chiefs, politics has no limit to the frustration it brings to the fine folks who give a damn. Whether it’s erudite conversation or backwoods porch bitching, my hat is wholeheartedly off to bloggers who eat politics for breakfast.

Problem is, if it were me, I’d likely be holed up in the basement making vyacheslav cocktails by noon. Colon, right parenthesis.


Say Hello To Hydrocodone’s Little Friend

the early needle gets the voice
to somehow stop the stammer

warm salty itch
with soft television
never knowing which
sun has set or risen

the early needle poised and moist
delivers us from clamor

camphor and precision
moments tally years
round porcelain prisons

hand of doom whose noose is hoist
rises quiet like a hammer

mother comfort’s rapt decisions
only turns to damn her.

Autumn Sounds Nicer Than Fall

Rain and music that makes everything present seem a million dreams away are things that make life’s purpose beautiful. Clean, wet streets are blanketed by the turning of leaves like little resolutions announced then thrown to the wind. The bridge is damp and cold and my head is tucked behind my dials and this thousand liter scooter and I’m hanging on as we barrel high above rivers and thrust into November, deep into the remnants of the year. I often wonder when my desire for solitude and speed will wane and I conclude that it will be around the same time a decent book or simple photograph becomes uninteresting. I always questioned the name Nevaeh. The sound in my head it makes is “nev-ah” Never.

Wet leaves on asphalt is evil and sudden like black ice. The glistening white stripes on crosswalks and manhole covers in the rain are mean little gremlins. Any season that is called “fall” should be changed to “soft landing” for those who face this wonderful, crisp season on two wheels instead of four.

(God knows I miss the LTD).


Save The Roots!

I feel sorry for The Roots. The Roots are this great hip-hop band from Philly who are immensely talented and have great success especially among those who have grown to loathe the pedestrian contemporary rap songs about rims on whips or cabbage and grips.

Why The Roots deserve our sympathy is because every weeknight they have to sit through an entire, uninterrupted episode of the late nite snooze-fest of a show that is hosted by the sadly unimaginative Jimmy Fallon. Since The Roots are the house band, they bear witness to high-grade talent going rotten in the interview chair on the daily. The exchanges between Fallon and his guests are punishingly forced, plodding and just plain boring. I would rather watch my father pick his ears with a car key than sit through Jimmy Fallon interviewing someone. Fallon’s lack of common cultural knowledge leaves him sitting there like a nervous muppet with nothing interesting to say, unaware that he has no shred of spontaneous wit. 

The episodes are rabbit pebbles strung together by long, dull stories from celebrities and maybe a silly voice thrown in and this sorry recipe for entertainment reduces his show to a 60 minute log of awkward silence. I’ve counted how many times people laugh during a Jimmy Fallon segment and wonder why The Roots haven’t thrown their instruments through the phony scenic background and burned that place to dust. Simply put, the show just isn’t funny and the business of a late night show that isn’t Nightline is to be funny or we’re all falling asleep wishing The Roots would change their name to The Riots.

I know The Roots are getting paid but couldn’t they be given reprieve from this terrible show? We all know Fallon won’t last another year, which is unfortunate because on SNL he was quite funny, in his element he was goofy and charming. But leave him alone with the likes of Robert DeNiro or even Danny DeVito and count the tumbleweeds.

The Roots need to migrate to a better show or this is going to stain their resume, what about that crazy Scottish guy? His show’s kinda irreverent and bizarre. Way more fun than watching Jimmy Fallon struggle to put words together to form something that matters. Poor bastard.

The very least he could do is replace The Roots with a band more fitting for his nightly vacuous conversations, like Good Charlotte or The Black Eyed Peas so The Roots can go on making great music without enduring their horribly grueling day job.

Sick Dreams

When the sweat reaches its peak and you’re freezing on the sofa and your head is full of sickness and swill, when your skin is burning and lips are chapped and bleeding and the only sound you can make is a groan that only the dog hears, be glad you don’t live a hundred years ago. Because you’d probably be dead soon. Or maybe that’s a good thing.

Spending half a week with a filthy fever that wrestled itself inside my body and hid for a month before finally careening up my bloodstream is no way to spend a crisp November. When it swallowed my face and infected my very core and soul, this insipid little bastard of a cold had the gall to make me look like a slouch in front of my fairly new job. The same job that has seen me call in sick more times in my first 3 months than I did during the last 5 years of my previous job. Funny how perception of your person can vary wildly among those you barely know.

3 colds in 5 weeks and this last dirty doozy had me seeing dreams when I wasn’t sure if I was even sleeping. The hallucinations of glasswork people and broken conversations permeated me as if I were a glistening piece of rotten gristle, the strange warmth and slow liquid whim of my body attempting to restore its core temperature had me trembling and weak but somehow strangely calm and resigned. I kept feeling like a pig on a spit as I kept turning over, struggling for breath through a clogged, yet dripping nose. I soon didn’t care how sick I had become, I just laid there for a few days and groaned like a weird factory machine.

Fever broke, mostly better, now. No thanks to whatever scumbag whose infected breath I smelled or whatever soiled doorknob I turned just before digging up my nostril.