Or the Douchalution Of Reid
Years, decades, months and moments, it’s all one movie scene and we all play a role depending on the audience. I’m going to rejoin the gym, work on my traps, going to walk the dog more, get him to pant more, work on my speaking to those close to me as if I were writing or typing, work on making a list of things to do then posting it somewhere before covering it up with a Heather Thomas poster. Never growing up, never maturing beyond a fart joke and the only philosophy worth sharing are hints on how to scoff the law and impress girls. In essesnce, I’m devolving this year until I reach total infantilism around October. Not that infantilism. You sick freak.
Man, the venting and fist clenching barely begins to relieve the insanity that burns in my bones when some guy with a dog or some girl with a sign decides to take offense when I don’t have any “spare change” or “extra dollar” to add to their panhandle swag for the day.
Man, oh man, oh man!
I understand the plight of the mentally ill and those folks otherwise deemed unfit for “normal jobs” or “productive places in society” but when you’re wearing nice, name brand shoes and have a North Face backpack while asking me for spare money, I sense a problem brewing. And then to be smug with a sense of streetwise entitlement on top of it? (Man, oh man, oh man!)
There is a guy who goes up and down a main road by my house, he’s wheelchair bound and travels by pushing with one foot and going backwards mile after mile, collecting as many bottles and cans the side-hanging bags on his chair can hold. That dude gets paper money from me every time I see him and never asks for it but never refuses it either.
Apparently the economy is so bad that busy intersections are now the new kiosks for donations. These jokers on every off ramp and red light with a cardboard sign god blessing me have too much competition for me to believe they’re in dire straits. It’s as if Home Depot and Lowe’s were both across the street, which one really needs my money? Answer: Neither of them need your money. I’ve seen panhandlers giving each other the same look given when salespeople compete for customers. Motivating each other from across stop lights. I’m not holier than thou, just holier then them.
For every sap that rolls down the window to hand out a dollar to someone who’d otherwise insult them for not doing so, there’s me waiting for the unfortunate soul to get the buck without even asking for it.
It’s 2010, now where’s my rocket ship?
Uh oh. It snowed today and I’ve a feeling it’s the only thing anyone is going to talk about all day.
I love people who were born before 1935 because they ramble on about the weather until the actual season changes and it’s okay because they’re OLD. That’s what older folks do, they talk about weather and how things used to be.
Regardless of the weather, why does an Obama sticker on a bumper automatically make that car slow and indecisive? Get outta my way! I’m ready for Change, ready for you to change lanes, so get the lead out.
I love the hippies in Portland. They have questionable hygeine and don’t spend a lot of money on clothes or grooming products but they sure dole out the dough for designer bicycle bags and gourmet gluten-free groceries. Peace.
Despite being elderly and neglected, you’re still beautiful.
Have you ever seen Jesus dressed as Santa? Not like a mockery but more of a combination of ideas, how you know that if, in his day, Jesus would totally be down with being Santa Claus and handing out presents. I’ve been hearing about the guy who has a nativity scene of Jesus shooting (they use the word “murder”) Santa Claus with a shotgun. I have mixed feelings about this. I don’t know whether to laugh out loud or roll on the floor laughing. It’s not like the gun was in the other hand, right?
What I do know is that dragging a tree into the house or hanging lights on the gutters or throwing loose change into a bell-ringer’s bowl doth not a Christmas make. It is part of the egg nog experience, though. Whatever holiday you call it, whatever you do to have it and whatever goodness it brings to those around you, I’m glad to be a part of it. Except for the shopping, the lines, the traffic, the insolent louts who are always in my way and those bell ringing bastards opening store doors for me as if I would then give my nickels to their multinational charity outfit who has ties to organized crime.
I do however, dig the whole jingling, fireplace, warm hearth and good grub going on this time of year.
An American diner is one of the greatest places in all the world. Greasy, bright, chrome and stainless. Food that kills as well as sustains, bountiful, beautiful, comfortable and delicious.
Once a glass of whiskey is pushed in front of you by a competent and/or charming bartender the evening will take on an adventurous tone of unpredictable action and invention. Full of heated energy, whiskey causes fate and fortune to coincide, bringing with it the drive of a wanton lover and the confidence of an army at your back.
Romance is similar to violence in where both are fueled by emotion and when doused with whiskey they become tangible animals wild without consequence. Unfortunately, such dangerous directions often lead to places wrought with woeful regrets and lonely hours of reflection. Hoo. Ray. Whiskey neat. Whiskey rocks.