The storm has moved on, and the wind yet
rises, the oaks and dogwoods
let go of the water left idling
on their drooping leaves,
a sudden change of heart,
and the air shudders suddenly blue.
Aaaah, says the wind, and I stop
where I am, put out my arms,
glance upward, allowing
myself to disappear. It is good
to be here, and not here.
So far:
Wolverine: 3 out of 5
Star Trek: 4 out of 5
Terminator Salvation: 4 out of 5
Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian: 4 out of 5
Drag Me to Hell: 5 out of 5
Land of the Lost: 2 out of 5
Year One: 4 out of 5
I’m not one to usually post song lyrics on my blog, but occasionally some lyrics come along that not only affect me emotionally, but that are brilliant in such a way that I wish I’d written them as a poem, and I become so all-consumed by said lyrics that I must post them for the world to see. And so it is with the song "I’ve Been Asleep For a Long, Long Time" by the band Hey Rosetta! (exclamation point is part of their name). I literally cannot stop listening to this song, and have even taken to reading the printed version occasionally. So hey, I hope you like it as much as I do. Also, the song plays a key role on my awesome mix disc, A Reasoned Argument For the Inclusion of Violins in Rock Music, a copy of which can be obtained by giving me your address, stopping by my apartment, or asking to hang out with me. Page layout and punctuation are mine, and I’ve taken poetic license with the band’s existing repetition:
I’ve Been Asleep For a Long, Long Time
by Tim Baker
I’ve been asleep for a long, long time,
blond hair to brown and brown to white.
My mom is buried beside my dad,
but I was asleep for all of that.
I shut my eyes for a moment’s rest
cause I get so tired.
But what things transpired
while my body slept
and beset my mind?
The schools that we went to have all been closed.
And all of my teachers are dead I suppose.
The songs that we sung have all gone quiet.
What happens below as we sleep at night?
The river’s up,
the reeds are caught
halfway across what never was.
The water rose and swept in slow.
I’ve been asleep for a long, long time,
blonde hair to brown and brown to white.
My mom is buried beside my dad
but I was asleep for all of that.
Have you guys heard of this “ChaCha” thing? It is a service where you can–supposedly–text ANY question to chacha (that’s 242242 on your keypad) and get some kind of answer. See, it isn’t an automated program. Actual humans receive your text and try to answer it (they mainly use the internet, although apparently they do employ a few *experts* for difficult questions. It costs nothing aside from your normal texting rates, which means for most people, it’s free. I decided to experiment and see how well this works, and how far you can push it. All my answers came back within 3 minutes of me sending my question (the answer to the fruit question took about 5 minutes, but in all fairness, it was a pretty ridiculous question). I did not make any of these answers up. Following is an exact trascript of my questions and ChaCha’s answers:
Q: Who directed ‘Sleepy Hollow’?
A: Tim Burton directed the 1999 version of Sleepy Hollow. Was that the version you wanted? Text ‘more’ to ChaCha for another version.
Q: How do I determine my hat size?
A: To find bra size first measure for band size. Keeping the measuring tape parallel with the ground, measure around your bra…
Q: I asked for hat size and you sent me bra size.
A: Basically, the length of your head determines your hat size. See the attached link for official hat size chart.
Q: Why is it so rainy in the northeast this summer?
A: The weather is crazy all over the place. I’m starting to think Al Gore is right about global warming. Something is NOT right.
Q: In a stable, dry, climate controlled room, what would be the first fruit to go bad, assuming they were all at the peak of ripeness at the outset of the experiment?
A: Sorry, we don’t understand your question. It may be ambiguous or need more details.
Q: What is the best poetry collection in the English language (barring ‘collected’ or ‘selected’ editions)?
A: Shakespeare has the best poetry in the English language. (seth’s note: a decent answer, but ignores my stipulation about collections)
Q: What is more important: happiness or safety?
A: It all depends on the individual, but you really can’t be happy unless you’re safe.
1. The Real Housewives of New Jersey
2. Motorcycles
3. The gender-barrier-crossing, generation-gap-closing capabilities of the Wii.
4. Diablo Cody
5. Foie Gras
6. Jokes abut mullets
7. Men named Channing
8. The Kindle
9. The National Football League
10. Bob Dylan
11. Thread count
12. Oranges
13. Speidi
14. Pablo Neruda
15. That fourth ghostbuster guy in Ghostbusters 2.
16. Obama backlash
17. My occasional unibrow
18. The Snuggie
19. The Hangover
20. Oyster crackers
Attention: Pearl Jam will almost certainly be playing some shows in PA this fall. Pearl Jam fans, I implore you to create your own Ticketmaster and LiveNation accounts immediately after reading this blog entry. I know I’m sounding bitchy here, but I simply cannot be responsible for taking all of you to a Pearl Jam show. I will notify you when tickets go on sale. But I simply cannot handle another round of guilt trips from people who “really want to go to a Pearl Jam show” but can’t be bothered to know when it’s happening or to get themselves there. If you think I am speaking directly to you, you are wrong. This is a plague in my life. Literally over a dozen people make me feel like a bad friend every time Pearl Jam tours. I am not a tour guide, and I am not responsible for your good time, nor can I afford to buy 12 Pearl Jam tickets at once and wait for you to reimburse me on show day. I’m sorry for the harshness, but you brought it on yourselves.
Yes, things have been breathless before,
or covered with fluids, heaving,
a pinch, a mirrored gasp in the night.
And yes, like everyone else, those whispered
trinkets were meaningful, or meaningless,
depending,
our still-socked feet forgotten
dangling at the bottoms of ourselves.
We were never temples, I fear,
but just paintings of temples,
moving, roiling paintings of temples
aping the way we ought to be,
dismissing the afterward-tears in the bathroom
as some form of excess sweat,
never minding the loud flush of the commode
in a house with no television on.
Always later the clothes, one-by-one,
because we are cold, or we don’t like each other,
and you have lost one sock,
and your underwear are inside-out,
and my belly like a kaiser roll.
Finally the television comes on,
we smoke cigarettes,
I suggest a game of Trivial Pursuit.
You may be driving fast
on lineless country roads,
with your music up,
with your windows down
and all that wind,
with your sockless sandals,
with your perfect summer day
and all that wind,
and there is nothing in your mind
but for the perfection of your movement,
the hugging curves,
your centripetal arcs,
the geometric fluidity of the machine and your foot
and all that wind,
and the perfect blankness of the perfect moment—
the carelessness, the briefness of your spark,
the sun touching the seat belt buckle
for half a skip of half a heartbeat—
oh yes, you may become engulfed by the air,
but it is not going to last,
it is surely not going to last.
1. I sure am tired.
2. Last week, after having listened to the crappy muzak at work all day, Ron said, “Why are all these crappy 60s songs all about his GTO, his 16-year-old girlfriend, or a dance move?”
3. Seriously, no more hip indie bands can have the word “deer” in the title. I simply won’t allow it.
4. This guy who played the pedophile in “Happiness” is in everything!
5. Kate’s band, Soulgrass Freedom Junction, does a surprisingly rockin’ version of “Mrs. Robinson”. Dare I say better than the original? Yes. Just disappointed they didn’t play “White Rabbit”.
6. When will spell check recognize MySpace and Facebook as words?
7. I now officially like vaccuuming.
8. Having trouble writing anything of value lately. Am concerned.
9. Seven Mary Three in Reading, PA in August. Who’s in?
10. Lesson from today: when someone asks me where I think “we” should eat, ask how many people “we” are before offering suggestions.
So far:
Wolverine: 3 out of 5
Star Trek: 4 out of 5
Terminator Salvation: 4 out of 5
Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian: 4 out of 5
Drag Me to Hell: 5 out of 5
Land of the Lost: 2 out of 5
So far:
Wolverine: 3 out of 5
Star Trek: 4 out of 5
Terminator Salvation: 4 out of 5
Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian: 4 out of 5
Drag Me to Hell: 5 out of 5
Here in the quaint little town of Carlisle, Pennsylvania, we have a quaint little restaurant called The Hamilton. Everyone seems to love The Hamilton, though truth be told, there’s nothing all that special about it. It’s just a restaurant, really.
This is the restaurant my father and I eat at on my yearly sobriety anniversary. Other than that, I may visit it once or twice a year. I don’t dislike it, I just don’t often think about it. Plus, I do have one major beef with it: their famous hachie dog.
I have no idea how to spell hachie dog. It could be Hawchey Dog. It could be Hotchie Dog. It could even be Hot-Chi dog. Do you know why I don’t know how to spell this most famous of local cuisines? It’s not on their menu.
Everyone in Carlisle knows about it. It’s a hot dog with–I believe–ketchup and mustard, a shitload of chili and a shitload of onions, and, I think, cheese. How it got so famous, I’ll never know, but literally everyone in Carlisle knows what a Hawtshe dog is. And until yesterday, I’d never eaten one. I refused to, because The Hamilton doesn’t actually have it on the menu, and this always seemed like just a bit of a flamboyant, vain move to me. Our most famous thing is so famous, we’ll sell it without telling you about it. So I boycotted.
On my last sobriety anniversary, as we were eating at The Hamilton, I told my father about my boycott. He was dumbfounded–how could I ignore such a marvelous item as the Hotshit Dog? Ever since, he’s been trying to talk me into it.
Yesterday, my friend Michael and I were carousing around the Newville area, close to where my father lives. We had been carousing all over the place all day, and we had finally decided we were quite hungry. As we were discussing where to eat, she requested The Hamilton. It seems her favorite meal of all-time is at The Hamilton–grilled cheese, fries, and a chocolate shake (sounds like something you can get anywhere, I know, but I suspect it’s a nostalgiac thing). As we were driving back toward Carlisle, we swung by my Dad’s house to see if he was home and pay a short visit. He was home, and we did pay a short but lovely visit.
As we were preparing to leave, we told him of our plans to eat at The Hamilton. He was immediately emphatic: you must try a Hotsheen Dog! I agreed I would. As Michael and I were getting into my car, he called out one more thing: Write a blog about it!
The Hachie Dog was actually really damn good. How do they make chili and onions like that?
When I was a boy, we had neighbors two doors down who were already old. I can’t remember the husband’s name, but the wife’s name was Fay. She was pale as a ghost, her ancient skin stretched over her skull like a crude tarp, and her hair somehow still pitch black. She chain smoked long, skinny cigarettes and always smelled like coffee. The husband—who I’m beginning to think was named John—was balding and a bit fat. He always smiled like a trucker who’d just pulled in from a long haul. He was jovial in that inside-joke way.
It’s fair to say John and Fay were my first friends. I’d often wander down to their red brick house, play in their yard and well-kept garden and cobblestone walkways. Often they just left me alone, but sometimes they’d come outside, talk with me, play with me. I remember killing a bunch of ants with John once, using Fay’s watering can.
They are my first memories of summer; that is, in the out-of-school sense of summer. I believe the summer after Kindergarten, the first thought I had was that I’d get to spend more time at John and Fay’s.
A few years passed like this. Sure, I also had plenty of children friends. In fact, after a few years, my association with John and Fay began to wane. I still went over, but less frequently. Even a Second Grader begins to sense that friendships with the elderly are strange, awkward things. I was not unaware of impending death.
One day—I must have been in third grade by then—I walked over there. I must have been lonely, because I didn’t want to play in their yard all alone. I wanted companionship. I yelled up at their windows (they lived alone in the house but, seemingly, only spent time on the second floor), but got no response. All their lights seemed off. I walked around to the back of the house. Their basement door was hanging open.
This was one of those basement doors that rests at an angle on the ground, and you open it up, like an off-kilter Lamborghini door. I stood on the top step, yelling down for John (his workshop wasdown there). I must have yelled for quite some time. After all, I figured, the door was open. He must be down there. Otherwise, why leave it open?
Suddenly, something slapped me hard on the back and sent me tumbling into the basement. It was quite a jolt, and rather painful. But more than anything it was immensely confusing. I had been quite alone in the backyard. I’d heard no one or nothing approach. And suddenly I was in the basement.
Upon regaining my senses, I also noticed it was completely dark. The door had been shut. This was quite a bit more than my young mind could handle. You should know that I was terribly afraid of the dark as a young child; I had trouble sleeping for a few years due to this fear. And this darkness was a more complete darkness than I had ever experienced before (and quite possibly since). I had only been in the basement a few times; not enough to have a mental map of the place. I stood stock still exactly where I was.
My initial thought was that John was for some reason joking around with me. He had pushed me down here, not meaning to hurt me, and any moment would either open the door, or turn on the light, and we’d have a good laugh.
Moments passed, and they turned into minutes. No John. Now it was no big leap for my mind to think that John had evil in his heart and meant me harm. Perhaps Fay was even in on it. They would kill me, for sure. Maybe eat me. Maybe make me watch them do things. Maybe they’d watch me do things. As a child, I had a large capacity to imagine the evil things people can do.
I began to call out. I called out for John to please stop doing whatever this was he was doing. I called out for my parents, I even called for my dog, Cocoa, which was pointless. I yelled and yelled and yelled. I sobbed. I bawled. This was without a doubt the most terror-stricken moment of my entire life.
I slowly climbed the stairs to the basement door that led outside. I ran my tiny hands along it’s smooth metallic surface. I pushed. It didn’t move. I pushed harder. Still nothing. I scrunched my body into a coil, with my back against the door, and pushed with my legs. The door was quite clearly locked.
So I sat there, on the concrete steps beneath the door. I cried sometimes. Sometimes I resorted to calling out for people again, and gave up again. My eyes never did adjust to the darkness in that basement. The void was complete.
After quite some time (and really, it was a long time) the door was flung open, and there above me, silhouetted against blinding blue sunlight, was John. Rather than feeling immense relief, I felt a heavy dread—whatever he was going to do to me, here it came. But he didn’t do anything but haul me out of there, laughing. Silly boy, he said, wind must have closed that door on you!
oh yes I totally understand
I understand why you do what you do
slicing yourself to feel something
or something like that
I did something like that once
you cutters
and I felt something you cutters
it hurt like hell
like hell I say
so I stopped that shit right then
cause that shit wasn’t what I wanted to feel
but oh you cutters
I have an interesting respect for you
because pain like that don’t come easy,
and pity that large would swallow me whole
So far:
Wolverine: 3 out of 5
Star Trek: 4 out of 5
Terminator Salvation: 4 out of 5
Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian: 4 out of 5
First, allow me to complain about a few things:
1. Yes, I make my own schedule. But that is faaaaaaarrrr from meaning I can work whatever I want, whenever I want. I run a restaurant that I don’t own. There are alot of things I have to do. Please stop bugging me about how you don’t understand why I can’t have off whenever it suits you. I work 60 hours a week and I always will. Those hours have to happen sometime.
2. What sets text messaging apart from a phone conversation is that texting is not meant to happen in real time. It is not a phone call. If you text me and I don’t text you back immediately, that is either because:
A). I am engaged in life.
or
B). I do not want to text you back.
So, do not text me 5 minutes after you have texted me and ask why I haven’t replied. If you need an answer to something, call me.
On another topic entirely:
I’m upset that I now use Axe brand male grooming products. For years I boycotted this brand because of their repulsive advertising; it is both degrading to women and isulting to men, and grossly misogynistic. It propogates that age-old idea that women are to be used for sex and nothing else, while men should be promiscuous without consequense. It assumes men are sex-crazed idiots who’ll believe anything and buy anything to get said sex. It assumes we’ll believe a body spray is all we need to have intense, fantasy-type sexual experiences. It assumes women can be swayed to have sex with unattractive idiots because of aforementioned body spray. Like all shameful advertising, it plays on our fears to sell it’s product. Our fears of being alone, of not being good enough on our own merits, our fear that life is passing us by and would cease to pass us by if only we bought the right things.
Hence, for the past few years, I’ve used the Old Spice line of male toiletries. Not the old gradnfather type of Old Spice, but the newer, hip stuff. Until this past Valentines Day, when Axe released Dark Temptation, a scent said to simulate chocolate in a masculine way. I was too intrigued and, I fear, the advertising worked on me despite my best efforts. I bought it, I loved it. I tried the other Axe scents and found, much to my chagrin, they are all clearly superior to the Old Spice brand. What is one to do when they prefer the products of a company they don’t like? I haven’t figured it out yet,but so far my answer has been: buy the product.
One more thing:
I have finally decided on my official stance on burning music to disc, and I feel I should put this out there since I have been so vocal on the subject. There have been ‘mix tapes’ for decades and they did not hurt the record industry. Contrary to what the hard-line anti-burning advocates say, I really don’t see how giving someone a mix disc of various artists could ultimately hurt record sales. In fact, I can only see it helping. I will never burn someone an artist’s CD, although a mix CD of a single artist could be acceptable in certain circumstances. But if you want to borrow my copy of Pearl Jam’s Ten so you can burn it, I say that’s really, really bad. But to not burn at all–to not make mix CDs at all–seems almost as harmful. It would stop the hand-to-hand, word-of-mouth, you-have-got-to-check-this-out old-fashioned method of learning about artists from people you know, and that seems just as bad as stealing music. Not morally, but financially.
Also, today Ron told me to eat a r******s p***y.
Notes From the Fire 