2011 Wasn’t Real

Time is of great concern to me.  It always has been.  The movement of it, the steady march of it.  The relentlessness of it.  I don’t think I fear death greatly; not more than is normal.  I don’t think I fear getting old; not more than is normal.  Nor is it a great desire to “live in the past”; I love the present and the future.  But it is a kind of mournfulness for the past; for moments passed; for selves I once was and other people once were.  An acknowledgement—however sideways-glanced and barely-thought about—of the frivolity of crafting a life if it all ends up in memories and tall tales told amongst friends in once-a-year get-back-togethers in Applebee’s.  Here is a picture of me as a little boy at the beach:

I’m a happy man but thinking about time makes me sad.  Happy people can get sad, sometimes, when they think about the right things.  I miss things.  I regret things.  There are things I would do different and things I would hold on to.  You should have these things, too.  Life is not so simple for it to be otherwise.

I’ve written lots of poems about time over the years, but this one is my favorite.  I wrote it in 2003:

Bother With Hours

Things which slowly trickle down
like snow, taxes, or a frown
arrive in fragments of desire
like matches held up to a fire.

This was almost evident
in the way the hours went
as you sat there, humming softly,
fanning flies and drinking coffee.

Why bother with hours, I saw you thinking,
in this day of moments, sinking?
If seconds piling aren’t enough
the minutes stack up like a bluff.

And then you stood, and blinked your eyes.
Imagine the size of my surprise!
That moment trickled by as well
and landed where the others fell.

Here is a picture of me, just a few days after finally getting sober for good, at my mother’s house in New Jersey, petting my favorite cat, Angel.  She’s dead now.

It’s this “new year’s” balderdash that’s got me so honed in on time.  Every year new year’s rolls around and people talk about it like it means something, and every year I just understand it less and less.  Time always moves for me.  I’m always marking new beginnings, sudden endings, tiny whirlpools and eddys of time, memory, sensation.  Existence for me glides through pockets of variation, like a plane through turbulence and smooth air.  I can’t imagine something more meaningless toward my greater understanding of life than a calendar date.  But I also rarely talk about “days”.  You will be hard pressed to hear me say “I had a bad day”; I will tell you a bad event just happened to me (if I tell you about it at all).  The rising and setting of the sun, the ticking off of dates in a month, are not the markers that I live within.

This is my dad teaching me how to ride a bike:

When I first got serious about writing poetry, for a short while, I thought I might be a fancy poet.  It turns out it’s too difficult to be a fancy poet, but I got away with a few good ones while I was at it.  Here is a fancy one I wrote about “time” that I think is brilliant but nobody else has ever seemed to care for.

Ebbing

The line passively rocks,
the weight of warm wool socks
freshly laundered.  Now dry.
I suddenly ask why
I can picture the wool
in the washer, still full.

You don’t get it, do you?  Don’t you hate when you’re the only one who *gets* your own stuff?  Does that happen to everyone, or just bad fancy poets?  When do you think we stop being the people we thought we were going to be?  Of course there’s nothing wrong with not ending up the way you envisioned—frankly I’m glad I’m not currently sitting in my university office between classes and writing my academic manuscript about some horrid Greek epic poem—but the way we change is absolutely fascinating.  Slowly, steadily, influenced by who-knows-how-many waxing and waning forces.  My friends and family, the books I read, the TV shows blaring in the background that I only think I’m ignoring, the weather outside, the paint on the wall.  Over the long, slow crawl of time, they all have their way.  How much is me, and how much is them?  Where did the old me go?

As far as I’m aware, the only surviving picture of me actually drinking from the first few years of my “addictive drinking”.  Aged approximately 22.

I love who I am now, but I mourn the fact that today’s version of me will someday pass, as well.  And I don’t mean death (although that, too), but just change, and that persistent drummer of time and the cosmic forces of influence, will drag me, almost without me noticing, into being a completely new and different man.  I will no doubt be very happy being that new man, but I will look back with a sad fondness on the loss of this current version of me.  I may even look back on this blog entry and think, What a fool he was.  And I’ll probably be right.  It is my experience that New-Version Seth is almost always smarter than Old-Version Seth.

Every 13 year old has fake vogue fights with their sister.

Portrait

Nature has a slow divinity.
Its blight and bounty bend
hushed with eons;
a single leaf swoops slowly
to join the dawdling portrait
beneath the blooming pews.

Nobody’s ever mentioned that poem to me, either.  I also wrote that one in 2003.  It is very fancy.  Now that is a poem that can’t get it’s mind off of “time”.  If you don’t mind me saying so, it’s really quite amazing.

One wonders how others view them after we are gone from their lives.  What has the passage of time done to their perception of me?  How do they remember the time that our lives intersected?

My first formal dance, with my first girlfriend.  I cut her out, as it is considered bad form to post pictures of others on the internet, especially old ones like this, without asking.  And I could ask her, but who knows how she thinks about me now?

Certainly there is probably a disconnect between how I view the past and how others who have shared experiences with me view the past.  Perhaps some women that I still love never think about me, and others who I barely recall think of me often.  How important is this to you?  I find I am rarely bothered by the thought that others may view our past unfavorably, or differently than I do.  Although the possibility of being completely forgotten seems to sting.  Has time really rendered me that inconsequential?  Have your husband and children completely erased three glorious summers, or even one sublime 15 minute car ride through sun-drenched countryside?  Where do those shelved moments exist for you, now?  How easily can you reach them, retrieve them, feel something of their ecstasy?  They are still real.  I am not afraid to admit that they are still real.  The past isn’t dead; it isn’t even past.  All moments are right there, right there, within your grasp.  Are they not?

I’ve Been Asleep For a Long, Long Time
song lyrics by Tim Baker

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.

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.
When the reeds awoke, they were half below.

I’ve been asleep for a long, long time.

All the women I’ve slept with, ranked in order of greatness.

467.  Stewbuilder Janice
466.  Holly the Yegg
465.  Jen Williams
464.  Jill Frill
463.  Lord Dora Still-Dancing
462.  Marion Fitzfancy
461.  Bazino Bazino
460.  Ram Hair-on-Fire
459.  Nit Louse
458.  Gretta Dinsmore Tackadoo
457.  Character Zero
456.  The Silver Jacket Woman
455.  No-Shoulders Jones
454.  Kelly Franklin
453.  Sister Brothery Nabob
452.  Fanny Bannister, the Tree Surgeon
451.  Tarnose Cohen
450.  Mrs. Wilson Fancypants
449.  Flo Dangler
448.  Shawna Stoopback
447.  Wicked Paula Fourteen-Toes
446.  Normal-Faced Olga
445.  Tammy
444.  Tearbaby Hannity
443.  The Damned Swede
442.  Carla Tin-hat
441.  Jammie Jane
440.  Ol’ Barb Stab-you-quick
439.  Mrs. Whist
438.  James Fenimore Cooper
437.  Scoliosis Sarah
436.  Sweet Momma Champagne
435.  Senator Julie Scoffpossum
434.  Monk, the Monkey Man (which is to say: “the Man”)
433.  Nicole the Bunter
432.  Balloonpopper Chillingsworth
431.  Heloise Dummychuck
430.  Finnish Lynn
429.  Roadhouse Ogilvy
428.  A prostitute
427.  Jokestealer Jana
426.  Rhonda Johnson
425.  Dr. Brenda Stainchin
424.  Gila Monster, Jr.
423.  Irontrousers the Strong
422.  Reynaldo Reynaldoson, the father-killer
421.  Henrietta Hsu
420.  Fran Ox-Hands
419.  Ponytail Winthrop
418.  A leather glove
417.  Lil’ Jess Songbird, the songbird eater
416.  Marcy Miller
415.  Meep Meep, the Italian Seamstress
414.  Maria Pumpkin
413.  Bix Shmix
412.  Stun Gun Simpson
411.  Caramel Macchiatto
410.  Female Fonzie
409.  Prostate Debbie
408.  Jemma Jamey
407.  Nora Niggletoggle
406.  Tina Tinasimie
405.  Flea Stick
404.  Niles Butterball, the Frozen Turkey
403.  Chelsea Four-Flush
402.  Stick-Legs McOhio
401.  The Unanswered Question of Ida
400.  Mindy the Human Resources Officer
399.  Guesstimate Jones
398.  Goofus Rendohar
397.  The Duchess Roundbelly DeDelight
396.  Newton Fig
395.  Sue
394.  Chicken Nugget Marge
393.  Bathsheba Ditz
392.  Alice Pockmark, Esquire
391.  Lolly Hoot Holler
390.  Von Skump
389.  Lacy Choke
388.  Chisolm Chesthair
387.  Freak le Freak, the Freakster
386.  Veronica Spangler
385.  The Bedazzler
384.  Rita Mouth-harp
383.  Anderson Cooper
382.  The Fishin’ Physician
381.  Mariah Nix
380. Chrysler LeBaron
379.  Persuasive Francine
378.  Molly Bewigged
377.  Celestial Stubbs
376.  Teary-Eyed Fingal
375.  Cthulhu Cathy
374.  Del Folksy-Beard
373.  Booper O’Montauk
372.  Lois “Charles” Ladyfinger
371.  Zaxxon Galaxian
370.  No-Banjo Brenda.  It’s actually a pretty interesting story about No-Banjo Brenda.  I met her while riding the rails, hobo-style, between Antwerp and Cincinnati.  She wore an afghan as a cape and was as bald as Yul Brenner, but she offered me a can of sardines with bacon sauce and I was immediately in love.  Even hobos hate sardines but we have to pretend; they are like a commodity in the hobo community, much like the Euro, or Spud Webb jerseys.  We rode together for many hours, No-Banjo Brenda and I—in fact, it may have even been days.  At some point, she started telling me about all the songs she had written.  There were no words.  They were instrumentals, written almost entirely for the banjo.  The only problem was, No-Banjo Brenda didn’t have a banjo.  In fact, she had never had a banjo.  In fact, she had never even seen a banjo.  I think she was lucky she’d even heard of a banjo (she may never have, at that, if it hadn’t been part of her name!).  She had composed her banjo tunes entirely in her mind, and had been waiting her whole hobo-drifting life just trying to find a banjo and let the world hear the amazing tunes that had been welling up inside her forever.  She told me about them, and tried humming them, but you know how that goes, humming music.  Everything sounds a little but like a Yngwie Malmsteen solo.  Oh, then we had sex, and she died right afterward.  Damn shame.
369.  Zane Scary
368.  Claire Richards
367.  Norma Miller
366.  Huckle Smothered
365.  MmmmmmmDandy Dundee
364.  Mountain-Humper Edith Ames
363.  Cheesequake Lennox
362.  Terry Gross.  Really.  She’s gross.
361.  Zipgun Gluck
360.  Spooky Night Spooky-Day
359.  Lorna Chickenstock
358.  Sherlock-Holmes-Hat Cindy
357.  Ambidextrous Stang
356.  Yum-Yum Sinclair Snowballeater
355.  Ponzi Scheme Jenny Ponzi
354.  Toodles Skunk
353.  Monkeybars Melinda Manx
352.  Robert the Child-Size
351.  Robert the Wee
350.  Robert Fits-in-a-Case
349.  Missy the Pagan
348.  Black Bolt, King of the Inhumans
347.  Strictly Local Henrietta Bobtail
346.  Fry-Pan Tina Fry
345.  Joan
344.  Knee-Brace Wilma
343.  Cleats Omnipocket
342.  Gyppo Moot
341.  Mastiff Mama
340.  The couch cushion
339.  Cecelia Graveside
338.  Ma Churchill
337.  Pa Churchill
336.  The Ritual Master
335.  Laura Delite
334.  Sausage Patty
333.  The Nine Doctor Whos
332.  Thermos H. Christ
331.  Woody Damn
330.  Extra-Skin Betty
329.  Marnie No-Ears
328.  Linty Sullivan, the lint collector
327.  Dora the Explorer
326.  Ms. Mary Marley, the tailless cat
325.  Free-Peanuts Doug
324.  Enola Coughblood
323.  Zelda Goatflirter
322.  Muriel Mookadooka
321.  The Unshakeable Will of Wade Terps
320.  Tittytwister Francine Horrid
319.  Mallory Many-Bruises
318.  Big-Tipper Silas Fake-Nickel
317.  A box of hair
316.  Kneepants Erasmus
315.  Antlered Maxine
314.  Scarlett Omaha Omaha
313.  Honeypalms Gordon Lips
312.  Scabpicker Sandyrump
311.  Whiskeyblood Judith Sot
310.  Xtina Doublemunch
309.  Accusing Tim
308.  Tennessee Dust Helmet
307.  Telekinetic Darla
306.  Sarah Gluesniff
305.  Bell’s Palsy Brennan
304.  Pamela Chickeneggs
303.  Elihu Skinpockets
302.  Flora Smazell
301.  Carrie Coreleoleo
300.  Don Tomasino di Shit-the-Bed
299.  Markansas
298.  Magnetized Meg
297.  Jemma Brainache
296.  The Black Squirrel Fairy
295.  Andrea Caboose.  I actually once wrote a poem for Andrea Caboose, that goes like this:

Oh Andrea, oh Andrea,
your name rhymes with Pangea,
well…almost,
and I just wanted to mention Pangea
because nothing makes you seem
more intelligent than mentioning Pangea
in a poem,
oh Andrea, oh Andrea,
everyone loves your caboose.

294.  Kid Silverhair, the Person of Indeterminate Age and Gender
293.  Nutrition-Shake Emery
292.  Rheumy Sven
291.  Queen Cotton
290.  Georgeann Gravelshirt
289.  City Hall
288.  Julie Jingle-Jinglehar
287.  Trixie of the East
286.  Trixie of the West
285.  Canadian Trixie
284.  Lowly Highly
283.  Neckfat Trestle
282.  Pansy Overpass
281.  Dilly Shinguards
280.  Not the Goose
279.  Unnervingly Candid Nikki Thain
278.  Business Class Carla
277.  Princess Oystershuck
276.  Prettydimes, the Lamb
275.  Kandee, that Cheerful Fuck
274.  Clareece Dirigible Marsh
273.  Ashen Ashley Buzzard
271.  Tiffany Wilson
270.  El Boot
269.  Three-Bean Otz
268.  Gretchen Amityville Horror
267.  Panzo Spiral-Cut Ham
266.  Amanda Until
265.  Sasha Creak-Knees
264.  Phyllis Marijuana
263.  Bee Beard
262.  Crispus T. Muzzelwitt
261.  Questionable-Judgement Theodore Stomachbrace
260.  Edwina Winnipeg
259.  The Car-Bomb Killer
258.  Lil’ Shorty Longhorn
257.  Katarina Witt.  Well…a picture of Katarina Witt.  It actually may or may not have been a picture of Brian Williams.
256.  Cheryl Simonsimon
255.  Eyepatch Reese Andiron
254.  Stain-Sucker
253.  Heloise False-Lips Real-Teeth
252.  U.S. Fool
251.  Chili-Mix Shar Benson
250.  Whitman Sampler
249.  The Scientist
248.  Helga Gutthrower
247.  Angie Augiemarfel
246.  Crispy Morton
245.  The Moor of Venice
244.  Lord Winston Two-Monocles
243.  Food-Eating Emma
242.  The Hat.  I actually once wrote an incredibly interesting based-on-fact short story about the incredibly interesting day I met the hat.  At the time, she called me “the suit”.  Here it is:

I leaned up against the wall waiting for the scholarship dinner to officially start, my eyes roving back and forth over all the others milling around, engaging in small talk.

Hearing a girl mention a familiar name, I cocked my head to the left to better overhear.

“You should have seen Dr. Noteck’s last exam.  It was crazy!  For one of the questions, we had to draw a pair of pants.  What do pants have to do with English literature?!”

I grimaced sympathetically at this.  Have had Dr. Noteck two semesters in a row, I was very familiar with his, shall I say, eccentric testing style.

I saw her making her way through the crowd of people.  She moved from one group to another, jumping into any conversation that caught her fancy.  From her manner, and that of those with whom she spoke, it was often difficult to tell whether she was acquainted with these people or not.  She seemed to engage with complete strangers as easily as good friends.  Like me, she didn’t seem to belong to any one group.

As she passed nearby (she almost never stopped moving completely), I felt compelled to say something.

“That’s a very…interesting hat you have there,” I said.

She halted and turned around, quickly evaluating me with her eyes.  A wide smile broke out on her face and she answered, “Why, thank you, Suit!  You don’t look bad yourself.”

And a very nice suit it was: black with a jade green tie, gold cuff-links and a tie pin.  My shoes were also black, you may say they were polished to a mirror shine, but no one had bothered to check for a reflection.  My hair was too long; I had kept meaning to shave it all off like I usually did but I’d let it go too long.

Her hat—by far the most conspicuous part of her outfit that night—was a brightly colored jester’s cap, complete with bells.  Out from under it poured a mass of golden-red hair that tumbled all around her bare shoulders.  She wore a camoflage dress not exactly skin-tight, but not far from it, either.

Hat held out her hand.  I—not expecting such a positive reaction—looked at her with a quizically raised eyebrow for a moment before we shook hands.

“Where exactly—”

“—did I get the Hat?”

Irritated at her interruption, I took a short, audible breath (something like a sigh in reverse) before I responded, “Yes.”

“That’s always the first question people ask me.  You would not believe how much attention this hat attracts.”

My expression here hopefully indicated that I could indeed believe how much attention the hat attracted.  Her rapid flow of words, however, continued without pause.

“Me, Michelle, Jen, and Ron went to Ocean City for a week two years ago.  I think the whole purpose of going somewhere like the beach with your friends if for them to drag you into doing things that you’d never do on your own.”

My imagination reeled momentarily trying to imagine just what exactly this girl would do on her own.

She continued, “I’m not sure it’s legal to have that much fun in one week.  We went bungee jumping and water skiing.  If you want a cure for any possible desire to commit suicide by leaping, bungee jumping is your therapy.”

I was about to make it clear that I’d never had any such desire (for leaping suicide or bungee jumping) but I never got the opportunity.

“What else happened that week?” she asked herself and paused briefly before continuing.

I was beginning to be truly amazed at how fast and how long she could speak without pausing for a breath.  I took this brief pause as an opportunity to try to steer her back on topic.

“Yes, but where…?”

“Oh yeah!”  Hat said, with a light-bulb tone.  “I got my ichthus tattoo!  I knew there was something else important that happened that week!  And we—”

Finally I interrupted her.  “Yes, this is all very fascinating, but where did you get the hat?”

“I’m getting to that,” she scolded me.  “As I was saying, while the others lay out on the beach roasting—I have yet to see the attraction in such activities, I can tan perfectly well while in motion—I usually explore some of the shops along the boardwalk.  Most of them are colorful, but boring.  Occasionally, though, some of them have the most incredible—” she looked down a moment and softly muttered “right word, right word”, before looking up suddenly, “outlandish merchandise.  The particular trip I had managed to resuscitete Jen into accompanying me.  I heard her groan oh no.  She saw this hat and knew I couldn’t resist it.  She was right.”

“Ah,” I said, glad to have finally extracted the information from her.

“This summer, we’re planning on going back for a month.  I love the beach.”

“I love everything about it except for sunburn,” I said.

“Until the sheer heat of it drives you into the cool, pulsing ocean.”

The conversation reached a pause her, and just as Hat was turning around to go find someone else to talk to, I asked, “So what’s your major, anyway?”

She looked over her shoulder and then turned to face me again.  “I was thinking of becoming a teacher, but I realized I don’t have the patience.  I finally decided on music.  I play the flute.  Well, I play several instruments.  I play the guitar, too, but I do that quite badly.”  After a brief pause to think, she added, “I play the flute well,” and nodded in satisfaction with this summary.  “My parents were so frustrated with me when I told them my choice.  I believe they said I was ‘wasting the wonderful opportunity of my scholarship’.  As if music were a waste!  How about you, what’s your major?”

Before I could answer, she hit me with another question.

“So, do you think it’s legal to have that much fun in one week?” she asked in a very serious tone.

I drew my breath to answer, then wrinkled my brow in perplexion at the question.

Before I could begin explaining my understanding of the laws on enjoyment quotas, someone on stage tapped the mic a couple times, and people started moving toward their seats.

“Looks like the dinner’s getting started,” I said.  “I guess we’d better get to our tables.  It was nice meeting you.”  I held out my hand to shake hers.

With a wild grin, hat bent down and kissed the back of my hand, spun around, and disappeared into the crowd.

241.  Janice Shortwave
240.  Singleminded Hubbard
239.  No-stick McGee
238.  Merle Buzzard
237.  Nick Nolte
236.  Baldy Lutz
235.  Pickled-Noggin Nettles
234.  Handformed Hamburger Helen
233.  Doris Pitchfork
232.  Two G-Forces
231.  Lucy Burned-Beyond-Recognition
230.  El Caballo, the Spanish Steed
229.  Microbrew Sharon
228.  Rhythmic Abbey
227.  Overload-the-Dishwasher Octavia
226.  Crumbjacket Rachel
225.  Ramona Riprippy
224.  Happy Horace Noosemaker
223.  Mademoiselle Dookie
222.  Wanda Waverly
221.  http://www.crazycats.com
220.  Wendi Frickinfrack
219.  Abelard “Sunken Treasure” Lowtrousers
218.  Bo Bo
217.  a slinky
216.  Somersalting Mark Spitz
215.  Really Redneck Fatnuts
214.  Yakira and her Quaker Oats Box Drum
213.  Pirandello, the Many-Bearded
212.  Caitlyn Bindlestick
211.  Salami Sunshine
210.  Whatever that lizard is that walks on water
209.  Bleedingtoe the Barefoot
208.  Nick Chintz
207.  Treesap-covered Candace
206.  Thor Hammerskold, the Mexican
205.  Bambi Harlequin-Horsefart
204.  One of my closest friends’ mom
203.  Beatrice-Who-Lacks-Fingerprints
202.  Smoke-Collecting Meg
201.  Gunderic Godigiselson
200.  Pontius Cornstalk
199.  Hot Gnome Jimmy Jackson
198.  Shadow (“Blinky”) Preston
197.  Buttery-Cheeks Kacey
196.  Four-Fisted Jock Socko
195.  Dr. Zizmor
194.  Kami Kawasaki
193.  Arizona Ludwig
192.  Silas Swollen
191.  Mountain Woman
190.  “Taxachusetts” Tera
189.  Matter-Hater Leona
188.  Grumple Graxon
187.  Low-Carb Aleks Stovepipe
186.  Salt and Pepper Chest
185.  Huge Crybaby McWeepy
184.  Elffriend Weingarten
183.  Forktongue Fork
182.  Hairlip Libby
181.  Solid First Draft Patton Taylor
180.  Paige Pennyloafers.  I actually drew a picture of Paige Pennyloafers once.  This is it:

179.  Modem Guntherson
178.  Half-Albino Aaliyah
177.  The Treasurer
176.  Captain Slick-Talk
175.  Roundhouse Farter
174.  Fake Cockney Accent Adele Strippe
173.  Red Ball Pnutz
172.  Zahara Zimbalist
171.  Air and Whiskey Doris McGlue
170.  Yasmin RC Airplane
169.  Narcotic Morgan Suds
168.  Narcotic Nelson Suds
167.  Sir Frances Drank
166.  Mahayana
165.  Czech Czarlie Czill
164.  Ssssssssssssssssssssss, the hisser
163.  Thanatos Kelp
162.  Spiderwoman
161.  Gluttonous Slim
160.  Ragweed Wanda
159.  Moray Eel Wilhemina Elmer
158.  Plastic-Moutache Jennifer Tall
157.  Val Gel Insole
156.  Crispy Whiskers
155.  Astonishing Vanna Eyelash
154.  Prabhnoor Jones
153.  Owlie
152.  Johnny Johnny
151.  Anwar the Bionic
150.  Fibery Dana
149.  Cranberry Oppenheimer
148.  Holy Hannah Hottentot-Smythe
147.  Fleabottle Boone
146.  Stupefying P., the Riddle-Maker
145.  The Juror
144.  Yancy something-or-other
143.  Mariah Duckface
142.  Waspwaist Fritz
141.   Sally Hoot-Hoot
140.  Saves-Reciepts Dave
139.  Mrs. Pendleton
138.  Chelsea Bacon
137.  Annie Axe
136.  A Shapeshifting Demon
135.  Sir Walter British
134.  Amanda CeeCee Strobelight
133.  Ida Alva Edison
132.  Leather Apron
131.  Saint Sorryass
130.  Overly Familiar Fung
129.  Chalmers, the Bridge Champ
128.  Clingy
127.  Elephantine Samsonite
126.  Neekerbeeker Perry Tomaz
125.  Teatime BB Stiles
124.  Hubbel “I Predicted the Lindy Hop” Deerblind
123.  Hubie Hewitt, the Broadway Legend
122.  Poo-Knickers Iesha
121.  Amesy Squirrelstomper, the Chipmunk-Preferrer
120.  Baked Salmon Salad Finn
119.  Gabriella Donaldson
118.  Smokestack-Hugger Jools Nygaard
117.  Huge-Calves Edna
116.  Elaine Crackknuckle
115.  William Carlos Williams
114.  Snoops Lightstep Trenchcoat
113.  Ironbelly Norton
112.  Stool Sample Ellen
111.  Monkey’s Paw Patterson
110.  Slim Jim
109.  Mermaid Betty Scales
108.  Myron Biscuitspear, the Dumpster Archaelogist
107.  Old Pliny Dance-for-Ham
106.  Fay Charles
105.  Catscratch Tremont Nude
104.  Warbling Timmy Tin-Voice and his Voice-Box
103.  Rubber Chess
102.  Top Hat Swindlefingers
101.  Jane Crouton
100.  Nbdego Tch!ck
99.   Wormy Glenn and the Nootka Flatworm
98.   Hidalgo, the Artiste
97.   The Fucky from Kentucky
96.   The Man in the Foil Mask
95.   Cambridge Massachusetts Clara
94.   Cyrus the Persian Sturgeon
93.   Little Felicia Spittle
92.   Scrunchie
91.   Jaclyn “the lifestyle” Dammers
90.  Chicken Butt, Five Cents a Cut
89.   Wise Jackayla Babysplitter
88.   Uranus Nancy, the Star-Traveller
86.   Natalie Holowell
85.   The Unformed Twin of Tennessee Dust Helmet
84.   Turkeyballs Paco
83.   Eileen the Indianapolist
82.   Acid-Saliva Curley Stokes
81.   Candy Brennan.  Candy and I spent a lovely holiday together in the Swiss Alps a few years back.  She was a contestant in the World Paper Airplane Loop-the-Loop tournament that was taking place there, and I was doing research for my book, “Why I Hate Tidal Pools and What I Intend to Do About It”, and in between those intense activities, we met in our hotel room for what could only be described as marathon sessions of me pitifully failing to please her and then her crying in the shower.  But somewhere in there, we fell in love.  The problem, however, arose when my hetero life-mate, Ron Gutshall (please read all about our exploits here) showed up while Candy was out flying her paper airplane and I was researching my hatred of tidal pools, and as part of some strange experiment he had been working on for weeks beforehand, he filled our hotel room with rabid Spider Monkeys, mouse traps, and 16oz red Solo cups half filled with bleach.  Needless to say, when Candy returned and I blindly defended Ron (as one is forced to do for one’s hetero lifemate), Candy attempted to storm off in a bout of anger, but Ron silently suffocated her with the palm of his gargantuan right hand while checking his stock updates on his Blackberry with his left hand.  We buried her in the hotel shower and then Ron and I got some Benihana.
80.  Utility-Belt Deana
79.  Smokehouse Frankie Jowl-Poker
78.  Windowkisser Suzanna
77.  Twistback John, the Cracked Disc Sufferer
76.  Horus, the Bird-Headed Fool
75.  Foriegn Tammy, the Strangetalker
74.  Bianca Bettlegrebber
73.  Tabatha Tresselwreck
72.  JR Paperstockings
71.  “X”, the anonymous man or woman
70.  Ghostly Nose Sylvie
69.  Beef-or-Chicken Bob Nubbins
68.  Canadian Football Tasha
67.  Beanface
66.  Sir Mix-a-Lot
65.  The Gimp
64.  Whistling Anus Meacham
63.  Juicepockets Moone
62.  Moosecloak
61.  Sabrina Smith
60.  Ventriloquism Sadie and “Madame”, her talking bean can
59.  Fake Noam Chomsky
58.  Klonopin Claudia
57.  Marian May Wyomingsong
56.  Samantha Warbledarble
55.  Mad or Sad Judd (no one can tell)
54.  Aesop Bedroll
53.  Rocky Shitstain Mankiewicz
52.  Shakira Tiny-Bites
51.  Mayonaisse
50.  Betty the Exorcist
49.  Atlas Flatshoulders
48.  Gin-bucket Greg
47.  Philatelist Joey Licks
46.  Stinging Polly Papercuts
45.  Shanequa Sha-na-na
44.  Billy Butterfly Net
43.  Nicknameless Norris Shine
42.  Sugarhouse Morris the Sapper
41.  Zaphod Beeblebrox
40.  The Honorable Janis Weedfarmer
39.  Nightblind and Snowblind, the Blind twins
38.  Marley Mingle
37.  Shagrat, Orc of the Ozarks
36.  Eustace Feetbeer
35.  Benny Twenty-birds
34.  Amnesiac Jared Stringy
33.  Antigone Spit
32.  PomPom the Texas Dancing Dog
31.  Yuri Trimble, the Alien Pod Person
30.  Sarah Lardblood
29.  Beery Clyde the Eunuch
28.  Milosz the Anarchist Pupeteer
27.  Donna Pina Colada
26.  Ursala Bobenfob
25.  Jonas Tugboy, Professional Masturbator
24.  Cinderfella Dana Dane
23.  Kerosene-Soaked Vivian
22.  Black Bottle Priam
21.  Socks
20.  Pinprick Butell
19.  Tailstump Gunther
18.  Nooney Rockjelly
17.  Ambassador Roasting Pan
16.  Chuck McKindred: No So Holy, but Very Moley
15.  Paula Chiclets
14.  Q the Quantum Woman
13.  Not-So-Raven
12.  Jane the Beekeeper
11.  Unpronounceable
10.  The Beloved Rebecca Thankyounote
9.    Thad Thadly
8.    Chiselchin Cathleen Man
7.    Candle-Eyed Sally
6.    Daphne Zuniga
5.    Fran Frijole
4.    Hazel Marlborough
3.    Not-Racist Whitey
2.    Trombone Snout
1.    Janet Howard.  She was really good.

The Problem

The problem as I see it
with writing poetry,
we think we have no foe,
we are walking alone,
but in fact we are fighting the poems,
boxing like prizefighters,
but most of us never have any notion
of when they have knocked us out,
stand overtop us—sweaty, victorious poems—
and we just go on writing more of them,
us damned defeated idiots.

Mexico City video project, “Are You Spiritual?”

See what the project is here.  The first video is here and the second video is here.

 

 

First Erie snowfall, 12/18

 

 

 

 

All the static in my attic shoots down my side nerve.

I struggle with knowing myself.  I try to be a very self-aware human being, understanding any changes I am going through, my motivations, the way I treat other people.  For most of my adult life (or at least my P.S. life [Post-Sobriety]) I have thought I was pretty good at it.  But lately it’s become more and more clear that that was a foolish, illusory notion.  I have only a glancing understanding of what powers me.  The only thing I am sure of is that I am complicated–not simple–and that my motivations and desires are a shifting, fluid grab-bag.  Go figure.

Dear NFL:  I am a somewhat new convert to enjoying your game and your league.  I can still be won over for life, or lost.  I understand your reasons behind your complicated system for which games get televised in which markets.  I get it and I approve; however, I think sometimes you need to just televise the really desired games.  This season, you’ve got a fantastic story in Tim Tebow.  The drama and storybook quality of it has helped reel me in to your league even more this year, but I’ve only been able to follow it via highlight reels, newspapers, and talk radio.  Not a single Denver Broncos game has been broadcast in my area (unless there was a Monday or Thursday game, in which case, I had to work, but still…not a single Sunday game).  Now today, they are playing the Patriots in a game I would very much like to see.   When you’ve got a golden soap-opera opportunity like this one, you should capitalize on it, not make me watch Bengals vs. Rams.  A glance at the games being televised in my area today reveals nary a single game of interest, either nationally or locally.  I understand you want me to GO to the game, but shouldn’t you, secondarily, at least want me to watch?

I note often (in conversation at least, perhaps not online) how surprised I constantly am by how drastically my likes and dislikes are changing over time, as this strange process of aging continues.  There are obvious things such as my taste in music and movies (which is changing more than my public persona admits to; probably my favorite discovery this year has been this).   But even bigger things are changing;  nothing like my basic philosophical outlooks, but here’s a big one:  this year, I don’t really hate winter.  Previously, hating winter has been a large part of the public image I present to the world, and much like any time these large blocks change, I’ve been hesitant to admit to it publicly (people like keeping you the same in their minds), but I can’t deny it any longer.  I am kind of enjoying the frigid darkness.  I’m curious to see if it lasts.

The title of this entry is just a line from a Pearl Jam song that I was listening to today.  It has no significance.

My hometown (OK, my second hometown) of Carlisle, PA is home to something known as the Carlisle Indian School.  In Carlisle, there is a sense of pride concerning our place in history, as the Indian School is indeed more than a footnote in our national history.  It is just recently that I’ve begun to fully comprehend the vile, evil nature of what our nation did with the Carlisle school and other “Indian schools” that came after it.  So I just want to put it out there, now, that I am no longer proud of the Carlisle Indian School.

When I’m really attracted to a woman, I can be viscerally affected by even her handwriting.

 

Mexico City video project: “Baby, You’ve Changed”

What is this project?  Read this.

Well, I ran into a bit of a roadblock with the second video in my planned project.  Namely, the idea I had in mind just proved too difficult for me to pull off (it almost ended up in me getting thrown out of a mall) and I just couldn’t come up with a new approach, so in order to continue with the rest of the songs, which I still very much want to do, I just uploaded a video of the song over the classic picture of the kiss in Times Square (which for some reason half-disappears in the video, but whatever).  It’s a badass song, so at least it’s out there now, if the world comes looking for it.  So now I making my fun videos of the rest of the songs on this awesome album!

Lesser Ends

To stand on a chip of a beam of light
that swims through eternity
just to find the laws that govern this world
may be one man’s goal;
but I am made for other, lesser ends;
I need a friend, I need a dozen friends.

Self-portraits in cities, vol. 3

Remember, these are extraordinary full-sized.  Click on one, then when it re-loads, click it again.

Erie, PA

 

Cleveland, OH

 

Buffalo, NY