Funny, I Don't LOOK Jewish ...

In my travels yesterday evening, I came upon a burning bush.

No, really.

I was riding my bike home, turned from Ellis toward 28th, and there was a big ole juniper bush fully aflame, with the fire reaching above the power lines about 25 feet off the ground. Three bushes, actually, and it was something to behold. I also heard a deep, powerful voice speaking to me. That’s not unusual, though – I call him Mr. Z, and he tells me to do things sometimes, but I generally ignore him. Still, he’s good company most of the time, and he's been around a long time. Anyway ...

So did I go all Moses on people? Telling you not to worship false idols, when those baseball bobbleheads are so cool? Telling you to honor your mother and father, when, for all I know, your dad’s a real butthead who spends 12 hours a day at the office and ignores your mom, who’s basically floating through life on Xanax? Telling you to keep the Sabbath holy (we're not going to count my past admonitions to worship at the Church Of Soldier Field)? No, I didn’t. I called 911, and they showed up in about a minute and put the thing out.

I mean, seriously, why would someone wander around in the desert for 40 years when there’s cold beer being served? It ain’t gonna drink itself, you know …

Just A Stone's Throw Away ...

Sweet maids a-milking! This house is made of GLASS!

Stupid Dreams ...

I had a dream last night in which I was on a long journey, and had just arrived at a crossroads. I stopped and thought long and hard about the choice I was facing and the options available. Should I turn to the West, climbing into the mountains, where I knew the trek would be treacherous, but ultimately held the promise of white sandy beaches looking out over an azure sea? Or perhaps to the East, with its fertile fields and assurance of a lifetime of simple abundance? Or North, where only a few brave souls travel, but of which tales are told of harrowing adventures? Or even South, from whence I’d come, offering the solace and comfort of familiarity, free from the burden of uncertainty?

I started to dig ...

Attempting Embedding

No, not that, potty-mind. But Alive After Five IS tonight ...

I'm seeing if I can accomplish the incredibly complex task of embedding a YouTube video here. Let's see ... what to post, what to post ... certainly something uncontroversial. If there are two things I hate talking about, well ... okay, other than running out of beer, I'd say politics and religion. So at the risk of exposing any political views, give this a look-see. It's only about 10 minutes.



Ooh! Ooh! Did it work? Did I embed someonething?

No, there will not be drunken updates later ...

The Unbearable Lightness Of Being Drunk, Lonely, And Remorseful

Of the various states of mind that I occasionally find myself in, perhaps three of the most ubiquitous are drunkenness, loneliness, and remorsefulness. I hesitate to speculate on the preponderance of these states with regard to my friends, but … ok, I don’t hesitate at all; in fact, it would be irresponsible not to speculate … given the amount of drinking and general commiserating that goes on, I don’t think I’m an outlier here.

Any one of these, in isolation, presents no problem whatsoever. We, as human beings, have always enjoyed a nip or three of the goofy-juice throughout our existence as a species (and indeed, this is not exclusive to humans.) As social creatures, we yearn for the company of others, and while we may value our moments away, by ourselves, isolation is ultimately antithetical to happiness. And without recognition of past mistakes and regret for past actions, there would be no advancement on either a personal or societal level. Drunkenness, loneliness, remorsefulness … the triumvirate of existential states that drives and defines humankind.

Even experiencing two of these states at the same time is generally no cause for alarm. Being drunk and lonely can often, from what I’m told, provide a set of circumstances under which one becomes less lonely, if only for a short time. Drunk and remorseful? It’s quite possible that Hank Williams would never have written a single song without this creativity-boosting combination. And being lonely and remorseful – well, that’s just part of the healing cycle.

Hear my words and heed my warning: all three states experienced simultaneously will destroy your soul. Utter and complete destruction of your very being. You should really try to avoid this. Trust me.


Oh, what the hell am I talking about? Go nuts, ya crazy kids …

Smooooooooov ....

The other night at Alive After Five (for my Pacific Rim and Asian subcontinent readers, AAF is a weekly gathering of the masses to listen to great music and comment on the physical attractiveness of strangers), I happened to be wearing a shirt that read "Make Awkward Sexual Advances, Not War." A clever play on the yester-generation's slogan "Make Love, Not War", in my opinion. But I digress.

An actual conversation that began as I was walking past three quite attractive women:

Woman: "Wow, what a great shirt!"
Me: "Well, that wasn't awkward at all."
Woman: "Oh." (pause) "Wanna have sex?"
Me: (silence)
Me (to myself): "Wow! I really AM just a big dork!"

I'll be teaching Smoooov 101 in the fall. Classroom space is limited.

Fridays

Not that the people I work with are unattractive; on the contrary, they're all quite lovely human beings, in many different and wonderful ways. Nonetheless, I find the policy of "casual sex Fridays" a bit unsettling.

Perhaps it's my Puritan heritage ...

Baseball Stat Line Of The Week

In his debut appearance in the 30-and-over Boise baseball league, N*88 put up the following:

5 K, 5 H, 0 ER

Disappointingly, he's also saddled with 0 HBP, but we have high hopes for this youngster. His low number of innings this summer leave him eligible for next year's Rookie Of The Year award, and we understand that the voters place an inordinate weight on number of earholes plugged.

Own the plate and live the dream, rook!

Play ball!

Well, once again it’s All-Star day in Major League Baseball. Kind of a silly and fun exhibition game, a light-hearted mid-season playground contest for a few players, a 3-day weekend for most. Well, that’s what it should be. Bud "calling me just a doofus is being too kind" Selig, during what must have been a personal audit of the contents of Josh Hamilton’s single-A locker in 2002, decided that home field advantage in the World Series should be decided by the outcome of the All-Star game. If I’m a Tampa Bay Devil Ray, I’d be a little chapped when Joakim Soria of Kansas City gives up a 3 run shot in the 8th. Of course, if I’m a Tampa Bay Devil Ray, the sun would be setting in the East, as past softball teammates will attest. No matter.

Anyway, the good news is that Cy Young Cliff Lee of the Indians will be the AL starter. It’s not looking like the All-Star game result will have any effect on Cleveland’s post-season, as there will likely be no such thing. Fat, drunk, and 13 games back at the break is no way to go through life, son. At least we’re rid of that deadweight clubhouse cancer Sabathia. Good luck with that, Brewers. It'll be amusing when he tries to chase down the racing sausages between innings.

The Widowed Mallard Redux

But only after a proper grievance period, and certainly not with that swan-wannabe over on 7th street.

A Love Letter

To the woman at the Steve Earle concert who began dancing by herself and was half-heartedly ridiculed by a less-than-comfortable-with-themselves crowd, and who, while foiling an attempt to be escorted off the dance floor by the elderly security guard (during which many people applauded, to their everlasting shame,) attempted to engage said guard in a lively swing, and who elicited a heartfelt "LET 'ER DANCE" from Mr. Earle and Ms. Moorer, who were quite obviously enjoying themselves during all of this, and who opened the floor for what was arguably the best part of a bitchin' evening:

I love you.

If it's too soon, I'll back that off to "I have a huge-ass crush on you."

I don't want to scare you, you know ...

Fear of Spheres

As longtime readers of The Dead Acorn know, I have a strong fear of spheres. You may ask “Say, Dead Acorn, don’t you mean irrational fear?” Were you to actually ask that, I would (after saying “No, I don’t mean irrational fear”) point out that spheres, being perfectly … well, spherical, appear the same from any vantage point. I don’t like that, and I certainly don’t trust it. I like to be able to learn about things by incorporating different perspectives. It adds to my appreciation of whatever I’m experiencing, and it frightens me to think that however long I stare, however many different views I may try, whatever move I may make, the sphere will always be constant, unchanging, and offering nothing new. Ever.

There is nothing irrational whatsoever in my fear of spheres. Nothing. They are truly the geometrical objects of The Devil.

Oh, and this is not a metaphor of any sort.