Monthly Archives: March 2012

Just to Clarify…

some people asked me about the tags, or how I’m categorizing these things. So I’ll explain it again for the first time:

quote: “It’s a quote.”

blurb: something I usually make up on the spot. An interesting idea, situation, or observation I didn’t take the time to turn into a story.

short: something I usually didn’t make up on the spot. It can be longer, or shorter. These aren’t necessarily better, or more worth reading; they just took longer to do.

pome: poem

6wStory: A story in six words exactly. (you can google it)

4: a fourmat I developed when bored in class. These are four line poetic exercises; not poems. These are more of excercizes in rhyme, wordplay, and meter, and are not — I repeat — not serious whatsoever. I usually make these in under a minute, kind of like no system reverse-flashcards for the mind.


Open the door. Ten dollar whore.



It’s simple economics; I won’t get out of bed unless I have a reason to. It has nothing to do with how warm the sheets are or how cold the floor is.


“Facts don’t lie — but they can’t tell the truth on their own.”



When I hear “defenestration,” I think of two things. 1: Frustration, because it goes well with defenestration; eg: “it’s frustrating that auto-correct thinks defenestration is a word while defenestrate is not. I need to find a window and defenestrate my frustration.” And 2: What is fenestration? The act of catching things flying in through the window? I sure hope so. I find not the need for such a silly word because indubitably  the word begs the question of “what does it mean?” And so you have to take the time to explain the word which makes you appear pompous and highfalutin because you’re intentionally saying things that other people know, but are being exclusive by using such elevated diction. Such language can be used to exclude people from a ‘circle,’ or conversely can be used to make people feel a sense of belonging, or closeness; like an inside joke. You offhandedly mention defenestration in conversation and have to explain it to a friend, but next time when the topic naturally arises, your friend knows what it means and feels special. We should all use plain and simple words and no one should feel special! Ever! Or maybe I’m just jealous… and had to google “defenestration.”

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

The world through a child’s eye;
a child through the world’s.
Have you lived enough to die?
A sail not yet unfurled.



It took me about 4 tries to spell indubitibly correctly, and in all that fuss I seem to have forgotten what the word even means. The strange thing about language and learning/using new words, is that you know how to use them (eg: where they belong/what tense/part of speech) even if you’re not solid on the definition. I might tell someone, “Your hair is indubitibly luminous today.” Albeit–or rather–allhaditbeen a correct construction of an English sentence, the meaning is quite strange. I refuse to look words up unless I completely don’t know what they mean, but from as far as I can tell, and from Context (the almighty), Indubitably just means undoubtedly… which is also a word. I suppose this is why people like this word, or when little youngsters first learn it they can help but repeat it all the time because it’s a fun word to say. Why say undoubtedly when you can say indubitably? Why eat vegetables when you can eat veggies? Why become a homeless child when you could become a ragamuffin? Indubitably, the indubitability of sillier words, when heard, can spur the familiar smirk and smile, or spark the occasional wit and guile.

High Up

Snoqualmie Pass had installed a terrain park at the foot of Bonanza face – a black diamond. As the popularity of the park grew, so did the jumps and wipeouts.

“Woah.” said my brother, a ninth grader, old enough to know when something was broken. He didn’t need to point or tell me to look over the side as our chair lift sailed over the terrain park. A snowboarder received attention from two ski patrolmen at the foot of a 30 foot tabletop jump with crossed skis on it. He was laid in a sled-type backboard, and stiff. His face matched the red ski patrol jackets, puffed and swollen against the confines of the neck brace, pressing to break free. It reminded me of when a friend from the accelerated program in elementary school put a yellow ducky peep in the microwave. It popped – but not all at once. The first time I ever saw EMTs is when I was waiting for the principal because I dragged a kid away from a fight. He was calling the peep-popper’s mom to let her know her son had landed on his eye out on the playground. I thought about how that was possible, but the blood and the words “I can’t see! I can’t see!” distracted me. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and now I was the lone audience to The Bleeding-Eye Show. Apparently the EMTs thought in front of the waiting room chairs was the best place to perform. I wasn’t allowed to leave my seat. I can’t remember what the principal told me—probably something about being careful.

I didn’t talk much to the bloody-eye friend after third grade because he stopped talking. Our teacher explained to keep our distance from him because his mom passed away of cancer. Someone had to ask what “passed away” meant. I think my motherless friend would have preferred a car crash so he could have someone or something to blame, but instead he had to slowly watch her disappear with his childhood. Nothing provokes life more than death. Now he fights for what he still believes in and cooks his own meals after working hard. I eat out every day and believe in anything because I haven’t learned otherwise. All my experiences have been secondhand, listening to stories of success, failure, and a plethora of examples on ‘how to be good.’ Without having ever done it, I could show someone how to put on chains and drive uphill on two inches of ice, or give a job interview without ever having received one. From what I’ve gathered I could do death, too, but I wouldn’t be confident in my ability to properly show someone else.

For me something is possible even if I’ve only heard about it; it doesn’t need to have actually happened. I’ve never seen anybody die. I’ve heard it from people close to me, about people close to me, but I’ve been protected from it my whole life. When I’d watch the news they’d report that someone died in a shooting, a car crash, or a freak accident. I listened to see if it was anyone I know – it never was. I feel like everyone watches the news hoping they’ll see someone they know.

My senior year in high school two girls in my class made the news. One died and one didn’t. The one who survived said she couldn’t remember anything, probably because of trauma and partly because of choice. I didn’t know them well enough. I can’t imagine being the camera man for channel 5, knocking on the door to the house where all of her friends were grieving, crying; trying to remember and forget. “I’m sorry for your loss, but could you step into the light so we can see your face?” One of my classmates was interviewed and smiled at one point. I knew he was excited to be on the news.

That same week five other high schoolers died within a hundred mile radius of my school. Two years prior, three high schoolers died in a crash three miles from my house. One went to my school, but I didn’t know him either. I attended the funeral of my dad’s best friend, who died of a heart attack running on a trail in the woods. He was very healthy, and if someone would’ve been nearby at the time, he would have survived. I only knew him through my father, but I knew more about him than how he actually was as a person. He built his own house from scratch. His second wife took all the inheritance and split for Florida. My middle school orchestra teacher was killed in a freak boating accident. She was on a sailboat in the middle of a lake with some friends when a speed boat plowed straight through her at full throttle. The bow of the boat was raised due to its high speed so the driver assumed nothing was there. Cancer killed my physics teacher’s wife and one of the preachers at church’s husband. When I started college I got a call from a friend crying about how her boyfriend, a friend of mine since grade school, had cheated on her. I happened to be in a fraternity with him at the time and knew this probably wasn’t true. Regardless, she grabbed as many pills as she could that night, but woke up in a mental institution so I didn’t have to deal with her death. She had moved to the east coast for school, but the distance had gotten the better of her. Another close friend of mine moved to Philadelphia to be a professional cello player and stopped eating for a while, drank too much, then blacked out to the point where he couldn’t remember when it all started. We were only sixteen, and I laughed along with him as he told me he almost died. Someone fell to their death at a fraternity party – someone too drunk to know what “don’t” means. They want you to say “fraternity” instead of “frat” to respect the brotherhood and its traditions. Someone falls or jumps off of something every year. A man burned himself alive. I walked by the grounds crew worker who drew the short straw that day and had to separate the scorched flesh and blood from the rough concrete with a brush and a mask. A girl hanged herself in the back stairwell of the fraternity I attended, but I had left a year prior. They found her limp during the recruiting BBQ. People littered her facebook page with remorse. One post read, “Hey, let’s catch up! Haven’t heard from you in ages [smiley face].” Winters get cold and dozens of hobos die in the streets. I think we’re still at war with someone.

I looked directly down on the puffy red snowboarder, waiting for something to happen; something exciting. Our chair passed the scene, following the example of the hundreds that had passed before us. I looked back over my shoulder, realizing the puffy man had no friends watching on. I wondered if his family was close to him, friends, or coworkers nearby, or possibly a girlfriend. “Ladies first.” He winks at the top of the run, “I’ll be right behind you.” Those could have been his last words as he wasn’t allowed to speak in the neck brace, and his face swelled shut soon after. I figured he’ll have a crazy story to tell at some cocktail party months down the road, so I faced forward at the end of the ride and slid off with ease. The next day the paper said the puffy man had broken his neck, been paralyzed, and died that night while I was sleeping.

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

“Sobering Up”

Today’s suggestion was ‘Sobering Up.’ I will be taking suggestions for running commentary from now on as I have nothing interesting to talk about, but other people seem to, and I will do my best to use every suggestion. The one restriction is the suggestion must be either one word, or a phrase, like ‘sobering up.’ This is less writing and more just thinking and roaming around my mind with little or no sense of direction. It is my mind, so things will be addressed from my point of view, with my thoughts. This is a conversation. Ask follow up questions, disagree, contribute, or just leave a suggestion below and I’ll make it happen… Anything. Literally: anything.

Sobering up for me is a tricky, if not impossible task, due to the fact that I don’t drink. I am of legal age, and have never really considered that the reason to, or to not, drink, but it was the cop-out excuse when people offered me drinks when I was under 21. The real reason I don’t drink is because it tastes like piss. If someone took a beer into the bathroom and came out I’d feel obligated to make a wise crack about the coincidental color of his beverage. People tell me “you’ll get used to the taste” or “once you start drinking you don’t even notice it” or “you don’t drink it for the taste.” That sets me off on a few directions…

You’ll get used to the taste.

I don’t understand the trouble with acquired tastes. Why would you want to acquire a taste? It tastes bad, but everyone else likes it, so you just say you aren’t sophisticated enough yet, and keep chugging away until your as sophisticated as a motherfucker. It tastes bad now. Nothing will change once I’ve acquired the taste — except now it tastes okay. Something had to change. Then it must have been me. My theory is drinking shit piss beer and wine tastes awful, but you have a great time because you get to be silly and ‘lose’ your inhibitions. I just think alcohol is just an excuse to do things you want to do anyways, or act how you want to around people without feeling bad, or god-forbid; awkward. Sociologist or Psychologists or one of those professions followed a bunch of different college students on their spring break trips to beachy places south of the border and caught some girls, who were completely sober, go around and act drunk and do stupid drunkie things just to fill that little space in their minds that tells them what they don’t want to hear. I’ve had a few drinks before, and I’m not completely talking out of my ass here, but I was pretty much the same after a few drinks. The only main difference is I didn’t ever think about where my hands were (not in that way you perverts). It just seems like people are ashamed that their base instincts are raucous and loathsome, and their searching for an excuse to set them free. Personally, I have no trouble being stupid without alcohol, so I can’t really use any excuses, and don’t want to taste them either. So if you hand me a drink and ask me how it tastes, I might respond, “tastes like an excuse,” and you’ll think I’m being an asshole.

Once you start drinking you don’t even notice it.

What I’m wondering is what are you noticing now that’s more important than swallowing piss? Do you want to be deaf or blind? If the answer is no, then why do you want to be numb? I don’t have a good answer to that question, and until I do, I’m not drinking. If I can’t taste my own excuses, know they’re there, then I’m no longer aware of myself, and thus my effect on my surroundings. Personally, I am a very aware person. Sometimes I act like I’m not just so the people around the corner, or whispering, don’t get paranoid around me. It’s not so bad if you let people know you can hear them talking ‘out of earshot;’ but when you keep letting them know, well then nobody says anything interesting anymore.

You don’t drink it for the taste.

Well then what do you drink it for? Yourself, or for others? Are you really that miserable of a person to be around that you need to drink to make others enjoy you? Are you really that miserable of a person that you need to drink so you can be happy with yourself? Is a party not fun unless there’s alcohol? Do you think I’m full of shit and just need to chill out and have a beer because I don’t understand anything? Honestly, I don’t care what the answers to any of those questions are as long as you regret nothing and stand by your choices. If you like drinking; great. Drink. Drink with confidence — just don’t talk about it the day after as if you didn’t mean to or you shouldn’t have or like you are regretting it for the seventeenth consecutive weekend.

So on the topic of ‘Sobering Up,’ now I’m thinking about “what do I need to sober up from.” Everyone’s got problems. That’s life lesson number one. But not everyone knows it… That’s a life lesson for another day.


Two older gentlemen, in their 60’s, were talking about their friends and family, and the conversation landed on a friend of one of them, saying that his friend’s wife was Japanese. The other man chuckled as if it were ironic—I didn’t hear the whole conversation—and then asked if they were still married. What a question. Maybe it seems so commonplace now, but to ask if someone is still married is quite a heavy question with a light jacket.

%d bloggers like this: