The next TV swear word is for him

I know I'm late to the honoring.

George Carlin cracked me up as a kid (my friend had a couple of his stand-ups on records).

Below, I place two of my favorite routines.

God Bless You George!




And my favorite stuff:

Hardcore Donahue

I don't remember what age I was, but I grew up on Phil Donahue. After school, I'd watch it and learn various stuff that's still probably imbedded in my psyche. Even at that young age, I always thought he was one of the best in this genre, he seemed genuine and fair on all subjects. And he he did it in this episode, though the crap day time shows in this genre today would probably go out of their way to put the kids down; however, fuck it, the kids are alright.

I must have missed this episode. I am glad I watched it tonight.

"...soon even hardcore will be mainstream, and you'll have to do something else."

I don't watch or follow baseball

BUT: after seeing this picture of a Cubs fan (on left), I may start cutting work and lurking on Addison and Clark in hopes of meeting this woman...and praying to all the living Gods, she drinks enough during and after the game to fall in lust with me!

Sweet Perfection!
*droooooool*

The Truth?

Sometimes, I think this lie, told to me with all the good intentions and love of family and friends, may be the root of my problems.

You're a good boy. You're a smart boy. There's someone out there for you. Just work hard and it'll all work out. You're funny. People are all good at heart. Etc, etc, etc.

I've always said as a youth and college kid, "just tell me, good or bad, just tell me exactly what happened."

Or something like that.

Finally! I already knew of which they speak!

Most times, while mentally plodding stumbling skimming through articles in The New Yorker, I have only a vague idea what the author is describing or talking about. Politics bore or annoy me; music reviews rarely interest me or are "so last week"; and ballet and plays are really meant to be seen then read about in depth, I think. Generally, I get through most of the magazine with collar flipped up and head down against the rain of information and the wind of confusion coming down on me from on high (mid-town?), hoping something resembling something close to knowledge or inspiration seeps up threw my brain shoes and absorbs into my grey blanket of a brain to be squeezed out at another time (be it in conversation or in virtual conversation here at My Cube HA!).

And with the people I'm surrounded by at The Bank, these moments are few and far between, if ever, like finding a four leaf clover in your pocket or getting complete satisfaction from a posh wank* in front of pr0n.

But today!
Ah, today. A bright, shiny Memorial Day Monday, I've metaphorically found that four leaf clover in my pajama bottom's pocket (after an unsatisfying non-posh wank; alas, we can't have it all, can we?).

For I read this article today.
And, from personal experience and personal experimentation, I could have nearly wrote the blessed thing myself!

Ah, The Hangover.
The Devil who shows its red-eyed skull after a Night of Dancing with Amber Angels. This hideous Demon of dehydration and enzymes and toxins and embattled livers has locked its claws onto my head, clubbed its tail into my stomach, and shat smoky-sulphur fire and litter box smell into my mouth many times. Our battles are neither political nor religious; or, maybe both at once!

Weapons and shields listed and offered for battle in the article range from the Ritualistic to the Scientific. Some range from the most familiar to the most foreign of items and relics. My hands have grasp a few in Loyal Belief while my mind reels in horror from some suggested and offered.

Like all Human Battles through the Ages, the siege and defense against the Gorgon Hangover is an Individual War. As an Army of Drinkers, Quaffers, and Chuggers, we begin the evening together. We toast one another, we challenge each other to contests of shots, we go rounds and rounds in the Spirit of Camaraderie; but in The End, we fight the (De)Hydra Hangover alone on the battlefield.

We, alone, scream into the streaming dagger sunlight, "Corpsman! Corpsman! Corpsman!"

Drink deep from the stream, eat full from the wheat golden grain fields, ingest concentrated spheres of vitamins, flush thy wounded bladder, and sleep the sleep of Rip Van Winkle that night, my Liquid Legions. That is my only humble advice. That is all I can give you now, even after two lifetimes of Spiriting Slaughter and Nigh-Death Tippling.

Go forth and live!
You walk alone, you walk with me.




*I'd link credit to Artificial Industries author, A., for his coining the term "posh wank"; however, A.I. site doesn't want to load for me.

Sing...

or teach me.

The Dresden Dolls - "Sing" Music Video


Sometimes I feel nostalgia for love from both the past and the future.
Sometimes I feel if everyone heard this song, they's get it, whatever "it" is.
Sometimes I feel like everyone is laughably rushing about, grabbing this or grabbing that; and it all turns to sand in thier grasp.
Falls to Earth and fades away.
Gone.
Sometimes I think, "if I could just cut the top of my head off, tip it over like a teapot, dump the wet grey blanket out, plop the moldy brain out onto a large blank white canvas, spread it around with my shoe, it would look beautiful; this way, I could express everything I needed to show tell whisper and shout. Then I could sleep silently, and dream of something to come."
But skull remains intact, and the secret suffocates under a wet grey blanket. Moistly breathing, coughing spit, choking for a full inhalation of life.
Sometimes I want to sing.
Sometimes I want to hide under the couch.
Sometimes I feel totally indifferent apathetic bored, inescapably so.
Sometimes, but rarely, I don't think at all; and, really, this is probably when I am Singing and don't even realize it.
Sing.