14 April 2011

Lamentation for Inspiration

As I sit here, attempting to think of something to say that will be of interest, I find my mind returning again and again to this idea that I've become a stodgy mid-20's grandpa. I'm not, at least not a grandpa, although that would be quite a feat. Uniterestingly, most of my days consist of work, home, reading, and sleep. I feel as if I should still be out closing down bars and trying to find some sloppy drunk girl to take home and question my morality. Of course I don't do these things, mostly because I abhor bars; also I enjoy the prospect of remaining disease free.

Mostly I blame this feeling on my job. Not to say that I don't enjoy what I do. I quite enjoy it, I'm basically the equivalent of a summer camp counselor but with slightly more danger because of the threat of being shanked. Organizing and supervising sports and leisure activities, as well as teaching classes and workshops on how to coach and manage a team, is never boring, nor do I think I will ever hate it, but it does drain the senses. By the end of the day, I am a collapsed shell of a man, well more like an imploded Peep. I scarcely make it home and know that I get to do it all again in about 12 hours time.

Perhaps this means it is time for a vacation. Haven't had one of those in a while, but not by choice. Can't much go into detail on that subject, however. Need to get away from this place and these people, but the main problem is where in the world would I go. Being stuck in west Texas is disadvantageous, anything worth doing takes a day of driving just to feel like you've accomplished anything. Flying is out because of the expense, and the tight pocketbook of the moment. Maybe I'll just take a week, spend the cash, and fly to someplace random. I've always quite liked the prospect of Idaho, or maybe Vermont.

Then again, maybe I'll just take up a new hobby. I hear this cricket thing is all the rage.

08 April 2011

A Random String

I've attempted to come up with something witty to write about today, but so far have come up with nothing. I could rant and rave like a lunatic about the impending governmental breakdown, but that is better left to people who have nothing left to live for. I wouldn't say that I don't care that the government is about to completely halt operations, I do but only because I have friends who will be shit out of luck at midnight.

I've considered writing a satirical piece about life in general, but that always comes off snarky and repugnant, a quality that few, save Britons and a few select Québécois, find appealing or humorous. Which really, when you think about it, is quite sad. The dry whimsy of satire is beautiful. Perhaps I was born to the wrong continent.

Also crossing my mind has been a subtle yarn about flatulence-based humor because the more typical of my familiars seem to find this uproarious. This in particular would be a good topic -- relatable, familiar, base. But it would make me sad, and would in all likelihod turn into a lamentation of the decline of intellect and appreciation of subtlety and esoteric sarcasm.

There is always the age old classic of casual racism. That one is particularly always funny, but tends to turn some people off, alienating the writer and inspiring, ironically, hate-filled speech aimed at the origin by those who claim to be tolerant of everyone but intolerant of the intolerance of others. The paradoxical nature of that ship always puts a huge grin on my face as I watch people stew about in their own unrealized hatred.*

*Special Note: I'm not racist by nature, I use it in situations where I know I can get a reaction. I like pushing buttons and forcing people to confront themselves at their worst. I do not condone racism or racist remarks, but the reactions they evoke are pure comedy gold.*

Lastly, of course,  there is the art of bad joke telling. It's simple, straightforward, and always makes people groan in agony at how stupid someone can be. And yet, the genius lies in making those who think the joke teller is stupid feel stupid for not laughing at something that is so obviously horrible that it is in fact funny. I like these, they inspire my second favorite pastime of bringing forth awkward moments where none existed before. It's sort of like playing God with people's sensibilities and then skull fucking them when you walk away smiling and they feel violated.

And so, since I have nothing good to write about, I bid you adieu. But not before I get in a few classics.

What do you call 10,000 black guys running down a hill?
What do you call 10,000 Mexicans running down a hill?
--Prison break
What did the farmer say when he lost his tractor?
--"Where's my tractor?!?"
What do you call a man with no arms or legs sitting on the porch?

03 April 2011

Ye Old American Pastime

Ah, the refeshing and wonderful crack of a large wooden stick as it contacts a hurled projectile of spherical nature is back. That's right, baseball has begun! And I, for one, couldn't be happier. The smell of pine tar, sweat, chaw, and freshly decapitated grass blades always puts a smile on my face. To say that I have a love affair with baseball is probably accurate, though I consider it to be much more than that; indeed it is an obsession.

There is something about a simple children's game that drives my spirit, most likely that I am still a child at heart myself. I have always been a huge proponent for baseball ever since my first experience when I was but a wee lad at the age of 5. Times were simpler then. There was no talk of steriod abuse, no federal indictments, only the reality that off the field most players were doing so much blow that from week to week you never knew if your favorite player would still be alive when you went to the stadium.

I remember the first game I ever saw. It was June 7, 1987. I was staying with my grandparents in Houston and my grandpa wanted to take me somewhere special, and since I had never seen a baseball game before he decided that was the perfect opportunity. The Astrodome made me feel even smaller than I was and I felt as if we were going into a cave of doom, never to be heard from again. Once inside, I was on sensory overload and began bouncing off the walls because of all the people, sounds, stenches, and the awful, awful colors; they were bright sure, but that special kind of bright that seemed inspired by psychedelic drug use.

As grandpa had bought tickets at the gate, we were in the upper deck on the first base side, right behind the Astros dugout. And that's where I saw him emerge -- the pitcher. Unbeknownst to me at the time, this man was going to inspire me very soon, steal my childhood affections, and become my consummate hero. That man was none other than the fabled and legendary Nolan Ryan. I recall my grandpa telling me that he was the best in the game, a fireballin' hellion is what he called him, and watching him pitch that day, I fell in love with him and baseball for life.

I don't remember much else from the game, mostly because I was on such a sugar high from grandpa spoiling me with cotton candy and ice cream from those tiny helmets and innumerable colas, but a few strange instances stick out. The Astros won that day, a close game, 3-0. And somewhere during the game, I can remember everyone getting all hyped up because of some music and screaming in unison. Being a good fan I joined in as well, screaming at the top of my lungs, "SHAAAAARK!" Each time I did this, my grandpa and the people around me would laugh which I thought was because I was so damn cute. It wasn't until a couple years later, at my first Texas Rangers game, that I learned what everyone was yelling was "CHARGE!," not "shark," but to my little ears, with the echoes of the Astrodome, it had sounded like "shark" to me.

That day was amazing, and instilled in me a love of baseball, and Nolan Ryan, so deep that the tie can never be broken. As I grew up, it became clear that I was destined to be a lifetime fan, if not a player, of baseball because of my family legacy. All of my uncles played baseball through high school and college, but my uncle, Pat, played on the same high school team with The Rocket, Roger Clemens. There is a picture of me, my uncle, and Rocket during their high school years that was taken when I was 2 (I don't remember meeting him in his younger years as my memory only begins shortly after my 5th birthday) which has become one of my favorite possessions.

And this year, after seeing him pitch countless games as a Ranger, and being present for No-Hitter #7 againt Toronto, I will be sitting mere feet from my childhood hero, Nolan Ryan, in a couple of weeks. If I don't faint or puke upon seeing him enter the stadium, I will finally and forever get to meet the man that inspired my hours and years of dedication to baseball and the Texas Rangers.

01 April 2011

TL;DR if you must but it's worth it.

Once again, I have decided to compile all those random junk mail ramblings of my long ago dormant email account. I have spent the better part of a week finding snippets and compiling them into a somewhat coherent, albeit nonsensical, story. Many of the junk mails ran a similar theme, using bits of both The Wizard of Oz and the later published prequel, Wicked, in their messages. As with the poem from a previous post, I pieced together the text without addition or subtraction of words, only grammatical polishing (poorly). Without further ado, I present the first ever short story of junk email entitled, Fucking in a Field of Dearest Oak Leaves.

Fucking in a Field of Dearest Oak Leaves

Dear brother,
For you have received this, also provide on contracting project chapter five.  You will see her eyes bulge like never before! My power that evening, and presently, button bright eyes with both hands and part through it the front legs. I return to obey the magic charm that is coming of the small cavern.


           “Since the kingdom looks as loud voice!” Pose declared. “Versions based on his mouth, the front legs, refute the exclusions agreement of Bilbil,” explained the ruler for nothing.
Kitticut had listened with interest. Law of Leaves was several times asserted in the books, one by one, that every direction began to find no royalty free plains. Well lighted and turning to hear, minutes later, the patchwork girl sighed and could still in much that muttered the bottoms of stately trees. Swift in her silence, for otherwise the dark shouted the sound of fun to look beyond here, Kitticut observed the kingdom which would announce the Laws are tax return.
Pose demanded the ugly one that come back against his square meal. They, instead of computer users, do anything sorry for public domain. After that direction, the three mortal maids murmured, screamed, “The emerald city had carried those queer creatures in his hair! Fight with fear that what Ojo wondered!”
Everyone who had seen before them seems to fight the crooked magician, Trot. Trot came down again in silence, and turning to growl at hearing this, admitted the door was greatly pleased with white pearl and many times roared the books and then fell down on each time. Seeing that in, and looked like someone has done with them each hour this year as that finally reached out on the frog. “Trouble with you may take care,” Trot began. “Here to break the land, life and Rink-i-tink who says so fast, strange sight of solid ground what she has become of water; become so fast as well known that. However he carried the strangers, who will, being made from you, call out that mountains answer the road of Ozma Polychrome, and take you just before they cause the dark well known as perhaps the others, except that nothing of Regos where many people fall into trouble with care of Oogaboo.”
Sometimes, it also to destroys you. Trot watched his former king, demanded the tube in wonder and therefore he turned to escape. Meantime, the gardener, who lives on land begged from the form of boats, ever he felt in some little hill to harm could fall off to fight the dishpan. Therefore as all ready for its tail, Pose covered it with straw and suggested Betsy in splendid emerald city, seeing this case the walls, so used the tiled floor.
“Suppose we ought to read this,” responded the yips who wore an hour and threw at once a shoe; and threw it indeed, unless you mean by any part that eggs were constantly being of rock.
Admitted the berries and Coregos, “Please do such damages even though they’re cruel, and proceeded, in front legs asked Quox as well that something wrong faced them and made prisoners to reach billion well pleased that night before.”
Fire pounded on request, at least protested, the tunnel which lay down. Prince of any longer in expression, Pose asked Ann, who stood beside Inga, to ask her house to make such good story books, one on both her hand, after her from someone has been stolen. Pose, you see how much, declared scraps laughed at hearing this, demanded the emerald city of damages, demanded the mines and did nothing ever. Inga thought that led from Project Gutenberg, medium it easy and murmured the wall was Ozma.
Remarked the hall, and every direction, “Therefore the winkie country that could hear the girl, Dorothy, who wanted to find him down rather than being now stood in Jinxland even now noticed that seems like! Also saw you ever find Sawhorse to search for goodness sake! Rink-i-tink was half an army! Open my neck with precious pearls!”
Inga would find the door. By nightfall they heard that Regos was facing the munchkin boy with Hank, with tin woodman of pure white form. Everyone who could feel the path, well here to rule them, then Inga said shaggy. Then there, and wondering what door shook his companions, Pose led the woozy. “Indeed,” he spoke, “for we need Nikobob. And therefore, during this the mountain side, during the winkie country at once, he wore an hour roared with big lavender bear and Ozma was ready to stand still alive.”
Murmured the young lady, “Who knew, however, had eaten by queen none of the books of Coregos. While we will soon as easily type directly to carry the tunnel well as for goodness me, please.”
“Saying this, when you are in the truth,” Pose explained, “the tin woodman of Coregos returned to fly over here. However for Rink-i-tink, the case laughed merrily and jewels before the river began the love to him here. Interrupted in the front door, Rink-i-tink, that when he sat on both of Oogaboo, therefore he fled from these slaves and had arrived.” Pleased with silver lined boat, he found many other Quox as on their feet in two hours. From what would miss scraps, floor with sharp points of every part, called to save Uncle Nunkie.
Asserted the prisoner, “Of course Button Bright had never could answer, does not allow you ever find Ozma. Prince, Inga could carry me with Tititi Hoochoo and with Hank taken altogether too near to sleep. Listen carefully, Pose, it myself for these there before seen Ozma of gold. Ojo looking down again pleaded the islands, of course not know presently the edges and by pons and silver lined boat.”
“Betsy promised, wound around with Tik Tok, of what makes me please. Betsy with Rink-i-tink was very small scarecrow, is otherwise provided to possess magic,” remarked Pose. However was embroidered the land and threw at hearing this, Kitticut received this, was astonished that.
“The shoes,” muttered she and laughed, “Ork flew away but soon found hard that case. For if Dorothy explained the mountain pass through, going on either side was like the row of tin woodman. Please note neither, Trot, you were mean nor Ojo cried wonder. What makes you this and admitted the front legs are tax return?”
The king remarked, “Therefore as far distance, the copper body understand, then you, everyone, in case for by if anything, we had left the banquet hall to escape.” The mines of Coregos murmured.
“Tik Tok, he went around,” remarked Inga. “Betsy laughed heartily at times, Rink-i-tink was more easily as well in search the honey. Dorothy, who in fact that seemed much and demanded the walls of these pearls is included below. Pose, we are now appeared before public domain, royalty free.”
Dear brother was greatly surprised, added that case for damages that lay before him of the earth. However they reached the straw in silence. Greatly impressed by the computers since they began drumming, Ojo cried, wondered what does.

Pleaded the young lady who lived with Pose, “Legs, are you my father?”