Let's all Just Hum for a Moment in Honor of Hummus and it's Powers
I had never eaten hummus until I met you,
and to this day, I know we’re meant for each other
because you get angry when I eat an entire package in one sitting.
but it’s really just your fault cause I do it out of love.
I can’t love you more and I can’t eat too much hummus,
cause I love you like multigrain crackers and garbanzo beans.
Robots and Coffee Mugs
Robots and coffee cups,
empty juice cups and beer bottles,
a half eaten tub of hummus,
and my night’s still not done.
It’s a wild one,
A real rager,
Movie material,
texting back and forth drunkenly
to a friend,
to make a computer game work,
while I let a beautiful woman
pass out in the other room
unattended to.
The coffee is gone,
there is no robot.
Yet.
And the day's haiku. ( I think that Haiku are short 3 linish poems expressing a thought or moment. I try to do the syllables, but would rather express the moment, hence they are flexihaikue.
My cat just said hi!
Jumped up onto my stomach.
For love or supper?
Can or bottle?
the eternal question that
I never remember.
I spent the day bundled
because of a bungled weather report,
tomorrow: the window.
Turn off the TV,
I’m coming to bed to talk
and put you to sleep with the New York Times.
The punk rock blasting
at 1 am is lulling me
to sleep with you.
Is it weird that part of me
doesn’t want to sell my old bike
that I’ll never ride again?
I am the underutilized horn section
in life’s ska band.
Clearly I’m the one that blows.
Jan 29, 2011
Jan 28, 2011
Say My Name
Say My Name
I can’t write long form because it’d just sound like high school,
so I just use witty poem names to pretend to be deep
and say very little of substance.
There’s so much to say,
and so many people have said it.
So I will speak in bursts of monologues
and all anyone will remember is the name.
Haiku
Ke$ha tickets sell
out for hundreds of dollars
STD test Free
Giant stack of blanks,
ready to be loaded and spun
and make you mixtapes.
The sliver of blue
through the northwest cloud cover
helps me leave on time.
I can’t write long form because it’d just sound like high school,
so I just use witty poem names to pretend to be deep
and say very little of substance.
There’s so much to say,
and so many people have said it.
So I will speak in bursts of monologues
and all anyone will remember is the name.
Haiku
Ke$ha tickets sell
out for hundreds of dollars
STD test Free
Giant stack of blanks,
ready to be loaded and spun
and make you mixtapes.
The sliver of blue
through the northwest cloud cover
helps me leave on time.
Jan 27, 2011
A New New Wave
I have learned I can't blog. I can use Facebook to write a random note or two about some awesome album. Instead, I am just going to use this to post things I write. Some will be good, some will be unfinished, some will be my nightly 27 seconds of writing exercise. Most will be unedited and malleable.
Oh the indulgence.
Two poems, and some stream of consciousness.
Run or Your Upstairs Neighbor
Run,
Never been a runner,
not away,
not too,
not around the block.
I tried for a while.
The constant plodding bored me.
Hurt me.
Ruined my rhythm.
I am not smooth.
Stampede.
Always been a stampede.
No direction,
no aim,
but destroying the underbrush,
to get somewhere.
A mobile performance of stomp,
no plot,
but a kicked over garbage can,
and a standing ovation.
Goofy Wet Smile
I rejoice in my inner 12 year old,
as I ride my bike with no hands,
In a downpour,
at dusk,
daring to reach my arm,
deeper,
deeper,
into my coat pocket,
to pull out the perfect
handful of gummy bears.
Chuckle, Umbrella, Jackass.
I laugh at you and your umbrella. It’s sad you’re scared of a little rain. People dry, it’s one of our innate talents. Close it. Feel your hair matting to your head. Wipe your eyes like you’re in a shower. You are. A big, cleansing, public shower. I know it’s not an original, but sing in the rain. Use your umbrella as a dancing prop. If it gets too hard or cold, go inside and huddle up. If you’re clothes can’t get wet, buy new clothes. We need a new society, where being dirty doesn’t mean you’re not appropriate for work, and being wet is business appropriate. If I can’t get you to get rid of the umbrella, can you at least get a fun one. Black umbrellas are only allowed at funerals. One of life’s great thrills is crossing a bridge in the rain on foot or on a bike. Water beneath you, above you, around you, but you’re sheltered and feel bad because I’m wet. Let’s go have some coffee.
Thank you.
Oh the indulgence.
Two poems, and some stream of consciousness.
Run or Your Upstairs Neighbor
Run,
Never been a runner,
not away,
not too,
not around the block.
I tried for a while.
The constant plodding bored me.
Hurt me.
Ruined my rhythm.
I am not smooth.
Stampede.
Always been a stampede.
No direction,
no aim,
but destroying the underbrush,
to get somewhere.
A mobile performance of stomp,
no plot,
but a kicked over garbage can,
and a standing ovation.
Goofy Wet Smile
I rejoice in my inner 12 year old,
as I ride my bike with no hands,
In a downpour,
at dusk,
daring to reach my arm,
deeper,
deeper,
into my coat pocket,
to pull out the perfect
handful of gummy bears.
Chuckle, Umbrella, Jackass.
I laugh at you and your umbrella. It’s sad you’re scared of a little rain. People dry, it’s one of our innate talents. Close it. Feel your hair matting to your head. Wipe your eyes like you’re in a shower. You are. A big, cleansing, public shower. I know it’s not an original, but sing in the rain. Use your umbrella as a dancing prop. If it gets too hard or cold, go inside and huddle up. If you’re clothes can’t get wet, buy new clothes. We need a new society, where being dirty doesn’t mean you’re not appropriate for work, and being wet is business appropriate. If I can’t get you to get rid of the umbrella, can you at least get a fun one. Black umbrellas are only allowed at funerals. One of life’s great thrills is crossing a bridge in the rain on foot or on a bike. Water beneath you, above you, around you, but you’re sheltered and feel bad because I’m wet. Let’s go have some coffee.
Thank you.
May 12, 2010
A short story complete with poem and music...for you.
I'm not sure what inspired this poem/short story. It was originally about eating cheezits in my pajamas and watching the Price is Right, but changed and it became a slightly autobiographical character piece but not. I guess it's what could've happened if my life hadn't unfolded the way it has. It's like one of those What If? comics Marvel used to do... By the way at the end of the post I linked some of the songs I mention in the poem, cause I like them.
The Cat Purred
1. Joe spent his midmorning
with his hand buried deep
in a box of stale crackers.
There was a special on Victorian Dishware
that lacked any steam punk allure
on PBS in the background while he
searched for the perfect song that would
improve his mood, station in life,
and personal hygiene.
Joe was out of coffee and only had
old herbal tea swiped from the
Jiffy Lube waiting room the last time
his car had been running well enough
to bother with an oil change.
The fridge was near empty after
a month of unemployment, three weeks
of being single, and two weeks after
begging his dad 2000 miles away for
a few bucks which promptly spent on ramen
which he ate dry and a box of red wine,
that the cat had rapidly knocked off the
counter.
2. Joe liked the aesthetic of the
red wine drying on the 1976 cream colored linoleum,
it made him sing that one NOFX song,
so he salvaged what he could,
and poured it into an pasta sauce jar, he had
cleaned out to use as a pint glass.
Joe pound the dregs of the wine while watching grunge
slacker comedies from the mid nineties.
He hadn’t been in his bedroom for days
and his bed for even longer.
Joe needed to purge and cleanse.
He needed to be saved.
He knew his life needed an enema,
a clean shave and a mopped floor.
3. The Victorian Special gave way to
something about bears in the Red Woods.
Joe switched the idiot box to the Price is Right.
He never remembered seeing it on TV when life
was good. It only came on when life was shit.
As a child, when he was sick.
In college on days when he began
to doubt the liberal arts.
Now, every day for a month.
There was something sickly tortuous
to seeing undeserving assholes,
excitedly yell, “1 dollar!” to win
a trip to Mexico and a patio set,
all brought to you by the anti-depressant
of the moment, that each contestant was
hopped up on. Joe began to slip away,
under a knit blanket his mom had sent him
years ago, in a better time.
4. The Cat had seen enough and was sick of eating the stockpiles
of free sample treats stashed in the cabinet,
so it swatted the keyboard off of the coffee table and jumped,
claws out on Joe’s beer padded belly.
“What the fuck?” yelled Joe, more to a God
that wasn’t there than to the Cat which sat
four feet away innocently cleaning itself.
At least the Cat was his.
It never went near Her except
to occasionally bite her stupid Birkenstock toes.
Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign,
but She had liked his short stories, poetry,
and facial hair. She had introduced him to
her friends. He was new in town and
a beautiful woman with a flower tattoo
buying him a beer ended four years later.
His friends were hers, but the Cat and the
apartment were his.
5. Joe’s stomach trickled blood where the Cat
had landed. It now sat eyeing him from
its empty bowl.
He never found the motivating song
and couldn’t give a shit about his own diet,
but would never let the Cat suffer.
Joe dressed himself from the floor –
old jeans and a Bosstones hoodie he got in high school-
He picked up his knock-off ipod, headphones,
and a huge box of crap she had convinced him he needed.
He figured that he could turn the box into beer money.
Joe grabbed his keys and hoped Jean, his Gold Toranado,
named after the hero of Victor Hugo’s Les Mis,
would start.
6. Joe had always said he named his skeezy old man
car Jean because he could swear at and kick a guy named Jean.
He couldn’t bring himself to unload as efficiently at a car
with a female persona.
The old, badly maintained engine started on the third try.
The front end of the car had been MacGuyvered in high school
by a friend’s dad. Joe didn’t know everything that was holding
up the bumper but knew it involved duct tape and part of
a screen door.
An old mix tape started up immediately at full blast,
where he had last left the volume,
where he always left the volume. Eleven.
Joe had made the tape in his “Old Soul”
phase in college. He was reading too much
Russian Lit and Springsteen, Cash, Woody Guthrie,
Neil Young, and Tom Waits made the perfect soundtrack
These artist led to the discovery of whiskey and cigars, and
Joe had never looked back. As Joe pulled out of his parking spot,
Bruce drowned out, Jean’s creeks and moans, speaking directly to Joe.
“Everything dies, baby, and that’s a fact.”
7. “Maybe everything that dies, someday comes back.”
Joe’s first stop was the pawn shop.
He had unemployment but could use the cash to blow.
The box he hefted from the trunk contained the half of his wardrobe
that featured buttons, a bunch of DVDs, old records,
hard cover books, stupid souvenirs She had made him buy
on their road trips, and her dumb statue of St. Francis.
“Fuck St. Francis.” What had Harry Potter, Steven King,
or his dad’s old records done for him lately. She
had been the pack rat who insisted on the dvd collection
and dress shirts.
“$250 for the lot,” said the intense bearded man behind the counter.
Joe had been looking for twenty but it turned out
two of the records were rare, and there was a market
for shitty knickknacks.
Joe took the cash with no intention of buying
any of it back. Jean started up immediately,
and Joe sped away with a lighter heart and heavier wallet.
8. At the shopping center down the street from the
pawn shop was capitalism’s perfect line up:
a smoke shop, a grocery store, a liquor store, a comic book store,
and a tattoo parlor.
Joe parked and went into them in order.
First, he bought the most Clint Eastwood cigar he could find,
then some fancy organic cat food and some real Irish whiskey.
In the comic book store he bought Frank Miller’s
Wolverine and Classic Cable. Nothing deep, just badassery
and nostalgia. Joe contemplated for a bit before going into
the tattoo parlor. His last tattoo was a start
on the back of his neck. Underneath it were written the words,
“Burn Forever”
She had gotten the same tattoo to celebrate their engagement,
a year ago nearly to the day. Joe had proposed on the summer solstice
because She had loved astrology.
Now it was early May, and Joe didn’t like the stars any more.
9. Joe asked the Artist about his neck,
almost having to yell to be heard over the Social Distortion
which was cranked drowning out the needles.
The Artist was a huge man, covered in ink,
pushing 60 years old to Joe’s best guess with a face
that betrayed not having slept in four decades.
“Nothing burns forever. Don’t worry about it.
About half my body represents a regret, so keep
building on them. I’m a portrait of a timeline
of shit. Woodstock to nearly collecting Social Security.
I ain’t here to cover your goddamn heartache.
That’s what time and whiskey are for.”
10. Joe didn’t say a word. He didn’t know what he had
wanted coming in but with the Artist’s words, the neck
tattoo went from mistake to a story. It became one of life’s
battle scars.
11. After ten minutes of pretending to look at the flash on the wall,
Joe knew what he wanted,
“Inspiration. I want something I can’t deny, I can’t turn away from.
I gotta fucking do something with these.” Joe waved his hands in
the air franticly. “I want Wolverine’s claw slots on my knuckles and ink
cartridges in the middle.” The Artist chuckled at Joe’s sudden
recently-uncharacteristic outburst and began to sketch out a design.
12. Somewhere, Joe had read, or seen, or heard, that you can tell a lot about a man
by his hands. His hands would be a message,
He would be a superhero and a story teller. Superman and Shakespeare.
There was time to be manicured and wear fancy clothes later.
After an hour, the Artist had finished his work, wrapped Joe’s hands, and took his
credit card payment.
The Artist wished Joe luck and gave him some advice he had been given
years before, maybe on a train somewhere, or maybe at a bar.
“Never turn down a drink or a story.”
The words were written in forty year old ink across the Artist’s broad
collar bone.
13. Joe walked back to Jean, but he wouldn’t start.
Turns out this had been Jean’s last ride.
That old tape would be forever stuck on Neil Young,
Better to Burn out than to fade away…
Joe kicked the door shut hard enough to leave dent.
He’d donate it the Women’s Shelter tomorrow. For now,
Joe lit a cigar, grabbed his backpack and hoisted the cat food
and started the three mile hike home cranking Someday I Suppose.
14. Joe spent his mid-evening sitting
in front of his apartment with a bottle,
a note book, and a comic enjoying
the fading twilight.
The Cat was stretch out on his lap.
He thought nothing could beat his solitude
until his newest neighbor walked by in scrubs,
with her head phones blasting the Toasters.
“Want a drink?” he shouted impulsively.
She awkwardly and abruptly stopped,
“Yes, yes I fucking do, you wouldn’t believe
the shit that happened today.”
Joe hand her the bottle and she tilted it back
like it was something she’d done before.
“New ink?” she asked as she reached out to
pet the Cat…
15. The Cat purred.
End?
If anybody read the whole thing thanks and maybe I'm sorry...
Music:
NOFX:
Bruce Springsteen:
Neil Young:
Bosstones:
Toasters:
The Cat Purred
1. Joe spent his midmorning
with his hand buried deep
in a box of stale crackers.
There was a special on Victorian Dishware
that lacked any steam punk allure
on PBS in the background while he
searched for the perfect song that would
improve his mood, station in life,
and personal hygiene.
Joe was out of coffee and only had
old herbal tea swiped from the
Jiffy Lube waiting room the last time
his car had been running well enough
to bother with an oil change.
The fridge was near empty after
a month of unemployment, three weeks
of being single, and two weeks after
begging his dad 2000 miles away for
a few bucks which promptly spent on ramen
which he ate dry and a box of red wine,
that the cat had rapidly knocked off the
counter.
2. Joe liked the aesthetic of the
red wine drying on the 1976 cream colored linoleum,
it made him sing that one NOFX song,
so he salvaged what he could,
and poured it into an pasta sauce jar, he had
cleaned out to use as a pint glass.
Joe pound the dregs of the wine while watching grunge
slacker comedies from the mid nineties.
He hadn’t been in his bedroom for days
and his bed for even longer.
Joe needed to purge and cleanse.
He needed to be saved.
He knew his life needed an enema,
a clean shave and a mopped floor.
3. The Victorian Special gave way to
something about bears in the Red Woods.
Joe switched the idiot box to the Price is Right.
He never remembered seeing it on TV when life
was good. It only came on when life was shit.
As a child, when he was sick.
In college on days when he began
to doubt the liberal arts.
Now, every day for a month.
There was something sickly tortuous
to seeing undeserving assholes,
excitedly yell, “1 dollar!” to win
a trip to Mexico and a patio set,
all brought to you by the anti-depressant
of the moment, that each contestant was
hopped up on. Joe began to slip away,
under a knit blanket his mom had sent him
years ago, in a better time.
4. The Cat had seen enough and was sick of eating the stockpiles
of free sample treats stashed in the cabinet,
so it swatted the keyboard off of the coffee table and jumped,
claws out on Joe’s beer padded belly.
“What the fuck?” yelled Joe, more to a God
that wasn’t there than to the Cat which sat
four feet away innocently cleaning itself.
At least the Cat was his.
It never went near Her except
to occasionally bite her stupid Birkenstock toes.
Maybe he should’ve taken that as a sign,
but She had liked his short stories, poetry,
and facial hair. She had introduced him to
her friends. He was new in town and
a beautiful woman with a flower tattoo
buying him a beer ended four years later.
His friends were hers, but the Cat and the
apartment were his.
5. Joe’s stomach trickled blood where the Cat
had landed. It now sat eyeing him from
its empty bowl.
He never found the motivating song
and couldn’t give a shit about his own diet,
but would never let the Cat suffer.
Joe dressed himself from the floor –
old jeans and a Bosstones hoodie he got in high school-
He picked up his knock-off ipod, headphones,
and a huge box of crap she had convinced him he needed.
He figured that he could turn the box into beer money.
Joe grabbed his keys and hoped Jean, his Gold Toranado,
named after the hero of Victor Hugo’s Les Mis,
would start.
6. Joe had always said he named his skeezy old man
car Jean because he could swear at and kick a guy named Jean.
He couldn’t bring himself to unload as efficiently at a car
with a female persona.
The old, badly maintained engine started on the third try.
The front end of the car had been MacGuyvered in high school
by a friend’s dad. Joe didn’t know everything that was holding
up the bumper but knew it involved duct tape and part of
a screen door.
An old mix tape started up immediately at full blast,
where he had last left the volume,
where he always left the volume. Eleven.
Joe had made the tape in his “Old Soul”
phase in college. He was reading too much
Russian Lit and Springsteen, Cash, Woody Guthrie,
Neil Young, and Tom Waits made the perfect soundtrack
These artist led to the discovery of whiskey and cigars, and
Joe had never looked back. As Joe pulled out of his parking spot,
Bruce drowned out, Jean’s creeks and moans, speaking directly to Joe.
“Everything dies, baby, and that’s a fact.”
7. “Maybe everything that dies, someday comes back.”
Joe’s first stop was the pawn shop.
He had unemployment but could use the cash to blow.
The box he hefted from the trunk contained the half of his wardrobe
that featured buttons, a bunch of DVDs, old records,
hard cover books, stupid souvenirs She had made him buy
on their road trips, and her dumb statue of St. Francis.
“Fuck St. Francis.” What had Harry Potter, Steven King,
or his dad’s old records done for him lately. She
had been the pack rat who insisted on the dvd collection
and dress shirts.
“$250 for the lot,” said the intense bearded man behind the counter.
Joe had been looking for twenty but it turned out
two of the records were rare, and there was a market
for shitty knickknacks.
Joe took the cash with no intention of buying
any of it back. Jean started up immediately,
and Joe sped away with a lighter heart and heavier wallet.
8. At the shopping center down the street from the
pawn shop was capitalism’s perfect line up:
a smoke shop, a grocery store, a liquor store, a comic book store,
and a tattoo parlor.
Joe parked and went into them in order.
First, he bought the most Clint Eastwood cigar he could find,
then some fancy organic cat food and some real Irish whiskey.
In the comic book store he bought Frank Miller’s
Wolverine and Classic Cable. Nothing deep, just badassery
and nostalgia. Joe contemplated for a bit before going into
the tattoo parlor. His last tattoo was a start
on the back of his neck. Underneath it were written the words,
“Burn Forever”
She had gotten the same tattoo to celebrate their engagement,
a year ago nearly to the day. Joe had proposed on the summer solstice
because She had loved astrology.
Now it was early May, and Joe didn’t like the stars any more.
9. Joe asked the Artist about his neck,
almost having to yell to be heard over the Social Distortion
which was cranked drowning out the needles.
The Artist was a huge man, covered in ink,
pushing 60 years old to Joe’s best guess with a face
that betrayed not having slept in four decades.
“Nothing burns forever. Don’t worry about it.
About half my body represents a regret, so keep
building on them. I’m a portrait of a timeline
of shit. Woodstock to nearly collecting Social Security.
I ain’t here to cover your goddamn heartache.
That’s what time and whiskey are for.”
10. Joe didn’t say a word. He didn’t know what he had
wanted coming in but with the Artist’s words, the neck
tattoo went from mistake to a story. It became one of life’s
battle scars.
11. After ten minutes of pretending to look at the flash on the wall,
Joe knew what he wanted,
“Inspiration. I want something I can’t deny, I can’t turn away from.
I gotta fucking do something with these.” Joe waved his hands in
the air franticly. “I want Wolverine’s claw slots on my knuckles and ink
cartridges in the middle.” The Artist chuckled at Joe’s sudden
recently-uncharacteristic outburst and began to sketch out a design.
12. Somewhere, Joe had read, or seen, or heard, that you can tell a lot about a man
by his hands. His hands would be a message,
He would be a superhero and a story teller. Superman and Shakespeare.
There was time to be manicured and wear fancy clothes later.
After an hour, the Artist had finished his work, wrapped Joe’s hands, and took his
credit card payment.
The Artist wished Joe luck and gave him some advice he had been given
years before, maybe on a train somewhere, or maybe at a bar.
“Never turn down a drink or a story.”
The words were written in forty year old ink across the Artist’s broad
collar bone.
13. Joe walked back to Jean, but he wouldn’t start.
Turns out this had been Jean’s last ride.
That old tape would be forever stuck on Neil Young,
Better to Burn out than to fade away…
Joe kicked the door shut hard enough to leave dent.
He’d donate it the Women’s Shelter tomorrow. For now,
Joe lit a cigar, grabbed his backpack and hoisted the cat food
and started the three mile hike home cranking Someday I Suppose.
14. Joe spent his mid-evening sitting
in front of his apartment with a bottle,
a note book, and a comic enjoying
the fading twilight.
The Cat was stretch out on his lap.
He thought nothing could beat his solitude
until his newest neighbor walked by in scrubs,
with her head phones blasting the Toasters.
“Want a drink?” he shouted impulsively.
She awkwardly and abruptly stopped,
“Yes, yes I fucking do, you wouldn’t believe
the shit that happened today.”
Joe hand her the bottle and she tilted it back
like it was something she’d done before.
“New ink?” she asked as she reached out to
pet the Cat…
15. The Cat purred.
End?
If anybody read the whole thing thanks and maybe I'm sorry...
Music:
NOFX:
Bruce Springsteen:
Neil Young:
Bosstones:
Toasters:
Apr 15, 2010
An Open Letter from a Steelers Fan
Everyone who knows me knows I am one of the most die hard Steelers fans alive. That said my fan-dome is today in serious jeopardy. My values come first. The amount of work I have done to combat date rape exactly like what Ben Roethlisberger attempted recently says it all. In college I missed Steelers games for activism, probably while in one of his shirts. His is the only jersey my wife has.
I am ashamed of the number of times I have worn my Ben Rothlisberger jersey in public. If the Steelers don't heavily punish him, I will lose all respect for the organization and the ownership and give up my fan card. I don't know what I'll do then. Maybe I'll stop watching the NFL entirely because I don't think I can pick up another team.
Sadly, I don't know if a 2 game punishment is enough to make me feel like I can still root for the team. It certainly won't let me forgive the man. Let's look at this logically, Michael Vick, suspended for a year plus jail for killing dogs. Big Ben uses Little Ben on an underage drunk girl while his security barred the door and he may get 2 games or... rehab.
Unless Ben joins Womens' organizations and becomes a huge anti-rape-anti-sexual-assault advocate I will never be his fan again, and unless the Rooney family and Mike Tomlin come down on him hard I will never root for the Steelers again.
If it comes to that, I guess my 27 Steelers shirts, 2 superbowl balls, Jack Ham autograph, and multiple terrible towels go up for grabs.
I love football but I love respecting myself and what I stand for more, and ever wearing my Roethlisberger jersey, or a Steelers jersey at this point would be an exercise in self loathing.
I hope that the Steelers organization cuts Roethlisberger soon. I hope they draft a qb and plan for a future without him, and I hope Big Ben decides that real men respect and love women and don't see them as playthings to vaginally bruise in the bathroom.
This is an open letter from a Steelers fan...a Steelers fan that hopes to raise his kids as Steelers fans just like he was raised. However, first I will treat my kids how to treat other people.
Before people tell me I'm wrong and he was let go, remember the DA himself said it was simply because he didn't have enough evidence to criminally try Ben, but that Ben was pretty Morally bankrupt. At this point I'd rather have Plaxico and Michael Vick than Ben. One shot himself and the other hurt dogs. Neither pushed our cultures horrible views on sex.
So until this is sorted out, I will not put on a jersey.
I'll just say Go Pens and Go Penn State and wonder what next year could be like without an NFL Team...
To see what prompted this, here is the latest...
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=5094224
The sick idiot.
Sexy Bob
I am ashamed of the number of times I have worn my Ben Rothlisberger jersey in public. If the Steelers don't heavily punish him, I will lose all respect for the organization and the ownership and give up my fan card. I don't know what I'll do then. Maybe I'll stop watching the NFL entirely because I don't think I can pick up another team.
Sadly, I don't know if a 2 game punishment is enough to make me feel like I can still root for the team. It certainly won't let me forgive the man. Let's look at this logically, Michael Vick, suspended for a year plus jail for killing dogs. Big Ben uses Little Ben on an underage drunk girl while his security barred the door and he may get 2 games or... rehab.
Unless Ben joins Womens' organizations and becomes a huge anti-rape-anti-sexual-assault advocate I will never be his fan again, and unless the Rooney family and Mike Tomlin come down on him hard I will never root for the Steelers again.
If it comes to that, I guess my 27 Steelers shirts, 2 superbowl balls, Jack Ham autograph, and multiple terrible towels go up for grabs.
I love football but I love respecting myself and what I stand for more, and ever wearing my Roethlisberger jersey, or a Steelers jersey at this point would be an exercise in self loathing.
I hope that the Steelers organization cuts Roethlisberger soon. I hope they draft a qb and plan for a future without him, and I hope Big Ben decides that real men respect and love women and don't see them as playthings to vaginally bruise in the bathroom.
This is an open letter from a Steelers fan...a Steelers fan that hopes to raise his kids as Steelers fans just like he was raised. However, first I will treat my kids how to treat other people.
Before people tell me I'm wrong and he was let go, remember the DA himself said it was simply because he didn't have enough evidence to criminally try Ben, but that Ben was pretty Morally bankrupt. At this point I'd rather have Plaxico and Michael Vick than Ben. One shot himself and the other hurt dogs. Neither pushed our cultures horrible views on sex.
So until this is sorted out, I will not put on a jersey.
I'll just say Go Pens and Go Penn State and wonder what next year could be like without an NFL Team...
To see what prompted this, here is the latest...
http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=5094224
The sick idiot.
Sexy Bob
Feb 17, 2010
So this is clearly the closest thing to a rap you'll ever see me write...
I went on a long walk today and ended up sitting in Laurelhurst park (a park in Portland modeled after Central Park) writing while listening to the Jurassic Five.
This was the result. Read it out loud and it's fun. One of the few long things I written lately that I'm kind of proud of.
Press Repeat
My head is full of words to songs I don't even like
wasted space, compressed beats from another man's mic
all on repeat with a huge play count, the boom box is out for the
count just musical software remains when they dissect my remains,
it contains a brain built from scratch scratch scratched cds
painted with album jackets and sleeves some of which have never
been played since track three, autopsy shows what my compound eyes
see color painted by rhythm and you put the needle on the rings under my eyes.
Second ring down, my greatest one hit, Wonder
if you recognized my fifteen minute burst of fame before you
quit paying attention to my chorus. I never once stopped
listening so DJ bartender, pour us another glass full of pap-art,
punk rock,and soul then throw us out onto the crowded concrete urban street
to roam, Fuck going home, arm and arm we strut to the guitar, drums, and occasioanl trombone, tenor saxaphone. Then all of the sudden we're one once again, you see,
you and I merge to become just me, music cuts out and the song's over
crowd restlessly mills about but I can't hear shit, so alone
All I can hear is the groan of someone try to play
an mp3 on the old seven inch jukebox. And I hear my favorite album
played backwards secret message in my ear, It's time to split, I need someone to talk to like you. Disorder, my ass, that's just a myth.
My split personalities come naturally like Journey at karaoke and make-up with Kiss,
so no matter how many times those damn songs are played,
If I know the words I've always got someone to serenade.
I'm no individual, I'm a population, I'm a team,
I'm a generation, the king and queen. Acoustic, folk, big bands,power chords and bass,
I'm Side A and Side B, I'm a band and my own biggest fan.
None of this has gone ass I planned, but I've loved the beat, always tap my feet,
If I ever get the chance I'll press repeat.
Here's a taste of what was making me def while I was writing.
I went on a long walk today and ended up sitting in Laurelhurst park (a park in Portland modeled after Central Park) writing while listening to the Jurassic Five.
This was the result. Read it out loud and it's fun. One of the few long things I written lately that I'm kind of proud of.
Press Repeat
My head is full of words to songs I don't even like
wasted space, compressed beats from another man's mic
all on repeat with a huge play count, the boom box is out for the
count just musical software remains when they dissect my remains,
it contains a brain built from scratch scratch scratched cds
painted with album jackets and sleeves some of which have never
been played since track three, autopsy shows what my compound eyes
see color painted by rhythm and you put the needle on the rings under my eyes.
Second ring down, my greatest one hit, Wonder
if you recognized my fifteen minute burst of fame before you
quit paying attention to my chorus. I never once stopped
listening so DJ bartender, pour us another glass full of pap-art,
punk rock,and soul then throw us out onto the crowded concrete urban street
to roam, Fuck going home, arm and arm we strut to the guitar, drums, and occasioanl trombone, tenor saxaphone. Then all of the sudden we're one once again, you see,
you and I merge to become just me, music cuts out and the song's over
crowd restlessly mills about but I can't hear shit, so alone
All I can hear is the groan of someone try to play
an mp3 on the old seven inch jukebox. And I hear my favorite album
played backwards secret message in my ear, It's time to split, I need someone to talk to like you. Disorder, my ass, that's just a myth.
My split personalities come naturally like Journey at karaoke and make-up with Kiss,
so no matter how many times those damn songs are played,
If I know the words I've always got someone to serenade.
I'm no individual, I'm a population, I'm a team,
I'm a generation, the king and queen. Acoustic, folk, big bands,power chords and bass,
I'm Side A and Side B, I'm a band and my own biggest fan.
None of this has gone ass I planned, but I've loved the beat, always tap my feet,
If I ever get the chance I'll press repeat.
Here's a taste of what was making me def while I was writing.
Jan 31, 2010
A Genetic View of Miss America (hosted by Mario Lopez)
We watched the Miss America competition tonight. This was my reaction...
A Genetic Viewing of Miss America
There she is, Miss America
a prize given for liking make up,
taught to pose young,
and getting lucky,
genetically speaking.
Mendel content in his grave
that his pea pod can be used
to explain how women
parading across a Las Vegas
stage In Bathing suits
with rare bodies,
denied by independent assortment,
to most children's wildest dreams,
is going to be a positive influence
on little girls...
......and Darwin chuckles at their stilettos.
A Genetic Viewing of Miss America
There she is, Miss America
a prize given for liking make up,
taught to pose young,
and getting lucky,
genetically speaking.
Mendel content in his grave
that his pea pod can be used
to explain how women
parading across a Las Vegas
stage In Bathing suits
with rare bodies,
denied by independent assortment,
to most children's wildest dreams,
is going to be a positive influence
on little girls...
......and Darwin chuckles at their stilettos.
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