Friday, April 28, 2006

Well, That's a Way of Looking at It

It seems a shame to waste a perfect movie plot line like that, when all I can recall is a separate, unintentional thought: The time to wrangle like a twenty year old is when you're twenty years old.

It's like anything else. Dip your toe into the shallow end of the pool, then decide whether you'd like to swim. Time-delayed skewerage doesn't count as romantic inspiration, not when some twit calls you on an off day, then the larger, fully erect twit answers. It's not acting in the moment any more, even if resumed only moments later.

It's not like anything else. Deliberate enters ones vocabulary, even as whimsical leaves its shadow at the door, and deliberate is a terrifying, alien notion. At least, until you've shared some time with this strange guest. Time, an even more ferocious visitor, exacts a ferocious price, but leaves in its stead a separate set of realities which allow one to shed and reclaim ones own flesh. I can tell you what a revelation that is to a man, but only a woman who's been flipped ass-over-tincups a few times could explain its corrolary effects. Better if everyone already knows and expects deliberate. Time will wait outside.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

A Truck Without Pity, or, a Candidate?

Argh! The antenna's broken off from my Beatermobile, thus am I deprived of an important source of mindless chaff, as I sputter unevenly from point A to point B. I'd fallen into the habit of setting the channel selector to autoscan, yielding the much-coveted 4 second burst of every sound ever recorded (attention spans are over-rated, in my book) until something captured my fancy - which, owing to my forested imagination, has rarely been a threat.

Alas, my choices are few, now. Habit alone compels me to switch to autoscan, but only a few stations have sufficient signal strength to be picked up by the stub of what once was. So, I can either listen to an evangelist, some Armenian folk music (my best guess, as I'm not fluent in Armenian), or an avalanche of noise on the AM band. Or, I can turn it off.

As previous visitors to my blogsite have undoubtedly surmised, I suffer from a rather flamboyant, swashbuckling, or Falstaffian zest for life (since I have no knowledge of any of these adjectives, they're equally appropriate, I'm sure). Obviously, the thing to do is turn it on, tune it in, and see what I can get.

Some of you may have, from time to time, become so preoccupied with operating a balky, fractious, or petulant machine (certainly, my Beatermobile falls into this classification, on all three counts), that you've plumb lost track of some ancillary device, like a radio. Or, entropy being where one finds it, said device may have switched categories, and become a B/F/P machine itself. No need for despair; given sufficient lemons, one may yet enjoy the rare lemonade.

Like most motorists, I prefer that each journey should proceed safely and expeditiously, from pillar to post. Last night, I found myself puzzling over two pages of mapquirk mumbology, a step-by-step route to an unfamiliar destination, neatly diced into a series of fractional mile maneuvers to cover a distance of only 62.29 miles. An approaching cloud mass provided a handy exit for the setting Sun, rendering the tiny print unreadable after a while. As if it understood the situation, the Beatermobile switched over to "Fractious" mode on its own, and gave vent to its rage against watered-down, expensive fuel, pigeon droppings, and a litany of tiny offenses which contributed to its sad existence. Nor was I smug in the knowledge that I'd changed the oil only last year- I simply needed to make sense of the cryptic lines, and so determine how many more furlongs or meters to proceed, before abruptly altering my navigation again. "Shocking! How tragic!", you may be thinking dismissively, but in the midst of this lively romp over hill and dale, a new candidate emerged for that bogus Karaoke challenge that I mentioned a while back. The radio, still fruitlessly and dutifully scanning for signals, had snared a feeble station and roared in its triumph, after only an hour or so of abject silence, but... What a prize!

So, here's more grist for the mill, another potential auditory disaster that only needs a little tweaking by any Karaoke Masters out there, before tottering into the abyss. It's an old Gene Pitney song, decrying the many societal limitations which force teenagers to either underutilize portions of their anatomy, or compel them to be deployed in unseemly and haphazard situations, or, maybe, just makes 'em retire to the bathroom for unspecified adjustments. That's the jist of it, as nearly as I could gather, but the song has a seedy, whining arrangement that would be mere putty, to a true Karaoke Sensei. As always, any suitable lyrical changes are at the sole discretion of the, ahem... artist, and need not adhere to the style or substance of the original song. Surely, there must be some readers out there, hunkered down over their laptops or powerbooks, who could lend a more contemporary treatment to this timeless classic:

"A Town Without Pity" by Gene Pitney

"When you're young and so in love as we
And bewildered by the world we see
Why do people hurt us so
Only those in love would know
What a town without pity can do

If we stop to gaze upon a star
People talk about how bad we are
Ours is not an easy age
We're like tigers in a cage
What a town without pity can do

The young have problems, many problems
We need an understanding heart
Why don't they help us, try and help us
Before this clay and granite planet falls apart

Take these eager lips and hold me fast
I'm afraid this kind of joy can't last
How can we keep love alive
How can anything survive
When these little minds tear you in two
What a town without pity can do

How can we keep love alive
How can anything survive
When these little minds tear you in two
What a town without pity can do

No, it isn't very pretty what a town without pity ..."

I did eventually get where I was going, without maiming myself or anyone else. The journey home was uneventful, since there was no clear deadline or objective at stake. The radio went silently about its business, but its mission had already been accomplished.

Sunday, April 16, 2006

The Power of the Sweet and the Sour

"I've given both the sour and sweet a shot,
and offered to share among us what I'd got.
But it might be truer or safer to assume
that I'm voicing lousy prose into an emptying room.

Whether my hand (or another) draws downward the blind,
it's for us to put this collegiality behind.
It is for you, the onward bearers of the light,
to hold up your ideas, against the oncoming night."

You'll want to be careful with that light- it doesn't weigh anything, but it's heavier than it seems. The jury's still out on its benefits. Some say it's a good thing; others, that it's a needless and dangerous artifice, better removed from our view.

Wednesday, April 05, 2006

Push Back From The Table, If You're Able

Say what you will about the vagaries of weather, the economy, and so forth, but I've been noticing an increasing interest on the part of both male, and impressively, female bloggers in a favorite Springtime subject: Pie. If you have some nearby, or are adept in preparing pie, then your companions need never stray. Conversely, if you have no pie, or perhaps would like to extend your enjoyment, then you have all the motivation you'll need, to brush up on your social skills, and become handy around the oven.

"Let us review our familiar recipe, before we begin:
You'll knead it, I'll stir it up, and we'll slide it in.
We'd see who needed what - though that was hours ago,
back when it was sticky sweet filling, in a shell of dough.

But you knew I'd bring my nose up as close as I dare,
and soon be overwhelmed by the sweetly curling air.
So right! That heat, that scent, an irresistible smell,
I could feel my resolve going straight to Hell.

Alarms in my head that my tongue would soon be afire,
barely served to restrain my rising olfactory desire.
'It's still too hot', you warned, arousing me from my dream.
Wickedly 'Here...' smiling, '...don't forget the whipped cream!'"

See? That's the sort of courteous, helpful advice that only comes when the pie is nearly ready to be divided. I look forward to Spring, as I look forward to pie. Share some today, and see if it doesn't just turn your day around.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Look, Don't Touch: See, Don't Feel

I have it from a reliable source that the new Bumpfmaster Mark VIII (TM) has an unlimited capacity for processing ill-conceived jibberish. It's too pricy for me, but maybe someone more affluent can try the following test load, and report on the results:

"Why are my ankles once again all wet?
Haven't I crossed the Rubicon already? I forget.
Whichever way the damned river of tears elects to swerve,
you've been waiting there, around the next curve.

You're smart, have legs, lungs, and a head start.
What other reasons do you need, to up and depart?
Lead off, leave me, alone- don't walk, run.
This Cat-and-Mouse game was once, long ago, fun.

I have already, and you will have, some day
grown tired of our lives, lived in this way.
Should we spy the other's footprints, ahead in the dirt,
take care, and another path- ahead lies more hurt."

I know- if it can't be scrawled on a Fortune cookie's slip, then I ought stick to saying nought.