Equally Not Clever

In 2002 I came up with a story about a man named Brenden. Brenden read Thus Spoke Zarathustra in high school. A couple of years before his time. It’s a philosophical book written by a philosopher that was philosophically sick when he wrote it. It was about self-fulfilling prophesy and how this high school man exploited it and planned his death as Nietzsche said you could. His mom was obsessed with lists. She wrote everything on a post-it note for him. Brenden do this, Brenden do that. He obliged and made his own list. He based it off of movies. Scareface, Sliver, Life Stinks, Chasing Amy, etc., bull shit, etc. He aimlessly wandered through this crap until he fulfilled this list and ending up rear ending a semi, ending his pathetic life. I have written four scripts under this premise. Each one more confusing than the next. Each one skipping details that would have made it successful and four hours long. It wasn’t working. The relationship he had with his high school girlfriend, Sara was not interesting. His relationship with a stripper named Destiny, was equally not clever. I worked out last week at work. Yes, I work out. I try to be somewhat healthy in my fat laden and alcohol induced diet. I was taking a shower in our “locker room.” My mind was void of everything as it usually is. Especially after failing after little weight lifted. I closed the dirty curtain and stood in the luke warm water. I grabbed the disgusting community soap and lathered my hands to wash my horrible face. I brought the...

No More Chaos Theory

Lines. Basic, beautiful lines. How can something so simple, be so delicious? How can a straight line, bring so much order to the world? It makes the complicated, reasonable. It makes the idiotic, sensical. It brings a calm over the hectic and busy lives of the humanity inhabiting the planet today. Most people are attracted to curves. Women are curvy. Mountains are curvy. The ocean curves. The earth is round. It rotates in an elipses around the sun. The sun is in a galaxy that is in an expanding universe. Nothing is straight there. There are no lines. Only complex strings that define a dynamic multiverse. No order. There is no order without lines. Thinking about that causes my heart to slightly flutter and shorten my breath. I find it hard to breathe. Where is my breath? My heart is starting to pound. My circadium rythym goes from Abba to the Descendants in seconds. My throat closes. Shit. Sweat. Gasp. Gulp. No. I grunt and sweat profusely. My chest hurts. Why does it hurt so bad? I’m scared. I need to breathe faster. I need to breathe. It hurts. No. In. Lines. Out. In. Lines. Out. In. Lines. Out. I’m out. I lay on the ground. I look to the sky that is full of clouds. The clouds are random and fluid. I look around and see a bird. I see another, then another and then another. A vee. They are flying in a vee. Two straight lines. It’s gorgeous. It’s efficient. Stunning. These birds, who inherently have no intelligence, have learned to restore order to a chaotic planet...

Just a Slob Like One of Us

There’s a game I play and I play it often. For those lucky enough to be around me, they get to participate whenever they are near me. They don’t choose to play, but I choose for them. When I decide to play, we play. I am an expert at this game and I always win. The game is called I win. I’ve played for as long as I can remember. It is a result of my personal soundtrack. There is always a song accompanying my personal picture show. I don’t know the triggers. Perhaps it is a result of habit or sensory memory. For instance, whenever I am in the shower, Joan Osborne is with me. When my sister is around me, John Williams provides us with a score or two. When I see my son, I hear “Go, Diego, Go!” Now, these are the standards, but word association always leads to a new song. Someone says lady, I hear Styx. Someone says baby, I hear Amy Grant. Shot? LMFAO. So on and so forth. This is the way my brain works. It is not my fault and I do not always understand the phenomena. What if God was one of us? A lot of times, these are songs that are easily whistled. If it can be whistled. It can be part of the game. And this is actually a more challenging aspect to the game. If you can win by whistling, then you may be more of my caliber. How do you win, Mike? Well, if you are playing me, then you can’t. If you decide to take...

Stereotypical Post about Racism

Every once in awhile something comes along and catches your eye. You stop everything you are doing and tell the man inside you that, “Wow. Did you see that?” Did you see what just happened. The man inside you thinks for a bit and decides that it is entirely possible that you have seen that before, but it was unlikely and seemed very unique. Do you know that feeling? I suppose it is in between the lungs, just above the miles of shit and below the heart. Maybe it’s the stomach. Maybe it’s its own thing. But there is a feeling there. A physical response to a psychological observation. But, of course observations can only be psychological. You may feel like feeling someone feel you is an observation, but the observation of observing the feeling of someone feel you is just a feeling. A physical response. Does your mind play tricks? Is there a matrix controlling all of synapses? I think that the mind plays dirty games. You will see what you want to see. Republicans see what they want. Democrats see what they want. Gun owners see what they want. Intelligent people see what they want. We all do it and it is the mind controlling it. Our minds are prejudice. It is biology. It is a survival mechanism to be prejudice. Now prejudice and racism, even though they share attributes, are not the same thing. You can’t be racist without being prejudice, but you can be prejudice without being racist. Example. You can see a white man walking down the street. He has no sleeves and several...

This Old Hall of Famer Cub

“I know getting inducted into the Hall of Fame had to be something, but that flag is going to hanging there after everybody is gone.” Ron Santo on getting his number retired by the Cubs I started following baseball as soon as I can remember. It was always on the radio. It was always on the TV. I would stay with my friend Chris from time to time and his dad would be watching the Cubs game with the TV volume all the way down and the radio volume up. He did this to get away from Harry Caray. Yes, Harry was an institution, but he was annoying as hell. I followed his dad’s lead and would often times listen to the radio if Harry was on. I came accustomed to listening to the games on the radio. I enjoyed them. They particularly became interesting in 1990. That year, three men joined the radio booth and two of them went on to represent the cubs. The other is a small little douche who doesn’t know how to spell his name and believes that Cubs fans are the worst in all of baseball. Ron Santo was part of that team. It was clear to me, even as a 10 year old, that this guy loved the Cubs and didn’t care what he said, as long as he got to talk baseball and support the Cubs. How awesome was that to hear as a youngster, getting involved in a game you love? To hear a grown man be as enthusiastic as you were. To hear him complain about the umps or...