Poem

Weather is getting warm!! Not that I'm able to enjoy it, I'm always at work.

Sorry I didn't put up that short story. It never turned out like I wanted it to. In the meantime, here is a short, rather weird poem. I never edited the thing, so it is what it is.

A Hero’s stroll down 1st Avenue

Confidence oozing out of Him with rapidity. Confidence in the confidence itself. Smells offend the others, too. Shower-less nights once a hassle are now welcome regularities. Chain mail to guard his knighthood. Is there any different mousse than grease? On the face, hair, torso- sheen for the hero.

Strut is crucial. A defined swagger defines a man. Not that He is desperate for definition. Self-affirmed in His position at the top. The others searching for acceptance coalesce into the stew which repels Him, although the tiniest piece, the weak in Him, dreams of being an ingredient in the broth. Depress these sophomoric yearnings, hide behind the mask and odor and grease. The strides separate Him, keeping Him apart from the broth, allowing Him to continue along the path with His nose pointed towards the clouds.

Down 1st Avenue He floats heavy, like a damp mist. All in his wake are stranded, drenched. Ignore the mindless. The mindless aren’t privy to the quest. Lost on them is the great; the goal. If His demeanor falters, even for a moment, Rome will fall. Such setbacks are inevitable, even at the pinnacle of success, but must be avoided at all costs.

Caligula of the new era. The pure recognition of this fact elates Him. Scoff at the others, leer at the others. No pity, no glee. Fellow man, Hah! They understand nothing, Him even less. One difference is clear, He accepts the bleakness. He knows nothing, but understanding this iota alone sets him apart. Absence of thought is the blessing. Everything else is nothing.

Well, the goal is something, but only in terms of the minutia between the inevitable. Scorn the 1st Avenue occupiers, scorn with all your might. The farther down He cascades, the closer the destination.

On 1st and 3rd shoulders collide with vigor. His-fierce and biting like a linebackers against theirs-flimsy and misshapen, like medieval minarets. He chooses retribution carefully and swiftly:

Fuckin-A Faggot- Watch Yourself!

Sorry

The minion scurries off to his hovel. He swaggers harder, stenches longer. Another notch in His belt. He reflects with the people around him, His head on a swivel. Compassion, emotion, the people praise his name, grandeur restrained, He utters a fierce warning directed to no one in particular.

Next time it’s your ass, fool.

Earth revolves around the sun, ice cubes melt, and babies born. He is sure He stands alone. Guard mustn’t fall, though, evil successors hide behind corners and cars, waiting to pounce and extinguish His rule. E tu, Brutus, E tu? Never will His mouth utter these words. Keep enemies and dispel friends. Push the aching piece to conform and acquiesce into ignorant society down deeper into the soul.

Turn starboard. His pace quickens as the end nears. Trot, not run, but haste steps. Composure is key. Gait progresses intact, mind wild like a coyote. The door is here.

He steals a last glance at the other’s world before entering the downtown doorway. Pigeons. Pigeons pecking and clucking and lice infested scour the floor for food. Pigeons with no end, no goals, no quest, no being. Noble men have a plan. Pigeons don’t recognize the truth- nothing is all there must be. After eating up those tiny crumbs, they will only search longer, tougher. Pigeons must be despised, disdained, exterminated at random, but tolerated for now because they are pigeons, they don’t recognize their purpose. Tolerate then teach. They are pigeons, He is a coyote.

He laughs, pushes open the door, and ends his tour.

Something.

Got another blog for everybody. Lumpy is a blog created by my friend from Santa Fe. He worked at the radio station with me and is a rad trumpet player and composer. He has officially the coolest job in America: creating music for video games. Well, I don't know if he ever solidified that job or not, but it's cool to think he works creating music for video games. Remember that bomb Sonic 2 music? Yeah, he should take inspiration from Sonic. Not that bastard Tails, though.

Did I mention that during my period of unemployment, Jake and I beat Sonic 2. It is only 1 of 2 video games I can remember beating, the other is Metal Gear Solid 2. And a couple of computer games.



I'm still working on my short story. I promise it will be done soon.

Cool

This song is the best song I have heard in a long time. Hi Fever, where you at?



I have a ten page short story I wrote that I plan on unleashing in the next couple of days. Critiquers grab those red pens.

Demand Satisfaction

Can a contemporary man harbor honour or has the ability to hold honour gone the way of the dodo? I mean, I am presumably a respectable, intelligent man of good pedigree, so does this make me an honorable person? The only reason I care is this: I want to challenge someone who is also noble and respectable to a duel.

Duels are fascinating. More precise; nineteenth century pistol duels are fascinating.

I have always taken an interest in duels, ever since that old 'Got Milk' commercial. Remember the one? The curator of the Aaron Burr Museum is called by a radio show to answer a giveaway question about who shot Alexander Hamilton. He can't answer the question because his mouth is stuffed with brownies. As cool as it is to think about that famed duel involving Federalist Papers author Hamilton and Vice President Burr, it's not even my favorite American Political Duel.The best duel involved bad-ass-southerner and Trail of Tears mastermind Andrew Jackson. During one of his five duels, he let his opponent shoot first; a risky strategy. The bullet hit Jackson in the ribs, but he still managed to stand straight, measure his shot carefully, and shoot his bullet-less opponent, winning the duel. Imagine standing still and taking a shot to the chest, just so you could take your time and aim correctly.

The progression of a duel was fairly predictable. A man with honour might offend another man by making a wise crack about his wife's childbearing hips. The man with the beefy wife would "Demand Satisfaction", essentially challenging the foul mouthed man to either apologize or to duel. "Demanding Satisfaction" was typically accompanied with a slap to the face, administered by the challenger. Historically, in the periods of knights and wenches, a knight would get one slap in the face before being knighted. This was supposed to signify the last slap that the knight would ever receive because he is now an honorable man, and should be treated as so.

Both parties must then agree to the terms of the duel. Apparently, there is a Victorian Era duelling handbook that greatly reduces the vagaries of a duel. The most important decision the duel was what weapon the fighters would use to attack each other. Although there were many varieties of dueling weapons, pistols were the most widely used. Nobel men were known to own a special set of dueling pistols. Since terms of a duel were often ridiculous, in an attempt to get one of the parties to cancel the duel, weapon choices were sometimes very odd. Once, a man chose two sausages as a dueling weapon. One of the sausages was supposed to be injected with cholera. This duel was canceled, but how awesome would it be to see two noble men standing in a field eating sausages while defending their honour? The duels would always take place at sun up, in order to avoid a crowd or other distractions. Many times, the only other people to witness a duel were the dueler's seconds.

Duels died out by the mid 19th century. Bummer, I know. In most states, duels are not illegal. Historically, dueling parties are never prosecuted by the law. The courts considered dueling a personal matter.

This is how I plan to die. In my late seventies, someone will undoubtedly poke fun at my incontinence or fat belly, and that someone is going down. I will demand satisfaction, pick pistols, and choose my brother as a second. My strategy is this: I will pull an Andrew Jackson and let my opponent shoot first. If they hit me, I die a noble death. If they miss, I will stare into my opponent's eyes, spit on the ground, and deliberately point my gun into the sky and fire. See, this is the ultimate act in a duel. If your opponent fires his gun at you, misses and you fire into the sky, his honour is mud. Thus, I accumulate his honour. How cool is that?