Who's Lando?

I say Lando’s on first, Chewie’s on second, Han’s on third.
Are you the manager?
Yes.
You gonna be the coach too?
Yes.
And you don't know the fellows' names?
Well I should.
Well then Lando’s on first?
Yes.
I mean the fellow's name.
Lando.
The guy on first.
Lando.
The first baseman.
Lando
The guy playing...
Lando is on first!
I'm asking YOU Lando’s on first.
That's the man's name.
That's Lando's name?
Yes.
Well go ahead and tell me.
That's it.
That's Lando?
Yes.

PAUSE

Look, you gotta first baseman?
Certainly.
Lando’s playing first?
That's right.

I sat in the yard with my dog, to kill time before my next excruciating shift at my soul-crushing job. I thought about all the ways I would love to quit, about all the jobs I’d rather have, about all the reasons I’d never have them. The sun was shrieking overhead and even my shadow didn’t want to come from out from under my ass. I wiped the sweat from my brow and pondered why I bother with anything? It all seems so pointless. “I just don’t get it,” I sighed. My dog looked up, panting, and said, “Me neither.”

Yahi was a Japanese pilot turned business man from Michigan on vacation in Walt Disney World with his wife and children. We sat next to each other on the ferry cruising around the Beach Resort. He loves America and Americans. The only part of America he doesn’t like is President Bush. I told him nobody does. He doesn’t understand how people in America cannot appreciate everything that the country has to offer. I agreed with him. He was particularly impressed with the landscaping around Disney World. I agreed it’s fantastic. We shook hands, exchanged names, and wished each other well.

“God has seen you struggling (with something), God says it's over. A blessing is coming your way. If you believe in God send to ten people, please don't ignore, you are being tested.”

This is the forwarded gem that landed in my inbox this morning.

1) The struggle is never fucking over. That’s life. When the struggle is over, you’re dead.

2) God has toned down his tests.” Didn’t he used to make people almost sacrifice their own sons? Now all I have to do is forward a trite email from weak minded morons? He’s really lowering his standards.
Amen.

I saw E.T. on television tonight. What is it about movies made in the 80’s that make them so much more magical than movies today? Is it just that they’re attached to my childhood and I remember them more fondly? I don’t think so. Special effects weren’t as out of control as they are now. Everything in movies now exists only in computers as CGI pixels. You can only see them. In the 80’s everything was real, tangible. E.T. is a fictional character but I knew I could touch him. He existed even if only as a prop. That’s magical.

Driftwood souls
tumble and turn
half submerged

gnarled knots
the color of nothing
sea soaked and slime
just light enough to float
but just
only just

and I come to the beach
compelled to build
build
build
ethereal sculptures
that claim the
sky and the sand
like noble
conquistadors
drunk on the promise
of immortality
planting themselves in earth
like tattered Spanish flags

twist
bury
stack
lean

working feverishly
on my masterpiece
a salty monument to loss
and childhood afternoons

fleeting

foamy sea edges retreat
and creep back
and forth
to caress
and seduce
my pretty pile
of driftwood souls

Jonathon couldn’t even count the times his roommate Greg playfully called him a bookworm.

Every Saturday night he would beg him to come out and be social, but Jonathon always politely refused, citing an impending exam or report.

The truth was Jonathon just loved books.

So imagine his delight when he woke one Sunday morning to find himself actually transformed into a bookworm.

He relished the Kafka-esque irony of it all.

He inched into the common room to tell Greg, who was always up and around first.

Always.

Imagine Jonathon’s horror when he realized Greg was indeed, an early bird.

The two soiled
leather-clad bikers
stared each other down
across the pool table
like beer-soaked
grizzly bears

It had been
twenty years
since either of these
mastadons
had crossed paths

The last time
was in this very bar
and that meeting
is the stuff of
legend
in the Badlands

This meeting
the last for at least
one of them
would be
epic

One cracked
his neck
and rubbed his
greasy grey stubble

The other popped
his knuckles
moving
gnarled
skull rings
that looked like they were
forged in the fires of
Hades

The
air
hung
thick

Everyone
statues


“Dance off!!!!”

Capitalizing on the popularity of the Weekend at Bernie’s franchise as well as movies like The Passion and The Nativity, coming to theater’s near you this Christmas holiday season… Weekend at Bernie’s III: Easter Sunday. It’s a historical comedy following the misadventures of the apostles Bartholomew and Thaddeus, the wackiest of the twelve, after discovering that on the third day after Jesus’ crucifixion, the tomb wasn’t at all empty and He wasn’t really coming back. But as they say in Jerusalem, “The show must go on!” So they strap him to a mule and the greatest story never told begins!”

Sweltering under the August sun, in a 1977 pale yellow Chevette, tailgating a brand new minivan with one of those gay family stickers with two stick people adults standing next to their two stick people children, Jesus Christ wiped His brow on His shirt sleeve. He took out his Sabbath Paranoid cassette tape, tossed it into the backseat, and replaced it with Blood, Sweat, and Tears’ Greatest Hits . As "Lucretia McEvil" began to wail from His fuzzy, horrible speakers He noticed the WWJD sticker lovingly placed on the minivan’s bumper and yelled, ”I’d put my foot on the fucking gas!”

Yes Jesse Jackson
cut Barack Obama’s nuts off
for telling
men to be fathers
for telling
them what it means to be a man
for trying
to improve a culture
that America
associates with
crime
ignorant athletes
and
violent rappers

Yes Jesse Jackson
cut Barack Obama’s nuts off
because he has
a chance to win
an office
you will

never
ever

come close to even dream of getting
because you sensationalize problems
while he tries to fix them
because he wants

change

and you want

TV time

and because he’s

so
so
so

much better
than you will ever be

#1
Machines clank rhythm,
he whistles melody--in
a Kessel spice mine

#2
He lost everything,
gambled it all away but
Tatooine’s twin suns

#3
A dianoga
waits hungrily for the next
chute of rebel spies

#4
The Hutts can settle
any dispute, except which
jetpack handles best

#5
Sandy womp rats sleep
the day away in the shade
of a bantha skull

#6
A hooded shadow
awaits the midnight shuttle--
blaster still warm

#7
Zam fired every
sabredart at her estranged
father--she missed him

#8
A sand-worn probe droid
rusts, half buried in a dark
Mos Eisley alley

Trying to read a heady science fiction novel at the pool today I heard the following phrase, “You just done came down to the pool and…” Holy shit. My ears started to bleed and my novel actually spontaneously combusted. “You just done came.” And the guy who spoke this eloquent turn of phrase looked exactly as I thought he would. Some scrawny, haphazardly-bearded, albino white trash waste, whose voice sounded like he was kicked in the head by a mule. Which may have been the case. How I wished for an really long extension cord and an electric toaster. Books!

Go to your neighbors home, destroy everything inside, burn it to the ground, alienate their friends, and get them fired whether they ask for it or do not, especially if they do not. Then force upon them new shelter, new belongings, new associates, and new employment. This is essentially the aim of religion. To destroy the life and cultures of those who are not like you. Catholics, as only one example, would gladly see Islam eradicated. Or Buddhism. Or Judaism. Or Hinduism. Because all religions, at their cores, believe they are the one and only true culture. Outright cultural Imperialism.

Upon rewtaching Batman Begins:

It was even worse the second time. There are parts that are fantastic; Batman being scary again, Michael Caine, Liam Neeson. But that’s it. The plot is absolutely ridiculous even by comic standards. The movie aimed to make Batman real and less cartoony, like he could actually exist. And it works, except the plot. They turned gas, that only works when inhaled, into a liquid so they could use a microwave to turn it back into a gas by evaporating the water its in. Humans are 95% water. No effect? Really? Physics? Immutable Laws? BAD writing.

A new poem…

A skinny old man
in huge old man sunglasses
places his bet
with a bleach blonde cashier

He lights a shaky cigarette
from the grandstands
and whispers a prayer
for lucky number 7

because it’s been a long hard life
and he deserves at least one

Some haiku (trying for one a day)…

Night rain falls heavy--
reading poems on the floor
the lamplight flickers

Friends, television
coffee, beer, ice cream drumsticks—
twenty something bliss

Nicotine smiles
desperate prayers and cigar smoke--
number six to win

A red dragonfly
drowning, struggles for life—
a quiet blue pool

Dear Splash joke,

Erik and I have been trying to remember you for over a week now. Where did you go? Surely you haven’t forgotten about us. Remember? Erik and I were sitting on the couches at that really cool coffee shop listening to that horrible music. We were talking about movies and laughing and then we made you up! And you were great; really funny. And I know we should have written you down, but we thought we’d remember. Look we’re sorry. Please come back to us. We’d love to have you back. Again, we’re really sorry.

Love,
Steve

I am distraught at the recent revelation that I cannot remember who the first girl I kissed was. Now I remember my first kiss kiss. But not my very first middle school peck kiss, and to me, that is the important one. How old and decrepit and tragic am I if I can’t even recall the first time my lips landed on a member of the fairer sex. I have it narrowed down to three…or four. It was either a girl in fourth grade, or one of three in a game of spin the bottle in eighth grade. Aging! Bastard!

I’ve discovered that people who are really into their ethnicity, and I don’t mean actual genealogy, but their nation of origin, are people who don’t have anything else to be proud of. It’s the lowest common denominator. Anyone can claim their Italian pride, because it requires absolutely no effort. But you can have no more pride in your ethnicity than you can in being born with 10 fingers or two ears. How can you be proud of something you had no hand in? Pride in happening to fall out of a person’s ethnic vagina? Maybe you should try accomplishing something.

I’ve taken a summer mistress and her name is Chlorinia. She is wonderful. Always there for me in my hour of need or sweat. Always offering respite from a hot summer day. Always ready with a cool wet kiss. Sometimes she shows me her blue side, her naughty tendencies. And even on occasion, dare I say it; she lets me urinate on her. She loves it. We make sweet green liquid love. On my deck chair she clings to me, tickling my neck with her splashy caresses. But on stormy days she can be one femme fatale.

Analogies are fun.

The tragedy of the planning of the city of St. Petersburg is that normal Joe Average has no real indoor access to the downtown waterfront. It’s all parks, and the Pier, and parks, and multimillion dollar condos. Now parks are nice but it does warm up here in the summer a tad. There’s really no place with a view, that you can sit comfortably indoors and just enjoy. The USF library has a great one, but it’s just one. Why aren’t their coffee shops or bookstores or cafes? Why hoard the city’s most beautiful asset for millionaires? Viva la revolucion!

I’m sorry
…for everything.

sorry
that every time I see you I imagine you having bowel cancer, a root-deep cavity and a fairly severe paper cut right on your pointer finger.

sorry
other women avoid you like leprosy in 14th century European villages.

sorry
I think you’ve had more dicks in you than the third-stall glory hole at Studio 54 circa 1978.

sorry
you have nervous breakdowns like ten-time All-Pro NFL wide receiver Jerry Rice has receiving yards.

sorry
you have more gum than a Big League Chew factory on Planet BubbleYum in the Chewzar quadrant of the Wrigley galaxy.

Even one of the holiest of educational holies, the center for independent learning, the public library is no longer safe from the wandering zombie-like hordes of retards currently plaguing everywhere. Once the place for readers and learners to gather and explore the wonderful universe of books seeking knowledge and answers, it has now devolved into the place where degenerates and unemployables flock for free internet access so they can watch hip hop videos, update their myspace profiles, and otherwise find various ways to not contribute to society. Can’t we make computers look like books so these mongoloids will avoid them?

I declare that the pinnacle of vapid American consumerism lies in the Apple Store. Literally a hundred people crowded around postage stamp size screens watching MTV videos, uploading Fergie’s latest single to the rest of their 2 million songs, watching a presentation on how to make home movies, buying iPod socks, and chatting with the store’s 200 employees. This is what we are now? We’re not even trying to hide it anymore? By show of hand, Rashomon? Paradise Lost? Zach Galifianakis? Poetry? Art? Books? Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? Sorry everyone, my mistake. Please continue adding nothing. I apologize for the interruption.

I am currently in the middle of the most creative period in my entire life. And it’s fantastic! I’ve written a ton of poetry, more than everything else I’ve ever written combined. I’ve read close to twenty books this summer. I’m studying the craft of haiku. I’ve been talking and sharing with artistic friends. I’m surrounded with creativity! I’m worried that when work starts again in a couple of weeks my creative renaissance will start to slow down. I just won’t have the free time to dedicate to just being creative. I’m really going to have to work against weariness.

You know how when you get water in your ear you do that weird bent over sideways head shaking thing? Wouldn’t it be great if you could do that with all of the stuff you’d really like to forget. All those embarrassing moments, all those rejections, all those epic failures. Just a few shakes and out they’d tumble into the sand to be washed back out to sea. I don’t need that stuff up in there. It’s painful and it’s taking up room that could be better occupied by Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode names or Star Wars character names.

I saw a commercial on the television machine today for a new phone. The intense narrator guy said that this phone has a “fearless design.” And all I can say to that is…finally! It’s about time someone had the guts to stand up to those other frightened phone designers. Someone had to show them that there is indeed a new way. They need not be afraid anymore! This ain’t like those other phones, all cowering in the dark and hiding under the covers. No longer is receiving a call a terrifying ordeal! It is a new day everyone! Join us.

My job as a teacher is to try and get children to be better than they are now. To learn, to grow, to achieve. Why do parents constantly try to fight this? My favorite bitch-mom with diagnosed mental illnesses married to an abusive alcoholic with the intelligence of a housefly is always the first one to email with challenges to anything I assign. Her kids are all learning disabled and she really doesn’t try to help them beyond using that as an excuse. Does she really want her kids to grow up and be as disgustingly stupid as her? Parenting!

Attention all parents:
I am smarter than you.
I am better than you.
I have read more books.
I understand things.
I’m objective.
I can see your kids realistically.
I know what they can do.
I’m not an alcoholic.
I don’t abuse children.
I don’t neglect them.
I am their best shot at convincing them can can be somebody.
You are trash.
You don’t read.
You can’t read.
You don’t understand.
You’re lazy.
You don’t want your kids to be better than you.
You send your kids to private school but that’s not enough.
You have to be a parent.

How do you know what it is you want out of life? Everyone seems to know but me, and apparently that’s tragic. Where do I see myself in 10 years? Marriage? Children? A house? Wealth? Traveling? I have no idea. None. And not knowing seems ok to me. I’m happy with where I am right now, but I’ve learned that’s not good enough. I need to know and have every detail mapped out to the day. First I’ll do this and that will get me this and then I’ll get that. I do not know so please stop asking me.

I can be fired from my job for living with my girlfriend. In a school system that pays way below what public schools do, that expects me to spend all sorts of time going to night meetings, coaching sports, making yearbooks, all without any kind of extra pay, and I can be fired for living with my completely monogamous girlfriend who I’ve been with for seven years. Now I have previously worked with a person who was quite promiscuous, having sex with many girls on many occasions, but that is deemed completely ok. Why is there a teacher shortage? Fantasyland!