Equation #12

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God damnit, why can't I remember to eat my bananas before they turn all gross and mushy?

Does anyone know anyone who likes to make banana bread? I will give them like four bananas a week, because I will fucking forget to eat my bananas before they turn disgusting and mushy, and then I will give them my bananas so they can make banana bread. Then they can give me some banana bread, but I will fucking forget to eat it before it turns disgusting and moldy. Then maybe I will think, it's not too moldy, and I will eat it, and it will have ergot in there, and then people will think I am a witch. Or I guess a Warlock, as they call witches who have balls.

Figure 12: Bitchez been eatin' too much tainted rye

If I become a Warlock, I will name my balls Gandalf and Dumbledore. However, this is unlikely.

Fuck cause and effect.

It's boring.

Oh man, shit, dude. Fuck.

Well that sucks, one of my favorite bands broke up. God damnit. Now all I got is one pretty good album, an amazing EP, and a fucking straight-up transcendent shining diamond of an album I can enjoy for the rest of my life, plus a handful of hilarious, confusing, tragic, charming videos. God fucking damnit. Fuck.

Hot Damn is sore

I think I've been riding my bike too much, because Hot Damn is feeling really tender today. Hallelujah is fine, though. Maybe if I ride tonight I will just kind of lean over to the right the whole time.

love

I love the people I swam with and got arrested with. I'd say all in all my time in the holding cell was kind of like going to a party that wasn't great, wasn't shitty, but was out of beer and was just kind of OK. Oh also the kind of party where someone had apparently puked in the bathroom before you got there.

I love the police officers who arrested us. They thought it was hilarious. Even the one who was an asshole at least got made fun of by the other ones. One of them tried to convince the pool proprieter to let us off with tickets, as is customary in such situations. When asked if we'd get busted for open containers as well, one of them facetiously said for all he knew, the beer and whiskey containers on the table had been there all day. One of them consoled me on the pitiable male to female ratio of this particular skinny-dipping outing (it was 9 to 2 when the police arrived). I'm sure they also get angry and act like dicks, but also eat ceral and brush their teeth.

I love the bitchy-ass desk workers of the justice center. They probably don't get paid enough. They are a pain in my own and probably most people's asses. That is their job. But I love them. I imagine they go home sometimes and eat food, or read books, or pet their dogs.

I love the proprieter of the pool where I got arrested. He probably felt it was his duty to have us arrested. He probably even felt bad about it. He probably does things like eat, watch TV, feel feelings, hug people, and drive places.

Burt Bacharach told us that what the world needs now is love. That was a while ago, but I imagine it is still true. It's easy to love your friends and your lovers and your family and your favorite people. I don't know that there was ever any lack of that sort of love. It is hard to love the petty bitch at the service counter, or the know-it-all dickhead security guard, or the stupid-as-fuck asshole who is tailgating you, or the self-righteous fuckface bitch on TV. It's way harder, but I'm pretty sure that's the kind of love that people like Burt Bacharach, J.D. Salinger (Franny and Zooey), and Jesus (Matthew 5:43-48) were talking about.

I love you!

Two (2) meanings of the phrase "skinny dip"

1. A delicious new summer ale from New Belgium Brewing in Fort Collins, CO. It is being marketed as a microbrewish alternative to lo-calorie beers, but don't be fooled. It is just a super-delicious, crisp summer ale, in which low calories are an effect, not a cause. Everybody wins.

Figure 12: Skinny Dip

2. Swimming naked. If it is the middle of the night, in a private neighborhood pool, and the proprieter chooses to press charges, this can result in your being arested, much to the embarassment of everyone involved, excepting said proprieter.

I got arrested.

It was boring.

any single one of them

any of them at all.

i'm sorry, dogs and cats I love

I lied. I was in a pissy mood and I took it out on you, dogs and cats. I like plenty of both of you kinds of animals. I guess the thing is I hold you to the same standards as a human. If you are a dog or cat and you are a dick, then I will probably think you're a dick and not like you. If you are a dog or cat and you are cool, I will think you're cool and I will like you. I will love you, even. I love a cat named Cooper, for instance, and I love a dog named Bua. I love them. I admit it. I loved a dog named Rufus who died. I cried when Rufus died. I lied. He died. I cried. I'm sorry I lied. I love you.

the comedy boner

I have this idea where you'd walk around in public with a huge boner. It'd have to be straight-faced, you'd be going about your normal business, only you'd have a totally obvious boner sticking straight out in your pants. The trick to a male over the age of 18 would be how to sustain the comedy boner, since boners tend to lose interest when they aren't used in the way God intended them to be (the God I'm talking about is into all kinds of stuff, it's cool). I guess frequent fluffing trips to the bathroom? Maybe some medicinal help? I think the comedic effect depends on it being a real boner, so prosthetics and falsies are out.

How am I gonna do this?

Nobody said it was gonna be easy to make people laugh. Nobody said it was gonna be easy.


Figure 12: Will Ferrell kind of already did the comedy boner

DABDA

Elizabeth Kubler-Ross' five stages of grief apply remarkably well to my recent loss of Smoking. Here's how it's been for me:

Denial that I needed to quit just yet at all. (thanks, mystical understanding of the human body)

Bargaining that I'd quit tomorrow, or cut down to a limited amount. (thanks, vast powers of rationalization)

Accepting that I had to quit. (thanks, Great Uncle Don)

Depressed about how much it sucks to not smoke. (thanks a lot, past self)

Angry at people at the drop of a hat because I don't smoke. (sorry, friends)

I didn't even make this shit up

-1 Morning Star veggie patty, fried
-2 slices whole wheat bread, toasted
-Mayonnaise
-1/2 Avocado, sliced
-Some mild Kim Chee from a jar
-Some kind of pretty good salsa

You know what to do.


Also, I've developed a new sort of breakfast.

-1 banana, peeled
(eat the whole thing, it's good for you)

don't think ill of me...

...but I'm pretty sure I just plain don't really like dogs, or cats. It takes such a big heart to be a man, to be a man who tries to love and to be open to love. My heart isn't big enough to let some annoying-ass non-human creatures get all up in my face in there, especially when they also make me sneeze. No, I ain't gonna kick 'em, but no, I ain't gonna love 'em. Especially when they're dicks, too. Fuck an animal who's a dick.

Don't think ill of me. I love you.

Two (2) things about today

1. Today is the day "Dr. Phil" becomes a verb. It means to try to figure out why someone does something. As in, why did that person do that? I dunno, let's Dr. Phil him for a minute and figure out, like, his childhood situation that led to this. As in, whoa, why do I do and not do the things I do and not do? Sometimes I wish I'd Dr. Philled myself a little and tried to get some personal insight so I feel like I know why I do stuff. As in, who's that dude on TV with the mustache who's all Dr. Philling that chick about her hording problem? Oh, that's Dr. Phil.

(In the distant past great warriors became, through gradual accretion of notoriety, first heroes, then legends, and finally gods. Now the best you can hope for is the mystical transubstantiation from noun to verb).


2. I'm going camping. Bye!

Hot Damn & Hallelujah

Those are the new nicknames for my balls. Please update your address books.

Mr. Gold and Mr. Mudd

Townes Van Zandt's Mr. Gold & Mr. Mudd interpreted for your pleasure:

The wicked King of Clubs awoke
it was to his Queen he turned
his lips were laughing as they spoke
his eyes like bullets burned
the sun's upon a gambling day
his Queen smiled low and blissfully
let's make some wretched fool to play
plain it was she did agree

Pretty clear so far. The king of clubs is a dick, and his wife is a bitch. They are really excited to fuck some poor fucker over.

He sent his Deuce down into Diamond
his Four to Heart, and his Trey to Spade
three Kings with their legions come
preparations soon where made
they voted Club the days commander
gave him an army face and number
all but the outlaw Jack of Diamonds
and the Aces in the sky

Here we learn more about the world in which the dick and bitch monarchs of Clubs reside. There are four kingdoms corresponding to the four suits, each with their own Kings and Queens, and each with a social order below that more or less follows the ladder up from Two to Jack. The Aces are something like gods or angels though, and we learn that the Jack of Hearts is not a willing member of this ordered society.

So the asshole King sends his lowest three servants out to the three other kingdoms as messengers, and soon enough the other Kings come over, with all their servants, to help carry out this bitch-ass plan to fuck a poor fucker. They are so into this cruel idea they form an army for the asshole King consisting of all the royals ('face') and lower servants ('number') from the three other suits, and this in addition to all the Clubs who are already under the Asshole King's command. By the end of this verse, then, we know that the Asshole King has at his beck and call 47 of the 52 cards in the deck-- all of 'em but the four ethereal Aces and the outlaw Jack of Diamonds.

He give his Sevens first instructions
spirit me a game of stud
stakes unscarred by limitation
'tween a man named Gold and man named Mudd

Apparently in this world Sevens can do magical things, like create scenarios out of the blue. I love the order here: first the cards exist, then the game is created (five card stud), then the terms (no betting limit), and finally the players. Ass-backwards, and rightly so, since the real protagonists here are the cards, not the men.

Club filled Gold with greedy vapors
'til his long, green eyes did glow
Mudd was left with the sighs and trembles
watching his hard earned money go

The Asshole King has some kind of greed poison he gives to Mr. Gold. Mr. Mudd is a sorry fucker.

Flushes fell on Gold like water
Tens they paired and paired again
but the Aces only flew through heaven
and the Diamond Jack called no man friend

Flushes and pairs of tens are easy for the Asshole King to make happen with his huge army of cards. But so far in all the games (we start to realize it isn't just one game of stud, but a whole night of stud) there's been nary an Ace (they don't follow the laws of men) and no Jack of Hearts (he doesn't follow the laws of men either).

The Diamond Queen saw Mudd's ordeal
and began to think of her long lost son
she fell to her knees with a mother's mercy
and prayed to the angels every one

Her long lost son is the outlaw Jack of Diamonds. He is nowhere to be found, and she misses him, so she prays to the angels...

The Diamond Queen, she prayed and prayed
and the Diamond angel filled Mudd's hole

...and the angels are the Aces! The Diamond Ace heard the Diamond Queen's prayer and started this last fateful game by coming down and being Mudd's hold card (five-card stud is one down followed by four up).

the wicked King of Clubs himself
fell in face down in front of Gold

So Mr. Gold has the Asshole King in his hole. This is the makings for a high-betting game-- since there are only five cards and no wilds, a King or Ace in your hole is a great start whether or not you pair it up later.

now three Kings come to Club's command
but the angels from the sky did ride
three Kings up on the streets of Gold
three Fireballs on the Muddy side

The Asshole King gets his cronies to be the next three cards. But remember, the Diamond Queen prayed to the angels, every one-- she has called and they have answered ('fireballs' is some poker slang for Aces). So now is where it starts getting really awesome. You gotta think in terms of who knows what. Mr. Mudd already knows he will win this hand. The only hand that can beat four Aces is a straight flush, which Mr. Gold obviously doesn't have, since he has three Kings showing. To Mr. Mudd, then, it doesn't matter at all what Mr. Gold has in his hole, and it doesn't matter at all what comes up as the final card.

Mr. Gold, however, is feeling pretty good too. Really good, in fact. He knows he has four Kings, and the only way Mudd is beating him is if Mudd has another Ace-- very very low odds. Yet he knows that Mudd doesn't know he has the fourth King. All filled with his greedy vapors he is probably beside himself at what a perfect hand he has with which to bleed his opponent.

The Club Queen heard her husband's call
but Lord that Queen of Diamond's joy
when the outlaw in the heavenly hall
turned out to be her wandering boy

The fifth and final cards: the Bitch Queen joins her Asshole King and his cronies on Gold's side, and in a surprise twist, the outlaw Jack joins all those Aces of Mudd's-- the answerers and the answer to the Diamond Queen's prayers all in the same 'heavenly hall.' In this verse not much changes with the human drama between Mr. Gold and Mr. Mudd. If anything, Gold is relieved Mudd didn't get an Ace. The drama in this verse is with the cards-- the mean-ass Bitch Queen standing by her mean-ass bitch man, and the humble and penitent Diamond Queen getting all she ever hoped for. Also the direct juxtaposition of the outlaw and the angels is some classic Townes poetry, two different ways not to be part of this humdrum world of Kings and Queens and their legions.

Now Mudd he checked and Gold bet all
and Mudd he raised and Gold did call

Nice poker move by Mudd. He checks, which pretty much tells Gold he doesn't have that Ace. So of course Gold bets all, figuring he's got it made. That opens the opportunity for Mudd to raise, and Gold I guess is too stupid or too proud to imagine the reality, maybe he thinks Mudd is bluffing, maybe he's too 'pot-comitted,' maybe it's the effects of those greedy vapors, who knows, but he calls, and apparently he calls with a smile on his face, not even considering the possibility that this sorry fucker is playing him...

and the smile just melted off his face
when Mudd turned over that Diamond Ace

...but this sorry fucker is playing him.

Now here's what this story's told
if you feel like Mudd you'll end up Gold
if you feel like lost, you'll end up found
so amigo, lay them raises down.

Here it gets kind of sinister, because now that the humans' and cards' revenge stories are wrapped up, we get to the narrator of the song. On the surface it seems like he's just Greek chorus-style wrapping up an inspirational story about reversing your bad fortunes. But Townes Van Zandt was a ramblin' gamblin' kind of guy, and this story is just the sort of myth he'd want his poker opponents to believe so they'd keep playing him even when he was handing back out their asses to 'em right and left.

Weekend of May 30

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(today half-assedly in the style of I count the days)

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I bought a bike.

I ate six gourmet sandwiches with sopressata, provolone, liverwurst, mustard, miracle whip, cucumbers, lettuce, onions, prosciutto, gorgonzola, and fresh basil; fifty-three tortilla chips with salsa and guacamole, one grilled tuna steak, slightly overcooked, one salad with lettuce, spinach, goat cheese, and dressing, one banana stuffed with chocolate and grilled, one vegetarian bratwurst, one orange, one apple sliced and served with gorgonzola cheese and hot sopressata, two and a half tilapia spring rolls, one Vietnamese sandwich, and one half of a mushroom and garlic pizza.

I played tennis.

I drank four thousand forty seven beers, six cups of hot coffee, one cup of iced coffee, seven gallons of water, two shandies, one cup of tea with milk and sugar, one anise-flavored cocktail, four sips of dry sherry, one sip of sweet sherry, three sips of incredibly flat beer, three-fourths a pitcher of moderately flat beer, four glasses of orange juice mixed with club soda and ice, and the blood of six sacrificial calves.

I smoked marijuana once or twice.

I concluded that dry sherry is barely drinkable, while sweet sherry is disgusting.

I rode my new bike ten times or so.

I fell in love ten times with my new bike.

I went swimming twice, under two aliases.

I kissed someone seven times in a large men's shoe closet.

I watched two innings of several baseball games.

I did some stuff that is Private. The number of times I did the stuff is Private.

I called my parents and told them I loved them, and they told me they loved me.

I felt thankful for my loving family.

I held a lit cigarette in my hand once but did not smoke it, even a little bit.

I watched a local Iron-Chef style competition for two hours.

I coveted a friend's roast beef sandwich.

I wore pants but no underpants for three hours.

I mentioned my lack of underpants thirty-one times.

I concluded one movie I didn't like when I saw it was great after reading about it and thinking about it for a week.

I got twelve flies in my nose, seven flies in my mouth, and three flies in my eyes when I rode my new bike through two swarms of flies.

I thought about sex fourteen million three hundred thousand thirty eight times.

I felt awkward nine times.

I felt embarassed thirteen times.

I recorded three short pieces of music.

I checked the number of views on my youtube movies fourteen times.

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Jesus, keepin' stats is hard.

Which reminds me of a vernacular addendum newly introduced this weekend: 'stats' from here on out refers only to penis size. As in, hey, you know that dude? Ya, I know him. How're his stats?

I'm gonna go buy a tent.