Whatevs. My teeth hurt.

Friday, May 4th, 2007

Remember when I wrote a post about how Influenza was such a beautiful word? How it rolls sweetly off the tongue and all that tosh? Well guess what? I was WRONG! It’s an ugly, expensive word, and maybe I should also tell you that somewhere out there a wealthy doctor is just waiting to charge you $400 just to tell you that you have it. Influenza that is. And not even fix you, just tell you. $400. What is wrong with this picture?

HEALTH CARE REFORM NOW!!!

I really think I might be turning into a socialist. If I weren’t so Christian… although, I don’t understand the necessary correlation between socialism and atheism. After all, wasn’t Jesus a bit of a socialist himself? And anyway, who cares if the cost of gasoline is skyrocketing when we can all ride our bicycles around and get into better shape and kill two birds with a single stone? Which reminds me to remind you, the reader, to boycott the gas pumps on May 15th and stick it to big oil!!!

Apparently the boycott–just another in a long string of unsuccessful millions of gas boycotts–is being spread around via Myspace, which might just be the most effective vehicle for activism these days. But anyway, I heard about this particular boycott during an acidental viewing of the local “news” (any viewing of the local “news” can only be explained as an accident. No offense to the local “news.”) and the guy reporting the story was named Owen Jensen and I can’t believe I’m writing this, but he was a breath of fresh air in the world of stiflingly formulaic reporting. It seemed like he just threw the script out the window and spoke to the TV audience like we were his friends. And maybe it was just because he shares the first name, but he reminded me more than a little bit of Owen Wilson, minus the broken nose and the cowboy hat.

And speaking of original reporting, I forgot to mention that my band (The Art Table) and my art were featured in a news story by the independent online news site Green Bay Confidential. The story is here: http://greenbayconfidential.blogspot.com/2007/04/interview-with-green-bay-mayor-tom.html We’re on the second video clip, starting about halfway through.

Questions raised by the fifth psalm.

Thursday, April 26th, 2007

Psalm five, verse four: “You are not a God who takes pleasure in evil.”

If sin is so enticing, what makes it sin? Why is it evil? If it brings pleasure, why does God hate it? Meanwhile, what if we had a God who loved the pleasures of this world? Would he forget us?

The one that got away.

Saturday, April 21st, 2007

Elizabeth, this post is for you.

***

Eric Laundromat slouches in his brown easy chair. Over the years the pleather upholstery has been worn paper thin, and patches of stuffing poke through in places where the cats have opted to sharpen their claws. Six feet in front of Eric sits a small TV set which is glowing, intermittently flashing brightly, droning on at an unnecessary volume. It provides the only light in the room, and Eric’s eyes are glued to it, though his brain is disconnected. He isn’t watching–his thoughts are elsewhere. He thinks of her.

Overcome by regret, Eric lifts the can of Orange Crush to his lips and swallows it down in a single breath. It is all he has. It is a bittersweet poison. With a soul curdling cry Eric crushes the empty can between his palms and hurls it against the television screen, where a man with a black moustache is reading the news. A native Midwestern women has just been awarded a Nieman Fellowship. It’s her. He’s seen her face in the newspapers all over town, and now her face is on the screen, smiling at the world, a smile that one time could have belonged to him.

Eric Laundromat reaches for another can of soda. “I have a crush on you too,” he says mournfully, and some of his drink spills on his shirt when he opens it. And this, all of his own volition.

Quarantin-ed.

Friday, April 13th, 2007

Influenza. If you isolate the word from any kind of meaning it is actually really beautiful sounding. Influenza. It sounds romantic and Italian. Nothing at all like the virus I’ve been enduring this past week. InfluENza. It rolls off the tongue. It is remarkably pleasing to the ear. Influenza Quarantina. I can’t get over it.

Two faces.

Tuesday, April 3rd, 2007

๐Ÿ™‚

=)

Fondly.

Tuesday, March 20th, 2007

Handkerchief prophesy.

Monday, March 12th, 2007

Davis Dreckle met his fellow
doomsday prophet at a fence in the park–
It was dark–the sun yet an hour away.
“My brother,” Dreckle began to say,
“I see the world will end tomorrow;
might I today your handkerchief borrow?”
“Oh my,” his shadowy counterpart sighed,
“My friend, the world it will not end
Until every last tear has been theretofore shed.
And what do you think this handkerchief’s for?
To catch every tear before it hits floor.”
“No more! No more!” Dreckle said with a roar,
“There have been enough tears, there have been enough wars!
It’s time now for the closing score.
Tomorrow it ends so I’ll ask you again:
Will you to me your handkerchief lend?”

To which the reply came: “No.”

Darling Dreckle with his Neck all veiny from his anger thence
Grabbed his friend and shook him, pushed him backward off the fence.
“Tomorrow the world ends, but for you, today,”
a by passer heard dear Dreckle say
to his brother and friend where he now did lay.
And Dreckle departed feeling quite certain
that after tonight drawn would be the curtain.
“But will it end?” asked softly his friend
who as chance would have it, did not die.
“For there are still more tears to cry.”
And he himself shed only two
Which mingled with the morning dew,

For his handkerchief had missed them.

Jenny Lewis and the Spring Fever

Monday, March 12th, 2007

I think I should like to start a band called Jenny Lewis and the Spring Fever. It would be ideal if Jenny Lewis would agree to be the lead singer of this band, but I think we could make it work in a lesser way without her. When I was living out in California last year I actually forgot what spring fever felt like. Today it all came back to me. Oh my.

Happiness will only….

Thursday, March 8th, 2007

happen when it can.

๐Ÿ™‚

Fee Fi Fo Fum.

Sunday, March 4th, 2007

We are all quick to share our dreams because there is an understanding that we have no real control over our subconscious, so who can really blame us for the twisted stories we conjure up? Daydreams are another matter. Those are entirely willful, and more often than not they are also embarassing. But I think there is a ten year clause in which you can freely confess daydreams from one decade prior without any risk of scorn. After all, who wasn’t silly ten years ago? So now I will tell you about a strange series of daydreams I would invent when I was in middle school. Of course there were the typical daydreams involving the cute boy in class (whoever that was at the time) but I also favored another brand of daydream. These were strange. I remember daydreaming that I would wake up one morning and be a giant. Not some mythical jolly green type giant, but a normal pre-teen girl who had gone to bed measuring 5’3″ and awoken to find herself 7’3″ or thereabouts. This sounds like the premise to some campy Rick Moranis movie, but in my darling little middle school imagination it was far from it. It was a serious matter. In my daydreams the giant-me would find that, despite her unnatural growth spurt she was still required to go to school and attempt to conduct a normal social life. In my daydreams most of my friends were not disgusted by my freakishly increased stature, they were fascinated by it. It catapulted my popularity. But it was not all a glorious ascent to celebrity. Suddenly I was moved into the center position on the basketball team. The pressure on me to perform athletic heroism was very intense. Of course, why wouldn’t they expect great things of this newly mountainous girl-star? But the pressure was too much. I never asked to be this tall! I want my normal life back! Such were the angsty comments my daydream giant self would spout forth at the climax of the daydream. No one understands!

And I had complete control of my brain the entire time, as daydreamers do. I don’t understand my pre-teen self.