Monday, July 20, 2015
Thursday, February 25, 2010
So, if you managed to hang on this long, things are finally going to change for the better (he says with a politician's smile)!
This is... what... the third time I've left this place? the first was to go to Vox, but I never really liked it there. The second was to try my own blogging deal at fizzleandpop.com but the software I was using made updating a chore. I'm pretty sure that makes this the third, which should make it the charm.
I'm hosting the WP site at the burned and salted ground of fizzleandpop.com. That's right. I tore that bitch apart! All gone, all gone. No great loss. I'll be able to update the new F&P from my phone.
I'll leave the bones of the original F&P here, in the sun, to age and fade as it will.
I hope to see you at the new place.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
The other day I saw an old man – he looked to be in his 70s or 80s – walking up Academy Blvd. He still had a jaunty – if slow – step, so life must not have been too cruel to him overall. He also had on a new pair of jeans. Yes, jeans. Jeans with the cuffs rolled up. About six inches worth of rolled cuffs. Why would he do that? I know why. Because he used to be taller. At least six inches taller. Gravity's a bitch.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
I think I figured out old man pants. You know, the pants that are worn belted about five inches above your belly button. Here's what I figure:
From the time I entered the Air Force back in 1987 until now I've always bought size 30 length pants. It's locked in my head that it's the proper size for me in the same way that my shoes are a 9 1/2. Never-you-mind the waist size. That's always changing and never for the better. I look forward to the day when I'll eventually be twice as round as my legs are long. I'll have a cake to celebrate! The... whole... fucking... cake. Candles and all. Won't even blow them out. The spit'll get 'em, and blowing cuts into eating time.
Anyhow. The last three pairs of pants that I've bought have all been labeled (a number I'm not sharing) x 30. All three are too long. By at least an inch or so. I'm freaking shrinking. Or my legs are. Maybe I'm staying the same height but my spine is stretching and my pelvis is falling groundward. I don't know. I'm not a scientist! All I know is something's amiss.
So I'm having to hike them up a bit higher than normal. I figure this is what happens to old men. Ears, ear hair and nose hair grows; legs shrink. But we don't want to let go of that magic number that we achieved and memorized in our 20's. We think, "If I buy shorter pants then they'll be TOO SHORT and I'll look like an IDIOT! I know I'm a size 30, goddammit!" This, in spite of the fact that we are walking on the cuffs of the new pants. We can't put on a pair of the old ones just to check because the waist doesn't fit... for some reason. Mmmm. Cake.
So, we keep hiking up the pants until it no longer feels wrong, secure in the knowledge that the size is right. Sure, our junk is getting squished all the time, but you get used to that as well. Tighty-whiteys helped pave the path there. Besides, in a few years you won't need your junk anymore anyway. Before you know it, your belt is five inches above your belly button, you're walking funny, can no longer pee due to crushed plumbing, and kids are shaking their heads at you and wondering if you have any idea how stupid you look. Fuck you junior! Just you wait 'til YOUR legs start shrinking! Asshole.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Jonathan Franklin, the defendant, is on the stand, shifting a bit, sweating a bit. Eyes dart around, looking at the jury, the lawyers, the audience. The prosecutor moves into the foreground.
Prosecutor: "Your Honor, members of the Jury, you've heard the witnesses, seen the evidence presented so far, and have possibly already arrived at your conclusions. However I received new evidence this morning that will remove any doubt in your mind as to Jonathan Franklin's guilt."
He turns around and lifts a boombox from its place on the table, turns back and speaks to the defendant.
Prosecutor: "Mr. Franklin... get up and dance!"
Defense: "I object! Your Honor, this has no bearing on the case whatsoever!"
Prosecutor: "All will be clear within minutes your Honor!"
HizHonor: "I'll allow it."
Prosecutor: "You heard the judge Mr Franklin... shake your booty."
The prosecutor hits play on the boombox, and 'I Like Big Butts' fills the courtroom. Mr. Franklin reluctantly rises, moves in front of the bench and gets down the best he can. It's pretty pitiful. A fair amount of shuffling, awkward starts and stops, and twice he bumps into the stenographer. The prosecutor stops the music at the part where Sir Mix-A-Lot is offering his opinion on silicone parts.
Prosecutor: "That will be all Mr. Franklin. You may return to the stand. Your Honor, members of the Jury, as you can plainly see," points at Mr. Franklin, "GUILTY FEET HAVE GOT NO RHYTHM!"
Pandemonium erupts, the judge bangs his gavel, Mr. Franklin jumps to his feet and starts shouting.
Franklin: "No! NO! I'm white! White I tell you! It proves NOTHING!"
The bailiffs rush forward and subdue Mr. Franklin, removing him from the courtroom as he kicks, screams and spits. The prosecutor stands with his arms folded looking mighty smug and humming about big butts.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
... you know why? As was revealed in a recently discovered ancient scroll found in the desert among the dunes and what-have-you, on the 8th day, God had snacks. Among the snacks was THE Banana. The first, the biggest, the proto-banana. King Banana. Seriously, it was huge. Still not totally rested from those six days of frenzied making of everything there was, after eating THE Banana He tossed the peel over His shoulder. He spaketh, "I'll create someone to pick that up later," to nobody in particular, decided it was good, stretched, yawned and took a nap. Unfortunately, the peel lay right in the path where Time marches. Thus, Time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping.
I have another deign up for voting at SplitReason.