In the hoopla associated with being at work yesterday, I was remiss in my duties as a blogger, in recognizing the passing of former United States Senator Jesse Helms.
It’s a bit disconcerting, though, to find out that a majority of Americans actually spent yesterday celebrating freedom, justice, and brotherhood.
I can’t imagine Senator Helms would approve of that sort of subversive behavior.
As you can see, I have transmogrified “Screaming at the Top of My Brain” into “Cranial Effluence” as the theme for this blog. Not only is it tighter, but, upon reflection, I must admit that as soon as I typed those words in the inaugural entry, I knew that’s what I should have named the blog. It’s certainly more of an indicator as to what the reader can expect to find here in my little corner of the universe.
That’s not to say that you’ll experience a decline in the excellent service that you’ve come to expect here. Nay, nay! I’ve forgone having the letterhead and business cards reprinted, and passed the savings on to you. Aren’t you lucky?!
And just in time for our grand reopening, I’ve added a few friends to the Olde Blogge Roll (just look to the right….there ya go). Walk In Brain is penned by college buddy Wes, a fiery liberal spirit, Indiana’s Favorite Son (in Bizzarro Universe anyway) and the newest assistant professor of music theory at Clayton State University in Georgia.
And in this corner, from Lexington, Kentucky, by way of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, multimedia guru, cyclist extraordinaire, all around good guy and co-worker, and the newest bionic man Greg. He offers his nuggets of wisdom at his blog, PuttPuttSpeedway. If you like cycling, you’ll find it a good read.
Enjoy.
I thought long and hard about writing something meaningful, serious, and introspective about the meaning of Independence Day, but I’m sick to death of feeling as though I’m mourning my “American-ness” rather than celebrating it. And I’m tired of the notion that if I don’t walk around with a dour expression on my face, fearing for my own life, the terrorists somehow win.
So, I’ll simply say that today we celebrate a group of folks who, more than 230 years ago, crafted a document that basically said, “Suck it, George.” And what’s more, they signed their names to it. Long story short, their bravery all those years ago allows me to write, “Suck it, George” in an open forum such as this without fear of reprisal from my government.
I realize there’s a certain irony to using the phrase “Suck it, George”©, and that using it nowadays might indicate some ill will toward the present administration. But rest assured I would never take such advantage of my freedom of speech by writing “Suck it, George”® so indiscriminately. After all, a phrase like “Suck it George”, while edgy, does not do much to raise the level of debate in this country. “Suck it, George”™ is argumentative without being substantive. And I would never force this administration to kneel stoop to such levels.
They know how I feel about them. As to how they feel about me…
I think they know what they can do with that.
P.S. Tonight’s feature will be “1776″ starring William “KITT” Daniels, James “I was the Governor on ‘Benson’” Noble, and Howard da Silva. Funny story…da Silva was blacklisted for more than a decade, the result of being “named” during a HUAC committee hearing. He went on to play Benjamin Franklin in the stage and film versions of 1776. That’s gotta be the epitome of the American Dream!
I’ve recently come to a rather grave conclusion about myself.
I’d be a horrible Jedi.
The power of the Force would be a waste on me. Blessed with the ability to command an invisible energy field to bend to my will, I’d most likely use it to summon the television remote control or open a can of beer (not a bottle, of course, because being a Jedi is all about sacrifice).
The lure of the Sith would be too much to resist. I’d turn to the dark side in a second. Of course, even then I’d be as horrible a Sith lord as I would a Jedi. Oh, sure. I’d engage in Sith hijniks: convincing store clerks that they still owed me five bucks in change, using my telekinesis to cause spontaneous wardrobe malfunctions, choking my enemies with nothing but a gesture of my black-gloved hand.
Which has gotten me thinking about the balance sheet between the Jedi and the Sith. What do you really get for your “membership” in the Order of the Jedi? A life of servitude, poverty, and (dare I say it) chastity. As for upward mobility, forget it. It’s about as hard to move up in the Jedi Order as it is to get to graduate from the folding card table to the solid oak table at Thanksgiving.
And when you do, then what? Yoda’s been a master for 800 years or so. Did he ever get a vacation? Is he racking up funds in his 401(k)? Is there even a retirement plan?
Apparently not. We never did see the retirement wing of the Jedi Temple. They probably take your lightsaber away from you and give you a job putting books away in the library.
Now, the Sith on the other hand…
They keep the overhead down by recruiting candidates that are already trained….by the competition no less. Upward mobility is simple: if you want a promotion, you have to kill your boss. Compensation is pretty much whatever you want to take. Let’s face it, a guy who can conjure lightning from his fingers is probably not going to have to wait for a table, much less pay the bill, at Ruth’s Chris. Retirement? You keep your eye on some poor schmuck at the Jedi Temple who seems to be spending a lot of time in the waiting room outside the Council Chambers with the other misfits. Put the balance sheet in front of him and make him an offer he can’t refuse.
Of course, there’s that unavoidable bit about what to do when he gets overly ambitious, but you’re a Sith Lord. You’ll figure something out.
“What’s that humming noise? Ouch! Hey! Why are my arms on the floor?”
Walked on the California coast.
Aided and abetted streakers.
Got busy in a Burger King bathroom. (“Is he joking? Is he?“)
Told you what happened to your father, Luke.
Watched a six-year-old kid light up.
Where’s that black Sharpie when I need it?
Yeah. Last night, Julia and I were at a nice gathering at one of the community parks. Friends of ours were performing at an informal fundraiser for the park’s community center. Folks from the surrounding neighborhood turned out in force. It was not our neighborhood, but I felt a great swell of civic pride.
Until I saw this kid walk past puffing on a cigarette he had just gotten from his dad.
I still have a bruise on the bottom of my chin from where my jaw dropped to the pavement.
To the kid’s credit, he lit his own smoke. I marvel at the idea of what might become of a lighter in the hands of an industrious young man with a can-do attitude like that. I’m sure one day he’ll go as far as the hose on his oxygen tank will let him.
So let’s do this…
Watched a six-year-old kid light up.
And we’ll move on to the next item…
I never paid more than four dollars per gallon for gasoline.
Stay tuned.
Even desperate Mini-Meeees do it! *
Folks, that’s as clever as it gets on a Friday afternoon.
* With apologies to the estate of Cole Porter. Please do not sue me.
To fans of my previous blog, welcome back. I’m sure both of you will have no trouble finding a place to sit.
To potential new fans, welcome. Try the brie.
I’m a journalist writer by trade, so it stands to reason that the last thing I want to do with my copious free time is to engage in a craft for which I’m paid. Indeed, my freelance writing rate is fifteen cents a word, and I’ll edit whatever you throw my way for twenty bucks an hour. Make no mistake. I like to be paid for my effort. In fact the only difference between myself and a prostitute is that I don’t have a long line of clients waiting to jump into bed with me.
Anymore.
As it happens though with writers, over time our heads fill with useless crap, and the resultant cranial effluence is not worth fifteen cents a word to anyone, except in the most bizarre set of circumstances; circumstances of which, at the moment, I am unable to even conceive an adequate example.
Just imagine that this blog is a clearing house for my thoughts that don’t really have anywhere else to go and hang out. It’s like that locally made commercial. You know the one. Where the guy who owns the business does his own commercials. He bought too many of the 2008 widgets and he needs to make room for the 2009 widgets. “Everything must go!” he shouts at you, accompanied by hand gestures that don’t make sense, but that he practiced for hours in front of a mirror.
That’s the gist of it. I’ve gotta move this crap out of my melon to make room for stuff that someone might actually pay for. And I’m giving it to you, dear readers, for the bargain price of zero.
Act now, and I’ll throw in a photo of me with comedy legend Tim Conway.
And a sound recording of myself singing along with good friend (and even better sport) Dr. Trina Jones.
But I will not stoop so low as to shamelessly plug my day job as internet content editor of ThoroughbredTimes.com.
I will try to update this whenever I can, but would implore you, dear readers, to appreciate that this quality of crap does not happen overnight, nor does it write itself. My excuse credo has always been, “quality rather than quantity.”
Except, of course, when I’m being paid by the word. Then, I’m a superfluous whore.
Enjoy.
