With Autumn and Winter, Both.

I am pretty lonely these days.

Musician seeking musicians. Requirements include:
Figurative nature
Those ab lines that indicate much sex
Willingness to show stomach
No epileptics
A resume of favorite samples
Women who already like you, or
Men who can't believe you anymore
No opposition to formula
Wear this shirt but hate it
hear shit and play it
fear love and get paid
vocals are covered
what I need is a drummer.

Bastardizer (thanks Acme)

Take this bastard:
He attends a boring school
He eats meals prepared in favor
He shits out those meals and shivers
He tramples on all the ants he'll never see
His face has all the parts apt to cry
His limbs are a boring function
His brain is just as grey
as the sky on the day
his father didn't
pull out.

I do wear a uniform.

There's a routine. It doesn't have to transpire, but its better that it does. I do, at minimum, the following:

Wake up at least 2 hours before i have to be anywhere.
shower
shave (if needed)
brush teeth
apply cologne
comb hair
get dressed:
---button up shirt & Dickies if school day
---t-shirt & Dickies if work day
---1460 Dr. Martens
Prepare and Eat oatmeal
Take daily vitamin
Smoke a cigarette
Visualize the day

The rest just happens. But if i can perform these tasks in this order, my day, no matter how it turns out, seems more approachable.

Summer Plans

This summer hopes to be a tangled one. School, for the first time ever, has taken a seat amongst the perennial contenders debate and work as measures of focus. Before, it made little sense to devote off time to school. The time for school will provide for itself, or so i thought. Its clear now that if i want to be a writer, or if want something of substance- define that as you will- after i graduate then i had better understand the damned discipline. I'm lucky enough to know a professor willing to take time out of her schedule to speak with me about writing and literature. Ask anyone who the most well-read person they know is and no one will say me. Nor should they. Reading was difficult for me. I lost concentration. My mind drifted out of the text. A incidental phrase would snag me and wouldn't allow me to move on. I've become a more disciplined reader now, but not to my satisfaction. This summer is about becoming a better reader. The rest of my life can be about becoming a better writer. The aforementioned professor once said something along the lines of 'Some people want to become without the becoming'. That resonated with me like nothing she'd ever said. This summer is a becoming.

Why do I want to write? There's a girl and right now, i just want to write about her. But i wouldn't know where to begin or, more importantly, conclude. The situation is a unique and unexpected experience. I've combed over nearly 12 years of online diary keeping i've done, and in particular, entries about the girls i've had interests in. The cliche, the redundancy, the narrative droning can all be explained or excused by inexperience. What is true about each of those entries was a sincere desire to want to share how I felt about someone to other people; people that would understand me and be happy for me. The difference between love stories and others is that love stories want to be understood to a greater degree. Abstraction works elsewhere.

So, I can't write how i feel about her very well. Telling her how I feel, and have felt, is just as hard. So i'll leave it at this: we will spend time together in a daring capacity. I hope that everyone that reads this can do the same.

I’ve been in 3 car wrecks. None of them have been serious. No matter the severity, I always seem to ask myself the same question when I step out to confront the other motorist: what is happening? It is not as if I don’t know what just happened or how it happened. But even a 20 mile per hour fender bender is a pretty violent jolt. Its always followed by a consuming silence and the question “what is happening?”

I didn’t know Vince Binder. He was a debater like me; a much better debater. His record speaks for itself. I’ve been following the news on his disappearance closely. I’m still not entirely sure if he is gone forever, but all evidence indicates as much. This year, I have dodged every bullet. College debate is a collection of puzzled personalities that shine back at one another, the glimmer which only other debaters can perceive and are inexplicably drawn toward, despite the distance such light creates at times. Ross Smith, Scott Deatherage, and Doug Duke died earlier in the debate season. Like Vince, I didn’t know them except through reputation. Each of their deaths was a violent jolt to our communal sensibility. What is happening?

This year we debated whether the reduction of nuclear weapons was desirable. Some teams, including myself, forwarded arguments negating the value of human life. After all, we can’t determine if death is good or bad if we don’t know whether a particular incarnation is worth preserving. Could I speak those same arguments to the Binder family, as if they do not know the value of a specific life? Could I even portray that as an option in everyday conversation? The answer to both questions is, without a doubt, no. The act of debating requires that we take much for granted. When my arguments stare me in the face, who blinks first? It’s a game. We play a game. But we just happen to play a game that implicates our being. Winning or losing a chess game does not make me a liar.

I am paused at the humanity portrayed by the debate community in lieu of these events. Sometimes I wonder if we are as sympathetic as we should be. There are times when we are the coldest group of individuals I’ve ever encountered. Not today, though. Must we lose more in order to understand more of ourselves? I hope not. My sanity would not last long if my debate partners, coaches or friends died unexpectedly. Needless to say, mystery clouding such a tragedy would keep me stuttering.

What is happening? It’s a sadness; a frustration and confusion at that which cannot be explained by deductive or inductive logic. The medium through which I rationalize the world collapses, and I know, too, that many others grapple with the understanding part. It is human to want to beat the bark off a tree with a baseball bat when nothing makes sense. He was so young, he was so innovative, he was a champion, he was my mentor, he was a friend and now…they aren’t? no. The barkless tree is proof of that.

What has happened? I stood, dazed in the street, cars zipping by, heads crooked to the scene as two cars lay smoking in the intersection of Rock and Harry Street. I see her, speaking to a child in the backseat. Both looked about each other, collecting evidence that the other is whole and functioning and still theirs. They sat at the side of the road and cradled their heads in their arms. I moved toward them. In a moment, she spoke to me in Spanish. She had the same question as me: are you ok? I don’t speak Spanish; don’t need to in order to understand. We hug tightly adjacent to wreckage. We’re together, faultless and alive.

Television Courtroom Strategy

If you tune into Fox at any time between 10 AM and 5 PM, you'll find a block of programming dedicated to the judicial system. These shows feature plaintiffs and defendants seeking justice without the assistance of attorneys for small, civil disputes. The judges are all certified adjudicators and feel like day time drama is the best way to put their years of extensive research on law into practice. If at some point in the future you wish to exact restitution, and believe that a television courtroom is the best route, here are some tips to ensure that justice is quickly served:

1. Be sure to bring pictures and documents. They don't have to pertain to the case at hand; in fact, they don't have to incriminate anyone for any reason. They simply have to be "telling of character". Surely your opponent has been pictured with guns, bandannas, booze or flaky women. Enlarge them to a big enough size so that the judge can clearly see that they are worthless people, even if it has nothing to do with your scratched Corolla.

2. Strength in numbers. Bring family members or friends that can attest to your moral fortitude. If the other side brings the above pictures, you'll need a rebuttal and your word won't cut it.

3. Middle of the road, you get squashed. If your opponent wears a double breasted, pin-stripe or a classy pant suit, your best option is an un-tucked Tommy Hilfiger shirt and gold necklace (imitation gold is fine. The judge won't know the difference). TV judges often conflate plaintiffs and defendants, so its good to keep their confusion to a minimum. This strategy also allows you to point out that "they're just trying to impress you. Typically they wear diapers and moo-moos (have picture handy)." If you are the one wearing the suit, then be sure and expound on the opposition's lack of tact and respect for the court.

4. Don't prepare your opening argument. 'Like' and 'um' are two of the most versatile words in the English language. They add flavor and character to your statement. Repeatedly referring to the opposition as a habitual liar and cheat drives your point home. The only thing you really need is the exact time and date of the crime in question. How else will the judge know which act is being discussed?

5. Being young is a good enough excuse. Battery is acceptable in most states for those under 17 years of age (give or take ten years). As long as you've grown up, no one can blame you for it.

6. Interrupt. Don't let them get away with that shit. This show is only 30 minutes long and justice must be served. Respond as if your enemy is speaking directly to you and not addressing the court. Judges find this to be a bold strategy and will reward you with praise. At the very least, blurt "lies" every time you hear one muttered by the opposition. The judge is keeping a tally, and if you can say "lies" more times than they can make points, you win.

7. Argue with the judge. There is a theme developing here: judges don't like push-overs. They are extremely understanding people who make decisions based on how well you handle yourself. Given this, they really can't stand people who don't assert their righteousness at every turn. Its a sign of weakness. I mean, you swore to tell the truth, right?

8. Don't sign shit. This is more of a pre-court preparation strategy. If you need to co-sign for a Honda, a loan for new tits, a lease or any other contract, then just make it verbal. No one can pin you to that.

9. So you've won, now what? Collect your money, of course! In the post-show interview, its important to continue the proceedings as if a decision was not rendered. Establish that "our [you + opponent] relationship is over". This allows you to, in the future, add harassment and emotional distress to the list of charges. After all, YOU said it was over. It can't be your fault if they run into your knife.

10. Upon returning to the courtroom for a second trial, make sure you are noticeably better-off than you were the first appearance: a nail job, clean shaven, a white t-shirt underneath the un-tucked Tommy Hilfiger shirt. Its all about appearance. After that, just follow the steps again, and you're guaranteed a ruling in your favor.

spin the shooter. he can't be human. we cannot be like him. he is conviction without restraint. he is proportionate, at the most. the weapons are still weapons. he will torture everything. his family is disappointed. if he can't reform he is without meaning. he gave up his home, career, wife and family for conviction. Despite this,he is still wrong. He is still lost. He is not what i will be. Trust me.

Debate History: Patty Duke Episode

The Patty Duke Show- Patty The Chatterbox.

The Winter Sticks

Its now February and my heart is in a few scattered places. One piece is definitely here where I sit; a dark living room at 6:45 in the morning, wondering how well she sleeps. She is beyond patient. Another piece is with my family and particularly my father, whose loving voice bleeds into my thoughts. He is well by all accounts but i miss him. He worries for me. Beside him is my mother. She is feeling the days pass, not merely witnessing, and it frightens her. My sister and niece are gaining momentum. They move along together. My friends in Emporia keep a piece of me, as they hasten their departure. They are not lost but they believe they are.

The winter has been harsh. It has brought with it trouble the likes of which i have not dealt with before. It is not a crushing defeat, but its not easy either. So for the first time I dream of the April sun to mark another year not dead and the possibility that my heart, strewn across the state of Kansas, is no less whole in their hands.

debate

A lot of people I know say they are addicted to debate. Either they are financially, nostalgically, socially, competitively, or otherwise addicted to some degree. I too have always thought of debate as an addiction. More like a pattern of addiction. It kicks me. I kick it. Tried reading poetry out loud to people as a kind of methadone treatment. It wasn't the same at all. Poems are not good arguments. They are pretty and moving, but not good arguments most of the time. There is a difference between beautiful and correct. Its just boring. So i came back to debate again and to finish an unfinished job. To live life with debate until i am spent, confused, bored, disenchanted, losing all the time, unhealthy or dead. And along those lines, I’ve always envisioned my last moments with debate as an overdose. But man will that last hit feel good. The best. I can’t wait.

sex tips from the town whore

Dear Lucy,

My boyfriend often wants to have sex in the doggish style position. Does this mean he doesn't like the way my face looks? Also, is barking apart of? because he does that.

Thanks,

Fredonia Black

------

Freddy,

All positions require barking. I'm not sure what you mean by doggish style. I'm guessing you mean when they just leave afterwords like dogs do. Use peanut-butter. it works for both species. The face doesn't really matter, because they're going to spit and punch it eventually anyway. this is just how sex works.

good luck

Lucy

It seems appropriate that the gallery chuckled. Amidst a confrontation, the hard hearts in observation work through their own hesitation to speak. Whether they be sampling a strain in affection or a plain chord split within anger in themselves, they want not to cripple their tongues, but be limp at will, be held and still, and dynamic so that our option to rest persists. All while he shuns, i spin, and cry out to the gallery to take arms against me for him, the poor soul. I poorer still.

"i'm only crying because i do not have any good stories of him", she said weeping at a funeral.

Walking Stiffs

We were shuffling around the body, surveying for a reasonable entry point for his knife. “Goddam’. It stinks already.” I said, leveraging my wrist against my nose, kitchen knife in hand. Mom isn’t happy about my knife choice. It’s the only knife sharp enough to do the job. That knife, a Paula Dean collector’s edition de-boner, was meant to carve the turkey tomorrow morning; after tonight, its conversation piece.

“The longer we wait, the worse it will get. Just…just cut here and start removing whatever we can.” Stephan said, making use of his elder brother status while he still could.

We lifted the head, inspecting the neck’s girth. The knife looked more like a spoon with every attempted dead lift. How this poor creature died was beyond our understanding, but no one else had volunteered to remove it. No one else was strong enough.

“Good bye, Milky.” Said Stephan. “You were a good horse and I know little Beth Silver is going to miss you an awful lot”. We stood there wishing the horse would evaporate into the air, and knowing it wouldn’t. It was cold, and neither of us thought to put on a hat. How long could dead horse disposal take anyway? What started as a refreshing prick of cold on a well warmed nose became an impossible bite. Resolved to displace Milky, we moved.

“Jordie, that knife’s not going to do us any good. Let’s get the shovels from the barn. Bring some plastic bags, too. I’ll run and get some lye from the hardware store”. Stephan had a plan, thank god. But I’m sure Milky had plans too. Plans often fall short.

“Dummy. It’s Christmas eve. Ain’t no one in town is going to be open, ‘cept the bar.” I said. “and dad said to never go ‘round there again”.

“Well, we don’t have much of a choice, now do we? Dad ain’t here and we need lye. You get those supplies and I’ll ask around the bar for anyone with some lye. Let’s just get this done, alright?”

Stephan entered the bar and saw the usual crew: the farmers that lost everything, their women, the women that lost their precious everything and the men that stayed with them through it all. Desperate souls, useful for those willing to pay.

“10 dollars for anyone who will help bury a dead horse!” Shouted Stephan over the juke box.

“buy me 10 dollars in drinks right now and I’ll help you” slurred a man at the bar.

After the drinks, they piled themselves into the truck, mindful of the snow starting to fall. The man was disheveled and stunk of rye whiskey. His five o’clock shadow was running 3 hours fast and he broke wind with every bump in the road. The lye was at the co-op elevator. They put three bags onto the flat bed and headed towards the barn again.

“You’re Henry’s boy, Stephan, ain’t ya’?”

“Yes sir. Now, this horse has been dead a few hours. Its cold and stiff, so we figure moving it is not an option. All we need is your help with the lye and the digging and we’ll get you back to…where ever it is you’d like to go.”

I was standing next to the horse, a hat and bandanna newly adorned, waiting as the headlights swept across the barren grass field and approached. I was anxious to start digging. Stephan stepped out and approached slowly, dusting off snow that had gathered on the headlights. The man stumbled out of the car and clumsily picked up the lye. I squinted and shaded my eyes from the glare.

“This gentleman got us some lye, he’ll help us”, said Stephan. “He smells as bad as the horse, but he’s got the lye, so…”.

The further we dug, the harder the soil became. At only a foot or so deep, and after two hours of digging, all three of us sat and reassessed. The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, offering one to each of us.

“Hey mister. Why ain’t you with your family tonight? Don’t you celebrate Christmas?” I said, reaching for the offered smoke.

“Don’t you even think about it, youngin’”, said Stephan. “Grammy can’t speak because of those things. And let the man be, he’s doing us a favor”.

“This diggin’s gettin’ to my back, boys. I’m going to lay in the truck a while”. Said the man, pushing his body out of the shallow grave, wobbling into the truck.

“…we got the lye. I knew he was only good for that”, quipped Stephan. “He knows dad somehow. He mentioned him by name in the car.”

The cabin of the truck was steaming with the heat of the drunkard’s body. The windows were a matte finish and the man’s head lay tilted against the frame, mouth agape.

Stephan sighed and blew out a plume of breath into the air. “That bar is the bane of this town, I tell you. Nothing good ever comes out of there. Just a bunch of hard livers and bygones”, he said.

“That ain’t no shit, either”, I said. “Them boys get there at 11 in the morning and don’t leave until 2 in the morning. Everyday. I tried booze a couple times. I could see how someone could fall in love with it”.

That notion put Stephan at a distance. His eyes were wide and he stared for a minute while I picked at the ground with my shovel. He collected himself and pulled me close to him with one hand, yanking the collar of my coat around my neck. “Listen, Jordie. First the cigarettes and now booze. You’re talking like you and I don’t come from the same family. You remember harvest? We lost 10 grand in grain because Billy was too drunk to put out his cigarette properly. Nearly burned our entire crop. That example right there should be enough to keep you away from both.”

“Damn, steff. I just said I understood them. I didn’t say I wanted to be them. Maybe you should take a swig of that old man’s flask and fall in line”.

“Piss-ant. Let’s get this done already.”

We started to dig again and after a while made a sizable hole. Deep enough to bury Milky for a night, until we could get some of the boys down the road to help us dispose of it properly and until Beth came to know its passing. The hole was adjacent to the back of the horse, assuming we could roll it into the grave. But Milky’s weight was too much for two teenage boys to bare.

“That old drunk’s been asleep long enough. We need his help”, I said, dropping the hind legs, which struck the ground like stiffened rope. The window’s had cleared by that point, which struck me as odd. I pounded on the hood of the car and hollered “Wake up, Clementine! Santa’s here, you rosy-cheeked bastard”. Stephan’s laughter in the background prompted more harassment. “…looks like he put some Wild Turkey in your stocking, you piss bathed handle slugger”.

Stephan grew impatient and snapped, mid-giggle “Just wake him up, already. We ain’t got all night.”

The cab door flew open at my release of the handle, and out tumbled the man’s body. His skin had yellowed and his breathing had stopped. I pushed him a few times, but to no avail. A check of his pulse confirmed that the bum had died not too long ago.

“He’s dead, Stephan. Old man bit it, right here in our truck”. I said, stepping away from the body.

Stephan didn’t say a word as he approached, bright eyed and shovel in hand. He removed his gloves and put ear to his chest. He listened for what seemed an eternity for a heart beat that would never come. Without hesitation, he slowly stood up and handed me a shovel.

“Do you know this man?” Stephan said.

“No.”

“Check his wallet.”

“He’s from Nebraska. McCook. About 50 miles north of here.”

“Well, lets get to work. Its already 2 and we don’t have much time.”

Thesis

1. The implicit understanding of all web and technology based companies is that their progress is unlimited. Efficiency, applicability and ease-of-use are constantly expanding to encompass more of our lives with minimal effort.

2. Social-networking is an extension of this. The more efficient it becomes, the more inclusive it becomes. No generation hereafter will be without it, absent cataclysms ,which, for the purpose of this exercise, will not be assumed.

3. As inclusion increases, the public-private dichotomy shrinks.

This means a few things:

1. Accountability is absolute. Politicians, celebrities and- to a lesser extent- non public figures, are held to documented statements, media, and criticism that are ever more invasive.

2. Government becomes the mediator. Regulation of the internet will become more apparent as its effect on the character of citizens become evermore entwined within its scheme.

3. This is a direct reflection of capitalism's method of dispersal, with both good and bad, ethical and unethical implications. Its distinction from traditional capitalism, however, is in the level of intrusion.

In short, as we document our lives on the web, we hold ourselves forever accountable to a technology that we trust in, depend on and must answer to.

how is this different from slavery?


thoughts on this would be appreciated.

Grames

False. the idea that we all get what is needed. True. The breaking down of truth beyond explanation. If there is only a self, then there is only the self righteous. We've been de-toxing for 2,000 years. Save the romantics, no one knows how to follow protocol. And if we did, we would save ourselves the trouble. Love you. Love the rest. We crave to know the extent of the literature. That heroes whine. That villans learn their lesson. And so too the grateful. If toxic, in their anthem, they smell of apple pie, we fight a righteous battle, and to the victor we be holden.

Shared Sacrifice

Stop pretending to listen and read and fucking listen and read. www.sharedsacrifice.us

+ podcasts nightly
+ The Reverend Lucius Lipstern
+ The state of the U.S of A

Levity is an example of a movie about constantly dropping dimes on fools.

Now morgan freeman is sensuously stroking a trumpet.
Now billy bob has a speech.
His q and a is bombing.
And morgan was always right.

Favorite Names:

Boys-
Abe
Ichibod
Drexin
Sam
Tracy
Demitri

Girls-
Ione
Rita
Billy-Jo
Lillian


i wonder if she will want these names. or if she knows that she will have to negotiate with me over what to name a person. because as much as i try to avoid it, someday the only thing i will be good at is being a father and that's fine by me.