Sorry I've been Gone,Now I'm back

I realized this morning that I was done a great disservice by my education. I was betrayed by those that I trusted most: my parents, my teachers, my ministers, and even my coaches. In elementary school, I was taught to memorize the speeches of my famous fellow Virginians; I learned the words of Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry in the way some of my classmates learned the Pledge of Allegiance. I was particularly fond of Henry; there is something terribly romantic about his demands for “Liberty or Death”. I would daydream myself standing in Henry’s place, and declaiming loudly, “Gentlemen may cry Peace, Peace—but there is no peace.” I would bare my chest to the bullets I imagined would follow, and slip into wide wonder at the thought that my blood might nourish the Republic. And that was the disservice done me. I was taught that we live in a Republic, a bond of people gathered together by a common faith in Freedom and Liberty, a boundless realm of ideas that united all who held these beliefs as one people, regardless of geography or race. But that is not true. I was born into America, a country bound by oceans and fear. I was born into a country of isolationist businessmen, so concerned with their property and petty lives that they can be conned into giving up their rights by a few savages with box cutters. The President of this nation is not a Republican, no matter how much he may claim to be—he is an American, and Imperialist, and his faith is in the Flag, not the Constitution. Some may claim that I’m being an alarmist, and that I am too quick to criticize the path we are taking. And to that I reply with Henry’s words, “... it is natural to man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts.”

Here, my fellow citizens, is the painful truth. We are being slowly deprived of our Liberty. Every year the Government turns up the heat a little more, and we take no notice. Before long, we’ll be boiled, and wonder how it happened. Senators, Congressmen, Justices, I beg you. We have placed you in power to protect us—perhaps that was our mistake. But I implore you to live up to your sacred responsibilities, and check the increase of central power. Call into question the provisions of the Patriot Act, and denounce domestic spying programs. Cast off the chains of signing statements that seek to sap your words of any power. If you will pardon a little Latin, “Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?” Who watches the Watchmen? You do, and we do, and if you do not remember that soon, it may be time to remember another bit of jargoned Latin our Founders used to mutter—Sic Semper Tyrannis.

Seriously, I dress like this all the time now.

Reporting for party

I am a golden God!

Halloween

Allow me to make one thing abundantly clear. This title is not introducing a topic. I am not going to sit here and talk about the awesomeness of Halloween. Sure, I could talk about the fact that I bought 10 pounds of candy for the kids in the neighborhood, or regale you with tales of how I shaved my head and dressed up as the Buddha (pictures to follow); I won't even talk about how I feel a real connection to the denizens of the underworld (my students) during Halloween, and love nothing better than to watch movies that involve slaying of the denizens of the underworld (students more generally).

All I'm saying is Halloween is freakin awesome. And that's that.

What am I doing at the moment? NOTHING. Actually, I'm doing less than nothing. I'm proctoring an exam. There may be nothing more mind-numbingly boring than proctoring an exam. At least when you're taking the exam there's that rush of adrenaline, that fear, that desperate attempt to picture in your mind, now so besotted with facts, that one image of the answer that eludes the edges of your consciousness. All I do is try to keep people from cheating.
Not that I think there's anything wrong with that. Personally, I think cheaters should be impaled. Vlad had it best. But this test there's little to no way to cheat on (unless these kids are ungodly smart, in which case they wouldn't be taking this class in the first place) and I feel somewhat useless.

Useless, and playing chess.

Come to think of it, I'm being paid an ungodly amount an hour to play chess here. And I'm not even winning that much.

Ok, Ok, enough kvetching. I sat down to write, so I'll give you a couple stories. One from when my friends Frank and Christine came up for Ian's birthday, and one from last weekend, when Frank called me.

1
I don't remember if I've mentioned Frank "Bulldog" Wells before on this blog, but the nickname should give you the idea. He's one of my good friends from college, and he was on the Sabre Team with me all 4 years. We were pretty much sparring partners the entire time, and as sparring partners sometimes get, we were both very close and very combative. We've mellowed out some now, and I think we both find it even easier to hang out now. It's that sort of brother thing. Christine is pure anti-southern belle, which means she was raised in the culture, uses the mannerisms, and twists the whole god-awful thing to her own ends. The other characters in this story have been mentioned before. That's why I have archives. Read some, illiterati.

We were all piling in my 89 Chevy Caprice Classic (burgundy, named Gertie) to go to breakfast after a night out for Ian's birthday. Ian, Jeff, Christine, Frank, Rachel, and Myself. The car was packed in tighter than teenieboppers at Dashboard Confessional concert. Ian, at this point, decided to tell me how to drive. I HATE being told how to drive and, truth be told, I decided to show off a bit. So instead of driving back out of the driveway, I gun it around the back of the house. It's a clear path, and we drove in this way when we moved the guys in, so I know that I have room to play a bit. I pick up a bit of speed around the back and notice that there is a driveway (neighbor's) directly in front of me, so I decide to cut through it.

In retrospect, I should have paid more attention to the lumpy line of "clay" next to the driveway.

We bump over the edge of the driveway and out into the street. The car feels like we're dragging a kid.

We get out to see my tire's flat. Apparently that "clay" was a line of close cut bushes. Now, I have to be honest. I was a little miffed. But only a little. I actually found the whole thing hilarious, particularly when Jeff exclaimed (and I swear the italics are his) "Why do we do this to ourselves and the things we own? We aren't even drunk!!!". And I sort of enjoy changing tires. It makes me feel like a man. Sad but true. These chances to break the routine of life come by very rarely, and yes, it was expensive to get the tire (the damn thing looked grated, made me kind of hungry) replaced, but I was wondering what to do with that money anyway.

It's strange, but I enjoyed it. And we all had a good laugh.

2.

I was sitting at dinner listen to Ian whine about how his whole body was in pain. Normally I'm pretty concerned when my friends are writhing about in agony, but this time, I could care less. Ian couldn't even sit, the pain was so excruciating. But it was his own idea to shave his whole body, and not use shaving cream. I only barely suggested that it would go with his costume.

Thankfully, Frank called. Here is, as best as I can possibly relate, our dialogue.

Me: Frankie Four, what's up?
Frank: HELLO!
Me: Frank, where are you?
Frank: In a car. Wheeee!
Me: What?
Frank: I would like to sing you a song (to the tune of London Bridge is Falling Down)

Brian Wilkins--I'm so drunk, I'm so drunk, I'm so drunk
Brian Wilkins--I'm so drunk
Drunk and HORNY!

Followed by maniacal laughter.
Me: Ahh. What have you been up to?
Frank: Did you know that I'm Clark Kent. I am.
Me: Where were you drinking?
Frank: At a book store. They had wine and cheese for Halloween, but cheese doesn't go with Halloween, so I drank the wine.
Me: Are you driving?
Frank: No, Christine ( a different Christine, as it turns out) stole my wallet and is driving me.
Me: Did you buy any books?
Frank: I bought Catwalk by Kurt Vonnegut and That One about Cholera 7 bucks.
Me: Yeah, That One About Cholera is good.
Frank: Fuckin' A Right! Oh, and the Fountainhead.
Me: How much did that cost?
Frank: My Dignity! hahahahahahahahahaha

Leave it to Frankie to end on a high note.

I'll let him take us out on that one. Dignity, sheesh. Sounds about right though.

Happy Halloween Campers.

Damn Right

Looking for Rock and Roll to Save My Soul

It finally happened. All that whiny Indie music broke my spirit. I was down, y'all, real down. I mean I was low. I was sitting on the stoop, 40 in hand, just wishing that I could find a guitar so I too could mumble and whine in disharmonious pretension. "I'm clever cause you can't understand me."That's what I wanted from life.

Thank God for the crystal fist of Queens of the Stone Age. From my stoop I heard the axe slashing licks from across the way. My neighbors (God bless their redneck, camaro re-building unconscious mulletness) had bought the new album, Lullabies to Paralyze. They were smoking up, kicking back whiskey, and absolutely ROCKING. ROCKING PEOPLE.

I had forgotten my youth.

When I head the pure oily evil sex magic leaking out of the radio I was overcome. My mind was blitzed with images of ivory skinned goth chicks flashing their piercings beneath a lusty moon. My feet began to move on their own. Soon my head was banging again with the unleashed rage and desire that I had hidden behind the propriety of "sensitivity" for a year.

Sensitive men. Contradiction in terms.

Not that I'm saying men don't have emotions, ladies, or can't understand you. Hell, I'm not saying real men don't put down the toilet seat or massage your bunions. But real men understand that they have a dark side buried inside them, a firey pit of the seven deadlies. You can focus these positively if you want (protest, just war, sticking it to the man) or not, it doesn't matter, but denying them is worse than indulging them.

Because it's a lie. Oh, and you girls have it too.

This is music to unleash the hidden powers of your own confidence, your own brilliant sexuality.
In a world of non-commital confusion, of meandering selfconcious "I don't know what to do with my life or who I am please deconstruct me" this music proclaims that barfights and cigarettes are a birthright. That maybe the best thing you can do is take a stand for anything honest, anything with a little fire.

But for my lighter brethren who don't seathe under the thumb of jessica simpson pop, for my dancers out there, for those people who think that rebellion and a good time go hand in hand, I have an offering for you as well.

Forget any pop rap album you've ever guzzled. Get your ass out of the club, and back in the bar. Back to

The Eagles of Death Metal

This band is a side project of Josh Homme, frontman for QotSA. They bill it the album "Peace Love Death Metal" as Boogie Death Metal, but I'd take it as post-punk rockabilly dance music. Which is to say that there's no point in trying to define it, but it makes your ass shake and your nether parts tingle. When's the last time Wilco did that to you?

With brilliant standouts like "Speaking in Tongues" and "Whorehoppin (Shit Gaddamn)" this band gets you out on the dance floor and thrashing away. Just listen to a couple lyrics.

"I got this feeling that is deep in my body
it gives me wiggles and it makes my rump shake
if I should touch you might be electrocuted
deep in your body you will get your first taste

if i should touch you you won't know what has happened
you'll speak in tongues and feel your heart race
you'll start to dance like it's all you've got to live for
you'll speak in tongues now let me demonstrate"

And then they do--

Who doesn't want that, who hasn't had that and doesn't burn for the experience again (depending on the context, you might burn from the first time)? In their own words, Lawd oh shit.

But take Whorehoppin (Shit Gaddamn) by comparison.
It starts out with a simple bluesy feel, and then thumps into acceleration.

Smell those sweet young things
lookee here this one's got long black hair
she's like a death metal queen
struttin sluts all through her whorehoppin scene

makes me say shit gaddamn
I'm a man I'm a man
I say shit gaddamn
I'm a man

It's without equivocation. It's pure and laid out there. At the end of this song, the chant is "Gaddamn I'm a man" not "Save the panda". We need some music with some spirit y'all, even if it only says, "You can't take my freedom George Bush cause you can't dance. I saw you with Ricky Martin bitch. And the world laughed at you." Does Dick Cheney listen to the Eagles of Death Metal? He does not. And that's reason enough to buy the album.

So ladies, if you're tired of boys who don't need to shave, and guys if you're tired of being the hundred pound weakling in your group, the omega male of the universe, kick back with some all American fuck-bumpin music. And smack any guy you see playing guitar while drinking vitamin water and wearing a sweater.

I can't lose cause I'm the devil's favorite son.

Watch that six.

Dirty Dovah

Well, I'm finally moved in, school has started, and there's a high probability I'm employed for the near future. Now that all that has been taken care of and I'm no longer running around senselessly gabbling nonsense to strangers about scheduling (mostly consisting of frantic coke-fiend speak such as, "What day is it? What FUCKING DAY IS IT?") I can once again assault the senses and sensibilities of the few people still interested in this tepid experiment in confessional writing.

That's as close as I'm coming to an apology, people. A man's gotta eat. And in my case, a man's gotta eat a lot. This 215 frame don't come easy.

But the title of this post relates to my new town, and one I'm adopting quickly. Dover, NH. It's one of the oldest incorporated towns in the US (1632, I think. Need to check that sign again). It's an old mill town that fell on miserable times when all the manufacturing dried up, and has been slowly revitalized by the nearby college into a sort of stop and shop + housing. The nice thing for me though is that I can walk all over the place and get to whatever I want, a wonderful change for a suburban boy who used to have to drive 20 minutes ANYWHERE (we won't even start on gas).

The town has its eccentricities, mostly the rule of three. There are three music shops, three coffee shops, three antique shops, three kitsch shops, three movie shops, etc. This appears to have been due to a largely theosophistic board of supervisors (town selectmen? This New England political scene confuses me, what with its independence and free thought).

Those of you who know what a theosophist is need to stop spending so much time playing D&D and get more air. Talk to girls, and stop drinking Mountain Dew.

The other oddity is the bears. Now, for this much like Prohibition, I blame Chicago. Ever since whoever it was put those damn bulls up around that city, every podunk nowhere in the world has wanted to do the same thing. It's "artistic". Anyway, here it's the bears, hidden around in the shops in town as a fairly obvious draw to local capitalism (causing Adam Smith to roll around in his grave, by the way, screaming things about market efficiency). My favorites have to be the cover bears, though, the exceptions to the shop rule. The first is the Fire Bear, who is dressed as a fireman and outside the fire house. Every morning these over masculinated, flat top fireman soar out to save kith and kin, hearth and home, and pass a cutsy replica of their heroic deeds. I imagine it just takes the vim and vigor right out to be compared to a porcelain statue.
The other is the St. Bear at my new church. Extra double rolling around for John Calvin, except he keeps mumbling about brimstone and burning. Maybe they should send the fire bear over.

But I digress.

One of the nice things about a student/teacher/wannabe poet schedule is that you can take time to ramble, and while rambling, you see things. The whole flaneur bit, for you dandies out there. And as I also end up on the bus, I tend to ramble towards bus stops. Terminus is a great word for such places, where everything and everyone seems to collide and interact. I think that the Universe will end in a very similar way, with all the planets chainsmoking and utterly appalled by the unwashed masses around them ("Oh God, Venus, that gas giant just looked at me again. I think he's coming over. Shit, uh, pretend we're reading"). Today's sketch of strange humanity, you implore?

Two men, most likely brothers, sitting and chainsmoking Swisher Sweet cigars. One is a hulking mass of fat muscle, the other a small compact barrel of the same. They are wearing jeans of the same light blue color, the tall one long ones, the short one shorts. Both use suspenders to hold up these pantaloons. They wear identical plain gray shirts, pocket tees, with their cigs in the breast pocket. Being a connoiseur of cheap cigars myself, I offer them a hearty salutation, only to have nothing in return. I figure I'll content myself waiting for the bus then, and hoping they don't kill me.

After a time, the little one says, "Let's go." They stand up, and begin walking away, in step. About half a block away, they pause and, I swear, in unison light the next cigar with the burning end of the last. They then continue walking away in unison.

For shows like this, I'll get up early every day.

Bad Pennies

Why on earth has it been so long since my last post? Did I suffer some sort of tragic stroke? Or perhaps a coffee grinding accident? Maybe my computer was stolen by anti-imperialist pygmies, coming to claim back some of the ill-gotten loot of colonialism. I think I would applaud that.

Sadly, nothing as tragic has occurred. Instead, I have tidings of great joy. Why is that sad? Simple. Sad sells, and sad is easier to write. Nobody wants to hear about someone else's life that's better than theirs...we crave misery, and beyond misery, cynicism. My brief forays into the realm of optimism and inspiration are only successful because of their brevity. In short, good news is bad for business.

That and God does my liver hurt.

Two of my best friends, Jeff and Ian, have decided to come and descend on New Hampshire with me, being dissatisfied with their cubicle existences and craving, for inexplicable reasons, the solace of frigid death. By which I mean skiing. These last weeks have been absorbed almost completely by the single-minded purpose of finding them housing (near-failure) and jobs (pending failure). But that isn't really important.

What is really important? No, seriously, what is important?

Cause that's where this is going. And no, it's not some bumper sticker answer like, "This car powered by love" or some other hippy nonsense like that. Nor is it a "Question Everything" bullshit psuedophilosophical crap bag. It's more of a "If you can read this, flip Jeep over" kind of thing.

Ahh vagary, the procrastinators favorite style of verbal kung fu.

Don't even think your master is better than mine.

What is important is something that these guys have demonstrated time and time again, namely, seeking truth. And applying it. Were they really suited to be the bitches of the corporate world, a pimple on the ass of Mammon? No, of course not. Though you know them not, gentle reader, I assure you that these men are giants among the moral midgets of our age.

So what is important? Again with the rambling. What is important is honesty. And not a sort of George Washington-punk-ass-rich-boy-cut-down-a-tree-and-tell-daddy-so-that-the-slave-can-get-beat-honesty. Honesty about everything, including yourself and your own emotions. Honesty to the point of rearranging your life to come in line with your principles. And that's as close as things get to heroism in post-modernity.

Oh, and Ian tried to save us from a bear.

We went camping in a pretty primitive set up this weekend. We were staying in an open shelter, which was very well made, but still, open to the outside. It was a dark night, no moon, and the fire had died down long ago. In the cold, we all were huddled together, and slumbering gently. Ian heard a rustling sound and opened his eyes only to behold,

"The biggest damn thing I've ever seen. I swear, it was inhuman. It was this large mass, staring at us intently. I kicked the bed next to me, and it didn't move. So I shouted, HEY! And still the thing stared at me, intently. And in that moment, I knew we were fucked. Well, at least until Brian said, Relax dude, it's me."

Yes, literati, Ian was terrified of the inhuman sight of...
my ass.

Getting back to the gym. See you next time cowboy.

Typical Weekend: The Friday Installment

Nothing I like better than starting off with an exciting title. I'd like to point out that this week I am publishing at gunpoint. Yes, truly. One of those smaller caliber jobs, to be sure, but gunpoint all the same. One of my intrepid crew of readers contacted me to inform me that I was, "taking too damn long" to finish my posts.

Hence, my new song and dance.

Sort of a vaudeville number. Did you hear the one about the cow, the wife, and the horny husband?

Well you won't hear it today. We don't peddle smut on this site.


But I digress. This weekend was pretty typical for me, not of every weekend, but the weekends that I enjoy the most. Friday began simply enough, with plenty of extra time to write. Poetry, obviously, not this drivel. After a couple of hours of concentrated chess playing ... uh...writing, I had the first draft of something I really liked. So it and I went off to Brett's house ( a fellow verse monkey) to read it and receive some acerbic comments. Oh, and food. Brett works like a dog, so he's always got food.

Promptly, I get lost.

This probably requires some explanation. How does one get lost when a) You've been to the house before b) you drove c) There is only one turn? I could tell you that I saw something beautiful, became lost in importantly deep thoughts, or rushed to save a child...but it wouldn't be true. I have a genetic condition.

Didn't buy that one either? I'm a moron, that's how. 3/5ths retarded.

At Brett's the saga continues. I proceed to nearly break down the door of some poor stranger in Brett's hallway (who was probably hiding in the shower with a large knife) because I think it's Brett's door and he's not answering. I even go as far as yelling, "I can hear you asshole!" before he opens the door behind me.

When we enter Brett's apartment he returns to his couch before it has time to lose the body imprint he's spent hours creating. He's watching a Dave Matthews Concert on DVD. Throughout the rest of the time at his house, it never stops playing, at actual concert decibels. We exchange books, comments about music and poetry, and fluids.

Wait, not fluids.

Key comments:

Brett: This poem is miserable.
Brian: I wrote that 5 years ago. I won an award for it.
Brett: Was it a special olympics prize?

Brian: This poem sucks.
Brett:Which one?
Brian: The one about the soggy pornshop.
Brett: I like pornshops.
Brian: Soggy ones?

Brian: This swordfish is good.
Brett:My Mom made it when she and my sister came down.
Brian: Is your sister hot?
Brett: Why?
Brian: unprintable expletive expletive unprintable unprintable cute.
Brett: I hate you.
Brian: Good swordfish.

Ok, that last one's not true. But the swordfish was good.

Then what do we do? Hassle another poet friend of ours, Lee, into coming out with us (not that way). Where? Antiquing.

Seriously, we went antiquing.

Then meeting up with all our hot girlfriends, we went out to dinner. Well, Lee didn't, but he came out drinking later.

Dinner was BBQ at this place downtown. Unbeknownst to me, one of my students is the chef there. He came out to speak with us, which is something I would normally enjoy. It means he knows I saw him and didn't do foul things to my food. However he proceeded to tell us how the food was cooked at the place and now I can never go back. Ever.

Brett and I rose to the occasion and competed at pinball. Lori and Alli discussed what it's like being romantically involved with children.

Finally, we made it to the bar, where the moment we arrived a woman began passing out repeatedly, falling to the floor from the bar. At first everyone was concerned but it seemed like good exercise for her, so the locals left her alone.

Actual conversation

Woman: brlbelof soidshot down!
Bartender: Are you okay?
Woman: shokay vit me! beerodrof!
Bartender: Sure, another Killians?

Wow. Most of the evening was spent taking jabs at everything around us, including each other, in a patio by the river. We almost succeeded in avoiding the three forbidden topics (religion, politics, poetry--a most unholy trinity) and Brett only managed to destroy one coaster. All I'm saying is I could have stopped him, but I'm not one for coming between a man and his oaths. At twelve we left and

went on a Wendy's run. I touched base with my hick suburbia roots, and oh they were glorious, and oh they were fat filled. I swear the taste of the last two fries at the bottom of a box is contentment. Greasy, salty contentment.


And that's what I like about a weekend. Because the deeper meanings to life aren't found in great books, or in monumental cathedrals. They're found in exchanges like this one.

Brett:Is Lee going around again?
Brian: Looks like.
Brett: (drives past) Fatty!
Alli: Oh my god.
Brett: What? He's putting on some weight.
Brian: I'd say he's plump.
Lori: You're twice his weight.
Brian: Yeah, but I'm a constant.
Lori: Can I tell you what I want for Christmas Santa?
Brian: Yes, but i should tell you now that I plan on asphixiating you in the folds of my fat regardless.
Alli: Oh my god.

If you don't see the deeper meaning I can't help you.


here's to love,

Brian