Tuesday, 24 May 2011

No gas pedal in the dustbowl state

I close my eyes for a second and the Mavericks decide to pull a rabbit out of their hat. That had to be it, because a game that OKC had adrenaline pumping through their jerseys and the raucous crowd ready to drill through the core of the earth to fashion thunder from liquid hot magma… well, no, a major comeback by the Mavs could never happen. Could it?

Dirk dropped four-zero like he was shopping for after dinner entertainment. Ain’t no thang to lean back and drill fadeaways that are seemingly pre-natal instincts for the NBA’s most amazing big man. Dirk-a-dirk. Or maybe it was Jason Kidd stealing and dishing dimes like he was on Suns, Nets, or… Mavs? Mavs, the team that drafted and err, traded him to be the floor-general. And he was last night.

Yes, Mavs, the team that plays as a team, passing, sticking together, locking down for key defensive stops, that rallies around a solid-but-never-great coach who focuses them to just win. And owner that displays his brass balls like another outside-the-box owner of different sport, except he's more genius than loon. Just win baby, just win.

There were signs this could happen, as improbably and stunning the comeback was. At the start, the Thunder exploded early, but the Mavericks hung around, and hung around some more through great OKC bench play. Brendan Haywood played like the starter he thinks he is and the Mavs’ depth and size kept OKC reaching deep into theirs for freshness.

Gas pedal nowhere to be found in the dustbowl state. The Dallas Mark Cubans up tres - uno.

Now the question tickles your brain: can either of these western gunslingers shoot out the old-school-brain-battering-body-shattering-nineties-defense of the Miami Heat or if somehow Poseidon were to rise from Atlantis, the Chicago Bulls?

I’m still picking the Mavs because they deserve the win and they play the most beautiful, fluid, team-oriented ball in the league. But the Heat have stumbled onto the age old formula of lock ‘em down, and have a dependable men to knock ‘em down. With LeBron determined like Rockefeller on an oil expedition and Wade a rampaging bull with blood in his eyes… and oh, Bosh playing like an attacking raptor (grow ya hair out again!) on the boards and spinning shots away from the post, who can stop the sun from rising anew in the east?

Wednesday, 11 May 2011

Ode to the 2011 NBA Playoffs: Chemistry Wars

I’ve been a basketball fan all my life. And when my sports watching days started way back yonder as a kiddie propped on my dad’s knee, it was the hardscrabble 90’s NY Knicks I was glued to. The era of defense and toughness and Charles Oakley carwash commercials. Tangent: his catchphrase, “work hard, be da best” is emblazoned in my brain at any mention of oak, lay, or Oakley; if I ever get a tattoo on my chest, it will be that quote etched over his burly mug.

These NBA playoffs have been gritty, grimy, and plain ol’ great. Yes, the Andrew Bynum flagrant 2 in game 4 of the Mavericks series was vomit-inducing, but other than that tomfoolery, the action has been constant and delightful.

Take the triple OT knockout by OKC over Memphis. These playoffs are showing the diverse talent flourishing in the NBA. Russell Westbrook, you can laugh now, it's ok. You're officially better than everyone thought you were, much better. And the old guns are silencing, LAL, SAS, BOS down next. New blood. And some think Rose will exceed MJ. And he just well might if he developed an automatic outside shot, which he almost has. Not to mention he's the fastest and most exciting player in the league.

Chemistry wars
This has been a year of GM chess. Pat Riley playing the role of Mad Men account mastermind in convincing LeBron to head down to South Beach AND keep Wade happy AND pair them with Bosh who is now showing some clutch talent in the brawny dogfight with Boston.

The matchups are all tight, even if they don't go seven games, and there's a lot of uncertainty in the air, especially now that LAL is out. (I thought they were a lock for a threepeat.) Uncertainty makes for entertaining playoffs.

And back to chemistry--these playoffs are about teamwork. Boston was built as a complete package, but is being taken down by the Heat whose coach has them playing lock-down defense.

The Bulls upgraded almost their whole roster and play old-school Warriors-style 10-man basketball with Thibodeau fielding the massive army. The team plays with fire and energy and may just have what it takes to muscle its way to the crown this year.

The Mavericks' Rick Carlisle has the team playing as a hive mind. Knocking off the Lakers, their confidence is now boundless and their path to the NBA finals paved in gold. These Mavs play the most beautiful basketball in the league, passing crisply, roughhousing when needed on defense, and shooting effectively from every position. If one word coincides with the Mavs playstyle, it's intelligence. That makes them my team for this postseason.

Memphis and OKC are showing the world how good they both are, reaching down to bring out the fire, but also relying on great coaching, and well-balanced rosters. Both GMs should be proud of the lockerooms they've crafted.

Do yourself a favor and indulge nightly in the magic of this current NBA--it's just pretty, so pretty.

Tuesday, 19 April 2011

Le Financier

Restaurant Review
Le Financier, Pearl St, New York, NY

The names of every menu item are in French, but the vernacular are all that’s needed to sell you: “Le Languedoc: roasted leg of lamb, ratatouille, fresh brie cheese, melted in like ambrosia, and arugula, all pressed hot on fine French Panini bread.” After the first bite, I’m in awe. There’s no other way to describe the joy of something that costs this little tasting this good. Or more factually, this is one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever had.

As I savor each bite as the French would, I imbibe the delicate white and black tiles, hexagonal and ready for a small parade of chefs in frilly white hats to come and ask me what I think of the food. Think of it as one of the few mirrorless parlors of Versailles; draped in good form, and not too heavy as to be accused of appearing ornamental. Friendly staff hand you hip, young, Parisian, trendy green-striped bags for carrying out. Good looking out, you beautiful patisserie.

Come over from work to lunch on a simple and simply satisfying meal that won’t incite your wallet to storm the palace gates in rebellion.

There’s charming versatility, as well. Fine coffees, and to-go morning treats make it a well-mannered breakfast nook. Salads, soups and various sandwiches round out the lunch lineup. So good, you’ll pine to pitch a striped tent and watch Amelie with every morsel.

Monday, 11 April 2011

The Return of Neon-lit Vigor

Bright lights, fast cars, shooting stars. So it goes. And another weekend whisks by, rocketing through my wallet and my sense of reality. Surreality.

Neon-lit vigor is that calling, craving, crafty creeping that ensnares us at the slightest sniff of hedonistic impatience.

It's a long, languid, lithe, blithe, terrible, fanatical, frantic phantom that promises the moon and delivers only to those with ample appetite and attacking spirit.

Saturday, 9 April 2011

The Dust of Old Carthage

There's a rhythm in daily ritual. It can be anything that gets you moving. Watering your plants in the morning, the feel of executing a perfect Windsor knot, polishing your antique brass elephant ornaments on the mantle.

Always wanted to be a renegade. I just love the word. So well-formed and visceral. I can just see some subtly-smiling man busting through a blockade, motorcycle pointed towards the horizon, sunny blonde holding on tight to his back, purpose made clear to him by the understanding that while the road is straight here, it always curves.

Hannibal mounted his elephants and crossed over straits, rivers, mountain ranges and trampled hordes of Roman soldiers to conquer almost the heart of Rome. He played the role of creeping besieger for 15 years, as he parked his boisterous elephants outside the gates.

Everyday, Hannibal dreamed of victory, stoking his troops and his ego. That's something I've done in some weary-houred fantasy: feeling beating heat browning my battle-scarred skin as I roll through Spanish fields, calmed to the core by the breeze through Cyprus trees. A seriousness to my stilled jaw muscles; not clenched, but free and alert. And every so often, I would indulge some fantasy like this, some far away time and place where I'm a little bit closer to some state of natural tautness, coated in the dust of old Carthage.

But, Hannibal never struck the tender center of Rome itself. Yet, even when eventually outmaneuvered and defeated, he was still a renegade, riding through enemy lands, lassoed up on an elephant, moving forward.

And when Carthage was defeated by counter-attack, legend has it that the Romans sowed salt into Carthaginian fields, as to starve them and remind them of their bitter loss to the might of Rome.

Every day, Hannibal would seethe vengeance--how to defeat his hated Italian enemies. He fled to the Selucids to help in their war against Rome, and when outnumbered, he went eastward further to other kingdoms, waging war his whole life against the clear and simple choice of Rome.

And every day, Hannibal was still on that war elephant. A badass in any age.

Monday, 21 March 2011

The Trotsky

The Trotsky (2009)

It's a charming movie, this clever detour around "real politics" and into the reincarnated Leon Trotsky into a 17 year old Canadian student who organizes his peers into and union and clashes with authority. Jay Baruchel does a very good job of playing his usual awkward self, but in this movie, he's self-propelled my communist gusto. A red flavor in every joke.

The romance between he and Emily Hampshire is trite, but not completely derived. But it's enchanting and purposeful in that it shows character growth from start to finish.

It's just an off the beaten path type of movie that you will enjoy thoroughly if you know to expect something you wouldn't have thought of yourself.

Wednesday, 16 March 2011

The Mystery of Momenum

Everyone needs an adventure, an indulgence. There's no shame in it. Watching some period pieces from the 60's and the whole "anti-want" movement strikes me as ill-fitting to the natural human predilection for momentum. One thing leads to another in a well-formed life. It's when stagnation creeps in that we're unhappy. Most people, anyway.

That brings me to a question of energy. Are there two types of people in this world? (There's obviously more than two.) Those who have a direct relationship between work and energy, and those with an inverse relationship. Ergo, the more you work, the more energy you have, or the more you work, the less energy you have. Energy self-perpetuating or self-extinguishing. Or however you'd like to think about people with a natural disposition towards momentum.

Which are you?

I have the feeling that the greatest amongst us have some spinal bond with momentum, some dark drive that let's them feel alone in a crowd and surrounded when alone. And those who gain strength from expelling it are prosaic in the moment,toiling and machinelike, but poetic in the overview; they hammer diamonds into skyscrapers.

Momentum is the hardest thing in life to get a hold of, and its not bought and sold on the stock exchange. It should be, but barely anyone would sell it, anyways. Momentum is something larger than most of us, and that's why only some of us can get a handle on it. Perhaps I'm being vague, but momentum has some mystery to it, and for just this post, I'll preserve that. Demystifying should come only after your mouth hurts too much from smiling.

Tuesday, 8 March 2011

Serious questions don't have to be so serious

I had a funny thought while running: what if God created us to watch our rise and fall to live vicariously through us? If He is the Alpha and the Omega, is he not devoid of potential? As the apex of all things, He can't grow like we can. And growth is beautiful, something coveted. Is He beyond such an emotion? That doesn't mean I believe in God, but I do love philosophical (even if theological) questions, especially complex ones. Complex because as the apogee of creation, God can still lose in Paradise Lost, which suggests (who cares about canon) that he does have some potential in him, some uncertainty. But, perhaps such a God wants to live through the rise and fall of individual humans because He cannot. Wouldn't that be tragic and funny?

Disclaimer: this is not what I believe, and I still don't know what to believe with these questions, but I'm perpetually entertained by the fact that men have for thousands of years of monotheism contemplated the reason for their creation and have rarely had the humor to think of their creator as sad. And if He is so sad that he needs to see the shrillest highs and the woest lows in order to complete his understanding of the universe, than isn't he less than Omega? Isn't He supposed to be all knowing? My logic is hole-y. Hah, get it? Bad pun. Is there a good pun?

Oh, wow, I just got a headache. Alright, so I'm probably missing a few pieces of the puzzle. Simple is better. I've always thought about it like this: if I'm sincere, rational, and caring, I have to believe God, if He exists, would approve of that. So forget about all the people who ask why does God permit disasters and horrors. Is He sadistic, just curious, or just flawed like we are?

I can't prove God exists or doesn't exist: but I exist and I'll thank him 86,400 times a day for me being able to breathe and amuse myself with such questions.

Monday, 7 March 2011

The Other End of the Line

Movie Review of The Other End of the Line (2008)

As you've probably noticed, not all of the movies I review are the newest or even the most widely critically acclaimed. But that doesn't stop me from making my point: some flicks simply accomplish their purpose of making you smile. That's why you should see The Other End of the Line one evening with your significant other and just smile. I'm not going to praise amazingly crisp acting, 'cause there isn't, although it's by no stretch bad acting. I'm not going to tell you about the dialogue delivering more electricity than cold fusion, because that's not the modus operandi they were going for. It's breezy like a Sunday afternoon picnic. And sometimes that's right on.

This movie has constant momentum, paces itself smoothly, grins back at you with pretty faces in Jesse Metcalfe and Shriya Saran. It's a Rom Com, and it's exactly how you'd want one to behave. No politics, religion, touchy subjects you can't speak about on the subway. No hushed tones, just basic conflicts that easily digest into your popcorn addled minds as you watch in snuggie-covered pleasure.

Seriously. No, not seriously. Nothing about this movie is serious. Well, it's not really very funny either. There are Rom Coms with more laughs, and there are bigger budget ones with the familiar gloop troupe, but this hits the sweet spot of perfectly-choreographed sweet moments. Not too saccharine and never too sour, The Other End of the Line will help you pass 2 enjoyable hours. And you'll even feel like taking your vitamins after.

Thursday, 3 March 2011


Movie Review of Thurgood (2011) (TV movie)

In this one-man play adapted for film, Lawrence Fishburne never drops a beat out of character as the charismatic lawyer and later first black Supreme Court Justice, and always with flair and a sense of humor. The one man style may turn some off just by concept, but fret not because at every turn, I was either laughing, crying, or both in this feature-length exploration of the first black Justice's historic and action-packed life.

The elements of writing, acting, and directing are up front and boiled to their keenest, most direct presentation; on stage flows special attention to detail bursting from every scene. As Thurgood ages, Fishburne changes his posture, tone, mannerisms, and delivery, yet holds true to the unmistakable personality of Marshall he crafts from frame one to frame end. Fishburne succeeds with the subtle brushstrokes of a master painter--explicating for the visible audience how he calmed the chaos of famous civil rights cases with his brilliant arguments.

Fishburne even expertly acts as Thurgood acting as other people, further showcasing the range and emotiveness of a devotee living and breathing the script. I can't be any more glowing in praise of the natural, off-the-cuff quality in every line. Each finely-delivered and transitioned piece of his life oozes with profound sadness and humor--something most creatives struggle their whole lives to reproduce.

Enlighten yourself with Thurgood, a true American hero, and now legend of the theater and screen.

Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Holy Rollers

Movie Review of Holy Rollers (2010)

Was this film only released to penguins in Antarctica? I hadn't heard of it 'til Showtime was nice enough to air it last night. Glad they did and hope you get to check out this off-beat drama about a young Hasidic kid named Sam (Jessie Eisenberg) recruited into the drug game by his neighbor Yosef (Justin Bartha). Talk about transitions--this kid goes from Rabbi-potentate to pill-smuggling, leisure-suit-wearing MDMA marketeer naturale. And that's before the real action flies.

The movie is very simple, the writing direct and homely, but the acting, and overall befitting minimalist feel gives it a menthol flush of melancholy. Eventually the nervousness overtakes the charm of the drug world, and the inevitable fall of any drug story occurs. While it's no masterpiece, it's worth seeing. Jessie Eisenberg does play a very convincing wayward orthodox Jew, and there is conflict and danger at every turn. Just not the kind where Steven Seagall takes down an army helicopter with a pistol. Add in a pretty face with Ari Graynor and you have a movie to bring up at any cafe conversation.

In summary: this movie is all about the atmosphere. The set design and costume design are beyond apt, and the cinematography, while not attempting Avatar, brings tremendous texture to the screen. Somehow such screwed up circumstances revel in the smallest details--the smooth kashmir of a jacket, the minuscule snowflakes of European winter, the ratty lights of Brooklyn raves and Amsterdam dancehalls. All of these elements craft a film greater than the sum of its parts. Now, go and find it somehow.

Tuesday, 1 March 2011


I love the way the British use the word "brilliant." It doesn't sound as sophomoric as "awesome" or as cliched as "amazing." It's actually one of things I miss most about England. Hearing those wonderful, soft tones. When I came back to the States, I appreciated the accents here as well, as they seemed new and familiar at the same time.

Brilliant. Can mean on key, on top, bright, enlightened, sparkling. And brilliant feels like the a beautiful string of notes on a xylophone.

What's your favorite word to hear in an accent?

Sunday, 27 February 2011


Here's a zinger: does someone telling you you're the best make you better? Pause a second for what that means for you. Well, it will surely help you sell more of whatever you're selling. And we're all selling something, even if it's just ourselves. With that in mind, we watch the Oscar's and smile with those being recognized for their fine work that inspires us with the silver screen. Pardon my waxing poetic, but good movies stir me.

Philosophically, fame can throw a wrench in "right for right's sake." But only if you forget that accolades originate to afford us simple gratitude. The window dressing of speeches and photo ops that make it fun and fluid. The transformation from potential to marvel from others imparts us with strength. Oh, and there's that funny thing called pride, too.

Footsteps in the Dark

What's in a name has been asked since Shakespeare and it's an eternally playful question. Think about the names for your favorite albums, favorite films, books, dogs, cats, paintings, what have you. The strong ones survive. The clever ones delight. And you want more. Names are that important. That's why people diverge from the norm when naming their children, but let's not get into those judgments just now.

Footsteps in the Dark is the title of Cat Stevens' greatest hits volume 2 and it's alot better than Greatest Hits Volume 2, because it's one heck of a lasting image. It feels like a premonition when you hear it. It couldn't have been called anything else. That's the true essence of a great name: it had to be.

What are you favorite names? Smokey the Bear? As you watch the Academy Awards tonight, think of how powerful a name is to sell a movie, and how bad names can down a fine flick.

But, beyond that, let me get more eclectic. There's a book called the Art of Racing in the Rain. And every time I see it in the bookstore of behind a bald dome at Starbucks, I think what might have been. It should plainly be Racing in the Rain. The Art of Racing in the Rain has poor cadence, talks to much like a bookie on his knees. It's just not the right call. I wish I could have been in that editing meeting to save them from the shame... well maybe that's harsh. I've never read the book, but Racing in the Rain could have been The Grapes of Wrath.

Thursday, 24 February 2011

Front page or back page? Not equal sides of the coin, but still sides of the coin

The world is a hot-bed of political unrest, but the New York news scene has been dominated by basketball player unrest and the west coast exodus of Carmelo Anthony and Deron Williams. The situations and build-up were quite different in each case, but the end result is a palpable buzz in the country's largest media market. And if you turn on the radio or TV you'll hear about how great this is for the league that the #1 market is improving and hurtling its way back to the top of the heap. Well, maybe not for the Nets. And the Knicks still have plenty of teams in front of them... let's not talk about the end of the season when last night the Madison Square Garden crowd was bursting with enough luminous excitement to burn every hobo trash can in the city. Welcome back to NYC, Carmelo; I'll enjoy every iota of your play.

Mikhail Prokhorov paid the king's ransom for Deron Williams whom wasn't even reported by ESPN and co. as available, so that's a big steal. Is that hubris? They didn't know, so it's that special? Williams is the best point guard in the NBA, but as Wilbon pointed out on PTI, he doesn't have the same star-ticket-selling-power Carmelo Anthony has now in the Big Apple.

The point? While the middle east with Libya and Bahrain crumble--fascinating us because of the entente-like precarious balance of power in the region and the fact that the US and Europe will probably get involved because oil is at stake, do you think people care more about the migration of NBA stars or 20,000 Egyptians ex-patriots from Libya fleeing across the eastern Libyan border? And does it matter? Awareness is important for an enlightened society, but many people think their individual actions don't matter on the world stage, as per the continuing examples of American voter turnout. All I know is I don't want to live in a world where people only talk about themselves. Right now, in the twisting nether of cyberspace, thousands are tweeting about their every second basking in their own presence. And I don't care. While I may be more fascinated with Qaddafi's head possibly on a pike in the next weeks, there are still lighthearted alternatives, no matter which end of the newspaper you grab for first.

Wednesday, 23 February 2011

Devouring the dark delight; not dirty dining

I'm back. Back in black. Speaking of such, why did McDonald's stop including dark meat McNuggets? Who thought that was a good idea?

"Hey guys, I have a really great idea, let's take away the most interesting part of the classic McNuggets experience!"

"You mean no more errant mice organs?"

"No, take out the dark meat, no one really likes that, right? Just grosses people out."

Maybe it grosses out you folks that don't like to get your hands dirty, but enjoying dark meat McNuggets were akin to being a raj served exotic delicacies by gorgeous harem girls content delight in quenching my gastronomical desires. I'd open up the box with my friend Matt and we'd hunt for that one dark nugget to put aside, crack 'em open just to check. And if we didn't get one in the pack, we felt cheated. "The gall! No special nugget? I want a refund!"

White meat better than dark meat? Racist! Or something. Something offensive. Catalyst: McDonald's put out an ad campaign flaunting their all-white meat nuggets and real chicken ingredients. Understandable as fast food is all about trust. Trust that any McDonald's you walk into will have the same tasty, safe food. You're not gonna get food poisoning or be ambushed by renegade flavors--fast food chains are about consistency. You can't say the same of of most food on the go. Many people view food carts as safe as spelunking. Wow, it's great to use spelunking in consecutive sentences.

McDonald's will probably never bring back dark meat McNuggets as they undoubtedly have a sophisticated screening process that visually compares the meat to the hue of chiclets. But, like all patches of nostalgia, this article will one day date me. I'll be that dinosaur pining for the days when McDonald's used fattier, more cholesterol-tastic meat.

Friday, 28 January 2011

Take ego out of the equation and you'll never be a politician

Let's talk about the state of the union. I mean, we can talk about the actual speech, or we can talk about the seemingly synchronized clapping and backslapping that triggers the collective national gag reflex. According to a survey Bill O'Reilly was quoting, 47% of Americans have a favorable view of the Republican party and 46% of Americans have a favorable view of the Democratic party. And then Laura Ingram says that the country is center-right. What gave you that impression? Seems pretty even to me. But does that mean we're mostly philosophically center-right, or do we live to the right of center somewhere in Kansas City, MO?

Vaguery. Don't want vaguery in a political debate. That's why facts and figures are thrown about like packing peanuts from a teenager's U-haul. We can talk about percentages and this side has that, but what the President proposed is lots of spending. And spending is a root cause of many problems. Sure, you have to spend sometimes, but let's use our brains instead of our lapel pins. I'm all for meaningful social programs that actually aid those in need, but just call it like it is. Illegal immigration isn't a long explanation, it's cause and effect. You break the law by not living here with proper documentation and there are consequences. It has nothing to do with race or creed, it has to with respect for borders and proper legal paperwork. It's not sexy to talk about, but if you just look at issues in their simplest way, all sorts of little fun truths float to the surface. Does the government have a place to improve infrastructure? Sure. It was done by FDR and his many revitalizing programs (and yes there were a few duds amongst the gems). So, do it, put people to work in that capacity, but don't step into the boundaries of private industry by overdoing it and replacing all their capital expenditures by using taxpayer dollars to augment their assets. Oh, but then it will become public property, you say? Do you really want the projects most in need of careful construction and management to be handled by the government? Our municipalities don't exactly have the best track record for that.

Ok, ok. This is a rant, but it has a silver lining. While we're a nation divided in our viewpoints, we still have the ability to talk with one another and reason. This is my appeal to not clap for each other or not clap to make a message, but just listen and respond accordingly. Political parties are choking America, so don't just ascribe your beliefs to one or the other. Always question, especially these matters. You might just be horrified enough to care. Like why do almost half of Americans think Roe v. Wade should be repealed or reexamined? Are you joking? Oh, this is the country that outlawed alcohol before it gave women the right to vote. Let's learn from history not move personal freedoms backward ever again. Talk it out, and try to decipher if what you're saying is logical or if the other side is more logical. Take ego out of the equation and you'll never be a politician.

Wednesday, 19 January 2011

Hard covers

Isn't it a nice feeling to run your fingers over a hard cover book? Most hard covers are textbooks or other assorted directives, but every so often an intellectual delicacy flows under the tightly bound covers. This wasn't how it always was. The paperback has been in existence since the 19th century, but it just seems so much more common than that. And not that I scorn paperbacks, no not at all. They're more convenient to carry than hard covers.

The charm of the hardcover is in how declarative it is. It wasn't meant to be hidden in a coat pocket, it's an endeavor. The text is protected by bulletproof plates and hewn together with tungsten. You can use it to prop up a broken table leg, perhaps open a safe with it. For what the softcover has in sleekness, the hardcover makes up for in imagination.

Monday, 17 January 2011

Snap your fingers and clap your hands for MLK day

Groove today. We celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr. Day to remember the life of a great man who protested peacefully and inspired tolerance in the hearts of millions. We remember that this holiday was not always accepted, especially in Arizona, where Governor Evan Mecham denied the holiday until he received overwhelming and rightful political opposition to respect the inception of the federal holiday.

Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. protested brazen war. He stood against the violence of some narrow-minded others in the civil rights movement. He was civil and he was murdered, like many forward-thinkers. His very existence teaches us to question and challenge the supposed standards around us if they're hurtful or come from a place of greed and selfishness. There's still prejudice in the world, discrimination, intolerance, but the world definitely better off from MLK's example. We've grown by leaps and bounds because of him. Just a short little post for one of my idols and one of my inspirations. And no, a man as great as he can never be corny: only worthwhile to listen to.

Sunday, 16 January 2011

Green marching

Last night, The New York Jets showed determination. The kind that makes mortals out of league MVPs. The kind that sends chilling silence through the who Northeastern corridor. Concentration for a 6 seed to take down a mighty 1 seed. It was a game of disbelief. The kind on Tom Brady's face, that everyone who picked the game picked the Patriots to win big. And low scoring as it was in the first half, there was that too. The Pats' high-octane offense grinding to a halt. And an interception.

Sanchez did his job well and the Jets' defense and ground attack personified the Rex Ryan way of winning, even when they've run their mouth all week. All of this is obvious. The outcome of the game wasn't. So as I walked the streets of New York to constant cheers, it was a warm feeling in the cold night. Bravo to those who break expectations.

Kleenex Unveils New Facial Tissue/Suicide Parachute Hybrid at Trade Show

Irving, TX--Famed tissue maker Kleenex has announced its new product line, Blowchutes. The device is devised to be activated by the moisture from tears and has a built in accelerometer to detect if the tissue and logically, its user, are falling from great heights.

Maxwell Stevens, head of Product Integration, Synergy, and Synchronicity, spoke at a press conference. "Ever thinking about just ending it all because you had to take out another mortgage and your interminably loud baby won't stop crying and your spouse has taken up antiquing? Well, if you're upset by these tragedies, fear not, because Blowchutes will be there to save your life. Blowchutes are the finest in anti-mucus and anti-defenestration technology. Endorsed by countless otolaryngologists and mental health professionals, our product is already slated to be used in countless hospitals, spas, and financial districts across our nation. They'll be available to the public next month."

Patent on the product's accelerometer is in contention and currently in court from Apple and their upcoming product, the iFall. Apple attorney Ron Kuby had this response. "Apple has a reputation for making easy to use products, what's easier than a self-deploying snot rag that can detect when you're in free fall from an East-side walkup? This was clearly an Apple invention, and we're going to reclaim our damages. Apple will be known as the finest name in suicide prevention, just as we are in many other fields."

Outside the courthouse gather protesters from the Malthusian Enthusiast's club, a group that wishes to stop suicide prevention in our to stem population growth. "We think people should be able to end their lives on a whim. Look, this is important to the planet and to the continual survival of mankind. We're going to run out of food and plastic to make toy representations of food. Think of the children!"

Crowds gathered around proceeded to beat to death the pro-suicide group. No charges have been filed.

Friday, 14 January 2011

Never as grand as you planned

"People will read again!" It was said in Vanilla Sky, a favorite movie of mine. I just think the demise of the written word has been greatly exaggerated.

There's a public aversion to the poetic, some would say. That it's self-indulgent. That it can be self-deprecating and that poetry is outbounded by the vulgarity of verbal brigands. But that's preposterous. There's plenty of ruddy ramshackle verses to amuse yourself with. And most of them were written by people who never considered using the words public and aversion side by side.

Poetry, in its finest forms, aims to imagine the universal human condition concisely and with wit. And wit is the fulcrum of sanity. How can that go out of style? Walk about your day and unlatch your personal space-enclosure and wit it up. Impress a stranger with a clever remark, but topically. Always topically. Unless, that is of course, you're not a topical person. Some would say topics are meant only for fancy dinner parties. I wouldn't say that.

Never understood the phrase, "don't get smart with me." Yeah, the person might be a prick, but just laugh, you always win if you laugh. I suppose it can become tiring, though. The rapport, banter, quips, jibes, snipes, it can take a turn to the negative quite quickly. And that's when someone invented the word smart-ass. It combines the concepts of off-the-cuff reflexes and an animal with disproportionately strong leg power. A pack mule with massive hooves. Hilarious.

Ever just think about the etymologies of some words? Two things shoved together. And this was way before Brangelina. Usually the result is worth a peek into your imagination. You don't have to declare yourself a poet grasp why there's the urge in many people to organize their thoughts into couplets and sometimes capricious idea organization schemes known as verses. And then I put on a mashup of Queen and the Beastie Boys and smile.

Ethereal Pt. 4

She awoke from her feint, her slender body in an L shape against the wall and floor. After all, a magic carpet just spoke to her.

"Mom, are you alright? This is my friend, Ethereal."
The red and golden-tasseled carpet sat uprightly bipedal on the bed. "We actually first met in the rug store not too long ago."
"Oh?" She reached for the purse for a cigarette. "Yes, nice to meet you. Is that a Persian name?" The cigarette nervously rolled between her fingers.She lit it like a candle.
"It's just a name, a description. And it gives me the ancient touch my clients appreciate. I'm a dealer in dreams moonlighting as a travel agent and pilot. And I don't charge. Your son Francis has been kind enough to open his eyes to the world. And if you must know, I took him to see the Grand Canyon, which he otherwise would not have know the beauty of if cooped up here. Don't you think that's nice?"

The mother took a long drag and stare at the directionless smoke. "Yes, I suppose that's nice."
"It was wonderful, mom."
"Now, you mentioned this terrible ordeal of divorce. Why is that?"
"It wouldn't exactly be polite--"
"These aren't normal circumstances. And your boy is not anyone's boy, he's yours and he should see the world, feel the world, feel the pain, feel the joy. That's what fulfills a human being."
"How would you know, you're a magic carpet." Her usual air of resentment came into play.
"I was once human, aeons ago, when magic carpets were equivalent to supersonic jets and Saturn V rockets. This was put on me as a curse, but the true curse is that the witch who cast this upon me was afflicted with the dissatisfaction of seeing me use my new form for good. See, I was powerful as a human and she couldn't simply banish me into something small, like let's say a frog. I had to become something befitting, yet in her eyes still degrading."

Francis was thoroughly enjoying himself. "When was this? Were you a king?"

"I wasn't a king, but I was important in my time. A general. The only general who cared less about war and more chores with less than your average bore. I was greatly revered by the people until I failed them in battle. And for that I was exiled into this form. One of the side effects is immortality, which is ironically what the king wanted most. And yet he banished me into. Things tend to work themselves out."

"Francis," his mother took a piece of tin foil from her purse and enclosed the cigarette butt. "are you ok, dear? Do you want some water or tea?"
"No, mom, I want to hear the story."

"Very well Francis. Wanting knowledge is what has kept me nimble for so long. It takes a lot out of a carpet to fly. And without all the people I've met and the sights I've seen and wisdom seeped into the fibers of me, I wouldn't have made it this far. Always listen to what people have to say, especially you're parents, and then when they say it immediately think about whether it's true or not. I've taken many people many places and they all've told me different tales about all the places that people wish and don't wish to go to. Just because you hear something, doesn't mean you have do it."

"Oh, do you? Why do you suppose your mother asked you if you wanted something? Perhaps you're too young for that awareness, some might say, but you have to pay attention."

His mother stood against the wall with folded hands. "I've told him that."
"But have you taught him that? Francis, I want you to think about the little things, the precise movements of the subconscious and even the imprecise lunges of the nervous heart."
"Because that's the most interesting part of the adventure. The people. There's an old travel slogan that one day you'll laugh at and then stop yourself from laughing at. "you come for the sunshine, but you stay for the people." One day."

His mother's face drooped. "Is there a point to this?"
"Do you mean that philosophically or alphabetically? Perhaps you mean what's my end here?"
"Nothing so crass, I just--"
"Yes, we all just. It's alright. My purpose is simply to tell the tale and turn the tides that rise in the minds of those who might delight in rhymes." The carpet twisted as if to stretch and crack his bones if he had them. "And when you have a magic carpet to guide you, these things take a remarkably short time."

Wednesday, 12 January 2011

Ethereal pt. 3

Francis awoke in his bed, sweating, hearing his parents walk up the stairs to his room. Was he sweating before that? Francis switched onto his side facing the wall and counted all the tumbleweeds on the red clay around the Grand Canyon. The photograph fixed in his memory like lemon and lime.

"Where have you been? We know you were gone." His mother boomed with a broom in her hands.
"Are you going to hit me, mother?"
"Hit you? What are you talking about? I just want to know why jumped out the window. It was open and you were nowhere to be found."
"You wouldn't believe in mother." Francis turned over to his back and stared at the ceiling's flatness. He thought about the interlocking of wooden slats hidden by paint and walls. "I never get to see anything. You never let me go anywhere. I had to know about sunshine and dry dirt and ranches, rancheros. Anything but this place. The cars parked along the street. My school so close. You driving me to school. There's too little of what I want and too much to see."

His mother paused, drew her eyes towards the window. Not out of ponderance, but out of prescient purpose. "I didn't want to have to tell you this, but your father and I have been having some problems." She slumped her head. "Having... problems. Having. It sounds like a child, like a little brother or sister for you. But it's not and I've always done things the way they're supposed to be done. With you and with him."

Francis looked over to his closet where Ethereal waited.

"Are you and dad going to get divorced?"
"You know what that is?"
"I know what divorce is. You never let me go anywhere, but there's TV."
His mother raised her voice. "Francis, I want to know where you went."

Ethereal wriggled out of the closet. "Ma'am, I believe I'm the answer to your question."

Startled by the unfamiliar voice, his mother jolted up and backed to the wall.

To be continued...

Tuesday, 11 January 2011

Sports talk?

Last night was the college football national championship. And as usual, people are up in arms. There's always controversy about something, and I suppose rightfully relatively so. This year it's Cam Newton's father. There's the continual dissent about the need for a playoff system. Was Oregon the right team to play Auburn? It was a close game scorewise, but Oregon's lightning offense was disrupted by the relentless Nick Fairely. Should the undefeated TCU have been in the ring instead? No one will ever know.

People speak about these issues like they're the primary political concerns of our country. And even think that congress should enact laws to reinforce their sports opinions. Such fire. Where's that fire for more meaningful pursuits?

I know alot about sports, sure, and that's useful, just as I know alot about cars now after being engrossed in that diversion for a while. Not good to refer to your favorite team as we and it's not good to only discuss these sorts of things. It's not good to ignore them because so many people do talk about it. And if you want to be in the loop, well, best chiggity check yoself. Also, it's interesting. The types of arguments people put out there with sports, the stats, the rationale.

Sports inspires people. Some are moved to great feats of strength, others to cook up a great plate of nachos. It has the power of spontaneity and constant concurrence. Epic, yet there's always next year. I've watched sports all my life, but my life isn't sports. Just something to enjoy, talk about, and laugh about. And that's something you can say about many things in life.

Monday, 10 January 2011

The cure for restlessness

Get into adventures. Not the adventures you think, 'cause then they wouldn't be adventures. Ask people ridiculous questions. Do a dance you've never done at place you've never been at a time not usual for dancing, or maybe when everyone else is dancing so you can get a room full of applause.

I posed the question: "if you could be reincarnated as any human animal, what would you be?"

This girl looks me dead in the face and blurts, "a blade of grass."

There are of course a few problems with this answer. Most immediately that a blade of grass isn't an animal. Is she serious? The thousand yard stare on her faces relays yes.

So her friend says, "what happens when the lawn mowers come?"

What indeed.

Sunday, 9 January 2011

On the road again

Quietude. What a word. Not many chances to use it, really. Our world is busy and city-bustled-hustled-speed-encrusted. That's how I like it, but every once in a while, when on the highway surrounded by empty lanes, salt, and snow drifts, the word comes to mind.

Quietude. It's a word that paradoxically adds attitude and resolve to something passing over those qualities. It doesn't mean silence, it means silence plus aura. That sneaking, creeping, engulfing type of quiet. Quiet that thumps and thuds.

Quietude. It's the feeling when the night is darker than smokestacks and poised enough for a constellation or two. Quietude defies creaking floors and the heavy hollowness in your chest after confrontation. Quietude is Bruce Lee and the Liberty Bell.

Saturday, 8 January 2011

Simple awe

I'm typing this post on my friend's advanced phone and it's amazing. How far we've come in simple consumer tech. Something like this could've only been thought of by the military industrial complex if going back a few decades. Yet we can enjoy the ease of self-publishing delivered by a device once deigned for voice and now far more than text and flashlights mimicking lighter at concerts. But it's brighter, faster, fitter, tighter as exemplified by myriad applications I can spend time and money on. A whole industry built on smartphones.

Here's the point: there's always opportunities now more than ever for invention and creativity. Hell, I'm using a device that could run the moon missions. You know all this, but it's worth basking in the simple awe of its artificial and powerfully transmutive glow.

Friday, 7 January 2011



There’s a pen—take it
Use it, mark it, write it, make it.

Here’s a shrine—shake it
Feel it, breath it, sip it, name it.

There’s a light—frame it
See it, sing it, softly drink it.

There’s a gift—give it
Lovely, trusty, gusty trinket.

Thursday, 6 January 2011

Bill, you're no sommelier. But you're willing to learn, right?

Let it breathe, Bill. No, that means leaving the bottle open to the air. The cork seals in the flavor. Smell it while you're waiting for it to mature. No, the cork's not edible. Was it invented in Ireland? I'm not sure. Have you ever had a Bordeaux with Cab Franc like this? No? It's good. Very bold in spots, layered with some musky passion, delighting in its thick and earthy roots. No, I didn't read that on the bottle. I've had this one before, it's definitely a top choice. Will go perfectly with our dinner. Oh, you ran out of steak? I thought you said we'd be having red meat this evening. Beer can chicken? That won't do. I know you probably make it fine. Yes, I like chicken. Look, I'm not slighting your barbecue grilling skills, but that's not the menu you provided me. I suppose the stores are closed at this hour, right? I suppose we'll just have to make do with this. It really is good wine, just not meant to accompany beer can chicken. It's more of a prime rib sort of vintage. Next time I suppose.

Hey, do you have a wine cellar of any sort? Maybe there's something--oh, you do? Alright, I'll see what you have. Are you sure you have a wine cellar? All I see down here are three boxes of Franzia and they're quite dusty. Oh, THIS is what you meant? Right, well it's still red, so there's that part of the problem. Look, don't worry about it. So long as you have some good stemwear.

Where's your cupboard? All I see in here are Snoopy mugs and those sippy cups. Do you even have children? What type of shenanigans are these? What do you mean you bought them just in case? In case one quiet Tuesday morning Sindy pops out a kid unexpectedly? Are you fucking joking? How do you people even live?

Calm down? What do you mean calm down? Okay, okay, it's not that big a deal. Yeah, things are fine, they're cool. We'll be fine. Perhaps some appetizers? Sindy, you don't have to do anything, I'll prepare them. Wait, all you have are Kraft singles and pecan sandies? That won't do! What about water crackers and brie? No? Maybe some pecorino and prosciutto? Damnit, no it's not okay. First my wife leaves me and now this shit? I can't take this anymore. This isn't fine, it isn't ok. No, I won't stop shouting. This deserves shouting. How can you live in such a state of barbarism? Is this Cambodia or is this America? You have some nerve inviting me over and not even preparing. Just because I lost my job and my wife, and she took Puffles, our dog, doesn't mean I'm just some doormat to wipe your immature indiscretions. Oh, what's the use? Take that you stupid family urn.

Hey, I'm sorry, I'll stop crying, I'll clean up your mother's ashes. Let's just drink this Bordeaux even with your stupid chicken. It'll still be good. That's how good this wine is. Get out? Get out of what? Your house? Oh, c'mon I said I was sorry. Is this how you treat all your friends?

Damnit. I was actually starting to get hungry.

Wednesday, 5 January 2011

Why's it so crazy? (Sandwiches)

Dear esteemed colleagues and fellows at the UN:

Isn't life crazy when you don't have a good sandwich for a while? I don't know how some people do it. I just don't have the strength to go on without a good sandwich. Had many sandwiches in my life and it's probably why I'm still here. Nothing spells perseverance like chicken cutlet on a wedge, lettuce, tomato, onions, and honey mustard from Rocky's Deli. Even thinking about that sandwich restores me.

Ponder how great an idea the sandwich is. You can throw leftovers in there or craft it with the finest starting ingredients. You can go classic or go exotic and dream big some combination never before ingested.

Tangent alert: one time I went to Firehouse Deli and ordered some regular sandwich, something that would be impossible to mess up and I got peanut butter and jelly with ham and jalapenos on whole wheat? What the holy state of Denmark? I looked at it, contemplated a bite and hurling, but threw it out with the force of Thor's hammer. I probably ordered turkey on rye; obviously to no avail. Did the sandwichmaker hate me? Did they see my face and mistake me for someone who robbed their house years before? I want to know. Even to this day I still have nightmares of the worst sandwich ever imagined. A demonic mind could only create such a monstrosity.

As I was saying, sandwiches are great. People make sandwiches into sexual metaphors which can also be grand. Some people consider the Oreo to be a sandwich. Samantha Hamandbamram thinks a banana split qualifies. Whatever works. The Earl of Sandwich deserves our salute. Good for all three meals and it doesn't have to be bread even. Can be a wrap or cheese between two crackers. It's a house of food. Bread surrounding a taste explosion.

So, there's a reason I don't order whole wheat anymore besides that there are better options. A lot of whole wheat has too strong a taste and an almost sugary tinge to it. And Zeus help you if it has those little crunchy nut seed things, just why? Rule one of sandwich crafting mastery is that the bread should compliment and NEVER overpower the other ingredients. The bread is just there to hold it all together, it's not the main attraction. Sure, I use garlic bread, but that's only when garlic bread actually goes with the sandwich, which is usually always. My point being that a good sandwich has almost invisible bread. The texture shouldn't be more interesting than the texture of what's inside. Don't care if it's a broccoli and cheese on toast or a liverwurst on a roll, the middle is the point of the whole shindig.

Now this is controversial as well, but this applies to bagels. Needs to be more cream cheese than the bagel can handle. Cream cheese should be everywhere. The main flavor needs to be the cheese and whatever was in the cheese, aka chives, onions, garlic, peppers, whathaveyou. Then and only then should I luxuriate in the fullness of the everything bagel. I love everything bagels, but they ain't nothin' without the spread. Toasting it is a quick remedy because it spreads out the cheese for you, but some, and you know who you cretins are, shun such a wondrous practice needlessly. Don't cheat yourselves.

I'm from New York and sandwiches of all types should be big. Bigger than the bread. Oh, and don't try to get neat either. You OCD types know what I mean. Sandwiches should have the ingredients hanging off the edges. I should I know I'll be delighting in more than just bread when I glance at what's on my plate. If the two pieces of bread are touching, just send it back. It's not worth your time.

And what about club sandwiches, you say? That's only permissible when the sandwich would otherwise be too unwieldy. If the concoction will break apart without it, sure, add that third slice. Otherwise, you know how it should be done. I love bread. In fact, one of my favorite meals is just some good French bread with whipped butter. Standards, people! That's all I'm saying. And if you want to live a long, passionate life, eat some sandwiches, champion your favorites, and call it like it is. Life's too short to deny yourself the pleasure of culinary perfection. And trust me, after you treat your friends and enemies to a good platter--geopolitics, religion, and ecological responsibility will just fall right into place. Now that's how you serve peace in the Middle East.

Thank you and bon apetit.

Tuesday, 4 January 2011

8 Heads in a Duffel Bag

Movie Review: 8 Heads in a Duffel Bag (1997)

Some movies aren't Academy Award winners, some are just great concepts. And Joe Pesci should be in every movie. Doesn't matter if it's a cameo of him selling someone a sandwich. Just remember that sandwich probably has a gun in it. This movie is just a great premise of a contract killer who loses his collection of heads (proof of his work) because he's a jerk to the flight attendant on his way to San Diego from Mexico. The title's fantastic, the grotesque and unique idea that sparks the action is worthy of viewing, and it has Joe Pesci. Joe Pesci can do anything. I would have liked to have seen him in Leo DiCaprio's role in Titanic or as Hamlet or as Atticus Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird. Joe Pesci would be in a movie if I made one and he'd play every part.

While short on any literary revelations, go see some Joe Pesci. And rewatch My Cousin Vinny while you're at it.

Monday, 3 January 2011

Ethereal pt. 2

Francis and Ethereal the Magic Carpet sat in the upstairs bedroom the young boy was often constrained to stay in. Schoolwork or simply parentally-designated reflection time.

Ethereal couldn’t let this stand. “Francis, would you like to see what life is like outside of your house?”
“But I know what life is like outside of my house and it’s scary. I shouldn’t go anywhere my parents tell me not to and they say never to leave home without them.”
Carpet curled, “Why do your parents tell you that? And how do you know something without seeing it yourself?”
Francis’s muscles were loose and his concentration betrayed his hard-taught precociousness. “Uh, I… well, they just told me. I don’t think they would lie to me.”
“It might not be lying, more like not telling you everything, which is lying, just not the lying you’re thinking of. With your permission and not your parents, I want to take you on a journey to see things that won’t scare you, but enthrall you, delight you.”
“Where will we go?”
“Many places. You’ll see where get there?”
“How will we get there?”
“Grab on, let’s go.” And off they went, Francis lying flat on the rug, holding the main tassels at the corners, white knuckled. Out the window and out of suburbia they whisked away on the winds, flying free and breezy. Francis had never felt the sensation before and Ethereal was proud to have a passenger once more. Up and airy they flew, west from Ohio towards the southwest.

They arrived at the Grand Canyon in the daylight, in the heat where it wasn’t gray and Francis could breathe easily. The wind had blown his hair back as Ethereal lead onward. Seeing a distressed looking man, they set down at a tourist shack.

Francis asked, “what’s wrong, mister?”
The bearded man, gruff and in a tattered cowboy hat unfolded his arms. “My boy Tim’s gone missing. I think he might have wandered near the Canyon’s edge, but I don’t know. Maybe he’s around here somewhere.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll find him!” Francis squeezed the sweat from his hand onto his shirt. “We’ll be back.”
Off and out of the shack went the two new friends to scour the Canyon edge for any signs of missing child. Flying low along the ridge, Ethereal spots fingers hanging off the ledge. Swooping in, the magic carpet gets alongside the precariously plunked child.

Francis caught the boy’s attention. “Are you Tim? Your father’s looking for you.”
“Ah! Just help me.”
“Ok, now grab on.”
“I’m scared.”
“Seriously, I’m on a magic carpet, there’s nothing that should scare you.” Francis held out his hand.
“Alright.” And Tim grabbed Francis’s arm and landed on Ethereal’s back.
“I don’t want to go back to my dad. He never pays attention to me. Can’t I just go with you?”
“We’re not from around here. I’m sure that if you just tell him how you feel, he’ll listen. And something amazing will happen to you like it happened to me with my carpet friend here.”
“He won’t listen. Just let me go with you.”
“You have to go home, there’s always home.”

And so they dropped Tim back at his father’s shack. “Ethereal, we have to get home, my parents are gonna kill me!”

To be continued…

Sunday, 2 January 2011


Young Francis grabbed onto the tassels of the Persian rug and pulled. His mother gave him a halting stare. “Francis stop that, we might buy that.”
The fair-smiled, blue-eyed boy slipped his hands cross behind his back. “And what if we don’t? You should buy it mommy.”

Mr. and Mrs. O’Callaghan paced around the store separately. They glanced at each other almost every other rug. Their son noticed the sad reluctance in their eyes. “Mommy, are we gonna buy this?”
His father chimed in. “Son, you’re not buying anything, and if your mom and I want to buy a rug, it will happen. A good rug is something to be considered, it’s something that anchors an entire room. When guests come over, it’s the most important accoutrement besides the furniture itself, and to the eye, even more important.” Mr. O’Callaghan was excited but not smiling. “You must learn how to respect these details.”

Francis rolled his fingers through the golden tassels and could have sworn he felt the rug twitch. He was a boy with a wild imagination and a love of colors, twister, paintball, and well-varnished floors. But he’s only seen fleeting glimpses of these small wonders. His parents are very strict about what they allow him to see. He goes to a private school, with a private tutor, and a private life with few friends unless they’re privately vetted and his parents are broke from it.

As Francis walks away, the carpet grabs him by the hand. His parents pace the store for more. “Wait a bit.” The magic carpet cavorted. “Trust me on this. I know what you love and I know you’re very sad right now. Don’t worry if your parents don’t buy me, we’re gonna be friends, I can feel it.”

Amazed that a carpet could talk, Francis drank all its words in. His parents selected a different rug, one that was forest green instead of red, one that had monochrome tassels instead of gilded ones, one that was quiet instead of loud, one that would be restrained under a couch.

“My name is Ethereal. I’m going to take you on an adventure, Francis.” The carpet slid slowly from underneath the store’s exquisite merchandise. Loosing itself from servitude. As the O’Callaghan’s got into their car, the carpet followed them home, hovering low to the ground.

To be continued...

Saturday, 1 January 2011

Just a little ditty to bring it in

New Year's Rockin' Eve

Wearable, shareable,
palpable, danceable clock.
Rickety tickety tock.

Shining, subliming,
carrousing, espousing some hope.
Swimmingly tickety tock.

Covorting, contorting,
Correcting, perfecting our moves.
Down the pole it goes.

Counting from 10
to the fun night's events--
and fittingly fired wilds the crowd.

Happily, merrily,
pridefully, pining about.
Blissfully, tickety tock.