And it rained.
From winter snow to spring showers.
And then to summer storms?
Warm enough to be comfortably moldy perhaps.
if it were not for the differing levels of perpetual gray, not a single inhabitant in this saturated Hell would ever believe that the sun and moon ever existed.
Drunken past-times formerly devoted to by fairweatherers, now bore the markings of deeply contrasting greens against brown and black muds of the north lands. And in increasing volumes apathetic to the duldrums of Pennsylvanian spring's unpalpable persistant dredging "play on." was meekly murmered by fat tulips and bluebells.
Monday, April 25, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Curse Line
Boop-beep-beep-beep-boop-boop-beep-beep-boop-bop-boop.
Thank you for calling the Curse Line for English press "1". Para espanol presione el número "2".
Boop.
Thanks for calling the Curse Line. Your call is very important to us. Please hold for the next available operator.
(muzak - Girl from Ipanema)
Thanks for holding. How may I help you?
Yeah. I hit my thumb with a very large hammer. I'd like to order a curse, please.
Okay. One moment please. (fingering on a keyboard. Heavy breathing) Hit your thumb with a hammer, yes?
Yes.
You can say "Ah, S@#T!"
Mmm. No.
For an extra $1.95 plus tax, I can give you bigger one.
Okay.
Say "Son of B@#$%H!"
That might work.
Good luck. And thank you for calling the Curse Line. Is there anything else I can get for you.
No, that'll do.
Thank you. Good bye.
Thank you for calling the Curse Line for English press "1". Para espanol presione el número "2".
Boop.
Thanks for calling the Curse Line. Your call is very important to us. Please hold for the next available operator.
(muzak - Girl from Ipanema)
Thanks for holding. How may I help you?
Yeah. I hit my thumb with a very large hammer. I'd like to order a curse, please.
Okay. One moment please. (fingering on a keyboard. Heavy breathing) Hit your thumb with a hammer, yes?
Yes.
You can say "Ah, S@#T!"
Mmm. No.
For an extra $1.95 plus tax, I can give you bigger one.
Okay.
Say "Son of B@#$%H!"
That might work.
Good luck. And thank you for calling the Curse Line. Is there anything else I can get for you.
No, that'll do.
Thank you. Good bye.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Daddy Used to Rock
Mostly, this is a letter to my two year old. One day you will be able to read this. One day you'll be able to understand.
Older. Everyday a little bit more. I am convinced though that it is all reversible - physically, mentally, and spiritually. For now though, I have become a cranky old man. Regrettably, mommy has seen it, and you have. You may not have noticed. Sure, you may have thought that daddy was a little off, but "why?" may never have crossed your mind.
You see...
Daddy used to rock.
Odd - one word to summarize the whole of a past self. I tried everything, and rarely considered the ramifications of my actions unless I knew that they were certainly perilous, and even then I weighed these with expediency.
A lot these were to impress girls, and I say girls because women seem to know better (that includes mommy, although she still likes to see me in a stage-element.)
I used to play in a variety of rock bands. Mostly, I dove into crowds as a progressive-metal rock singer, though I was a classic tenor. I was and still am very comfortable in front of people. Somehow, I get the feeling that you will be the same.
Daddy was on stage in New York and Japan. I co-produced and hosted radio and television programs. I even helped make a few good movies.
I used to ride my motorcycle everywhere fast. I reached the road with my knees.
I don't ride or do much with such veracity - growling anymore.
I never had much. Never needed much. Never talked politics. Never worried about having money. Never worried about you or mommy. Never questioned my being, because it never entered my mind. Never questioned the existence of God, because I never knew Him.
You must be thinking that I long for that past, wanting nothing more than rekindle that spirited youth, or perhaps that I would like to live it through you.
In short, my response is "No."
At length, I wish to regain that fearlessness that I held. I enjoy the light steps that everyday brought, and reminisce about infinite energy that was given to me. My shoulders broad – able to conquer, to invent, and to lead.
Know this - I would rather have a past fearless and free than a future of same without you and mommy. If daddy seems a little off, it’s probably because he is.
You will have a future and a past. The present is the only thing you can deal with. You will rejoice in your triumphs and regret your failures, and you will learn from them all. Give thanks. Don’t reminisce too much. Remember that God’s watching. Breathe. Pray. Go!
I don't know if daddy still rocks or that it even matters, but he used to.
Older. Everyday a little bit more. I am convinced though that it is all reversible - physically, mentally, and spiritually. For now though, I have become a cranky old man. Regrettably, mommy has seen it, and you have. You may not have noticed. Sure, you may have thought that daddy was a little off, but "why?" may never have crossed your mind.
You see...
Daddy used to rock.
Odd - one word to summarize the whole of a past self. I tried everything, and rarely considered the ramifications of my actions unless I knew that they were certainly perilous, and even then I weighed these with expediency.
A lot these were to impress girls, and I say girls because women seem to know better (that includes mommy, although she still likes to see me in a stage-element.)
I used to play in a variety of rock bands. Mostly, I dove into crowds as a progressive-metal rock singer, though I was a classic tenor. I was and still am very comfortable in front of people. Somehow, I get the feeling that you will be the same.
Daddy was on stage in New York and Japan. I co-produced and hosted radio and television programs. I even helped make a few good movies.
I used to ride my motorcycle everywhere fast. I reached the road with my knees.
I don't ride or do much with such veracity - growling anymore.
I never had much. Never needed much. Never talked politics. Never worried about having money. Never worried about you or mommy. Never questioned my being, because it never entered my mind. Never questioned the existence of God, because I never knew Him.
You must be thinking that I long for that past, wanting nothing more than rekindle that spirited youth, or perhaps that I would like to live it through you.
In short, my response is "No."
At length, I wish to regain that fearlessness that I held. I enjoy the light steps that everyday brought, and reminisce about infinite energy that was given to me. My shoulders broad – able to conquer, to invent, and to lead.
Know this - I would rather have a past fearless and free than a future of same without you and mommy. If daddy seems a little off, it’s probably because he is.
You will have a future and a past. The present is the only thing you can deal with. You will rejoice in your triumphs and regret your failures, and you will learn from them all. Give thanks. Don’t reminisce too much. Remember that God’s watching. Breathe. Pray. Go!
I don't know if daddy still rocks or that it even matters, but he used to.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
At Some Point in Time
As I vacuumed over blueberry Greek yogurt on our wine red carpet, wondering how in the world, aside from using the same formula to rid one's self of dog messes, does one get the yogurt stains out of anything. When dry, a white-powdery looking dairy product that hardly comes off of skin let alone a thick carpet.
And then it hits me - she's two.
It seemed rather cliche to use the notorious words of "terrible twos" when describing the confused and angsty toddler, and up until recently I would never have even considered it for our daughter, who by design is a sublime angel. Not only cherubic in stature and demeanor, but far more intelligent than her slobbering counterparts, no matter how good they smell, or how cute they are in their lactose induced comas.
Our daughter, since she hit the age and before has been coloring Dora and Mickey, and has known her ABCDs and can count, at this stage way past eleventeen. Why physically she has been asking for and crawling threw tunnels that would inspire and rattle the tunnel rats of KuuChi. She has performed feats of levitation and flights of fancy from armoires and sofa cushions only to receive giggles of gross anticipation and fright by any passersby.
And yet, for week or longer she has been in a mode that I can only label as duplicitous, if not downright bipolar. From an angel to a screaming demon with poopy drawers, she has gone the route of driving my wife and I a little batty, and concerned.
It is like someone slipped a mickey in her pink and yellow sippy cup and it has distorted the fragile continued growth of that spongy brain of hers. Attacking "Yellow Puppy", kicking nanni, crying into a rage, not looking at daddy, not looking at mommy, not eating, not drinking, not understanding.
An acquaintance with toddler knowledge stated that their brains at this very age are going through a series of rewiring - all kids. I never hear about other children up-ending a table sending yogurt to the carpet. I also never hear about dads speed destroying a table, and removing any and all Barney sounds to their daughters' dismay.
I digress. It is a bit odd that I sit here in the kitchen, fluorescent bulbs buzzing above me that clarity should come in solitude and prayer. I could have been out on my motorcycle; a cold day, but sunny nevertheless. Probably should have continued painting the bedroom, but I am fairly messy.
As it is, I have been forewarned that three is worse than two for many, and the teenage years, especially for girls, is turbulent to say the least. What do I do? Hide in the corner, avoiding the gift that my daughter is like so many dads do? Never knowing how to talk to their children, especially the girls.
No. I have to enjoy this. And no I will not be putting on my priest outfit, practicing my Latin, in order to perform an exorcism on her, but just riding it out: watching her while she drinks her morning beverage, kissing her when she requests it, holding her hand on walks, calming her tantrums, kissing her booboos, checking out her boyfriends, helping her on her schoolwork, teaching her to drive, and finally tucking her in at night - all the while trying to remember to thank God for her and my wife.
And then it hits me - she's two.
It seemed rather cliche to use the notorious words of "terrible twos" when describing the confused and angsty toddler, and up until recently I would never have even considered it for our daughter, who by design is a sublime angel. Not only cherubic in stature and demeanor, but far more intelligent than her slobbering counterparts, no matter how good they smell, or how cute they are in their lactose induced comas.
Our daughter, since she hit the age and before has been coloring Dora and Mickey, and has known her ABCDs and can count, at this stage way past eleventeen. Why physically she has been asking for and crawling threw tunnels that would inspire and rattle the tunnel rats of KuuChi. She has performed feats of levitation and flights of fancy from armoires and sofa cushions only to receive giggles of gross anticipation and fright by any passersby.
And yet, for week or longer she has been in a mode that I can only label as duplicitous, if not downright bipolar. From an angel to a screaming demon with poopy drawers, she has gone the route of driving my wife and I a little batty, and concerned.
It is like someone slipped a mickey in her pink and yellow sippy cup and it has distorted the fragile continued growth of that spongy brain of hers. Attacking "Yellow Puppy", kicking nanni, crying into a rage, not looking at daddy, not looking at mommy, not eating, not drinking, not understanding.
An acquaintance with toddler knowledge stated that their brains at this very age are going through a series of rewiring - all kids. I never hear about other children up-ending a table sending yogurt to the carpet. I also never hear about dads speed destroying a table, and removing any and all Barney sounds to their daughters' dismay.
I digress. It is a bit odd that I sit here in the kitchen, fluorescent bulbs buzzing above me that clarity should come in solitude and prayer. I could have been out on my motorcycle; a cold day, but sunny nevertheless. Probably should have continued painting the bedroom, but I am fairly messy.
As it is, I have been forewarned that three is worse than two for many, and the teenage years, especially for girls, is turbulent to say the least. What do I do? Hide in the corner, avoiding the gift that my daughter is like so many dads do? Never knowing how to talk to their children, especially the girls.
No. I have to enjoy this. And no I will not be putting on my priest outfit, practicing my Latin, in order to perform an exorcism on her, but just riding it out: watching her while she drinks her morning beverage, kissing her when she requests it, holding her hand on walks, calming her tantrums, kissing her booboos, checking out her boyfriends, helping her on her schoolwork, teaching her to drive, and finally tucking her in at night - all the while trying to remember to thank God for her and my wife.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
La Mela - The Big Ragu
If you had not read the ramp up to this - the last scene behold the following button http://hughsmuse.blogspot.com/2011/01/la-mela.html (cut and paste).
...The boys were in big trouble. Only a few bucks left between them, after spending it on travelin' beers and road smokes, the boys feared that between them they didn't have enough to buy a single meatball, let alone the five course "last supper" before the long walk into the Hudson.
"We... um."
"White or red?"
"Red!"
"White!"
Two bottles of fine table dego red and white wines were fisted onto the table with the smashing grace of a punch by the Rocky Marciano. The two, dumbfounded just looked at each other with panic driven sweat, moving southbound upon their worried brows. The old one, revered by the others as "nonno", stood barrel chested next to their table. His hairy arms were folded like broken pythons. A single pinky finger was encrusted with gold and a single solitary diamond.
"Um... we... were just ahem..."
"Here you go! Buon Mangiare! Idiotas!"
"Um. Gracias!"
"Che di spagnolo, lei al!"
The big Ragu lumbered away from the table his eyes never leaving the boys. A maniacal smile on his lips baring a single gold tooth - a tad gaudy, but this was lil' Italy.
Mouths oozed with delight as the appetizer appeared.
"Some kind of salted meat, which is like really awesome and ridiculo 'r spinach... I don't know what this is, dude but it ain't spaghetti! And I'm cool with 'at."
The wines were poured. The table once more was cleared and replaced with who knows what. And our two intrepid rennaisance men feasted with chomping and tearing, and hardly paying any attention to the falderall that was happening on the opposite side of the room.
The table was cleared. And once more replaced with more food, quicker than either of them could say "Un momento".
Four beautiful women in the corner, one unfortunately at a loss for cash. No card.
I have travelers checks.
"We no take a the traveler check. How you gonna pay?"
Half a fork full of pasta stringing from his mouth the older of the two brothers cautiously whimpered to his brother, "We're gonna die."
He continued to slirp the remains into his mouth. And they listened, while cautiously twirling another fork-full.
"What can you do?" Nonno Asked. "He licked his lips and twisted his mustache."
"I can sing."
Oh really.
Yeah. Classical.
"Sing for us. You pay us like that. Sing."
Suddenly, the music that was softly - almost serenely playing in the background as a sublime dream steeped in garlic and blood red wine stopped playing. In hushed anticipation, the restaurant became the setting for a glorious opera. Those dining had become choir-extras as the victory unwound itself.
Mimi begins a capella. Her voice was young and rich, though the creature herself appeared pale in her fear. She rose.
Nonno closed his eyes. His arms unwound like two enormous pythons - one with a gold and solitary diamond eye at its sharpest tooth.
She closed her eyes as though accepting an invitation to perhaps fall in love with whomever might be willing to share the light with her.
The boys glistened now with sweat. The garlic and heavy olive oil churned the bellies.
The big Ragu stood in the corner eyeing any dissenters to her shedding payment.
Mimi finished.
There was a slight pause. The air in the restaurant was thick and still.
Shallow whispers.
He's gonna kill that woman.
"Sciocchezze!"
"Bravo! "
La Mela exploded. Nonno and Ragu and the other jumped up and down shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. Ragu came to the table, and with his enormous mits grabbed our wine bottle and pummeled them without mercy or fear of them breaking into a thousand shards of glass. Cheering and ranting.
Nonno grabbed the dangling string of the enormous electric phallus. Flicking what appeared to be equivalent of a large pubic hair, so that the light would not only turn on and off, but throb,
The boys looked at one another. Terror.
The noise died down allowing the Ragu to return to their table. Coming off of his high, he smiled allowing that opulent piece of dental work to shine through his crooked lips.
"Coffee? Cappucino?"
"Cappucino."
"No! Haha."
"You?"
He knew he was dead anyways.
"Just a coffee, thanks."
...The boys were in big trouble. Only a few bucks left between them, after spending it on travelin' beers and road smokes, the boys feared that between them they didn't have enough to buy a single meatball, let alone the five course "last supper" before the long walk into the Hudson.
"We... um."
"White or red?"
"Red!"
"White!"
Two bottles of fine table dego red and white wines were fisted onto the table with the smashing grace of a punch by the Rocky Marciano. The two, dumbfounded just looked at each other with panic driven sweat, moving southbound upon their worried brows. The old one, revered by the others as "nonno", stood barrel chested next to their table. His hairy arms were folded like broken pythons. A single pinky finger was encrusted with gold and a single solitary diamond.
"Um... we... were just ahem..."
"Here you go! Buon Mangiare! Idiotas!"
"Um. Gracias!"
"Che di spagnolo, lei al!"
The big Ragu lumbered away from the table his eyes never leaving the boys. A maniacal smile on his lips baring a single gold tooth - a tad gaudy, but this was lil' Italy.
Mouths oozed with delight as the appetizer appeared.
"Some kind of salted meat, which is like really awesome and ridiculo 'r spinach... I don't know what this is, dude but it ain't spaghetti! And I'm cool with 'at."
The wines were poured. The table once more was cleared and replaced with who knows what. And our two intrepid rennaisance men feasted with chomping and tearing, and hardly paying any attention to the falderall that was happening on the opposite side of the room.
The table was cleared. And once more replaced with more food, quicker than either of them could say "Un momento".
Four beautiful women in the corner, one unfortunately at a loss for cash. No card.
I have travelers checks.
"We no take a the traveler check. How you gonna pay?"
Half a fork full of pasta stringing from his mouth the older of the two brothers cautiously whimpered to his brother, "We're gonna die."
He continued to slirp the remains into his mouth. And they listened, while cautiously twirling another fork-full.
"What can you do?" Nonno Asked. "He licked his lips and twisted his mustache."
"I can sing."
Oh really.
Yeah. Classical.
"Sing for us. You pay us like that. Sing."
Suddenly, the music that was softly - almost serenely playing in the background as a sublime dream steeped in garlic and blood red wine stopped playing. In hushed anticipation, the restaurant became the setting for a glorious opera. Those dining had become choir-extras as the victory unwound itself.
Mimi begins a capella. Her voice was young and rich, though the creature herself appeared pale in her fear. She rose.
Nonno closed his eyes. His arms unwound like two enormous pythons - one with a gold and solitary diamond eye at its sharpest tooth.
She closed her eyes as though accepting an invitation to perhaps fall in love with whomever might be willing to share the light with her.
The boys glistened now with sweat. The garlic and heavy olive oil churned the bellies.
The big Ragu stood in the corner eyeing any dissenters to her shedding payment.
Mimi finished.
There was a slight pause. The air in the restaurant was thick and still.
Shallow whispers.
He's gonna kill that woman.
"Sciocchezze!"
"Bravo! "
La Mela exploded. Nonno and Ragu and the other jumped up and down shouting and screaming at the top of their lungs. Ragu came to the table, and with his enormous mits grabbed our wine bottle and pummeled them without mercy or fear of them breaking into a thousand shards of glass. Cheering and ranting.
Nonno grabbed the dangling string of the enormous electric phallus. Flicking what appeared to be equivalent of a large pubic hair, so that the light would not only turn on and off, but throb,
The boys looked at one another. Terror.
The noise died down allowing the Ragu to return to their table. Coming off of his high, he smiled allowing that opulent piece of dental work to shine through his crooked lips.
"Coffee? Cappucino?"
"Cappucino."
"No! Haha."
"You?"
He knew he was dead anyways.
"Just a coffee, thanks."
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Bucket - The Dog (You really need to read the first episode)
Shortly, after removing our daughter from the offense on the carpet to clean her, the dog in her natural curiousity approached the room. Before I could "shush" the dog away, she had already devoured the more chunky bits of regurgitant.
There is something in the Bible about this, I am fairly certain.
The next day, while my beloved was infirmed with forementioned illness, I felt compelled to come home for a brief moment to tend to our recovering daughter. As I was preparing her for the day at grandma's house, my wife yelled from the bed, "Hugh, the dog's throwing up!"
There is something in the Bible about this, I am fairly certain.
The next day, while my beloved was infirmed with forementioned illness, I felt compelled to come home for a brief moment to tend to our recovering daughter. As I was preparing her for the day at grandma's house, my wife yelled from the bed, "Hugh, the dog's throwing up!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)