…is Fourth of July

With the tide coming in and the fireworks reflecting off it, and even the billion little bacteria come to show their patriotism by glowing in an awful nice way, I remember thinking it was a pretty good 4th of July. Explosions were happening off the pier, from someone’s house, from zoomers lit right on the beach. Some narrated events on cell phones. Some attempted ecstatic epilepsy (or is it epileptic ecstasy?) with strobe wands bought for $4 apiece. I sat on a rock and wrote on a thick sketchbook on a page of doodles I didn’t like, and all the while the tide kept coming.

toy fireworksThe fireworks crackled in stereo up and down the beach.
BOOM. BOOMBOOM.

You got your sparklers, your poppers, your whistlers, screamers, thumpers, swimmers (my favorite), smiley-faces, two-timers, and of course your duds, all in blue and red and green and white, purple even. That I’ve had before. You’ve had them before. But have you ever had the very waters of the ocean aglow for you on the fourth of July?

So Here’s What I’m Thinking

I’m thinking: why have I not posted in so long? Do I derive no joy from smattering my self-involved brain trash all over on the intarweb? Shouldn’t I use the word ‘intarweb’ more often on the internet, just to show how ‘hip’ I am for the kids today? Why don’t I openly mock my own motives and diction more often, in public, on a crappy website I built wasting time when I could have been doing classes?

Huzzah and kudos to myself. I have now alienated anyone who might have liked me. Usually I’m not so… deprecating, to be fair. These few weeks have been odd. I haven’t written in a long time so don’t feel so bad, imaginary audience. Or should I just address you as search-bots? Search-bots, ho!

I wrote a letter to Emily last night, an old friend from college. Not an old friend. She’s frickin 20. I’m 21. Dammit. Anyway it felt good. And so, I am now operating under the perhaps misguided assumption of “who gives a fuck? no ones reading!” So I can now admit (using my false confidence) the fact that, since I was a boy, I have had a curved dick. And that it’s the result of a flawed circumcision. Didn’t see that coming, did you asshole!? Hoo-Ah!

Well that’s enough personal detriment flavored with wanton and oddly juxtaposed enthusiasm for one sitting, woodenshoessay?
I’m to bed.

Goodnight Cleveland.

Rhymes with Puke

I’d like to see me, playing a ukelele, really really badly.

I wanna suck at playing it so bad it’s funny.

All people aspire to something. To better themselves. To better society. To protect and provide for their families. To perform acts of renown and courage. To create breathtaking works of art. Can I not dream, dream to suck?

Many would question my dream. They would say that I am only failing at my original dream of learning to play the oft-soft-plucked, sonorous, humble ukelele. No no no contraire. I have learned to play it, just recently (yesterday). Much easier than you’d think. A quick run-down of some Ukelele concepts:

  • Tuning. This is very important. GCEA—Girls Can’t Eat Alone. Or, if you’re a visual learner try Gucklerhea.
  • Chords. Keep one hand still. Move the other. Congratulations, Mister Clapton!
  • Chord Progression. Requires some practice. Move both hands at once. It confuses the hell out of ‘em.
  • Strumming. When you hit your hand against the stringy bits, such that you make a sound not unlike the stringy bits being dropped.
  • Tapping. ‘Percuss’ the instrument—that is to say, hit it. Hit it like it’s your bitch and it just peed the carpet. Rub it’s nose around in there.
  • Glissando. An advanced technique whereby one strips the top layer of skin off one’s fingers. It could also very well be a mixture of glitter and sand, I suppose. I don’t know—I make this stuff up.

There you have it. From these simple observations, and also about $40 of your mom’s money, you too can suck at ukelele. Look for samples of musical technique coming soon!!!

Irksome—not quite inflammatory

I tell you what, never watch a philosophical and cerebral movie with your dad right after he’s just arrived from a really long drive. Never suggest how your girfriend can improve the project she’s been working on all day. She only wants your praise and adulation. Thirdly, always test a pulgin that blocks certain content from certain people with the least irksome material you can think of. Irksome: today’s word of the day.

Mixed Metaphors

I’ve never been a bettin’ man, but if I was I’d hedge my bets in ma’ own favor.

For the day draws nigh when I shall set upon the world a sight which it hast never before borne witness to, a site whose time hast come, a site so unlike any other it can be called by naught but its own name: WordGlot.
Thou shalt see. All of thou.

Indeed, I can practically see the classes begin to file in, sense the navigation gain direction, while the floating divs become more bouyant and springy along with the nonsensical metaphors.

Launch in t-minus… 5… 4… 3…
uhh, could we start back from 100, Curtis? I was just being a smartass and killing time between work.

Subconscious Sublimation

Wow, that was an odd dream. I dreamt I had lots of comments, like 5-8 for each post, and none of them were spam. People genuinely were interested in my blog. Of course in this same dream my family and I were eating various stuffed pastries in a grocery store and we only paid for one kind. Dreams are frickin’ weird.

What does that mean? It means people, including myself, like nice comments. That’s only natural—social cratures, you know. Don’t get me wrong I have never done this because of the huge public demand for another personal blog. I’ve done it cause I felt like it. Just—please someone leave a comment besides my dad, ok?