Engrish got me like

I saw this the other night and lost my shit.
Finishes. The word that ends the above sentence is finishes not finish, ffs.
Regarding correct grammar, I lose my junk on a daily basis. (an annoying Word Nazi? Guilty as charged)
Do I use words on a daily basis that make people scratch their heads wondering what said word means?
Sorry. I do. It’s a word thing and I make no apologies because it’s in my hard wiring.
Profanity doesn’t bother me.
On occasions, I can even deal with commonly misspelled words. (I know. Unreal.)
But what is up with this sudden dropping of tenses and random obtuse meanderings of the English language?
Does anyone talk like this?
Or write like this?
Or communicate like this?
Sweet cheeses, I think not.
And if they do, get a helmet, your damn head needs a quick (and possibly violent – not violet) shake.
I guess it’s the way the web and the world-at-large works these days with all its apparent abbreviations.
Hell, my wife even thought ‘a/f ‘ was a shortened version of Abercrombie and Fitch.
Maybe it’s me, or maybe I’m just too set in my ways, or maybe I should just shut the hell up because it will never change.
No sense in reinventing the wheel, methinks.
Or maybe I’ll just listen to Samuel L Jackson’s advice and go the fuck to sleep.
Sounds like a plans . . .

~m

 

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Zero for Zooz

Late night, Duke Street
the wet cobblestones shine and sparkle, bubble and squeak; and the dense fog rolls in
the clock tower chimes twelve
And it’s Zero for Zooz
Westminster.

Late night, Duke Street
the gauzy moon bleeds and drips, gaslights burn
and gossamer sheets of a hazy white sift through
the inimical clouds of night
the clock tower chimes three
And it’s Zero for Zooz
Westminster . . .

Sunrise, Duke Street
a languid sun cracks itself open and splashes some invisible and distant horizon with
salmon pinks, royal purples and bright orange crush
the clouds of night rest just beneath the hush of dawn
and the clock tower chimes in crystal silence
And it’s Zero for Zooz
and Westminster waits . . .

~m

5 Miles to Vandmere

I’m sitting cross-legged on a mysterious and deserted beach with nothing but the sound of the incoming tide.
The ocean is dark, brooding and occasionally offers up a glimpse of a dying whitecap. There’s a slight breeze but for the life of me I can’t tell if it’s warm or cool, it just is.
The full moon is partially blocked by the numerous passing clouds but there are intermittent flashes of light, possible thunderstorms that illuminate the wide expanse of beach before me.
I can almost see the curvature of the earth near the horizon.
The sky begins changing day to night, night to day and the passage of 24 hours is not unlike the second hand of some diabolical and uncontrollable timepiece.

The wind begins to scream and I realize that I’m slowly beginning to disappear, grain of sand by grain of sand. I am but a slight aberration in the ground below me.
The image of a weather-beaten sphinx flitters around my dreaming subconscious mind.
It’s then that I see the shadow of a street sign of sorts in the water, roughly 10 feet from the shore. I squint hard trying to see it during the brief intervals of light.

It says “5 miles to Vandmere”, a place I’ve never heard of before.

According to Google, it doesn’t exist; and by the end of my strangely epic dream,
nor do I.
Maybe it’s a place I’m just not supposed to find.
I’m open to any interpretations.
One freaky ass dream, folks.
Should you see any signs for “Vandmere” email me a picture and send directions.
Maybe I should check it out . . .

~m

Smoke, Lies and the Nanny State and . . .

Just wanted to put up yet another “thank you” post for being so damn generous with your comments.
I wanted to make my way around the “bloghorn” but will never do it all tonight.
I’m only human.

A few notes of interest, if you look to my side bar you will see a little jpeg of Joe Jackson (musician).
If you click it, it will open Adobe Reader on your computer (assuming you have it installed), and download his essay as a .pdf file.
I don’t comment much about smoking on the blog but I feel Jackson’s essay should be read by smokers and non-smokers alike.
I think it’s absolutely brilliant.
You may feel differently.
I’m not going to address my stance on smoking right now.
Just know that I smoke.
And I enjoy it.
And I pay exorbitant and unscrupulous taxes because of my habit (which is absolute bullshit).
To the US government, tax something else for a change, for cripes sake.
Just imagine if the government started taxing Budweiser and Happy Meals the way they tax tobacco these days.
Would people be a bit angry?
Think about it.
Click on the philosopher above to visit Jackson’s website.
There’s some great stuff to be found there.

And now for something completely different;

Last week, I woke up in the middle of the night after falling asleep early and came downstairs to the sound of ‘beep-beep-beep-beep’.
My wife was laying on the couch pointing the cordless phone at the TV and pressing the “call button” on and off.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Trying to turn this friggin’ thing down,” she said.

“You can’t do that with the phone, dear, ” I said, as I took the phone out of her hand, turned off the TV and guided her upstairs to bed.
Ah, sleepyheads can be funny sometimes.
I think she may have called China a few times though.
Check out the Jackson video below.
Classic Joe.

~m

Sunglasses at night

It seems improbable and physically impossible to feel alone on the streets of a city the magnitude of Boston but I’ve had such a day today.
I ate a meager lunch in a deserted food court, rode a ghost train with no passengers
(save for a lone and apathetic conductor that collected my money),
walked down an empty Boylston Street to an ‘I am Legend’-like South Station.
My mind doesn’t want to let anyone in today and I feel I’m struggling against a surreal and desolate landscape that is the city of Boston.
I loathe days these because I feel almost anonymous and somewhat disposable.
And nothing I can say or do seems to change anything.

I get a seat on the train and I put on my sunglasses even though it’s 5:30pm and the sun has set on the city.
UV protection for the soul, I think,
as I contemplate a jump into a vat of lukewarm self-pity.
No, that would be too damn easy.
The past several weeks have wreaked some serious emotional havoc on my sorry 49-year-old ass and this is the aftermath, an ardent and internal hangover; it’s temporary but so very intense.
I come to realize that I’m just really tired and can’t seem to catch up.
Exhausted, actually.
Sleep doesn’t help.
But writing it out has immense possibility.
And it does.

“How are ‘ya?”

{Oh, God . . . not that question again, ad nauseum}

{Me smiling}
“Just another day in paradise, buddy, just another day.”

And I carry on.

Still somewhat alone.

For the time being . . .

~m

Ps. happy birthday to Smoke &Mirrors (2.22.05) {you people are sick} :mrgreen:


Sad Song

 

I feel like a sad song
One that feels as I do right now
no rhyme, no reason; just overcrowded staves of emotional chromaticism making no sense, no reason, no rhyme

I feel like a sad song
One that sounds different than the one I’ve sung for so long, too long now
out of time and tune, out of my mind with more questions than the distant answers found on the worn pages of a fake book, my book of life

I am the sad song
One deep inside the why’s and the what ifs of a book; moments in time, this book of liars, of blue tears
of grace notes unnoticed and songs unsung, a song of the heart still waiting silently to be found . . .

~m

A small, insignificant and relatively stinky Haiku for Bob

How come you so big?

You scare my wife and keetons

Bobby try diet . . .

Sarah informed us that Bob would be returning for a few days.
His stay will be mercifully brief because he’s outta here on Sunday morning when we bring her back to school. {excuse me, college}
Bob is currently residing in the hallway upstairs.
I found that out last night (1:34am) when I was needlessly mugged by a dark-hooded Hollister sweatshirt on my way to the bathroom.

My only thought today was where in God’s name did the summer go?

I’ve already noticed a few brave trees offering up their chlorophyll, preparation for a special place on the ever popular New England Autumnal Palette.
The hands of time are moving too damn fast for me these days.
I just said ‘hello’ to summer and now I’m sadly saying ‘goodbye’.

And I hate that.

I really, really do.

Relinquishing my sacred seat on the porch has never been easy.
I used to love the fall but even that has changed for me; probably because the autumnal equinox is the natural pre-cursor to the personal arctic abomination I now refer to as “freekin’ winter”.

The past few days have kicked my ass but the computer is once again up and running and the ‘blue screen of death’ is but mere memory. Ahh . . . .
And thank my lucky stars because I can already hear Bob calling me for more space.

I promise to catch up on my “comment absence” by early next week.

keep the faith,

~m

PS. Happy Birthday, LiHo!!!!!!

Goodnight Irene

On days that I open the store I’m on the train at 6AM and visiting the land of Nod by 6:15.
Early morning trains are relatively quiet and sleeping is an acquired and needed task I’ve grown quite used to utilizing.
It must be my internal clock but my eyes automatically open right after the train leaves the Yawkey stop (Fenway Park) and I’m still barely awake by the time we get to my stop at Back Bay which is only three minutes away.

The other morning I got up from my seat with all the zeal of an 85 year old man and made my way to the stairs leading to the nearest exit.
I saw a woman standing by the door waiting to get off when my heart stopped.
Though I could only see the left side of her face she looked just like my mother.
I know my mother is no longer here but I found it interesting, maybe even semi- sweet,
that the mere sight of another human being resembling her can still make my heart miss a beat.
This woman’s hair, her eyes, nose and the shape of her mouth; even her clothes all screamed my mother’s name.

She must have known I was staring because she suddenly looked up at me, almost through me, smiled and left the train.

Sleepwalking my way to work, I passed on my usual cup of coffee from Au Bon Pain.
I guess I was still a bit dazed from the surprise encounter I’d just had and decided to continue sleepwalking through the surreal fog,
my scattered memories trailing close behind me.

~m

Alive and . . .

Just to let you know I’m alive and well.
There just hasn’t been enough time to put together anything worthwhile
for you to read.
I spent all last night trying (unsuccessfully) to install Norton Systemworks on Sarah’s laptop.
I “chatted” online with several analysts in India before finally reaching someone named Arun who solved my problem.
I found that chatting is a hell of a lot easier than trying to talk with these guys on the phone.
The ‘puter problem is now solved and I’m going to try and get back to normal soon.
This post is a confession of sorts (yes, I know, another one)
The warm summer nights mean two basic things to me: cigars and beer.
Sorry to say blogging has taken a back seat.
In a few short months the weather will change and I’ll find myself back inside looking for a pen and my journal.
I changed my header so that you’d know I was still alive.
But I’m still something of a suckbag because I’ve replied to no comments and visited virtually no one.
I do apologize. If only there were 36 hours in a day . . .
One last note, my left thumb was infected.
I went to Urgent Care Sunday night after getting back from Boston.
The doc got out a scalpel and went to town on my digit before squeezing out
a bunch of disgusting spooge.
I’m currently on antibiotics and I think I’m going to make it.
Don’t give up on me just yet.
I may even surprise you all with a comment or two tonight. Maybe. :0)
Oh, and a bit on the picture above?
I thought it was strange.
Just like me . . .
~m

Summer Break

I’m taking a bit of a break this week.
I desperately need to re-charge my archaic batteries.
Trust me, I’ll be back with you by weeks end.
I’m just currently really burnt out.
There’s nothing remotely decent in the creative cerebral hopper.
Time for some reading.
Later gators . . .

~m

btw– I sincerely thank you all for the comments on the Cerulean Blues post.
I promise to respond to all sometime during the week.