A Five Minute Bitch Slap

Coffee is the word for this weeks Sunday Scribblings . Here's my five minutes worth. Enjoy.

A Room Full of Strangers

A steady wave of morning light washed over Tom as he left the bedroom with the door shut tight. He struck a match and inhaled a deep breath of dissatisfaction as the steam from the coffee pot meandered unknowingly into the sunlight's path. It tasted a lot like Turkish blend. The phone jumped from the hook to pierce the silence Tom had found. He listened intently as a soft young voice expressed her longing into an answering machine. Tom smiled into his coffee as the girl described the overwhelming presence of Rome. ‘You don’t need to go to Rome to be overwhelmed’, Tom thought. His thumb slipped forcefully from the erase button as his eyes locked on the cracked door. A short girl with a large face stood in the doorway holding the sheets to her breast, “Who was it?” Tom exhaled a puff of frustration and smiled, “No one you know”.

-OR-

For Tony

I threw down my last pack of cigarettes over a year ago. They were Marlboro Lights. I miss them sometimes. I also miss the man who raised me. He smoked, as well, until lung cancer snuck up and bit him in the ass. I drink coffee, now. Two pots almost. Better than two packs, I guess. I miss you, grandpa.

Moonshine and Banjos

What better time to reflect about life than Sunday? As we put our inherent pessimism on the shelf next to that mason jar with grandpa's own mountain dew swishin' around inside, let us remember to celebrate our lives as we celebrate our art, for they are one and the same. And if art does imitate life, then isn't any reflection of our art a reflection of the best parts of ourselves? Of our own flawed existence? Good question, right? So just open your hymn books and follow along. . .

The Second Gleam is the latest release from North Carolina natives, The Avett Brothers. Some may have forgotten about this lost gem as it lingers in the shadow of their upcoming major-label debut, but The Second Gleam casts a glow all its own.

The Second Gleam may lack the ferociousness associated with some of the groups other work, but makes up for it with sheer sentimentality. The slow, melodic numbers are the perfect soundtrack for an evening down by the river with the girl that you love. And if you wished your little gal would move just a little bit closer, heartfelt songs like “Bella Donna” will be the best argument made for her to wiggle closer until the distance between the two of you is nonexistent.

The fan favorite here, of course, is “Murder in the City”. “Murder” perhaps does best to summarize the masculine sentimentality that the Avett’s are known for. It goes to show that the Avett’s dedication to love is not pigeon-holed to romantic entanglements, and that their devotion to family is the strongest tie that binds. This is a sentiment that anyone can get behind (not just your ‘little gal down by the river’), and a driving force behind what has made this trio so successful.

Natives of North Carolina have been long devoted to the musical stylizing of the Avetts, and are more than a tad bit anxious to see their leap from hometown wonders to national celebrities. The group is currently working with legendary producer Rick Rubin for their still untitled upcoming album. This will be the groups first with a major label, Rubin’s own American Recordings. Rubin draws his fame from groundbreaking work with Red Hot Chili Peppers, Tom Petty and the late Johnny Cash. The two musical entities draw on a similar style of minimalism that owes more to base melodies and inventiveness rather than simplicity. Novices and audiophiles alike will surely be clamoring to get their hands on a copy of this.

But if you’re still more concerned with getting your hands on your ‘little gal down by the river’, then just push play on the Second Gleam and let the Avetts serenade her into a state of bliss. As the river sways lazily by the silhouette of you and your gal sitting on the hood of your truck, try to think of the moonshine and the banjos, because if you listen too closely to this wonderful record you might get teary-eyed as well.

Confessions of a Guappo

The tangled web of personalities that were responsible for World War II would cause many to heap blame upon the Italians, but I protest! I can prove in several short paragraphs why Italians should be celebrated for conquering the evil zealots and returning peace (?) to the world.

So you're thinking to yourself, 'C'mon, Mike. Everyone knows that Italy was 1/3 of the Axis. How can a group of people who buddied up with Hitler possibly be considered crusaders for peace?'

Well, I would respond to you with a quick slap to the face. How dare you lump the actions of a few deranged Italians onto the whole population and their global descendants? That would be like calling Albert Einstein a Nazi just because he was German born. You're not saying THAT, are you? I didn't think so. Plus, most of the population of Italy during the reign of the Fascists hated them. This is made clear by the public execution of Mussolini after he tried to flee the country.

Fiorello La Guardia
Fiorello La Guardia, notable for being a congressman, three time mayor of New York and the namesake of one of the cities three largest airports, is directly responsible for defeating the Germans in World War II.

Here's how:

La Guardia pushed hard and put loads of pressure onto the police to clean up New York. New York mobsters, including the Five Families, were hit the hardest. This was fuel to the fire for federal prosecutor Thomas E. Dewey who made it his mission to lock up flashy Mafioso's like Dutch Schultz. Lucky Luciano, founder and head of the Commission, grew fearful of the public attention and had Schultz murdered in the hopes of muting the publics interest. After the murder of Schultz, Dewey turned his full attention to Luciano who was sentenced to 30-50 years for running the largest prostitution ring in American history. During World War II, the Allies needed a way to open up a southern front against the Germans who were already battling the Americans coming up from France and the Russians hammering away on the western front. That's when the US government propositioned Lucky Luciano, now imprisoned, to use his Italian connections to ensure safe passage for the Allied soldiers traveling north through Italy. Luciano's sentence was reduced as his mafia buddies in Italy waved the Allies through the backdoor of Europe. Germany was defeated and Hitler blew his brains out while listening to Wagner.

Lucky Luciano

THAT, my friends, is how Fiorello La Guardia is DIRECTLY responsible for the Allied victory in World War II.

Upon Passing a Republican

I was walking alone in the woods today, as I often do. And I scarcely saw someone up the path. So I slowed my pace and hugged the shoulder so the stranger could pass. He hugged the opposite shoulder, as expected, and I gave my obligatory greeting. But as I passed that quick-footed patron of silence, I planted my feet into the dirt and turned to question the man, "What the fuck did you just say?"

"Excuse me?"

My eyes were bloodshot and the veins on my arms bulged like a cock in a pair of boxer briefs. I puckered my lips tight with determination. "I'll ask it again. What the fuck did you just say to me?"

His face flickered with fear against the backdrop of the forest. "I didn't say anything", he stammered.

"Exactly. I walk past you and say hi and what do you say? Nothing. Not a fucking word. Who the fuck do you think you are?" I approached speedily and with grace as if gliding over the worn down pathway. The stranger inched backwards. "You egotistical motherfucker! This is exactly what I'm talking about!" His footing was uneasy at best. The heels of his boots bucked against random rocks that littered the dirt. "This is exactly what's wrong with this country today. It's filled with people like you who don't give two shits about anyone else". His cries were shrill as his legs failed. The crack of his skull was quick and dull against the heavily packed earth. "You call yourself a fucking outdoors men as you soil the land with oil refineries and murder its creatures for sport" I rushed to the fallen stranger and threw my fists towards his lifeless face. "You send us to die for your profits! You hold back our health care for your profit! You tax us on what we buy, where we live and what we do for a living!" Blood from the strangers face jumped up with each balled up fist that flailed downward. "You are a snake! You are a hypocrite! You are nothing you claim to be!" With each seceding blow the impact grew softer. Perhaps it was the blood that cushioned the strangers face. Perhaps it was the bones breaking in my fingers. Or perhaps it was the exhaustion spent on trying to kill an idea.

To Kill a Billy Goat

Did you know that the Bible predicts that a Muslim will become president of America? I didn't either! Nor was I aware that Obama was a Muslim! I don't know why the Republicans aren't jumping all over this. Maybe they don't know. Hey, maybe we should tell them. There's a thought. Well, that was Renee's talking point LAST week. THIS week all she could talk about was getting her neighbor a job. So I told her to get him to come on in and I'd see what I could do. So homeboy shows up. No, I don't call him homeboy just because he is black. I call him homeboy because of his tattoos. On his face. Of two blue tear drops.

I tried to reason with Renee about why I couldn't hire her neighbor. She just couldn't see the big deal about having prison tats on your face that announce to everyone that you are responsible for a double homicide. "So he killed somebody. So what? My brother killed somebody. He served his time". Hmm.

Later on that day I received ANOTHER shock to the system. Instead of Bekki and I taking the dogs on our nightly walk up beautiful Southern St, we opt for looping up Main St and going back down Cleghorn. Little did I know that Cleghorn is even uglier on foot. Aside from sum scary old lady yelling from her porch to ask us for Tylenol, a herd of goats was the only memorable part. Yes, I said a herd of goats! In a fenced-in, empty lot covered in kudzu there were a lively group of goats that literally scared the feces out of Dixie .

So, of course, we rush home to ask our man on the inside what the word on the street is. Our man on the inside who hears every word on the street? Austin . "Yeah, they let them goats go so they'd eat all the grass". And then Austin really laid sum truth on us when I asked about his Confederate flag t-shirt. "We hate black people". So all the times Austin's mom randomly stated that they weren't racist WAS just bullshit. Interesting. The worst part about it was that we had our window open. So, like always, Jane's sitting on the kitchen counter by the open window listening to every last racist word. It definitely rubbed off on her. Every other thing she says now is "Nigger this" and "Nigger that". I can't get her to quit! It's horrible!

The life-sized cardboard Barack Obama cut-out? Jane pissed on it. And then called it a nigger! I know that Austin is a bad influence on her fragile mind, but I can't help thinking that she's picking it up from other sources as well. Last night I walked in the computer room and caught her watching this bullshit .

Maybe my live chat with that raging faggot, Prince Gomolvilas, will open her mind up. A parent can only try so hard.

An Open Letter to a Reclusive Bitch

Dear Jane,

I'm sorry I teased you earlier. I just think it's cute that you finally found someone that you LIKE, let alone find sexually attractive! I promise to never poke you in the tummy while singing the Kitty Cat Song , again. I'll be frank for a second, though. Jane, you're a bitch. I'm sorry but there's no other way to put it. And I hate to use that word. Despite our feelings toward each other, I am happy that you've found someone. I just hope that he feels the same towards you. I know that you're shy (is that why you never leave the kitchen?), so I took the liberty of posting a picture of you making a mayonnaise sandwich in the hopes that your crush, Pork Chop , would see you and fall madly in love.

No, you're not fat, Jane. You're beautiful just the way you are. It doesn't matter to Pork Chop that you weigh 14 pounds. Trust me. I've got it on good authority that he's into heavy chicks, anyways. But, if you did want to slim down, I don't think the mayonnaise sandwiches are going to do it.

love,
michael

Sunday Scribblings

I found this link thru Quin's page. You're suppose to write 100 words on the topic of the week. This week: Miracle. Here's my five minutes worth.

Miracles don’t just happen.
They just happen to be little lumps of coal
You grind between your molars and canines
Until they shine like tennis bracelets
And if you’re self obsessed just throw it around your wrist.
If not, give it to your gal
She’s the real miracle, anyhow.

Miracles aren’t spewed from the pulpit.
They’re recited into toilets
And they smell like vodka and cranberry.
And if used tampons don’t disgust you
I hear the stalls here have great acoustics
And it’s not that I’ve got a voicebox
The miracle is that I’ve got the sense to use it.