 |
| From Blog Photos |
The television had been there for thirty years. You got the sense that if you turned it on, a thirty year old television show would play.
Showing posts with label Snippet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Snippet. Show all posts
Friday, January 30, 2009
The Old Television Set
The television had been there for thirty years. You got the sense that if you turned it on, a thirty year old television show would play.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Down With Big Brother
She hadn't been conceived during the time when revolution was the melody to every song, or the opening line of every pamphlet distributed across a Berkley campus. Her mind hadn't been addled by pot smoke, her mother's breasts hadn't hung free slapping against her belly in the rhythm of a two step march.
No. She had been conceived during the disco era where everyone hustled about in Halston and caught Saturday night fever. Back then it was all Bacchus and blow and Grecian goddess gowns. A picture of her, three years old in 1980, all dressed up in a children's leisure suit summed it all up nicely. One couldn't fight the powers that be in a butterfly collar. Who the hell would take you seriously?
Hers had been the generation of shoulder pads, unrealistic high school movies, cell phone the size of toasters, and the concept that living in California was as close to paradise as you could get, granted you could afford a BMW convertible. If not, well you were fucked off to places like Spokane, Washington. Or worse, middle Massachusetts.
By worse I mean places that weren't so rural you knew what you were missing. One day Nancy came on the television and dared you to say no to something you had absolutely no access to. Some smart person figured this out and by junior high you knew that kid, Tim was his name, who sold little packets of pot for five dollars. You brought your allowance savings to school, bought one of the baggies and shoved it down between your Capri Sun juice box and your cheese sandwich until by your locker you showed it to everyone.
You had no idea what to do with it until another kid came along and asked to smoke with you. Then in a friend's backyard you watched him make a contraption from a Coke can and took your first drag, instantly coughed out, and then a second.
When you went home you listened to your father's albums, Pink Floyd and Led Zepplin and The Doors, and ate all of the leftover lasagna. You stared at the wall and felt impatient. You stared at your feet and felt tedious. You felt your bones become to heavy to lift and your eyes impossible to close. It was torture, but it was better than nothing.
Read more >>
No. She had been conceived during the disco era where everyone hustled about in Halston and caught Saturday night fever. Back then it was all Bacchus and blow and Grecian goddess gowns. A picture of her, three years old in 1980, all dressed up in a children's leisure suit summed it all up nicely. One couldn't fight the powers that be in a butterfly collar. Who the hell would take you seriously?
Hers had been the generation of shoulder pads, unrealistic high school movies, cell phone the size of toasters, and the concept that living in California was as close to paradise as you could get, granted you could afford a BMW convertible. If not, well you were fucked off to places like Spokane, Washington. Or worse, middle Massachusetts.
By worse I mean places that weren't so rural you knew what you were missing. One day Nancy came on the television and dared you to say no to something you had absolutely no access to. Some smart person figured this out and by junior high you knew that kid, Tim was his name, who sold little packets of pot for five dollars. You brought your allowance savings to school, bought one of the baggies and shoved it down between your Capri Sun juice box and your cheese sandwich until by your locker you showed it to everyone.
You had no idea what to do with it until another kid came along and asked to smoke with you. Then in a friend's backyard you watched him make a contraption from a Coke can and took your first drag, instantly coughed out, and then a second.
When you went home you listened to your father's albums, Pink Floyd and Led Zepplin and The Doors, and ate all of the leftover lasagna. You stared at the wall and felt impatient. You stared at your feet and felt tedious. You felt your bones become to heavy to lift and your eyes impossible to close. It was torture, but it was better than nothing.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Cats, Huh?
I've gotten used to dogs. They're easy to get used to. When you come home to a dog and there's a dent in the bed, you know they spent their time there sleeping and waiting in down swaddled comfort for you, their master to come home. Dogs are innocent and sweet by nature.
Cats on the other hand.
When you come home to a cat and there's a brush and a bar of soap where you swore it wasn't when you left, you-have-got-to-wonder. The cat looks at you in your moment of suspiciousness and you know you're not the boss. Suddenly you start thinking it had itself a bath. You see paws squeezing a bubble bath bottle, the damn cat reclining using a washcloth folded four ways as a pillow, and the worst of it, is you see the damn thing scrubbing its back with your toothbrush.
Dogs make you comfortable because you look down and think, now Spot, she'd give her life for me. You look down at a cat and you think, Cleo would eat my carcass if I skipped one ritual opening of the luxurious tinned cat food and I'd be lucky if I were actually dead when she dug in.
Read more >>
Cats on the other hand.
When you come home to a cat and there's a brush and a bar of soap where you swore it wasn't when you left, you-have-got-to-wonder. The cat looks at you in your moment of suspiciousness and you know you're not the boss. Suddenly you start thinking it had itself a bath. You see paws squeezing a bubble bath bottle, the damn cat reclining using a washcloth folded four ways as a pillow, and the worst of it, is you see the damn thing scrubbing its back with your toothbrush.
Dogs make you comfortable because you look down and think, now Spot, she'd give her life for me. You look down at a cat and you think, Cleo would eat my carcass if I skipped one ritual opening of the luxurious tinned cat food and I'd be lucky if I were actually dead when she dug in.
Lies, Lies, Lies
They had been together so long that they had told each other an infinite amount of lies. When they had first started she had been so young that he had told her semen was good for her pimples and now he was so old that he believed that tickling released endorphins that would help his arthritic shoulder.
Read more >>
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
