Snow falls on the window pane as Denver is plunged into the first snow storm of what is predicted to be a bitch of a winter. And here I sit, watching the flakes cascade down in winter’s curtain, which just happens to fall smack dab in the middle of autumn. Winter draws nigh and the air cools as the seasons fade and memories trip on holiday splendor. Or so they say.
Bring on All Hallows Eve, the night before All Saints Day, Halloween. Let the chocolate and other candy treats flow like water, let the little ones revel in their youth, and let us adults recapture that tantalizing spirit of those of the next generation. Be a kid, if but for five fucking minutes. Do not put away all the trappings of childhood, and for sanity’s sake don’t let die the fires of youth.
It was once said that the greatest of all tragedies is lost youth. I’ll go this one better. An even greater tragedy is youth squandered or surrendered. What fools we adults are, what capricious and arbitrary beings we become. Childhood grants everyone the inability to be disingenuous. The ability and desire to deceive are mutualities only to those whose youthful spirit has been compromised.
Yes children can be and oft times are demonic, evil things that seemingly delight in inflicting misery upon the closest target. But this impulse is created by observing us adults. Put two five year olds in a room with nothing but a cardboard box and a sheet and they will construct a castle that rivals the legendary Versailles Palace. And they’ll do this with stunning, implausible ease. And we adults see nothing but a sepulcher of culture that once housed a major appliance.
Wait, for now the castle is a spaceship, a grand battle cruiser replete with laser canons and English crewmen that wander aimlessly punching bright green buttons. But never the red one, that button is reserved for the captain, whom at the tender age of five commands a legion of troops and can destroy worlds with the red button.
Now the box becomes a cave. Not just any cave mind you, but a cave that houses the most fearsome beast the world has ever seen. So there our diminutive hero stands, armed with a magical spear only he can see. He lunges forth as the box shudders, and lo, the beast is slain, impaled upon the righteous spear that only the young can wield.
Now the cave morphs into a pirate ship. Our hero now stands on deck with his eye patch, wooden leg, parrot, and hook. He now captains the most feared pirate vessel in the Caribbean. There, off in the distance the captain spies a mast through his telescope. His arch enemy approaches, the infamous Black Beard. The ships move toward one another as the canons sound off salvo after salvo. Black Beard’s ship is mortally wounded and the rapscallion goes down with his ship.
The box is altered to resemble an amphibious assault boat, the kind used on D-Day in World War II. The intrepid five year old is now a grizzled old veteran of battles too numerous to count. He’s saved dozens of lives and single-handedly fought back the Third Reich. The boat lands and the pint-sized Audie Murphy storms a machine gun nest by himself, suffering a dozen horrific wounds before finally subduing the enemy. He succumbs to his injuries and dies in a spastic, exaggerated pratfall.
There he laid, the spirit of youth encapsulated in a tiny body, the only being alive who can stand on the shoulders of giants, ride unicorns, joust with mounted dragons, and save the world from utter destruction, all in a day’s time.
Therein lay the tantalizing beauty of the young. Those little buggers are full of energy, emotion, and vibrant imagination. Perhaps that’s the secret to rediscovering our youth. Maybe we should imagine more, trip on boulevard of dreams, engage in flights of fancy, and hold tight to that which makes us feel young again.
I love writing, not because I’m any good but because it makes me feel alive and, dare I say, youthful. The unhindered exuberance of spewing shit out on my blog helps me recapture the youthful spirit long thought dead. For on this page I can be anybody, anywhere, anytime, anyplace. I can magically transport myself and a few readers back to a time when the adult travails of life seem insignificant. That is why I blog.
Tonight I bed down with my favorite cozy blanket, and sleep. To sleep, per chance to dream. Maybe I’ll have that one where I’m a kid again riding my bike down some suicidal incline. Maybe, just maybe.
Testicle Tuesday...new show hotties
I've found a great new show on NBC...Heroes. The plot is wickedly ecectic, the writing superb, the acting top notch, and a bevy of eye candy. So here are the girls of Heroes.
Ali Larter is a hottie who wreaks havoc without knowing it. She blacks out and awakens to devastation. Please Ali, devastate me.
This little starlet in waiting, Hayden Panettiere, plays a high school cheerleader who's gifted with the power to regenerate any physical damage, ala Wolverine from the X-Men. She's invulnerable, nubile, and deliciously gorgeous.
Ali Larter is a hottie who wreaks havoc without knowing it. She blacks out and awakens to devastation. Please Ali, devastate me.
This little starlet in waiting, Hayden Panettiere, plays a high school cheerleader who's gifted with the power to regenerate any physical damage, ala Wolverine from the X-Men. She's invulnerable, nubile, and deliciously gorgeous.
Meandering through a Thursday morning
As I sit here typing I find my thoughts pulled in a bazillion directions, you know, those quintessential moments when every synapse seems to be firing overtime and a collage of images swim before the mind’s eye. That’s me, right now, at this moment in time, the Shrubbery for once at a loss for words. Such is the nature of cognitive dissonance and the existential blues.
My mind trips down a plasticized boulevard while music chimes in ear, Strawberry Letter 23 by The Brothers Johnson. Groove tunes in the echo chamber that is thine cranium. Alas, the music switches, Hands of Time by Groove Armada, and thoughts meander yet again to some far off time and place that’s infinitely more appealing than the reality I marinate in on a daily basis.
Music switch…now Still Loving You by the Scorpions thunders from my computer system, speaking of the eclectic nature of my latest iTunes play list. It traverses the fine line between reality and fantasy, that far off place where dreams and fairies are created. This is the very place Winnie the Pooh resides, in that place atop the trees, where a boy and his bear will ALWAYS play.
And there I am, in my tree, looking for my beloved teddy bear. Music switches as Hey Jude by the legendary Beatles begins its soulful refrain. A fleeting glimpse of the bear of my youth, that tattered and worn yellow fuzzy bit of fur and stuffings. I remember the day I got him; it was Christmas morning, I was five, and the damn thing was bigger than me, and it was my favorite gift before or since. It was the perfect treat at the perfect stage in my life, truly a cosmic convergence.
As the sands of time sift through the hourglass that bear was always there. Through familial migrations, countless elbow drops from my dresser, drunken pratfalls after a night of massive alcohol consumption, there sat my bear, ever attentive, ever seeing, war torn and fuzzy. It was one of the constants of my life.
Music changes again…now 7 by Prince blares, with its harmony and R&B flavor coursing through the air. Mood changes also, now introspection replaces nostalgia.
How far do we travel the road inward? Who knows, for the road winds like serpentine cable strewn across a gymnasium floor. Only the perversely anal would trace the entire length of coax to its origins, the anal or those hungry for answers. Then you reach the point where the trail starts and you find a piece of audio equipment. Now what? Who the fuck cares, just crank up the music and relax, or dance, or whatever you do when the song of your choice is turned up to a righteous decibel level.
The iTunes now pumps out Doot Doot by Freur. The 80’s come crashing back into focus. Those carefree days when the upturned collar was vogue and pastels and fluorescents donned the cultural landscape. My God, I’ve never seen so much hairspray and eye shadow in my life. The shit was delivered in buckets to the humble abodes of those 80’s teen vixens, those tramps that stole hearts and bloodied the less fortunate.
Then my high school sweetheart dashes through my consciousness. Blonde hair, 5’8”, solid D-cup breasts, washboard abs, thick yet supple thighs, skin like a ribbon of silk. She was an enchantress, a succubus of the highest order. Then gone she was, faster than you can say her name. What the fuck happened? I still have no idea.
Ahhhhhhh, now The Fray streams from my speakers with their enormously popular ditty Cable Car. My mind’s eye focuses on the present, and my failure to pass the Colorado Bar Exam again. Shit. Three more months of constant study makes Shrubbery fucking grumpy. I begin pondering the future and whether or not law is in the picture. Yes, I spent an obscene amount of money on law school so the thought of giving up that dream is nauseating yet appealing. Too bad no one will pay me to play video games.
The baby blue sky floods through half drawn blinds. The day begins anew as does the train that is the current conscious. Down a new track it steams, belching smoke and fire, inexorably drawn to God only knows what or where. But relax, enjoy the ride, and let come what may come.
My mind trips down a plasticized boulevard while music chimes in ear, Strawberry Letter 23 by The Brothers Johnson. Groove tunes in the echo chamber that is thine cranium. Alas, the music switches, Hands of Time by Groove Armada, and thoughts meander yet again to some far off time and place that’s infinitely more appealing than the reality I marinate in on a daily basis.
Music switch…now Still Loving You by the Scorpions thunders from my computer system, speaking of the eclectic nature of my latest iTunes play list. It traverses the fine line between reality and fantasy, that far off place where dreams and fairies are created. This is the very place Winnie the Pooh resides, in that place atop the trees, where a boy and his bear will ALWAYS play.
And there I am, in my tree, looking for my beloved teddy bear. Music switches as Hey Jude by the legendary Beatles begins its soulful refrain. A fleeting glimpse of the bear of my youth, that tattered and worn yellow fuzzy bit of fur and stuffings. I remember the day I got him; it was Christmas morning, I was five, and the damn thing was bigger than me, and it was my favorite gift before or since. It was the perfect treat at the perfect stage in my life, truly a cosmic convergence.
As the sands of time sift through the hourglass that bear was always there. Through familial migrations, countless elbow drops from my dresser, drunken pratfalls after a night of massive alcohol consumption, there sat my bear, ever attentive, ever seeing, war torn and fuzzy. It was one of the constants of my life.
Music changes again…now 7 by Prince blares, with its harmony and R&B flavor coursing through the air. Mood changes also, now introspection replaces nostalgia.
How far do we travel the road inward? Who knows, for the road winds like serpentine cable strewn across a gymnasium floor. Only the perversely anal would trace the entire length of coax to its origins, the anal or those hungry for answers. Then you reach the point where the trail starts and you find a piece of audio equipment. Now what? Who the fuck cares, just crank up the music and relax, or dance, or whatever you do when the song of your choice is turned up to a righteous decibel level.
The iTunes now pumps out Doot Doot by Freur. The 80’s come crashing back into focus. Those carefree days when the upturned collar was vogue and pastels and fluorescents donned the cultural landscape. My God, I’ve never seen so much hairspray and eye shadow in my life. The shit was delivered in buckets to the humble abodes of those 80’s teen vixens, those tramps that stole hearts and bloodied the less fortunate.
Then my high school sweetheart dashes through my consciousness. Blonde hair, 5’8”, solid D-cup breasts, washboard abs, thick yet supple thighs, skin like a ribbon of silk. She was an enchantress, a succubus of the highest order. Then gone she was, faster than you can say her name. What the fuck happened? I still have no idea.
Ahhhhhhh, now The Fray streams from my speakers with their enormously popular ditty Cable Car. My mind’s eye focuses on the present, and my failure to pass the Colorado Bar Exam again. Shit. Three more months of constant study makes Shrubbery fucking grumpy. I begin pondering the future and whether or not law is in the picture. Yes, I spent an obscene amount of money on law school so the thought of giving up that dream is nauseating yet appealing. Too bad no one will pay me to play video games.
The baby blue sky floods through half drawn blinds. The day begins anew as does the train that is the current conscious. Down a new track it steams, belching smoke and fire, inexorably drawn to God only knows what or where. But relax, enjoy the ride, and let come what may come.
Testicle Tuesday, on a Wednesday...Road Rules hotties
My Road Rules obsession knows no bounds. So I made my own list of the hottest girls in the history of the show.
1. Our first hottie is Susie...mmmmmmmmmmmm, tasty.
2. This Cuban-American stunner is Veronica Portillo, and she's a spicy little tamale.
3. This dash of sweetness is Kendal.
4. Cara has adorned the pages of Playboy, God love her!
5. This hottie has also been naked in front of the camera, and Marybeth is unbelievably southern and smokin.
6. Mmmmmmmm, Kina.
7. And Jodi is yummy too.
Now you can fully appreciate my affinity for reality television.
1. Our first hottie is Susie...mmmmmmmmmmmm, tasty.
2. This Cuban-American stunner is Veronica Portillo, and she's a spicy little tamale.
3. This dash of sweetness is Kendal.
4. Cara has adorned the pages of Playboy, God love her!
5. This hottie has also been naked in front of the camera, and Marybeth is unbelievably southern and smokin.
6. Mmmmmmmm, Kina.
7. And Jodi is yummy too.
Now you can fully appreciate my affinity for reality television.
Wasup y'all
I'm back, though not in fighting/mid-season form. Got a GI bug and Montezuma's Revenge has me tied in knots. My appetite sucks and any food I ingest turns rapidly to watery brown poopy. My energy is lagging so my heart isn't in the whole blogging thing. Testicle Tuesday will wait 'till the morrow.
In case you were wondering...
The recent hietus in posting was due to a brief, 5-day stay at a local hospital due to a cellulitus infection in my foot. All is well and I'll be back tomorrow. Later...
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