About being hyper-aware:
So much of my brain is spent thinking about martians & EMOs & missiles pointed east & maniacs with power & ConAgra & the death of poetry. And then I start to worry even though I know that we are caught in a maelstrom & planets away from being perfect.
So what exactly am I worrying about?



-Looking a Mad Dog Dead in the Eyes
Yusef Komunyakaa

Perception can force you to crawl
on God's great damn stone floor
& scrape your knees to the bone,
in love with the smooth round ass
of death. You've come to admire
that never miss sniper on the rooftops.
The man who dances in circles
has fistbeaten a dog to the ground.
All the newsreel faces turn away
from the woman hanging naked
by her hair in a picture window,
as a scarecrow drags across a yellow field.
The young man with a nail in his foot
is your son, who believes
he's Christ, telling his father
what he wants to hear,
using a thorn for a toothpick.

I have bionic powers of death.

exhibit A: A PlaySkool Lawnmower. (circa 1987)
It all started when I was a chicken-poxed kindergartner and my mom forced me to play with the neighbor's kids so that they could catch the pox as well.
The omnipotence of viral infection must have been too sweet for my immune system. History would inevitably take its course.

exhibit B: A pile of rocks with one mysterious plant sprouting from the center. (circa 1989)
Poison ivy would always grow around Selena's grave. We were told not to touch it. Therefore, an oncoming train would not stop us from touching it. I must have told my pal Danielle that it had magical leaves that would turn her into a glamorous orphan or some shit like that.
But somehow her mom knew that we had been playing around the cat's burial plot again.

exhibit C: A can of Coke, a twizzler, etc. (circa puberty)
I would always seem to forget that I had a flu when someone had asked if they could share a snack or a beverage with me.
Not exactly malicious. Moreso oblivious to my own snot.

exhibit D: Making-out. (circa whenever I get a chance)
My victims: vulnerable boys. Sometimes I would tell them that I had been sick, sometimes I wouldn't even know that I was. More often than not, they wouldn't blink an eye until they awoke the next day; either coughing up blood or experiencing the range of temperatures in hell (from Dante's to Gary Larson's, back to Dante's again).


Concluding remarks:
I am immune to almost every type of infection that doesn't require a jungle climate. I have been working with children for years now, collecting their strains and stringing them onto a skinny thread to tie around my pointer finger. I never get their illnesses. Their illnesses just make me stronger.

Let me tell you that I am the best goddamn carrier you will ever know. I am good at what I do.

Trust me. If not for your own safety, than for the health of your loved ones. For all your knowledge, I might have Mono looming behind every sneeze. No sudden movements, got it?

Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
or, the past seven minutes of my life.
or, it's been a while so here's something I've slapped together.

1. I had caught the OED in quite a predicament.
There is no such thing as "a pyjama".
And a trouser exists only to its wearer.
Is there no such thing as a pyjama-wearer?

2. I had been told a delightful piece of information by a short & stout man & a Napoleonic puppy (or what my brother refers to as "a kick-me dog").

UPS carriers often keep dog treats in their pockets.
This is what is making his dog fat.

& that makes me giggle.

3. A "did you know?" for you: There are more retired intelligence agents in the Pioneer Valley than anywhere else in the U.S. of A.
A phenomenon? drats, no! It is simply because we are in near proximity to a large Air Force base & this area is considered the most secure in all of the country.
One day the whole parade of smarty-pants will have to book it at the last possible minute before some five-alarm catastrophe falls upon sleepy western Massachew.
And we, the people, will become moon food in a blink.

Not so shocking, this is the same valley that has the highest numbers in UFO sightings.

[thinking cap]
Intelligence people walk among us as neurotic ghosts with the secret knowledge of a galactic highway above our heads. If the populus ever knew what they know, most likely it would take one simultaneous leap out of the biggest window you had ever seen. Like the cabinet leader of intelligence in the 40s...whatshisface...

Woah. Now that is motherfucken frightening.

4. SOS. I think that my site currently resembles syphilitic urine scattered amongst rectangular petri dishes.
Any thoughts?

MILLION DOLLAR PRIZE for anyone on the planet who claims to know the answer to this trivia question:

At an angle of how many degrees is it necessary for the perfect foam to develop after slowly pouring a dark stout into a Tom Collins glass?

[Answer to be posted in a week or so. Unless I forget.]

There is quite a bit of champagne & speed sloshing about in my veins right now. This, combined with an intense preoccupation to ignore my brobdingnagian [*gold star for a cool ass word] pile of work, reminds me of one of my favorite rants:

toys these days.

I believe that there is nothing worse than a toy that lights up & talks &, in essence, plays with itself. I believe that it is quite possible that the tremendous surge in psychopharmaceuticals among children these days is because every material object that they know since birth has put on a show. Whether it is blinking colors, gurgling out silly sentences, or controlled by a mouse & and keyboard, modern toys leave no room for the imagination. How can a child honestly get out a thought with all of that distraction?

I know that ADHD drugs do help some people. I know that depressants help some people. But why is it that some children are subjected to, as it appears to me, just hyper-diagnoses. Doctors are quick to throw down a prescription for Ritalin because the pharmaceutical companies have their filthy arms elbow-deep into the American Medical Association. This is the same reason that we believe milk is good for us: simply because the Dairy Association will rear its ugly, lactard (b.n. not a real word) face on a commercial break and tell you that a respected physician says so. I will tell you, and you can quote me or fight me on this, that beer is more nutritious than milk. Empty calories; ask any nutritionist if you can find one who is not sponsored by Cheese™.

Back to business though. Teachers & school counselors are just as quicksilver to send a kid to the school nurse in the name of therapy when they really don't want to deal with a wayward child. Get a grip. Just because the precious schmuck has been staring out the window for the entire class doesn't mean he has a serious chemical imbalance that is going to fuck shit up in the future. It is not that unlikely that a teacher who refuses to give a kid the time of day would hold a terribly uninteresting, non-stimulating class. But the parents? With the divorce rate in this country these days, it is not all that shocking to throw the word "neglect" around in a therapy session. Also, the power structure between child & parent has been catastrophically severed, easily because parents are hyper-sensitive as to whether or not Jack still loves them enough to warrant giving him a Corvette for his sixth birthday.

In addition, I have an idea that there is a physical aspect to the destruction of the power structure. We learn that a flame is hot by touching it, no? Don't lie to me and say that it is something you have just believed whole heartedly ever since a grown-up has told you. I'll tell you to go suck an egg. You tested it. I am not advocating straight up abuse whatsoever. I'm just putting it out there that a light smack on the bum is exactly the way that a kid learns, man. Children are tactile learners. The first thing they know is to feel. There are some amazing characters out there that did not need to be taught in such a way, but it can't be guaranteed that every apple is shiny & crunchy & doesn't house worms. Generation Hooked-on-Pharmies mostly didn't get that because of the sensitivity about abuse & the fear of Dyfus since the mid-80s.

My train is way off track. I remember three toys from my childhood: a bunny rag-doll, a baby pool, & a sit n' spin. If any of these had ever started speaking to me in a voice that didn't come from my own brain, I would have freaked the fuck out & then rapidly fallen into a lulled content that I didn't have to do all the harsh work of imagination.

I work at a marvelous children's center. In this place, all that my tiny friends play with are jigsaws & rocks & paint & crayons & sticks & tiles & pieces that connect & pieces that break apart & pieces that can stack. Last year I had a buddy Matthew who was working very intently on a structure of colored blocks. When he stepped back for a moment to check out his creation, I thought it would be a fantastic idea to give him a little survey about his masterpiece. This is what I gathered from the wicked inquisitive two-year old:

-It was a museum
-People would go there on Sundays
-They would pay for a ticket
-They would sit in the dark
-They would read books
-They would spend all day until it was night in that building

I thought that existentialism was a crock of shit until I talked to this kid. He would never get that much out of a computer game or a plastic talking robot-dog.

It makes me whimper to think that children are being brainwashed by Ritalin (now, legally, beginning with the age of seven) & antidepressants when their brains have not even fully developed yet. I want to stomp on the ground, tear my hair out, & yell nasty things to parents & teachers & history & the world & every last detail that has given up on these kids.

Mostly though, I blame the toys.

Caution: This, in its entirety, is one giant complaint that does not even deserve proper grammar.

Besides NPR, there is only one good station to turn to when I'm sitting in the smoke shop, selling phillies to wicked annihilated townies while wishing bad things for the woman who cannot remember the brand of her husband's cigar & could I please just run off some names for her until one sounds familiar?

But I've got beef with metal these days.

Not only do I choose to make my own Lizzy Borden tee shirt, but Axel's gone completely mad this time & I personally know that Overkill are a pack of total pusses from back in the day when Bobby "blitz" Ellsworth chastised me for pushing Sean slightly into the road in front of his motorcycle. But atleast they had New York metal fired up for a little while.

What happened to the days when the lyrics of a first-degree murderer would be ripped off and thrown in as the last 'secret' track of an album?

A smarter person would stand in the middle of a field with a tin can to the sky during a lightening storm. I just spin the radio dial forward & quickly back, typewriter-style, to catch the last riff of "Back in Black."

If I only I had been born ten years earlier. If only we weren't left with tiny crumbs.

If only the laser metal station would get the net.

Vend-A-Bait.

Ever since I heard the phrase, I could not stop thinking about it. Quarters go in, worms & nightcrawlers come out. Coins in, Insects out. It's purpose: obviously for the modern, on-the-go fisherman.

My first Vend-A Bait machine appeared in the backwoods of northern New Jersey. I don't remember the exact name of the town but it was something like Beemerville or Mastadon Lake. I'm sure you're already getting the heebie-jeebies thinking of what kind of people come from these places. Toothless, wide-grinned overalls walking hand in hand with a six pack of bud light. Cans, of course. They gather in bars with names like Bud's Pub-n-Grub & hold discussion groups on deer hunting and Crosby, Stills & Nash (no Young). These people who can chew through aluminum & collect colonies of ants under their fingernails would probably enjoy the sport of midget tossing if they'd only make it legal.

This particular Vend-A-Bait machine is located just two miles south of Wild West City where gun duels occur every high-noon & middle school children can participate in a field study of Real Ass cowboys. It's been a milemarker on every family trip I've ever taken to High Point State Park (the highest point on the east coast, I believe). We'd drive a total of forty-five minutes just to stand at the top of a phallic monument and try to pick out our own house.

"Look kids, it's the Vend-A-Bait machine!" my dad would exclaim on the drive over, as if dear President Kennedy was crossing the street directly in front of our van...

There is no point to this story, so stop digging for one.
I just had to remind someone that this shit exists. It's a remedy I've thought up to distract myself from my recent, chronic boredom: obsess about weird memories I can't shake & how they possibly shape my life now.

The moral of the story: It took me nineteen years to understand where I got all this learnin'. Now it's going to take atleast that much to reverse the effects of it.

It's 8.25 a.m. and I'm sitting in the Smith College library, still drunk from the night before. It is expected that the one book that I need is already checked out by someone whose expected time of return/renewal is ten minutes before the class that I need it for begins. It is times like these that I revel in being a total asshole when it comes to studying.

In other news, a government dolphin has gone totally awol. Trained to search out mines in the bottom of the sea, the dolphin-with-brain has now swam away and disappeared.
Next week:: Found off the coast of Iraq, the dolphin-with-brain is tried for treason and burned at the stake.