This Too, Is By Us

Three for All

2012-01-12T01:15:00.000-08:00

Much too long to remember ago, I was under the influence of that drug called love. She was a brilliant beauty: phenomenal looks, a voice that could stop angels and what I felt to be the power to change the World. (At least my World.)

But somewhere along the way, we got separated for some reason or another. Maybe my love went unnoticed for too long. Maybe it was hers that really was never there. It was never discussed between she and I. As they say, so the story goes.

Now, I feel it needed for me to mention how many times I told her I loved her: zero.
I also feel it needed for me to mention how many times she told me: again, zero.
Times we spoke: zero.
Times we were together: zero.
Times I've told people I loved her for something she never really did do for me: a billion.

Saturday, February Nineteenth, Twenty-Eleven

2012-01-12T01:11:00.000-08:00

it's nine thirty on a saturday night. may go out and have a few drinks, may go out and have many drinks or may just keep my psoriasis fighting self in the warm and moist climate which is mi casa. it's warm and moist due to my parents purchase of a humidifier to give their oldest to battle this bitch of a skin condition.

What to do, what to do?

2012-01-12T01:10:00.000-08:00

Minus the words I can only say in type, there really isn't much I don't wear on my sleeve. People who meet me are fast to pass judgment about the type of guy I am. It's too bad those people passing judgment will never get a real chance to know how wrong they were with their assumptions.

I suppose I do it too from time to time, this passing judgment business. I assume people will have issues with certain things about me, especially the things I have not the power to change tomorrow or 700 tomorrows. The ones who really know me know what these issues are, those who don't know, well, you haven't known for 33-years, today's not gonna be the day you need to know either.

Last Saturday, I had the night off. I sat at mi casa doing nothing until about half passed midnight. For some reason I felt it a good idea to go to the bar and listen to some tunes and maybe, just maybe, have a drinks or seven.

She danced next to the DJ when I walked in. She was shorter than the usual height I like about women and had blond hair, another thing I don't look for in future girlfriends, fiances or wives. Not that I've had either of the last two.

Being friends with the DJ of the night, I walked over to say hello and get him a drink. He told me he wanted me to meet a friend of his, and wouldn't ya know it, the beautiful blond was the friend he spoke of.

We chatted for a bit and seemed to hit it off rather well. A fella came up to her as she danced and grabbed her wrist and told her to come dance with him. She told him her boyfriend wouldn't like that idea too much. He asked if her boyfriend was there at the bar. She nodded and pointed at me. I was her boyfriend to ward off bad guys for the night.

I liked the idea.

We went to have a smoke a little later, she and I. As we filled our lungs with the pollutants we enjoy so much, I told her we should probably practice kissing if we were a supposed couple to ward off bad guys. She agreed. She was a remarkable smoocher.

We chatted and had text conversations for the following week. She agreed to see me again. I met her at a bar Friday night after the play I went to see had finished. I walked into the bar, found her and went to her. As soon as I said hello, she wanted to leave because she hated the bar we were at. I agreed on the level of hatred toward the place and we left.

As we chatted at the next place, she bit her lip after asking me a question. Not on accident, but purposely. You know what I mean? When a girl asks you something and softly bites her lip waiting for your response? I've always found that crazy sexy.

She has an amazing smile, and great blue eyes, and a great mind, and I could probably go on for hours but I'm not gonna.

Before we parted ways, she told me she had a boyfriend...but they were on a break. I didn't know how to take it really. Maybe she was really on a break? Maybe she wasn't and I was smooching with some other fellas girl?

She told me the next day she had some thing to figure out, and "I like you Scott...just don't know where my head is at."

I told her I'd wait for her to figure herself out, and what she wants to do.

She asked why?

"Because the very little I know about you, I like. Because you bite your lip when you're waiting for me to say something. Because you're a fan of DMB, aren't scared of my scars, psoriasis or the fact I think you're drop dead gorgeous, physically and mentally, as far as I know. Nothing worth anything is ever going to be given to you."

She told me she was all smiles.

Wish I could be all smiles about this, too.

If I had Married You, Instead of Her

2011-04-12T12:39:00.001-07:00

If I Had Married You Instead of Her

If I had married you instead of her,

I would not now be seething with regret,

Trapped by children, choked by dreams that were

My hopes before my life turned desolate.

I would not now be seething with regret

For having married more for lust than love.

My hopes before my life turned desolate

Now live but in the darkness where you move.

For having married more for lust than love,

I’m punished with a wife whom I despise.

I live but in the darkness where you move,

My hopes the harvest of your haunting eyes.

I’m punished with a wife whom I despise,

trapped by children, choked by dreams that were

My hopes… The harvest of your haunting eyes,

If I had married you instead of her.

Prose Poetry

2011-03-11T18:04:00.000-08:00

Charles Bukowski

So you want to be a writer.

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.

unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.

if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.

if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.

if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.

if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.

if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.

if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.

if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.

the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.

don't do it.

unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.

unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Layout for Prose Poetry

2011-03-11T18:01:00.000-08:00

Know that you won't have to worry about rules of form. Rhyme schemes, meter, stanza and line breaks don't apply.

Consider the structure of prose. Prose poems take the shape of paragraphs and contain sentences and sentences fragments.

Think about a time where you were struck by a particular image, how you came upon that image, how that image made you feel and what went through your mind when you saw it.

Write about that experience. Pay particular attention to describing the image and your emotions in detail. Use poetic devices like consonance, assonance, simile, metaphor, repetition and symbol. You can tell a story in your poem, but it comes second to the language (or how you tell the story).

Don't worry about correct punctuation right now. You may be writing a prose poem, but you still want to keep the effects of poetry. Sometimes correct punctuation can hurt the rhythm you've established. Your prose poem can contain sentence fragments and very long sentences.

Read over your prose poem. Take note of the language you've used. See if you can add more detail. Take note of the story or the thoughts you've expressed. See if anything needs to be added or revised.

See if you have an epiphany. Not all poems need epiphanies, but some really benefit from them. See if the poem's train of thought naturally leads to an epiphany or a closing thought or image to leave with the reader.

Pantoum Poem

2011-03-11T17:40:00.001-08:00

All the Wild Horses

Standing and watching

a part of the world pass

enjoying the beauties

of each peaceful day.

A part of the world passes

as we stand side by side

each peaceful day

so full of beauty and comfort.

As we stand side by side

eating the grain

so full of beauty and comfort

our minds and hearts at ease

Eating the grain

standing and watching

our minds and hearts at ease

enjoy the beauty.

Diamante Poem

2011-03-11T17:30:00.000-08:00

It sure is beautiful here, isn't it? Look how drastically different this is; cold and warm at the same time. This is my entry for today.

Winter

Rainy, Cold

Skiing, Skating, Sledding

Mountains, Wind, Breeze, Ocean

Swimming, Surfing, Scuba Diving

Sunny, Hot

Summer

Haiku poem

2011-03-11T17:16:00.000-08:00

Green and speckled legs,
Hop on logs and lily pads
Splash in cool water.

Tanka poem

2011-03-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

Thunderclouds building
Gathering strength as they grow
Releasing themselves
Pouring life-giving torrents
Cleansing the world in shower

Who is a Poet?

2011-03-11T15:34:00.000-08:00

Who is a poet?

A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.

This may sound easy. It isn’t.

A lot of people think or believe or know they feel—but that’s

thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is

feeling—not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single

human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think

or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the

moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.

To be nobody-but-yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night

and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest

battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.

As for expressing nobody-but-yourself in words, that means working

just a little harder than anybody who isn’t a poet can possible

imagine. Why? Because nothing is quite as easy as using words like

somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all of the

time—and whenever we do it, we are not poets.

If, at the end of your first ten or fifteen years of fighting and

working and feeling, you find you’ve written one line of one poem,

you’ll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is: do

something easy, like learning how to blow up the world—unless you’re

not only willing, but glad, to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal? It isn’t. It’s the most wonderful life on earth. Or so I feel.

What is Poetry

2011-03-11T15:32:00.000-08:00

What is Poetry?
   
   
   A poem may appear to mean very different things
   to different readers, and all of these meanings
   may be different from what the author thought he
   meant.  For instance, the author may have been
   writing some peculiar personal experience, which
   he saw quite unrelated to anything outside;  yet
   for the reader the poem may become the expression
   of a general situation, as well as of some
   private experience of his own.  The reader's
   interpretation may differ from the author's and
   be equally valid-- it may even be better.  There
   may be much more in a poem than the author was
   aware of.  The different interpretations may all
   be partial formulations of one thing;  the
   ambiguities may be due to the fact that the poem
   means more, not less, than ordinary speech can
   communicate.
                    T.S. Eliot

Going Out With a Bang.

2011-03-06T19:06:00.000-08:00

Lying on that fold out couch in the lower level of her family's tri-level home was something, actually, the only thing that the two of us could depend on every Friday night.

It never mattered if we wanted to be someplace else, or with somebody else, Friday nights were reserved for our "little sessions", as we jokingly named them.

She used to say that lying her head on my chest helped her to think. That somehow, hearing my ticker beat helped her to navigate through the thoughts and ideas that were crashing in her mind and to build a better realization of her own being.

(At times, I thought she was crazy. How could lying on a couch with me, sometimes without either of us saying a single word the entire night, help her in any way?)

But I guess I would consider myself crazy as well, because I'd tell her that having her beautiful bronze Puerto Rican cheek resting on my chest, with her toned left arm draped over my stomach and her left leg resting atop my left, helped me to visualize the songs that I was trying to write back then.

She and I met our freshman year in college. She was twenty, I, twenty-four. We both started our stints at college late, and both for the same reason; we both knew if we started at 18, we would have partied too hard and failed out.

We began our Friday night sessions a month after meeting and they continued until the week after graduation.

Those Friday nights, though I wouldn't change any of 'em for the world, were extremely hard for me at times. I had the sexiest girl I had ever met lying with me, with an extremely intoxicating aroma of whatever perfume it was that she used to wear. So many times I wanted to grab her to kiss her and profess my love. But, I never did. Nor will I ever get the chance to.

She moved to New York City the week after we graduated to take a job at a magazine. We had one last Friday together after we walked the aisle to grab our diplomas. She used to joke and call them, "the $100,000 pieces of paper that tell people we can tell a story".

That last Friday on the couch in her parents house was so different than the rest.

Usually as we lay on the couch we'd have conversations that covered everything from the war, the Cubs, story/song ideas, family, sex and whatever else might have came to mind.

But that Friday, that one last, magnificent Friday, the entire time we were on the couch, neither her, or I, spoke more than three words. I believe we didn't talk because we both knew that our time together would be coming to an end and neither wanted the goodbye to be more depressing than it was already going to be.

So we just cuddled up next to each other on that couch in her parent's big-empty house on Gracie Grove Street, listening to the beautiful music being played by the rain bouncing off the slab of concrete out the back door and the rolling thunder above.

And while I watched her eyes begin to shove tears down her face, I too, began to cry as I kissed her forehead. She pulled her head off of my chest and looked into my eyes with a smile as she got off from our comfortable cushion and walked back into her bedroom.

Minutes later, I heard the acoustic guitar being played from the speakers of her stereo and could hear her little bare feet dancing across the wooden floor behind me.

As I raised my head to see what she was doing, I was amazed. She stood before me, in the light of a few candles, and from time to time, the lightning that burst through the windows, with nothing on beside her black panties and her straight black hair covering her beautiful breasts. She stood motionless, one hand down toward her left hip, the other, touching her toned stomach. She looked so smooth, so sexy, so confident in what she was doing.

And when I stood at the side of the couch, and walked to her to ask what she was doing, before a single word escaped my mouth, she placed her middle and index fingers against my lips and shook her head, ever so slowly, from left to right.

(What was going on? Was the woman that I wanted for the last four years, the woman that I've never tried to do anything with for fear of losing the best friendship that I've ever had with a female, trying to tell me that she wanted me as bad as I wanted her? Was this to be the ending chapter of us? To go out with a bang?)

And as I stood in front of my angel, she lowered her fingers from my lips and pulled my shirt over my head, throwing it to the floor. She placed her tiny, delicate hands on my chest and slowly pushed me back down onto the couch/bed.

She looked directly into my eyes, a half smile forming with her gorgeous set of pouty kissers and began to unfasten my belt. From there, her fingers undid the button and unzipped my faded blue Levi’s. She slowly pulled them down, licking my stomach as she played with the top of the denim. She rested back on her knees and pulled my pants down past my thighs, my ankles, and let them fall to the floor.

I was a bit shocked, I had no idea that she wanted to do what it seemed we were about to do. I lie naked on the couch, with an absolute beauty on her knees before me. She slowly crept up our cushioned pad, stopping at my waist. She lowered her head and put me into her mouth.

Slowly, up and down, faster, in and out. She licked the head. She wrapped her hand around me, stroking up and down in unison with her lips. A little twist here, another there. Her long black hair tickled my stomach as it landed on my skin. With her other hand, she cupped the twins down below as she put her lips against my torso and me into her throat.

She took me out of her mouth and began to crawl up towards me. She placed a knee on both sides of my head and lowered the shaved spot down to my face.

My tongue licked her up, and then back down, in circles, zig-zags, faster, slower, plunging it into her, out of her. She leaned back and I could see her pulling her right nipple. As she did this, her left hand was behind her, stroking me. Her stomach began to pulsate. I could feel the moisture increase and warm up. She was getting close.

But before she got there, she scooted back down my body and put me into her. She squatted over me and slid up and down, ever so slowly. Her left hand on my chest, her right tickling her clit. She never looked so radiant. She moved up and down at the same tempo of the music on the stereo. It was timed perfectly.

She took me out of her and turned around on me. She raised her beautiful bum and put me back into the pleasantly plumb spot I desired.

Up, down, slow, fast, an almost rolling motion that I'd never experienced before and still, to this day, haven’t yet again. Her hands were on my shins and I could see the beautiful tattoo of angel wings across her back. Her black hair draped over her shoulders, onto her 36B chest. Her back was arcing, she was getting close.

She pulled away from me and backed into my face. She put me into her mouth to lick her. With my tongue tickling, I put a finger inside of her...then another. I could hear her moaning as she bobbed up and down. Her muzzled moans sounded sexier than anything I had ever heard before.

She pulled away from my face again and crawled onto her knees. I just stayed lying there. She looked back at me with a smile, and curled her finger up to me, telling me to come to her. I raised up from lying down and came up behind her.

I was aching by then. She had almost made my cum four different times by that point. I put my hands on her body and plunged into her anticipating area. She gasped for air as she reached back grabbing the backs of my thighs, pulling me deeper and harder into her. Her face went down into a pillow, her back was so arched you could have poured a gallon of water onto her perfect body and there wouldn’t have been a drop of it spilled.

She let out the loudest of her moans then. I could feel her pulsating much harder. I knew she was cumming. And I too, was just about to. I felt it coming on and began to slip out of her.

“Cum in me.”

Those were the only words that either of us said to that point. And though I knew better to cum in any of my partners, I couldn’t help myself. Just hearing her sexy voice saying those three words, made me cum so much harder.

We stayed lying on the couch for the rest of the night, without clothes and without words.

There were much prettier noises then our words would have made being played by the rain on the concrete slab out her back door anyway.

Just One Love Left

2011-01-14T18:40:00.000-08:00

The smoke passing over the scars on the inside of my throat from the tracheotomy 11 years ago feels somewhat chunky tonight. Almost feels like the raised portion of flesh has grown larger over the years.

My heart is beating abnormally, as usual, but tonight, somehow it's a soothing beat that my ticker is kickin'.

But I ain't got no reason why. I haven't had a reason for a soothing beat for quite a few years.

My mind, scrambled like the eggs I had for breakfast, and just as confused as usual, for some reason, is beginning to make sense of the crazy thoughts and ideas I've manifested and I can see the life I've been livin' these past ocho ano's ain't really the exact way I envisioned the life I wanted to live. But I keep livin' it as is.

The collectors of light that are the front of my face have grown weary and they're beginning to miss things. Maybe they're missing things because I wouldn't be able to handle or accept those things if I did see them?

The noises whispering into my ears are muffled, almost scuffed by, what it seems, some sort of blockage device placed over the inner tubes. Maybe I'm just gettin' old. Maybe I don't wanna hear 'em.

But my fingers still find the places they need to be. And my hands hold my baby tightly. I don't need to see you, to know you're there, baby. Nor do I need to hear you, to know the same. If my mind were clean and stable, I would've never fallen in love with you oh so many moons ago.

You've got nothing to worry about my love. I'll place you in your case to protect you and carry you home soon enough.

Useless information that could be useful someday.

2011-01-14T17:32:00.000-08:00

As a kid, I wanted to know the exact number of licks it took to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop. Repeatedly, I failed to find out by always biting the damn things. Now, as I near my 33rd birthday, I have concluded it takes 172.18 licks to get to the center of a Tootsie Roll Tootsie Pop.

Something which might keep me, and maybe you, from sleeping tonight and every other night for the rest of our lives: On average, a person will eat 6 roaches while sleeping throughout their life.

Hallmark makes cards for 105 different relationships: I love you cards. I miss you cards. Thank you and I’m sorry cards. But, of this entire list of cards, I have never found the one that reads, “Hey, thanks for last night, now get the hell outta my house.”

The butt muscle is the biggest muscle in the human body. The tongue muscle is the strongest.

You ever wonder why some people from Mexico try to sneak into America and live here? It could be for job opportunities or it could be for a better way of life, or, it could be because Mexico City is sinking, on average, 10 inches every year.

When you go out to eat at a Chinese restaurant, or any other type of oriental joint, you always receive a fortune cookie to enjoy at the end of the meal. I often wonder, as I devour the crumbly little things, how somebody can read my fortune without ever meeting me. I also wonder what smart Chinaman is putting all of the fortunes in the cookies. So I did some research and found that fortune cookies were invented by Charles Jung, an AMERICAN, in 1918.

This is for all the people who don’t believe humans were once apes in the jungles: a female birth control pill can, and will, work for a female ape if she takes it every day for a month.

The screwdriver was invented before the screw. What the hell did they use them for before they had screws?

Does your wife think that she is retaining water? Tell her she’s lucky she's not a jelly fish. Their bodies are made of 95% H2O.

All but one woman who I've dated can officially be called a Starfish. Starfish have no hearts.

Abraham Lincoln was born in 1808. John F. Kennedy was born in 1908. Lincoln became president in 1860. JFK became president in 1960. They were both killed on Fridays. Booth, whom shot Lincoln, was born in 1839. Oswald, whom shot JFK, was born in 1939. Lincoln's personal assistants last name was Kennedy and Kennedy's personal assistants last name was Lincoln. The names of the presidents elected after Lincoln and Kennedy were both Johnson's.

A ducks quack does not echo and nobody knows why not.

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog”, uses every letter in the American alphabet.

111,111,111 X 111,111,111= 12,345,678,987,654,321.

If you have 3 quarters, 4 dimes, and 4 pennies, you have $1.19. You also have the largest amount of money in coins without being able to make change for a dollar.

Reno, Nevada (in the desert)is West of Los Angeles, California (on the Pacific coast).

85% of men don’t use the slit in their underwear when using the bathroom.

Anything with a Superman logo (poster, coffee cup, figurine) can be found in every Seinfeld episode ever filmed.

Statues in parks with a person on a horse that has both front legs in the air means the person depicted on the horse died in battle; if the horse has one front leg in the air, the person died as a result of wounds received in battle; if the horse has all four legs on the ground, the person died of natural causes.

The word “samba" means “to rub navels together.”

The only difference between CBS’s “60 Minutes” and all of the other news shows on TV is that it has no theme song.

The bullet proof vest, the fire escape, windshield wipers and laser printers were all invented by women.

85% of men that die while having sex are screwing a woman other than their wife when it happens.

Fred and Wilma Flintstone were the first couple shown on television in bed together.

A rat can live longer without water than a camel can.

A female ferret, that is in heat, will die if it doesn’t find a mate.

Charlie Chaplin once was awarded 3rd place in a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest.

Some Advice For You. And You, Too.

2011-01-11T22:09:00.000-08:00

As you go through life, remember you only get one shot at it so...

Take some chances.
Speak the truth.
Date someone totally wrong for you.
Say no.
Spend all your cash.
Fall in love.
Get to know someone completely not like you.
From time to time, be someone completely not like you.
Say I love you.
Mean it when you say it.
Laugh at a stupid joke.
Tell a stupid joke.
Cry.
Get revenge.
Apologize.
Forgive somebody. Even if they didn't ask to be forgiven.
Tell someone how much they mean to you.
Tell an asshole how you feel.
Let someone know what they're missing.
Let someone see what they're missing.
Make someone feel what they're missing.
Laugh until your stomach hurts.
And just live your life.

2011 Super Bowl Shuffle

2011-01-10T12:58:00.000-08:00

Chorus:

We are the Bears
shufflin' crew
shufflin' on down
doin' it for you.
We're so bad
we know we're good,
blowin' your minds
like we knew we would.
You know we're just struttin' for fun
struttin' our stuff for everyone.
We're not here to start no trouble.
We're just here to do the Super Bowl Shuffle.

Devin Hester

They called me Hurricane
at school in Miami,
look at me now,
I'm a double whammy.
I catch the pass
and elude 'em all
the end-zone's where I'm headed
when I get the ball.
We're not doin' this
because we're greedy
the Bears are doin' this
to feed the needy.
We didn't come here
lookin' for trouble
we just came to do
The Super Bowl Shuffle.

Johnny Knox

I'm as fast as Hester
maybe more,
toss me the ball
the "D" will hit the floor.
Touchdowns and yards
when I get the blocks
oh, by the way, this is
Johnny Knox.

Brian Urlacher and Lance Briggs (duo)

Urlacher and Briggs here
we lead the "D",
tackles and sacks
are our specialty.
Bring on the Seahawks
Then bring on the Pack,
we got Chicago
guardin' are backs.
We didn't come here
lookin' for trouble,
we just came to do the Super Bowl shuffle.
(repeat chorus)

Jay Cutler

I'm the guy, from Santa Claus, I-N-D
believing my O-Line is gonna protect me.
They give me time to launch my pass
and put the "D" line,
on their...
Completing passes
to the left and right
to Hester, or Olsen
or any other Bears in sight.
I'm not trying to to start any trouble
I just want to do The Super Bowl Shuffle.

Julius Peppers

I'm Julius, kinda new
glad I'm in Chicago
doin' what I do.
I've made 415 tackles and
87 sacks in my career,
I want a Super Bowl victory
and I want to do it here.
Breaking up passes
and stopping the run,
those are my ideas of having fun.
I didn't come here lookin' to give you any trouble,
I just want to do The Super Bowl Shuffle.

Matt Forte

I have a degree, in finance,
I run the ball,
and I catch the pass.
I deliver blocks
and run a four-four forty
it's your running back, me, Matt Forte.
It matters none,
who we play
this season, baby, we're going all the way.
Lovie has led us,
and it times to say
this is Bears country
opponents will rue the day.
Now, we're not here to burst no bubbles
we're just here to do
The Super Bowl Shuffle.

Charles "Peanut" Tillman

"Peanut" Tillman, as you can see
as a boy I traveled all over the seas,
QB's who want a completion
better not throw by me.
I like snagging passes,
and returning them for scores,
put us up by 6, maybe more.
Please don't think I'm trying start any trouble
I'm just trying to do The Super Bowl Shuffle.

We are the Bears
shufflin' Crew
shufflin' on down,
doin' it for you.
We're so bad
we know we're good,
blowin' your minds
like we knew we would.
You know we're just
struttin' for fun
struttin' our stuff for everyone.
We're not here
to start no trouble.
We're just here to do the Super Bowl Shuffle.

My New Favorite Sports Reporter: Part 2

2011-01-09T19:17:00.000-08:00

She's 5'9, 25-year old sports reporter from Spain. This is Sara Carbonero and is my newest favorite sports reporter. (Don't worry, Sarah Spain, you're still my #1) Sara was born November 30, 1984 and was voted "The Sexiest Reporter in the World" by FHM-USA in 2009.

Enjoy the pics.

A New Way To Write

2011-01-09T17:59:00.000-08:00

the things we shall write will erupt in the faces of our readers like car bombs under Honda's...
full of pain, but with elegance and grace.

our writings will leave all timeless and armless.
every word will be seductive, but wrapped in barbedwire.

when we wake to the sun in the morning, it’ll be like having time bombs strapped to our chests, our pulses will raise and the anxiety to get it all out will grip us like future atomic attacks from far off galaxies.

this is the way I wish for us to write.

but we must be careful, it's a very explosive formula:
one part carnal knowledge --- two parts drugs and alcohol --- one part circus freak --- one parts abandoned lover --- three parts homophobic anal raper topped off with one part lost child.

they will be stories about police chief's selling drugs at coffee houses to the communities elite... and stories about cheating bastard husbands and cock sucking whore wives...
and stories about potty mouthed sorority sisters licking their professors to earn their A's.

in the painful world of the truth, or what we have imagined or have been instructed to be the truth, there is such beauty in wanting death for those lists of books school board members have decided to be "literature master pieces".

to want this death is not shameful...it's expected.

they will be stories of lipstick lesbians detonating dynamite on testosterone fueled boys of all ages, full of new ideas for the socially awkward who are high on whatever depression medicine popular at the moment.

our words will be cancerous...and dangerous...and ugly...and free of regret and shame.
our words will direct people to hide in basements...or attics...or old tree forts in the backyards of their mommy and daddy's house.

our words will be frowned upon, but they will be read by many.
the people who read our words will never admit to reading anything we’ve written, but they will still read...in backrooms, in alleys and in garages after midnight.

these people, they will come from all walks of life:
the chicago bar owner who only employs ladies with big tits, tight asses and wear no panties...
the cowardly city folk who require a prescription for cough syrup...
the lonely strippers who visit Church's just for the chance that father mchale will forgive them for sleeping with his married patrons...
the star athletes who cheat on their wives and the disgruntled frat boys who haven't yet voyaged out of the closets they've stayed hidden in for far too long.

they will be stories with black and white and torn and wrinkled pictures...
stories with fireworks at funerals...
stories about naked teens washing cars at city hall...
stories about paraplegics who chew tobacco...

they will be full of grammatical errors...
they will make librarians and "real" authors wince in pain when they hear anybody mention us...
they will become the high pitched voice of tornado sirens against your ear...
all full with make believe friends...

the stories will be about anti-government protesters, the idiot's war and how nobody really has any idea about what goes on in this country...
they will be the one place where the forgotten errors and mistakes of yesterday will be talked about always and forever...
they will be about the sluts who run this country and each way they've fucked us after they've pledged they wouldn't...

they will be the warm spot inside cocaine throats and loose pussy's...

they'll be the homes of:
titty fondling football players...
crap shooting cowboys in backrooms of strip clubs...
abortion clinics in garages of south suburban homes...
over cooked canned hams...
completely shaven 19-year old pussy...
the holy gospel spoken by Ginsberg, Cassidy, Bukowski or Kerouac...
flower lined walkways with short and curly pubic hairs...
the nipple/clit rings of every woman in town...
horse races with obese riders...
cash fights between the ku klux klan and the black panthers...
pedophiles who run the pta/pto at schools...
assholes covered with chocolate...
passages into the minds of the future made of silk...
congressmen who pay taxes...
government leaders who smoke pot...
sperm swallowing wife beaters...
and the surgeries performed with the dullest of all butter knives.

these are the stories we will write.
they'll be unbreakable, unacceptable, unspeakable and unbearable.
and will be, in no fucking way, for the Shakespearean douche bags of the World.

they wont be stories of love. nor will they be placed in the front windows of bookstores. they'll be remorseful....not so much.

they'll be empty from everything except whiskey, nicotine and sex.
they'll make our parents wish they didn't know us and make the church leaders pray for our souls.

our stories will not be for the PETA professionals...
and they wont be for the wino’s who sip Ajax floor cleaner.

they'll be here for those of us without pain on the mind...
for those of us who speak without erasing the thoughts of the young.

these are the stories that we shall write...

and each will be rough...beat-up...and tasteless.

someday, maybe...today, it's not happening.

2011-01-09T17:13:00.000-08:00

someday, maybe....

...i'll have the dedication needed to write a worthwhile story. a story to grab all who read it by the throats, twisting, turning, pulling and knocking the living shit out of all...

...from this assault, each person will tell others to be alert and to be on the look out. but the naive fools who have been warned will search, read my stories and they themselves, will be the idiots lying lifeless on floors, gasping for air, as their dogs scamper out the back doors of their suburban homes to piss on the rose bushes...

...but, wouldn't you know i just ain't ready yet. when i finally , it'll bust outta me without warning, without fear and without hesitation because it was ready for me to put it on paper, but...

today, it's not happening.

What The Fuck

2011-01-08T01:51:00.000-08:00

"We need a break," says the woman I'm nuts about.

"Did I come on too strong," inquiring minds want to know?

"No. It's just that I'm scared of being hurt," says she.

If that's the way you wanna play it, always expecting to be hurt, that's exactly what will happen, you'll be hurt. But only because you're expecting it, not because those are the cards you hold.

You'll be hurt because you'll blow everything out of proportion. You'll be hurt because everything you hoped wouldn't be done to you, you helped be done to you. You'll be hurt by the feelings that were always there, and denied realization by you, for why they were taken away.

A person can only say they're afraid of being hurt by the person they are trying to start a relationship with when they are still hung up on the person they once loved, or still love. No matter if they want to realize it or not.

When a person is invited to do things with another, they feel they may be an important piece of the other persons life, or at least starting to become an important piece. When a person asks somebody to do something in regards to meeting the others family, the person asked should feel the invitee holds them to be important.

But when somebody asks a person to do something, in regards to meeting their family, and then uses the old stand-by, "I think it might be too soon to meet my family, even though I've met yours, and blah, blah, blah", how is one to take it?

I took it as, "Hey, get fucked, I'm not into you as much as I thought I was and would rather you not meet my family because I will never care for you as much as you care for me."

Get it?
Got it?

Good.

Randoms of the day

2011-01-05T11:19:00.000-08:00

A collection of random thoughts and ideas.

Cinderella, she seems so easy. "It takes one to know one," she smiles. And puts her hands in her back pockets, Bette Davis style.

The Sicilian Belly dancer.

If a tree falls in the woods and nobody is around to hear it, does a person still get naked to stand on their head?

Only your imagination.

babble, babble...bitch, bitch...rebel, rebel...party, party...and do not forget the violence.

Top 10 Big Lembowski Ideas on Life

2011-01-04T15:21:00.000-08:00

Football. Check. Baseball. Check. Hockey. Check. Bowling. Uh.......check.

Years ago, when I wasn't too busy ruining the credibility of a sports blog I used to write for, I wanted to be a bowler. As a kid, I was decent at killin' the pins. As a teen, I was a lil' better. And now as an adult, the only thing I worry about while bowling is where I parked my car and who it is that's with my ex a couple two-tree lanes down from me. But if I were "The Dude", I wouldn't have a care in the World, now would I? To have everything in my life so understandable, with people always there to help me up when I fall and point me in the right direction wouldn't be too bad of a thing either. Perhaps this film is more than a funny movie about a Dude and his rug? Maybe the point of the film was how to live a life? And for those of you who can't, won't or don't accept the fact that bowling is a sport, well, I'll let Walter deal with you later.
These are My Top Ten moments of The Big Lebowski.

10. Every Dude

Dude, could you only imagine how, like, easy it would be, dude, to call everybody that you knew, dude? Dude, you would never have a problem remembering any dudes, or dudettes, names, dude. It would be awesome, dude.

9. The scary guy everybody wonders about.

We've all seen him. The one cat who everybody is scared to talk to because he appears to be a little different. Or a lot different. And then it's a good thing you didn't talk to him.

8.The friends who are always there for you.

We've all got these guys in our lives. The ones who'll bust your ass every chance they get, but when it really comes down to it, they'll be the guy who is standing next to you before, during and after a fight breaks out.

7. The guy who thinks he's better than you.

Come on, no matter how good we were, or still are, at anything, there will always be the one douche bag who feels he is better than you on his worst day. Cock suckers.

6. Everybody has those weird feelings

The weird feeling that somebody is watching you, or following you through the store or some other crazy shit like that.

5. The hot girl

We've all seen her. The smoking hot beauty waiting in line in front of us at the store. Or in the car next to us at the red light. And we've all wished the girl would say something along the lines of what Bunny says in the movie. But, all we get is "Are you looking at my tits, asshole?" Making us learn we should always wear sunglasses.

4. The old smart guy

And all of us have, or have had, this guy in our lives. Could have been your dad, you uncle, a buddies dad or the weird guy who lived behind your house growing up. These old cats always know what's best for us, so shut up and listen.

3. Challenges

We'll face many throughout our lives, some harder than others to deal with. Whatever the case, don't back down from a thing, especially guys like Jesus.

2. Remember the rules

Always, in life and in sport, play by the rules. Cheating ain't worth it because 20 years down the road, when you look at the pictures of you getting the state championship medal placed around your neck, you'll remember that you should have lost that championship match, but ya' didn't 'cause you're a cheating shit bag.

1. Always remember who you are

No matter how good you get at anything, remember that you didn't go it alone. There have always been people who pushed you when you stopped (Mom and Dad), those who laughed when you lost and made you so pissed you worked much harder and got much better just to beat their ass (Egglund) and convinced you to do whatever it was you loved. (You know who you are.)

So Dark...And Worn...And Faded

2010-12-27T14:47:00.000-08:00

My Greatest Teacher: Version 1

2010-12-27T00:49:00.000-08:00

The battered shell of a beauty stood to the right of the oak before me, asking what it was that I wanted. I stood in awe, silence and fear trying to conjure up the courage to tell her it was her that I wanted.

In May of 1999, just after turning 21-years old and trying to recover from a broken heart, I worked a construction job which I loved doing. With construction, as some of you may know, there tends to be a little alcohol involved with those who work in the trade. The beauty was a 31-year old divorced mother of two who worked as the middle school secretary by day and as the sexiest bartender in the tri-county area by night at the bar we'd frequent after the long days of work.

As I sat with the guys I worked with back then, around the old wooden table next to the fireplace, playing cards and shooting pool, I'd glance over at her behind the bar from time to time and see her looking back at me with a smile. I watched her shoot down the attempts of others to buy her drinks and shots and the offers to take her to breakfast.

I can't say I blame them for trying to become the lucky one for the night. I say lucky one for the night because she was kinda slutty. But she was a dead sexy kinda slutty with natural blond hair, brilliant blue eyes, a 36 D chest, a size 2 waist and carried all kinds of sexuality.

I knew I wouldn't have the same level of sexual skill as she, but when she asked me, I didn't let my lack of knowledge, or experience for that matter, hamper my choice to accompany her home after the bar closed.

When we finally got to her house, it took a total of 30 seconds before she started taking her clothes off and ordering me to do the same.

She told me to lie on the bed.

She was the second partner I'd ever had, so I really didn't know too much yet. I knew where things went, but that was seriously the most of it. She taught me how to watch a woman while the act was happening and how to feel, how to touch and how to taste, too. All while not feeling, touching or tasting anything.

She covered it all.

Each time we had finished, we'd lie together in bed and talk. She told me how her ex used to beat her. And why she never went to college. The dreams she held for her little girl and boy. How she still held hope that somebody would come find her and she'd fall in love again.

The tryst's continued until February of 2000 and only stopped because of a wreck I was in. She gave up on me as I lie dying in a hospital bed. She thought I was as good as dead. She moved on. Can't say I blame her.

So now, ten years after the classes I was in with the sexiest teacher I've ever had have ended, I wish I could go back and thank her. Thank her for teaching me that hope, and love, and compassion are in our lives each and everyday. And to thank her for teaching me more about life, than she ever took credit for