Time passes and we slowly become what we weren’t. We change, and as times change, our soul takes on a different form. With every pitfall, every sunken boat, every last kiss, every last drink, every car crash, every last phone call, we turn towards maturity at a full force. We don’t know where we will end up – but we are one hundred percent sure that somehow, someway, we will get there. Where ever it is that we think we are going. We will get there.
Fear comes with every theory, with every worry, with every decision, and with every fall. They say that we fear what we don’t know. Well isn’t that the truth? We learn that fact only when fear gets up in our faces and forces us to deal with it.
Our lives weren’t as clear cut as the slew of armies that passed before. They knew what they wanted. They knew about the ramifications, and the various ills that had to be overcome. We knew nothing of that sort. We were out there, out in the streets, on the campuses, working jobs we hated, looking forward toward a future that was, from the beginning, uncertain. We were the knights of this generation, trying desperately to make our mark on the world, in order not to be forgotten, not to be wiped clean by the winds of ever-present change.
Our mission was simple. To prove the American Dream wrong. To solidify our existence in the time that we were given was our task. We wanted to prove that the American Dream was not just a dream. That it was not just an illusion. Not an ideal that was never meant to be achieved. We wanted to make it a reality. The dream was not dead. The dream was on a hiatus; we would take it from its shambles and overcome various obstacles. We wanted it to be real. This was our dream. There was no room to talk about American, when in truth, this was the everyman dream. Everyone can work hard, and through hard work, can turn nothing into something. We were on the everyman path. We knew it deep; and we knew it heartfelt.
We were full of optimism. But it wasn’t the type of optimism that you saw in Partridge Family, or Beaver Cleaver, or fuck – even Mork and Mindy – it was a cynical type of optimism that turned into pessimism whenever chance arose. It was turncoat behavior. We wanted it all. We wanted fame and fortune. Everybody said that they “wanted to be a movie star.” Especially the people in California; they said it the most. Don’t even mention Hollywood.
That was a different world. It was a world that I haven’t experienced yet.
It is a slippery slope to talk about the American Dream without talking about the feeling of Rock N Roll. Truth be told, that some of us, have genuinely tried to live the life. Many have failed, only to wake up to a twenty year old marriage, and bills, and a serious drinking habit – but many didn’t. We fought that wave like a surfer trying to get his last rites. We knew that it would lead us nowhere – yet we tried anyway. We saw what it did to our parents, our uncles, our siblings, our nobodies. This was Rock N Roll. We had to have a tiny taste. And a taste we did. With all the guilty pleasures – we did.
And what a pleasure it was. Through out America there are, and there can be, numerous accounts of where Rock N Roll went right. It isn’t only in the supermarket rags that people hear about what you do or did. The real truth is, and as much as we’d like to admit that it isn’t, Rock N Roll has turned this country into what we are today. Yes it is true. The Budweiser drinking, beer-bong chugging, Marlboro smoking, John Deere hat wearing, reefer maniacs of America can vouch for that.
Well then who are we?
Are we the same as the previous generation?
The truth is that we differ through technology – but we don’t differ that much through ideology. We want the same shit.
To completely discredit this little trifle – I’d like to think that this was a rant written by a man who had to much Rock N Roll in his veins to complete the job. To much of everything I have to say. Until we are sober – keep your units on you. And as George Thorogood said “I want bourbon, one scotch and one beer.” Give me a triple shot of that juice.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Saturday, July 30, 2005
It can't be that bad can it?
"Honesty, the quality of being honest, is a value which can be defined in multiple ways. In the context of human communication, people are generally said to be honest when they tell the truth to the best of their knowledge and do not hide what they know or think. Apart from being truthful, honesty is also generally thought to involve abstaining from unfair behavior, such as stealing or cheating on a test."
PS - Just to be honest - This is a picture of George W. in his governor of Texas days, flipping the bird to the camera - apparently intended for the people in the studio. But I'd like to think that seeing the current President giving the bird to the camera is so appropriate for the times. It's ya know - more honest about the situation we are in. Hey at the very LEAST...the President has a sense of humor.
Thursday, July 28, 2005
On the fly ramblings....
Ya know that feeling that sucks all the air out of the room, turns the shades darker, makes the neon lights turn you into Tom Hanks from Joe Versus the Volcano "SUCK SUCK SUCK" - ya know feeling out of place?
Sometimes not even sailing can take the feeling out of routine. I hate that part - when the daily routine becomes a chore and you wake up in the morning with a smile at first, hey they don't call it morning wood for nothing, and then it slowly turns into disgust since you know there is no milk in the fridge.
And there's work. Which is not worth mentioning since everyday brings its new obstacles. Have you ever had to spray a wasp nest with some Ortho Wasp Killer. It says right there on the can "never use a hornet spray [on the nest] as the hornets may escape and attack you" Well wait a minute I thought this stuff is supposed to kill on contact...which usually folows with a whole army of expletives along with having a seizure and running like hell away from the hornets, or wasps or whatever else has a stinger or a needle.
It's funny that they don't make a junkie spray - so you can spray it on them when they come near with their dirty needles.
That's exactly what seperates men from beasts. (not the stingers) It's the idea that we can instantenously wipe out a whole slew of wasps with a single can of $2.95 bug spray without getting stung.
But fuck the wasps. We'll just get more cans. We have powerwashers too. Those fuckers are 2800 psi.
Anyway. Enough about work. Only in Disney cartoons do you see people running away from hornets - fucking Mickey Mouse deserved it anyway. Besides - Mickey was probably a drunk. He never had a shirt on. He was always happy and smiling and shit. Probably getting high off that glue that comes on those stick pads. And Donald was a sailor without pants so go figure. I guess there WAS some truth in those cartoons.
Which brings me to the news. One particular story caught my attention. It was buried in the Sun Times on page 30 about a former city commisioner blowing his head off in the lobby of the Miami Herald. I was like what the fuck?
Not to sound like a prick - but hey why not blow your head off in the lobby of a newspaper building. YA might get noticed. Apparently the man in question, Arhur E. Teele, wanted to see a columnist at the paper, Jim DeFede, but the guard didn't let him.
I did some research. And this tickled my prick - the columnist was fired later in the day due to taping an illegal phone call with the politicain. I was like - FUCK - talk about high journalistic integrity standards.
I'm sitting there in the morning with my coffee, thinking about hornets and shit, and it dawns on me like a crackhead making his first purchase of the day - do everything by the book.
"SO this is On the record right?"
"Off the record"
"On the record gotcha"
"No off the fucking record!"
"What about on background?"
"What are you making a deal?"
"fuck you I don't have to talk to you"
"Fuck me? Fuck you you asshole prick!"
"Ok - off the record just put the piece away"
I don't know - the news is a constant treasure. It's alive and kicking and something is always happening. Between helicopters crashing near interstates, things falling off the shuttle, NASA canceling the shuttle program, DVD's being over due even though the late fees are supposedly over, hornets, milk-less coffee, and a weird feeling in my gut, the only thing left to say is ... ah fuck it where are the cigarettes?
Sometimes not even sailing can take the feeling out of routine. I hate that part - when the daily routine becomes a chore and you wake up in the morning with a smile at first, hey they don't call it morning wood for nothing, and then it slowly turns into disgust since you know there is no milk in the fridge.
And there's work. Which is not worth mentioning since everyday brings its new obstacles. Have you ever had to spray a wasp nest with some Ortho Wasp Killer. It says right there on the can "never use a hornet spray [on the nest] as the hornets may escape and attack you" Well wait a minute I thought this stuff is supposed to kill on contact...which usually folows with a whole army of expletives along with having a seizure and running like hell away from the hornets, or wasps or whatever else has a stinger or a needle.
It's funny that they don't make a junkie spray - so you can spray it on them when they come near with their dirty needles.
That's exactly what seperates men from beasts. (not the stingers) It's the idea that we can instantenously wipe out a whole slew of wasps with a single can of $2.95 bug spray without getting stung.
But fuck the wasps. We'll just get more cans. We have powerwashers too. Those fuckers are 2800 psi.
Anyway. Enough about work. Only in Disney cartoons do you see people running away from hornets - fucking Mickey Mouse deserved it anyway. Besides - Mickey was probably a drunk. He never had a shirt on. He was always happy and smiling and shit. Probably getting high off that glue that comes on those stick pads. And Donald was a sailor without pants so go figure. I guess there WAS some truth in those cartoons.
Which brings me to the news. One particular story caught my attention. It was buried in the Sun Times on page 30 about a former city commisioner blowing his head off in the lobby of the Miami Herald. I was like what the fuck?
Not to sound like a prick - but hey why not blow your head off in the lobby of a newspaper building. YA might get noticed. Apparently the man in question, Arhur E. Teele, wanted to see a columnist at the paper, Jim DeFede, but the guard didn't let him.
I did some research. And this tickled my prick - the columnist was fired later in the day due to taping an illegal phone call with the politicain. I was like - FUCK - talk about high journalistic integrity standards.
I'm sitting there in the morning with my coffee, thinking about hornets and shit, and it dawns on me like a crackhead making his first purchase of the day - do everything by the book.
"SO this is On the record right?"
"Off the record"
"On the record gotcha"
"No off the fucking record!"
"What about on background?"
"What are you making a deal?"
"fuck you I don't have to talk to you"
"Fuck me? Fuck you you asshole prick!"
"Ok - off the record just put the piece away"
I don't know - the news is a constant treasure. It's alive and kicking and something is always happening. Between helicopters crashing near interstates, things falling off the shuttle, NASA canceling the shuttle program, DVD's being over due even though the late fees are supposedly over, hornets, milk-less coffee, and a weird feeling in my gut, the only thing left to say is ... ah fuck it where are the cigarettes?
Thursday, July 14, 2005
A pirate's life for me...(so what else is new)
CaptainGonzoWriter
To celebrate Independence Day in this fashion really squeezes the meaning out of the word “freedom.” Sailing from Waukegan Harbor to Monroe, flying renegade pirate colors, and behaving like a pack of rabid booze thirsty whores makes certainly an interesting beginning to the 4th of July Weekend. I’m not sure the Founding Fathers had this in mind. I’m sure they were booze thirsty though. We want freedom! Oh yeah – and some of that “good stuff.” Fuck TEA!
We set sail. The skipper, a true pirate at heart, led us into the unknown abyss of decadence, various bouts with liquor, and complete mayhem. The only thing he lacks is a peg leg and a lipstick red parrot on his shoulder. The whole trip seemed to be guided by that one Kid Rock line “Lit up like the Fourth, I’m a happy drunk.” That should have screamed warning signs. A whole weekend, with Kid Rock as the anthem, on a sail boat nonetheless, with the motley crew – things could get interesting.
I have my doubts. All the other 4th celebrations are usually the same. Beer, barbecue, flags, patriotism (if you can call waving faggoty sparklers patriotism) and umm – fuck the list pretty much ends. I guess we’re celebrating freedom. I guess the rights to behave like the loudest, brawniest, pack of two-bit idiot rednecks on the planet don’t come often. Ahh – the true caricature of America. The real Americans. Look on the horizon - there’s a guy wearing a Budweiser shirt. Welcome to heaven. Like Foxworthy said about rednecks in general that "it's a glorious absence of sophistication." We fit that profile, especially with beer cans flying around everywhere after someone said "gimmeanother!"
“We’re celebrating the 4th with Kid Rock in the background?”
Good idea. Better turn that shit off. I like Kid Rock but in sane amounts.
Transcribing the notes proved much more difficult than I thought. They weren’t notes at all; just feeble attempts at trying to write something; anything for one, and two, being intoxicated to such a point, that writing and holding a pen was among the chief sobriety tests. No one could pass it. I was the only writer on board. You would think I would have this art down pat.
The rocking of the boat, since this was the first time I ventured out sailing, out of the confines of bunkers, table saw, hammers, and typewriters, had to get used to. But after many beers it stopped and stabilized. Now I know why sailors drink so much. Not for the pure sense of getting wasted – it stops the boat from fucking rocking! You learn something new everyday.
Towards the evening we got the perfect glimpse of the skyline. We were sailing towards it for the past 6 fucking hours, so there had to be a pay off somewhere down the line. At this point in time most of the people on the boat were walking around like glazed donuts. Everybody had that spark behind their eyes – that twisted, mischievous look. Like “should I be having this much fun” or is there a law against this type of shit?
Then I found a bottle of tequila below the deck.
And nobody was drinking it except me. Was it some bad tequila? (They informed me later it was five years old. Poor fool, they said.)
Blur. A lot of noise. Was it music? Is that guy pissing off the back of the boat? “Put your shirt back on, man.” I steal the idea from everybody else, and hold on to something, while swaying back and forth, gazing at the fireworks show. I must have had that wide open, jaw dropped thing going on. The gaga moment.
All of a sudden I felt the incredible urge to get back into the boat. Lake Michigan was surprisingly cold – and as soon as my hangover led me to unreasonable quests for the cure, that reason snapped back into place and yelled “Get out of the frigid water asshole.”
The next mornings’ offer plenty of time, as you sit in Monroe Harbor, to reflect on the misfortunes of the night before. Well we sailed. What ensued in between was surly meant to stir something vacant in the soul. Once you get past the screaming about halyards and Gennys – then the sail is set.
America. Land of the Free. And Home of the weird.
PS.
Fucking Popeye was full of shit, man. Spinach doesn’t make you a sailor. It turns your shit green.
To celebrate Independence Day in this fashion really squeezes the meaning out of the word “freedom.” Sailing from Waukegan Harbor to Monroe, flying renegade pirate colors, and behaving like a pack of rabid booze thirsty whores makes certainly an interesting beginning to the 4th of July Weekend. I’m not sure the Founding Fathers had this in mind. I’m sure they were booze thirsty though. We want freedom! Oh yeah – and some of that “good stuff.” Fuck TEA!
We set sail. The skipper, a true pirate at heart, led us into the unknown abyss of decadence, various bouts with liquor, and complete mayhem. The only thing he lacks is a peg leg and a lipstick red parrot on his shoulder. The whole trip seemed to be guided by that one Kid Rock line “Lit up like the Fourth, I’m a happy drunk.” That should have screamed warning signs. A whole weekend, with Kid Rock as the anthem, on a sail boat nonetheless, with the motley crew – things could get interesting.
I have my doubts. All the other 4th celebrations are usually the same. Beer, barbecue, flags, patriotism (if you can call waving faggoty sparklers patriotism) and umm – fuck the list pretty much ends. I guess we’re celebrating freedom. I guess the rights to behave like the loudest, brawniest, pack of two-bit idiot rednecks on the planet don’t come often. Ahh – the true caricature of America. The real Americans. Look on the horizon - there’s a guy wearing a Budweiser shirt. Welcome to heaven. Like Foxworthy said about rednecks in general that "it's a glorious absence of sophistication." We fit that profile, especially with beer cans flying around everywhere after someone said "gimmeanother!"
“We’re celebrating the 4th with Kid Rock in the background?”
Good idea. Better turn that shit off. I like Kid Rock but in sane amounts.
Transcribing the notes proved much more difficult than I thought. They weren’t notes at all; just feeble attempts at trying to write something; anything for one, and two, being intoxicated to such a point, that writing and holding a pen was among the chief sobriety tests. No one could pass it. I was the only writer on board. You would think I would have this art down pat.
The rocking of the boat, since this was the first time I ventured out sailing, out of the confines of bunkers, table saw, hammers, and typewriters, had to get used to. But after many beers it stopped and stabilized. Now I know why sailors drink so much. Not for the pure sense of getting wasted – it stops the boat from fucking rocking! You learn something new everyday.
Towards the evening we got the perfect glimpse of the skyline. We were sailing towards it for the past 6 fucking hours, so there had to be a pay off somewhere down the line. At this point in time most of the people on the boat were walking around like glazed donuts. Everybody had that spark behind their eyes – that twisted, mischievous look. Like “should I be having this much fun” or is there a law against this type of shit?
Then I found a bottle of tequila below the deck.
And nobody was drinking it except me. Was it some bad tequila? (They informed me later it was five years old. Poor fool, they said.)
Blur. A lot of noise. Was it music? Is that guy pissing off the back of the boat? “Put your shirt back on, man.” I steal the idea from everybody else, and hold on to something, while swaying back and forth, gazing at the fireworks show. I must have had that wide open, jaw dropped thing going on. The gaga moment.
All of a sudden I felt the incredible urge to get back into the boat. Lake Michigan was surprisingly cold – and as soon as my hangover led me to unreasonable quests for the cure, that reason snapped back into place and yelled “Get out of the frigid water asshole.”
The next mornings’ offer plenty of time, as you sit in Monroe Harbor, to reflect on the misfortunes of the night before. Well we sailed. What ensued in between was surly meant to stir something vacant in the soul. Once you get past the screaming about halyards and Gennys – then the sail is set.
America. Land of the Free. And Home of the weird.
PS.
Fucking Popeye was full of shit, man. Spinach doesn’t make you a sailor. It turns your shit green.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Blast from the Past
In our continued series of weird blog entries, this one comes from the past. It was first published in UIC Today under my column "Ranting and Raving" on March 6, 2003. Not quite the real past, but fuck, anything for a thrill. More to come....
Dancing with the devils: Advice from Bob the drunkard
Ranting and Raving
March 06, 2003
UIC Today
Did you ever get the feeling that on the days that lack sunshine, you might want to dance with your devils? Just for the sake of entertainment or for the ability to honestly say that you did. You never had that feeling? Wow, I'm surprised.
I always thought that when people drink themselves into a stupor, get obnoxiously loud, break stuff, punch and hug their friends, and talk shit, then they are technically dancing with their devils. This rule of thumb applies to any obsession our simple minds can create. Binge eating, bad diets, ferocious exercise routines...well you get the idea. The point is that when we do battle our demons, we always face the possibility of burning on a pyre in the end.
They call me Bob. Sometimes "get away from me wino" or "Uno mas senor?" But it doesn't matter what they call me. I've danced with too many devils too many times, and questions of longevity creep up on me like the things that go bump in the night.
Desperate and strange thoughts loom over my head tonight like in some poorly drawn comic book. Thought bubbles that are filled with cliche emotions such as doubt, agony or joy; they all come out to play on a night like this. But these overused emotions don't matter when they crawl out of the crevices. Tonight everything tells me that "cliche" is all I should expect when I drink to get away.
So where exactly are we getting away to, or from what, are the general recovery questions. Well, who knows? Maybe people are just plain crazy. Nobody deals with crazies any more these days. We always think we can help them by fixing their serotonin imbalances. The more I think about it, the more I think I'd rather be screwed up, or dance with demons, than prance around in some Prozac coma like those Hollywood Hills characters.
Those who dance with devils...well there are too many names for them, so here's a little list: alcoholics, loonies, full blown whack loons, crazies, weirdoes, twisted fucks, the mentally ill, broken souls, the ill for no reason, the ill for a reason, Jerry Falwell, Bob the Drunkard, Monty Python, Martha Stewart, Mike Tyson, junkies, coke heads, and guys who play HORSE. The list goes on, but what questions does the list pose?
Well simple questions lead to moronically stupid answers. People have problems. What is it about people and problems that lead them to dark choices, discos with Mephistopheles, crime, diets, or depression?
They say that if you wake up one morning and have no worries then you didn't wake up or are dead. Look, there's Freud sitting on his couch, in some paranoid cocaine induced trance, telling everyone they've got issues. We have issues Sigmund because you're a coke head!
We have people recommending therapy for everything. If you can't get it up try therapy and pills. Are you feeling melancholy? Try Prozac. Slipped in the shower? Well you're a dumb idiot. For headache try Tylenol and for suicide try aspirin. Pfizer is setting up a legal cartel.
Face it: we dance with our demons and devils because of worries. If we have no worries we create them ourselves.
"I've got nothing to wear."
"Did I turn the iron off?"
"What is this lump on my breast?"
"I really should quit [insert obsession here]."
"Does any one have any aspirin? I think I have a cold."
People battle their demons all the time. That guy who is screaming now in some Manhattan high rise gym? He's fighting. That girl who is banging her head against a bathroom mirror? She's kicking some demon ass. The dude who is shooting heroin on a filthy mattress? He's an idiot.
Look, I'm not here to fix anything, or to perform any exorcism rituals, or show remedies to worthless problems. I've got a whole slew of those myself.
But since I'm feeling limber, here's some intoxicated advice, not that I have credibility anyhow. If you are stuck fighting your demons day in and day out try this: calm down. It works. Vacation works. San Diego or Cucamonga works. Swimming away from fins in the Pacific Ocean also works. It keeps you on your toes, reminding you that worries are inescapable. And speaking of vacation, watching out for rattler bites, or getting stuck in Boise, Idaho because the Greyhound bus blew three tires on a hair pin turn also keeps you on your toes. But I'm getting extremely ridiculous here.
The bottom line is that worries and midnight frolics with inner demons are inevitable. We are a generation of problem solvers; we've been taught to solve shit since grade school. So forget therapy, and get out of the car when you're drunk, or put that cheese cake away, and face the music. Live and let live, kick some inner demon ass, and to quote Hunter S. Thompson, "If the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." So to conclude this irritating ramble, take a cue from Monty Python's Eric Idle.
"For life is quite absurd, and death's the final word. You must always face the curtain with a bow! Forget about your sin, give the audience a grin. Enjoy it, it's the last chance anyhow! So always look on the bright side of death, just before you draw your terminal breath. Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it. Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true. You'll see it's all a show. Keep 'em laughing as you go. Just remember that the last laugh is on you!"
Copyright UIC Today
Dancing with the devils: Advice from Bob the drunkard
Ranting and Raving
March 06, 2003
UIC Today
Did you ever get the feeling that on the days that lack sunshine, you might want to dance with your devils? Just for the sake of entertainment or for the ability to honestly say that you did. You never had that feeling? Wow, I'm surprised.
I always thought that when people drink themselves into a stupor, get obnoxiously loud, break stuff, punch and hug their friends, and talk shit, then they are technically dancing with their devils. This rule of thumb applies to any obsession our simple minds can create. Binge eating, bad diets, ferocious exercise routines...well you get the idea. The point is that when we do battle our demons, we always face the possibility of burning on a pyre in the end.
They call me Bob. Sometimes "get away from me wino" or "Uno mas senor?" But it doesn't matter what they call me. I've danced with too many devils too many times, and questions of longevity creep up on me like the things that go bump in the night.
Desperate and strange thoughts loom over my head tonight like in some poorly drawn comic book. Thought bubbles that are filled with cliche emotions such as doubt, agony or joy; they all come out to play on a night like this. But these overused emotions don't matter when they crawl out of the crevices. Tonight everything tells me that "cliche" is all I should expect when I drink to get away.
So where exactly are we getting away to, or from what, are the general recovery questions. Well, who knows? Maybe people are just plain crazy. Nobody deals with crazies any more these days. We always think we can help them by fixing their serotonin imbalances. The more I think about it, the more I think I'd rather be screwed up, or dance with demons, than prance around in some Prozac coma like those Hollywood Hills characters.
Those who dance with devils...well there are too many names for them, so here's a little list: alcoholics, loonies, full blown whack loons, crazies, weirdoes, twisted fucks, the mentally ill, broken souls, the ill for no reason, the ill for a reason, Jerry Falwell, Bob the Drunkard, Monty Python, Martha Stewart, Mike Tyson, junkies, coke heads, and guys who play HORSE. The list goes on, but what questions does the list pose?
Well simple questions lead to moronically stupid answers. People have problems. What is it about people and problems that lead them to dark choices, discos with Mephistopheles, crime, diets, or depression?
They say that if you wake up one morning and have no worries then you didn't wake up or are dead. Look, there's Freud sitting on his couch, in some paranoid cocaine induced trance, telling everyone they've got issues. We have issues Sigmund because you're a coke head!
We have people recommending therapy for everything. If you can't get it up try therapy and pills. Are you feeling melancholy? Try Prozac. Slipped in the shower? Well you're a dumb idiot. For headache try Tylenol and for suicide try aspirin. Pfizer is setting up a legal cartel.
Face it: we dance with our demons and devils because of worries. If we have no worries we create them ourselves.
"I've got nothing to wear."
"Did I turn the iron off?"
"What is this lump on my breast?"
"I really should quit [insert obsession here]."
"Does any one have any aspirin? I think I have a cold."
People battle their demons all the time. That guy who is screaming now in some Manhattan high rise gym? He's fighting. That girl who is banging her head against a bathroom mirror? She's kicking some demon ass. The dude who is shooting heroin on a filthy mattress? He's an idiot.
Look, I'm not here to fix anything, or to perform any exorcism rituals, or show remedies to worthless problems. I've got a whole slew of those myself.
But since I'm feeling limber, here's some intoxicated advice, not that I have credibility anyhow. If you are stuck fighting your demons day in and day out try this: calm down. It works. Vacation works. San Diego or Cucamonga works. Swimming away from fins in the Pacific Ocean also works. It keeps you on your toes, reminding you that worries are inescapable. And speaking of vacation, watching out for rattler bites, or getting stuck in Boise, Idaho because the Greyhound bus blew three tires on a hair pin turn also keeps you on your toes. But I'm getting extremely ridiculous here.
The bottom line is that worries and midnight frolics with inner demons are inevitable. We are a generation of problem solvers; we've been taught to solve shit since grade school. So forget therapy, and get out of the car when you're drunk, or put that cheese cake away, and face the music. Live and let live, kick some inner demon ass, and to quote Hunter S. Thompson, "If the going gets weird, the weird turn pro." So to conclude this irritating ramble, take a cue from Monty Python's Eric Idle.
"For life is quite absurd, and death's the final word. You must always face the curtain with a bow! Forget about your sin, give the audience a grin. Enjoy it, it's the last chance anyhow! So always look on the bright side of death, just before you draw your terminal breath. Life's a piece of shit, when you look at it. Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true. You'll see it's all a show. Keep 'em laughing as you go. Just remember that the last laugh is on you!"
Copyright UIC Today
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