Cowboys and Indians, French Canadian Translation

Playing cowboys and Indians

That fact that we started to have fun, if you know what I mean, worse we decided to add a little spice to the whole affair by a set of roles. 'Had read it in a book or magazine girls, or learned it in a Brownie camp, and his idea was:

Me, the guy, I'll dress up like a cowboy and it will be an Indian princess.

"Eh? Indian? "What I ask him, tormented by guilt white.

"Okay, okay, okay! "She replied. "Native American Original First Nations or something like that then."

"OK," I say, "what's the setup? "

"Well, you're the cowboy. And I'm the princess ... In Native American princess. Do you understand? "

"Yes, yes, I understand. "What I say. "Oh yes. Worse there? What? "

"What do you mean worse then what? "

"Well then, t'sé, genre, I'm out and I walk around horse or something even? "

"That's it. Outside, you walk, you make bad business cowboys. "

"Cool, it starts to get fun. What kind of business? "

"What do you mean? "

"Well, t'sé, you said that j'me walking worse than j'fais business cowboy. J'me just wondering what kind of business. "

"It changes what? You're outside, you walk, you do business cowboy worse you see me there. "

"Super" What I says. "J'commence to be really into it. You're of what nation? "

"WHAT? "She asked.

"Nation, what nation you are. T'sé, I mean, we are in the desert, in the mountains, 'James Bay on the North Shore on a beach? What's the plan? "

"Ooooh, the beach, it sounds good. "She told me. "So we acted as if we were there. "

"Perfect. "What J'lui said. "Ok, we're at the beach, you're a Native American princess ... Wait a second. "

"WHAT? "

"Well, the beach, there are cowboys at the beach? I mean, I dunno that a lot of nations stood there. But I'm not sure sure of the details. "

"Look, it's supposed to be a kind of fantasy role-playing. You t'rappelles? It adds spice to our love life, eh? What is the difference it that I come from a nation or another and there are cowboys or not at the beach, huh? C'pas a curse ostie of history classes c't'un role play! "

"Ok, ok. "What I say. "I dunno it's just that, well, but that j'puisse get to play, I gotta know some business. It just makes things more real for me. "

"What reality? Here's everything you need to know. You're a cowboy. J'suis an Indian princess.Who cares about what you do, where you go, the worse your horse is any color. You see me, OK, worse you disembark your horse, pluck my ti-suit Indian worse "

"Whow" What I says. "Wait a minute. It sounds a little forced. T'sé, j'le not know how j'me direction with respect to that. Gender, whites have already taken your land, your culture destroyed, and I arrived, I landed my live horse on any Native American princess j'trouve not worse. J'pas sure I'm comfortable with that. I mean, it does not hurt as if I was just ... a tail like that.

"You're completely off the track of my little cabbage. "She told me. "The idea is not that you're a cowboy politicaly correct 'is here to save the wilderness any worse, the idea is that you try to turn, faqu'on made this little scenario there. That's it, that's it that's all. "

"J'le know ..." What I say. "Why is it that I could not, like, get overlapping in your camp, bring drugs to save your little brother-sister-cousin. There, after staying a little with you, after you got to know the whole gang, we fall in love. Worse there, I gotta prove my courage to thy father, the chief, performing a kind of rite of initiation incredible, something very manly, kind be suspended from a tree by my pecs, eating mushrooms, smoking pipe , access to the spirit world where I find my totem animal, which, what a coincidence, is the same as yours, thus proving once and for all that we are made for each other. Worse then finally there I gotta bat against the most valiant warrior and fierce tribe in a fist fight that would leave us both ben maganés almost dead. You finally accept me, cared for me and you I become healthy with a blend of herbs and incantations to the spirits. Worse when I feel better, and after a wedding ceremony in due form, beautifully consumes our union. "

"But what are you exactly? The man who dances with wolves whispering in the ear of the named horse? It is a fantasy saint-simonak! OK, Ok, I got it. What ce'tu think of that? You arrive on your horse, I jump from a tree, a sacred j'te fly farts j'te the Yeul, I steal your horse r'tourne bad I jump in my village warrior. Is what is historically appropriate for you? "

"Well hey, actually, I dunno really if women were admitted in the trees what if-"

"Ok, it's beautiful. Ostia ... forget it ... You forget all obvious. Worse anyway, OD starts in a few minutes. "

Jouer aux cowboys et aux indiens

Ça fait que, on commençait à avoir du fun, si vous voyez ce que je veux dire, pis on a décidé d’ajouter un peu de piquant à toute l’affaire en faisant un jeu de rôles. ‘Avait lu ça dans un livre, ou un magazine de filles, ou appris ça dans un camp de Jeannettes, et son idée était :

Moi, le gars, je vais m’habiller comme un cowboy et elle sera une princesse indienne.

« Eh? Indienne? » Que je lui demande, tenaillé par un sentiment de culpabilité tout blanc.

« Ok, ok, ça va! » Qu’elle me répond. « Amérindienne d’origine des premières nations ou quelque chose comme ça alors ».

« OK », que je dis, « c’est quoi le setup? »

« Bon, tu es le cowboy. Et je suis la princesse In… La princesse amérindienne. Tu comprends? »

« Oui oui, je comprends. » Que je dis. « Oh que oui. Pis là? Quoi? »

« Qu’est-ce tu veux dire pis là quoi ? »

« Ben là, t’sé, genre, je suis dehors et je me promène à cheval autour ou quelque chose de même? »

« C’est ça. Dehors, tu te promènes, pis tu fais des affaires de cowboys. »

« Cool, ça commence à être le fun. Quel genre d’affaires? »

« Qu’est-ce tu veux dire? »

« Ben, t’sé, t’as dit que j’me promène pis que j’fais des affaires de cowboy. J’me demande juste quel genre d’affaires. »

« Ça change quoi? T’es dehors, tu te promènes, tu fais des affaires de cowboy, pis là tu me vois. »

« Super » Que j’dis. « J’commence à être vraiment dedans. T’es d’quelle nation? »

« QUOI? » Qu’elle me demande.

« Nation, de quelle nation tu es. T’sé, j’veux dire, on est dans le désert, dans les montagnes, à’ Baie-James, sur la Côte-Nord, sur une plage? C’est quoi l’plan? »

« Ooooh, la plage, ça sonne bien. » Qu’elle me dit. « Alors on fait comme si on y était. »

« Parfait. » Que j’lui dis. « Ok, on est à la plage, tu es une princesse amérindienne… Attends une seconde. »

« QUOI??? »

« Ben, la plage, il y a des cowboys à la plage? J’veux dire, j’sais que pas mal de nations se tenaient là. Mais j’suis pas sûr sûr des détails. »

« Regarde, c’est supposé être un genre de fantasme, un JEU de RÔLES. Tu t’rappelles? On ajoute du piquant à notre vie amoureuse, hein? C’est quoi la différence que ça fait que je vienne d’une nation ou d’une autre et qu’il y ait des cowboys ou non à la plage, hein? C’pas un maudit –ostie d’cours d’histoire, c’t’un jeu de rôle! »

« Ok, ok. » Que je réponds. «  J’sais que c’est juste ça, bon, mais pour que j’puisse arriver à jouer, j’dois connaitre certaines affaires. Ça rend juste les choses plus réelles pour moi. »

« Quelle réalité? Voici tout ce que tu as besoin de savoir. T’es un cowboy. J’suis une princesse indienne. On s’en fout de savoir ce que tu fais, où tu vas, pis ton cheval est de quelle couleur. Tu me vois, OK, pis tu débarques de ton cheval, tu m’arraches mon ti-suit d’indienne pis »

« Whow » Que j’dis. « Attends minute. Ça sonne un peu forcé. T’sé, j’le sais pas comment j’me sens par rapport à ça. Genre, les blancs ont déjà pris ton territoire, détruit ta culture, et moi j’arrive, je débarque de mon cheval direct sur n’importe quelle princesse amérindienne que j’trouve pas pire. J’pas certain que je suis à l’aise avec ça.  J’veux dire, ça fait pas mal comme si j’étais juste… une queue, genre.

« T’es complètement à côté d’la track mon p’tit chou. » Qu’elle me dit. « L’idée c’est pas que tu sois un cowboy politicaly correct’ qui est là pour sauver la nature sauvage pis toute, l’idée, c’est qu’on essaye de s’allumer, faqu’on fait ce petit scénario là. C’est tout, that’s it that’s all. »

« J’le sais… » Que je dis. « Pourquoi est-ce que je pourrais pas, genre, arriver en chevauchant dans votre campement, apporter des médicaments pour sauver ton petit frère-sœur-cousin. Là, après être resté un peu avec vous, après avoir appris à mieux vous connaître toute la gang, on tombe en amour. Pis là, j’dois prouver mon courage à ton père, le chef, en accomplissant un genre de rite d’initiation incroyable, quelque chose de très viril, genre être suspendu à un arbre par mes pecs, manger des champignons, fumer le calumet, accéder au monde des esprits où je trouverais mon animal totem, qui, quelle coïncidence, serait le même que le tien, prouvant ainsi une fois pour toute que nous sommes faits l’un pour l’autre. Pis là finalement, il faut que j’me batte contre le guerrier le plus valeureux et féroce de la tribu dans un combat à mains nues qui nous laisserait tous les deux ben maganés, presque morts. Tu m’acceptes enfin, tu me soignes et je redeviens en santé grâce à un savant mélange d’herbes médicinales et d’incantations aux esprits. Pis quand je me sens mieux, et après une cérémonie de mariage en bonne et due forme, on consomme magnifiquement notre union. »

« Mais t’es quoi au juste? L’homme qui danse avec les loups qui murmure à l’oreille de celui nommé le cheval? C’est un fantasme saint-simonak! OK, Ok, je l’ai. Qu’est-ce’tu penses de ça ? Tu arrives sur ton cheval, je saute d’un arbre, j’te sacre une volée, j’te pète la yeule, je vole ton cheval pis je r’tourne dans mon village sauter le guerrier. Est-ce que c’est plus historiquement approprié pour toi? »

« Ben eh, en fait, j’sais pas vraiment si les femmes étaient admises dans les arbres pis si- »

« Ok, c’est beau. Oublie ça… Ostie… On oublie toute la patente. Pis de toute façon, OD commence dans quelques minutes. »

WARNING: SUPER NERD TL;DR RANT

Would it have been SO HARD to have the first third of the flick be from Lois's POV, doing investigative reporting based on an accidental lead (with some action beats here and there in the vein of 'holy shit, what was that!?' (maybe 'told' in flashbacks from interviewees, throw in some fun urban myth- style embellishments)), and then have Supes show up in an awesome reveal with an 'oh, eff, yeah!' entrance marked by that John Williams score we all know and love kicking off the remaining two acts (something along the lines of the classic Superman Saves Lois Because Lois Put Her Badass Self Into A Position To Be Rescued On Purpose In Order To Force Superman's Hand sort of deal)? Hell, you could even have Lois save the day at the last minute by being a good old fashioned human and Supes being all, 'oh, yeah, I didn't even think of that' which brings his humanity issues to light. And how about a 30- minute less run time that leaves us wanting more? Oh, and you could open the thing with maybe three minutes of the destruction of Krypton instead of ten minutes of Star Wars prequel trilogy rip offs (hey, those troop carriers were pretty cool, let's use those, but put wings on them! And remember that lizard thing Obi Wan rode? Let's use that, too, but put wings on it! That 'around the survivors a perimeter make' bit was pretty cool, let's throw that in there! Also, let's combine The Matrix with the Gungan City that eventually leads to this awesome line: 'We had a child. A BOY child' and then we'll show that uncircumcised boy child!). I know it sounds stupid, but by limiting the origin story THAT EVERYONE ALREADY KNOWS and introducing Superman a little later, you open up the possibility of a sequel that deals with Superman's humanity issues (which is about the only thing that makes him interesting) while further exploring Krypton's destruction and then you could introduce a movie version of Brainiac. Instead, what we're probably going to get is two brooding costumed jerks with daddy issues going after Lex Fucking Luthor after fighting each other first then realizing that Lex is the real problem when Bruce Wayne figures out his business rival Lex Fucking Luthor created Brainiac or some shit and the best we can hope for is that at some point Bats will spot the Super heiney and bark 'CLARK! I can see you've been doing SQUATS' ala Batdad. .
Anyway, Man of Steel super sucked and my idea is better.
/SUPER NERD RANT

Out of Sync

     It's a sad weekend that leaves you wanting to go back to work. If the next few days are anything like the past couple, I may spend my mini- vacation volunteering as a test subject at a testicle- mallet factory.

The Relish Eaters

     A few months ago I found myself in the position of being able to commute to my place of employment by bicycle. Those who have known me during past lives may assume that this was not a choice I made freely. I can assure you, there were no authorities involved in the decision making process, although that day may not have been too far off.
     And rightfully so, as anyone who has been a passenger in my car can attest.
     During the course of the past eighteen months or so, I have come into pseudo- possession of three different bicycles which were loaned to me on a semi- permanent basis. The first was stolen from outside my apartment as I slept. In the early morning hours, someone who decided they needed that bicycle more than I did crept into my side yard with a pair of bolt cutters and clipped the cable lock that insufficiently secured the bike to a tree. At this point, the bicycle had not become my primary means of transportation, but the experience still, to put it bluntly, sucked. There are few worse things than having something taken from you, especially if that thing is not really yours to begin with.
     The second bicycle had been loaned to me by my best friend, who felt confident that the cable lock he supplied was thick enough to deter the fuckers. The fuckers, it turned out, were not deterred. The fuckers returned in the early morning hours a couple weeks later with a pair of bolt cutters having once again decided that the bicycle (insufficiently) secured to my tree would better serve someone who was not me. That was the last time anything other than a clothesline has been attached to what I now refer to as The Stealing Tree. After the shock of seeing the space that a bicycle once occupied was no longer occupied by a bicycle (for the second time, shame on me), I imagined that I had naively (stupidly) attached a two- wheeled Fay Ray to The Stealing Tree to await its King Kong. This imagery did nothing to assuage my guilt, but it is kind of funny when you think about it.
     The current bicycle was loaned to me by a now former love on the condition that it would never spend a night cable- locked to the tree outside my apartment. It has not, and has since become my primary form of transportation. The reason for this, as was hinted, is not because it had been determined by some social agency that I was an unfit driver, but because I had transferred to a job location that is close enough to my home that made such a decision feasible. In other words, I had decided that I was an unfit driver by proxy.
     And rightfully so, as anyone who has shared the road with me can attest.
     The distance between my apartment and my current job location is roughly seven and one- half miles. I live near the Montavilla neighborhood in Portland, Oregon, and work in the Sellwood neighborhood, also located in Portland. Oregon. There are a few neighborhoods in between of course, and I enjoy riding through them twice daily. Those first few trips I would listen to podcasts and pedal along, letting my mind wander and feeling pretty great about getting some exercise that would no doubt dissolve a few pounds and reduce my carbon blah blah blah. The reality is that eventually I grew tired of being distracted by podcasts, and not only did the exercise not dissolve a few pounds, it instead seemed to give me license to eat (and drink) whatever in the hell I wanted because hey, man, I'll just burn it off tomorrow!
     So I abandoned the podcasts (and the unreasonable body image) and let my mind wander on the surroundings as I passed by. I'd look at the houses and imagine how the lives of their occupants played out. At first, every little micro- story followed a pretty stereotypical equation; nice house + nice yard + nice car = nice life. I grew a little envious eventually, so I had to throw some pepper into the pot. These brief stories starting ending in a The Fox and the Grapes sort of way. Sure, here's a lovely home with a manicured lawn and a bubbling water feature, but you just know the husband is thinking about his convention mistress as he's reluctantly pushing that lawn mower with a gut half- full of cheap beer.
     Or half empty, depending.
     This trend continued for a week or two until the cynicism (of which I'm generally a pretty big proponent) started to wear on me. Look, we've all been in the shit. We've all had days, or long stretches of days, or weeks, or years, whatever, where the grass is greener until it all begins to brown. We've most of us in our late teens/ early twenties suspected our lives are kind of crappy (ha!) until we discover in our thirties that they maybe really kind of are (oh.). I'm just now starting my forties. I've only recently come to discover that this means I am now Middle Aged. This realization is, honestly, starting to freak me out a little bit. I don't feel like the cynicism of my youth holds much water, if the cliche may be forgiven, as I've entered (or passed, depending) the marker of the second half of my life.
     That's some pretty heavy shit right there.
     So I decided to let it go. Who's to say those houses I pedal by every day don't hold good lives? Who's to say those lives aren't fulfilling to their occupants? Who's to say...
     Who's to say.
     So I was peddling home one day last week and stopped for traffic on SE Belmont St. On the corner to my left was a group of boys in their early teens, sitting in a patch of brown grass, each with a skateboard at foot and a can of energy drink at hand. Also they were wearing dumb clothes and even dumber haircuts. Bunch of acne cultivators, the lot of 'em. Regular shit- heels from the looks. Miscreants. Ne'er do wells. Why, I have half a mind to-
     Well now hang on a second, I thought. See, this is exactly what I've been talking about. Let's look again for a minute. Here's a group of kids, all dudes, all about what, 12, maybe 13, hanging out on a summer day, just doing their thing. They have done nothing to provoke you. They have done absolutely NOTHING to procure your judgement, yet here you come, old man on a bicycle all grumpy and lame and whatever. I mean, look at that one kid. He's got a crappy dye- job, wearing the concert T of a band he's probably never actually heard of, but look at him. He's just hanging out with his bros. Hell, there's probably some little chick who thinks he's the shit, hasn't seen him all summer and can't wait for school to start so she can pretend not to notice him while she's doodling his name in her Pee Chee. Or Trapper Keeper. Or iPad or whatever. Anyway, he's probably a good kid. They're probably all good kids.
     Who am I to say?
     Traffic paused long enough for me to cross, so I did, feeling pretty good about the fine summer afternoon as well as the observation I had made. So what if they had bad haircuts? I used to rock one of the worst haircuts ever; shaved around the sides and back and pulled into a ponytail that touched the middle of my back and I dyed that shit burgundy so often people thought I was a natural- born redhead. So what if they wore shitty clothes? I used to wear cut off denim shorts over purple long- john bottoms tucked into Doc Martens with a camo army jacket over the whole deal. So what if they were drinking Red Bulls? We used to drink Jolt Cola like it was the beer we wished we were drinking and we got geeked as fuck.
     Halfway through the intersection I hear one of the kids call out,
     'Hey! You got some relish? You got some relish, I'll eat it outta your asshole!'
     Shocked of course, and as was intended, I threw a look over my shoulder at the group for just a second, then rode on.
     What the hell? That made no sense. Even within the energy drink- tweaked parameters of sun- baked (and likely dehydrated) youth, that made absolutely no sense. Yet they all laughed. I didn't see which kid made the yell but they all laughed and it wasn't the laughter of a bunch of kids nervously following their leader who said something stupid to an adult in passing, it was genuine, inside- joke laughter and I didn't get it and I thought about looking it up online later but didn't because fuck those kids.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   

   
   

Boring Crap About Writing

     There's a story I'm working on and I'm realizing that in order to tell it, I need to come up with a set of rules that govern how the 'universe' it's set in works and how the pieces of the narrative fit together under those self- imposed guidelines. It's an element or dimension to writing I don't think I've consciously considered before, on top of or along side of the usual basics- plot, characters, setting, theme, etc- and it makes the thing all the more more challenging editorially (I love this scene, this bit of dialogue, this character, but I can't use it/ them because they don't fit, much as I'd like it/ them to, and I can't bend the rules for it/ them because the whole thing would fall apart) while simultaneously adding a fairly rigid framework to build on that once it's put in place should make the telling easier while still constituting a challenge. This is what I love about writing, whether it's a short piece of humorous fiction, a 'journal entry', or a gag achieved through dialog, it's a puzzle I design for myself and if- and- when I solve it, it's one of the most satisfying things ever, even if the listener/ reader is oblivious to the process.

Dinner and Taxes

Snippet from a recent phone conversation:

Her (being a chick I dig): So, I know we had plans for me to come over tonight and have dinner and hang out. Can I ask another favor?

Me: (being me and thinking, well, duh, of course I'll take a shower first) Pssh, yeah, of course.

Her: Well... I was just sort of thinking...I don't have an internet connection, and you do, and I haven't finished my taxes yet...

Me: Wait. You're going to come over, I'm going to make you dinner, and you're going to... do your taxes.

Her: Well... yeah. If that's not too weird.

Me: Weird? No, that's not weird. That's not weird at all. Kind of reminds me of high school, actually.

Her: You helped your friends with their taxes in high school?

Me: Well, no. I was more a word guy. Not a math guy. I was pretty bad at math. Still am, it turns out.

Her: So...

Me: So in high school, I was sort of the Cyrano de Bergerac guy.

Her: You ghost wrote love notes for the jock who wanted to get with the cheerleader?

Me: Well, no, not exactly. I ghost wrote love notes for the cheerleader I had a crush on who wanted to get with the jock she had a crush on. It was all very John Hughes. I had a very John Hughes high school experience. Always the Michael Anthony Hall, never the Molly Ringwald. I guess that was the point of John Hughes. And high school, because I sure as shit have yet to use algebra in a real world situation.

Her: So...

Me: So, I guess I don't have to take a shower.

Her: What?

Me: Nothing. I'll see you in a bit.

The Best Part Of Waking Up Is Vengeance In Your Cup

     Natural Directions is United Grocers private label brand of organic products (their other, more recognizable brand of foodstuffs, at least in the Western United States, is Western Family, which is equally inexpensive with no regard to eye- catching packaging) and as such has the bland, generic appearance one might expect of budget- priced fare; the front panel is dominated by a white field and features slapped- on clip art, colors dull as safety scissors, uninspired typography, and a logo straight out of a lazy 7th- grade marketing class project. All of which is appropriate because if you're buying ND, you're going for the price point, not the pretty label. Which is exactly why I purchased this bag of coffee. Today, however, I noticed and felt compelled to point out the illustration on this package of Natural Directions French Roast because it is awesome:

      This image has nothing to do with coffee or its consumption, is unusually artful for what amounts to generic packaging, and seems to only tie in to the product because (judging from its posture) the depressed and anxious gargoyle (or emaciated devil rabbit) is glaring at the Eiffel Tower. IT HATES IT SO MUCH! and is waiting for the sun to set because it knows that as soon as the darkness closes in it will become free to unleash its rage upon the unsuspecting populace of Paris with its fiery breath. See, there's a pun here, but I'm not a fan of puns, so I'll let you figure it out.
   
     

I've recently changed my fb privacy settings due to... privacy concerns.
If you are not on my 'friends' list, here's what you may have missed:
- I cooked something. It was quite an event.
- Comic books are a thing I continue to enjoy, especially Batman and Batman related merchandise, although current comics are mostly crap. Bonus: a new album of my Batman merchandise collection.
- I noticed we had some seasonally/ regionally appropriate weather. I may have experienced it, or looked out the window at it, but my opinion of it was proportionate to its perceived affect on my mood. Also, I used 'affect' correctly. This means me a writer.
- That new trailer for that movie was uninspiring, but I'll probably see it eventually because I was going to anyway. Whatever, the book/ comic/ cartoon/ TV series was better.
- I used the 'f' word in response to a friends post, because I'm edgy as fuck.
- I linked to an internet article/ youtube video/ grumpy cat meme about a subject that is relevant to my interests.
- I linked to my own blog entry that is a copy/ paste of the exact same thing I just posted on facebook, as a comment to that post, after liking the post I just wrote. Because mustaches. And beer.

     Some day there is a house. In the basement of this house there is a black clad man, well in his cups, sporting indecisive facial hair and having no concern whatsoever in regard to starting a sentence with a prepositional phrase while working out rudimentary, out- of- key harmonica parts to old Pearl Jam songs and dancing around like a lurching jackass. This morning, however, there is only a nerdy apartment, a ridiculous and editorially offensive run- on sentence, and some pretty bullshit fiddling- around with tense.

The Five Stages of an Accidental Career

STAGE ONE: DENIAL

     It's only a job. It's just for right now. I mean, it pays the bills, right, and it's not gonna be what I do forever, so I'll just stick with it until I figure out what it is I really want to do. Which is play the bass.  I mean, how hard can it be to learn to play an instrument that has four strings? You only need like half the fingers it takes to play guitar and you still look just as cool doing it, which is exactly what it is that the chicks dig.

STAGE TWO: ANGER

     You have got to be fucking kidding me. Have I really been working here for five years already? Do they seriously expect me to still work on weekends and all minor holidays? Come on, am I not better than this? I have friends, I have a life, I have... aspirations. This bullshit is really starting to cut in to my creative time. Maybe I'll just pick up the drums, because right now I really need to beat the shit out of something.

STAGE THREE: BARGAINING

     You know what? It's cool. Maybe I can cut my hours down a little, grow a sweet beard, still get at least some benefits, then I can focus on what's really important to me. Sure, things' ll be a little tight but come on, it's only money, right? I mean life is about so much more, you know? Like finding The Balance. So, okay, fine. I'm willing to compromise. I'm willing to sacrifice. Maybe I'll take up the banjo because does anyone even need to take lessons to play one of those things? For real, what's the commitment here.

STAGE FOUR: DEPRESSION

i hurt myself today, to see if i still feel. i focus on the pain; the only thing that's real. Well, another thing that's real is tapping a metal triangle on a string with a stick. It wold be even better if i could keep time. Jesus, i can't even spell 'would'. i sukc. Aw, DAMMIT!

STAGE FIVE: ACCEPTANCE

     You know, maybe this isn't so bad after all. It's a steady income, at least. I've got medical insurance. I've got a vision plan. I've got cable. Maybe it's all gonna work out. I mean, ain't none of us getting any younger, right? The sun sets, options narrow, and I have some pretty serious things to think about these days. Like my mortgage. And my kids' college funds. Retirement. Besides, I can always pick up the harmonica in my spare time, I guess. It's pretty much just whistling through a diaphragm anyway, right?

Dear IKEA,


     Although it was inexpensive compared to other leading brands, your toothpaste with the red crab image on the tube is the most unpleasant oral hygiene product it has been my misfortune to use. I have not been so disappointed in a dentifrice since, as a child spending the weekend with my grandparents, I squeezed something called 'Preparation H' onto my C3PO toothbrush after assuming the 'H' meant 'Halitosis'. I would make the same suggestion to you now as I did in my letter of complaint to the American Home Products company back then: Needs. More. Mint.


Sincerely,


Robert Holladay

Down With The Quickness

This isn't much of a selling point, and may even rank up there as one of the worst opening lines of all time like if I said you had a nice body would you hold it against me, but here it is: I really have nothing to say. I'm listening to some very fast music that makes me want to type very fast and you, my friends, are missing out. It's fast as shit, this typing that I'm doing. I should put it up on youtube. It's that good. It's like a typing speed run. Hardly any typos or anything.

But I don't really have anything to say.

As you may have noticed.

If you made it this far.

So my fingers are dancing tapping jumping percussively almost convulsively over and across the keyboard like the legs of a couple over- caffeinated multiple- amputee spiders who are very busy not putting Baby in a corner. I'm pretending the keyboard is a musical instrument. My shoulders are getting into it. I'm doing that twitchy thing with my mouth like those guys in bands do. If I had long hair it would be dark and sort of curly and hanging down over the keyboard. Waving back and forth. Bouncing up and down. Because I am that into it. Also, leather shorts. I've always wanted to be able to play something really fast and very accurately that would make people go, 'Holy shit! That guy is really fast! And he's also very accurate! I can't help but groove because DAMN it! I must buy him a beer afterward and say some complimentary thing that he'll ignore and not because he's a jerk but because lots of other people here want to buy him a beer and say some complimentary thing that he'll ignore and not because he's a jerk but because he's in some sort of trance from that crazy shit he just did that was SO. AWESOME. and wait, is he checking out my girlfriend?'

And of course I would be. Because I like the idea of girlfriends. If I had one, she'd be pretty cool with the whole super- fast typing thing. In fact, that's probably what drew her to me in the first place. But after a few weeks she'd be all, 'Dude, seriously, could you put that god damned keyboard down and come to bed? You don't have anything to say anyway, and besides, I have a meeting with an important client in the morning.' And I'd be all, 'Baby, you just don't get it, man. This is my ART, man. This is how I EXPRESS MYSELF.' And then she'd say, 'Did you know that when a lactating mother uses a breast pump she's 'expressing' herself?' And I'd say, 'oh yeah? Well... hang on. I'm gonna go brush my teeth. I'll be there in a minute.'

Cumbersome Forms of Modern Communication

      I spent the majority of my evening attempting to communicate electronically with my son, who has been ill for the better part of two weeks, and lives with his mother most of a state away.

     There was an escalation of electronic communication at work here that ultimately ended in failure. It began as a series of somewhat frustrating text messages involving setting up Skype accounts so we could... Skype. Because product names are also verbs. We texted each other our Skype handles, couldn't connect, and tried to work out various options and settings, also via text, until I grew frustrated enough to call the kid on my cell phone.
     I tried to walk him through some settings (which is a thing in and of itself; I'm 40 and he's 12, which makes him chronologically more likely to intuit this stuff) with a bluetooth earpiece stuck in my head like one of those bugs from Star Trek II. Most of the 20 minute call was spent in silence while he worked out the settings and I caught up on my email.
     When I was the age my son is now, there were two forms of communication available when the person you wanted to speak with was not within shouting or rock- throwing distance; a stationary telephone (oft referred to as a 'land line') which required the memorization of a seven- digit set of numbers in order to make contact, and a CB (or Citizens Band radio) which required the memorization of the nickname (or 'handle') of the person you wished to speak with. The land line was generally attached to a wall and in fancy houses, an answering machine. The CB was generally attached to the dash of your fathers Pinto and when he used the thing, you could pretend he was Burt Reynolds in Smokey And The Bandit even if your father didn't have a sweet mustache or a Trans Am or a trucker buddy who was also a pop country music singer. You were also pretty sure the CB lingo everybody used was code for dirty jokes. Which it was.
     When my son and I were finally able to connect several hours later, he sent me a text message through Skype that he wanted to talk, but was too tired and had a fever or something and needed to go to bed. I was contemplating setting up a Twitter account so I could tell tons of strangers that I missed my sick kid and how I wished I could do something for him, so I just sort of skimmed his message. Anyway, those various forms of verbal and non- verbal communication methods somehow counted as interaction even though we said little and accomplished less. So I figured the thing I should do was start a blog with this as its inaugural post, and share it on facebook.