Whine, Wine and Slumdog Millionaire

Pinche Quinestra and I are hanging with our wives and dirty dancing like Patrick Swayze (poor guy) while our kids are hitting our backsides with dart guns, which is kind of like shooting Jessica Simpson's backside (as per US magazine, and I have a subscription). Tomorrow is a big day, and I'm acting like I've got nothing to do but I do and that's a problem. Greg broke a telescope. $300 for him. Oh shit.

Every four months or so we go through this... we act like 20-year-olds then we realize we are 40-ish. Our kids are going to require mucho therapy. But you know what?... they are going to learn that friends are more important than just about anything. In fact, regardless of how pathetically you dance or sing your friends will accept you. Even if you look like a douche which most of my friends do.

I don't know if you can tell, but the top two paragraphs are written by two separate guys: Pinache Queefe and Vociferous Eel. We are 2 diff guys. 1 and the same at the same time. In love with best friends and life and our kids and all of this is silly, this blog. Of course it is. Slumming it, dog. We're millionaires. Kind of. At least with the fun thing and family and friends and this is getting maudlin, but who cares. No one reads this. Really.

Cheers. Greg is making a copy of the CD. More to come. Live is wunderful. Like wunderarts. Which was a wunder. Once.

Waiting for Pinochet Queen or Whatever

Greg - or pinto quesadilla or whatever - reminded me that we have not posted here since the late paleolithic era or at least since 2008, and precisely since January 1 of said year. This is unfortunate. Too many things to say have not been said except in that place where no one can hold you to what you've said, that cavernous space, that void between you and it, whatever it is. But here, here one can speak, and freely, too, but with a trail left for posterity, where future employers can find you and find out about you, like my current Board members who read that I was a fat kid from Ocean Grove. And I was. Maybe I still am, but only if you believe in the BMI, which I am not going to tell you I believe in since I have some muscle mass that skews said results, although 5'9". 210 is still a little big especially when you're not working out. And I'm not.

This would all be more interesting if I had something to say, and if I weren't just blog-rambling, and if i were more interesting and intelligent and able to coin a word, a phrase, a combination of blog-rambling, like, say blogging - no, that's taken - say, blogbling or blambling or well, you get it, right? Or maybe not, which would be okay, too. At least this is better than an Amy Winehouse YouTube selection or anything Greg - or pinochet queen or pincher quota or whatever - has ever written in this space. But that was a long time ago. Which means he may have been exercising his writing muscles unless he'd exorcised them.

The reason I didn't write in this space is that 2008 was a busy year. I got a black belt (from Macy's) in June. I got a new job (bus boy) in September, voted for the right man (Gus Bell, write-in) in November, my wife left me in December (she didn't, but after this she might reconsider). So lots - I mean LOTS - has happened. I forgot to mention. I got a new bike, too. It's red.

Sweet!

I should be in wax

Do re mi fa so la . . .

The scales trip the tongue.

Every time it feels like the Sound of Music. Almost silly even. I'd rather be in the wax museum with lions and bears. Al Roker. He's there too. Post-surgery. I'd seen it once.

Al was the storm king, the god of thunder, the Thor of Channel 4. That was before Today.


. . . Ti do ti la so fa mi re . . .

Just how do you solve a problem like Maria?

I had tried to figure that out in a book I once wrote. That nobody read. Even those who said they did. My wife. She never finished it. Because of the character named Maria. Sometimes I think it was unreadable.

An art project. That's all it was. Conceptual. I should be in wax.


La la la la la la la la la la . . .

Breaking a glass like Miyagi with a knife-edge chop.

Wax on. It all fits even when you think it doesn't. Miyagi didn't know karate for real and they were doing Tang Soo Do anyway, which is Chuck Norris's gig. You know, Mike Huckabee's best friend. At least in Iowa.

My friends called a kid wax in high school. He had bad skin.


. . . La la la ladi ladi ladidooo . . .

Listening

I'm a very handsome guy, he thought to himself as he climbed the oak tree next to his home. The oak seemed to call to him from some weird, random place, and he listened; he resolved this year that he would. Listen. Enjoy the quiet and take it in. So that he might.

And he was becoming. Better, that is. Taking it all in, the rustle of the branches in this unusually cold, early January. It whistles sometimes. Creaks. Occasionally when he's outside late, collecting firewood or walking his dog he'll even hear groans. It's as though nature is an old man or woman with arthritic bones, just waking.

It spoke to him. The tree. It told him to climb. Really. Reach with me. See how I reach higher. My limbs stretch to the sky, to the heavens. They yearn.

And so did he. Kept higher. Climbing. He wasn't just handsome. He was dashing. As he climbed. Adventurous. Maybe like Icarus I can fly, he thought. Beauty in motion. Sailing in the wind like a gull.

The wings. They were made of wax.

He was listening. The tree. It spoke to him.

Climb, it said. Fly.

Rove

rove1 /roʊv/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[rohv] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation, verb, roved, rov·ing, noun
–verb (used without object)

1. to wander about without definite destination; move hither and thither at random, esp. over a wide area.

What Is Rove?

There I no answer to this. As there is fun poked at me by good old Quero Madre or whatever his name is, I must request that we continue to use real words. I must comment within his poetic post.

Indeed, the Vociferous Eel is back! I've taken some time off, mostly to write do witty things on my Facebook page (being good funny takes time, after all).

I've been concerned about the world the last few days. All of this global warming has led to 14 inches of snow in my nearly vertical driveway. In December. In New England. I think the sky is falling (please note my sarcasm). Shoveling, instead of writing has become my pastime.

I just had a nice bacon, cheese, and egg sandwich. My wife started an exercise class this week. Man, that bacon was good.