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.

Rangoons and Grog

There once was a Greek from The Grove
From Jersey to Amherst he drove
He started this blog
Over rangoons and grog
But since then he's done nothing but rove

Fiction... For Realz

Ok... No more G-Eel handle. I am officially Pinche Quedito moving forward.

In my absence I've been pondering the reason why this blog was created. Ultimately, T-Eel and I had decided that we needed a vehicle to vomit our self-important thoughts and views upon. Unlike T, I do not roll with a posse of "classically" creative peeps. I used to - but not no more.

Now, deep inside what is left of my soul (the part that has not been sold to the highest bidder) lies a virtual critter that is in need of satiation. We will call this critter "Yahweh"... better yet, "The Divine ShitSpinner (TDSS)". TDSS lives in all of us. I suppose Metros (present company included) spend a bit more time petting and nurturing the critter to see what it is truly capable of offering the world. While, on the other side of things, Men's Men poke at it with sticks and force it to tell colorful stories that revolve around a 30 pack of Schlitz Lite and a set of twins from Romania.

Rambling aside, this is the canvas that I will use to set my ShitSpinner free and I publically prod T-Eel to do the same. Now I can surely find plenty of creative ways to bust T-Eel's balls as he is abundantly ripe with faults to criticize and belittle, and I will be sure to address these on occasion, but I feel I'm in need of a more structured exercise.

So today I am going to cast out a digital tarpaulin (as everyone knows tarpaulin is one of those words one can never overuse) to cradle our literary embryo. This writ-child of T's and mine is sure to mature into the greatest "Great American Novel"... no the greatest "Great Greek/French/American Novel" of our time. You, as the reader, are simply required to sit back in awe and wail at the beauty of our words. Here we go.

Kendra pondered the stickiness beneath her limbs. "Of all the places to collapse", she thought to herself. A slide show of images spilled through her consciousness as she tried to imagine the origin. Discarded Cola? Bodily fluids? She was fully aware that the answer was immaterial, that this was simply an exercise to keep herself awake.

Somewhere an amateurish version of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D Major was being played. It echoed off walls and railroad cars until only a shell of its intended form reached her ears. She thought it somewhat strange that she could actually discern the tonal layers of concrete and steel that shaped it as it made its way about. Kendra lifted her cheek an inch off the floor in an attempt to spy the source of the music but it was no use.

Ok T-Eel, take it from here

G-Eel is Now Pinche Quedito

No more confusion. I am me and he is he.

sk8er boi ( for inspiration )

I've been lazy about this blogging s##t

Mr. One-End-Of-The-Eel has been complaining about the lack of posting by the Enlightened-End-Of-The-Eel (me) and I say screw it, that's not right. And I just don't post, because how are you going to post when you don't have time? Rhetorically, I'm asking is all. So here I am after a very busy weekend of successful art-selling, which was nice, let me tell you, and I'm seeing people and art and its all snowy outside in beautiful Amherst, MA, and I feel this pressure - pressure! - to write something witty and snappy like I'm wont to do. That's how I roll.

Oh, I'm sure there will be some measure of saber-rattling between me and the OEOTE, there always is. It'll be the same way it always ends up, with one of us crying; like me losing at darts - which always happens, or chess - and him at wiffle ball (which he might be better at if he didn't try to toss those dumb trick pitches that are never ANYWHERE near the strike zone).

OEOTE, how is your back? Hurting? The W. must have loved what you wrote about her. Best way to your woman's heart, huh?

By the way, it's cold where I'm at. I'm cheap and I don't want to turn up the heat, except here in the blogosphere where I'll be kicking OEOTE's ass and taking names.