About Brian

Wandering, pondering, Hitchhiking Whovian. Son of Buckethead. Long suffering Columbus Blue Jackets fan. Will write for a steady paycheck.

Bus Stops Are Places, Too

It’s been a while since I’ve sat down to write anything creative. Even now, I’m typing, deleting, retyping, fretting over whether I start my sentences with too many vowels, and generally not feeling a huge vibe to write. Mayhaps, it’s just the creaking writing bones, the flabby muscles crying out myriad curses. All I know is, right now, generating even five sentences in this paragraph is a chore. There, I did it.

For the better part of a year, I think I’ve been dwindling intellectually, creatively, and spiritually. Most days, I just feel as if I’m a gear in a machine, one that serves no real useful purpose except in some sort of quirked out Rube Goldberg monstrosity. I think a Rube Goldberg Machine is a very fitting metaphor for society: perform a simple task but do it in such a inefficient, complicated, and baffling method that you’re just amused with the small job it accomplished. Well, you say as a bureaucratic twat cracks a knee up your nose, at least I got a demonstration of mechanics.

Consider for yourself. Agree? Disagree?

I’ve been in a depressive mood for almost two weeks. It’s the usual melange of feeling alienated, low energy, and no real drive to do much more than what I do most days, which is not much. I work, eat, internet, sleep, and that’s mostly it except for a standing Thursday invitation and the rare Saturday night out. So yeah, I’m in rut and that is a huge factor.

Also, let’s be honest,, since El DuCheeto took office, it’s been one nightmare after another. So Jerry Falwell’s son and a member of the Amway scam family are in charge of education? Fantastic! Privatize the Corporation for Public Broadcasting? Tier the Internet? Our lives becoming the mutant, bastardized incorporation of The Handmaid’s Tale, 1984, and Brave New World? Even if these are things that never come to fruition, the idea of living on this sort of knife edge can make anyone loony.

And I’ve been a card non-carrying member of the Loony Society since lunchtime. Take a seat and enjoy the performance art.


Note on the title: I apparently have taken the New Order method of naming posts. Enjoy!

Work, work, no write, some Chrimble

Yes, yes, this is your lazy writer finally checking in for a few brilliant paragraphs of wit, wisdom, and winsome prose, not to mention prodigious alliteration and laws of three.

There are two reasons why I’ve been silent. The first one was this: I went full-time at my horrible, no good, hate-it-to-bits convenience store job. I’m more than willing to admit that as, an idler and general hedonist, I’m not made for lifting large cases of Gatorade, standing on my feet for eight hours straight with neither a break or lunch (which, apparently, is legal in Ohio… ‘rah), feeling no connection to most of my customers or co-workers, and generally grumping at my total and utter underemployment. For forty hours a week, which is kind of hard on a bod like mine. As Willie Dixon preached, “I’m built for comfort; I ain’t built for speed“.

Basically, this meant that I’d walk to work, which was always a closing shift, get home around 1:30am, try to relax, sleep, get up around 2pm, and head back in around 5pm. Day in, day out. Bright side was that I was making better money but it was wrecking me, I was miserable, and no one got my jokes.

I use the past tense because the second reason is that I got a new job. A day job! A job where I can sit, have lunch breaks, not have to been busy every second of every minute of every hour. And be around doggies! Yes, I work for a pet resort and spa, and I am so beyond cool with it that. People even get my jokes and chuckle, telling me how well I fit in.

Imagine that.

So these last two weeks have been adjusting to a new sleep schedule — one that I’m thumbing my nose at right now to write this blog. As such, it’s cut my writing down to feints at poetry. Slowly, though, I’ll adjust and pick up the pace.

So all’s well. There have grocery shopping disasters, inebriated dipsomaniac adventures, jokes galore, and an appreciation for things both simple and complex — and not just in the carbohydrate sense!

Also, Xmoss is coming this weekend. Who knew? I’m engaging in my yearly tradition of reading Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. If you’ve never read it or even Dickens, it’s a wonderful book with which to start. It’s short, most definitely familiar given the copious adaptations, and never ceases to make me smile and appreciate life, the holidays, and the people around me. Give it a read wrapped in a blanket with a warm drink next to you.

More later.

Poem: Mistanthropy

I often find myself a-broodin’:
What’s so great ’bout being human.
Standing homo-sapient and tall
Is nothing really great at all.

We’re really just a load of bores,
No longer walking on all fours;
Who murder animals for our feasts,
But say that monkeys are lower beasts;

Using religion to kill the sinners
And also serve them up for dinners;
We think that we’re the higher species
Because we no longer fling our feces.

To all that, I say, “Just go and die.
Humanity is just another lie.”
It’s a way of puffing up our chest,
Make believing we’re the best.

Intolerance, suffering, and pain
Are merely scars for what we’ve gained.
Then we give carte blanche to maiming
As long as it’s the enemy we’re blaming.

We poison the atmosphere as we pleases
And inject white rabbits with our diseases.
We buy more guns than we need.
We vote for idiots and let them lead.

On battlefields, we’re completely useless:
Only death, injuries and all the mess.
Maybe someday, we’ll get it right.
No one’ll get hurt when there’s a fight.

And a good clue that we’re really dumb:
We learned to make a nuclear bomb.
Unnerving that we have the compulsion
To fiddle around with our own expulsion

Yes, if we use it, it’ll be the end.
No more leaders, followers, my friend.
And Mother Earth we’ll no longer encroach.
That’ll be left up to the cockroach.

I guess I was being a bit mean.
It’s not all bad as a human bein’.
There’s art and sex, hockey too,
Laughter, children, and Doctor Who.

We wrote the book of love and compassion.
We’ll even put up with new French fashion.
Some of us are really nice people.
It almost makes up for all the evil.

We can also learn to save the Earth.
And treasure each other, for what it’s worth.
But no more positives into which I can delve,
It’s 36 bad lines against a count of 12.