How's it going to happen
I'd rather not know
just take me with my eyes closed

Posted 08.13.08|

» Famous places and souvenirs: Not your average crappy vacation shots.

Posted 08.08.08|

» tiny ghosts: Stories in two sentences, more or less.

A strange thing happened the other day: I started getting a ton of hits from India. I was perplexed until it was revealed that the sublime Jhoomur Bose mentioned MadHaiku in a column she writes for the Hindustan Times, then repurposes for her blog Emancipation of Eve where she can use headlines that you wouldn't find in a newspaper, if you get my drift. This particular column starts off: "What do you think of the phrase 'social porn'?" Heh. You can read the rest here.

Anyhow, the blizzard of hits has mostly subsided now, but in the off chance you are reading this in India, a couple of things: 1) I'm not in India nor am I Indian; 2) I am, however, a Comment Whore so please feel free to leave some, even if it's merely to call me a "phool" like someone did the other day. That goes for the rest of y'all.

Namaste.

Posted 08.04.08|

» Be the first! Friend me on Facebook.

I am John McCain
doddering geezer
flip-flopping on the issues

Posted 08.01.08|

* For the Pineapple Princess, who found her muse stumbling around in John McCain's campaign.

  

Woke up this morning
had me them Statesboro blues
where the hell am I?

Posted 07.28.08|

» Defaced Polaroids: The photography of Jen Gotch

You can have my faith
I don't need it now
Soul's been psychedelicized

Posted 07.21.08|

» The endless trip: Jack Kerouac book covers (check out the William Burroughs book covers. I think they're more noir)

  

I got tagged the other day by Mari. at faute de mieux. Dang, I thought memes would've become passe by now. Guess I was wrong heh.

999,940 These are some bad-sad times, man, at least from my perspective, as I watch 150 of my colleagues get their jobs whacked. That doesn't sound like a whole lot, but consider that there were 840 of us only last week. And that's down from nearly 1,200 just a few years ago.

999,939 Yeah, the handwriting has been on the wall for a long time now, and if there is one thing I'm really good at, it's reading the shit on the wall.

999,938 I fully expect to be among the unemployed this time next year, if not sooner, yet I'm inexplicably sanguine about that prospect.

999,937 It's not as if I don't have anything to worry about. I mean, I virtually have no marketable skills to speak of. I'm not even all that good at this blogging shit.

999,936 On the other hand, FUCK EM IF THEY CAN'T TAKE A JOKE. I BEEN KICKED OUTTA BETTER PLACES. I WON'T BE LETTIN' THE SWINGIN' DOORS HIT ME ON THE ASS ON THE WAY OUT.

999,936 On the brightside, I, um, uh, well, hmm, got my health?

999,935 I still consider myself a cyclist, but I've stopped shaving my legs. It's just something not to do anymore, I guess.

999,934 I met the late Senator Alan Cranston, D-Calif., once as he stopped for a visit in this dusty Central Valley town where I was a young newspaper reporter. He was driving this beatup government car and wearing this very rumpled suit. Alarmingly thin, mostly bald, he looked like an ascetic. Now there's a humble man, I thought. Sometime later, he got caught in the Keating 5 scandal and I realized he was just a hack pol like any other.

999,933 If you support John McCain, I got one word for you: Keating 5.

999,932 I started this site in 2002, but I didn't add comments till 2006 or something. It wasn't because I was afraid of what kind of comments people might leave, it was because I was afraid they might leave no comments at all.

999,931 The last five songs I downloaded were: "This Thing Might" by Get Licious; "Breathe" and "Shy That Way" by Tristan Prettyman; "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" and "Free Fallin'" by John Mayer (mostly because I think it was recorded at a concert we got free tickets to. Yeah, I'm connected. Sort of.).

999,930 My wife's cancer came back after 12 years of being in remission. She's the bravest person I know.

999,929 There's a full moon out as I write this.

999,928 I suspect women are way better at these memes than men. Call me sexist. Just saying.

999,927 I'm supposed to tag 10 friends to do this meme, but I don't have that many. So feel free to consider yourself tagged, but don't be begrudgin' me for it yo.

Posted 07.19.08|

» 999,961 Things

Man sleeps on the train
sheep get counted as he snores
the big frog splashes!

Posted 07.16.08|

» The viral growth of Wal-Mart through the years.

When I was 12 I became a pitcher. Although I liked the idea of being a pitcher, it was never really my goal to become one. I became one anyway because 1) my team needed one 2) I could throw the ball a little harder and a little straighter than my teammates; 3) my dad was the coach. Up until then I'd been content to just play second base. It didn't require as much glove work as shortstop, but there was always enough action to keep from getting bored.

My team, the Knights, was a solid also-ran of little repute. We didn't have any big bats and we were rather lackadaisical about the fundamentals. But what we lacked in skill we more than made up for in sarcasm. Our infield chatter ranked among the best. Still, we managed to win some games and finish second each season.

My debut as a pitcher was, to say the least, an humiliation. But that only underestimates what it feels like to have even the scrawniest, nearsighted kid connect with your best pitch and hit it out of the infield. My dad the coach just urged me to get the ball over the plate, which I did. In fact, because I got the ball over the plate I developed a stiff neck from watching my pitches get belted high overhead into the outfield and sometimes beyond. The mound can be a terribly lonely place at such times, and no amount of encouraging chatter from your teammates or the parents in the stands can make you feel like doing anything but finding a hole and burying yourself in it.

What I really lacked, aside from a good breaking ball, was confidence. I was afraid. Afraid to throw the ball anywhere but right down the middle over the plate. In other words, afraid of messing up. I'd stand there on the mound, staring down that long stretch to homeplate. Russell the catcher would flash signals to me, as if they meant something. I'd nod or shake my head, then wind up and throw. Basically, I had only two pitches: a fastball and a bean ball.

Then one game about midseason, I again faced a big brute that everyone called Rollo. In our first meeting, he had pounded me unmercifully. I believe I was personally responsible for raising his batting average by a thousand percent that game and his home run count by three or four. He owned me, and everyone knew it. He swaggered slowly up to the plate and swung his bat a few times. I half expected him to hold his bat straight out with one arm and signal a homer to centerfield like he was Babe Ruth. He scraped the batter's box with his cleats and finally settled in, crowding the plate with his big belly. Worst of all, he was wearing a smirk on his face. At that moment, I knew what pure hatred was. But instead of rushing the plate and beating him senseless, I did the only thing I could do. I threw the ball high and fast and straight at his head. There was a gasp in the stands as Rollo hit the deck with a loud grunt. He got up slowly and dusted himself off. He settled back in at the plate, but he was no longer crowding it. He eyed me warily. Something fundamental had changed between us. On the outside I remained expressionless, but on the inside I was the one smirking.

To everyone's surprise, I managed to get the count up to 3 and 2. Rollo's timing seemed to be off. He was fouling off pitches that in our previous meeting he would blast out of the park. I stood for a long time before delivering that final 3-2 pitch. Russell the catcher was chattering and flashing signals like crazy. Finally, I wound up and delivered. To my dismay, the ball seemed to stick to my fingers as I was about to release it. As if in slow motion, I saw it hurtling forward about waist high and then suddenly drop, hitting the dirt before it reached the plate. Rollo swung at it anyway, a wild roundhouse swing that would've sent it to the moon had he connected. Instead, the umpire called him out. In disbelief, he slunked away and the inning ended.

Posted 07.13.08|

Missiles in the sky
streaking across the heavens
John McCain laughing

Posted 07.11.08|

» Graffiti for butterflies.

Posted 07.06.08|