Sunday, July 30, 2017

Mountain Clowns

I have stated in the past that I like the idea of Bigfoot.  What I mean by that is that I feel that the possibility of Bigfoot keeps me feeling hopeful, kind of like believing in God.  Thinking about Bigfoot, I recently asked myself, "Can the same be said about clowns?" Why compare the two? I mean, clowns do exist and they do not give me hope...except Ronald McDonald. He's a pretty good clown in my book, so not all clowns must be bad, right? I feel I could get behind the idea of a new type of clown, or yet to be discovered clown.

I went about thinking of different types of clowns: party, circus, sad ones, killer, alien, and the ones that hang out at 7-Elevens. I'm sure I left some out. However, the clown must've had its origins along side primitive man somewhere along the way.  If so, then there was a wild clown who roamed the earth at some point in time.  I have wondered occasionally that some of those wild clowns might exist still to this day, much in the same way Neanderthal DNA found it's way into modern humans via interbreeding, or perhaps, a clown version of Bigfoot.


Rendering of a possible clown/Bigfoot hybrid.
Is there a lost tribe of Mountain Clown, perhaps?  There's been several situations where I believed that I was indeed confronted with evidence of mountain clowns: graffiti on rocks and trees, trash, used "balloons", and torn up hillsides. Those turned out to just be idiots who treat the outdoors as their personal trashcan. Moving on, the real mountain clown would most likely be timid and hole up in caves, with the occasional pine cone juggling or prat fall into bear shit being captured in an out of focus photo.

The odds are that mountain clowns do not exist, but if they did, I would imagine that they would be covered in technicolor fur, with huge floppy feet, red noses, and a comical way of moving through the forest. They would originate from the Clown Mountains, where flowers squirt the purest spring water, and all the animals are made from balloons. I can just hear their mating call of "honk-honk" filling the air among the cottoncandywood trees and seeing tourists feed them jelly beans, despite the park's strict "do not feed the clowns" policy.

P.S. No, I haven't been micro dosing LSD.

Friday, April 21, 2017

The Captain of Köpenick

I don't feel like the person that people tell me I am. Praise is hard for me to accept. It's not that I want people to stop telling me the good about me and when I do good work. I'm sure it sticks somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind. When I'm told something bad or negative about myself or my performance, I tend to give it undue credence or am already expecting to hear such things. Why? Probably because I had already thought those bad things about myself first. I suffer from a form of perfectionism that rarely lends to productivity. 

I spent my college years believing that I was only lucky and not as good as my grades and professors told me I was. I had a good chunk of time serving my LDS mission where I felt good about myself, because everything I was doing had a purpose in bringing truth and the goodness of the Lord to people in need.It was such a beautiful time in my life. Once cracks were made in that, I became worse and have lamented over it ever since. It is a terrible feeling to believe that you are not worthy of success, love, and the "you" that others see. I have survived by hardening my heart and succumbing to cynicism. That isn't good. Also, it's probably not totally true; it's something that I tell myself to avoid letting it out that I am a blubbering feely deep down inside. 

After coming home from my mission in England, I had gone through a string of jobs only to end up working at my old high school job at McDonald's. I was a lowly grill worker trying to figure out how my life had hit the shitter so hard after all the promises I believed in from my service to the Lord. I thought my co-worker was on break and that my exclamation would just evaporate into the grill vents. "Fuck me, I feel sooo jaded!" Sunny, my co-worker, was right behind me and she started laughing like crazy. She kept doing impersonations of me saying this throughout the day. In a weird way it helped. It helped me to know how silly I was in that moment. It helped me to know how serious I was taking it all and that I needed to chill the fuck out and laugh it off. I like laughing things off now....It is the best therapy by far. 

I only share all of this, not to punish or shame myself, but to help others, because I know there are others that experience this. I am growing from grace to grace with regards to this feeling of being an imposter. I have been posing as "me" and that is a fallacy, because I am that man and I must embrace the good in me.

Tuesday, February 07, 2017

Fartistic

You know, if it weren't for the smell, I believe that farts would be a socially acceptable form of self expression. Heck, farts might have also become incorporated in language, punctuating sentences for dramatic effect or acting as commas in speech.  Farts could even be used in symphonies and the like. Think of Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture (cannons anyone?) or an all fart rendition of Beethoven's 5th. Magnificent!  Wet farts could be used in painting. I'm pretty sure that Jackson Pollock just shoved random colors of paint up his ass and shat them out in random order: ta-da! (F)art.

Farting could be a way of expressing your moods. I've had many sad sounding farts in my days, as well as excited sounding farts. More often than not, my farts sound out my displeasure, relief, and satisfaction. But less often, my farts have expressed awe, wonderment, and confusion. I have had my farts ask "why" on occasion. I didn't always have the answers to my farts, but I really did appreciate their inquisitiveness.

As I mentioned in the beginning, the smell that most farts produce may be what is giving them a bad rap. But what is a fart without the smell?  I do believe that one without the other is robs the fart of it's true purpose: to amuse and offend at the same time.  The fart is probably the first comedian, in this case.  To quote some random hobo that I once met, "If yer a feller that don't think farts is funny, well mister, I don' wanna share my beans witchu."  I couldn't have said it better, Skippy.

In conclusion, farts may not be socially acceptable now, but I do hope in time that they will be embraced by all.  We all pass gas from our ass, some with more sass than grass, but alas, I've run out of things that rhyme with ass. Bass. Anyway, try using farts as way to express yourself, become a fartist. Be the vanguard in this movement, but keep the movement from turning into a full on shit. Thank you.

Tuesday, January 31, 2017

Slippery Psyche

I find that my emotions aren't helping me out much lately. There's got to be a switch inside where I can turn them off. You take a few days off from people and whammo, they feel hurt. Hermitsville or homelessness would suit me. I can't continue being inconsistent in my feelings, but it appears that I don't know how to change that right now. Honestly, if I could settle my psyche one way or another, I would. It would make my life a lot easier. The question of whether to advance or retreat becomes another question of how to avoid fracturing my being. Vulnerability takes a backseat to survival, especially when it involves the welfare of dependents. Why can't I just let my hair down and be free? Because, if I did there would be real consequences. That's how you know life has deemed you too old for dreams. Move over, Charlie, and let the young 'uns on by. I at least have this fascinating "relic of times past" role to play; to inspire the occasional starry-eyed dreamer, who just might make it to Xandadu. When you get there send me a postcard. Let me know if the milk of paradise is as good as I've heard. I'll snap out of it. Ok?

Sunday, January 22, 2017

Recumbent Exercise Bicycle as Imaginary Friend

Sometimes when I am watching T.V. I am guilty of making commentary out loud to no one.  Recently I caught myself turning to the recumbent exercise bike after I had made such out loud comments, as if I needed its take on what just happened on the T.V. program.  At first I felt silly as I continued to catch myself making comments and looking for the bike's response. I felt like I was going crazy, but then something even more crazy happened.  

After some time, I began to feel as though the bike could understand me.  This bike knew what I was going through and how frustrated I had become with life, feeling left behind, professionally stunted, the struggles of being a white male, and generally none to good with the state of affairs in the world. It felt good to have something listen to me and my troubles, no matter how trivial they may be. Soon, the bike would appear in my thoughts and dreams at night.

These thoughts and dreams started out innocent enough but eventually got weird.  Here is the first and only significant exchange that we had.

Me: What? What was that? Who said that?

Bike: It is I, the all powerful Recumbent Exercise Bicycle.


Me: You can talk?

Bike: I can do many things.  I can change your body.  I make annoying beeping sounds.  My seat has the power to destroy asses. I know your pulse. I am stationary, yet everywhere at the same time.

Me: If you could talk, why are you talking to me now?

Bike: I chose to speak to you because I have a purpose in mind for you.  You seemed to lack a direction in life and expressed that you felt forgotten. Yet you did not vote Trump, despite so many white men feeling the way you did, and who ended up voting this man into the highest office of this nation. Why is that?

Me: Well, because he's an asshole that in the end only looks to serve himself.  I don't care how persecuted or how invisible I feel, a tyrant is still a tyrant and I won't make the world pay for my insecurities and hurt feelings.

Bike: That is precisely why I chose you for my purpose.

Me: What is this purpose that you have ordained me for, oh Recumbent Exercise Bicycle?

Bike: The purpose that I have designed for you is start to blog like a mofo.  Keep the people entertained, while being heartfelt and thought provoking.  It is going to be a long four years. 

Me: Do I get paid for this? Will this get me into heaven?

Bike: No. What? How the hell should I know? I'm just a fucking exercise bike. 

After this encounter with the bike I felt a renewed commitment to blog about shit, like maybe once a month.  The bike continued talking to me about certain other things, but mostly about Game of Thrones.  It really hasn't been that great, to be honest. The fact that no one else hears the bike makes me feel a bit scared. I wish the thing would just shut up now.

The End!