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Sunday, July 11, 2010

is this thing on?

Not lying I have too much to say right now. I can't stop wondering what Asians eat for breakfast. Or really, any ethnicity. We all know what they eat for lunch and dinner but WHAT are their breakfast foods? Is there a whole area of foods that I am missing out on? Why should I care though when I have Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
My thoughts on oreos: they are bad news. They are so good, but too small. You eat one, and you feel like life is teasing you. You can't just eat one. You can't even just eat two. It's not enough. But if you eat more than five you kinda feel like you got tricked into eating too many. So I always have oreos at my house, and I always want one. But I never eat them because I know that by eating just one it will backfire on me and I will just be more hungry, or else I will eat ten and end up with a double chin.
I recently went to Jackson with some of my family. It was a singles trip...for anyone in the family who isn't married. I am going to go into insignificant details of my trip. While I was listening to music I kept coming across Bright Eyes songs. I have developed a great fondness and admiration for Conor Oberst, who has a definite way with words. I appreciate his honesty. It's like he admits that he is human and that we are all human and doesn't pretend like we aren't a bunch of screw ups. He is also very mournful and pitiful, which yes, I adore. Because I love it when someone is able to capture sadness in anything, it takes talent. And when sadness is captured in any way you can understand that it's the exact same for everyone, we all feel it alike. And that, it makes me happy. For some reason sadness is beautiful to me. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it is. It can bring any person down to the ground and silence their pride. It leaves souls exposed. This song Waste of Paint by Bright Eyes pleases me. It's words are tragic, and pitiful. But it embraces real things. And I applaud anyone who can express themselves well, whether it be great or terrible. As long as it's honest.

I have a friend, he is mostly made of pain.
And he wakes up, drives to work,
and then straight back home again.
He once cut one of my nightmares out of paper.
I thought it was beautiful, I put it on a record cover.
And I tried to tell him he had a sense
of color and composition so magnificent.
And he said

"Thank you, please
but your flattery
is truly not
becoming me.
Your eyes are poor.
You're blind.
You see,
no beauty could have come from me.
I'm a waste
of breath,
of space,
of time."

I knew a woman, she was dignified and true.
And her love for her man was one of her many virtues.
Until one day, she found out that he had lied
and she decided the rest of her life from that point on would be a lie.
But she was grateful for everything that had happened.
And she was anxious for all that would come next.
But then she wept.
What did you expect?
In that big, old house
with the cars she kept.
"And such is life," she often said.
With one day leading
to the next,
you get a little closer to your death,
which was fine with her.
She never got upset
and with all the days she may have left,
she would never clean
another mess
or fold his shirts
or look her best.
She was free
to waste
away
alone.

Last night, my brother he got drunk and drove.
And this cop he pulled him off to the side of the road.
And he said, "Officer! Officer! You got the wrong man.
No, no, I'm a student of medicine, a son of a banker, you don't understand!"
The cop said, "No one got hurt, you should be thankful.
And your carelessness, it is something awful.
And no, I can't just let you go.
And though your father's name is known,
your decisions now are yours alone.
You are nothing but a stepping stone
on a path
to debt,
to loss,
to shame."

The last few months I have been living with this couple.
Yeah, you know, the kind who buy everything in doubles.
They fit together, like a puzzle.
And I love their love and I am thankful
that someone actually receives the prize that was promised
by all those fairy tales that drugged us.
And they still do me.
I'm sick, lonely,
no laurel tree,
just green envy.
Will my number come up eventually?
Like Love's some kind of lottery,
where you scratch and see
what's underneath.
It's "Sorry",
just one cherry,
or "Play Again."
Get lucky.

So I've been hanging out down by the train's depot.
No, I don't ride.
I just sit and watch the people there.
And they remind me of wind up cars in motion.
The way they spin and turn and jockey for positions.
And I want to scream out that it all is nonsense.
All your life's one track,
can't they see it's pointless?
But just then, my knees
give under me.
My head feels weak
and suddenly
it's clear to see
it's not them but me,
who has lost my self-identity.
As I hide behind
these books I read,
while scribbling
my poetry,
like art could save a wretch like me,
with some ideal ideology
that no one could hope to achieve.
And I am never real;
it is just a sketch in me.
And everything I made is trite
and cheap
and a waste
of paint,
of tape,
of time.

So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high,
way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue,
forget the song,
tie my shoe
start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart
and my absent God
and I have no faith
but it's all I want,
to be loved.
And believe,
in my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.
In my soul.

So while driving in the car I get a kick out of my mom. She gets way too emotionally invested in the other drivers on the road. Every wrong move that every car makes is cause for a 5 minute lecture on her end that they will never hear. They are all selfish, mean people. They are careless and retarded and lack the skills they would need to live a wholesome life. And most importantly they are not going to get anywhere faster than my mom is, just by being one more car ahead. I laugh. My mom has unintentionally condemned a lot of people on the highway to hell. I just go along with it and pretend like it pisses me off, too. If she wants to have road rage, I say bring it.
The first night we were in Jackson we ate at a Thai restauraunt called Bon-Appe-Thai. We saw a lady that would be perfect for my dad, had he not just gotten married a month ago. She was somewhat Hispanic. She looked like she had a good amount of school girl left in her from back in the day. She was working on a crossword. She had a very pretty face with softer features. She looked real. We also saw a potential future husband, with a nice plaid shirt and a well placed arm tattoo. I don't know Allie, I thought he had too much rosacia. He could have smelled better and smiled more. Granted he was at work.
The second night we ate at some upscale bistro where all the tortured artists go and drink wine. Really we didn't belong there, and I didn't know that until our waitress put forth the effort to make us feel that way. Well if I'm not supposed to order pizza at a place because it's not fancy enough, don't put it on the menu. All the hostess cared about was her scarf/suspender combination outfit and musician hair. A lot of trends were going on in that place. Everyone there were the kind of people you would see at exclusive red carpet after parties and yacht clubs. Elegant, modern-chic-fashionable, rich, intelligent, liberal. I think that those people have no social skills. Really, all they have going for them is their status. Because they aren't friendly or accepting. They aren't real. They are supposed to be our social quota but I believe that group of people has the worst social skills out of anyone.
The last night we were there we had a chuckwagon spectacular with the Bar J wranglers. I didn't know there were that many people in the world let alone in Jackson...all crammed in to a mountainous cafeteria. And a 5 hour production. All the people and the cowboy food started dissapating into the air and you could sense a cloud of it floating in front of your face. Stuffy. We happened to be at a table with another family that was LDS. It took a while for everyone to realize it, but once it was realized it was like all the conversations were about Priesthood blessings, sunday school, BYU and missions. I thought that was funny. I was so happy when that finally ended. I still feel weighed down by that meal.
We played mini golf one day at a sketch course. Everything was on a slope leaning away from the hole, so it was doubtlessly a rip off.
I never knew how much my brother Daniel hated bugs. But I have always known how funny he is.
My mom can't help but cheat when we play slap jack. She can't help it.
Don't trust gay men to ever steer your raft on a river
Especially ones from Brazil, who hold up the whole bus just so they can go change into their PJ's for a comfy ride back to town.
The gay men, they had a meal on the 15 minute bus ride, in their PJ's... is that necessary?
The gay men really bothered me.
I got moose boxers.
Go back to Brazil, Marcos.

1 comment:

  1. ahh, i can't post comments on here. i just tried, but it isn't showing up. so i will try again...

    i am just catching up on all of your posts. great stuff, as usual. entertaining, insightful, introspective, thought-provoking, witty and LOL funny. i love it.

    also, you are right about the plaid shirt waiter - too much rosacia.

    i just caught up on vanessa's blog as well. if you haven't seen it lately, she has posted a really cute video. check it out!

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