POEM: Some Days

Some days I forget about you
Some days I simply pretend
Sometimes I really need you
Because you are a miraculous godsend.

Some days I really need you
Without you the days are long
When I had you, I think I loved you
Sometimes emotions are wrong.

Sometimes I forget my loathing
Some days are just too tough
But when I press my lips to you
Like sandpaper, the aftertaste is rough.

I’m a sucker for my weakness
Which just happens to be you
Some days I’d throw it all away
If only we can start anew.

Some days I think I’ll change you
But you’re a brick wall against a breeze
So I must walk away because when I fight
Coughing, wheezing, I fall to my knees

I love you with all my being
I hate you with the same passion too
Some days I struggle, but I always accept
I’ll never again be with you.

A week in the life

What a week here at BWB.

Sunday

BWB was in a celebratory mood on the 4th, reveling in another J-E-T-S victory. Once again, Mark Sanchize played well enough to not destroy his team’s chances against a weak opponent (the Redskins), putting New York firmly into the playoff picture. BWB celebrated with his friend by shotgunning beers well into the night.

The same friend then insisted, with some arm-wringing, on driving me home, promptly receiving a DUI moments after dropping me off. As terrible as that was, and it was, for I am still wrought with guilt, I also arrived home to my roommate’s dog looking sad and disappointed, expecting a furor over the fact she crapped all over the house due to her ever-increasing incontinence.

Monday

Bank statement comes online. I don’t pay attention to it, considering the fact I am lazy and practically illiterate with numbers.

Completely immersed in my self-loathing about harming my good, younger friend by my inactions (i.e. allowing him to drive), I forsake a party I was quite looking forward to and decide to smoke copious amounts of a controlled substance while chugging down Irish coffees with my Burner roommates. The combination of my over-burdening and the alcohol makes me shed a tear or two. “My inaction allowed someone to make a bad decision. It doesn’t matter if he insisted,” I insisted, “I could have prevented it all by making the proper choice. Since I didn’t, it is my fault.”

My friend, we will call her Reb, said, “It doesn’t matter what you did or didn’t do. He was the one who made the choice. At the end of the day, you may have affected his decision that day, but he would have eventually made that decision and paid the price anyway.”

True, perhaps. Still, I can’t get rid of the feeling I ruined my friend and his family’s Christmas.

Tuesday

I have a really boring day at work. She (there is always a “She”) invites me to dinner at her house. She makes fajitas, they are really good. We drink a lot, getting super sloshed (my third day in a row) with another guy, a man I will call T. T isn’t a bad guy, but saying we are good friends is a far stretch. Though drunk, he offers me a ride home, and I accept, attempting to alleviate myself of the burden of his choice with some success. It sort of works. I wonder if it is because he slept with a woman I was at one point very attracted to, yet unable to date.

He’s built as I am built, though he has more hair, and wears it in a goofy faux-hawk. I hate that haircut. It seems I am jealous of every man who has one, but not because of the hair. There’s another with this haircut whom I won’t mention at this point, and if I could trade lives with one person for at least a day, it would be him. I come to this realization while pounding down drinks. Again, the self-loathing comes back, but I allow it to pass this time.

She is a great woman. I want to be with her, we will see.

Wednesday

Completely hung over, I use the last of my controlled substance and swear never to use any ever again. At least, I swear I will never buy any ever again. It doesn’t help my hangover, in fact it makes me feel worse. I avoid absolutely everybody I can—I don’t even go to the library.

I’m angry and irritable as I head to work and proceed to have the busiest Wednesday night I’ve ever had behind the bar. I hate it back there. I feel so disconnected to everybody and everything. The whole reason I enjoy my job is for the ability to float around, help people out and get some exercise by constantly moving. Behind the bar, I simply make fucking drinks and pretend to care about the lushes who I am compelled to serve.

Once I get home, just before midnight, I text one of my oldest friends, a woman who is my rock, so I will call her The Rock. I ask her opinion of my troubles about how I didn’t help my friend when he obviously couldn’t help himself. She insisted my compassion was a great thing, my willingness to love and help everybody I know, even those I hate, is my greatest asset. I ask, “I help everybody. I love everybody. I am concerned with everybody. And what has it gotten me?”

I’m not drunk, instead simply exhausted and hungry. I am complaining like a petulant child. She simply states, “Your problem is that you are concerned with what you will get out of it. You should do things for others, regardless of reward.”

I don’t buy it. I give to everybody I can, every time I can. Ok, not everybody. I don’t give to beggars. Fuck you. You have to work for it. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Nobody owes you anything at all. If you need help, I understand it. If you want help, I get it because I’ve been there. But instead of being a bottom feeding parasite leeching off those who work for a living, why not attempt to work for a living? There was a reason the lions hated the hyenas in “The Lion King.”

Thursday

Pretty quick morning at work, which was quite welcome. Then, came a text from my roommate, “Hey roomie. Landlord called, he said last month’s rent check bounced.”

That was November’s rent check—a check I gave him a month earlier. He didn’t even attempt to cash it until the 18th. I paid no attention. My online bank statement I had ever so blindly deleted without any thought apparently had been preceded by e-mails concerning this fact, which I had also disregarded as junk mail.

As terrible as this was, and it was, this pit in my stomach was the last thing on my mind. I attempted to do my laundry only to find that the toilet had regurgitated into the washing machine somehow, sending semi-solid floaters into the enclosed space I had planned on washing my whites. After a few runs of hot bleach and soap loads, I quickly washed my clothes with little to no long term effect thankfully.

I then went to another dinner at another friend’s house, that of Reb. Reb is Creamy’s sister. Creamy is the nickname of my good friend and former coworker who moved to California, and who is married to Chowder. Reb and I get together about once a month, probably because we both miss Creamy. She’s a tough, headstrong single mother, and a great positive influence on me. She tells me the things I need to hear, not want to hear. It was a good dinner.

Friday

I spend most of the day at the bank. Multiple withdrawals at varied casinos downtown during the month of November were the causation of my bounced rent check. I suspect who did it; my landlord is semi-understanding. I put in a fraud claim with my bank, though I’m confident I will probably never get that money back. I’m not sure what I am going to do about the money. I might have accidentally screwed the landlord. I resolve to not screw anybody over ever again, whether by my action, inaction, or trusting the wrong person.

Saturday

I sleep in until 2:30 in the afternoon. It is the happiest I’ve been in days and days.

Work sucks, but sometimes work sucks. All things being equal, I’m happy to have one, and I begin finding a supplemental income to make amends and hopefully cash.

Sunday

I wake early. I watch a lot of football. I drink a lot of beer. I get drunk again, though not as hardcore drunk as I would like. That’s ok, now I can write this blog. It isn’t great, but neither are the Jets (though they did win again). I just needed to write and vent again. I’m not sure if anybody will read this and enjoy this, but I didn’t write it for anybody to read. I wrote it because I needed to write it.

Is there an over-arching message to this entire week that I’ve had? Yes.

Is there any reason to be hopeful about the future? Yes.

Will I control my fate and do what is necessary to get the things I want without being overwhelmed with this crippling guilt I constantly feel? Will I ever get over my own self-doubt, myself martyrdom and my secret desire to be everybody’s best friend even without getting to know anybody? Yes.

Old BWB is gone. He was destroyed sometime in this past week. Between cleaning up shit, paying the price of my self-imposed victimization, having heart to hearts with my roommates, She, Reb, and The Rock, and attempting to crawl out of the hole that only booze and money can fill, BWB changed dramatically, hopefully for the better. Only time will tell.

I need a shot or something.

America is Exceptional. Really?

“My thighs are too big.”

“I’m not where I want to be, financially.”

“I’m a terrible person.”

These statements may or may not be true for you, dear reader, but alas, they are true for many Americans these days. The nation, as a whole, is grossly overweight. We as a nation are so in over our heads with debt that it may not be possible to get out without resorting to a felony. The third statement, well, that comes out of the truth of the first two.

There is an ever-sagging weight hanging around the necks of America, dragging us down to the abyss with the other fallen empires like Rome and Victorian Britain. Some call it depression. Some call it economic uncertainty. Some call it a dystopian novel come to life before our eyes.

“America has become lazy.”

True enough, generally speaking. Too bad that quote was actually spoken by the President of the United States recently. Why would the American people elect as their spokesman to the world a man who repeatedly speaks ill of the very people he is sworn to protect?

The answer lies in the natural depression America as a nation is going through. We are plummeting towards rock bottom faster than Lindsay Lohan on a Saturday night at a meth lab. Perhaps we chose Barack Obama as President consciously thinking he’d make everything all better but subconsciously knowing he’d only ruin us some more, which is what we really want.

Imagine, if you will, America taking a trip to Las Vegas. For hours, years maybe, she has been killing it at the craps table. She rolled the bones better than the lady in Red who had to retire early. She’s made all of her supporters massive amounts of money with her lucky rolls, and she quickly found she herself was up ten thousand dollars. But in comes a new shooter (perhaps a Jihadi?) who proceeds to rack up huge wins while America loses boatloads betting the wrong way. Pretty soon, being up ten turns to being down everything in your bank account and taking out a marker from some Chinese loan shark. It turns that fast. It has turned that fast.

It happened before our very eyes, but the American people went along for the ride to Vegas, too. We were far too blinded by the pretty lights and the bells and whistles that came from being with America. Automobiles, electricity, running water, iPods, cell phones, Wi-Fi, triple shot caramel macchiato, easy-access drugs, cheap sex, free booze, roller coasters and a pair of 3-D glasses shielding us from the true horrors of the world.

Yes, Mr. Obama, America has been lazy. We’ve been weak. We’ve been self-destructive. We continue to be self-destructive. That was why we elected you, after all. You make us feel nothing but ashamed about being Americans. And maybe you are right, maybe we should be. After all, we are evil and dastardly and we throw our gluttonous weight anywhere we wish in order to get more, more, more.

We are about to hit rock bottom, and we know it. We know we are about to collapse in on ourselves into a puddle of our own self-loathing and we shall never arise. “America’s chickens are coming home to roost,” in other words (which just so happen to be your former reverend, Mr. President.)

So, what do we do? Do we allow the Herman Cain-types, those who believe in American exceptionalism and Manifest Destiny (code words for screwing over whomever we want in pursuit of blood money) to take over the government in 2012? Or do we do what nature would do when a forest is killing itself?

What Transformers Teaches us About Foreign Policy, or Why Michael Bay May Be a Secret Genius

A funny thing happened when I arrived home from a long day at the mobile office. My roommates were cuddled together watching the most romantic movie in my six hundred volume movie collection, Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.

Say what you will about the quality of his work, Michael Bay certainly tells interesting stories. His entire career is built upon gluing your eyes to the screen at every moment by filling it with over-the-top action, violence, sex, racist jokes, and every other form of depravity the Ancient Greeks ever stooped to. When you put it like that, it is no wonder he redefined movies forever, creating a brand-new genre of apocalyptic mega-blockbusters in the process.

Armageddon was one movie, yes. But it easily became two (even without a sequel) when Deep Impact was rushed out months before even though it was made as a blatant rip-off. In both of those movies, celestial bodies crash into Earth, killing untold millions of people and causing catastrophic damage which makes World War II crawl in a corner feeling sorry for itself for not being good enough.

The Rock was the perfect example of the desire for unnecessary violence and destruction, as Nicholas Cage and Sean Connery destroy the good half of San Francisco (but really, it would make no sense for Michael Bay to film people destroying the nearly-rotting corpse of the city because there are no romantic trolley cars to eviscerate) before they even contemplate going to, you know, The Rock to fuck shit up.

Bay’s Transformers trilogy takes the apocalyptic genre and sets the bar so high, next generation’s movie directors will have taken their $500 million budget and head to the Third World, offering it as a prize to the nation which successfully invades its neighbor all while filming the carnage in order to “push the boundaries of their art.”

Michael Bay’s insatiable bloodlust and desire to destroy the world, on film, that is, by means of a genocidal war between robots and their unwitting human allies, masks his grandiose statements excoriating massive corporations and governments for their media manipulation and successful propaganda techniques. No word on whether Mr. Bay appreciates the irony of having this message in three movies about toys created by a massive corporation which also produced the film trilogy.

Irony aside, Mr. Bay produces an entirely plausible dystopian universe where secret government agencies exist in order to keep certain information secret. This alternate universe also includes a Los Angeles-type city only minutes away from the Hoover Dam, a giant field filled with airplanes just outside the Smithsonian Institute in the middle of Washington, DC that’s so secluded nobody notices the giant robot walking about, and where Patrick Dempsey is a villain (“Not McDreamy!”)

The world is successfully kept in the dark about robots destroying a major American city which also happens to be the media capital of the world, home to perhaps twenty thousand photographers and millions of camera phones. The group who kept these incidents secluded from sight had apparently been doing it for generations, according to former S-7 Agent Simmons in the sequel.

If you are familiar with the movie, you know the Decepticons are the bad guys who want to take over Earth and make it their new home, complete with a human extermination to get things rolling, which is the exact opposite plot to Avatar, come to think of it. What is it with directors and killing millions of insignificant beings to prove a point?

Anyway, back to the point. Michael Bay relates how dangerous interlocking corporations are working behind the back of not only the American people, but all the world’s people, only being concerned with profit margins and sleek sports cars that can kidnap your wanna-be girlfriend. His most subdued, but perhaps more important point concerns the very fabric of robot society, and also human society.

Who, exactly, are the Autobots? Yes, in the film, they are the heroes. They stand up for the rights of their human hosts, always standing in the way of the nefarious Megatron and the Decepticons, who are portrayed as bloodthirsty and wicked. But from a practical standpoint in Cybertronian culture (the planet the robots are from is Cybertron and it doesn’t exist anymore, so their whole “culture” might not officially exist), they are the villains.

The Decepticons want more of their kind to survive—that’s the entirety of their motivation throughout the film series. They want more energon so they can create more and more of their clan. How is that any different than a man wanting more farm land so he can feed his family for generations to come? Throughout the trilogy, the Autobots are massively outnumbered by their enemies who seem quite good at spawning quantity, though not quality considering Optimus Prime and his allies kick the ever-loving shit out of them all like they are made of the same cheap Chinese plastic their action figures are constructed with.

So, a small minority of tough, battle-tested warriors who were created with guns and swords as natural appendages decimate a larger clan because they are inferiorly constructed? And why do they do this? Because they are political entities attempting to control their respective race.

In the end, the clear minority of the robot populace wins and their species is doomed to oblivion in only a few generations, at least until they figure out a way to not only ring back the villains for a fourth movie, but also another source of energon to sustain their race. Yeah, Optimus Prime, some sort of revered robot demi-god understands that beating his kin Megatron means his race won’t have a new paradise on Earth, but instead be the houseguest that not only destroyed a precious vase, but also allowed the dog to run away, clogged the toilet and accidentally murdered your aunt.

In the end, humans side with the Autobots, not because they are on the right side of the argument when it comes to the robot species, but because they eventually save mankind. I emphasize ‘eventually’ because they only save the world after they pretend to kill themselves, in order to allow the Decepticons to show how evil they are by killing as many people as they possibly can

Moral righteousness never applies to the judgment of the American people, especially the Obama Administration, as portrayed in the film. The Autobots were as morally righteous as they were programmed to be, often threatening their allies, and the war-weary government repeatedly told them to “Fuck off. You are causing too many problems.”

Can’t argue with the logic, frankly. But being stuck in the middle of a war between powers you would much prefer leave you alone leaves you with two choices: pick a side and probably die or don’t pick a side and die anyway. First, they chose the Autobots, working secret to stop the evil Decepticons. They did this when it was to their advantage. Then, the world switched sides when it was clear the Decepticons were stronger. Only then, after realizing how bad they really were, did they welcome back the Autobots, the saviors of their way of life.

Hopping in bed with whoever offers us the best deal at the very moment? Is that the American way?

Umm…

No comment.

Perambulating through my mind tonight--I think its the coffee

If they started today, but they don’t, I’d pick the Packers, but don’t yet quote me on that. Though on a better note, I am 9-3 straight up on my picks this week!

I caught myself doing it; playing that tricky game. Like a body blow to the chest we never saw coming, the fact that the NFL regular season is almost half over struck me with a desire to be sick and keel over. How can something so good, so enjoyable, something we all waited oh so long for almost be on its way out?

If it is almost over, isn’t it prudent to look over who may or may not be playing for the Lombardi Trophy come February. I took a gander at the current NFL standings after the Sunday games for Week 8. I thought the thought we all think: if the playoffs started today, who would win?

First thing to strike you: not only would both the Houston Texans and the Cincinnati Bengals both make it to the playoffs, if the playoffs were determined today, as of this writing, they would play each other (most likely Saturday afternoon) in the Wild Card Playoffs, meaning one of them would advance to the Divisional Playoffs. The other Wild Card game would be between the erratic San Diego Chargers and the number six seeded New England Patriots.

Even in San Diego, one would assume Tom Brady and company would be favored, meaning its likely Mr. Bundchen would travel back to Pittsburgh against the current top seed in the AFC, the Steelers. While two perennial playoff teams meeting is no shock, the thought that one-half of the AFC Championship Game would be up for grabs between the Bills, Texans, and Bengals (all who would host New England, should the Pats advance—they would.) Notably missing the playoffs would be (so far, of course) the Ravens, Jets, Raiders, and Chiefs.

Besides the revelation the San Francisco 49ers would qualify for a first round bye, the NFC seems quite stable and almost chalk. The Packers are practically laminated at the number one seed, and the Giants have a precarious two game lead over the rest of their division. The weakened Saints would host the dirty Lions, while the G-Men would get last season’s number one in Chicago. Those games would be total crapshoots, but tending toward experience and home field, New York and New Orleans would seem fit to advance. (Note: we said the same thing about the Saints last year—being locked into a Wild Card victory. Note: we’ve said many, many times the Giants were practically guaranteed a playoff berth—before they wilted like a fern in a shut-in’s house.)

The Packers would be a prohibitive favorite to win the whole thing, besides being my choice, and I foresee the Niners being knocked out by whomever is lucky enough to stumble into that cupcake victory, much like the Bears lucked into playing the Seahawks and not the Saints in the playoffs last season. C’mon, the final four NFC quarterbacks could be Aaron Rodgers, Drew Brees, Eli Manning (all Super Bowl MVPs) and Alex “Yes, I am still starting for an NFL team and not blowing it” Smith. Which one of these things don’t belong? You don’t need Grover to figure this out.

Though picking the Patriots in the AFC isn’t picking the chalk number one, it sure feels like it, but perhaps that’s the Jets homer in me. They’d play the Packers, who’ll probably repeat. BWB has mentioned it previously; the Packers are the best team who have ever taken the field, this season anyway. They can air it out when it is to their advantage, but they can also have a great small game they can use to exploit the opposing defenses. Considering I am a gambler, perhaps I should put some money on this now. Faithful readers, I shall let you know.

In other nonfootball news

Ok look, I have quite a lot of interests, football is merely one of them. I also am aware this blog is called Brett Without Borders and I’ve been quite light on non-football related blogs of late, but frankly, who wants to write about a Presidential election when none of the Republican candidates including (but not limited to) Ron Paul, Herman Cain (my two favorites), Mitt Romney and the rest don’t have a snowball’s chance in DC—I mean hell—of beating our incumbent.

That’s not to say the President has done a remarkable job thus far. Anyone who knows me knows I am not a fan of him. The economy sucks. Really sucks. So bad I’m considering man-whoring on 4th Street bad. Not only do I sense his victory, I am almost positive it will happen. This nation seems to be on the brink, and we, as a whole people, seem to be reaching our boiling point, as evidenced by Tea Parties and Occupy “Insert City or Group or Whatever other noun will make a funny joke or pun.” These are the days people flock to demagogues, charlatans, and devils in disguise to solve every problem they encounter. While that would seem to lean towards an upstart Republican, you must remember we already have a demagogue charlatan in the White House who is already clenching his executive powers tighter than a nursing home resident after her prune juice.

And who wants to write about that?

(Except me, who not only just wrote about it briefly, but is also using this general theme in my upcoming manuscript, which should be ready in the coming weeks.)

Hey, guess what? Celebrities are people too—and they love the pipe! (allegedly)

Lindsay Lohan has become the most recent survivor of the affliction generally referred to as “meth tooth.” While BWB would never accuse anybody of sucking their career, friends, life, money, sanity and looks down the tube and through their discolored and dying front teeth, Miss Lohan certainly seemed willing to rock that part of her Halloween costume for quite a long time. Upon being notified she was a few weeks early in her dress-up, she now has a new set of pearly whites, to go along with her pale and gaunt skin. Now, Lindsay, just introduce yourself to the sun and you will be all set!

In news concerning actors who, you know, actually act

Should the world end in December of 2012, I will be okay with it. After all, Batman will be coming to the big screen one last time, as will the Avengers. This past decade of being a comic book fan and an extreme movie buff and obsessive fan has been nothing short of a dream come true. And though I am an Emma Stone fan (okay, for the interests of full disclosure, I’m one step below obsessed—whatever that step is.) Normally, I attempt not to rant like this, or if I do, at least provide some amount of news and information. I have none today, I just wanted to say how much I’m looking forward to seeing Batman’s back broken and seeing Tommy from 3rd Rock from the Sun become a bona fide movie star.

BWB NFL Picks Week 8: Rhyme Tyme

As clever as I think I may be
The NFL future I clearly can’t see…
No, wait! It’s coming, it just wasn’t on time
But now, I’ll be perfect, because they are all in rhyme.

A paltry six picks is all that I won.
Hell, the Chiefs had that when all was said and done.
But will I chose them Monday night?
Todd Haley’s beard is quite a fright.

Plus they say the Chargers are done,
And it’s true I believe in Norv none.
But in All Hollow’s fashion, we will get a trick
The CHARGERS in the (non) upset pick.

Foster and the TEXANS are on the hunt
This time the playoffs aren’t a publicity stunt.
They’ll run down and capture every cat they can
As the Jaguars are chasing the LA moving van.

The Desperation Dolphins head to New York
Which is like saying a hamburger is pork.
Jersey or Pluto, no matter where the GIANTS play
Miami is already fixing for draft day.

The TITANS weren’t so mighty during Week 7
But hosting Painter and the Colts is close to heaven.
Even starting a senior citizen and CJ the bust
They will grind the Colts to dust.

Battle of the birds in Baltimore, as the Cards fly in
But Pujols and Freese aren’t playing, since their Game 7 win.
Their inept O makes a comes all the way back
And the RAVENS destroy Kolb via the sack.

Cam or Christian? The choice is clear.
Newton’s future is already here.
The Vikings are a disturbing mess
And the PANTHERS are Ponder-less.

The SAINTS are ready to continue to surf
To the title of “The New Greatest Show on Turf?”
Again, they’ll win, and they’ll have a ball
But will the Rams offense show up at all?

The Seahawks suck, and they I will never pick
Watching Whitehurst makes me sick
But don’t buy the BENGALS, thinking they’ll be great
Screwing up in the draft is their fate.

Harbaugh’s NINERS are for real, and already playoff bound
They’re the true meaning of ground and pound.
The Browns are feisty and will play them stiff
Planning for Smith to revert back to Smith.

Brady must own stock in US Steel
He trounces over Pittsburgh, making them heel
The PATRIOTS are masters of pre-game tape
Big Ben is only a master of forceful…

The Redskins travel to Canada, to visit the upstart BILLS
Seeing Washington in Toronto must give the Mounties chills.
Not only is it joyous to see DC on a crippled knee,
They know the Leafs and Senators will outscore them on CBC.

Will the real LIONS finally show?
Will Tebow Time go to two and oh?
I do know what he’ll be praying for on gameday.
“For the love of God, will someone get in Suh’s way?!”

I’ve never ever believed in that Romo guy
Watching all his gaffes never made me wonder why
And I always loved watching Vick with joy
He plays with the wonder and hope of a teenage boy

Sunday night, both need the win
Both teams’ turnarounds need to begin
But neither will play error-free games
Fans will shout out “Effin” plus names.

So the question, who to pick?
Who makes the turnover that makes you sick?
Though the Cowboys are better, I will go with Andy Reid
His EAGLES stock up post-bye wins with greed.

Hopefully, I will be better than last week
That weird, wild Sunday was a fluke, a freak.
But no matter what, I will have a laughing sigh
For the Manic Jets are on a bye.

In Memoriam

How can it be so?

I'm lost, incomplete, and full of remorse. We had so much time together. We could have been great. We were great once, weren't we? We lived, loved, laughed, cried. When I was successful, you were right there by my side, as if you were attached to my left hip. When I was down and out more times than I can count, still you stayed. We had something. Now, you are gone, and I don't know what I'll do without you.

Wallet, dear sweet wallet, you may have been my best friend. As I attempted to scrape together every solitary George Washington I could encounter during my bleak and arduous high school years, where did I put them? We more often than not wasted those stark singles on frivolous expenditures, but hell, wasn't it one fun ride though?

In college, where did I keep my never-ceasing supply of condoms? In you, of course. Never mind the fact that the supply never dwindled because the demand was non-existent. That doesn't matter, because you had my back while in my pocket throughout the star-crossed journey.

When Iworked two jobs, running from one place to another in a frantic attempt to make ends meet, you were my office. I shoved, stored, and stapled items into you, shoehorning more and more stuff into you to the point you finally burst. I'm sure it hurt, but you never once complained, did you?

Those last few weeks were the toughest, weren't they? We both knew you were on your last legs. Your soft, single-fold frame made out of sturdy leather is just as tough and gruff as it always has been, but your seams, like my own creaky ankles could only take so much stress. Even as I braced the damage with a green butterfly clip, closing your gaping right side, nothing could stop the inevitable. We briefly thought about a second clip, a blue one, for the left side, remember? Ah, it is just as well.

Now, what am I to do? Where am I going to throw useless business cards for Dawn C. Hammond, Medical Ethobotanist, Washoe Legal Service's Mark Ashley, Esquire, the Great Basin Brewing Company, and a two-week old bus pass now? I mean, besides the trash can.

So here I am, sitting in this lonely, squalid hellhole of the JCSU on a day which is apparently a holiday. Even though it is Nevada Day, I don't feel like celebrating. How can I? I am now forced to carry my essentials around like this:

So, my Barnes & Noble Membership, ID, Social Security Card, Jimmy John's Repeater Eater card (only need one more punch before I earn a free sandwich!!!) my assorted bank cards, and a two-dollar bill (for good luck) with a few stamps and movie stubs tucked in its folds are being held together by the green clip which once held you together.

What am I going to do now? Before I left my house, I always dida quick check, while patting my respective pockets back and forth, starting with my right--"Keys, wallet, phone, pen, chapstick." Now, that will be replaced with--"Keys, butterfly clip, phone, pen, chapstick." Shoot me now.

Thank God Christmas is coming!

Hint, hint.

Happy Nevada Day everybody!

Why Relegation Matters. No, really, I Swear

Recently, a huge hullabaloo has hit England. No, I am not talking about the massive protests and riots amongst the agitated classes which has burned, maimed and destroyed millions of pounds of the once-sterling island. I’m not even referring to the crumbling of the European Union and the financial tsunami currently rumbling through the English Channel (and soon to flow across the Atlantic—again.) Hell, I’m not even talking about the freshest gossip concerning Princess Kate.

Of course, I am talking about sports, specifically relegation.

What??

In America, in the baseball world, players move up and down a system of minor league affiliates based on the whims and motivations of the Major League teams they are contracted to, as the players, owners, and management fight for their own personal glory, financial gain, and their place in the record books. In baseball, it is you against the system; every player must fight for their place, even with their teammates. Major League teams will stay Major no matter what; there is no chance the Toledo Mud Hens or the Columbus Clippers will attain World Series glory. The only guarantee is that greed, no matter how ideal the system is, will only corrupt the system. (See: steroids. See also: $7 beers.) European soccer is far more socialized than American rugged individualistic sports society, but so is their society, at-large.


Relegation and promotion are two amazing features in English soccer (football, as I call it, soccer.) The English Premier League the top-flight soccer league in England, if not all of the world, consists of twenty teams. At the end of the season, the bottom three teams are relegated (demoted) to the second-tier league, and the top three from the Championship League (the aforementioned second-tier) are promoted. This promotion occurs between every level of professional soccer in England, giving even the last place Plymouth Argyle FC of League Two a legitimate dream of one day winning the Champions League. The clubs work together to attain a goal, even if it takes years. In theory, working together pays dividends. However, the only guarantee is that greed, no matter how ideal the system is, will only corrupt the system. (See: £80m transfer fees and 920% price inflation.)

The relegation system, in place for generations, is an integral part of the soccer landscape, which is an integral part of English society. So, of course, relegation is under attack from American and other foreign-based owners of English soccer clubs, desperate to avoid being relegated, and thus have their product devalued. There is a huge outcry against such talk in England, but considering their societal and historical weakness (not to mention their paranoia) against foreign invasion (World War II excluded because they never were actually invaded. Bombed to shit? Yes. Invaded? No,) they will eventually cave-in, at least until they stop allowing foreigners to buy their nation right from under them. And it is a pity, because I think relegation should be brought over to the American sports—right away.

Think about it, it could solve the NBA’s lockout overnight. If you broke up the league into two flights, between the playoff teams and non-playoff teams from last season, you’d have one super-competitive league of the best markets in the game: Chicago, Miami, Boston, New York, Philadelphia, Los Angeles (the good one), Dallas, and even Oklahoma City all playing to sold-out arenas. The quality of the games would be immense, every night would be must-see television. Granted, some of those teams would have bad records (being the worst of the best means they never would win the title anyway, but at least they’d have the Lakers and Celtics come to town.)

The Golden States and the Clevelands of the world would be playing against each other, creating more competitive games, generating more and more interest in the sport. Vying against each other, the bottom fourteen in two conferences of seven would compete for their conference championships, the winner getting promoted. The bottom team in each conference of the top-tier NBA would be demoted. Imagine, for a moment, if Memphis, last season’s number eight seed in the West, would have been demoted. On a mission to redeem themselves, they’d tear through the NBA Championship League in order to regain their status amongst the NBA Premier League Teams.


Wholesale societal changes in sports might sound extreme now; abolishing the status quo is tough for many people, especially with institutions we hold dear, and how many men hold sports teams tighter than their family? Thousands? Millions?

Why stop at sports? Why not health care? What about in finance? Or government?

Or, maybe, Americans can stop intervening in the domestic affairs of other nations.

The Bets Part II. Or, why I can't stand Tim Tebow

My knee continued to swell with each broken step. The pain had vanished the night before in a blend of remedies not normally blended together. Soreness, as if I had just finished a two hour workout focused entirely on my right leg, had crept in overnight; constant standing and walking behind the bar at the Lobsta made it unbearable.

And though my leg was aching to be chopped off at the hip, I paid it little attention. My thoughts were squarely centered on my picks for the week: Bears, Jets, Dolphins, Raiders, Steelers, Cowboys, Packers. It was nearly one o’clock on the west coast and I was sitting pretty. The Bears and Matt Forte were running all over the overvalued and seemingly undersized Tampa Bay Buccaneers in London, and the Jets were in the midst of holding on to a game in which the San Diego Chargers gave up.

The Desperation Dolphins were up 15-0 when my co-worker Sam, who helped me with my locked keys saga two nights previous walked into Tha Lobsta. “How my Dolphins doing?” he asked with a fair amount of foreboding.

“Don’t worry, they are up 15-0. They have the game in the bag,” I replied. He looked worried, anguished even. He was naturally a jovial sort; I wondered aloud often whether he let anything bother him at all.

“I picked the Broncos today,” he admitted. “The first time I picked against my team and they are going to win.”

“Just goes to show you,” I admonished him with a wink in my eye. “Perhaps you can bet against them for the rest of the year and they will win out and make the playoffs.”

We both got a good chuckle and I looked up at the television screen, still showing the remaining minutes of the Falcons-Lions game. Tebow was making a comeback, so said the ticker at the bottom of the screen. Dolphins 15, Broncos 7. Uh oh.

I dusted, wiped and cleaned every square centimeter of the bar, and awaited the second half of the doubleheader and attempted to take my mind off of Tim Tebow and his offensive line consisting of his heart, his guts, his faith, his desire never to give up, and his fan base (oh wait, they weren’t playing, my bad. From all their Tebow talk these past two weeks, it was easy to forget.)

All of a sudden, it was 15-15 and overtime. What?!

Tim Tebow, as great a man as he may be, has no business on an NFL football field being a starting quarterback, that much was clear to me. And granted, the Desperation Dolphins are the leaders in the clubhouse concerning the Andrew Luck Sweepstakes, but how was it even possible the Chosen One had tied the game?

To look for a sign, a clue, or even a whimper of what was happening in South Florida, I turned my attention to the other television in the bar: it was showing the Raiders and the Chiefs. Kyle Boller was starting for the Raiders because Carson Palmer was not yet ready; nor was he, it seems. The first play I watched happened it slow motion, at least it seemed it was because even I read the defense quicker than poor Mr. Boller did. Interception returned for a touchdown. The game was over before it began; it was all the Chiefs needed. I went from an easy 3-0 to start my seven team parlay to a quick 2-2 and an early exit for my BWB picks.

Lessons learned: don’t ever take Kyle Boller, ever and don’t pick a team when even their fans know it is a lost cause.

The Steelers came through, as I knew they would. Still, the Cardinals made it closer than it should have been, which would worry me, if I cared anything about the health and long-term quality of Steelers football. The Cowboys didn’t let me down either. Next, they get to go to Philadelphia Sunday night. Everybody, go to Mo’s! And the damn Packers won, but didn’t cover. Green Bay seemed as shocked as
everyone, besides Mama Ponder, that Christian kept his Vikings team competitive.

On my official seven team ticket, I was 4-3 overall, 5-2 straight up. As of this writing, I’m still hoping for a Raven win to pad my stats, but as it stands, I am officially 6-6 (not counting my ten team parlays I compulsively created.) Go Ravens!

The Official As It Stands Now Super Bowl XLVI Prediction Courtesy of BWB is Packers 35, Ravens 14

The First Ever BWB NFL Bets, Part I

At last!

Yes, an actual blog post.  Guess what folks, I made the first ever BWB NFL Picks, and not a moment too soon.

Friday Afternoon

I arrive at the Club Cal-Neva Sports book and am completely overwhelmed.  I have been in the cavernous top floor many times, but never to bet.  Where once I saw desperate men chatting, pouring over games of no real meaning save for their spot on the big board.  The men drank too much scotch, smoked the good kind of cigars and, frankly, frightened me.  The locals played here; the casino was the trashy one on the strip, and the tourists knew it.

It was the day I ceased being a tourist, and became a Reno-ite.

…at least, that was the plan.

Instead of hobnobbing with the locals, attempting to pick up any sure bets, bad beats, or crooked lines, I realized I hadn’t budgeted enough time to place my bets and make it to work on time.  So, in a frazzled dash from the parking garage through the skyway, past the oddly-placed restaurant, and into said Sports Book, I hastily grabbed four parlay cards and vowed to fill them in before kickoff Sunday.

Friday Evening—Work

Insanely busy night at work with a great co-worker who has the ability to be fantastic, though seemed a little to overwhelmed behind the bar.  Insane money was made, football never factored in.  But, she’s a Dolphins fan.

Friday Night—After Work

I have my sister’s car.  True fans of BWB will know this is a (largely) a bipedal and bus institution run on trail mix and peppermint mochas.  BWB continues to save money by not paying for gasoline, car insurance, general upkeep and loan payments and simply paying bus fare.

I walk out of Tha Lobsta with C; I like her.  She has the best cynical sense of humor.  It fits her sometimes; sometimes it seems too contrived, like she’s desperately cynical and it’s not an acts.  I like her a lot.

I pay attention to nothing but her as I open the trunk, place my apron and assorted work-related tools in their carrying case, toss it gently back into the trunk and slam the trunk shut, along with my keys.  C drives away and smiles, at least I think she does.  She looks like a Raiders fan.

With the help of two other coworkers, one of which I may or may not have felt up while attempting to find a cigar cutter, I was able to use a metal pipe through the passenger’s window to unlock the door and enter the cabin, where I was able to retrieve the keys.  She’s a Steelers fan, and he is a Dolphins fan too.  Damn, these Dolphins must be desperate.

Saturday Morning—Spanish Springs

I return my sister’s car, and am promptly served with karma.  I knock on the door and am met quickly by Jules’ dogs.  In attempt to protect my sister, their queen, Champ and Boo-Boo attack.  Boo-Boo bit me twice, once in the ankle, one just above the knee.  I got the message.  I’m taking Chicago in London.  

My sister is a Jets fan, mostly because I’m a Jets fan.  Meh, good enough for me.  

Saturday Evening—The Couch

I drift in and out of consciousness during World Series Game Three.  The game is good enough, and it was amazing to see Albert Pujols hit those three home runs.  Though I might have been asleep for the first one.  If you watched it, you just knew he was going to hit that last one in the ninth.  Not only was he locked in, he was smiling between pitches, knowing the sacrificial lamb was coming.  All of Arlington knew it, it was fated.  Cardinals in 6.  But, there’s no chance the Bradford-less Rams can outscore the Cardinals, let alone the Cowboys.  Plus, one of my best friends is a Cowboys fan, and I can’t go against my bro.
And his fiancé is a Packers fan, and they are absolutely the best team on the planet.  Aaron Rodgers is less leading a team than the Conductor of the Boston Pops, leading a masterpiece in motion where no fluid motion is unaccounted for.  They are the perfect team.

Sunday Morning—Placing the Bets

I hastily threw my seven teamer together: Bears, Jets, Dolphins, Raiders, Steelers, Cowboys, Packers.  Five dollar bet would win $520.  Damn it, why did I have to bet on the Jets?

I picked the other six games too, putting them on a separate ticket of their own: Panthers, Browns, Titans, Lions, Colts (taking the points) Sunday Night and the Ravens on Monday.  My strategy: pick all home teams unless someone is getting over two touchdowns.  I know the Colts suck without Peyton Manning and the Saints are supposedly still superior, but I have to gamble a little, right?  That’s a six-teamer that could win me $260.

I consider myself lucky I only spent ten dollars in the casino, and resolve to leave, but as it stands, I left for the casino early and now have more than forty minutes to kill before my bus departs.  While I’m here, I think about other parlays.  I ball up my ten biggest sure-fire wins: Bears, Jets, Dolphins, Raiders, Steelers, Cowboys, Packers, Lions, Ravens, and Saints (I think this is considered hedging my bets, and though this was the way the stock market crashed in 2008, I do it anyway and hope nobody sees me.)

I  throw a fit with myself about my complete lack of faith in Curtis Painter, Dallas Clark, and the legally blind and disabled Kerry Collins and their winless bunch of Ponies.  They do seem to be very, very good at sucking for a sure-fire number one pick, however and I furiously fight against every instinct in my furthest reaches to rip up my six-teamer.  Figuring, rightly, that even Jim Caldwell has a mother, I resolve to give them one more chance and quickly produce another ten teamer of teams I originally picked against: Bucs, Redskins, Chargers, Seahawks, Texans, Broncos, Falcons, Chiefs, Cardinals, and the Colts.

I left after that, fortunately for me.  Stay tuned for the results Monday and Tuesday!

POEM: Untying the Nots

Holy smokes. May? I can hardly believe it has been five months since I've posted on this blog. I have excuses, but they are just that. So, to my few friends and followers of this webpage, I apologize. I promise to post far more often than never. And, as a show of good faith, I post this poem I have just finished. Please, read it and post any and all feedback you have. More after the poem.

I’m a big ball of yarn, sad but true
Twisted and tangled, a faded blue
Against this wall, I quietly lay
Waiting for my time to be used some day.

One thing I can plainly see
Is a bright blue sweater, sewn from me
Either hand-knitted or faux-Cardigan form
Ready to tackle the elements, wintery warm.

On Thanksgiving Day, I could easily be
An Afghan blanket snuggling you with glee
Ensconced in joy, Grandma’s couch we sit
Basking in the aromas love and turkey care to emit.

But really the thing I most wish I could be
Is a toy for a kitten who’d love to play with me
She’d playfully paw, not caring I’m frayed
Prancing and pouncing, not seeing I’m staid.

But dust and doubt most decidedly cling
Perpetual potential is trapped in my string
You can imagine it now, but can you see
All of those wonderful things I can be?

Give me a chance to put in the work
Clean myself up, get out of the murk
Fixing the frays, finding the spots
One day soon, I will untie all the nots.

Tune in this weekend, where we will make the first official BWB NFL bets, and chronicle how we do.

A Pound of Flesh Can Be Exchanged for American Peace, And You Don't Even Have to Go to Kohl's

Like most Americans, I can recall precisely what I was doing, who I was doing it with, and most importantly, how I felt, when I learned of the September 11 terrorist attacks almost ten years ago. I wanted blood, I wanted revenge, I wanted satisfaction. It only makes sense to want to punch back the man who socks you in the gut while you aren’t paying attention.

Now, Osama bin Laden, the 9/11 mastermind, has been killed by Navy SEALS in Pakistan. Now, we have gotten our pound of flesh. Now, our insatiable bloodlust has been quenched. Right?

I certainly applaud President Obama’s successful completion of a mission President Bush started almost ten years ago, and President Clinton claimed to have been focused on to the point of distraction (I’m sure) years before. After reading about the mission, I’ve become more and more impressed with the brave men and women who brought it about. Still, the last thing in the world I feel is refreshed and at ease because bin Laden has perished.

What do we do moving forward? According to Wikileaks documents (which have thus far proven to be quite accurate—whether or not they ever should have been released is another question for another day) al Qaeda has promised nuclear attacks should their leader be killed. While I can’t say with any certainty whether or not they have any nuclear material to attack us with, it only stands to reason that our enemies, who revere martyrs in all their forms starting with Mohammed and culminating with douchebags with bombs strapped to their chest killing peaceful people in coffee shops, will attempt something, somewhere.

Moving forward, what are we, the American people, to do? First, we need to look at our presence in the Middle East. First, let us examine Iraq, which supposedly, but not actually, had ties with al-Qaeda. April was the deadliest month in the country in two years, but since we aren’t “officially” there anymore, that shouldn’t concern us, right?

And how about Afghanistan? We invaded that nation in October 2001 under the guise of capturing and killing as many of the bad guys who attacked us as possible, and to displace the regime friendly to their efforts. We quickly dislodged the Taliban, but the longer we stay there, the greater their strength in numbers grow as they attempt to dislodge the Americans, the “evil foreign invader infidels.”

And that isn’t even mentioning the fact Osama bin Laden just happened to be in Pakistan, and had been there for years, in a bedroom community of Islamabad, the capital. Now that bin Laden is, in fact, dead, and the terrorist network he leads is on the ropes, though by no means defeated, why should we give them any more ammunition in our continued presence in Afghanistan and Iraq?

Please, Mr. President, you claim to be a good liberal. You say you are anti-war. With this boost in popularity, not only in my eyes, but in the eyes of the American people, please strongly consider leaving Iraq and Afghanistan tomorrow, or as soon as possible. Do not claim to stay in the best interest of those nations, for most of the average citizenry certainly doesn’t want us there. Whether we stay two more days or ten more years, you can expect the nation to fall into the hands of those we are trying to keep it away from the moment we leave (see: Vietnam.)

Please, Mr. President, we have won the war. Now please, win us the peace. We have put far too much on the line for those God-forsaken deserts that it seems an insult to those who have fought bravely and died for this nation to cut and run without victory. But what is the greater sacrifice? Leaving the fight, conscious of what it has cost us as a nation, and unwilling to pay a further price for no true objective or continuing on with a fight, sacrificing more and more men, women, and precious resources in vain attempt to make up for the mistakes of previous administrations?

Mr. President, I am no fan of your domestic policies, but I swear with all that is holy and avowed, I shall support your re-election if you can save further American lives by leaving Afghanistan for the Afghanis, Iraq for the Iraqis, and Libya for the Libyans. Let this victory you had last week bring about a new age of American foreign policy. We do not have to be the world’s policemen. We do not have to be interventionists. We don’t have to be imperialists. We can be strong, stable allies to the nations we are friendly with, giving support for the defense of Israel, Britain, Canada, or any other ally which needs it. But we have no right to install and topple governments simply because can, or believe we have the right to do so.

Now is the time to act. Now is the time when you have all the cards, and you can deal them out however you like. With this great victory, you have given America the blood it so richly desired (and possibly deserved.) Don’t blow it!

POEM: The Tourist

Head drooped past my knees
A low-hanging waning crescent moon

Leaving the cold, unforgiving room
Smelling of the sweaty scent of self-disgust

The buck-shot decision, scattered justifications
On the very decision to enter the Satan’s cavern

Now I’m in emotional triage
Licking my wounds initiated an expensive infection

I spend a moment on each illogical illumination
“I’m bored” and “I’m lonely”

“It’s not the dumbest thing you’ve done this week, let alone ever, so why care?”
“It’ll be fun.”

Only as I leave the bright building
Built on dreams and nightmares alike

Do I finally regard my deceptive delusions
Which believes in the comical contrapositive

That my judgment is sound
In the light of the rising sun over the glittering towers of excess

Seeking fortune in a mining town
Now specializing in soul extraction

POEM: Burst

How is it your deep eyes pierce
Thrusting directly into my fractured soul
Soothing, gentle, yet necessarily fierce
Patching the pieces, plugging the hole?

I don’t know how you do
Why you do
What you do to me
But I thank you

Why, with the grace and dexterity of a warm spring breeze
Emitting the aroma of oranges and ginger,
Can you grind and groove through this world with ease?
You’re driving hot burning impulse I’ve yet to finger.

I don’t know how you do
Why you do
What you do to me
But I thank you

What is the reason you touch me so
With a steamy shove from above?
My balloon bursts, after shaking to and fro
I love how you show your love

I don’t know how you do
Why you do
What you do to me
And I thank you

POEM: One Step

One step changed my life…
One step shocked my world…

You entered as casually as a lightning bolt in a prairie
Frightened furry creatures frantically fleeing
You wore your electro-static suit with style
The agape apes in the atrium all affronted
Your second-hand clothing spoke of stories one thousand miles long
I knew then I would read them all.

One step stopped my heart…

Strolling past the transfixed masses, all aghast
Dressed like dour druids in stylish gym wear and sorority sweaters
You sarcastically smiled, silently soliciting sneers towards your ripped stockings
Ironically coming from the clones with “fashionably torn” jeans.
All I could countenance were your contoured legs keeping cadence with my pulse
Or was it the other way around?

One step made me laugh…

As I stared, you strutted sure-footed for a spot, as steady as a man in stilettos
Swaying forward and back, left and right, a rickety gait.
Bubbling and percolating like the coffee you carried
My butterflies broke out with a boisterous burst

One step caught my eye…

Your entrancing eyes enveloped mine, eliciting an eternal eclipse
Was I looking upon you or the heavens? And did it matter?
The universe was residing in the library, five feet from me
Casually floating past, harpooning my helpless heart.

One step stole my soul…

Your bespeckled face brought unburdened sincerity
Your Cheshire cat smile rewrote history and altered the future
I knew not your name, nor the wondrous world of your whimsical whisper
With one step, I’d correct those grave injustices…

One step forward towards my world’s revolution…
One step towards the meaning of life…
One step and I will be that much closer to you…

POEM: Rachel Maddow

Rachel Maddow
By Brett Johansson

You are an artist, a performer
Call it what you will
You ply your trade
The money goes to your coffer from their till
They implicitly agree with your message
I have nothing against that, mind you
But I must question if you are fair.

You call yourself an analyst or pundit
Who patrols the political ground
Who gets paid by a corporation
In Obama’s pocket. Or is that the other way around?
I’m not suggesting an evil cabal
Why should GE air anything but their stance?
There doesn’t have to be a conspiracy
Why upset the guys who pay you to dance?

I’m not saying you are corrupt
But the system is
You can have whichever belief you like
Thankfully America is still free
We all have a patron
We are all a court painter
Why question when you benefit?
Why see the danger?

POEM: Parrot in Massachusetts

One wonders what it is like to be free?
One wonders whether the others think what it’s like to be me?

The glass menagerie I inhabit is nothing but a cage
Containing my irrepressible, inconsolable rage

I could soar and glide for a thousand years
Instead my wings wipe away my tears

But with my burning desire for my wings to spread
Comes a frightening, innate sense of dread

From my box, I see a fellow bird drink, and then she flees
Those dastardly hunters love the black-capped chickadees

The predators exist outside my gilded life
My rococo feathers save me from strife

My wings could help me escape their clutches, I bet
Instead, my good looks instead keep me as man’s pet

How I wish I could sip precious water from outside my box!
But one wonders what it would be like to be eaten by a fox?

Who will replace the President? Is there anybody worthwhile? Eh...

The President has officially begun his re-election campaign, surprising almost nobody by posting it online. Personally, I wouldn’t have been surprised if had went aboard the USS Ronald Reagan and unfurled a banner stating, “No really, I promise we still can!”

Will the President win in 2012? Honestly, I think so. As with 2008, his biggest competition will not come from his Republican challenger, but from within the party, namely Secretary of State (for now) Hillary Clinton. While it is certainly probable Secretary Clinton can and will beat him, and while it is also possible a rightist candidate like Sarah Palin or Donald Trump can mount a strong challenge, if I were to place a bet, I’d still put my money on Obama.

That being said, I am the biggest Obama basher in the world, and would love nothing better than to recycle him in the same bin as his ‘green’ light bulbs. Here are my top ten contenders, in reverse order, to knock off Mr. President:

Only if everyone else inexplicably reveals they too were born in Kenya
10. Newt Gingrich
Current occupation: Republican Hack
Victory Chance in Primaries: Less than 1%

Poor Newt believes in his heart of hearts that his corrupt Republican regime is coming back full-swing, with the emergence of the Tea Party on the right wing. What the former Speaker doesn’t realize is that the Tea Party movement will either wilt like a flower dying in the cloudy desert of Washington or will split off and create a real-life conservative political party. Either way, the American public is never going to vote for a retread.

9. Ron Paul
Current occupation: Republican Congressman from Texas
Victory Chance: 1%

Mr. Paul is the true voice of conservative libertarianism, and is a big hit with many young college students. Believing idealism is the most important aspect of politics, Mr. Paul has outraised all other Republicans in campaign contributions, though that won’t matter to the average American, or even Republican, voter. To most Americans, he is the small, elvish-looking man whose hippy, pot-smoking followers are a mere sideshow. Mr. Paul would be better off throwing his support behind a younger, more idealistic, yet more palatable presidential choice.

8. Michele Bachman,
Current occupation: Republican Congressman from Minnesota
Victory Chance: 4%

The only way this Tea Party favorite will win her nomination is if Sarah Palin decides not to run. The sleepy American electorate will be shocked and awoken my her fiery anti-Obama rhetoric and her strong (well, stronger than the current President’s pre-President) credentials. She represents perfectly the soccer mom, middle-American mentality the same way Obama represented the under-represented minority. And if you don’t think the symbolic gesture of political image doesn’t matter, you clearly weren’t paying attention in 2008.


Only if We the People don’t pay attention to their track records and history…you know, just like last time
7. Insert Republican Governor Here
Current occupation: Governors of varied states in the Union
Victory Chance: 8%
There’s been talk of Marco Rubio (Florida), Chris Christie (New Jersey), Tim Pawlenty (Minnesota), and Bobby Jindal (Louisiana) running for President in 2012. Good luck to all of you. If you could all take your titles and beings, combine them like Voltron into one massive governor with Christie’s ideas, Jindal’s assertive strength, Pawlenty’s blue-dog appeal, and Rubio’s look and heritage and create one super candidate, they would win hands-down. Otherwise, by splitting the vote so many ways, it will create an unwinnable scenario for each in the primary season.

6. Dark horse ex-military guy Republican or Democrat here
Current occupation: Appearing on a cable news channel as an analyst, bemoaning the President’s poor military decisions at bars
Victory Chance: 10%

America wants strong, confident candidates for President, which was why we voted for Obama in the first place. We believed in him as that strong leader, much to our chagrin. If a competent former general (Wesley Clark, feel free to not show up) were to throw their hat in the ring, Colin Powell or Stanley McCrystal come to mind, they could stand up as a balance to the ineffectual President. Chances are it won’t happen, but I’d still like to see it.

The Contenders
5. Mitt Romney
Current Occupation: Male Supermodel
Victory Chance: 17%

Let’s face it, the man looks the part. In my lifetime, we went from the wizened old Grandfather (Reagan) who looked as if he and his wife would offer you fresh-baked goods when you entered the White House, next to the cantankerous old Grandfather (Bush) who would not-so-politely ask you not to touch the knickknacks and to stay off the carpet, then to the party-boy cousin (Clinton) who’s White House you were frightened to touch anything in, to his frat-boy younger brother (W) turned Christian reformer who shouldn’t have been trusted with the keys to the car, let alone the nation, to the bungling next door neighbor (Obama) who could sell you a car you already owned. We the People need someone who seems like they know what they are doing, not someone who actually knows what they are doing. Romney is every bit the charlatan Obama is, pretends he is as pious as W did, probably parties as hard, if not harder, than Clinton, but also looks responsible like the aloof Bush and the vacant Reagan. What’s not to like about his candidacy?

4. Sarah Palin
Current occupation: Female Supermodel
Victory Chance: 19%

Copy and paste Romney’s credentials over hers and the only thing you’d have to add are nicer legs, women’s innate jealousy which they can’t quite comprehend, and an actual tenacity and desire to fix America. If women weren’t so intimidated by her, she would have carried the decrepit McCain to victory. Oh yeah, also…she doesn’t seem quite all there in the head.

3. Donald Trump
Current occupation: Hair Model, television personality, billionaire real estate mogul
Victory Chance: 20%

Simply with his massive money and his built-in platform in our minds by being one of the most famous men in the entire world. With the government’s finances in the tank, America is desperate for a financial wizard. But hasn’t Mr. Trump gone bankrupt? I guess that makes him a great candidate, considering our nation is spending 8 times the revenue it takes in.

2. Hillary Clinton
Current occupation: Secretary of State
Victory Chance in the Democratic Primary: 49%

She was the sensible Democratic pick in 2008, and should she run, her base would be reinvigorated and possibly grow exponentially. She would be a force against the weakened President (a la Reagan against Ford in 1976). I don’t think she’d win, and honestly I don’t think she would be much better than Obama if she did win, but I certainly hope she will try. As devious and Machiavellian as she is, I’d take her over the Communist any day.

1. Rand Paul
Current Occupation: Republican Senator from Kentucky
Victory Chance in the Republican Primary : 21%

I know, I know, he hasn’t officially run for President. I also know he probably wouldn’t run if his father was also running for President, which is why I hope Ron Paul steps aside, shifting all of his supporters to his father. Rand Paul has already faced a contentious election in a swing state against a moderate Democrat. He’s the Republican Obama, has been quite critical of the federal spending, and he doesn’t desire compromise with those destroying this nation. He wants to trim the government like a bonsai tree and is even a bud smoker (see Buddha, Aqua). He is against our foreign interventionist policy, which is reason enough to garner my vote, should he run.

Mr. President, Please Leave the Middle East NOW!

This is what happens. This is why you don’t get involved. This is why the people of the United States must, at the very least through Congress, agree to go to war when the President requests such actions.

Now, we have wars which aren’t technically wars; we have overseas contingency operations, peace-keeping missions, police action, and slick names like Operation Desert Storm and Odyssey Dawn and Iraqi freedom to cover up the fact that our government has been arbitrarily bringing perpetual warfare to whichever backwaters’ outpost they choose.

Besides the Bush-led Iraq wars, Bill Clinton unmercifully bombed Yugoslavia in order to change the lead news story to something other than his phallus. Anybody remember Grenada? If not that little dirt spot, what about Costa Rica? Nicaragua? Vietnam? Korea? Anybody remember those war declarations?

And now we have Libya; and we have questions on whether we are going to become involved in the protests and riots and possible civil war in Syria. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, after deflecting any question of Syrian involvement along the lines of Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya, said, “Each of these situations is unique,” referring of course to the fact that Yemen, Jordan, Egypt, Libya, Morocco, Syria and Bahrain are now on fire thanks in large part to American maneuvering.

What is next for Libya? Nobody really knows. Russia Foreign Minister Sergei Lavrov believes it not to be in the United Nations mandate to become involved into a civil war; a charge I support. "We consider that intervention by the coalition in what is essentially an internal civil war is not sanctioned by the U.N. Security Council resolution," he said, referring to the Security Council resolution which was passed with the sole intent of protecting civilians.

He is hardly alone in the Russian state; Prime Minister Vladimir Putin referenced the strongest dagger one can wield when he referred to the actions as a “crusade.” Mr. Putin, the strongest leader of the second-strongest nation on earth (just below China), would not comment on whether his actions against Muslim Chechens were a crusade as well, mainly because the times of asking tough questions to politicians in ‘free’ societies who obviously have some moral authority on what counts as a crusade, a human rights violation, or a ‘good’ war have long since passed.

That being said, I agree wholeheartedly with Mr. Putin. The United States should not become involved any further in Libya, nor should they become involved with any Jordanian, Syrian, or even Iranian internal revolutions. Moreover, with this nation currently fighting in three Muslim nations, one has to wonder whether our heavy-handed antics will bring about the crusade Mr. Putin suggests, however with a different target in mind: America.

Not only are the United States, UN, and NATO becoming involved in an African continent civil war, there is even talk about arming the ‘rebels,’ the vaguest of all media and government-sponsored rhetoric depicting the Libyan ‘freedom fighters’ as Middle Eastern versions of John Adams and Luke Skywalker.

Richard Lugar, the President’s one Republican friend, the one he keeps around to insist he isn’t ‘Republican-ist,’ that he has a lot of Republican friends, they just keep opposite schedules, doesn’t believe we should be involved in the Libyan conflict. Being in the minority of his little clique, Lugar’s ideas and beliefs are never paid attention to when the chips are down, especially when his logical opinions go against Presidential yes-men. Obama doesn’t understand the irony of the situation.

Three wars in three Muslim nations with a President who believes his smile and his lineage will allow him to still stay on friendly terms with the radicals who WILL take over in the Middle East. Hope and change?

POEM: Prescription for Addiction

I had been watching the news with a grimace and cringe
The world is unraveling and now starting to fringe
Misery after misery is tough to take in stride
A queasy eternity on a roller coaster ride

The economy sucks, the politicians “fixing” it are worse
Being addicted to the news is a verifiable curse
Wallowing in human horrors, I began to unhinge
So, on doctor’s orders, I went on a weed and booze binge


On my sister’s birthday, Egypt was set ablaze
But thankfully, I was in a Absolut Citron haze
I never once noticed the panic in Cairo’s streets
The only thing that mattered were the DJ’s phat beats

I didn’t realize the revolutions were starting to spread
Because I was popping pills like a reverse PEZ head
Libya’s leader has been striking his citizens all week long
The only thing I’m hitting is my two-foot bong.


While workers in Wisconsin worried their jobs would go missing
I was at the club Wurk, getting hyphy and thizzing
As the tension and anger reached an apogee
I crashed and fell to my bed in complete apathy

Riots and protests elsewhere seem inevitable too
But I have a hangover, calling in to work with the “flu”
With three days off, I smoke out everyone I see
Never watching CNN, but MTV, Bravo, and E!


While Japan was terrorized with tremors and quakes
My Bailey’s and coffee gave me nervous shakes
The next tragedy was a terrible, killer tidal wave
At the time, I was popping X at a killer rave

Nuclear meltdowns are imminent, thousands more could soon be dead
But don’t worry, I already am in the head
The technology we create will destroy us all
But drunk and gambling, I’m having a ball!


Drunk and dazed as I certainly may be
It seems the President is right there with me
Where’s the man who’s supposed to set the world right?
Even stoned, I heard about the White House Motown night.

We all feel it differently, to me it is that subtle cringe
But sometimes it is more like a hot knife’s stabbing twinge
We’re riding the Titanic, the world as we know it is about to end
So, what the hell? Let’s all just get high, my friend!

The Case Against Mr. Smith and the Committee

The selection committee did a terrible job. They did so bad of a job, that completely screwing up the one task you have should now be considered pulling a “Selection Sunday.” Every year the pundits come out and bash and punish the committee for leaving one team or another out, so that should come as no surprise, but the overwhelming animosity against the picks of VCU and UAB over more-deserving teams leads one to wonder, who is correct?

Did the committee get it right? Are the pundits correct about how poorly the committee did? The answer lies with the Athletic Director for The Ohio State University, a man named Gene Smith, and he had the busiest week in America.

He had to deal with being the Chairman of the NCAA basketball tournament selection committee, debating and supervising the bracket-making, which coincidentally put his Ohio State Buckeyes atop them as number one overall. Afterwards, Mr. Smith had to field a series of questions on why Alabama-Birmingham, an underwhelming Conference-USA regular-season champion, made the tournament, but SEC West regular-season champion Alabama didn’t.

“I couldn’t point to one thing,” Mr. Smith said. “They’re a very good ballclub. We all know that.”

Pardon me, I must have missed the memo. And what about Colorado? And Virginia Tech? Why did Virginia Commonwealth, a third-place Colonial Athletic Conference get a bid over those snubbed?

For Gene Smith’s comments of the tournament-worthiness of VCU, please copy and paste his words for UAB, and add about thirteen more “greats.”

This man had no idea what the hell he was talking about, in respect to the quality of teams. Rumors of dissention in the ranks of the committee, hard and hurt feelings, plus serious disagreement was evident in his words, though he was far too-political to say anything aloud, yet.

While celebrating his team’s Big Ten Conference Tournament Championship, Mr. Smith seemed

Was somebody trying to make sure the under-represented mid-majors got their fair share of the pie?

Possibly. The newly-expanded field of 68 (up three from 65) includes three more at-large teams, setting up an opening round including two matchups between what are dubbed “the last four in.” The matchups for those two games are Clemson (Atlantic Coast Conference) versus Alabama-Birmingham and Southern California (Pac-10 Conference) against Virginia Commonwealth.

Major versus mid-major; major versus mid-major. It seems far too coincidental that the two mid-majors whom nobody thinks should be in the tournament over two power conference teams in order to have a more politically acceptable opening round slate of games? Imagine if Virginia Tech and Colorado had made the field over VCU and UAB. The “last four in” games would then consist of four power teams fighting over the two spots. And the media would have killed them for under-representing the mid-majors because, even with the inclusion of VCU and UAB, mid-majors had one fewer at-large bids than last year.

Factor in the fact Mr. Smith had a whole lot more on his plate than the political games being played behind the scenes with the tournament, Mr. Smith had more political intrigue brewing at his own university. Mr. Smith had to punish his BCS Championship-winning head coach Jim Tressel for two meaningless games due to his mismanagement stemming from his students selling their memorabilia to persons involved in a federal drug case.

While the players got suspended for five games for failing to follow the rules, though many won’t ever serve them because they won’t be in school next season anyway, Coach Tressel, the man who should know better, knew about it, and didn’t do anything about it. This is also the man who coached Maurice Clarett. Tressel, normally a man held in high esteem in the college community, has lost a bit of his luster. One wonders what is next for OSU?

Mr. Smith had a lot on his plate, that much is true. Did he slack a little, get lazy and not run as tight a ship as possible? Did he and his crew overlook some teams over others to appease the masses? Did they do a good job? I have a reasonable doubt.

The Wind Story

The porch was sopping wet; the snowfall from only the second major snowstorm of the season hadn’t been shoveled, and only now, a week later, was it melting. It hadn’t made sense to get rid of it; the creaky stairs leading to the small side porch off the kitchen presented one directly with their own mortality. It was a well-known secret that the landlord of the property, a man named Courtney, didn’t know the first thing about carpentry. First off, he believed the term belonged to someone who dealt with carpets.

Second, my roommate swears he has, on occasion, seen a ghost on those stairs. The apparition appears only on moonlit nights; he says it stands atop the porch, and upon seeing something in the backyard somewhere, it casually begins a walk down the stairs, towards the driveway, but upon leaning on the railing, the apparition falls through, plummeting ten feet from the top of the porch to the sloping downward driveway. The apparition did not end; according to my roommate. He said once, “The ghost falls ten feet, and lands on her face in the driveway just as a truck is backing out of the driveway; they don’t see her and they run her over.”

I asked, “Is that all?” amazed such a straight-laced, drug-free adult would admit to believing in seeing such a spectacle multiple times.

He replied, “No. Two ghost men get out of the ghost truck and they run back to see what they hit. They check on the ghost, who turns out to be a girl; and then they throw her in the back of the truck and drive off.”

I didn’t believe him; but then I figured, Courtney is a really bad carpenter, electrician, arsonist, and exterminator, so it would be better not to risk it.

It was forty degrees outside, according to my newly bald head, which is as accurate a weather instrument as my Grandma’s knee. The temperature is probably warmer on the thermometer just four inches to my left, hanging on the outside wall, direct sunlight hitting it. A blast of cool wind off the mountains to the west, my right, recalled the springs of my youth. Back then, I hated wearing a winter hat; something about the raw, real cold spoke to me, even then. I knew I was a man if I could stand up to the cold. Now, pushing thirty, balding, and newly buzzed down to the metal, the cold wind masquerading itself with warm temperatures only excited me.

The wind was always blowing in Reno, something was always moving in and coming out. Much like the city itself. Action reigned; just not the Vegas type. If you want late-night Vietnamese food, Reno is king. If you want cheap, buck-toothed, hairy legged hookers, Reno is king. If you want the wind, as I did, Reno is king. The wind was as varied as the places it came from; and it came from all directions, sometimes at the same time.

My mind was ravenous; sticking my head out of the door had inspired me. I had to write. I had to write right now!

I race to my bedroom and grab my laptop computer. I bring it back into the kitchen and place it down on the counter top, but finding it to be cramped with unexpected items: a side view mirror from a truck, old papers and bills from months previous, a giant plastic bag filled with smaller plastic bags, three lighters, and one pack of Parliament cigarettes—which caught my eye especially because nobody in my house smokes…cigarettes. Realizing the counter won’t be ample space for me to flex my wit and wisdom about the wind, I focus instead on the stove. The glass flattop was dirty and filled with dirty pots and pans my roommate hadn’t picked up since cooking dinner the previous night. I normally didn’t care; I couldn’t recall a moment during this calendar year I had used the damn machine which sat as an island in the middle of the kitchen.

Not using it didn’t mean I didn’t appreciate the value of it. After clearing off the pots and pans and putting them on the counter my computer still sat, along with many other objects, and after spraying it with Windex and wiping the top of the oven, I had lucked into a clean and orderly desk at waist-level with a grand view through the two floor-to-ceiling windows of my kitchen, with a view of the driveway, sloping downward from my right to my left into the backyard. From there, I could see the wind blowing through the neighbor’s trees; a gale was currently gusting directly downward down the driveway. The words were flowing out of my fingers and into the keyboard so fast, I thought I was right about to sprain my left index finger.

As I begin my attempt to write my tale inspired by the wind, and the weather in Reno in general, my roommate’s blushing newly-wed wife comes into the kitchen. She was average in height, small body, and had dark, mocha, skin and a smug face which belied her humble African origins. As I begin to write, I yell to her in excited disbelief, “It’s fucking raining now!” The sun was still shining, yet clouds were moving faster than the freeway traffic into the city from California. The clouds would continue on Interstate 80, through Sparks and out into the middle of nowhere within the hour, most likely.

She begins to make herself a sandwich; I pay no attention to her. I begin reflecting of my first journey into the city of Reno. It was two days after my birthday in 2006, I had traveled directly through a thunderstorm the likes of which I hadn’t experienced in my life before or since and probably won’t ever again. Lighting hit quite close to my car on multiple occasions, the static electricity was palpable, as if it filled my car like a gelatinous goo. I recall hearing an odd buzzing from the radio, so much so, the fear of my car shorting out, stranding me, seemed very real. I turned the radio off, only then realizing I had been listening to a CD, and yet I heard static interference; I began instead singing to myself any song I could think of, which consisted mostly of Disney movie songs, in vain attempt mask the thunderous booms which echoed in my small Honda Civic as if God were swinging a sledge hammer into my hood. In horror, I realize I cut most of this exciting story out of my manuscript. I desperately begin to write, standing with my legs spread almost two feet apart at the stove.

“Hey…hey…HEY!” she is yelling at me. She’s to my back left, at the refrigerator, leaning in, while staring at me in full-blown panic.

I yell back, “What?!”

With a curious, child-like tone, she asks, “What are you doing?”

“I’m writing. Don’t bother me,” I brush her off, with a fair amount of attitude.

She continues, “Why are you doing it there?”

I am being distracted at my fated task at hand with her unnecessary questions. I can’t but help my heart rate jump as I speak in a frustrated tone, “Am I in your way? And do you even pay rent here? And whose food is that?” With that she gave it up, walked behind me and began to make a sandwich on the excessively-full counter to my right.

“Why—sorry, why…?” she started, then stopped, then started, then stopped. I looked over and gave her the same look my mother used to give me whenever I was being a pest. She had two pieces of wheat bread in her hands, a sealed plastic container of spinach, deli salami, mustard and a package of shredded cheddar cheese stuffed on the counter next to the pots and pans.

“What?” I ask; calming down considerably, but by no means calm.

“What are you doing there?” the curious bride asks. Without knowing how, because I would only continue to scan back towards her only after she spoke, she had managed to put mustard on both slices of bread, but still had both slices in the palms of her hands.

“I’m writing. I’m writing here because I got inspired here, looking outside, then putting my head out the porch door and feeling the wind hit my newly-shaved head, you know, kind of acting like a puppy dog when he sticks his head out of a moving car door. Anyway, I got really inspired by the wind.”

“The wind?!” she bellowed in her heavy African accent. Two slices of salami were on each slice. Again, I hadn’t caught how she had done it. Then, underneath her breath, she whispered, “You’re gay.”

I retorted, in extreme anger, but not wanting to waste my time insulting her, which is one of my favorite hobbies, “Fuck you! I’m just a writer. Anything I ever do is but research for an upcoming project. And did I ever tell you about the day I moved to Reno?” I cut the question off early, I bellow, “What the hell are you doing?”

She still had the bread balancing on each hand, yet remarkably she had added a heap of shredded cheddar on each, along with the mustard and salami and now was attempting to open the spinach container, but was finding it difficult.

“Are you fucking serious?” I can’t help but say in disgust. An insult concerning a soccer ball comes to mind, but I don’t pursue it. “What seems to be the problem?” I ask, finally allowing for breath.

“I’m trying to make a sandwich,” she says with helpless naivety. I scorn her for upsetting me in such a manner, and ruining my chance to write about the wind; as I now stare at her in disbelief. She places one piece of bread down precariously on a driver’s side view mirror from a 1984 Toyota pickup which somehow ended up on counter at that precise moment. How?

The truck which formerly owned the side-view mirror, which now was a holding-place for one half of her sandwich, had cut me off while I was walking in a crosswalk on the corner of 10th and Sierra Streets months previous. Two weeks later, I recognized the truck from the oddest assortment of bumper stickers I had ever seen. One read, “Voldemort votes Republican.” One mocked the current President in the form of the statement: “O Bummer,” complete with the signature ‘O’ from the campaign posters. Another said: “My kid slept with your honor student.” That one was my favorite. Stumbling across the car on a dark Oak Street, adjacent to a Civil War cemetery, I decided to extract my vengeance for such mind-numbingly dumb bumper stickers, and take the side-view mirror. Oh yeah, and for cutting me off, too!

From there, I had stored it in a real place of honor, upon the end table adjacent to the front door, the one living room item which was most-disfigured during a gasoline attack months previous, and was thusly hidden in the corner. I placed the mirror there; over time it was hidden under more and more sediment of no interest, including the plastic baggies and numerous papers I couldn’t care less about.

I would have been content to let the items of no interest stay in the corner I never looked at until the time I moved out, but as fate would have it, the night previous, my roommate hands me a summons, I am being taken to court by an apartment complex which believes I owe them money. It seems someone put my name on someone else’s lease after I left that apartment. Now I’m being sued. After seeing the summons, I recall the papers of no interest hidden in the forgotten corner. Figuring, correctly as it would turn out, since I literally had no interest in this summons I had just been handed, perhaps I had already had no interest in it. My roommate and I tossed through the papers and items, him cleaning and organizing, I simply cautiously for a visual cue, a memory which would come back to me if only I see the correct corner of the correct paper. I find it! The papers of no interest simply become the papers I couldn’t care less about. I place them on my desk, presumably they will get lost there too. He continued cleaning; all the items which weren’t to be tossed out, or didn’t have a rightful place, were placed on the kitchen counter, including the mirror.

“Are you crazy?” I yell to her. She was attempting to pull the top off the spinach still, somehow not realizing the plastic band seal was still there. She held it against her body, pulling with her right hand; her left still held the piece of bread with the mound of cheese now falling all over the counter and the floor. I calm down, and reach for the scissors.

I walk over to her, I tell her to put her bread down, and now I notice: no plate. I begin slowly first, but by the end I berate her, “First off, don’t you realize there is a seal on the spinach. And second, don’t you realize your husband is deathly allergic to cheese and you are spilling it everywhere. And why don’t you have a plate?”

I grab the spinach from her and place the scissors atop them. “Here. Take care of that.” I walk over to grab a plate.

“What do you want me to do with this?” she asks as she takes them, incredibly blowing my mind.

“What the hell do you think?” I yell back. She looks as if she needs me to draw her a map; I instead give her another glare and she puts her other piece of bread down on the only exposed part of the counter and cuts the seal off the spinach.

“What are you writing about?” she asks me as I place the plate on the counter; she places both pieces of bread and their toppings on the plate in haste; figuring it out much faster than the spinach.

“Nothing.” I say derisively. “So, instead of grabbing the plate two feet away from your hands in the dish-drying rack, you use a truck mirror. Don’t you get it?” I tried my best to be gentle at the end, and spare the bride’s feelings.

“In Africa, we know what are on things, we are okay with germs,” she says as she finishes her sandwich-making on the plate, placing her cheese and crumb covered hands into the baby spinach container.

Against my devilish wishes, a win for my better judgment, I do not make the completely obvious observation about her continent of origin and their propensity to not worry about germs. At least, I don’t make it aloud.

She cleans up the cheese as best as she can, she even begins to wash the dishes, even the pots and pans from the counter, after she finished her sandwich. I have to remind her to put the hot water on. I say, “You wash dishes with hot water.” She had never heard that before; and again I hold my tongue.

She washes last the mirror she had formerly used as a plate, that of the 1984 Toyota. Water gets on the inside, from a small crack in the plastic casing which had occurred as I liberated it from the truck; creating a grimy mess in the sink. All I hear is “Uh oh.”

The naïve young woman didn’t realize cleaning car parts always had inherent risks. She was about to panic, and pull the mirror from the sink, frightened about leaving dirt in the sink. I let this opportunity to make fun of her pass, I know a better opportunity will come later.

I tell her, “Without tipping the mirror and letting the water spill everywhere, keep it level, like this,” I adjust it into the proper position for her, so the crack is at the top. “Now, carefully walk that out to the side porch and put it on the bannister and let it dry.” She does as I tell her and then she vanishes. I recommence writing, hoping the inspirational spark remains.

My roommate’s diesel pulls up, driving it down the sloping driveway, from my right to my left, and into the backyard. He had just come back from getting another lift on his truck. As I would measure later, the floor of the cab was somewhere between my knees and my waist. He darts into the kitchen from the basement door to my left, and he reaches into the refrigerator and pulls the same ingredients, save the cheese, had to prepare himself a sandwich. I warn him beforehand, “Careful. She just made a sandwich with cheese, spilling it everywhere. She says she cleaned it all up, but I don’t know. She isn’t a very good housekeeper.”

My roommate flips out. “She touched the cheese without cleaning her hands too, right? That means all my food is contaminated. Quick!” He grabs me by the shoulders, twirling me away from my computer, and dropping the mustard, salami, baby spinach container, and a half-loaf of wheat bread onto the floor at our feet. “Did she touch the spinach after touching cheese?!”

I reply, “Actually, it is a funny story. Why?”

“Because I just ate some.” It was true, though I hadn’t noticed. The first thing he did after opening the refrigerator, was to snack on his favorite snack, baby spinach leaves. His wife had taken a liking to them thanks to his influence. I hadn’t thought much of them, they seemed to me clover equivalent of Sloth from The Goonies.

“Dude,” I reply, attempting to break the news as softly as I could, “She put on the cheese and then dipped into the spinach. I’m sorry I didn’t realize it at the time.”

He replied, “It’s okay.” It wasn’t.

He said next, “I will be fine.” No, he wouldn’t be.

After staring into his ever-whitening face, he whispered in a low voice, “Just get me to the hospital. Let’s take my ride.”

I follow him intently down the back stairs into the backyard and hop into the driver’s seat of his new Dodge, emphasis on the word hop. I begin to drive casually, attempting to pull around in the muddy backyard, he had seemed to have ripped it up enough with his brand-new, perfect for mudding, tires. He says, “Don’t mind that, just go.” Instinctively, I thrust the truck into reverse and haul ass backward.

What I don’t see is that his bride, in effort to redeem herself, had retrieved the mirror from the bannister, hoping fifteen minutes drying time would be enough. She sees me as I begin to race away. She leans on the bannister to get my attention, waving with all her might. The bannister quickly gives way, she falls straight to the ground, only the broken bannister and the two inches of mud breaking her fall. I didn’t see her, like I said, so I ran her over.

Upon running her over, I jump out of the truck, and call to my roommate, “Holy shit! I just ran over your wife!” He hops out of the truck quickly, breathing heavily but still seemingly fine and rushes over.

He says almost casually, “Get her in the truck, we are going to the hospital anyway.” We each grab an arm and pull her up; she seemed perfectly fine. The muddy driveway had absorbed much of the impact; she had scrapes and bruises across her face and torso. Her wrist, her left, the one I grabbed, seemed torqued and twisted at an odd angle, but she didn’t feel it, and I took special care not to injure her further.

Upon getting to her feet, she screamed as she hit me with her bad hand, “You ran over me! You jerk! Is this about the cheese?”

My first thoughts ran to throwing her in the back of the truck; I think her husband might go for it. Instead, for expediency’s sake, we shuffle her into the cab and we drive off to the hospital.

The emergency room isn’t much more than a three minute car ride, with traffic. We don’t catch a single red light or have to worry about cutting off any pedestrians, so we get there in half the time. Convulsing, looking as if he were about to die right then and there in his three ton waste of gas and metal, I get his bride to run inside and call for help as I drag him from the cab. He was speaking, but I couldn’t make anything out; I’m starting to get light-headed, the prospect of my roommate dying and me being left with his African bride is burning an ulcer into my stomach with each passing second.

Thankfully, men and women in scrubs meet us within five feet of the truck, taking my friend the rest of the way into the hospital. Thankfully, he lives. Hours later, after his wife had been released with six or seven Band-Aids and splint on her sprained, but not broken, left wrist, she and I enter my roommate’s hospital room. He jovially greets me, “Thank you, sir! The doctor wants to keep me overnight for observation. But he thinks I am fine, and that we probably overreacted.”

We? I think to myself. I wasn’t in the mood to be a jerk, happy as I was that I wouldn’t have to take care of the girl who couldn’t even make a sandwich properly for an eternity. “Did you notice, by chance, the odd similarities to what has just transpired, and your fabled ghost experience?”

He shrugged, “I suppose the situations were slightly different.”

This one I couldn’t hold back, “Slightly?!” I ask. “I should say your ghost experience was in fact a premonition.”

Again he shrugged, but added in a humorous head shake, left and right, “A premonition? Hardly!”

“How so?” I ask.

“First, it didn’t take place during the moonlight hours. And second, we didn’t throw her into the back of the truck, though I certainly thought about it.” He looked at her with a look bordering on sarcasm and seriousness.

I interjected, “Me too. Was there a third reason?"

“Actually yes,” he says to me. “If it were preordained by some silly ghost story, then we couldn’t, in all proper rights, blame our landlord for such shoddy workmanship.” My mind goes blank. “After all,” he continues, “a lawsuit might be in the works.”

“Eh….”