Heat, Heat, HOT

It is without fear or regret that I readily admit being hot sucks the proverbial egg. Wow, sweating all the time is for the birds. That being said there are some up-sides and they are as follows:

1.) You get to look more like Nick Nolte.

2.) Pools are more refreshing.

3.) You always might have just exercised.

4.) You can always one up someone not from the south in the unpleasant category. For instance: "My mom Died last night, I had to pry the will from her cold dead fingers so I could manage to re-allocate her meager funds to raise her several young kids who need braces."

"....It's 99 degrees with 110 percent humidity"

"Really? 110 percent? How does that even work?"

"I don't know really, but wow, is it uncomfortable."

"Man, I feel bad for you."


******

In other news I heard today there might be a Men in Black 3. Egger, get an agent.


Cheers,

A.J.S.

Inhale, Exhale

It was tough even walking down the sidewalk. Usually, though a problem physically, there was really no mental issue with that habitual straining and flexing of the muscles required to move his taunt, thin body across pavements in any given direction. However, it seems like lately, that was all he could think of, at least in passing thought. "Flex and release, left and right,' he reminded himself. Ever since the car accident he had kept a strict sense of what he was doing physically. "What a luxury,' he thought "being able to move without being conscious of it."

He noticed it immediately after losing it. The effortless way in which people strode around, going to Pet Smart and Target. Going down and up moving around, throwing Frisbees, going to movies and making coffee. These quintessential moments, frozen in their seeming permanence, but fragile in their reality, were his to enjoy no longer. He was vividly aware of his impairments. Some days, he supposed, that was all that got him up the morning. Every morning it was the same thought. Crunched and scraped through the years but the spirit remained. "Simply: put one foot in front of the other you fuck up."

Today was a day that, unlike many that had proceeded it, was fairly carefree. The sidewalk was free of people. Free of judging eyes unlimited in their potential for notice.He forgave them, obviously, he was no paranoid. Still he couldn't help but have a point of view tragically given to those who can see only through the lens of someone impressed upon. He knew all too well the reflexive extra glance shot at someone who exhibited the slightest difference. Knew all too well the thoughts that are nothing short of whispers of cognizance. Recognizing life's inherent dichotomy. There is the healthy and then, the infirmed. Joining the latter was no joy.

These truths did not embitter him. Despite knowing, what he was almost certainly sure, was a perspective forged out of truth and experience he still indulged fervently in humanity. Trying to remain active though he often fought back chasms of non-interest. He did throw the occasional football and still enjoyed a constitutional on Friday afternoons. In fact, come to think of it, there was nothing that he would give up for those Friday afternoons. Everyone sitting comfortabley on the precipice of freedom. He drank heartily from that particular cup, sensing physically the abstract. In fact you could say that was his passion. As his days had wore on, he simply put more and more stock into things that weren't of critical importance to his peers. Slants and impressions. Physical manifestations of concepts and passions. More and more he saves the used coffee cups and the half eaten microwave dinners. Thinking them artifacts in a life lived, vessels through which a experience that flourished, now resides in.

It was that attitude that brought him here today. Down an alley, so stereotypical in its dankness he thought it might be from Hollywood set. He was drawn to it. A flickering street lamp hummed in the corner, a stale half fog floated the expanse of the street as the occasional can littered broke up a monatany of a blemished sidewalk. Halfway down this urban ecosystem was nothing but a simple door to a bar. There, was of course, nothing different about this door. Not blood red, or gifted with a memorable knocked, this door was only exceptional in its blandness. It looked, not unlike the rest of the alley,like it had been delivered fresh from the "Doors that belong in an alley store." So it was with an understandable lack of respect that he wrapped his hand around the mildly tarnished brass handle and gave it a half twist, powerfully, the twist of a muscle memory. Of a task off repeated.

In the midst of this bar he sat. From "left, right," he now progressed to the "up and down," of the lifting of a glass of modestly priced American beer.

She approached like all woman who want something. A demur walk, one that speaks another word with every dip and compensation for a limbs movement elsewhere. It was in the beautiful counterbalance of weight shifting that he noticed her. Alive in death. A breath of fresh air in a place where the most explosive movement had been a yawn.

"Hello," she said.

"Hello," he replied.

"What's a girl like me got to do to get a drink around a place like this?" she jested. He knew, at his core, the core that made him human, that the ball was squarely in his court.

"...Depends greatly on two things." He replied with all the mystery he could muster.

"What would those things be?" she played back.

"One, of course, is a girls aptitude for enjoying whiskey." he replied.

"Certainly a rigorous test," she said coyly.

"Second," he marched on as if to a final goal, "is without a doubt, a girls propensity for starting something she can't hope to finish."



............left and right, up and down.

A definite Baldwin.

Yo,

Losing your grip on what's real and what is not real is, perhaps, the most fundamental element of insanity. I was giving it some thought and, outside of liking The Postman, that truly might be the pillar upon which losing your grip is based. I can comment on this specifically in today's post for the following reason: Living alone will freak you the fuck out.

"But, Andrew, aren't you a sissy?" Well put reader, and the answer is unequivocally, yes I am a sissy. However, this extends far beyond sheer girlishness. The answer to this question I'm afraid doth lie in wait for anyone of you. Yes even you, whom nothing rattles, there is the possibility that you will, one day, live by yourself. The following are observations about living (terrifyingly) alone:

1.) A simple realization, no one will ever see anything. -Ex. Your hand washing silverware...there are some spots on it that are tough to get off. You try to get them off. This completely sane and rational exercise is interrupted by the realization that, once clean, who cares if there are spots on them? Why work hard at getting them off? NO ONE WILL EVER SEE THEM. This ethos is quite simply put, the beginning of the end. Laundry, cleanliness, hesitancy to read Ann Rice, all this slowly eeps away while you wallow in the deep dank pit of self engorgement. Want that extra slice of pizza? Have it! Don't want to throw the box away? Who would!

It's JUST YOU.

2.) Often times you can scrape the crumbs off you in a timely enough fashion to have a discernible thought. Often times this thought might be something like. "What was that noise?" (FYI-The world at large is full of noises. A more accurate distillation of the world there may not be than "Shit is moving and making sounds.") However, you did not know this, but the presence of others has buoyed your "insane," reflex. When you are alone on the other hand....paranoia is allowed to run free and unchecked. Furthermore, this debilitating prognosis is degenerative. The longer one stays alone the greater the risk of turning a muffled thud sound into someone sharpening an ax blade on the human skull of a very (formally) pretty blond haired woman who, amongst other things, was on her way to warn you that her killer was also after you on his way to killing all four of the prophets who, when combined, could come together and summon the sun go Ra in order that he might deflect the eventual coming of the dark lord who would throw this planet and its people back into shackles of servitude they served in before they rebelled successfully against their reptilian overlords early in this planets history.

Or something like that.




There are of course other things that come as a by-product of living alone. The rest of the list is, and will hopefully remain, comfortably out of your understanding.

*******


That all being said, it would seem as if the housing market has finally brought to bare what anyone, who is not a CEO could have told you two years ago. This recovery has been a hollow one. Predicated on shaky lending practices and an American desire to "keep on spending no matter if your children still need school clothes and you have a medical problem." This slash of the fed rate will mark an unprecedented era of "Andrew was correct," the likes of which haven't been seen since I totally figured out Alicia Silverstone was in love with Josh before she did.

*******

That's all for now, thanks for checking in and to wet your whistle here's this golden piece of cinema. This is both a testament to my effort to keep the links relevant and also to the complete crapification of youtube.com...R.I.P.


Cheers,

A.J.S.

THE MOMENT HAS ARRIVED

All,

As I'm sure you all have, if your anybody whose anybody (sorry nobodies), you have been keeping track of the amount of blog posts I have put out there. Yes, it isn't a staggering amount and no, the counting is not what this gloating is about. I am gloating a slim victory tonight. A minimalist victory (which also is the victory of most Simmons men...if you catch my drift...if not we have small penis') That victory is, unabashedly, that this post (YES THIS POST) is post 69.*

I didn't really know how to approach it. This being somewhere around the two year mark for this blog I thought, maybe it's a good time to let it die. 69 is a nice time to fade. However, as I specialize in the excruciating and painful, I thought the better of it. I also thought, for the first time, I might actually write something of substance. Despite that initial foray into short stories mid-blog I haven't lately ventured into the seductive wood that is yarn weaving. However, that also lives now on the back burner with the idea of this blogs demise. So... after careful consideration I thought, nay, knew the way to handle this momentous occasion. I give you haiku 69:

Here:Post 69
A number, vivid, divine;
Do it in the butt!



There it was suckas. More later. Andrew has a date with Bobby. The movie, not some dude named Bobby. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Some of my best friends are named Bobby.

Cheers,

A.J.S.

P.S.--You don't think I'd leave without a dope beat for you to step to, did you? Check it out. That's a classic.


*Note: That many uses of the word post next to all the 69 references was unintentional.