Twenty - 12 (ongoing)

"There are lies, damned lies and statistics."

~ Mark Twain

56.


When the lines start to blur and all of the mush that fills the happy little center of things starts to leak out all over the goddamned beige carpet of life, it's probably about high time to redirect the forward momentum of things. They say that the good die young, and that the old have it coming, but us of middle age are always sort of caught in-between all of that, right? 
The rock 'n roll generation has it's claim to fame in the high cocaine rush, the back stage pass, ludicrous hair styles and sexually transmitted mind control. It's Ronald Reagan wearing a Max Headroom mask, feeling his way through a generation by grabbing breasts and feigning emotion; the process of method acting. 
I look out on the streets today and I see the same tin-can-reality that made people like Jimmy Carter want to live in a fucking tent. With perspectives skewed and the prospect of "the eternal Hell" pressing in on the great white suburban mythic, the pressure on those that will come behind us seems down right torturous. After all, the sins of the fathers and their wives and their lives must weigh heavily on the heads of those babes that wish nothing more than a burning sensation and a spot on the tour bus. 
The slackers anthem screams at us from the sidelines, yet with all of our sweet nation's patience for the "life at home," have we all but forgotten where we came from?
If prohibition taught us anything, it's that you can't keep doors closed; that every word speaks easy, and that the good of the common decency will eventually be ruled out, as money can be made. With odds like that, who in their right minds would dare stand up and take anyone in arms? Who would bare arms and invite his fellow man into an embrace?
If I utilized things of green for anything other than cooking, I would probably like to  deny inhaling with a man named Clinton. Be it George or Bill, the outcome would be the same. After all, if it's not "One nation under a groove," then it's divided by people who support all of the wrong aspects of something that could almost be positive...were it not for the negatives. 
We've traded "H," "snow," grass," and ass for Autism, asbestos, 911 and some serious, undeniably real...estate; a serious bitch with a burning crotch, one that knows who's fucking who. 
If Ward Cleaver could see the puddle of the future, he might have wished to be a little more colorful in his metaphors. He might have looked at things in a less black and white manner. He might have....might have. 
If if's and and's were pots and pans, the goddamned cliches would probably keep writing lines and making judgments. 
Unfortunately, the Wheatley's of the world have taken all of the goddamned fun out of sex, drugs and rock 'n roll. 






57.


Ever heard of life? It's that thing that makes you think about sitting on the beach, sipping mixed drinks out of some sort of tropical fruit with a little paper umbrella while gazing out at the vast expanses of the majestic ocean, feeling the warm breeze roll across your half-naked body. But that's about it, really. You get to think about such things, because that damnable thing called "life" is really about watching the fucking kids, who happen to be out of school all summer. That fucking "life" thing means that instead of taking it easy, instead of having a week free from the everyday struggles of the grind, you get to be even more on the grind, because they'll be in the house 24 hours a day. Add working and going to school part time, and that's the best summer vacation that anyone could possibly want. And that's not really even sarcasm, because on this particular summer vacation, it all takes place in your head. Sadly, anyone who has a knack for storytelling or writing will agree that the reality of things is almost never as good as it sounds in the imagination or on paper. 
So as I sit back and "feel the sand on my toes," I'm just one square inch away from doing in with the whole bloody process and seeing just how much pressure can build up in an oil tank before it makes the house into a smoldering wreck. 
Ah....A campfire! Camping would certainly make for a wonderful vacation.....