The first day of March and it's cold as hell outside . . . that can't be right, can it? "Cold as hell." A curious saying that I know for sure I must have picked-up on from my very verbal minded parents along with one of my father's favorite exclamations after drinking beer all night: "I gotta piss like a Russian race horse!" I understood that even though I never knew exactly what that meant. I suppose all male kids heard their dads say that . . . okay, maybe not all kids . . . but I'm sure all male children understood the phrase without actually knowing the reference. Probably genetic knowledge passed on from father to son since human time began. Anyway . . . Oh, yeah! My original sentence concerned the simile "cold as hell." Yeah, how did cold as hell become a thing when the mythology is always hell is the hottest place . . . ever! I mean, you don't go barefoot in hell, right? Cold has always had a metaphorical relationship with hell. " . . .
A snowballs chance in hell." "
When hell freezes over!" Oh, and my personal favorite, "
Check the weather station because it's gonna be a cold day in hell . . .!" But probably the best answer is from Dante's Inferno. The Ninth Level of Hell has an icy lake where traitors are incased in ice! I don't know how many people know of Inferno, but that is probably where we got the idea . . . "cold as hell." {
smiles}
Saturday, March o2, 2o19
Here's the poem I wrote the other night and pasted on Facebook.
Okay, this is the last poem I post on Facebook . . . ever. I write this shit, think I'm saying something about something and . . . nobody gets it. What do they get from it? "
Oh, you're dissing Joni Mitchell!" "
Joni Mitchell doesn't live in Canada, she lives in California." "
Oh, Joni Mitchell didn't go to Woodstock because her manager wouldn't let her!" "
I got every Joni Mitchell album!" What the fuck is wrong with you fucking brain dead fuckin' PhDs in whatever you fuckin' studied? I didn't write a poem about Joni fuckin' Mitchell. I didn't write about Wood-fuckin'-stock! I wrote a poem about what I thought about Mitchell, Woodstock and the way some people think about Woodstock/fuckin' Joni Mitchell from the perspective of being inside and/or outside the actual experience of WOOD-the fuck- STOCK. Fuck it. Me and my poetry are done with you fuckers. You'll never see another poem from me again . . . assholes. {
no smiles for you}
Sunday, March o3, 2o19
I'm so glad to get all that mind shit out of my head . . . and body. No, it was making me "wanna throw-up" sick. Anyway, it's a new day and my thoughts are more gracious than they were . . . yesterday. Hmm. I'm thinking about the word . . . yesterday. Just like that. Not just the word yesterday but the cliché sentence:
You know, I wasn't born yesterday! Which means, as I understand it, I'm not naïve, stupid, uneducated, etc. I've been around, you know? But if we take the sentence
I wasn't born yesterday literally, then yeah, you were born
yesterday. We were all born
yesterday . . . get it. {
smiles}
9:22pm
So, I'm watching
The World of Dance and this duo, two geeky looking teenagers come on wearing these sweaters that say on the front . . . FUNKi! And that sparked my mind for some reason and I came up with:
WTF = What The Funk. And I laughed thinking what a great name for a band. But that I made that phrase up was too good to be true. I Googled it and . . . yeah, it was already the name of a song. Damn it!
Monday, March o4, 2o19
So, got up early and drove over to the Warren Theater in Moore to see
Happy Death Day 2U. It was a slow starter. First ten minutes had me squirming in my seat because it was basically a rehash . . . no, strike that . . . an awkward rehash of the opening scene of the first movie. BUT we sat through it long enough for it to change gears into something unique and extremely funny, AND better than the original! Well, at least as good as the original.
Wednesday, March o6, 2o19 1:47am
I've got something on my mind, no. I got something drilling tiny holes in my mind. Donald Trump and his supporters. I know you're not shocked by my emotional expression I may convey when I say . . . Donald Trump is the worst POTUS, the worst human being that ever called himself an American and . . . his followers are just as bad with their anti-American sentiments that they try to gussy-up in the American flag . . . conservative patriotism is not patriotism at all. It is at best a tasteless joke. They and their counterfeit president need to stop or be stopped by the true patriots, the real believers in the Constitution of the United States and the Bill of Rights. Did you see what Trump did at the CPAC convention this year? I came out with that shit eating grin of his that he calls a smile and HUGGED the American flag! Hugged it. That is so damn disrespectful. The flag is a holy symbol to true patriots, true believers in that symbol . . . and this dolt, this scum with legs dares to treat it like that? Shame on him and his disrespectful followers who HATE, HATE everything that is America. I can't take much more of this guy. We have to get him out of the White House. This punk doesn't belong there.
11:02am
I'm feeling an extreme tiredness today. I woke up an hour ago, I did breathing exercises and drank a couple cups of coffee . . . and yet I'm only barely awake. I feel like I'm reality dreaming, floating through consciousness while all the while feeling as if I'm asleep. Screw it. I'm going back to bed.
Thursday, March o7, 2o19
People say they like you. Well, not all the time. Actually, it's rather rare for me to hear someone just say for no reason at all, with no coaxing, for anyone to say to me, "I like you." But even if someone does come out of nowhere with an I like you, I hesitate to believe it. I mean, If karma is a real thing, if you get back two fold what you send out into the universe, then more than likely who ever says "I like you" is probably lying because I don't particularly "like" anybody. Now, don't get me wrong. I do have "a" non-relative and "a" relative who I consider my friends. I'm not an emotional Scrooge. I like people . . . medium rare . . . come on!That's just a joke. Let's put it this way, I "get along" with people alright as acquaintances, as those not too familiar other beings who also populate this Earth . . . like the girl at Stella Nova who always has a wonderful teenage smile on her face as she listens to my absurd coffee order (
Could you not fill it up too high . . . oh, would it be a bother to put maybe four large ice cubes in it? The coffee here is just too hot for my old lips.) and never once does she frown or look at me with the dark tyranny that youth often radiates. Yes, people are okay . . . from an physical and emotional distance. But once you get close, they start seeing the faults in your existence . . . those physical (
Oh, he's gain so much weight, why does he wear the sides of his hair so long when the top is so . . . not there?), those artistic (
I'm sorry, but your poetry sucks!) and those deeper cuts below the ego-line (
You're a rather terrible person, no personality at all). Yes, those friends I can do without . . . forever. My favorite line, which I may or may not have made up: It's nice to be wanted even if it is in three different states. {
smiles}
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