Crying in Plain View

Tear's are strolling down my otherwise dry face and I imagine that the students that are walking past me are probably wondering what the hell is wrong with me.

Its not everyday that you see someone as rough looking as my self tear up...

...but I actually tear up fairly easily. AND I'm not ashamed of my rather sensitive side either. In fact, a recent study showed that men who listen to Heavy Metal are quite sensitive. The report states that "one of the most surprising things is the similarities between fans of classical music and heavy metal. They're both creative and at ease but not outgoing. The general public has held a stereotype of heavy metal fans being suicidally depressed and of being a danger to themselves and society in general. But they are quite delicate things."(http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/uk_news/scotland/7598549.stm).

Heavy metal is not the only thing I listen to so I'm not sure I could be labeled as a metal head BUT it is probably what I listen to about 85% of the time.

Anyway, I digress. So here I am, sitting in the hall, with tears wetting my cheeks because of a damn song...actually two songs. Neither are metal but thats beside the point(not that metal songs don't tear me up...In Flames' Take This Life and Delight and Anger) I've been spending the last hour thinking of songs I want at the reception. I've been fans of these two bands for a long time and everytime I hear these songs, I cry.

This first song by Say Anything might seem innocent when watching the video but when you pay close attention to the lyrics, you'll find that it is about a couple who are alive with the glory of love despite being jewish during the Nazi era in germany. They're caught and sent to concentration camps. The video potrays this innocently by having a summer camp motif but still, it is very powerful(and suggestive). Here are the lyrics:

When I watch you, I wanna do you right where you're standing (yeah)
Right on the foyer, on this dark day, right in plain view (oh yeah)
Of the whole ghetto. The boots stomp meadows, but we ignore that (yeah)
You're lovely, baby. This war is crazy. I won't let you down (Oh no no)

No, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no, oh no, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no.

No, oh no no no!

And when our city, vast and shitty, falls to the axis (yeah)
They'll search the buildings, collect gold fillings, wallets and rings (oh yeah)
But Ms. Black Eyeliner, you'd look finer with each day in hiding (oh yeah)
Beneath the wormwood, oooh, love me so good.
They won't hear us screw away the day. I'll make you say:

(Alive! Alive!
Alive with love, alive with love tonight)

No, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no, oh no, I won't let them take you, won't let them take you
Hell no no.

Our Treblinka is alive with the glory of love!
Treblinka, alive, with the glory of love, yeah!

(Treblinka is a Death Camp in poland where over 850,000 people were killed between 1942 and 1943)

Should they catch us and dispatch us to those separate work camps,
I'll dream about you. I will not doubt you with the passing of time (oh yeah)
Should they kill me, your love will fill me, as warm as the bullets (yeah)
I'll know my purpose. This war was worth this. I won't let you down.
No, I won't
No, I won't
No, I won't

(Alive! Alive!)
(Alive with love, alive with love tonight)
Hell no no, oh no (Alive! Alive!)
I won't let them take you, won't let them take you (Alive with love, alive with love tonight)
Hell no, no
No, no

This second song is by Yellowcard. If you listen to the lyrics, it's about an old couple who has been married for a long time. I was listening to this song a lot a year ago when my Grandfather was close to dying. It reminds me so much of my Grandparents. I have to bite my lip to keep myself from completely loosing it right now. My Papa died a year ago yesterday. I still cry when I think about him, I miss him so much. I couldn't have asked for a better Grandfather, especially since my other Grandfather died when I was only a few months old.

BUT out of great sadness is born great happiness.

It was also a year ago yesterday that Hannah came into my life. I can't help but think that my Grandfather played a role in pushing her towards me shortly after his passing. He wanted to see me get married so bad. He would always talk about how good looking I was and how I was someday going to conquer the world. I listened to this song on repeat during the week after his death.

I miss you Papa. I know you'll be at the wedding. I'm sure I'll hear you singing one of your songs.

I love you Hannah.



Enough of this crying in public, here's a video to clear the eyes. Happy Halloween:

Samhain

(This is the first draft of my first attempt at Neo-pomo-esque fiction. It goes with a previous poem of mine "Soon You Will Be on Top of the World". I simply made each section into a story. I am NOT a post-modern writer so this is a little bit out of my comfort zone. I know that its not quite as neo-pomo as a lot of stuff. I'll continue to try to push it more towards neo-pomo as I revise it...even though I'm not fond of neo-pomo BUT it's an assignment.

Samhain

PART ONE: THE ALARM
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”
“Mmmmmmm…donuts, is there anything they can’t do?”

I’m not sure why I let my Homer Simpson novelty alarm clock repeat itself so many times before hitting the snooze button, I’ve been awake for about an hour. I bought the damn thing because I hate mornings and I thought that waking up to Homer Simpson might make the act of getting out of bed a bit easier.

It hasn’t.

In fact, the alarm clock is pretty useless. I came to a unpleasant realization shortly after buying the short statue of Homer holding a donut that my cursed mind won’t allow me to sleep to the designated wake-up time. Without fail, I wake up before it goes off. Sometimes I wake up five minutes before it goes off; sometimes I wake up an hour before it goes off. Any which way, it hasn’t changed the fact that I hate mornings. Now that I think about it, I think that I let it repeat itself so that I don’t feel bad about spending $27.99 on the damn thing. No offense to Homer, it’s not his fault that my mind already had a built in alarm clock.

My feet are cold and its probably because the blankets aren’t even on the bed. I’m not sure what I do when I sleep but holy hell, if I could sleep one night without kicking my blankets off my bed, maybe I’d actually be able to get some use from Homer. Oh well.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

It’s six in the morning. Who would be calling me this early? Should I answer it? I probably should, I haven’t received a call for weeks unless you count Luke; Luke is a bill collector.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz Bzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

The number is showing up as ‘Unavailable’ on my caller ID. It’s probably Luke. His number is always unavailable. Sometimes I can’t wait until I’m in hell and I get to call Luke, collect his soul; I suspect though, it’s already been collected.

I haven’t even looked outside but I can already tell that it’s colder than yesterday. It’s getting to be that time of year. She’s coming, Cailleach Bheur, that old bitch. I have a sense for these sorts of things. Most people don’t, but I do. That’s why I sleep in a windowless room. She can’t get me in here. I can’t risk waking up with her crooked face peering at me through my bedroom window, not again. Unfortunately, I also know that I can’t hide in this windowless room forever. I know I’ll have to face her again. It happens every year at this time. That BITCH! She’s probably on her way as I sit here.

Where’s my med’s?

They’re probably in the corner of my closet with my dirty laundry. Everything seems to end up there anyways. DAMN, the bottle is empty!

“Hello, yeah…can I get a refill on this prescription? What? ...no refills! You’ve got to be feckin' with me. I have to call my therapist?! Shit! Okay bye.”

I run my hands through my hair frantically, sitting on the edge of my bed in nothing but boxer briefs with empty medication bottles at my feet.

It begins.

PART TWO: The Store

I don’t mind a good walk in the middle of the day. Perhaps some fresh air will help keep my mind off her, Cailleach Bheur. I can sense her clawing at the horizon though and this is messing with my head. She’s definitely coming. It’s too early! I’m not ready! I'm never ready.

It’s only a mile to the store so I put my headphones on and search for some band, any band, to take my mind off her. I’m in the mood for something aggressive. With a 30 gig IPOD, I should have plenty of choices to look at. Lagwagon?…no, they’re too melodic. NOFX?…no, too political. A Wilhelm Scream?…no, not quite aggressive enough.

Perhaps some metal, some Scandinavian death metal. They really know how to make some good music over there.

Amon Amarth?...Mmmmmm, close but too Viking-ish. They’ll probably remind me too much of her.

Carnal Forge?...maybe later. They might be too aggressive. Listening to them too much might cause me to start flailing my fists around and I really don’t want another Cop to pull over and ask me if I’m okay, again. It always ends with the subsequent sobriety test, which is humiliating to do when it’s obvious you weren’t driving. I’d like to avoid that today.

In Flames?...perfect.

Their guitars have just the right amount of warmth to carry me to the store. I once listened to nothing but In Flames for six months straight, right through winter. Everymorning, I’d wake up and begin listening to Clayman and by the time I made it through all of their albums, I’d start over again. I couldn’t get enough of those Swedes. I still can’t. If I’m honest, I knew I was going to listen to them, I just felt I owed a look to the other bands that live in my IPOD.

Is today the beginning of another six months In Flames? I didn’t get sick of them then; I doubt I’d get sick of them now.

Pushing play is like pushing the morphine button at the hospital; sudden relief. Hearing Ander’s voice scream melodically the lyrics of Pinball Map allows me to take a deep breath of relief. I sing along under my breath:

Sometimes I don't belong
Release me from your world
Pacified by the small things in life
I wait for earthquakes to rearrange.

Never been able to use the force
I only have it read to me
Despite all the misguided faith
(Maybe) I'll find a place in this mess

With every step I take, my voice gets louder until I’m screaming the chorus just like Anders:

Wish I could rape the day,
just something radical
Lost the sense of sweet things
Who's gonna take me widely?

Guided by the pinball map
The driver, still unknown to me
Who was sent to glorify?
Before we injected this common pride!!!

As I reach the parking lot of the grocery store, I quiet down and act normal so nobody calls the cops on me. My therapist would be proud of me for acting so mature. Perhaps this is what growing up is supposed to feel like. I don’t like it.

As I approach the automatic doors of the store, I suddenly had a vision or perhaps an epiphany; I’m not sure what to call it. I just know that I suddenly realized that I could feel how Moses felt when he parted the sea, or I could at least think I was feeling it.

I raise my hand and motion for the doors to part. They do and I thank God for my temporary exodus into the store. I throw both of my hands high into the air, triumphant, but no one notices. They just go about their day, shopping for their families or their lovers. I wouldn’t know.

The epiphany left me with the desire to search for some manna and water of life. I’m tempted to ask an employee but I don’t want to take my headphones off. Besides, I’m not in a social mood. I'm never in a social mood. I walk down each aisle, slowly looking for manna but unfortunately for me, there isn’t a section for Ancient Old Testament food made by the hand of God. A box of Fortune cookies seems appropriate enough. The water aisle doesn’t have anything remotely close to the Water of Life so I turn to the liquor aisle. Again, I can’t find it, but I figure a good bottle of Jameson’s Irish whiskey would make a good substitute.

The lady at the checkout counter seems too happy. She obviously doesn’t realize that Cailleach Bheur, that blue faced bitch, is out there waiting. She might even be hiding somewhere in the parking lot, behind one of the many oversized trucks that smaller men use as compensation.

The lady runs my fortune cookies and my whiskey over the scanner. She is saying things to me with a wide grin of obviously bleached white teeth but I can’t hear a thing she’s saying. In Flames is playing ‘Clayman’, the title track, and I have no intention of pushing pause. I hand her my I.D., she stares intently at it.

I’m not sure why it’s taking her so long. Even though I’m only 25, I haven’t shaved in six years and have consequently grown a mountain man-ish type beard. I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m old enough to purchase a bottle of whiskey. But it's her job, I guess. Maturity, however, is a different thing altogether. Perhaps she has a photographic memory and she’s trying to memorize all of my information: my age, my birth date, my weight, my address, my donor status. Perhaps its protocol for this grocery store to take down all the information of any male purchasing whiskey and fortune cookies while refusing to pause Scandinavian death metal. I don’t care.

She hands me my I.D. and I give her a fifty and she gives me my change. It’s time to go. This place was getting old anyway.


PART THREE: The Cemetery

“Hello Mr. O’Neill, how is the missus?” I say after taking another swig from my bottle. “Still naggin’ you eh? That’s too bad.” The bottle is already half-empty…or half-full! Damn it, which one is it? Oh well. Mr. O’Neill is my favorite headstone because his has his picture on it so I know what he looks like. He looks like your typical Irishman: angry lip’s, wrinkled crooked nose, shallow mischievous eyes, wearing a wool sweater, and a wool skally cap. Right now, those features are quietly resting beneath the soil. I suppose I shouldn’t wake him; not yet at least.

She’s here. I can see her in the mist. Her grey cloak moves with the wind as she moves closer to me, engulfing me. I wish I could kill her with the blunt side of ambition but everyone knows that I haven’t known how to use that tool since I was eighteen. I guess you could say I was too competitive, too ambitious, too invested back then. When my competitiveness died, my ambition died with it. I guess the two were married together.

“Dear God,” I stumble to my knees in prayer, my head swimming in the whiskey, “tell me please, before she takes me in her chill filled lust; before she covers us all in the wake of her snowflake world…DEAR GOD, PLEASE, TELL ME WHAT I AM MEANT TO BE!” I finish the prayer by take a long swallow from the 'water of life' while making the sign of the cross with my right hand. My family is devout Catholic but I haven't been devout since my first confession. I told the Priest that I had never sinned. How could I? I was so young, I didn't even know what sin was. He got angry and told my father who beat me that night until I admited some sort of sin.

I haven't been religious since, except when Cailleach Bheur comes around.

By now, the whiskey tastes less and less like paint thinner. My vision is becoming more and more confused with the mist that surrounds me. It dances like some sort of dream I’m sure I’ve had before. The mist dances like the ghosts of those sleeping below the soil. It’s comforting to see even though my head is swimming, these ghosts prancing together in the foggy mist. Besides, my therapist says I shouldn’t drink alone anyway.

The Epic battle begins.

I feel a sudden slap across my face; over and over again she slaps me in the face, freezing my nose and ears, almost knocking me down to the now frozen grass. I quickly recover and open up my first fortune cookie. I’m not sure why I’m opening my fortune cookie except that it seems like the only thing I can do. Besides, I don’t want to waste the $3.50 I spent on them. As I un-wrap the cookie, I remember being told, or seem to remember being told, or maybe dreamt that the fortune of the cookie will not come to fruition unless you eat the cookie before you read the fortune. If I had been sober, I’m sure I would have realized the fallacious reasoning behind that belief. However, sobriety is far too often the obstacle between humans and God. Perhaps he wants me to read these fortunes, my only line of defense against that bitch.

So here I am, stuffing the cooking into my mouth and before I have even finished chewing the damn wafer, I see Cailleach Bheur hiding behind a large oak tree. She must be plotting her next move because she just seems to be hovering there, peeking at me around the trunk of the tree, laughing like a crazy hag. As she comes running out from behind the tree, I start reading my first fortune:

“Today is a lucky day for those who remain cheerful and optimistic,” I yell at her, spitting crumbs with every syllable. It does nothing so I throw the little piece of paper at her. She swoops in like a witch, knocking me against Mr. O’Brien’s headstone. I turn around and watch her swing behind another tree. She hit me so hard, I was left shivering uncontrollably. I take a long gulp from the whiskey to warm up, immediately putting another cookie into my mouth.

“ROUGH TIMES ARE BEHIND YOU!” My throat feels like it is in flames now as I stuff another cookie into my mouth, chewing furiously and swigging whiskey.

“YOUR PAST SUCCESS WILL BE OVERSHADOWED BY YOUR FUTURE SUCCESS!”
I continue to eat the cookies, gulp the whiskey, and scream each fortune I have at her. I have become a warrior, armored with words written on thinly cut pieces of paper. I throw each piece of thin paper at her after I read the fortune, each fortune disappearing into the mist with the crumbs showering from my mouth as I yell.

“GRAND ADVENTURES AWAIT THOSE WHO ARE WILLING TO TURN A CORNER!”

“PREPARE FOR THE UNEXPECTED!”

“DO NOT MISTAKE TEMPTATION FOR OPPORTUNITY!!”

“A SECRET ADMIRER WILL SOON SEND YOU A SIGN OF AFFECTION!!!”

“IF YOU CONTINUALLY GIVE YOU WILL CONTINUALLY HAVE!!!!”

“THE TIME IS RIGHT TO MAKE NEW FRIENDS!!!!!”

“A THRILLING TIME IS IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FUTURE!!!!!!”

As I read the last fortune, Cailleach Bheur blasts towards me with a shriek so piercing that I fell to the frozen grass with my hands over my hears. In Flames were still blaring in my headphones, I think it was 'Delight and Angers', but her scream cut through their heavy guitars and thick drums. As I am lying on the ground, I notice that I only have three fortunes left and I’m only now realizing that Cailleach Bheur is far too strong for me and my fortunes. Like every year, I’ll give in, let her win; return to my windowless room defeated.

I crush the last three cookies in my hands and stuff the broken shards of vanilla wafer into my mouth; the other fortunes are clenched in my other fist. She is coming at me from the far end of the cemetery like a witch on a broom stick. Even with a mouth full of cookies, I gulp down the last of the whiskey and read the first of the last fortunes:

“YOUR EVERLASTING PATIENCE WILL BE REWARDED SOONER OR LATER!!!!!!!”

Sooner or later? What the feck, I need it rewarded right now, this second, this minute, this moment. I throw the paper and read the next one:

“SOON YOU WILL BE ON TOP OF THE WORLD!!!!!!!!”

On top of the world? What is that supposed to me? Those last two fortunes didn’t even slow her down. I am certainly doomed. I slump down against Mrs. O’ Brien’s headstone. I’m sure Mr. O’Brien wouldn’t mind. “God, save me,” I pray with a whisper, pulling the last thin strip of paper out. My head is drowning so much now that I have to hold the paper a few inches from my face in order to read it.

“BE MISCHEIVIOUS AND YOU WON’T BE LONELY!” I scream my last fortune as Cailleach Bheur sweeps over me.

B - L - A - C - K - N - E - S - S!

C - O - L - D - N - E - S - S!

“S-s-s-sir,” a man is prodding me in the ribs, “sir, are y-you o-o-o-kay?”

“Oh hey Roger,” I say as I open my eyes and witness an old mentally challenged employee of the Cemetery. He’s been the janitor of the grounds here longer than I can remember. The younger kids like to tease him when he goes into town because he isn’t normal and he has a terrible stutter but he’s always been nice to me. No matter what I tell him though, he always calls me sir. “How are you doing Roger?” I politely say even though it feels like someone is pounding on metal inside my skull. The sun appears to have just peaked over the horizon.

“I am d-d-d-doing g-g-good Sir,” he nervously grabs my hand and helps me up, “We h-h-had a m-m-mighty cold f-f-f-frost last n-n-ight didn’t w-we.”

“Aye, we did,” I say, spitting up blood from my throat. At my feet is a pile of paper fortunes, an empty whiskey bottle, and cookie crumbs. “Forgive the rubbish, Roger, I had a bit of a party last night with Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien here.”

As Roger stared at the headstone of the O’Brien’s and back at the pile of rubbish, confused by what I said, I push play on my IPOD and walk home.

My Head Exploded

It happened today, sometime around noon. I was reading first hand accounts of what happened on January 30, 1972 in Derry, Ireland; the event known as Bloody Sunday. I read about how British Paratroopers opened fire on a peaceful Civil Rights march. I read about how the march was patterned after Martin Luther King, Jr's marches in America, about how people from all demoninations and nations gathered to march in Derry to bring attention to the terrible injustices brought against the Irish Catholics by English Protestants. I read about how, even though the march was deemed illegal by the government, the people decided to march anyway because they thought the cause was worth marching for. I read about how, despite the fact that there is not a single shred of evidence to suggest anyone in the Civil Rights March was armed, the British Paratroopers still opened fire on the peaceful marchers. I read about how they shot 28 people, killing 14. I read about how Bernard McGuigan was shot and killed, despite the fact that he was waving a white hankerchief and was trying to help Patrick Doherty(also killed).

I read about how all of the British Paratroopers, their commanders, and the Prime Minister were exonerated, despite the fact that none of the people killed were armed and forensic tests showed that none of them had gun powder on their hands. I read about how one British Paratrooper went up to a man he already shot and wounded, and proceeded to shoot him several more times in the back as the man was already dying on the ground.

Since I've been to Derry and I've seen where this all happened, my head exploded and fragments of my skull went flying through the UVU english departments window, sprinkling shards of glass over the students who like to sleep underneath the window. Pieces of my brain were flung all over the place. A rather large chunk landed in the hair of some girl who just happened to be walking to her next class. She was texting someone at the time so she didn't a piece of brain was now lodged into her hair. My boss walked in just after my head exploded because she heard me say "I can't believe this, I can't believe this," followed by a large bang and a crash. It was obvious she was upset at me by the way she grabbed me by my arm and pulled me into her office. I don't know what she was saying because my ears were somewhere in the hall of the L.A. building. I don't blame her for being upset though because this isn't the first time my head has exploded from reading Bloody Sunday stuff.

Now I have to wait for my head to grow back, which is painfully slow. It usually takes a day or two. So if you see a headless person stumbling into walls and falling down stairs, help a fella out.

At least I don't have to live with the injuries and the nightmares that have effected the 14 survivors of Bloody Sunday and all the families involved, God bless them.

The Freedom of Sleep

Yesterday morning I woke up to darkness. For ten minutes or so I snuggled in my blankets hoping that the darkness meant that I had somehow awaken at 3 in the morning. I thought about checking my phone to make sure it was still in the dead of night but I think my intuition was betraying me. I knew that it wasn't. I'm not exactly sure how I knew but I did. Its this damn internal clock of mine, always waking me up ten minutes before I'm supposed.

I checked my phone...it was 6:30 a.m.

I throw my phone into a pile of dirty laundry.

I think it should be a law that no person should have to wake up while its still dark. I'll leave room in the law for people who WANT to wake up before its dark but rest assured you will be prejudiced against as being some sort of freak if you do.

It will be a new ammendment to the constitution: The Freedom of Sleep.

The Freedom of Sleep states that all men, being created equal, have the freedom to sleep until they see fit.

HELL YEAH! I should run for President.
My slogan would be "I promise more sleep for the American People!" and my stickers would read "Get your Zzzzzzzzzz's 08." AND my VP running mate will be a sheep.

When I go into a debate with the other candidates and they ask me questions that are too tough for me to answer, I'll just say "You look tired Sen. Obama. Are you sure you getting enough sleep." Then I'll look into the camera and tell the world, "Get your Zzzzzzzzzzz's Vote for meeeeeeeeeee."

People will vote in droves. The tired and exhausted of America will sluggishly make their way to the voting booths, the crusties still clinging to the corners of their eyes, some still in their pajamas, to vote for me.

My political party will be called Caer-Ibormeitheocracy after the Irish god of Sleep Caer Ibormeith. This new political party will sweep the nation.

My first order of business upon being elected President and getting the aforementioned ammendment passed(which, bytheway, will likely require the help of the mob because of the dysfunctionality of our congress), I will institute a new law stating that Viking Folk metal is indeed more awesome than you think and every morning, everyone will be required to watch music videos from Viking Folk Metal bands, painting our faces with red streaks and swinging swords.

Oh yeah, I think I will require the military to wear animals skins, grow long braided beards, and leather body armor. I'm also going to replace our guns and tanks with swords, axes, and catapults.

oh, and every battle will feature a live Viking Metal band playing on a stage behind our men fighting. The other side will be so into it, rocking out and pretending to shred on guitar, that they'll be too distracted to use their guns and their tanks so we'll be able to sweep in and wipe them out.

It'll be awesome. No one would protest war anymore because it would be so awesome. We'd be fighting over tickets to the next battle. Men and Women would be lining up around the corner at your nearest Military recruit office, eager to add their names to the ranks of warriors.

Oh, we'll also institute the old bardic tradition of poetic storytelling and recounting of heroic warriors.

But most of all, we'll get enough sleep AND we won't have to wake up before the sun does.
If this video doesn't get me votes with both the metal crowd and the Tolkien crowd, I don't know what will.

Ensiferum will be my Secretary of Awesome.



Turisas will be my Secretary of Battles.



I just want to add that Glen Hansard, featured in the video below, has a striking resemblence to my good friend, Brenden. They're not identical but very similar, especially in how they look when they sing and play the guitar. Keep in mind that this new institution of Viking Folk Metal will not eliminate other music. People will still be free to listen to stuff as awesome as this.

I think I might be square.

Every morning I wake up at aproximately 7:40(and 6:40 on tuesday and thursday), five minutes before my alarm goes off. I'm not exactly sure why I was born with such an internal alarm clock, but I was. This "internal clock" is quite nice because I absolutely hate it when the alarm on my phone wakes me up, despite the fact that "It's Time to Party" by Andrew W.K. is the tone set to wake me up. Life is so much better when I'm able to wake up under my own power.

This morning, my phone woke me up.

Since I am a dude, it doesn't take long for me to get ready for school. I slow on some deoderant, some clothing, and I grab my IPOD and my backpack and I head for the bus stop.

Despite what Hannah might think, I do enjoy riding the bus. It's an experience to say the least and for some reason it makes me feel a little bit more like a student, even if its not exactly the type of student I want to feel like. The last time I rode the bus to school on a regular basis was in Junior High school...well over 10 years.

Since the bus stop is like a mile away, and by "a mile away" I mean a half-mile away. And when I say "half-mile away" I really mean closer to a quarter-mile. I've never actually measured the distance, I don't see the purpose in that. For the sake of storytelling, I'm going to say that it was miles away. In any case, I have realized that I have to leave at 8 a.m. in order to make the 8:22 bus. This is largely because the 8:22 can show up, I've learned, anywhere between 8:15 and 8:30.

Today I was about half-way on my journey to the old WordPerfect business park when I had a thought pop into my head, "Do I have my wallet?" I threw my right hand into my back pocket to find that my black leather "In Flames" wallet was not resting against my right cheek. I can't get on the bus without my wallet, it has my bus card. I immediatley turned around and sprinted towards home. My house is up a hill, which this morning felt like a mountain. I got there, found my wallet, and sprinted to the bus stop. When I got to the soccer fields, I remember thinking to myself that these fields are unusually ginormous this morning. I swear I thought I was going to pass out, where I'd likely be found laying in the grass by the old asian couple that are always circling the soccer fields that early in the morning.

I imagine that I looked pretty awkward. I did, however, feel a little bit like myself in junior high, desperately trying to move my legs as fast as I can while trying to keep my backpack from bouncing off my back in order to catch the bus to school. I would change between running while holding onto my straps tightly, pulling hard enought to try and keep the backpack from boucning off my shoulders and running sort of straight armed and awkward.

Sometimes the most unexpected things can remind you of your youth...

...and coincidentally remind you of your age.

By the time I made it to the bus stop, I was dizzy, my mouth had that sort of watery feeling you get right before you puke. I must have been running pretty fast because I still had a couple minutes before the bus showed up. Even with those minutes to rest, my lungs felt engulfed in flames. I seem to remember tasting an irony substance in my throat which made me think perhaps my lungs were bleeding even though I wasn't spitting up any blood.

I'm out of shape.

I think I might be square.

Politics is a Sport

I want to write a poem called Politics is a sport, but I just can't get past ranting and too the poetic part of language.

I keep deleting what I've been ranting about because I fear that it might get too wordy. Most people who know me have heard it before so I won't repeat myself simply because I'm frustrated at our government, the media, and politics.

BUT here's the gyst:

Basically, Politics is a sport...

...and a sport is the LAST thing politics should ever be. We should be ashamed of ourselves.

A-Wake

(This is my third draft of the Shankill Butchers monologue. As you can tell, it's quite a bit longer and it now has a scene. I'm not yet sold on 'A-Wake' as the title, although I love the symbolic nature of it.)



“You haven’t lived ‘til you’ve lost a limb,” the Irish cripple tells me with a devious grin as he stuffs his pipe with tobacco, his one good hand nimbly doing the job of two. “At least, that’s what I tell all them feckin’ eejits, carryin’ about with practiced pity…a worthless emotion if you ask me.”

A sudden sense of guilt sweeps over me. My Grandfather died just a week earlier and his wake started this morning. My family has never been to a wake, let alone done one before. We’re used to the typical American funeral at a church. A wake was the only request of my Grandfather before he died. I have been staring at this old crippled man since he first showed up. This man fascinates me.
My Grandfather was a cripple, always had a limp. My Grandfather was also Irish, though I knew nothing of his life there. He never spoke of it and I wonder why. Only now, at his wake, am I interested. Being the awkward fool that I am, I end up embarrassing myself in front of the only Irishman at the wake that knew my Grandfather when he lived in Ireland.

My cheeks turn as red as my hair.

“Forgive me sir,” I manage to squeak out. “I didn’t mean to pity you.”

“I know,” he says as he grabs me by the arm and pulls me close to him. “You have no pity in you. I can tell by da way you’ve been starin’ at me all morning.”
My eyes fall to my feet. I didn’t realize I was making such a fool of myself.

“I’m very sorry,” I whisper, desperately thinking about ways to get out of this situation. If there is ever a time when my mother could yell for me to finish some chore, any chore, I would thank her forever for the chance to escape. However, when I look around for her, I realize she must be inside tending the guests as they enter the house and make their way to the back-yard. My parents researched what a wake was and traditionally the body of the deceased would be placed in the living room, surrounded by beer, whiskey, and tobacco. Since we live in San Diego, we decided to move the wake into the back-yard because our house is too small to hold so many people. My Grandfather knew a lot of people. I’ll admit that it is a bit awkward for me, especially now that I’ve been caught staring at a crippled Irishman.

“Tis nothin’ to be sorry about good lad. Tis those who refuse to look, that pretend I don’t exist…that pity.”

I manage to lift my eyes from my feet and look the old cripple in the face. His face is carved with deep lines running from the corner of his green eyes and down his cheeks. It looks like he’s been crying his entire life, a very sorrowful face. His mouth looks like it has never smiled before but when he does smile, it seems like the most natural thing in the world.

“If only they knew, they wouldn’t have use for pity,” the Irish cripple smiles, patting the area in his right shoulder where his arm should have been. “They’d grab me by da shoulda and offer up da next shout; a hero’s welcome they’d call it. But aye, ‘tis been a long while since these lips have graced the craythur on another’s punt.”

I have no idea what a ‘craythur’ is or what a ‘punt’ is but I don’t care. He sounds like my Grandfather and that is reassuring, comforting. I loved my Grandfather. He would always use words I didn’t understand.

“Instead, I pity them for livin’ like cowards, carryin’ about their days hopin’ for change but not willin’ to shake a limb for it. They will never appreciate life until their eyes witness a piece of their own flesh…” he pauses, taking a deep drag off his pipe, blowing three circular smoke rings into the air. I watch intently as each smoke-ring floats into the solemn air until dissipating into nothing.

“…dead.”

“Dead?” I repeat, perhaps a bit too loudly. My father looks at me with disapproving eyes. He must have heard me. I quickly forget my blunder and my eyes attach to the old crippled man. He is old enough to be my Grandfather but at this moment, his eyes are as young as mine.

“A sacrifice,” he tells me, making the sign of the cross on his chest with the only arm he has left.

“For freedom.”

Freedom? What is this old cripple talking about, freedom from what?

“I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about sir,” I politely say, loosening the tie around my neck. The old cripple’s tie is loose around his neck too. My mom would probably snap at me for looking so casual at a wake, but I don’t care. I like this old man. Something about his nature makes me want to be like him.

“Well, Ireland of course,” he laughs, puffing on his pipe. “Did ol’ Mick here not tell ya?” He motions towards my dead Grandfathers corpse with another circle of smoke, his body surrounded by tobacco, whiskey, and beer. “That’d be ol’ Mick. A mystery he was.”

“How do you know my Grandfather anyway?” I ask. He stares down at his old leather penny loafers and shuffles his feet for a moment.

“We were mates,” he says slowly, “his family lived in da flat next to mine. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t know his cheeky grin.” He looks away, trying to hide the tears. “Aye, but we wouldn’t have freedom would we?” His voice perks up, changing the subject, “not yet at least. Not the type of freedom we hoped for, prayed for. The old steel walls back home still cast dark shadows between us Taigs and them Proddies, a reminder of exclusion.” He stares blankly into the sky, puffing away. “Your Grandfather and I grew up near the heart of it all you know, just off Falls Road.”

“The heart of what?”

“The troubles! Haven’t you ever heard of the troubles?” His eyes are anxious with worry.

“I’ve never heard of the troubles. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, shrugging my shoulders shyly. I wonder what my Grandfather would say at my ignorance. Would he be upset? Probably not. After all, he never spoke of Ireland. Perhaps it was too difficult for him to talk about. I remember he would always tell me to be proud I was American, that I had freedom. It’s all starting to make sense.

“Aye, ‘the troubles’ is what we call the war in Northern Ireland,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “We were raised to be Fenians you know. Me Da’ was one himself, his Da’ too. It’s in our blood,” he grins, poking me with his pipe, “and it’s in your blood.”

“What’s a fenian?” I ask, watching his eyes dart back and forth.

“A Fenian is a sworn protector of Ireland much like Finn Mac Cool and his band of Fianna protected Ireland in the old stories,” he says with a whisper.

“Finn Mac Cool?”

“You really are quite daft aren’t you?” He teases me, poking me in the ribs again with his pipe. I quickly dust off my shirt, hoping that he didn’t allow any ashes from his pipe to burn my only dress shirt.

“My Grandfather never spoke of Ireland,” I say, embarrassingly looking away from the old crippled man. He shrugs as if to let me know that it’s okay.

“Your Grandfather probably wanted it that way, but he’s dead now. Let me tell you about freedom,” he says, his eyes lighting up like fire. He stands up and begins speaking very loudly, demanding the attention of everyone at the wake. His voice echoes through our backyard and down our southern California Street. “For 900 years the feckin’ English have been treatin’ us like gobshites. Illegal occupiers I tell you!” He wags his finger high in the air, “Illegal! They hate us, always have. They tried killin’ us all with Cromwell. Then they let us starve to death durin’ the famine. I joined the Provo’s, eager to add my name among the ranks of I.R.A. folklore, to have mates cheers me up and down ol’ Falls road. AND I’ve NEVER been ashamed of it,” he pounds his chest, ashes splash out of his pipe with each pounce. “I signed up the day after da Bloody Sunday incident in Derry! Bloody mess that was! Thousands of lads like meself, barely able to swallow a pint, signed up after that day.”

The wake is silent, everyone’s eyes now watching the old crippled man.
“We didn’t hate da prods for their religion like da way they hated us. We hated ‘em for da oppression, for da fact they control everythin’: da police, da government, where we live, where we work…where we don’t work. We hated ‘em most for parading through our neighborhoods every July with their orange sashes and their blaring drums shaking our windows to rubble.
“That’s why for ten years, ol’ Mick here and I fought da Shankill Road prods. We hijacked buses and taxis and drove ‘em past da great steel gates to use as roadblocks. It became our obsession, our sport. We had no shame,” he yells, “We had no pity.”

His voice grows louder, almost taking on a life of its own. He grabs me by the arm and walks me over to where my Grandfather’s body is lying. My Grandfather’s body seems to almost smile, his spirit somehow peaking through to his old friends words.

“I lost me arm in ’81, the same time Ol’ Mick here found his limp, a bloody horrible week to be Irish. Twas a week after Bobby Sands died in da H-block prison of a hunger strike,” he laughs, “Ya’ll know who Bobby Sands was, don’t ye?!” I could tell by the tone in his voice that he was mocking us. He knew we didn’t know. “He was a man just like Mick! Just like me! A man who thought it worthwhile to die so his children could laugh and play without fear. He was the first of ten whom the Queen let shrivel to their graves!”

Everyone at the wake slowly moves closer to the old cripple, listening to what this old Irishman has to say to me. Ten minutes ago I would have been embarrassed if he had grabbed me by the shoulder and started speaking loudly, but now I am proud. I feel like he chose me even though his words are for everyone else. I am the one here without pity.

“That same week, a notorious gang of feckin’ UVF members known as da Shankill butchers…” His voice was full of nothing but the darkest type of hate. He continues, sobbing confidently, “…kidnapped and killed me brothers; hung ‘em by their heels, slit their throats, carved ‘papist devil’ on their chests,” he makes a carving motion into his chest and across his neck, “…let ‘em bleed to death. Mick and I planted a bomb in their local pub on Shankill road, succeeded in killin’ two of ‘em in the blast. Sacrificed me arm in da process,” he kneels beside my Grandfathers body, holding his cold hand. “I left it lying in pieces along with the rubble as I walked away, the pain screaming towards freedom…or some aspect of it, whatever that means. I’m not sure I know anymore.”

Tears are streaming down his cheeks and I understand why those lines are so deep. After all these years, there still isn’t freedom. At least not the type of freedom he hoped for. It’s quiet as everyone stares at each other and then back at the old crippled man holding my Grandfathers lifeless hand.

“So pity,” he says, staring at everyone at the wake, “pity is a worthless emotion.”

Amon Amarth

Does the fact that I love melodic death metal make me a geek, especially when it's melodic viking death metal? and yes, there is such thing as melodic death metal.

Amon Amarth is a great. They pump me up(and fill in the many areas of my personality that are lacking masculinity). If you can get over the fact that he's growling(quite melodic I might add), you'll actually hear that the music is quite melodic and catchy...I think.

I like to think that my love of melodic viking death metal makes me a badass...

...I mean, come on, what is more bad-ass than this:



If this video doesn't make you want to grow a blond beard, dust off your chainmail armor, sharpen your sword, and pillage various villages in the name of Oden, the thunder God...

...than I don't know what will.