Oh Fingers, Don’t Let Me Down Now

Listen to this song before, after or during reading this post.  Or don’t.  I don’t give a crap either way.

So, I haven’t been on here in a while.  I know this because I tried to log in several times then had to have the site send me my login and password to my email address then realized that the email attached to this account is in fact my OLD email address so I had to do five tries on login and password with my OLD email address, unsuccessfully, and have the password and login sent to my OLD OLD email address, which I knew I had no clue in remembering the login for that dinosaur post.  Shockingly, I knew that login and password…the name of the girl I lost my virginity to and what she called out when she climaxed.  WICKED PEACHES.

I’m drunk…duh.  Had a brush up with Knob Creek this evening courtesy of my new favorite bartender at Rosie O’Boyles.  Check her out Tuesday nights from 3-11.  She’s gentle, gentlemen.

What the hell are we doing here?  Anyone want to gesture a guess?  Any right wing nazi accusers want to register a guess?  See, ma’am, that’s just mean.  And ironic.  A hoe chasing a hoe chasing a hoe.  FYI.  You are going to die too.  Probably painfully, like most of us.

I know, news flash.  We are all going to die.  So, my question, to Touchdown Jesus, is why are we here?  What are we doing here?  I just want to beat my own face in with a blunt instrument because I can’t wrap my brain around what is the purpose for us being here?  Is it entertainment?  Is God up there sitting on his couch with a bucket full of popcorn (extra butter, extra salt, cause God don’t have to worry ’bout no fatty acids) and a 40-Ounce of Beast (cause God ain’t got no liver) laughing his ass off, watching us fight each other (sorry, HAD to do it again, cause that lady is hellafunny) and cry and scramble around in His maze looking for a bite of cheese; knowing all the damn time…THERE AIN’T NO CHEESE.  Matrix line, anyone.  Maxtrix, please.  Neo?

My name isn’t Neo, it’s Keanu: Dialogue

Thank you, Surfer Boy.  It all makes sense now.

See, we live, we die.  It’s as simple as that.  Those of us who live longer get the wonderful experience of watching those of us we love die, which in some way will define our lives for a short time.  Because the times when we feel the most alive are when we are experiencing love and experiencing death.  The rest, in-between, is non-reactive.

So, is that the big purpose?  Are we really living to accumulate loves, then die, to most impact those we love, thus shaping and changing their lives?  Cause I can’t comprehend a more complex vision.  At some point, our entire world will die, and those of us (or them, because one would hope that the ones alive right now will not get the opportunity to experience the death of our world) around at that time will feel such a sense of euphoria, such a feeling of orgasm of death…well, the rest of us will never feel those tingles on the tips of our fingers.

That’s why we are living?  To experience death.  That’s it?  Sweet.

OMG!!!!!!!!

Eureka!!!!!!!

I figured it out!!!!!

I love Eureka moments!

And, sign me the hell up.  Oh, that’s right.  I’m already here.  Cool.  Talk about being in the right place at the right M-Fing time.  Small pleasures.

So,

kill me then, already, kill me, cause I’m tired of waiting.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  Take me.  TAke me.  Taje me.  Take me.  Take me TAke me take me take me take me tamt me take me tame me tame me take me tahe me mtake me tame me take me mtame me taje me at ake me takem ektamtatemacme metamtematematem tamek mteametemat tematemtetmeam

All Right, Already, Jacko…Just BEAT IT!!

I was totally and completely (adverb storm be damned) going to maintain radio silence on anything to do with Michael Jackson or Janet Jackson or Stu Jackson or New Jack City or the game jacks or Jack and Jill or John Paxson or bicycle or any other word or string of words that contain or rhyme with (hence the John Paxson and bicycle) the word or words MICHAEL JACKSON.  But alas, I’ve discovered that I am not above commenting about it.  I will state for the record I don’t understand the fascination or the outpouring of emotion…  at his death.

Okay, I’ll grant the point that just because I don’t understand doesn’t make it wrong, doesn’t make people’s grief over Michael Jackson’s death less real or silly.  It doesn’t.  I just don’t get it (nor do I need to, do I?).  Because at Michael’s BEST he was a great singer, song-writer (I may be stretching here), and dancer, but at his worst he might have been a child molester.  I know, I know, innocent until proven guilty, fine.  But did Michael Jackson feed starving people throughout the world?  Did he visit destitute villages in Africa and pick up a shovel to help dig irrigation ditches toward crops?  Did Michael do anything except quench his insatiable need for attention?

YIKES!!!!

Why upon his passing, are people mourning him as though he was the Most Interesting Man in the World…speaking of…

Now, there’s a cat I’m going to crazy mourn and pour out some Dos Equis (a whole lot of Dos Equis, cause that beer is nasty) in his honor.

Let me ask you, and I am open to convincing, what has Michael Jackson done to deserve our tears?  Please enlighten me.

WARNING!  WARNING!  MJ’s Napoleon-stepping onto his high horse!

What bothers me isn’t a mournful nod to a great performer, but the weight that is attributed to his death versus Joe America.  What about Donald Thomas Casteel of Ooltewah, Tennessee, who wanted everyone to call him “Donnie” or Ruby Sumner Cope of Chattanooga, Tennessee, who was married to her husband Fred for fifty-two years before he passed, and who volunteered in the nursery and library of their Brainerd Baptist Church or

Warren L. Goad, of Glasgow, Kentucky, who was a retired banker of fifty years and a proud Veteran of World War II and a member of the Glasgow Rotary Club and Glasgow Country Club, or Billy Kinds, of Orland Park, Illinois, who introduced himself as Jeff and made hundreds of model paper airplanes and married four times and had eight kids and volunteered as an usher at Second Presbyterian Church for thirty-six years?

Are these people and all the others who died last week not as worthy of our respect as Thriller-Man?

And the Little Frenchman Just Dismounted Into A Pile of Le Doo Doo…

Mr. Jacko, sir, just hear me out.  See, I for one, am sad to see you go, King of (Weird) Pop, cause without you, Britney’s antics are the strangest we got livin’, and really, the girl ain’t creative enough.  I mean you went from Black to White…literally.  She went from Barbie to G.I. Jane.  Uh, hundreds of hours of plastic surgery or three-minute haircut.  Who’s the Dedicated One?

But for real, Mr. Jackson (I’m sorry Miss Jackson, whoo), the boy long dead inside me might remember the first concert I attended.  It was in the old Chicago Barn in 1988 and I left that stadium and couldn’t hear for at least twenty four hours, which was the coolest thing ever for a boy of nine, especially when his mother became hysterical with the thought her son may never regain his hearing.

All I’m saying is please, moon walk your way off of the homepage of Yahoo News for ten minutes, find yourself a pet…

…wait, who? what?, that’s Webster (boy, I forgot how cute he was)…and chill with some carnival rides and feed your pet flamingoes and drink Coca Colas, and allow Warren L. Goad of Glasgow, Kentucky and “Jeff” Kinds and all the other deserving people in this world who passed away this week to take unshadowed curtain calls.

Hey, when I’m right, I’m right (and right and right and right).  Right?

–MJ