The Weight

We all walk around with an invisible weight. We smile at each other, go about our days and draw no attention to the little bird on our shoulder that is pecking at our jugular vein. We are all waiting on the proverbial shoe to drop. Some of us are waiting on a fucking boot. We are all waiting to loose our jobs, our relationships, our health. We wait because we know that it is coming like a fast train out of hell. To say that our lives are fragile is to indulge in the understatement of the year. The tiniest little germ will fuck us up. A minute of bad timing and BOOM you are crushed by a tractor trailer. In fact, even if you are the healthiest mother fucker alive, you can die. Flo Jo died of a fucking heart attack! I will never be as healthy as her...EVER! I don't really want this blog entry to be another death rant, because LORD knows I have enough of them...see my collected works. However, whoever said that we all live quiet lives of desperation was fucking right. We label people assholes to the left and right of us, and maybe more than a few are...but the truth is life will make you an asshole or at least seem like one. Weight...there is no escaping it. To live on this planet at this time is to take on weight. Gravity is a constant pressure pushing you down until you collapse under the pressure. Of course some of our weight is imaginary. If we loose our jobs, the sun will still come up in the morning. If our partners leave us the sun will still come in the morning. Even if we die, the fucking sun comes up in the morning. I just hate the fact that we are aware on some level of the weight leveled by all human beings and we choose to ignore our community pain. How quick the old bird finger pops up when someone breaks traffic manners. How quick are we to judge those who do not follow our particular slice of life. Republicans are hate mongers, Democrats are out of touch with reality, why do we have to label ourselves. Why can't we all just be human beings diagnosed with the terminal illness of life? Why don't we look at each other and go, "that mother fucker is going to die, give him a fucking break". I know life is messy. It is impossible to wrap things up in a neat little blog entry. I just wish we had the common courteousy to acknowledge and respect someone for their humanity. I am afraid the truth is that we secretly like to be ugly. We are more animal that we ever had the courage to acknowledge.

The Wreck of The Endless Summer

The legend lives on from the Chattooga on down
Of the big lake they call Lake Lanier'ee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead.
When the Bass Fisherman of June they come Early.

With a load of beer n bread,whiskey and hotdogs 24 or more.
Than the "The Endless Summer" weighed empty
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the hicks of June they came early

The ship was the pride of the Chestatee side
Coming back from some beach party an hot son.
As the big cruisers go it was bigger than most
With a girl crew and the Captain well seasoned.

Concluding some terms with a couple of tequila worms.
When they left fully loaded for Lanier land
And later that night when the ships bell rang
Could it be the tequila buzz they'd been feeling.

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a beer bottle broke over the railing
And every girl knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was the Bitch of a Hangover come stealing.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
When the bitch of a hangover came slashing
When afternoon came it was a throbbin headache pain
In the face of a Hurricane and Bacardi dry heavin

When supper time came the old nausea came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya
At 7PM a main player caved in
She said girls it's been a bitch to know ya.

The Captain wired in he had bottled water coming in
As the good ship and crew was in peril
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the "Endless Summer".

Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the dry heaves turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Chattahoochee Bay
If they'd fifteen more miles behind her.

They might have spit up or they might have vomitized
They may have broke deep and drank more water
And all that remains is the mess and the names
Of the girls and the guys and the daughters.

Lake Oconee rolls, Sinclair sings
In the ruins of her mixed drink shore mansions.
Old Hartwell steams like a young man's dreams,
The islands and bays are for Bass Bastards.

And farther below Lake West Point
Takes in what Lake Lanier can send her
And the Pontoon boats go as the mariners all know
With the hicks of June remembered.

In a musty old Walgreen's in Gainesville they prayed
In the aisle of stomach discomfort.
Their heads they chimed,, 'til it throbbed 6 times
For each one on the "Endless Summer".

The legend lives on from the Chestatee on down
Of the big lake they call Lake Lanier'ee
Lanier, they say, never gives up her dead
When the hicks of June come early.

Dead, Dead, Dead

This is just a short rant about life and death. There is a lot we don't know about life. There is less we know about death. Shakespeare referred to death as "the undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns."

Having recently seen the DVD of Bill Maher's "Religulous," I am more certain than ever that we can't be certain of anything. Actually, we can be certain of one thing. If a slick looking dude in a $1,500 suit tells you that he's certain about what happens after you die, and that you can have the same amount of certainty if you just send him a fat check, you can be certain he's full of crap.

Here's something else I'm fairly certain of: the book "90 Minutes in Heaven" is a malodorous load.

Which brings me to a more specific point. You know how people who claim to have had so-called near death experiences talk about how they floated up out of their bodies and looked down at their recently vacated corpses? And then they talk about seeing a bright white light which they feel strangely drawn to as Enya sings in the background?

Well, as it turns out, there is -- surprise, surprise! -- a perfectly reasonable scientific explanation for this phenomenon. These are the illusions brought on by an oxegyn deprived brain.

Check this out. This is an except from Radio Lab -- www.radiolab.org.

Out of Body, Roger

I was there. But I, like, wasn't there. I was floating. I was looking at myself from outside of myself.

If it hasn't happened to you, it's likely happened to somebody you know. And whether or not you believe it, about one in ten people report having had one. "Out of body" experience, it's a dirty word in many circles. Which is perhaps why pilots call it "G-LOC" (gravity-induced loss of consciousness, pronounced "G-lock" not "glok"). Turns out this kind of experience (call it what you want) occurs quite frequently among fighter pilots. Producers Ann Heppermann and Kara Oehler bring us the story. We'll hear from pilots Tim Sestak, and Col. Dan Fulgham on what it's like to lose yourself, unfortunately for us skiddish passenger-types, while flying a plane. Finally we'll hear from Dr. James Whinnery, who simulates G-LOC by placing pilots in giant centrifuges. His research monitors their brain activity as they accelerate to speeds inducing this loss of consciousness. But Doc Whinnery isn't just a scientist, he's a subject. And his research has taken him to some surprising places.

This is a very interesting podcast.

And with that, pleasant dreams...

A Poem

This is a poem I wrote my wife as a Valentine's day gift in 2008.