Eight Feet Deep

Greetings from the Barnes & Noble in Beaumont, Texas, on this second day of 2006. And a mighty fine day it is, he said facetiously. The fact that I am blogging from B&N rather than from home might provide a clue. It seems my high-speed Internet seems to have a case of the slows. Time Warner Roadrunner’s been doing downers I guess. The hell if I know.

The wonderful (man I am being so facetious today)customer service people at Time Warner told me a service technician would come by sometime between 8 a.m. and 6 p.m. this week. That is as specific as she could get. What do you think would happen if I said: “I might pay my cable bill sometime between now and May.” Uh huh.

Fortunately, the new year hasn’t been a complete washout. I had my blackeye peas yesterday. Then a friend and I went to see “Walk the Line,” the biopic about the early career days of Johnny Cash. I’m not being facetious here. That is the best new film I’ve seen in a long time.

It was a very intense film. That is about the best I could sum it up. The story which includes the Man in Black dealing with the childhood death of his brother and later Cash’s struggles with drug addiction provided a lot of intensity in the story line. And the music was intense. There were a couple of times I wanted to start clapping and hollering after a musical number. Thank goodness I didn’t. My friend told me this old guy sitting next to her was singing along with all the lyrics. I can relate.

I thought the acting by Joaquin Phoenix as Cash and Reese Witherspoon as June Carter was superb. I’m no film critic. I just know what I like and I liked. Funny, I guess from some of her past films I never saw, I had Witherspoon pegged as a lightweight. She rocked in this movie though.

It’s getting rather noisy in here. Mostly it’s the expresso racket from the Starbuckets, where I guess if you want to get technical is where I am even though I am inside a B&N. And it’s a holiday so a lot of rug rats are scurrying about. If I catch my home PC for a few minutes when it’s coming down from the Reds or ‘Ludes or whatever it’s on, I might do a little more posting today. Otherwise …

Now I’ve got to remember to write “2006” rather than “2005.” Man! It’s always something.

Look up the word “bitch” in the dictionary and you probably won’t see a reference to the name “Lucille.” But in my own personal dictionary a woman I knew 20 years ago named Lucille was bitch personified in the sense of being a “malicious, unpleasant and selfish woman.”

Lucille ran this apartment complex where I worked as a maintenance guy for about three months. She was an obese and obnoxious bundle of negative energy as I had ever seen. My life was a living hell while working for her in those apartments. I won’t give specifics because she still can summon my rage. Just take my word for it that she was not a fun person to be around.

After a massive three-day party on the farm where I once lived, I decided I had about enough of being treated by Lucille like a third-world child in a sweat shop. I mailed her my master key to the apartments, told her this just wasn’t working out and gave her the address where she could send the remaining money owed to me.

That New Year’s Eve on the farm — Dec. 31, 1985 — I composed what was the first of an occasional series of bad poems devoted to the ill memory of Lucille. The first poem which was written while the blackeye peas were cooking was “Dancing on the Fat Lady’s Toes” and included the lines:

“Squish, squish, squish
ow, ow, ow.
The fat lady’s toes.”

All subsequent poems have contained “dancing on the fat lady’s toes” in the title and the above refrain.

And so, even though the blackeye peas are just soaking and not yet cooking, I offer the 2005 version. The recent revelations that the Bush administration ordered spying on its own citizens provide a backdrop for this poetic offering because eavesdropping is just an activity that would have been up Lucille’s alley. (And as it turned out, so was embezzlement. God, there is SOME justice in the world sometimes.)

Big Brother Listens In As I Dance on the Fat Lady’s Toes

Sophisticated technology?
It isn’t needed.
All one must do
Is listen in to hear
The crisp crackling
Not of a winter’s fire
Not of some sinister plot
But rather the sweet crackling
Of revenge.
Sweet revenge
That comes from
Once again
Dancing on the fat lady’s toes.
Squish, squish, squish
Ow, ow, ow.
The fat lady’s toes.

To bad poets everywhere I bid you a good 2006. Lucille, I’ll see you in Hell.

Naked flapjacks await Senora Sticky.

Hardly ever do I dream about food brands. I dream of friends, former lovers, fire trucks, TV reporters who turn into horses, mundane tasks and endless numbers. I even dreamed about GW Bush one time, for God’s sake. But do I ever dream about knocking back a few drinks with the Pillsbury Doughboy? Fortunately, no. I wonder why that is?

But what a dream it would be to discover a syrup-ticious affair between Mrs. Butterworth and converted rice kingpin Uncle Ben! And then, a twist develops as it is discovered the syrup lady also has a thing going on with Betty Crocker on the side. Jumping Jesus — a brand name love triangle. How cool would that be?

I would like to dream of my confronting Mr. Peanut and asking him why he persists in using that stupid monocle. I mean, does he really have such severe problems with that one eye? And what about a dream in which the Keebler Elves run amok and pillage the Valley of the Jolly Green Giant after they set fire to their own tree house cookie factory? Then Jolly has had about enough that he can take of the spectacle and he accidentally maims Sprout when he comes down with a can of corn in an attempt to smash the cookie terroristas.

I’m just wondering why I never dream something of that sort. That’s all I’m saying.

I was just now viewing my StatCounter and fantasizing how each of the 8,100-some-odd page clicks could be converted into dollars. Of course, those are only page clicks and a great many of those would be mine since the Web counter does not differentiate between my clicks and those of others. It does separate visitors into unique visitors and repeat visitors. So if everyone who clicked my page one time had paid me a dollar since I started using the counter in July I would have made about $2,000. That is just idle fantasy though.

Blogging is not something I do for money, yet. I have been toying with ideas on how to make money with a blog. But not with this blog because I don’t know anyone in their right mind who would pay to listen to me ramble about noisy roofers next door or relive my dreams about Susan Candiotti or have posts which involve imaginary dialog between mannequins. The key word there is “in their right mind,” however, and perhaps I could gear something toward those who aren’t in their right mind. The problem is I don’t know how to determine who is in their right mind and who isn’t in their right mind. What is a right mind anyway? What’s wrong with a left mind or a middle mind?

If I was to make money blogging I would have to offer readers something: information about a subject or particularly pointed commentary or directions on how to pour piss out of a boot. Then I suppose the income would come from advertising rather than individual readers because, at least for now, people seem to like free Web content.

But I wouldn’t want just any advertisers. For instance, I wouldn’t want companies that make cattle prods advertising on my blog. I would not allow ads for hemorrhoid medicine or feminine hygiene products, no matter how much I think such merchandise can have a positive place in our society. I would most certainly not allow an advertiser pitching some kind of “cure” for baldness. It’s not so much that if something works for people who don’t want to be bald it is necessarily evil. What I detest is the message many of these advertisers send, which is you are some kind of outcast, less-than-desirable human lump of protoplasm if you are bald. I’ll have you know I’m not some kind of an outcast.

So what’s important about money anyway? Well, for one thing you must have it to eat, to have a roof over your head, to buy hemorrhoid medicine and cures for baldness. Money won’t buy you love, of course. It will buy an occasional substitute. Nonetheless, I guess for the time being I will just blog for blogging’s sake, like art for art’s sake except it isn’t necessarily.

But if you have an overwhelming urge to pay me for blogging — or not to blog for that matter — just shoot me an e-mail and I’ll give you an address where you can send your checks. Money is not a bad thing, you know.