DO NOT Fuck With The Nice Guy

"They smile in your face

All the time they want to take your place

The back stabbers"

You have no idea what what personal Pandora's box you have opened.

Your life is about to resemble a piece of hell.

I will stare you right in the face as I unleash misery upon you.

God help me refrain from using my most lethal weapons.

But most of all, God help you, you unworthy coward.

The Meaning Of Life

- or -

The Myth of Individual Importance

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy cannot be created nor destroyed, but it can change forms.

You are not important. This is the harshest reality, the most difficult to accept, and the reason God was invented.

Existence is all that matters. No philosophy of good versus evil , no definition of being can change that. We are important because we believe ourselves to be. To believe otherwise is antithetical to the progression of our generation, the acceptance that something other is worthy to replace us. We must believe the ineffectual scrabbling of our lives has some value, otherwise there is nothing to promise our progeny, nothing to to help us carve out our territory against the unending armies of other life forms, known or unforeseen, that seek to overwhelm us with their own insatiable claim of supremacy.

To paraphrase Carl Sagan, there are those who ask where the universe came from. There are those who reply the universe came from God. Where did God come from? God always was. Why not save a step and say the Universe always was? I interpret this to mean: Why must existence hinge on something we can identify? Why must we understand everything? Can we not use our intelligence to say some things are beyond the grasp of that intelligence? Is it not hubris and conceit and defeat to demand otherwise?

Is it so horribly inconceivable to be unimportant? Is it not beautiful and natural to be a link in the Universe's undefined, unyielding, and unfathomable chain? Can we not accept that all things, from individuals to species to stars, die? Can we not accept that those deaths are transformations separate from our miniscule beliefs and attempts to assign meaning?

I return to the physical "law" described at the start. Just as with the death of a tree in the forest, our world and our sun will fall to nourish that which comes after. In this way we are immortal. We have no say in what we may bring about. We are unimportant, but that does not detract from the grandeur of continuance, of our place in it. This is the acknowledgment of things greater than ourselves. It is our evolution. It is our salvation.

After his death Carl Sagan's widow, Ann Druyan, was asked: "Didn't (he) want to believe?" She responded, "He didn't want to believe. He wanted to know." *

What benevolent deity would deny us knowledge? It is like a dessert promised after a meal we can't eat. Why would s/he impart that knowledge only after we are dead? Wouldn't that knowledge be best put to use while we are alive? If the answer is "Yes," than God, whatever you perceive it to be, is be a cruel and sadistic taskmaster. If we cannot believe the latter, then the former must also be disbelieved. This is the atheist's denial of the existence of God. It is not disbelief, it is acknowledgement of the fundamental workings of the universe independent of belief.

What comes after? What will happen tomorrow? How long will we be remembered? It does not matter. We cannot control the answers to these questions, so the weaker of us devise scenarios that please them, that placate the deep but distasteful knowledge that we will be forgotten.

The meaning of life is simply this: There is no meaning. We are infinitely unimportant. Everything just is.

Everything, of which we are part, exists and continues.

* Some will question my references to Carl Sagan. What makes my respect for his thoughts different from Biblical quotes? Each of us finds truth expressed in another great thinker's words. One invites acceptance, rejection, or revision. The other demands adherence or refutation of any other claim as false or suspect. Which is more reasonable?

9.0807b *

9 Places With An Attitude

That No One Gives A Crap About

If They Are Not From There

And That's Why They Have An Attitude

To Try And Prove Otherwise

So The Rest Of Us Continue To Despise Them

And That's Why They Have An Attitude

9. Sicily

8. Pick a NYC burrough

7. Hong Kong

6. Israel

5. New Jersey

4. Florida

3. Quebec

2. France

1. Texas

The Flip Side 9:

No One Not From There Has Anything Bad To Say About You

9. Costa Rica

8. Hawaii

7. Kenya

6. Bermuda

5. Alaska

4. Sweden

3. Australia

2. Iceland

1. Antarctica


* Has anyone else noticed how many place-names start and/or end with "a?"

9.0807a

9 Unpopular Sports Truths

Part I…Dumbass Pseudo-Sport Crap Competitions
- 9. Synchronized swimming
- 8. Motocross
- 7. Figure skating
- 6. NASCAR
- 5. Kickboxing
- 4. Arm wrestling
- 3. Skateboarding
- 2. Cheerleading
- 1. Xtreme anything

Part II…Mildly Entertaining But Really zzzzz Or meh
- 9. Curling
- 8. Billiards
- 7. Televised fishing
- 6. Strong Man competitions
- 5. Golf
- 4. Basketball
- 3. Hockey
- 2. Bowling
- 1. Arena football

Part III…Sports Deserving More Recognition
- 9. Lumberjack competitions
- 8. Horse racing
- 7. Australian Rules Football
- 6. Track and field
- 5. Iditarod
- 4. Archery
- 3. Diving
- 2. Women’s fast-pitch softball
- 1. Sumo

The Pull Forward

On the first night without her the moon was hidden. It slipped into the darkness that covers us all. It showed itself later, swollen and dull, ignoring the laments of the world below. Last night it was a hungry crescent, a weak promise of return. The changing moods of the moon remind me of what I do not want to believe. Ruthie is dead.

My sadness refuses to fade despite the daily care and kindness of visitors. My friend Samuel, anticipating simple things I didn’t know myself, bought me new shoes. He took me for walks over fields, beside the stream, under the comforting canopy of the apple orchard, saying nothing, requiring nothing in return. Other friends brought me chocolates, trying to lure my thoughts away from myself and the grief that threatened to swallow me. I accepted their gifts without grace, gratitude overwhelmed by a sense of loss.

This morning, as Ruthie used to do, I stand by the fence to watch the day unfold. Beyond are the scents of new mown hay, the flicker of bluebird wings, and the clanking cow bells of my farm. Samuel pokes me in the ribs. It startles me with its rudeness. I want to kick him, but he is insistent. Wallowing is over, he seems to say. Work awaits.

We hitch up the wagon and begin our familiar route. At the green house we deliver two quarts of milk. We deliver a half-pound of butter at the blue house. The brown house wants nothing. The grey house is the liveliest one on the street, its sagging porch filled with the laughter of boys. It needs four gallons of milk, two dozen eggs, a pint of cream, a pound of butter, and a gallon of ice cream.

“Hi, George!” Alex hollers out to me. He throws a ball to Samuel, with the obvious expectation of it not being returned. I have never seen Alex without a ball in his hand. He is always in motion, always shouting or laughing. My world has changed, but his has not. I nod my head in his direction.

Alex runs to me and pats my shoulder, then runs across the street, falling into a tumble of other boys on the lawn. Tonight they will sleep the exhaustion of innocence spent under a summer sun. Tonight the deliveries of Samuel and I will fuel the escapades of their tomorrow. Tonight the moon, reveling in the sweetness of caprice and new mown hay, will shine bright with promise. Ruthie is gone, but my work is here. It will fill the empty spaces between questions until answers can be found.

I set my hooves to the street and pull the wagon forward.

9.0807

9 Favorite Advertising Friends

9. Michelin Man

8. Mrs. Butterworth

7. Elmer the Bull

6. Jolly Green Giant

5. Bazooka Joe

4. Kool Aid Man

3. Bob's Big Boy

2. Mr. Peanut

1. Tony the Tiger

Shutting Down

-blink-

A grid flashes across his vision.

-blink-

The afterimage lingers like the ghost of an executioner. It fades from sight, replaced by the teasing blue sun sparkles of Hanauma Bay.

“Honey? Are you okay?” He shakes his head, aware now that the blip in his sensory perception had affected his hearing as well. He turns to her and pats her hand.

“Yes. Just a little pause in the implant. Nothing to worry about.” He smiles. She smiles back, shining brighter than the Hawaiian sea. She reaches across the arm of his beach chair and kisses him.

“Go slow. The doctor said not to push yourself.” She smells of salt, coconut oil, perspiration, and the singular scent of a woman who has agreed to be his for a quarter of a century. She pushes his hair back with a small hand. The butterfly sweetness of the touch arouses a primal feeling of possession, wonder, and contentment.

“Really. It is nothing. Shall we go snorkeling?” he says. Before he can stand, she grabs his mask with an impish grin and runs to the gentle surf. Puffs of sand play tag in her wake in apparent delight of her beauty. With a chuckling sigh, he picks up her mask and follows.

Despite the tropical warmth, the water stings. It infuses him with its vigor, charging his very bones with life and desire. Donning the snorkeling gear, he plunges headlong into the life and death world of the reef. It doesn’t take long before he is surrounded by swirling, glinting clouds of fish, grey and purple and yellow and blue. Next to him she floats like a mermaid. He reaches for her hand, feels the laugh of the young girl he knew vibrating in her fingertips.

-blink-

The fish dissolve into a mass of nonsensical shapes.

-blink-

She becomes a blur of conflicting colors.

-blink-

The grid appears again. In its unnatural regularity he sees a mocking smile, hears an empty laugh, feels an icy uncaring of all ending.

It is as the physicians had warned. Despite all the knowledge, all the skill, and all the miracles, chance would play its final card. The languishing disease would win, slowly at first, but with inexorable stealth. The technological marvel of the implant that promised to keep his brain connected to the rest of him would fail. In bytes and pieces he would lapse into a mind trapped in an unresponsive shell.

-blink-

He treads water. She holds his hands, pulls him close, and throws her face to the sky, giggling and precious.

He blinks, capturing a picture he will hold, and hold, and hold tighter, and never let go.

Score Bored

Challenge courtesy of Wordsmiths Unlimited.

This is a work of fiction. Copyright © 2007 Bolt, Ink. All Rights Reserved.

No portion of this work may be copied, retransmitted, reposted, duplicated,

or otherwise used without the express written approval of the author.

Score Bored

“God damn it!” Eddie had cursed both the offending scoreboard and me in the same breath. “This is the second time! San Antonio is in town again. I’ll never live it down. Fix the fucking thing or find a new job!”

I stand at the pitcher’s mound. Looming over center field is a $100,000 hunk of technology that refuses to work. No numbers, no letters, no nothing, just a matrix of squares flashing multicolored jibberish. Every random twinkle is a dart in my confidence, a refutation of my assurances that Boulder Field is now part of the twenty-first century. Eddie, the owner of our minor league Mountaineers, is furious. I can’t blame him.

Beside me Gus the groundskeeper spits. His expectoration describes a glistening arc under the late spring sun, ending with a muffled splat on the grass near first base. “It was better when we turned the score tiles by hand,” he says.

“Maybe,” I say. “But Eddie will have my head if I don’t fix this before the Generals game.” Gus spits again.

“Screw the Generals. Nuthin’ good ever came outta San Antonio. Eddie can suck my balls.” Gus folds his thin creaking frame behind the wheel of his handyman’s golf cart. The wheels leave barely perceptible tracks in the diamond’s clay. Tools clatter in the handmade wooden totes.

I have checked every wire and every bulb. I have discussed problems of timing, compatibility, and reliability with our vendors. I have made lists of connections and fuses and transformers. I run them all through my mind. I must have missed something, but standing in the middle of Boulder Field brings no answers.

I hike the stairs to my office. The bunker-like quality of concrete and overhead conduits always makes me smile. The fans know the grand green view and hot dog smells of the stands. They would never guess the bland and boring everydayness of operations. It is part of my job to perpetuate that illusion.

In my office I check the scoreboard software for the hundredth time and find nothing again. After two hours of pondering, my stomach reminds me it is time to eat. I munch a bland sandwich in the employee lounge. It is located high above third plate, affording a view of the entire stadium. I watch the sprinklers make their familiar chk-chk-chk sound as they water the outfield. The answer hits me like a bump to the funny bone, both painful and obvious, and I laugh out loud.

I will talk to Gus, the old cuss, and tell him I know about his irrigation patterns. I will talk to Eddie, the owner, and describe the solution. Gus will keep his job, Eddie will keep his pride, and I will keep my reputation. We will all win.

Go Mountaineers!

Bzzzzzzzzzt

I heard the familiar alien sound yesterday for the first time this year.

There are hundreds of species of cicada. I don't know one from another. I do know they are big noisy bugs, scary to some, beautiful to others, loud in their proclamations of six-legged love. I am fascinated by them, not only because they are delicate and strong, but because they are an annual miracle. They are a reminder of the world's incomparable wonder and delight, if one uses the gift to see glory in small things.

I have often wondered why life is so prevalent, so tenacious, on this little ball of mud we call home. I believe the question answers itself; life is prevalent because it is tenacious. However life came about, a conundrum I will not debate here, it is everywhere because those aggressive in their perpetuation have dominated those lackadaisical in their amorous pursuits. In other words, it is not dog eat dog. It is breed or disappear.

Nature doesn't care about the individual, only its ability to contribute to its species. Many species risk predatory attention and death in their reproductive displays, all to prove skill and persistence in the continuation of their kind. The bird's feathers, the frog's voice, the deer's antlers, the signal scents, the obvious calls, the gaudy floral excesses all blare two messages: 1) I can do this and still survive so I am worthy of your time and energy, and 2) Time for sex!

Some cicadas, as I understand it, spend seventeen years underground until they become adults. That's a long time. What do they do? Sit and turn and pupate and whatever cicada kids do. Meanwhile we humans, for our first seventeen years, create aggravation and confusion and waste.

On this day in July, when cloud barges navigate the currents of an impossibly blue sky, when desert rains announce their maybe arrival with ancient aromatic resin smells, when the temperature hovers between one-hundred-and-hot and unbearable, on this one day perfect for creatures more adapted than we, the male cicada emerges from his dirt nest, climbs the gnarled arthtritic branches of a mesquite tree dangling its succulent seed pods, and screams his lust.

Go horny little cicada! Bzzzzzzzzzt for the mate you so desperately need, giving the insectoid middle finger to your enemies, and proclaim your desire and ability to procreate, fulfilling the millions-year premise and promise of your forebears. Remind us of these most important lessons, these realities, these truths, that we may share them with our children and our fellows, thereby increasing the chances for our kind.