My problem with Catholicism is that it doesn’t seem to take its own shit far enough. Conversely, I think my problem with Protestantism is that it takes its own shit too far, but that’s beside the point. Catholicism just doesn’t go far enough. Why? Because, real talk, if God ever handed you the keys to the kingdom, my advice – and this is just one man’s opinion – dispense with dignity completely. Resolve at the very first step to sit, on the scale of class, somewhere below the range of your modern evangelical sermon. If Catholics could do that I might get more interested. Continue reading
I was recently reunited with a dear friend who, to my dishonor, I have not kept close. This is a man of excellent fiber, gamboling laughter, real loyalty and a deep, pervading wisdom; I have not found him, yet, much changed — only grown.
I, on the other hand, am different in one important way from the boys we were together. Growing up, my friend and I shared a belief system, Christianity. I no longer wear that label or believe much of what those of that label believe. Continue reading
Remember, remember the fifth of November
The gunpowder, treason and plot.
I can think of no reason,
Why the gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
I’m not English but I have a special affinity for this night. It’s my firm belief that the odd riot, burning car and uncivil uprising helps keep our erstwhile public servants on their toes. It’s been quite some time in our great nation, since the tree of liberty was refreshed with the blood of patriots or tyrants (–Jefferson); be on the lookout for your chance to do so. I will be.
Hello, oh loyal reader, I feel I owe you an explanation.
My house, unfortunately, lay in the path of fierce Hurricane Sandy and we have suffered — and continue to suffer — the loss of some utilities. Thankfully my family is otherwise fine.
I write to you from a friend’s house to let you know that this pirate station will return, so soon as the waters recede and Al Gore deigns to enlighten us with the renewed gift of his internet.
As there is no TV at my house I had, until now, no idea how bad things are! As there are no adequate words to follow an on-going crisis of this scope, I will simply say my sympathy goes out to all of you caught in the swath of this destruction.
The next 8 posts, labeled Chapters 8 through Chapter 1 in descending order, are the 25 pages or so of a short story I’ve been working on. For best results, oh readers, you should start with chapter 1 — which will be found at the very bottom of the list — and work your ways on up through chapter 8. In total, it will be less than an hour’s reading.
Without further ado, I give you “The Incredible Lightness of Being Jack”. Enjoy.
It was a remarkable spring – the kind filled with sun-showers and lightening, frivolous thunder and serious rainbows. It was a spring both effeminate and mighty; it was war-like Athena, from Olympus descended, with an iron bow and a stylish mini-skirt. She kept you always guessing, never sure if she was being girlishly coy or deadly serious. Continue reading
We beat the Auburndale Crabknuckles in straight innings. Dad came to watch with some of his buddies and they were, by far, the loudest – and drunkest – spectators there. In the third inning I pulled my helmet off and waved it at them – inciting a riot from dad and his buddies. Then one of the Crabknuckles blind-sided me with a flying tackle; as it turned out, we were in the middle of a play. Hitting the ground helmet-less, I blanked out for a few seconds during which the whole tenor of dad’s riot changed. Continue reading
I avoided Janice all the next day – ducking through unused corridors, staying out of the schoolyard and sneaking in through back entrances. I threw panicked glances around every corner and reconnoitered every hallway with long, slow looks. By lunchtime I was on a nerve-strand’s edge, I jumped whenever anyone hailed me, I searched for her behind people and in the dark nooks of the hallways. Continue reading
My first Sunday as a Lemellen Lemming I started as a linesman. A linesman’s job is simple, revolving mainly around the crushing of various foes. A crushed foe is one who has hit the turf so hard that he no longer cares to participate in the rest of the play. As a linesman, I would wait for the snap then, roaring viciously, I did my best to crush one foe. Sometimes I was successful in which case I would step over the crushed foe, thirsty for the crushing of another, or – as in defensive situations – I would launch myself bodily upon the crushed for thereby guaranteeing his crushed status. Needless to say, foes crushed in this latter manner stayed crushed. Continue reading
When I woke, dad was bustling around the room. He had the windows open and the sun – like surge waters breaching a dam – flooded in. Layers of cardboard had been stripped from the ceiling lamp, and, for the first time in memory, it was lit. Continue reading