Where the Stupid People Are

Dear people my age who are going to see Where the Wild Things Are Grow up. Then Die.

KTHXBYE,
The_Jaded_One

The Hipocrisy of Steroids and Baseball

The commissioner, the owner, the general managers, the doctors, the trainers, the fans, and yes the players were all complicit in the steroids scandal in baseball. Yet the players are singled out and demonized for their involvement while everyone else gets a free ride. Why? To think the owners, GMs, and Bud Selig didn't know what was going on is simply naive. How could they not be aware? The doctors and trainers clearly forsook their duties to the health of the players. And the fans didn't bat an eye at all the juice fueled homers during the steroid era. Everything was fine and dandy.
Then Canseco has to go and publish a book and rub it in the face of America that baseball is "corrupt" and on comes the righteous indignation. All of a sudden everyone was horrified by the prospect of steroids--except not really: Shawne Merriman of the NFL only received a 4 game suspension for doing steroids and I never hear the man being denigrated as a cheater, or it suggested that he is not worthy of the hall of fame. A google search of "Shawne Merriman steroids" yields a whopping 33,200 hits as compared with 3,970,000 for "Barry Bonds steroids", 415,00 for A Rod, 165,000 for David Ortiz, 124,000 for Mark McGwire, and even 75,600 for a comparative no name in Rafael Palmeiro. Do people really believe the monsters they see beating the hell out of each other on Sunday aren't built with more than protein bars? Please.
So let's drop all of the posturing, admit that there is an awful lot of blame to go around, and let players that are deserving into the hall of fame even if that means opening up a "Steroids Era Wing", the place is a museum after all.

...

It's dark out...cold.
That sickness is creeping in...seeps into my bones.
When will I get this over with...when will I commence that which must be done.
Why deny fate...that which is inevitable.
Why deny anything...

in the

face

of death will you
laugh or crumble

Lines in the sand. Dare I cross them? What's waiting for me on the other side? Hope? Despair? What's waiting on this side? Only despair...a known quantity. Still I don't cross them. Why?

Kata Sarka

Flesh, blood, thought, vision. What's a man to do? Senses overloaded, fuses blown. There was another time, when things were different....somehow. Better even. There was a time.
It's still now. Cold. Slowing down, things are always slowing down.
Confusion, mystery, wonder. A thousand wonders. What's a man to do?
If I were another, I'd be another, and another, and another. If I were one, I would be one. Just one.
There seems to be a malady, a malaise. There seems to be a softening of mores.
A new dawn, a new day, a new me, a new you. All of these things new, today. Everything is new. Everything is knew.
According to the flesh, the blood, the mind. According to the heart, the soul, the sight. Each of these things, according to its own, each of these its own virtue, each of these a gift, each of these a part, a part of man.
First there was fire and stone. Then Iron. First there was flesh and bone. Then steel. First there was moon and star. Then heaven. First there was time and space. Then man. And after man: nothing.

So U Zee Yourself

One last dance. A song upon my lips, a dream within my head, a vision. Still that image lingers, lives more abstract now.
Awkward, painful, and more awkward still.
The first, the last, the same.
Gardens emerge, names endow, venture always.

OK OK I'll post again

Most people don't like a maniac...that is if they know he's a maniac. Which is to say, if they'll listen, or open their eyes. The clues are always there, usually in plain sight. Why aren't the pieces put together, why are they always taken apart? Smashed apart? Torn open like flesh. A pipe clashes with a smile. Teeth are broken. Somewhere someone is crying, bleeding, thirsting. Somewhere someone is...someone is.
In the dead of night a woman's calling: A siren song from on high. Should I prostrate myself? Swear my fealty? Or does my foolishness run even deeper? Upon the rocks I cast myself. A thousand times I cast myself, yet still the banshee shrieks. No mercy--not for the wicked.
Regret is the blanket of a fool, his dreams his bed. And in the moment of his waking he despises himself. Upon the rising of the sun despises himself. He awakens with the same thought with which he shuts his eyes each night.
All be beyond yours.