Round Here

Round here we're carving out our names
Round here we all look the same
Round here we talk just like lions
But we sacrifice like lambs
Round here she's slipping through my hands.

Sleeping children better run like the wind
Out of the lightning dream
Mama's little baby better get herself in
Out of the lightning.

(Round Here, Counting Crows)


It's been a long, surreal week 'round here, with a lot of (too much) stuff to take in and assimilate and try to make sense of -- the good and the bad, the stupid and the shocking, the happy and the sad, the tragic and the indefensible. It's been a time for reflection, for introspection, for reexamination. You process it as best you can, do whatever it takes to keep it in a quiet place through the looking glass that lets you make it through the night and, if you're smart, you learn something from it and keep things moving along.

Sometimes things happen that cause us to question who we are and what we're about. Maybe even why we are. When we can answer those questions with a modicum of intelligence and a glimmer of understanding, we're probably going to be okay. When such questions are grounds for an epiphany, the discomfort they might have caused is perhaps worth it.

Is there any guarantee that we stop doing dumb things after we're dead? If I can't be assured that I won't stumble stupidly all over myself on some other plane, then I'm staying on this one, thank you very much. I'd rather see the the moon and the sun and the stars and feel the earth beneath my feet while I'm being eaten up with dumb.

I can say I'm not going to do that again. I can promise that I won't say such a thing again. I can swear that I won't go down that path again. But I probably will. (The stupid, ubiquitous) They say you live and learn. They never tell you how long it takes.

I got a piece of mail from my erstwhile publisher yesterday that threw me for a loop. At first, I laughed at the sheer outrageous effrontery of it. Then I got angry and spent some time contemplating what, if anything, I should do about it. And then I had a short cry, because sometimes that's the only way to get rid of that mounting bank of pressure that builds up during the course of sensory overload. And then I started laughing again, which is as it should be. Somebody will have the last laugh, and I do believe it will be me. Getting mixed up with that outfit was just one more entry in an unbelievably long litany of stupid things I've done in my life. Maybe some day I'll learn. Probably not, but it's a nice, optimistic thought.


nuclear perliferation - Guide for the Apocalypse put out at the behest of the people who plan to ration out life.

reccommend - Reconnaissance on the mending factory as suggested by the general.

solicitating - I don't know WTF that is. It's probably something salacious.

Graffic - Explicit graffiti.

challanging - Nice people do not challang. Ever.



Dear PPT:

It wasn't hard to figure out your lousy company would sign someone like Anna Nicole Smith. She is about as big an idiot as you people are. As far as your email announcement, don't bother sending it to me. I won't be buying any books from the Asshat Brigade! As to apologizing to Jamie Farr, I think it's you who need to do the apologizing. You took a well known celebrity and made him look like an idiot. I'm sure you'd like people to believe he didn't read his contract either, but I'm betting he did and didn't understand it any better than we did. So, take your tone and stick it where the sun don't shine, I'm through with your ilk!

Sincerely,
Enlightened
___________________
Dear Most UNenlightened One,

Gal, take a pill!
Chill!
Apologize to the man.
Say you're sorry to me
Or your book's in the can
With no royalty.

Such drama! Such an escapade!
You call this tone?
Girl, I ain't made
You pay yet and cry and groan.

Mr. Farr is da man
Anna's our next big one
I know that you can
Learn to love 'em both a ton.

We'll send you what we please
And you'll read it with glee
You're such a tease
Oh, tee-hee-hee.

I'll tell you what will stick
Where the sun don't shine
It's your royalty check, you hick
It'll be mine, all mine.

I'll be expecting your apology in my inbox first thing in the morning, girlie. Have a nice day!

P. Twitty Bett in
Bad Zobmi Poetry Mode
____________________
Dear P. Twitty:

You've just proven how seriously insane you are! I hate poetry, don't ever read it. Don't ever assault my brain with this crap again!

Go play with Anna Nicole and leave me the hell alone!

Sincerely,
Not Effing Kidding!
____________________
Dear Effing,

Apparently, you were raised by wolves. No well brought up young lady would ever address her betters in such a tone. I see what your problem is: you are poetry dyslexic. In order to round out your introduction to refined culture, may I suggest that you go immediately to the Putrid bookstore and purchase a selection of poetry books.

And speaking of well rounded, I've already played with Anna Nicole -- it was a requirement of our accepting her ms -- and liked her just fine. Hubba-hubba!

You should be very careful, my dear, about calling me or my flunkies insane. Do you see the yellow dot in the lower right-hand corner of your screen? Drink your Kool-Aid and then watch the dot, dear. Stare at it. Contemplate it. Be one with it. You're getting very sleepy, aren't you, dear? And when you awake, you will write me a courteous, concilliatory letter -- in verse.

Sincerely,
Billie-Willie Wonks 'Em
_____________________
Dear Willie,

To quote a recent Hurricane Katrina victim to Vice President Cheney, "Go f*ck yourself."

I don't drink Kool-Aid and I won't be staring at any of your dots. Why don't you give yourself a Kool-Aid enema? Then sit and stare at your own dot.

Sincerely,
Dot Girl



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