Itchy Dawg

At a recent University of Montana basketball game, I overheard/was distracted by a discussion between two doctors' wives (in their 60s?).  They seemed to agree that Hilary should "just drop out of the race and leave it to Obama".  You heard it here first folks.  Obama has decimated Hilary's base and will be the next big D presidential nominee.  At least in Montana.  On June 3rd.  The last f*&^ing primary of the season.  Where we have like 2 delegates to give. 

In other news, it's obvious I'm not going to be the next presidential nominee.  As such, I am ready to concede and start my campaign to become Montana's only Super-Fly delegate to the national convention.  I just need a little love to get me there.  

Man, I can't believe I haven't picked up any delegates.  I thought by now I'd at least have a couple super-fly delegates on my side.  What's a candidate got to do to get a little respect around here?  sigh.

My Platform: Food, shelter, and poetry.

Oh, and, um, curvy women and beer of course!

Vote for me!  2008!

I am a weapon of mass destruction!

1. capture a moment
2. resist trying too hard to say something
3. evoke an image
4. melt on the tongue like fine chocolate
5. haunt you just a little

Nerfoop. That spongy little ball. That orange hoop with the bracket that slipped over the top of the door. That pathetic kite string net. This thing, this toy, provided hours of entertainment for me when I was a little fella. I wore through two of them in fact. How else could a scawny little kid fly and sky and jam like Dr. J? It was more than that though, for this toy, this game, allowed me to combine two other pastimes into one glorious afternoon-killing pursuit.

For some reason I was fascinated with tournament brackets. I loved drawing them out and watching teams progress from one level to the next until the ultimate square off for the championship. Why? I don’t know. Probably the same reason I was the only dork in class who enjoyed diagramming sentences and writing two-column geometric proofs.

And the other pastime? Broadcasting. Somewhere along the line my dad brought home one of those AV room type cassette players thus allowing me to start "broadcasting" periodic programs on KURT radio. Ha. In particular I enjoyed reading sports scores. Angels battered the Dodgers by 2. Cubbies clubbed the hapless Tigers by a score of 10 to 1. That sort of thing. I wasn’t even a big sports fan. I just liked the quick-paced patter and the variety of verbs.

At any rate, at some point after my first Nerfoop arrived wrapped in a Christmas bow I began the "game". First I’d map out a tournament bracket. The size varied but typically consisted of 16 teams with names like "The Blobs", "The Boogers", "The Upchuckers", etc. Next came the tournament. Not always but usually the game of choice was Around the World, and I would play both teams until one or the other made it around the world and back without a miss. The winners, of course, would advance on my bracket until the semifinalists faced off and the champion was ultimately determined. At this point, I’d crank up another broadcast of KURT radio and read off the results for each matchup ending with the announcement of the World Champion of Nerfoop. Then I’d sign off and read a book or eat dinner or invent thermal nuclear destruction. Whatever it is that normal kids do. Such was the development of the dork you see before you today.

This concludes another broadcast day.  This is Itchy Dawg signing off.  Good day.

Milosz

A Confession

My lord, I loved strawberry jam

And the dark sweetness of a woman's body.

Also well-chilled vodka, herring in olive oil,

Scents, of cinnamon, of cloves.

So what kind of prophet am I? Why should the spirit

Have visited such a man? Many others

Were justly called, and trustworthy.

Who would have trusted me? For they saw

How I empty glasses, throw myself on food,

And glance greedily at the waitress's neck.

Flawed and aware of it.  Desiring greatness,

Able to recognize greatness wherever it is,

And yet not quite, only in part, clairvoyant,

I knew what was left for smaller men like me:

A feast of brief hopes, a rally of the proud,

A tournament of hunchbacks, literature.

The little girl from next door stopped by last night to play me the first tune she learned on the violin.  She couldn't remember the title, but it went eee eee eee eee arr arr arr arr ehn ehn ehn ehn naa naa naa naa naa naa naa naa ehn ehn ehn ehn arr arr arr arr eee eee eee eee with various random squeaks and squonks tossed in.  Marvelous!

so we have these defunct surgical helmets collecting dust at work.  they resemble Greek or Roman (and don't get all dungeons and dragons on my ass because i don't know the difference) helmets, and every once in awhile i'll put one on and walk around the office shouting, "i am Spartacus!", because that's how i roll.  so yesterday i was at work feeling CRABBY! and trying to make it to beer-thirty and the weekend and all that, when due to unfortunate mechanical problems my co-worker was forced to bring his 4 year old in for awhile.  like most kids between the ages of 3 and 300, this little guy likes trains.  he is also obsessed with light sabres.  i know squat about light sabres having only seen one Star Wars flick ever (the original at the Fox Theater in Great Falls, Montana in 1977), but i know we have oodles of plastic tubes containing guide pins and wires (the better to stick you with) that will serve as light sabres in a pinch.  and yes, a mad cap battle soon ensued involving Spartacus helmets, light sabres, pokes to the belly, wild flailing about, a bubble wrap force field, and giggles.  yes, lots of giggles.  at least until the 4 year old's mom showed up, and we had to behave.  sigh.  i really do hate behaving.  at any rate, since this blog is all about ME! and not four year olds who get to have FUN! ALL THE TIME, i felt better.  and after a gallon of beer later that day i felt best.  so what i'm saying is that i have found the cure for friday ennui.  just take one mad cap light sabre battle, a gallon of beer, and call me in the morning.  seriously.  try it.  it works.  really.

in this neighborhood of brokenness and addiction, where parents spend their meager checks on cigarettes and beer, the little girl next door was able to rent a violin from the schools at a reduced rate.  now she'll be able to make squeaky notes of her very own, and this, this makes me profoundly happy.

okay, now that i've ragged on someone else for a bit, i must point the finger back in my direction.  from time to time i suffer from a condition called sudden loss of punctuation (slop).  it usually occurs when i'm in the proximity of quotation marks or parentheses and suddenly can't remember if the relative punctuation (periods, commas, question marks, etc.) goes inside or outside of the marks/parentheses.  it's a bit embarrassing for me.  as embarrassing as if i suddenly forgot how to spell kat.  while i have a good half-dozen books at my disposal, which could quickly enlighten me, i usually just toss the punctuation in where i think it ought to go, and keep on trucking.  punctuation rules be damned and all that. and it's not like the books are across the room or down the hall or anything as strenuous as that.  they're right here next to me, within easy reach.  all i'd have to do is lift my arm and grab one.  i wouldn't even have to get out of my chair to get them.  but no, that's way too much effort, so i ignore them.  so you see, i'm not only lazy but am stubbornly lazy, which, i suppose, is the worst kind of laziness of all.  sigh.  slop, slop, slop, slop, slop.