Wednesday, March 26, 2008

I can safely admit that there existed a period in my life (particularly the period between the release of Mean Girls and her initial train-wreck experiences) in which I found the idea of seeing a nude Lindsay Lohan at least moderately appealing. It’s quite possible, even, that I would make some sort of effort to make this event happen.

It did happen, of course, in the wake of her “recreation” of Marilyn Monroe’s famed last photo session. Now, I could stand up and argue for days—ok, probably not days—about the various problems with this exercise; that she will never compare to Marilyn Monroe in the sense of beauty, or talent, or whatever. But the important thing is that when I saw these photos, as part of a side-by-side comparison between the two women, I just couldn’t care.

There are things about my childhood, the absence of which sometimes makes me a little sad. I miss after-school cartoons. I don’t know where G.I. Joe disappeared to, but I want them to come back. I miss, despite its obtuseness and sheer inconvenience, the large satellite dish which has to be repositioned in the event that you want to switch from Sci-Fi channel (G5-4) to, say, VH1 (F4-21). I want to watch Space Ghost again. I’m tired of Williams Street creating shows that just…aren’t funny.

For the first time in a long while, I felt a religious conviction to at least attempt to lead a life that honors and follows God. This wave of feeling came over me while reading James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. I don’t know what this means, other than that twentieth century literature has a greater effect on my soul than anything else at the moment. If that’s the case, I feel a little bit sad.

I was thumbing through some old fiction I had written last spring, and came across a story I wrote, the ending line of which had always troubled me. I finally changed it. I like the story infinitely better now. It feels more natural.

I’m finally at that point where I’m doing everything in my power to not go home for the summer. I don’t know how I really feel about that, other than that I feel as though I would be profoundly happier surrounded by friends than if I were to only see them on occasion.

Dear Mom, send more money. I’m in college, and I need it for books…and trapper keepers…and stuff.


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- D. Fresh (9:32 PM)

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

This is my dream, unabridged and maybe even a little unrealistic.

I honestly want nothing more than to live in a smallish house, and not only that but one that is old, with hardwood floors that I did not buy at Lowe's or Home Depot but that have been there for years. This house will be furnished tastefully, and there will not be an overabundance of it. Strategically placed tables. A sofa, perhaps. I won't have any illusions about the idea of entertaining more than three or four guests at once. A walk-in closet is mandatory. I have no intentions of curbing my attitude toward dress. Suits, shoes, casual. They'll all be there, all organized, and neatly pressed thanks to the efforts of dry cleaning.

I will have a fruitful teaching career, the middle of which will financially pave the way for the opening of a small pub-slash-eatery; the kind of place that I have always wanted to sit in and enjoy a pint. I will drive to this teaching job in an older car, but one that suggests I am in fact still as hip as I pretended to be in college. Probably a BMW or piece of shit Jaguar that I paid $2000 for on a whim.

I will spend my summers writing humorous nonfiction essays, poetry, and even perhaps finally a novel. All of which will be completed on the back porch of my small house, and I will be surrounded by emptied bottles of Dos Equis or Stella Artois or something else. I will continue to stay away from mixed cocktails; I attribute this as my one lasting tribute to my father.

My wife or live-in girlfriend will not harp about the empty beer bottles on my back porch. It is my domain, as will be the very small office I keep in my smallish house.

In lieu of this, I'll settle for my parents' basement and substitute out the Stella for a case of canned Bud Light, sold at Wal-Mart for less.

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- D. Fresh (12:28 AM)

Friday, April 20, 2007

It's a ghost town and no one's around because
They're mostly out at the ballpark where
My little brother hits a pop-fly into center field
And five miles away, Dr. Wallace grills out.
Sizzling steaks and ice tapping the sides of the tea glass,
But his son is busy necking with some girl at the drive-in.
At the same time, two boys in a wheat field nervously hold hands
In the bed of a pick-up truck, watching the same stars that I am:
The backdrop of my little brother's base-hit turned "out"
By the harsh slap of the ball against a leather glove.

Mexican boys still out in the field with their fathers,
They don't get to experience life like we do.
In the summer they come by the busload to work outside
While American boys and girls count the melons they pick
In air-conditioned warehouses—I bet they have a bigger sense
Of accomplishment and what it means to earn their living.

Cold beer by the lakefront, my father and his father before him,
They all enjoyed essentially the same luxuries. I sip from longnecks
And pass down the tradition of rubbing the cold wet bottle
Against the base of a young girl's neck mischievously.
My father and his father before him, before me. A family tradition.

Cannonball shouts and shrieks of alarm,
Don't sit near the pool if you expect to stay dry.
Common sense dictates that much. But boys and girls
Will be boys and girls, and cause as much trouble as
The lifeguard can stand, bored with her summer job
And waiting to see her boyfriend that night—probably the doctor's son.

In the later hours of the night turned black and blue by darkness,
The only sound is the soft singing of radio voices
That I forgot to send away with the flick of a switch.
Covered only by a sheet or two because of the heat,
I think about the summer, and how in its warmth,
We are all connected.

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- D. Fresh (12:29 AM)

Monday, April 2, 2007

I wrote this today in Intro to Imaginative Writing. I think it's an accurate representation of how I feel about writing in iambic pentameter:

I curse and spit and rue the day on which
I learned to write this poem. A sad poem, yes.

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- D. Fresh (12:10 PM)