Welcome to golden time.
I keep hearing L. Welk renditions’ and I remember a bad, apple-cider intoxicated waltz, with some horrific version of "Falling Leaves" performed by a massive orchestra. Human figures spin on some back lot stage. One set of shadows separates from the spit-shined, group light, and as they twirl, I realize that their style is even a bit far out from the rest of the dance floor troop, and I want to look away but I can’t, I am coupled with them in their ruin, until finally, I do look away.
Even as red and orange and yellow fake leaf creations flitter down from on high; even as Bobby and Sissy are a mess of fabric and kicks and stairs; and even as someone stops the bubble machine and then, only then do I wake-the-f*ck-up.
It’s not a good time for dreamers when even Lawrence Welk hijacks an Indian Summer exercise in dream time and turns it all liability suit and litigation. I roll over and squint into the Driod, who is my sheppard, only to be lead through the valley of Salon.com and things aren’t so good there either.
I sit up, wide-eyed, and read on Salon.com that Sarah Palin has just been revealed as.... Liking the dark meat?
Uh hem.
So, uh, as if.
There was ever any doubt of this? That the uplifted hair thang she’s been working wasn’t for the benefit of the drive-by-boys out on the Palmer Highway? Oh hell to the no on that.
Now as I write this, I suppose some are expecting sympathy, after all Sarah is from Sandpoint, Idaho, which even on a clear day, I can’t see from where I’m lying, but it’s still pretty close. Already viralling videos of Bristol Palin busting a move, or a rib, on a mechanical bull are posting. Bristol gets off her bull, and gets into it with a bull fem in an L A Saddle bar, and if ever there was an excuse for future avoidance of all new media, this would not be it.
I want to turn away but I can’t. I accept the Driod’s betrayal. It was inevitable. I have willingly embracing a slightly more realistic state of denial, and even though I'm already aware it's getting toward the end of Indian Summer, and the reclaiming America tour is already one for the history books, still I can't help but wonder what Erasmus would say about all this fine mess, and our engagement with folly, and wealth and good old fashioned salvation through slut hood.
I’m leaning toward the word denial again, it’s just I don't want to think about how much effort denial involves right at this minute. So let me offer that I think Erasmus would be really super pleased at our little nation state these days. Really, I sh*t you not.. Especially now that American Exceptionalism is so,like---totally unexceptional.
As just evidenced by the Palin Doctrine. You know, tea baggin it up with the black passion tea but neglecting to think that a certain love of blow, on an sweet crude oil barrel wouldn’t someday blow up in her face. I got you’re denial baby. Oh nobody does Skank love like a yankee and thank the good Lord for that.
It's as if we Americans are so into our freak we aren't even bothering to cover our bad selves anymore. As long as we can wrap it up in a flag, and values, and don’t forget the words protecting freedom, we are so there. Which is just how I like my scandals. Raw. Naked. And purpose driven.
Yet the truth is, I am already a bit bored by the week’s unveiling. I mean Republican any more seems to mean bat sh*t crazy, and it’s such a tired old song, that it's like becoming an ear worm sorta like "Lost in Love" or "Afternoon Delight": and I just want the voices out of my head.
I mean, what else can happen?
Romney wears strange underwear? Oh yeah, so already been done.
Perry has gay affair with staffer and is really fond of running his fingers through women’s hair, even if he doesn’t know them?
Oh yeah, so already googleable!
So as I shut down the Droid, I am way more focused on winter. The old timers tell me things are going to be rough this winter, and with our lack of summer, I take a deep breath and wonder, can I stand another hard winter? After the last three--uh and that would be three out of four--- snowpocalypses ( and don't forget all of the other strange meterological events which shattered previous records)?
I'm holding tight against whatever comes next. Indeed, if readers scroll through the archives on this humble little blog, well the documentation is all there. The snow was pretty until it wasn't, and the shoveling of said snow, that most affirming of chiropractic activities, is already bearing down on us. And even as I acknowledge this worry, knowing that the light of day changes everything until by about November, it doesn't, and the world spins into ever greater financial collapse, I've had the opportunity to embrace a certain advanced state of denial.
I can’t help but face the fact I can’t face any of it. So I've visited a couple county fairs. You know, just so I could forget. And lo and behold what do I witness but the skank love shack parade doing a karoke version of walking after midnight on the fair midway. Nothing like after hours at the fair to help a guy get his bearings.
I’ve also recently seen a few high school football games. Seen a few skanks there as well.
And, after years of avoiding the rodeo scene, especially after losing my friend Teddy, and witnessing a bull rider's death just a few feet from where I watched the Newport Rodeo, I figured or embraced or quit running from the reality that life goes on, again-- even when it doesn't.
I’ve accepted that I need to start getting back out there and enjoy things I've always enjoyed. So I’ve hit the Cusick Rodeo, the Newport Rodeo, and the Pendleton rodeos and held my breath and counted through eight seconds and hoped that the bullfighter Bret, who I met and liked, would be ok relying on those pins holding his wrists together and if he’d be bitter that a newbie who ignored his advice about tying in was about to land right on top of him. The bullfighter, who was the PWRCA Bullrider of the year a few years back, is all tatted up and he's tough, and retired from the riding but not the fighting, and I figure there's a good story there, something about odds and humanity and looking the raw force of life right in the eye.
I can't help it, but i got the Sports Illustrated bug bad this week, and so join up and ride with me through my latest exercise in denial. Yep that’s right, in my current state of mind, Bullfighting actually seems among the saner options open for a guy to pursue. It is almost as if the crazy infecting the rest of the world is far removed from here or at least these events. When I turn on television, the outside world feels tremendously restless and the corruption infesting the political scene these days is surreal.
I feel this and yet I don't. I feel calm and I am not sure from where this sense originates. The arena, the fair, the back roads, these simple things still feel familiar. As if the Palin doctrine still hasn’t ruined everything. And you know, as I've watched Sarah Palin's fall from grace, and I wonder if Todd will follow through on a divorce, even as the same pundits anointing and then desecrating the Palins try to figure out a new direction in which to spin their now out-of-control spun messaging.
Oh don’t ya just pity our media idols, and I worry, who doesn't have skeletons in their closet and is still willing to go through the kind of scrutiny and speculation that any leadership requires? It is scrutiny that will befall you regardless of media buys or placement.
Dancing with the stars is just as dangerous a liaison as FOX and Friends. Which is why High School Football and the County Fair, feels so safe. My cowboy friend Mike told me a few days ago that very few people survive this world. And I tend to agree. But almost all of us survive high school football, rodeo, and county fairs. We survive skank love, and true love, and "I thought I was in love but really it was just bad gas". We survive Driod and I phone and apps. We even survive denial.
That is, until a Lawrence Welk Dream comes along. And ruins everything.
I keep hearing L. Welk renditions’ and I remember a bad, apple-cider intoxicated waltz, with some horrific version of "Falling Leaves" performed by a massive orchestra. Human figures spin on some back lot stage. One set of shadows separates from the spit-shined, group light, and as they twirl, I realize that their style is even a bit far out from the rest of the dance floor troop, and I want to look away but I can’t, I am coupled with them in their ruin, until finally, I do look away.
Even as red and orange and yellow fake leaf creations flitter down from on high; even as Bobby and Sissy are a mess of fabric and kicks and stairs; and even as someone stops the bubble machine and then, only then do I wake-the-f*ck-up.
It’s not a good time for dreamers when even Lawrence Welk hijacks an Indian Summer exercise in dream time and turns it all liability suit and litigation. I roll over and squint into the Driod, who is my sheppard, only to be lead through the valley of Salon.com and things aren’t so good there either.
I sit up, wide-eyed, and read on Salon.com that Sarah Palin has just been revealed as.... Liking the dark meat?
Uh hem.
So, uh, as if.
There was ever any doubt of this? That the uplifted hair thang she’s been working wasn’t for the benefit of the drive-by-boys out on the Palmer Highway? Oh hell to the no on that.
Now as I write this, I suppose some are expecting sympathy, after all Sarah is from Sandpoint, Idaho, which even on a clear day, I can’t see from where I’m lying, but it’s still pretty close. Already viralling videos of Bristol Palin busting a move, or a rib, on a mechanical bull are posting. Bristol gets off her bull, and gets into it with a bull fem in an L A Saddle bar, and if ever there was an excuse for future avoidance of all new media, this would not be it.
I want to turn away but I can’t. I accept the Driod’s betrayal. It was inevitable. I have willingly embracing a slightly more realistic state of denial, and even though I'm already aware it's getting toward the end of Indian Summer, and the reclaiming America tour is already one for the history books, still I can't help but wonder what Erasmus would say about all this fine mess, and our engagement with folly, and wealth and good old fashioned salvation through slut hood.
I’m leaning toward the word denial again, it’s just I don't want to think about how much effort denial involves right at this minute. So let me offer that I think Erasmus would be really super pleased at our little nation state these days. Really, I sh*t you not.. Especially now that American Exceptionalism is so,like---totally unexceptional.
As just evidenced by the Palin Doctrine. You know, tea baggin it up with the black passion tea but neglecting to think that a certain love of blow, on an sweet crude oil barrel wouldn’t someday blow up in her face. I got you’re denial baby. Oh nobody does Skank love like a yankee and thank the good Lord for that.
It's as if we Americans are so into our freak we aren't even bothering to cover our bad selves anymore. As long as we can wrap it up in a flag, and values, and don’t forget the words protecting freedom, we are so there. Which is just how I like my scandals. Raw. Naked. And purpose driven.
Yet the truth is, I am already a bit bored by the week’s unveiling. I mean Republican any more seems to mean bat sh*t crazy, and it’s such a tired old song, that it's like becoming an ear worm sorta like "Lost in Love" or "Afternoon Delight": and I just want the voices out of my head.
I mean, what else can happen?
Romney wears strange underwear? Oh yeah, so already been done.
Perry has gay affair with staffer and is really fond of running his fingers through women’s hair, even if he doesn’t know them?
Oh yeah, so already googleable!
So as I shut down the Droid, I am way more focused on winter. The old timers tell me things are going to be rough this winter, and with our lack of summer, I take a deep breath and wonder, can I stand another hard winter? After the last three--uh and that would be three out of four--- snowpocalypses ( and don't forget all of the other strange meterological events which shattered previous records)?
I'm holding tight against whatever comes next. Indeed, if readers scroll through the archives on this humble little blog, well the documentation is all there. The snow was pretty until it wasn't, and the shoveling of said snow, that most affirming of chiropractic activities, is already bearing down on us. And even as I acknowledge this worry, knowing that the light of day changes everything until by about November, it doesn't, and the world spins into ever greater financial collapse, I've had the opportunity to embrace a certain advanced state of denial.
I can’t help but face the fact I can’t face any of it. So I've visited a couple county fairs. You know, just so I could forget. And lo and behold what do I witness but the skank love shack parade doing a karoke version of walking after midnight on the fair midway. Nothing like after hours at the fair to help a guy get his bearings.
I’ve also recently seen a few high school football games. Seen a few skanks there as well.
And, after years of avoiding the rodeo scene, especially after losing my friend Teddy, and witnessing a bull rider's death just a few feet from where I watched the Newport Rodeo, I figured or embraced or quit running from the reality that life goes on, again-- even when it doesn't.
I’ve accepted that I need to start getting back out there and enjoy things I've always enjoyed. So I’ve hit the Cusick Rodeo, the Newport Rodeo, and the Pendleton rodeos and held my breath and counted through eight seconds and hoped that the bullfighter Bret, who I met and liked, would be ok relying on those pins holding his wrists together and if he’d be bitter that a newbie who ignored his advice about tying in was about to land right on top of him. The bullfighter, who was the PWRCA Bullrider of the year a few years back, is all tatted up and he's tough, and retired from the riding but not the fighting, and I figure there's a good story there, something about odds and humanity and looking the raw force of life right in the eye.
I can't help it, but i got the Sports Illustrated bug bad this week, and so join up and ride with me through my latest exercise in denial. Yep that’s right, in my current state of mind, Bullfighting actually seems among the saner options open for a guy to pursue. It is almost as if the crazy infecting the rest of the world is far removed from here or at least these events. When I turn on television, the outside world feels tremendously restless and the corruption infesting the political scene these days is surreal.
I feel this and yet I don't. I feel calm and I am not sure from where this sense originates. The arena, the fair, the back roads, these simple things still feel familiar. As if the Palin doctrine still hasn’t ruined everything. And you know, as I've watched Sarah Palin's fall from grace, and I wonder if Todd will follow through on a divorce, even as the same pundits anointing and then desecrating the Palins try to figure out a new direction in which to spin their now out-of-control spun messaging.
Oh don’t ya just pity our media idols, and I worry, who doesn't have skeletons in their closet and is still willing to go through the kind of scrutiny and speculation that any leadership requires? It is scrutiny that will befall you regardless of media buys or placement.
Dancing with the stars is just as dangerous a liaison as FOX and Friends. Which is why High School Football and the County Fair, feels so safe. My cowboy friend Mike told me a few days ago that very few people survive this world. And I tend to agree. But almost all of us survive high school football, rodeo, and county fairs. We survive skank love, and true love, and "I thought I was in love but really it was just bad gas". We survive Driod and I phone and apps. We even survive denial.
That is, until a Lawrence Welk Dream comes along. And ruins everything.
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