Baby, it’s cold outside….but don’t take my word for it!

I have been tremendously lazy. Rant over.

Sorry. I lied.

I actually have been lazy.

I say actually a lot.

As recompense, it has snowed. A LOT. Buckets of sand and ice melt sigh disdainfully at us as we free the pavement from a white, frigid grave. Again.

Life does not currently have a dislike button. But if it did, it would be buried, likely.

Winter and I are currently at loggerheads. Our people are talking. Not to each other, mind you. They are shaking their fists and beating their chests like great hairy apes arguing over the serving of a well-risen souffle.

Yeah, that one kind of got away from me. Which is weird, because where would I get the milk?

Anyways, it makes me lazy. And now I have a cold.

All motivation has leaked out of me like a runny nose on parade.

It’s gross, I know, but we are all human, for the most part, and we leak equally. If you catch my drift.

Its funny how my topics are usually multi-pronged.

We leak fluids. We hemorage emotions. We burst forth with eruptive opinions.

And we spew forth into the ether, our fears, insecurities and our true thoughts. We shovel our heavy burdens out into the world, clearing a path from our hearts to our brains, leaving room to enough to turn and run, should we need to beat a hasty retreat.

Funny thing, about when we think our thoughts, or clear away the frosty remains of a cold night, and blow our noses.

We sometimes forget about what might actually come out.

Speaking of which –

Time to make a tissue dance…….

The Sacred and The Wounded Word…..

This is my blog.

There are many like it but this one is mine.

My blog is not necessarily my best friend, but it means well.

It is a tiny fraction of my life.

I must master it as I must master my life.

Which I recognize is a circular statement with no actual context or substance, but sounds deep and wisdomy. 

Without me, my blog is useless.

Also not as funny.

Without my blog I am just another guy without a blog.

I must write my blog true. Or false. Depends on the weather, i suppose.

I must ruminate more crisply than some other blogger, who is trying to out-funny me.

I must stop using made up words, like geflunka, or Dave. Or wisdomy.

I must publish mine before he or she publishes theirs.

I will. (No I won’t).

I promise. (No I don’t).

I mean it this time. (Not really).

Really. (Wrong again).

Before Eccentrica Gallumbits and Kurt Vonnegut and The Fonze, I swear this creed:

My blog and myself are defenders of the magical land of Tee-Hee-Hee.

We are the Masters of my inner monologue.

We are the Sainted Physician, attending to the Sacred and the Wounded Words of my life.

So be it, or make it so, until there is no more words to write, but peace.

So say we all.

Seacrest, Out!!

My Android screams like an electric sheep….

……everytime I get a notification.

Email. Twitter. Facebook. To a lesser degree, Google+. Much lesser, actually.

My life is a continuous symphony of cacaphonious alerts, reminders and ding-a-ling-a-lings.

Cacaphonious is not a real word. But its an accurate descriptor.

I can even rely upon the magical internet bunnies to provide me with updates on all the tremendously hilarious and frantically mundane things my friends are engaging themselves in.

Which brings me to a quandary.

OK, not so much a quandary, as a conundrum.

People have all different kinds of preferences.

Some like some things. Others like other things.

To each their own, as the French might say.

The internet is a veritable “choose-your-own-adventure” of http://www.whgatcanigooglenext.com in which to immerse yourself in.

I just don’t enjoy some things. I’m certain neither do any of you.

The unfortunate side effect of our expanding digital playground is that it has become commonplace to ridicule and retaliate in even the smallest measure.

How dare I exercise my social muscles by responding or commenting, especially if it is in defence of the less popular?

Because suck it up, that’s why. That certainly seems to be the common response.

I try to tread as carefully as possible. I ask myself some questions.

1) Do I actually need to involve myself in this chest-pounding circle jerk of a discussion? Or can I casually glance at it as I pass by on my way to do something more effective with my remaining time on earth? Like cleaning the toilet, or getting philosophical about wax.

2) Does my life stand to benefit in anyway by desperately pleading my two cents?

3) How much do I actually care?

4) And finally, how much excrement can I expect will levitate and gain momentum, moving expeditiously towards the nearest air conditioning unit, as a result of my involvement?

Exactly.

It seems asinine, but it’s almost as if we are better off keeping our traps shut.  Because the alternative is wading into the murky depths of Lake Inconsiderate, where sensitivity, and voicing it, is a weakness.

Of course I am all wrong here. I should probably fill out a hurt feelings report and file it under “cry baby”.

Or I could lash back out. Spew out my frustration, say my piece and flash the online hand as I log off.

I could also say nothing. I mean, only if I have nothing nice to say.

I’m not going to try and scroll the wool over your eyes. I’m not actually involved in any kind of debate.

It was the Pavlovian sing-song emitting from my mobile device that reminded me of it.

That, and the distinctive bleat of the elusive yet smarmy internet troll, twitching its nose in smug flash mob sentiment.

That shit really gets my goat. Continue reading

Up hill. Both Ways. On the back of a shovel.

Tomorrow we return.

To backpacks and checklists.

Recess. Fun and games.

Home. And work.

The Daily Grind, before our daily grind.

Double shots of espresso, mixed with double-takes and expressions.

A new year. A new plan. A new shift. A new stroll through the same old.

The long slow climb to March Break begins.

Up hill. Both ways. On the back of a shovel.