Thursday, July 31, 2008

the art of eating crow

sometimes i sit to the computer with only the vaguest of ideas what i will write.

but the urgency is there. i am compelled. i must brandish it like a sword. i must channel gods and devils into the written word. i must rip it from me like a cancerous growth, free then to scatter it like ashes of the dead.

the road to hell is paved with good intentions. i demand more time from the gods, and all my good intentions would cease to be cobblestones, but would become the very lacework of the golden heavens.

only the powers that be, in their chariots of fire, will know the depth of my frustrations. only they will know how many times i have hung my head, have slumped my shoulders, have gritted my teeth against the very futility that is ofttimes life.

they will grant me amnesty. they will pay off charon. they will drain the styx. they will burn the stubble of elysium.

they will pore over the tomes. they will convene. they will discuss at great length.

they will look into our eyes, o beloved readers, and know that the intentions were honest and pure. our hearts will read like books written in flowing brushstrokes of deepest ebony upon the finest rice paper. we have only and ever meant the best, not just for ourselves, but for those around us, our family, our friends, even the very same who may have slighted us, or caused us harm.

we are imperfectly made. will not the gods grant us perfection? or is the chip in the fine china cause to cast aside the plate? to dash it to smithereens?

my chips are beautiful. each small fragment, each hairline crack a testament to my attempts to fulfil my destiny. each a small, crooked white line across my hands a promise made and kept, an attempt to complete tasks. the beauty of each is in the chips and imperfections.

such were we made by the gods, and so shall the gods accept us as such.

darth sardonic


Friday, July 25, 2008


i had a conversation with a coworker the other day that went something like this:

"possession is nine tenths of the law." [said as he weilded a golf club that one of the other groundskeepers had found and intended to keep]

to which i replied (being the thoughtful bastard i am, and a bit of a devil's advocate), "i am gonna go kick out the window of your car and just sit in it. then it will be mine."

"my car aint worth gettin' shot for."

"yeah, but i bet the gun is in the car isn't it? which would make it mine as well."

he thought for a moment, "hmmm. yup. guess so."

"so the gun and the car would be mine. whatcha gonna do?"

"walk home, i guess."

all my working out is paying off. i no longer have moobs (man-boobs) but instead what can only be referred to as pecs. and while i don't have a six-pack, i definitely have a four-pack, instead of the keg i was hauling around for quite a bit.

a few miles down the road from us, there is a motel called the luna sea motel. looks like a decent place, but you would be crazy to stay there.

the weather has been nice. life has been rollercoasting along. things are more or less the usual for a summer.

and that is really all i can say for now.

darth sardonic

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Monday, July 21, 2008

Traveling at five hundred feet per second...

Five thousand feet from the ground

the other day, no. 1 asked, "mommy, were you a baby when i was in space?"

so many people believe in an afterlife. i also believe in a forelife. or lives.

i am in desperate need of a shave. but i have to say, i love having a job where it doesn't really matter whether the razor has hit my face anytime within, say, the last several days. even showering is a bit optional.

i saw fred the other day. he was swimming lazily towards the center of the pond he considers home. no doubt to see about some frog or water fowl dinner.

my tan is ridiculous, i have several layers. my butt has never seen daylight, moonlight, isrealite, or fanny by the gaslight (and i am seriously considering a trip or two to the nude beach to fix that), my chest, back and upper arms are a medium shade of caramel. my legs, arms, and face are, well, my neighbor b says to my other neighbor, j (who is mexican), "he's gettin darker than you." not only do i have this silly farmer's tan, but i have a "sock" tan included, since they kinda frown on mowing or working the idiot spoon in flip flops. it is supposed to be sunny and warm the next couple weeks, and i intend to rectify this disparity.

i had so much more clever shit i wanted to say here, but it seems to have all slipped my so-called mind.

darth sardonic

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Tuesday, July 15, 2008

a long short story


he wasn't sure how long she had been gone. as it was, he was a pretty heavy sleeper, and after the night they had had, he would've snoozed through a trainwreck.

his head hurt quite a bit as the insistant alarm went off. though the sheets were still rumpled and warm where she had lain, he had the distinct feeling she hadn't been in bed for a few hours. the dust-free rectangle in the hall closet (the only one in the apartment large enough to accomodate their bigger items) made it fairly clear that she wasn't coming back for some time. if ever.

such a strange thing. where had she gone? why? had she been angry? or was she crying as she hailed a taxi?

he had the distinct feeling he would never see her again.

which made last night even more incongruous. in the three years that they had been together, they had never had a night like the last.

she had had dinner ready when he arrived from work. wine chilled, candles lit. he stayed in his shirt and tie, but with the collar undone and sleeves rolled up and his braces down, because he knew she thought that was hot. she was wearing a slinky black evening dress, but without stockings or heels, as if she had just cast them off after having come in from a night on the town. she was also not wearing any panties he guessed, and later confirmed.

they had both had uncountable glasses of wine. they had flirted and teased at the table, the couch, the hallway, the bedroom.

and things got hazy somewhere in there. she had goaded him into pushing her against the wall, with her back to him. her dress shoved up, his tie askew. bites, slaps. grunts, pants.

her absence sucked the life out of the apartment. the ache in his skull, combined with an immediate and malingering malaise caused him to call in sick to work. he had several days coming, why shouldn't he? but maybe if he had played hooky a few more times with her they would be enjoying breakfast together now, naked...?

he had called her names: whore, slut. she had been like a wild animal at each one. shouted out things he had never heard her say, how good his cock felt, how much she needed him to fuck her hard.

had she known? were her things already packed, discreetly tucked away in the spare bedroom (hardly more than a closet), noticeable if only her sleight-of-hand sex hadn't ensured he would be looking elsewhere?

he didn't bother dressing, but rather, wandered from room to room like a ghost haunting his own living space. touching this, adjusting that. everything somehow tied to her, and exacerbating her absence.

bites on shoulders, his handprints in red across the softness of her bum, one pillow still crushed into a corner of the room where it had been violently exiled as they both grappled for a better purchase on the increasingly slippery mattress.

his wanderings brought him back to the room. it smelled faintly of her perfume, sweat, and their comingled excretions. he became increasingly aware of her taste on his lips, her smell on his face, chest, and genitals. he wanted to bask in that smell, savor each leftover bit of flavor.

he suddenly felt extremely exhausted, and stretched out across the sheets, hugging her pillow against him, falling to sleep inhaling the remaining reminders of their aggressive fucking (because what else could he call it?) and hoping for the phone to ring.

he awoke several hours later to an empty silence. the scents that had soothed him to sleep had gone sour. the bedroom had grown rank with last night's exertions and the morning's vacuousness.

he groaned and pulled himself upright. he felt crusty, caked in dry flakes of spent lust and unanswered questions. he showered, the scalding water removing the residue of the night before, but conjuring up each detailed memory of its happenings.

she had offered herself to him like she never had before, making nothing taboo. and he had not hesitated an instant before accepting, and aggressively exploring the boundaries. he wondered if someone else might have introduced her to this side of herself, provided her with a treasure map to unlocking this chest of hidden wonders that she had only shared with him this one time. he wondered if she was with this person even now, begging to be taken as forcibly (more?) as she had begged him to take her last night.

he slipped on boxers, and stripped the bed to the mattress, dragging the eviscerated bedclothes to the laundry room like a dead body. he cursed the small washer, forced to leave some of the sheets in the hall to spread the achingly rancid smell of their one-time love throughout the apartment.

he busied himself cleaning the kitchen. tossing out melted candles, empty wine bottles, leftover pasta primavera. rinsing the plates and silverware before putting them in the dishwasher, lingering one moment too long over wiping off her red lipstick from the rim of her glass.

as time passed, he erased the traces of their last night, and at the same time, her presence in the apartment.

when he was done, he sat in his favorite chair with a beer, lit a cigarette (she would have told him to get out on the balcony), and stared at the ceiling in the encroaching twilight.

there was no puzzling it out. it would never make sense. at this juncture, even if she was to call and explain her reasons, and even if they might be as simple as "i don't love you anymore" and "i have found another" he would still be sitting in the dark considering the textured roof and the dirt in his navel.

he would never understand.

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Sunday, July 13, 2008


the post i originally wanted to post...

m came up for an extended 4th of july weekend, and on the fifth, we celebrated my bday (late--cause everyone was gone) and two other bdays on the cove, as well as a promotion party for my wife (she made her next rank, and will probably put it on in nov or thereabouts).

the night started off simple enough: more food than a small army of starving teenagers could eat in a month, beer and sundry drinks aplenty, an assortment of people from the cove, my wife's work, and a few hangers on, and warm but not too hot weather.

stir that a bit on simmer, and before you know it, you will have: a rowdy game of spades, a broken glass of gin n tonic, a semi-acoustic jam session (both the drummer and guitarist from my band were there), even though there are still no cymbals on my drumset, laughter, shouts, silliness.

i am eyeballing b's big blow-up water slide.

"that looks like it could be fun."

"it could be." b replies.

"yeah, well, it's all deflated."

"that can be fixed in no time."

"nah, i don't want you to blow it back up just so i can slide down it a few times."

"you really wanna go down it, doncha."

"yeah, actually, i really kinda do."

b is off to turn the blower back on. i am not far behind him, and as i near the kiddie pool, d pulls off his shirt and jumps in.

i jump in right behind him.

within 15 minutes there is not a dry body anywhere. all the men have their shirts off. the women are splashing in the pool or sliding at high drunken speed down the water slide. m removes her bra without setting down her corona, and, more importantly, without flashing any of the drunken half-naked men nearby. j dons her bra and then shifts his shorts down to expose his ass, and runs to dive onto the water slide from the front. i run around and around, up the slide, down so fast that i almost roll right out of the bottom every time, and back around again. small breaks to splash in the pool.

as the buzzes wear off some, and the realization of the chill caused by the night's cool air and the soaking wet bodies sets in, the party evaporates some. m and i need drunken soaking wet pics for posterity's sake, and i need to get to bed, as i still have to get up early and mow grass in a few hours.

darth sardonic

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Wednesday, July 09, 2008

i hope...

o my beloved, empassioned, patient non-existant readers, i am tired, and in a weird mood.

this is not the post i wanted to post, but this is the post you get; because sometimes i don't get to choose:

i hope my kids will forgive me. i hope my kids will still love me when i am 99. i hope they will look back on the happy times and laugh, and forget about the not-so-happy times. i hope there will be so many happy times that this will be easy for them. i hope that when we need to cry, we will cry together rather than seperately. i hope that as i lay on my death bed (and i hope to god it is a death bed, with this kind of time!) i will be surrounded by my family, and we will laugh through the tears as is the sardonic way, and has been for generations. i hope they will ask me whatever questions they have on their mind for as long as they have me to answer. i hope i will answer them as truthfully as humanly possible. i hope none of them will feel alienated from the family by me or anyone else. i hope i am the dad i wish i was, at least 60% of the time.

i hope persepolis will crack my ass up, because right now i am fucking bawling my eyes out.

darth sardonic

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Tuesday, July 01, 2008

You told me that you missed me...

...But you meant with the grill and hood

i am horrible at keeping up with everyone's blogs lately. for the most part, my life has been reduced to work, fight to stay awake, eat, sleep. but i do go through every so often and read. so those of you as haven't stopped already (and there are alot of you, turns out, jesus), don't stop.

if a man casually and disinterestedly says, "yeah, she's cute." to another female, nine times outta ten, he means he wants to have her real savage over a couch/counter/car hood.

when it isn't storming like crazy, it is so hot that even fred won't come out.

i forgot to mention in my job description: shucking dead fish.

a few weeks ago, due to lack of rain, and overabundance of algae in one of the ponds, we had what is charmingly referred to as a "fish kill."

quite simply put, the fish run out of oxygen, shuffle off this mortal coil, and go tits up.

so it was my job to take a long-handled net, and pull the carcasses (hundreds of them, no exaggeration) to the shore to be dumped into the front loader with pitchforks and buried somewhere quiet.

the stink that came off the bodies stuck in my nose for days.

but i didn't throw up.

which is about as positive as i can get at the tail end of that story, hahaha.

darth sardonic

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