Fucking Random Fucking Thoughts

(Because a person sometimes just can’t say “fucking” enough)

–I don’t even know why butterflies got into my head, or was it Jim Morrison that got into my head?  But, it just occurred to me that, if you want to sing randomly while driving in a car with your pre-teen, it’s probably better to sing “Back through the years I go wanderin’ once again,” from Dolly Parton’s “Coat of Many Colors,” rather than “I want to hear, I want to hear, the scream of the butterfly,” from The Doors’ “When the Music’s Over.”  I mean, don’t we warp our children enough as it is?  She usually tells me not to sing, by the way, though one time several years ago she wanted to hear “Coat of Many Colors” over and over, on the way home.  I hope she starts to love music more.  She loves to draw and to read about Warrior Cats.  I couldn’t imagine a life without music.

–I had a much better example several weeks ago, when I first thought of this concept, but I can’t remember shit any more, so I’ll have to live with this one:  The irrefutable proof that time machines will never be a reality is that Donald Trump has not just been mysteriously murdered, in front of a servant (I’m sure that someone as “wonderful” as him has a servant) who then tells the cops, “There was this, thing, like some sort of ‘portal’ in one a them science fiction shows, that just opened up over by the china closet there, and out popped a feller with a gun, an’ he just blew Mr. Trump away, an’ he said somethin’ like, ‘The world shouldn’t have to endure any more of this lizard,’ an’ then he just stepped back into that portal-thingy, and, poof, he an’ the portal just disappeared.  I swear on my momma’s good name that’s true.”  Intelligent beings from any future generation would surely look back at old videos, and wish to spare us any more “thoughts” from this man.  “Nope, that’s enough of him,” they’d say.

–There is absolutely no legal requirement to dress like a doofus in order to ride a bicycle.  One can, physically, ride a bike in, say, a t-shirt and khaki shorts, or even jeans, with legs tied up so they don’t get caught and dump you.  We are not legally required to wear spandex to ride a bike.  Anything embraced by that human garbage Lance Armstrong is kind of a joke anyway.  Oh, okay, he’s against cancer; I guess we agree on one thing.

Same goes for bicycle seats that feel like you’re sitting on the narrow side of a 2×4 piece of wood; you don’t HAVE to feel like you’ve experienced “date night” at the state prison just to have the experience of riding the local bike path.  I haven’t ridden a bike in, hell, 25 years probably, but I used to ride a lot, and the first thing I did when buying a bike was to get a comfortable seat; I didn’t give a fuck what bike-elitists thought.

These “bicycle musings” don’t amount to a hill of beans, even to me really; they just fit into the category of random thoughts.

–Most writers suck ass, really, at writing.  Luckily, since so many people write, there’s still a decent amount of good, even great, writing; there’s just a lot more of the crappy kind.  You just have to wade through the shit to get to the beauty.  Sometimes I paw through the books on my bookshelves or on the headboard of my bed, or at the library or bookstore, and absolutely nothing appeals to me.  I guess that’s when I revert to some “classic” book,  by Dickens or someone, anything by an author that I know I’ve enjoyed at times before.  Other times one book after another is enjoyable.  But it sucks to get into a rut where nothing appeals.

–Most of my “blogging friends” have quit the blog thing entirely, or mostly disappeared.  Which sucks; I miss them.  People change, become disenchanted with the whole process.  I get bored easily with anything, including writing.  It’s a short trip from thinking you have something to say, on the one hand, to loathing everything you’ve ever written on the other hand, just like you loathe everything else you’ve ever done.

Except for loving my kid unconditionally; that never changes and it makes me happy and proud–as in proud that, after everything else is said and done, I at least have barely enough sense in life to know that all decent humans are crazy in love with their kids, and I’m no exception.

Of course she’s not a teen yet, ha ha.  No, seriously, I’ll still love her.

–And I’ll always hate rich people.

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4 Responses to Fucking Random Fucking Thoughts

  1. Gregoryno6 says:

    I’m surprised at how rapidly the gloss has started to fade from blogging. I’ve been at it five years, and when I started I thought I’d be going forever. Now, another five years seems the upper end of the limit.
    If you need something to read, look for Stanley Chapman’s translation of Boris Vian’s L’Ecume De Jour. Chapman translated that title as Froth On The Daydream. There are other translations available but Chapman’s had something special. He translated in a pretty freewheeling style at times. Also, he was translating Vian long before most of the Anglophone world knew of him. This gave him the perfect opportunity to grab all the best jokes.

  2. The Hook says:

    “And I’ll always hate rich people.”
    Me too.

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