Ever have a topic in your head
all set to go then you cue up the music you intend to write to and suddenly you forget what you're going to say? That just happened to me.
The song is "The Whole Thing" by The Bouncing Souls. Say what you will about its potential benefits for mankind, I'm glad no one's ever invented a teleportation machine, because at least half of rock n' roll's great songs are about someone's baby being "so far away."
We hit a solo, so now I can remember what it was I was going to say. Oh, right. My blog's two month anniversary came and went without me even noticing. Dates have merely symbolic signifigance, and males, as a rule, are not big on symbols. Except the French. They love that shit. Just look at their film-making, and the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty. All about symbology. If you can name one thing that the French have done that has had some positive impact upon the physical realm, well, shit, I'd love to hear about it.
Besides French Onion soup, which we all know was invented by William Tecumseh Sherman in 1884 and stolen by spies.
We all know that, right?
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh right. Blog anniversary, which it informs me was the twenty-fourth. I came home late after carousing with the boys, I didn't get it a card or anything. They have them, too. They say things like, "You have been my online journaling site for at least two months now, and it sure has been great.
" There's kitties or puppies on the front, and for an extra buck you can get a puppy and kitty fighting over a very tiny gorilla puppet.
But I didn't get the blog any of those. And it may never let me forget it.
No one gets betrothed anymore
in this wayward nation of sinners. You wonder why our kids are shooting their schools and our schools are full of kids shooting other kids and drugs and our kids listen to rap music then shoot guys. People blame violent video games and guns and Marilyn Manson, and surely all of those tight-ass-parental cliches share the blame for the epidemic of flagrant kidshootery, but tell me you wouldn't go around capping people if you had no idea which one of them was going to be your future spouse.
I came out of the womb with absolutely no idea who my wife was going to be, and my parents had no idea either. If you should see a haunted, vacant look in my eyes to this day, that's probably why. Anyone could just up and marry me any ol' day of the week. Slip a ring on my finger while I'm bent over the drinking fountain, have one of those ninja Priests they have now lower himself down from the acoustical tile on his crucifix grappling hook and say the vows real quick, and there you go, I'm married against my will when all I wanted to do was get a drink before third hour. It's enough to make a guy nuts, having to look over his shoulder all the time to make sure a ringbearer or a flower girl aren't hiding behind a trashcan, waiting to strike.
But if my parents had made an binding verbal agreement with another couple of a similar caste while I was still in the womb that I was to be wed to one of their daughters when we both reach the appropriate age, that would be one less thing on my to-do list. All this energy I have to put into looking for a woman with child-bearing hips and the proper characteristics to bear me strong, ruddy-cheeked sons, this is all energy I could be putting into more important things, like what I will do with my father's shoeshine factory after he succumbs to typhoid fever, and how I will crush the peasants under my gilded boothill without getting the bootheel too dirty with peasant-muck. But NO. Somewhere along the line we decided that freewill was more important than promising unborn children to each other in holy matrimony and shaping their destinies before they take their first breath. And when we made that decision, we transformed our kid's lives into one blue-ribbon livestock competition at the fair, with potential wives in the place of cattle and pigs, although the hay and the dirty pens are much the same.
What the fuck, ladies and gentlemen. I am perpetually surrounded by possible lifemates, a wife could be creeping around any corner. It's no wonder I can't concentrate on my studies. Why I don't just drive off a bridge and poison the fish in the river below with the motor-oil from my flaming suicide-mobile is beyond me sometimes. And worse, it's all your fault, corrupt liberalized society of sin.