Thom Gabrukiewicz

OneWord, 'Orbit'

2012-02-06T21:58:00.000-05:00

The word over at OneWord is "orbit." Sixty seconds. Here you go:

Orbit

His orbit was in a steady decay and there was no bailingout. He’d have to ride it out, ride right through her atmosphere, praying thathis shielding remained intact. It was going to be a bumpy ride. Sweat beaded onhis brow. He took a bandana out of his back pocket to mop, she intercepted hishand, squeezed and swiped the red swath of cloth.

“The contractions are like 10 minutes apart,” she said “Focus.”

Wanderlust, the Story of A Life

2012-02-05T17:00:00.000-05:00

Moving to the frontier has been…interesting.

There are days when the wind whips snow until it stings andit’s so cold that you can’t feel your fingers or toes. There are nights whenthe sun goes down and I’m truly alone with just my thoughts.

And then there are days of perfect beauty, laughter in thenewsroom and nights filled with the wonderment of a star-drenched sky, rightoff my porch.

Unsettled.

I feel unsettled.

I am filled with wanderlust.

Knowing that I crossed 1,900 miles of the U.S. at prettymuch the most inopportune time – the start of fall on the frontier – I vowed togive Wyoming a standard year. Anyone can do anything for a year.

But shortly after arriving, I started to seriously questionthis latest upheaval, the third in so many years.

All I can say is that there is a crisis in management stylesand it taints everything I do.

And I knew going in that it would be a problem.

The lure of the mountains, the wide-open spaces, the chanceto mentor a young staff was just enough to put everything in a truck and motorwest.

Lately, I’ve been missing NYC. There’s a lingering doubtthat I wasn’t finished there, not nearly so.

In the darkness of my bedroom – real Wyoming darkness – Ithink of what might be – and what could be. The itch to wander grows. Thenthere’s this joyous happening at work or in the community and I think, “Give ita chance.”

But the clashes arise, and I want to walk out right then andthere. Give the finger. Go.

Certainly, my fate is a First World Problem. I am employed,I live in a kick-ass area and I have a growing circle of friends. I do not lackfor anything. I don’t want anything. I am paid well.

Recently, people have approached, asking that I apply for aboard position with the animal shelter. The Relay for Life people want me tohelp organize this year’s event.

The owner wants this for me. He wants me to be engaged, partof the community.

(His wife, also an owner, continues to serve as a de-factowingal, working toward finding me a date; very nice of her.)

It’s all an attempt to keep me happy – and keep me here.

I got a note from one of my staff members, a thank you card.

“I know this might not be the ideal job for you…”

But in all reality, it is. Or it’s as close as I’ve come toin years. I get to do everything I’ve been trained to do – everything I love todo in the craft of journalism. I try and lead by example. I don’t micro-manageand I certainly keep things loose. Work should be fun, a mantra I’ve carriedwith me since I first started sweeping the floor at a woman’s clothing shopwhen I was 13.

If it weren’t for one stumbling block, I think I would beextremely happy. Or, at the very least, sleeping through the night.

There are opportunities that have been put in front of me,dangled. Journalism work.

And I think, “Would it be any different at a new place?”

Probably not. Years of downsizing has allowed some realdumbasses to be promoted in this business.

The problem is that after my folks died, I decided not toput myself into situations that sucked. And yet, here I am.

A friend just texted and said she wanted to work on a farmor a ranch and bring sustainable products to people. I wrote back that I wantedto live on a ranch and make artisanal cheese, or raise heritage pork.

And that’s not too far from the truth.

I want to do something that makes sense.

And makes me happy.

Alas.

3WW CCLV "A Night In with a Canadian"

2012-01-21T18:20:00.000-05:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are downhill, freak and sliver. A nod to Boots, who really jump-started this piece through a text and phone conversation. She kicked my ass, and kicked away the writer’s block.

A Night In with a Canadian

It’s not like I wasn’t already freaking out or anything, what with some of the best barbecue I’ve had in Austin cooked just for me on this ginormous backyard smoker, but then he sits on the couch and puts in this monster dip in and goes on for 20 minutes – spitting all the while in a Mason jar – about bleaching his teeth and the proper way to floss.

I’m sitting next to him, not so very close, listening intently, well, listening the best I can, because all I can focus on are the little bits of chew on his teeth and lips and it occurs to me that it looks exactly like tiny slivers of shit and my stomach turns a little.

“And manicures and pedicures, I mean, grooming is important,” Josh says, shooting a fresh slimy brown glob into the jar. “Your feet are awful, and I mean that sincerely. You need to let me take you to my Vietnamese ladies because your feet are naaasty. I can totally hook you up.”

I curl my feet, one under the other, and scoot them as far back under the couch as they’ll fit. I wanted to tell him – sincerely – that I put a fresh coat of polish and lacquer on each toe for this fucking date, but I stay silent.

And fairly chug-a-lug a huge mouthful of red wine.

And then things really start going downhill.

He lifts a cheek and lets off a tremendously wet fart. And sighs.

Spits.

And stands.

“Hey, what do you think of my nipples?” he says, lifting up his T-shirt to show me his right nipple.

“Uh, what about your nipples?”

“I had surgery on them. On my nipples. They were too puffy. How fucking cool is that?”

I stare intently into my wine glass, which is unfortunately empty.

He picks up my hand, and clucks his tongue.

“You really need to come with me to see the Vietnamese ladies,” he says.

And suddenly, I’m furious, red-faced, teeth-grinding furious.

He grazes his fingers across my cheek and lips, which feels kind of nice.

And scratches his ass.

“Hey, I gotta make a call. Get me another beer, would you – and get a refill for yourself.”

I look at the door. It’s right there. He’s on the phone, talking to a friend in Seattle, some other Canuck he graduated with.

Oh, yeah, he’s Canadian.

I have past troubles with Canadians.

I stand – and should really get my coat and slip silently out the door – but go to the kitchen and reminisce about the conversation I had with my BFF Toby before the sonofabitch moved to New York, the ungrateful turd.

We were having coffee, me with my legs tucked under me in a gaudy purple velvet chair that looks like something out of, well out of Friends. I fucking loved that show.

“I don’t think he likes me, anyway.”

“Why is that?”

“I think maybe it’s because he’s Canadian.”

“What?”

“Canadians, I think, tend not to like me.”

“That’s a pretty big country to piss off, don’t you think?”

“Well, maybe not all Canadians. Just male Canadians. I think maybe I’m too loud for them.”

“So, there you go.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, beer me, will you?” Josh says as he passes by the kitchen and I’m snapped harshly back into the present. “I’ve gotta drain the main vein.”

Uhg.

I get a Shiner, twist off the cap, toss it onto the counter. I fill the wine glass to the brim and a little sloshes onto the kitchen tiles. I rub the wine into the grout in with my big, fat, ugly toes.

“Whoa, I just pissed like a Russian race horse. You know how good that feels?”

This is probably a good time to confess. I slept with him. Thursday night. After trivia night at the Screaming Goat. In the fucking parking lot. (I’ve got to stop doing that.)

He’s going on about my boobs, which are fantastic, I must admit, as we walk back into the living room. Arcade Fire is playing on Austin City Limits. I want to watch. He’s starting to get grabby.

“You staying over?”

I stare at him. He swigs his beer, I watch the tick-tock of his Adam’s apple as the beer flows down his throat. I swallow, hard.

He belches. Picks up the Mason jar and flicks a brown stream into it.

Just go, I think. It’s late. Austin City Limits is nearly over. I DVR'd it, anyway.

“Hey, have you ever seen Playboy?”

“The magazine?”

“Yeah. Because those girls, if they aren’t totally shaved, they’ve got their cooch all trimmed and shit.”

“So?”

“Well, you’re such a pretty girl, you should really take care of that stuff.”

I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I have a thatch or anything. I’m a road cyclist.

“Shaving or waxing down there causes problems when I ride, it’s really uncomfortable,” I say. “Besides, it’s my armor.”

“Yeah, armor is right – protecting you from ever getting laid again.”

I stand, woozy, and realize I’m crying. He’s not getting up or anything. I turn to scream at him, but he’s back on his cell.

I grab my coat, walk out the door, down the steps and get into my car. I’m halfway down the block before I’m fully sobbing. I pull over, take out my cell and text Toby. It’s late in New York, but I take a chance.

“Canadian was a disaster…need to tell you about it.”

I wipe my eyes and stare at the screen.

“Were you too loud?” Toby writes.

“Epic disaster. But sort of so epic, it makes for a great story. I left his house speechless, and in tears.”

“There’s a first.”

I laugh.

“Missing my chicka right about now,” he writes. “Calling.”

The phone rings and I find that I’m smiling. Toby’s therapy sessions are always free.

And he never judges, since as far as I know, he’s got nothing against Canadians.

Video Friday, Volkswagen

2012-01-20T10:14:00.000-05:00

It's nearly time for "the big game," or "championship Sunday" (hey, I don't want to get sued).
Some people watch for the game.
Some watch for the ads, which run about $3.5 million for 30 seconds this year.
Some get entertainment out of both - hence all the parties.
Some ads are stink bombs. But many are clever.
This week's Video Friday is a teaser for the Volkswagen ad.
It's going to be a winner.

Video Friday, "Guy on a Buffalo"

2012-01-06T10:37:00.003-05:00

In 1978, a movie was made called "Buffalo Rider." It was about a guy who finds a buffalo and decides to tame it.
It has fallen into the public domain.
Enter The Possum Posse.
The Possum Posse is an Austin, Texas sardonic honky-tonk/bluegrass band. On the band's website, it says, "They consistently win over audiences by playing memorable originals as well as mashed-up versions of urban cult-classics and girlie-pop favorites."
They put words and music over clips of Buffalo Rider to create "Guy on a Buffalo."
And that's your Video Friday.

Episode 1

Episode 2

Episode 3

Episode 4

Video Firday, Inappropriate Content

2011-12-16T11:50:00.001-05:00

Yes, kids, this post includes the F-Bomb. If you have sensitive ears, do not watch.
But it is funny. I've shared this before. There was an Australian TV show called the Ronnie Johns Half-Hour. In Australia, you're allowed to swear on TV (like in real life).
There's an Aussie criminal named Chopper Reid (Eric Bana played him in a movie). This is a parody of Reid reading "Twas' The Night Before Christmas."
And it's your Video Friday:

Video Friday, Pogues

2011-12-09T10:57:00.001-05:00

It's the Christmas season, so that means putting up a few Christmas standards.
Here's the Pogues, with "Fairytale of New York." It's a great song. It's your Video Friday:

3WW CCXLIX, "Stranded"

2011-12-08T13:17:00.001-05:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are flag, might and passive.

Stranded
With a white veil of silk, she cause his attention, flagged him over.
The car in idle, he watched her walk toward him from the rear-view. She smiled at her sway.
He rolled down the window and thought that she’d been crying.
She’d stuck a thumb in both eyes to well the tears.
“Problem?”
“Yes, well, I’m stuck, see…”
“Might as well hop in, I can give you a lift.”
Once inside, the heat, mixed with his salty scent, made her swoon.
“Where you headed?”
He sat, passive, waiting for her answer.
“Anywhere you are.”
Pulling out on the highway, he quickly shifted into fourth, then let his hand settle onto her thigh.
The whites of her eyes went blood red, but she didn’t pounce.
“There’s a curve coming up, love. Focus.”

Video Friday, Zach Wahls

2011-12-02T11:42:00.001-05:00

Watch this and then tell me again why anyone would be against gay marriage.

The eloquent Zach Wahls, your Video Friday:

3WW CCXLVIII "Occupy"

2011-12-01T12:27:00.001-05:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are behave, jettison and mob.

Occupy
The blond bimbo on the news said it was a mob, but shit I was there, man. There wasn’t a mob.
It was an army.
Fucking behaved one, too. Line after line of believers. Standing shoulder to shoulder. Dressed in black. Chanting in low tones.
Badass.
Cops didn’t know what to do, shit their pants are start in with the tear gas. All worried looks behind plastic shields and plastic faceplates hooked to helmets. Guys gripping their nightsticks like they’re choking their chickens. Fucking hilarious.
Until one dude on the cop line got antsy, man. That black army was spreading like an oil spill and he takes out his Glock and drops it and it goes off and takes out a kid, man, all of like 17 and he drops to the ground.
That black army oozed over him, hands grabbing, and he’s moved to the rear in such a chillingly efficient manner. Fast, too, since the leading edge of the army kept moving forward toward the cops. Yeah, some of them jettisoned their shields and nightsticks and just bugged the fuck out. But the badasses – those guys with the crew-cuts and the weird little mustaches all trimmed up and perfect, they stayed on the line.
And started firing.
For every kid or grandma who went down, another body filled their place. They just kept coming, man. Swallowed the cops whole, shit them out the back. Jesus the screaming.
Fucking awesome, man. Just fucking awesome.

Six Sentence Sunday: "Nighttime Jitters"

2011-11-27T20:17:00.001-05:00

This is my first submission for Six Sentence Sunday.

Nighttime Jitters
He’s too lazy to spin the cap back on the bottle of bourbon.

Maybe he’s too drunk, but it doesn’t matter anyway, he thinks, since maybe, just maybe, bourbon is like wine (is it?) and letting it breathe adds to its smoky taste.

These are the things he thinks about in the cold of night, no lights on, no heat, where he wanders through their home checking locks, rattling ice, quietly mumbling to himself.

Well, not really.

He thinks about a lot of things, the places he’s been, the places he still hopes to go.

And realizes that he’s stuck here, in this house, slowly rotting from the inside from booze – and outside from dreams not realized.

Video Friday, Pete Schweddy

2011-11-25T17:57:00.001-05:00

No explanation needed. From SNL, NPR's "Delicious Dish," your Video Friday:

3WW CCXLVII "Sleepless"

2011-11-23T17:46:00.001-05:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are hollow, misery and shallow. Not very uplifting, huh? I actually, for the first time in more than 150 attempts, missed a 3WW last week. Too many early deadlines, not enough sleep.

Sleepless
The steam on the window is turning slowly to frost, and if he concentrates, he thinks he can actually see crystals form. The fog is from an intensely long, insanely hot shower, where he let the water cascade over his body from the wide rain head he’d installed for her. He let the water go, along with his thoughts, until the water heater emptied and climbed into bed wet and naked.
He pulls her pillow under his head, breathes deep, hoping to catch a whiff of her. He turns his head into the hollow, into the impression left by her head, but he can’t conjure anything except the misery of the hour.
He turns back to the window, sighs. There’s no moon, and a cold winter night twinkles with stars. He lets his vision go fuzzy, and with it his thoughts. His breathing goes shallow, his chest barely rises and falls. It’s a trance he’s practiced for a hundred sleepless nights and for once his mind calms. But just for an instant.
And it all comes flooding back, the hurt and the pain and he rolls onto his back and screams at the ceiling until his eyes sting, his cheeks redden and his chest heaves.
He tosses off the comforter, kicks at the sheets to free his legs and stumbles back into the bathroom. He takes one last look at the windows, which are clear of fog and in the dark fumbles for the shower controls. The water is hot again, and he gets in, plants his palms against the tile and lets the cascade of water fall over him.
Trying again, his tears mingle with water he cannot see as it tumbles down the drain.

Video Friday, Adrian Belew

2011-11-18T08:46:00.001-05:00

Adrian Belew is an American musician best known for his work with the band King Crimson. He's great. Maybe you haven't heard of him. Maybe you haven't heard his stuff in forever.
Please do give him a listen.
Adrian Belew, your Video Friday:

"Oh Daddy"

"I'm Down"

"1967"

"Big Electric Cat"

"Pretty Pink Rose"

3WW CCLXVI "Leaving"

2011-11-12T13:46:00.001-05:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are drank, hitch and muster. A Fiction in 58.

Leaving
We drank until the pain began to fade. We didn’t speak. The afternoon turned to dusk; those who could muster the enthusiasm lit a bonfire. We watched flames dance on somber faces.
As flames turned to ember, I stood. Nobody noticed. I wandered to the edge of the highway. Lights approached.
I threw out a thumb to hitch.

Video Friday, "War"

2011-11-11T15:11:00.001-05:00

War. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing.
However, on this Veteran's Day, it's good to remember that every person who has put on a uniform and fought, you are in our thoughts today.

Here's Edwin Starr, with War, your Video Friday

3WW CCLXV, "After"

2011-11-06T10:48:00.002-05:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are carnage, jerk and puncture. Kinda angry.

After
I open my eyes and hears the sounds of women, wailing.

There’s a gauzy sheet pulled over me, soft and ticklish on my cheeks as I rise.

The wailing is coming from the hallway. My father stands in front of the door, a handkerchief in his hand, jerky spasms rattle his shoulders.

His eyes, I notice, are red from crying.

“You fucking kid,” he says, throwing a work boot into solid wood and rattles the hinges.

You’d think someone died or something.

I turn and in my bed is a sheet-draped corpse; a soft outline in white.

At first, I laugh. Then I jab a couple fingers into my neck, feel for a pulse.

And watch as my brother walks out of the bathroom with a bloodied plastic grocery sack. Shards of glass have punctured the bag and he’s got the whole gory carnage resting on one of my good towels.

“Dad, I’ve got things cleaned up pretty well in there,” he says. “I know mom’s going to want to make the final inspection. I’m going to need a bucket or something for all this glass.”
My dad nods slowly, but doesn’t move.

All of a sudden, I feel weary as hell. Then notice the cold, which cuts to the bone.

There’s fear as the realization begins to paint hues across my memory.

Good God, what have I gone and done?

Video Friday, Black Keys, "Lonely Boy"

2011-11-04T09:30:00.001-04:00

The new Black Keys drops Dec. 6. You can pre-order on iTunes (I know I did).
The CD is called "El Camino."
New Black Keys (plus a teaser ad for the album), is your Video Friday:

"Lonely Boy"

3WW CCLXIV, "Figment"

2011-10-30T20:31:00.001-04:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are figment, inclined and vulnerable. Wow, good words. Who comes up with them?
Again late this week, so I’m tossing up a Fiction in 58

Figment
He felt like a figment of her imagination. He flittered from room to room, wherever she decided to land, and hoped.
The expectations sunk, always; he felt vulnerable. Again.
He wished he could talk to her, like he used to. Tell her everything was going to be alright.
He was inclined to do so.
But he couldn’t speak.

Video Friday, "Freaks"

2011-10-28T09:27:00.000-04:00

I'll admit, I don't quite understand the fascination with Halloween.
I mean, as a child I participated, and as an adult I've been to parties (once I dressed up as a Corporate MoFo - I just wore my best suit and had pink slips of paper in the breast pocket, which I gave out - and won a prize), but I don't get the whole sink-your-teeth-into-the-holiday thing.
OK, I will put Halloween ahead of, say, Columbus Day, but for me, it's another holiday I'll probably will have to work.

Scary movies? Again, I like them if they are well done. I tend to go for the classics (The Shining being a favorite). I've also been enjoying the second season of The Walking Dead on AMC.

So anyway, it's the haunting season. If you haven't tried it, go over to Take This Lollipop and scare the ba-jebus out of yourself (the site asks to scan your Facebook info, then creates a personal horror film, which is...weird).

But before you go, watch a few clips from a 1936 film called "Freaks." Tod Browning directs. Freaking weird (and a tip o' the hat to gal-pal JeniMc for hipping me to this).

Freaks, your Video Friday:

Unfortunately, I found that most of the Freaks are disabled by request (WTF?) so here's a couple of URL links:

Highlights

Gobble Gobble

Fiction in 58, "Anniversary"

2011-10-25T09:09:00.001-04:00

Time for a Fiction in 58, since I haven’t challenged myself in forever.
By the way, I recently went over 100,000 unique viewers to this blog of mine. Cool.

Anniversary
The shower has seats, he’s never understood why, but today he doesn’t question. He’s sitting under the hot flow, head bent, watching water drop toward the drain.
Anniversaries are supposed to be happy. This one brings up bile, dark and ugly, burning his throat.
He spits, gags.
The straight razor sits open on the counter, calling.
He’s listening.

One Word, Awakening

2011-10-24T08:52:00.000-04:00

Here's a OneWord I pounded out - before coffee even. Feels good to be back.

Awakening
Once bitten, he waited for the awakening.
He sat there on a crusty couch, in a dented trailer in a park that didn’t even have paved roads. Dust would rise up and coat everything each summer; flecks of mud decorated everything the rest of the year.
He could feel it. He knew it. The awakening was coming. He thought he felt a strange warmth at the puncture wounds.
“Go get that arm cleaned up, you hear,” his mother said, picking up her nearly blind Chihuahua. “Before you bleed all over my couch.”

Catharsis

2011-10-23T12:03:00.000-04:00

A very wise man once told me that the true emotion of happiness was quite different than the feeling of happiness.
Of course, I was paying him $175 an hour at the time (insurance pro-rated) to get my mind “right.”
My mother had just died, my marriage was crumbling, my career was suffering (fools, or a foolish new editor) and my dad had just gotten rolled by a Pontiac Bonneville.
I was having a bad couple of years.
(Understatement.)
In our hour-long chats, I’d get frustrated to tears. Often.
“You are an extremely intelligent person who is trying to solve all his problems by thinking about them,” he said. “And until you start feeling them, you’re doomed.”
That finally sunk in.
Of course, life never gets easier. Pops died and while I consider myself a strong person, I can tell you that watching both parents take their last breaths leaves one a bit rudderless.
There never again will be a time where I can call up a parent and seek their wisdom. That is all lost.
It feels like I’ve been wandering for a couple of years. And in truth, I am.
There’s two things going on here.
First, I’ve turned back to Chet’s teachings and try – to the best of my ability – to experience my emotions.
Under a heading of Happiness/Joy/Love (yes, he gave me handouts), it states:
“Physical: relaxation of muscles (relaxation response) with rest for the body, increased activity in the brain center that inhibits negative feelings and fosters an increase in available energy.”
“Function: to calm the mind and body and to repeat/facilitate positive actions and enthusiasm for striving toward goals; facilitate emotional closeness/intimacy with others.”

It’s called adaptive expression. A lot of people avoid it.
I know I do.
I thought, on the way out to Wyoming (1,908 miles), that I wasn’t a happy person. Oh, I’m happy for what I have, what I’ve been able to experience, but deep down I don’t find the joy in life. I can be gregarious and outgoing and joke and laugh and sing to my iPod, but there was still an emptiness that only I can see (or experience).
What I’m not doing is feeling my true emotions: anger/assertion; fear/anxiety; happiness/joy/love; guilt/remorse; shame; sadness/grief.
I find that I’m plenty happy. I still have a lot of sadness/grief to work through.
Huh.
“Physical: decreased energy and enthusiasm for activities, a slowing of the metabolism, increased introspection, an upwelling of pressure to cry in the chest and comes out in the mouth in the unconstrained sobbing with tears and usually accompanied by bending forward/doubling over, often covering the face with the hands.”
OK, no so much of the crying and doubling over (although I do cry at odd things, like parts of commercials or songs), but I’m at a point of decreased energy and metabolism. And I have begun to truly feel the emotions going on. It’s a work in progress.
Since I’ve managed, in three years, to upend my life three times. That’s the second part to all of this. I’ve quit a good, but unfulfilling job in South Dakota, moved to New York to observe and write and now have accepted a demanding and creative job as editor of a community newspaper - and moved to Wyoming.
It’s all part of a pledge I made to Pops to be the fearless kid I used to be.
There’s a feeling (not an emotion) that I’ve come to rely on: I can, and will, do anything I want to do. As long as it “feels” right. In the gut, in the heart, in the mind.
Of course, having no debt, no wife and children, no ties to anything, makes this easier.
(And if that sounds a little lonely, it can be; true emotional happiness opens yourself to closeness/intimacy with others.)
I have become the fearless kid I used to be. But according to Chet’s adaptive emotions chart, I haven’t really experienced true fear in years.
It’s just been masking itself in cascades of sadness.
So the time has come to embrace the grief, let those emotions surge through me, experience them.
And, hopefully, then get to the point where I can truly experience some happiness.

3WW CCLXIII, "Awakenings"

2011-10-22T10:41:00.000-04:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are breach, ember and tentative. A poem? Sure, why not.

Awakenings
A tentative heart sings not,
no music in its everyday beat,
shy and shaded, it but does it’s job

There’s an ember in a glance,
a beat that skips, not just once,
heat, flush, emotions are awakened

A tentative heart, breached,
uneasy, like a baby’s first steps,
there’s rhythm now, a sing-song,
love’s awakening, rich, unpredictable

Video Friday, Movie Insults

2011-10-21T09:25:00.001-04:00

As in the Top 100 movie insults of all time.
(If bad language makes you cry, don't clip play.)
Can you guess what's at No. 1?

Movie insults, your Video Friday:

3WW CCLXII "Not This Time"

2011-10-16T12:34:00.002-04:00

The Words over at Three Word Wednesday are admire, follow and piece. Yes, this is the latest I’ve ever turned in a #3WW. Wednesday, for me now, is production day for the newspaper. I’ve got to have it to bed (sent to the press) by 9:30 a.m. That means I get to work about 6 a.m. Not sure how to rectify this new situation I find myself in.

Not This Time
His words burst against her, like tiny pieces of shrapnel, sharp and stinging.
She sat at the tiny dining room table, the one that doubled for a desk for his kids, when they were actually here. You couldn’t eat as a family together, since there was now just two chairs, and one of them was beginning to wobble from the last time he hurled it against the wall.
The blood had stopped and now was it was starting to form an itchy crust around her nostrils.
He was screaming at her to clean herself up.
Not this time.
Oh, she went to the bathroom to roll some toilet paper into a plug to stanch the blood, just as he told her to, and came out again without it. She did, however, put his cell back on the counter, exactly where he’d left it. Without him noticing.
She felt his eyes follow her, prickly heat in the middle of her shoulders, as she went to pick up the tumble of their last altercation.
“Leave it and get your ass in here.”
Shoulders hunched, she sighed, turned on bare feet, and thought that her toenails needed a fresh coat of polish. Perhaps a color that matched the rising purple around her eye.
She lowered herself onto the couch, the one he let the dog sleep on, opposite the shit-brown recliner he paid way too much for at a garage sale. The one he now sulked in.
He already was wearing his puppy-dog face, the consolatory one. She knew a talk was brewing. Sweet and sappy, how much he loved and cared for her. How he couldn’t bear to live without her.
Yeah, right.
She used to admire these talks, like the beatings were almost worth it. That she got to see an emotion out of him that wasn’t rage.
Not anymore.
She jumped when the doorbell rang.
“That would be for you, asshole.”
And crossed her arms across her chest in a tight squeeze, an affirming hug.

Video Friday, "Corporate Cannibal"

2011-10-14T09:28:00.001-04:00

I continue to wonder what will happen to the Occupy Wall Street movement. Will it gain traction, or will it die?
It is time for the politicians and the multinational corporations to start listening to the 99 percent, of which I find myself, even though I'm better off than most.
I pray it happens. I pray people rise up, make change.

In that vein, here's Grace Jones with "Corporate Cannibal" your Video Friday:

Video Friday, 'Think Different'

2011-10-07T09:15:00.001-04:00

My Twitter and Facebook streams were heavy this week with the passing of Steve Jobs, co-founder of Apple, Inc.
Not surprising, since I worked at the Fifth Avenue Apple store in NYC for 10 months.
Along with collecting friends, you get a sense of what the company - and Jobs - are (were) all about: thinking in a way that was different, but also relied on the heart and the gut.
I could have posted Jobs' no-famous 2005 Stanford University graduation speech, the one where he ends with the quote, "Stay hungry, stay foolish."
But I'm not.
Here's two Apple advertisements - once which ran one time in 1984 during a NFL football game - and one that celebrates the misfits, the troublemakers.
Apple, your Video Friday (Think different.)

3WW CCLXI "Another Thursday Night in the 'Burbs"

2011-10-06T09:44:00.001-04:00

The words over at Three Word Wednesday are eject, impact and render.

Another Thursday Night in the ‘Burbs
She heard the impact before she felt it, which seemed odd to her, since what she really expected was something close to synchronicity. This was just…off.

The sensation was all searing heat at first. Like being touched with a hot poker. She laughed at the thought. A hot poker. Who the fuck knows what it feels like to be poked by a poker, anyway?

The tearing of flesh, that was interesting. Nobody ever said anything about that. That she could feel the muscle fibers actually split and splinter, well, that was something.

She’d expected a gushing of blood, too, believing what she had seen in movies and on television. But for a time, the hole just sort of wept. She put a tentative finger in it, felt the slickness. It…tickled.

She hung her mouth open to speak, but the thought of laughing rendered her speechless.

“Well?”

He stood eight feet back on the carpet. He was still in that silly stance, feet wide apart and in something of a crouch. She was sure he’d copied it from a movie or television.

“So?”

He ejected a cartridge from her father’s .22-caliber target pistol, dug into his jeans for a fresh bullet and seated it.

“Hello, inquiring minds?”

She looked at him, tried to focus on his lips, what he was saying.

“I guess this is, like shock,” she said. “It hurts, now. But it didn’t at first.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really. Just heat, then this weird ripping. If you don’t believe me, gimme the gun.”

“Not in the gut,” he said. “You know what they say about shots in the gut.”

“What?”

“That it’s bad.”

She giggled, took the handgun. Felt its heft.

She took eight paces back and turned toward him. She mimicked his stupid stance, but held the pistol like her father had taught her. She stuck a tongue out of the corner of her mouth as she took aim.

“You’d better hurry up,” he said. “I already called 911.”

Steve Jobs, 1955-2011

2011-10-05T22:38:00.003-04:00

You can say that Steve Jobs has had an impact on my life. I bought my first Mac in 1984; I've never personally owned anything else since.
Currently, that's a MacBook Pro, iPad 2, iPhone 4 and an iPod Nano. The 21.5-inch iMac is on order.
He taught me that creativity is in the heart and in the mind.
That I got to work for Apple, even for a short time, gave me an insight into the culture of not only a company, but a man.

"Stay Hungry. Stay foolish."

"Think different."