"I feel like a fuckin', i don't know- like a buzzard or somethin'"

This Seems Fun

To read. not do. I guess

can no get nuff again

mt. eerie, still

they don't write 'em like they used to

[thank heavens]

or 'summer anthem'? if you prefer:


speaking of matchsticks
here is a ukulele some old man made out of them and then later put images of it onto the internet-


speaking of all of this, here is a picture of nicholas cage-

lost weekend

so you remember that feeling you get when you're all set to go someplace, lets say, church or a wedding, you're all dressed up and ready and trying not to fuck up the creases in your pants, et cet. but it's not time to go yet really so you're just fucking around sitting all antsy on the couch in your tie and theres not enough time to even get into anything or go out and play so you just kind of sit there? yep.

in other news: i've got this box of fruity pebbles which i should finish because they're getting stale. [ps. i've been cutting them with grape nuts in a sort of half-assed, albeit tasty attempt at healthfulness]

i swear to god

this seriously pretty much sums up a tattoo commission i got

what does it mean

when a black cat crosses your path but that black cat was being assaulted by another which was interrupted in the process by your very path-crossing? whoah, how about it? reading too much into things? yes but why not. my boss read me my horoscope the other day and i'm thinking 'oh great, just what i need...more hoodoo superstitious nonsense mucking up blah blah blah' but the horoscope said people would be complimenting me willy nilly so i adopted the ol' willful suspension of disbelief and had a blast.

also-minor scrapes and burns, minor monetary tragedies, will they mind if i brush my teef at work?, proud of 'cutting back' to about a pack a day, googling 'e-cigarettes', 'lateen rig', and 'steve prule prom'.

NO BIG DEAL, SUHVIVIN'

here is a haiku

happy-dumb smiling,
trudgin through ugly nonsense
oh boy, supper time!

Resume Transmission

because i did something cool [e-dentity crisis]

bare styrofoam hull, contrived rudder pin, duct-taped sail >>> Manic Monday

dear diary [thanks j.j. abrams]

yesterday after work i drove some golf balls at a golf ball driving range and two little boys laughed at me. it hurt my feelings a little but at least they didn't try to rob me. i am bad at golf. later on i fell out of a tree. it was a good day!

here is a fun exchange:
"because you're good like that?"
"duh, if it's good, i'm like it-- most of the time"

there was also pizza and plenty of good old fashioned joking-around. i sure love springtime but bedtime is still scary sometimes. i've been streaming old episodes of LOST so that i don't have to think about myself, which is healthier and cheaper than getting blind drunk and just passing out. hoo-ray!
i have to go to work now, bye.
love,
keith dubya bush

xtra, xtra read allah bout me!

[miraculous leisure!] all that i sort of dream for ever and try so hard at attaining happens on accident!

way late on reading cause using amazon.com is not always the best choice [just go out and get it, you bum].
order finally arrives and the weather is gorgeous, decide "make a day at th'beach of it". pot of coffee into backyard and read the whole damn thing out there. romance of solitude
[nelson's 'Steel Drivin' Man, the untold story of an american legend'].
breaking only when max comes out to demonstrate a 'Dra-no Bomb' [Dra-no sink un-clogger poured into empty water bottle with a some tin foil crumpled up and dropped in]. awesome, and surprising explosion that left a molten smoldering stinky mess. just take a break from academics for a bit good old fashioned american fun.
days rule go outside, there was also a bumble bee that buzzed around above my right shoulder for a good portion of the afternoon like some fairy creature from an old nintendo RPG video game. spring time.

please excuse manic-dumbness in grammar and also the brevity. i am a very busy man!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
love, keith w. bush


ps. for music fun that you're sort of ashamed of:
either
a- google and stream radio show called 'the many moods of ben vaughn'
b- make an 'against all authority' pandora station.

you'll lose your cool points but its worth it, you jerk.
okay bye

wow

this is profoundly stupid

TRY THIS

thumb around a while thru a book of mediocre poetry with somebody else's reading glasses on.
it's like drugs.

"The blue light was my blues-

the red light was my mind,
[all my loves in vain]"

real feel good shit, right?

so one afternoon, still feeling hopelessly hung over and with nothing much to do i realize 'holy shit, the fucking internet's broken!'
yeah, use your pretty little imagination, you'd be bummed too right?
so i despair for a while, weep for several hours, and finally content myself to get real heavy into television, whatever.
point is, next day i realize it's back. the internet is back and better than ever!
'internet, what happened? you were always so feeble. free, yes. that was nice of you. but always an unreliable twerp. whats the secret to your new efficiency, your talent?" i ask.

'well keith, you see i wen' down the crossroads at midnight, where'pon i was met with legba hisself. first, i nearly lost my nerve an' fled when i seen his big red eyes, and balls o' fire spillin from his mouth, but i worked up the courage. we struck a deal, a trade, a bargain...my soul for fa-cil-it-y...'

physically, internet doesn't seem to have undergone any changes- is perhaps a little jumpier than i remember. anxious as hell as a matter of fact.
he didn't dwell on the subject of his 'deal', but did woefully mention later that now his own mama won't even speak with him. "chased me straight off the front porch", he said.
i'm not sure what to make of all this, really. am not even certain i believe it. the internet does has a tendency to embellish the truth when it's not completely making things up.
just thought this was noteworthy, and am just reporting the events as they were put to me.
-but wondering whether or not to pray for the poor guy, would it even do him any good?

a bumper sticker/t-shirt idea

"drop your parents' money - not bombs"

you can have this idea, free, to use and stuff. it's all yours because i am lazy or not that into it in the first place. but you'll probably make a shit ton of money if you target the proper demographic- namely,"the new college left"
good luck, knucklefuck!

“The holy dove was moving too…”

But oh well. “Oh well”- indeed. The PG “Fuck it”- a sigh of begrudging acceptance, draped over a feeble linguistic armature- Acceptance of what, exactly? The unavoidable, of course. “Oh well”- the heathen’s serenity prayer. “Oh well”- the tragic punctuation to a noble effort. “Oh well” is never for the victorious, it is never celebratory. The seven priests with seven horns did not “oh well” at the terrible destruction that they wrought. “Oh well” is seldom heard at a wedding. We do not receive “Oh well” cards on birthdays or graduations. On and on.
But as noted, “Oh well” often follows a certain amount of “…but not for lack of trying”, or sometimes the old “…at least we had a good run there, though, huh?” Hope, potentiality for greatness, trying, etc often precede the utterance. And there’s something in that at very least. Furthermore, said “punctuation” is more than just overly-romantic drivel (I hope). Be the “Oh well” a curt and dignified period, or exclamatory (though have you ever heard an inquisitive “Oh well?”) what is sure is that it connotes a full stop.
A full stop and onward. We could here delve into “endings as new beginnings”, which is a nice thought, though by now a bit threadbare. I’ll spare us both.
Oh well.
But to be sure, the things that are unceasingly snatched out from under our noses are not always treasures. And that which we find dropped into our very laps often turns out to be shit. For each “Oh well” there’s a “Hell yes”. (Though, this of course isn’t empirically true so to speak, many of us enjoy a comfortably balanced ratio. And besides, that shit was rhetorical gold, baby).

But again, what is it exactly that I’m getting at here?
Typing, duh.

“Hallelujah”

Typing when I probably ought to be drawing- drawing when I ought to be taking notes- but on the whole somehow managing to “git’er’done” in some strange manner.

So umm, how are you?

Dilly-Dallying Hither and Thither

Lately shit, or rather "things", in general are strange. And while I often tend to embrace said strangeness, cultivate it even, it seems to have reached maximum capacity-- Crossed the splintered threshold into complete incomprehensibility. Seeing that the situation is too weird to assimilate by any normal human capacity, I've consulted several mystics on the matter. One emerged from his trance weeping and refused to speak with me any further.
Another, who after several minutes of poring over her tarot cards, was only able to mutter "go fish".
All were dumbfounded.
Seeking guidance in more practical arenas has proved equally fruitless. My physician simply referred me to the nearest Wine & Spirits. I turned even to my very own grandmother, who instead of her usual words of kindness and encouragement, told me [very kindly, gingerly, grandmotherly...to go fuck myself]

So having taken the advice of each of the latter, and finding myself confused as ever, I at long last devised what I consider to be a brilliant new "tack" from which to approach the problem on the whole. While this new method is not without its share of kinks to work out and by no means answers any questions, it seems promising in its ability to alleviate the pains of existential freak-outs, general feelings of "stop-the-world-i-wanna-get-off", catholic guilt, etc.

I've entitled the aforementioned "tack" , "The Keith Bush Method". It is a relatively simple concept and is easily employed. Upon his/her decision to adopt "The Keith Bush Method", the individual performs first a brief ritual whereupon they select and prepare their own favorite sandwich. They are then instructed to [important: on the diagonal] cut their sandwich in half and select one of the halves to eat. As soon as they finish partaking of their half, the other remaining is cut once more [this time by the proctor, who as is explained now should be viewed as a physical representation of "the incomprehencible drag"] The proctor then, without asking permission or expressing gratitude, helps himself to one of the portions and smears the other into the individuals face and hair. This should be done with nonchalance, the proctor is encouraged to here remain as aloof and cool as possible. The ritual here ends when the individual [belly full and tastes satisfied, in spite of his ridicule, etc] is asked whether or not they would "Like to give dessert a whirl?"
Whether this offer is accepted or declined makes no difference, as here [important: before the individual chooses] the newly-initiated is clubbed and returned safely to their bed before consciousness is regained. Indeed, in many cases, the process leaves the individual more confounded than ever. But this is perhaps where the success of this method lies. They find themselves blessed with the newfound knowledge that the "search for meaning" is often way-strange and messy- more trouble than its worth, and while that wacky sandwich ritual may have been like, "kinda symbolic, y'know?" that they ought to lighten up and give less of a shit lest they find themselves in some weirder sort of mess. there are more pragmatic things to worry about after all...

like how in the hell you're going to pay off enormous dental bills, for instance.

allow me to describe my face to you.
Mutilated? Grotesque? I've just returned from the dentist, where I had tiny bits of road removed from one tooth, and a total of three filed down and totally reconstructed. They somehow managed to put them in pre-nicotine stained, much to my relief. But while the problem of looking like a cartoon of a hillbilly is solved, I'm afraid that only time and copious amounts of triple antibiotic ointment will take care of the overall spookiness of my aspect. When describing the situation to my boss, he replied, "So you look like a boxer? Thats kinda cool".
I do not look like a boxer.
Unless of course the boxer was had at with a cheese grater.
Oh well.

"Come Hither, Hope"

dear internet-
You're a rotten, sluggish, toxic creep. But i mean, what is there to be done?-- you're so damned cuddly. While this by no means excuses you of the good old fashioned protestant scorn-fest which you've long deserved, your humming, fuzzy warmth does buy you some time. I'm in a good mood. Who knows, maybe you'll shape up by the time this issue has time to be righteously dealt with. And besides, you do have a very likable tendency to "come in handy" and perhaps even will before i'm through here:

-but get this-
after a brief and surprisingly smooth conversation [by which i mean jocular, amiable, and not overly steeped in "awk-sauce", as they say] conversation with one Captain Ray Williamson, i had the pleasure to be sure that my until-then-presupposed Maine sailing exodus/apprenticeship was in fact a reality- a reality that which unlike many of its other manifestations is worth being elated about.
In any case, our dialogue wrought the following

- a “ballpark” departure to Maine in mid-July, for a “ballpark” one month’s responsibilities as an apprentice messmate aboard an eighteenth century schooner. All the details I’ve been given regarding said responsibilities are:

- that time with them isn’t “a vacation”. [which luckily for both parties, I had not assumed] I take a certain amount of dumb-pride in labor. I can after all justify my employment with the Pretzel Factory by this mentality. An example that the Captain gave of my tasks was “uhh, y’know….peeling potatoes. Things like that”. I’m even excited for such stereotypically repetitive crap-work such as this. It’s romantic if nothing else. I do however hope that other, more exciting tasks are delegated to me. Could you imagine the comedy of getting up there to find that peeling various fruits and vegetables made up the whole of my work load? Anyhow…

-I’ve got to bring the uke:

When I had given my name and inquired whether or not he had a chance to review my resume, the Captain replied, “Ohh yeah, you’re the ukulele guy?” –

“Ha, yep. That’s me..blablabla, you know… just uhh, simple old rock-and-roll progressions..blablabla”.

I had mentioned the ukulele under the “Interests” subheading, knowing that crew and passengers alike are encouraged to bring whatever instruments that they might play. Capt. Williamson explained he had purchased a baritone uke on a trip to Hawaii and gave me specific instructions to learn some “Old Hawaiian tunes” to teach him.

The extent of my ability wasn’t discussed very far, but I’m pretty sure that our good Captain might believe me to be far more talented than I am. While this is nerve-wracking, it will at least give me the motivation to finally become more-than-half-proficient-at-best with the thing. I can take a challenge.

As is evident, the whole plan remains vague…I’ve relayed to you all the details I’ve been given. But my still-nebulous perception of it [lack of many important specifics, really] is by no means discouraging. One thing is solid- that they’re planning on me. The red tape and other details are bridges to be crossed when they’re gotten to. Until then I suppose I should day-dream, bone up on my knots etc., and annoy some roommates and neighbors.

www.mainewindjammercruises.com ought to fill you in on some of this goodness.

I’m sure I’ll report more as it progresses.

Internet, you’re lucky, you know that? I mean, not only are you cuddly and sometimes convenient, you’ve also help sate one of the basic and inherent needs of a young, ‘livin’ in the future’ male such as myself---the old vanity. Who else but you would entertain my horse-shit for this long? Bless your little heart.

Love,

Keith