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

"hi, my name is keith bush, i applied for your summer apprenticeship and was umm, just wondering if you had a chance to look over my resume..."
"ohh, sorry. we've been a bit behind. captain ray had a skiing accident and hasn't been in the office. but what's your telephone number...etc?"

-basically still playing the waiting game. but the 'skiing accident' i guess helps calm my nerves about the whole thing--if it only serves to humanize the man who has my summer in his hands.

knock on wood, dudes. the lady called me back to let me know she had dug up my resume.
the questions of how large the pile is from which it was dug out, and how qualified mine makes me out to be are still up in the air.
but the whole thing is beginning to feel closer.
i was losing hope there for a while.
who knows?


otherwise-- rowing upstream yesterday, found it enormously difficult. not at all like how i remember. have i fallen hopelessly out of shape? or is the current just increasing in strength? i'd wager it's a combination of both. i haven't gotten out since late september. and the docks, which spent most of winter resting on the banks are floating again. furthermore, at some point in the course of the night, the beached christmas tree was washed away. i'm looking at this as a weird mystic symbol for the departure of winter, and the inevitable following spring.

i've been tracking mud through the house ever since, and i shaved my head all over the kitchen floor.

messy messy.

"Reality is subjective, and there's an unenlightened tendency in this culture to regard something as 'important' only if it's sober and severe. Your Cheerful Dumb are not so much happy as lobotomized. But your Gloomy Smart are just as ridiculous. When you're unhappy, you get to pay a lot of attention to yourself. And you get to take yourself oh so very seriously. Your truly happy people, which is to say, your people who truly LIKE themselves, they don't think about themselves very much. Your unhappy person resents it when you try to cheer him up, because that means he has to stop dwelling on himself and start paying attention to the universe. Unhappiness is the ultimate form of self-indulgence." -Tom Robbins