Java Fueled Journaling – 4

No Caption Needed. Use your imagination.
No Caption Needed. Use your imagination.

04/16/14, 03:08:00 AM

Columbia, South Carolina, USA, North America, Earth, The Milky Way, The Solar System

Dear Java Fueled Journal,

Guess what? Yep, you oh so smart dude, you! You now have a new home in this crazy world wide weboblogosphere. I decided – on my own mind you – that you no longer need to reside on this silly little blog written by this silly little man. So, very soon, you will be moving in to your brand new, everything included but the dancing girls, home on the range. Well, not exactly. Your new web-home will be http://www.javafueledjournal.com. Of course you, nor any of this journal’s thousands of readers can’t move in or visit just yet; it’s still a vacant lot. But very, very soon, it will be ready for you; Melissa, the Mermaid; Bubba, your bartender and butler; Conrad, your chauffeur and barbecue chef; and of course, all the thousands of loyal fans of this terrifically entertaining and enlightening journal. I’ll let you know when it’s ready, since I just now decided to be your business manager and guru.

You need to read this. It’s a quote from the blog criticaldispatches.com and it captures quite succinctly the reason I write. And just so you know I plagiarize only about ninety-five percent of this blog; and just so my lawyer, the FCC, FTC, FTP (remember them?), NASCAR, the RCMP and the Cirque du Soleil all know, I did get permission from the author to use this quote.

I write because I’m compelled to do so. As I would wager most of the writers using WordPress – or any of the other blogging platforms – do. To communicate, to connect, to inform, to educate, to entertain, to let the world know I lived. That I didn’t follow the crowd, that I thought for myself and was able to share those thoughts with others.

You remember my so called best friend John. He and I were talking the other day. He was drinking. I wasn’t. You know I stopped drinking because of the drugs. Anyway, he was getting a little loud and making a real ass of himself. You know how thick-headed and backwards he can be sometimes. He believes that “real men” don’t write in a journal. He said, “Journals are nothing but fancy names for diaries, and only little girls and women write in diaries so any man that writes in a journal is a damned sissy.”

Well, I got a little PO’ed about that. I told him he was a lie and a thick-headed, ass-backward, s*&t for brains fool. I could of said more, but I knew it was the Wild Turkey he was drinking that was talking, and not him. After all, he is still my so called best friend.

You know he really isn’t the fool he sometimes acts like. After all, he did graduate top of his class from The Citadel and served four years as a commissioned officer in the Navy. Not only that, he was savvy enough to buy shares in Microsoft when their only product was MS-DOS. Now, he doesn’t have as much money as Bill Gates, but, well, you get the picture. He’s loaded.

If it turns out my so called best friend John is right, I’ll just go to Walmart and buy myself a bright red wig for my bright bald head, some pink spandex leotards, a halter top for the fake boobs I’ll buy from somewhere else and a pair of shiny ruby red slippers. Then see how sissyfied he thinks I am when I appear on his front porch dressed in drag from top to bottom with my journal/little girls diary in my hand with my nails painted black as coal.

But, I digress a bit. I didn't mean to go on a rant about John, my so called best friend.

I’m a little wary about tonight. Here it is a little past 3:00 AM on Wednesday morning already. I’ve been in front of this computer for most of the day – writing different things and working on paperwork for the projects I need to complete. And I’m still here. I’ve drank a whole lot of java-fuel today and tonight and I’m still drinking. Before I decide to go to sleep I really want to finish this – unless I just crash and my head drops on the keyboard and I’m out like a burned out sixty watt light bulb – which isn’t likely to happen. I also have three more articles I need to write and a poem I promised myself I would finish. It might be a long night! There might even be another java-fueled journal entry before the sun rises.

Right now I am listening to Muddy Waters singing Champagne and Reefer and it reminds me of what a friend told me eight or nine years ago. His idea for a perfect retirement was to divorce his wife, move to the Florida Keys and hang out with Jimmy Buffett on his boat and cruise the Caribbean drinking Margaritas and smoking dope all day. I like it, except for the divorcing my wife part. I think I’ll keep her.

This whole article is kind of like the classic TV series Seinfeld. It’s just a series of thoughts about nothing that are popping into my only functioning right brain cell and I am remembering to write them down before they disappear into the black hole of my only functioning left brain cell. And by the way, as much as I love my java-fuel, I don’t think I could “Rest Assured” ordering some dark roasted Arabica from the Yucca Swastika Coffee Shop somewhere in New Mexico.

Gotta go for now. Love ya mean it.

Masculinely Yours,

(Name withheld by request of the person with the bright red wig wearing the pink spandex)

Oh yeah, here’s a another little tune from Muddy Waters. It’s a man song. It might be about me.

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“Goin’ Back to Old Kentucky” – Ricky Skaggs

I first heard Ricky Skaggs in the early 80’s. We lived in D.C. at the time compliments of the US Navy. He just continued to get better over the years. If you like bluegrass music, or not, have a listen to this.

 
 

He took his pain and turned it into something beautiful. Into something that people connect to. And that’s what good music does. It speaks to you. It changes you.~Hannah Harrington, Saving June.

Weekly Photo Challenge: Street Life | 2

True Value Hardware and Drugs
True Value Hardware and Drugs

It’s a terrible dilemna – surely you can see that.

Do I go in and get the 16p nails I need first, then step over and get my Valium refill? Or, do I get the Valium first, pop a few, go grab an ice-cold Co-Coler and sit down to chat for a while with Mr. McLeskey or Mr. Todd. Never know, the hippophile in us might come out and we can talk about my old bay mare until the Valium kicks in. Then I can saunter off and wander around the store and get those 16p nails, some charcoal, a magnet, an old cardboard box if the have it, 3 feet of twine and a tin of snuff. I got thirty bucks so that should be enough to pay for it all.

It surely is a dilemna.

A little made up tale for my second submission to the “Weekly Photo Challenge: Street Life.”

I don’t know if this place is still open, but when I took this picture it was.

“Things are different today,”
I hear ev’ry mother say
Mother needs something today to calm her down
And though she’s not really ill
There’s a little yellow pill
She goes running for the shelter of her mother’s little helper
And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day. ~From “Mother’s Little Helper” by The Rolling Stones