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.
(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.
13 April 2014, 10:10:30 AM
Dear Java Fueled Journal,
Go figure. Another night of java-fuel for my nicotine enriched, oxygen deprived, gamma-raydiated brain. Its crazy! It’s wild! A circus and a freaking freak show! It’s like…well…like…gosh, you know what it’s like. It’s like all my brain cells are at war with each other and nobody chose sides and nobody has a uniform and no cell wants to align with another. I got neuron Nazis blitzkrieging their way from one side of my temporal lobe to the other side of whatever lobe. Meanwhile, the rest of me is sitting here listening to Ricky Skaggs, Drive By Truckers, Marshall Tucker Band and a little Lumineers to spice things up. Oh yeah, and trying to write, since I haven’t written anything at all in the last few days. Although I found out about it late, I actually thought about writing some poems to get on track with NaPoWriMo. Even though, as a rule, I don’t write poetry, I thought this would be a good opportunity to start writing more. Too bad for you it’s not working out that way. You don’t know what you are missing not reading the poetry I am sure I won’t write.
It’s alright, though. I’m determined and motivated. The java-fuel has me energized. I have a plan. It probably isn’t a very good one, but at least it’s a plan. I am going to start a new poetry writing challenge. I’ll call it National Write A Few Poems In April Month – NaWriAFPoInAprMo will be the acronym. The plan is to write at least one poem every three days for the rest of the month – six in total. Stay tuned!
Too bad the freak show is going on. I’m pretty sure right now the neuron Nazis are being busy little buggers crossing the channel and bombing the living bejeezus out of the south coast of my cerebellum and I ain’t got no Spitfires to fend them off.
Take you, JFJ, you won’t have a problem. Not you with your PMA, goal setting, Rich Dad, Poor Dad, Mobile 1 lubed brain. Let’s see, how would you do it? Grab a sheet of paper. Six poems to write, so jot down 1, 2, 3 and 4, 5 and 6. Brainstorm a little, maybe a mind meld with Stephen King, call in a favor, use your last life line and jot down 6 good ideas and start writing lines. Do a couple of lines first and get your head even more right??
It’s a different story for me. Look at this triple pornographic image of a little bitty piece of my brain that I took with the magnetronomometer I bought at Walmart last week.
You can see the neuron Nazi – the big black spot – has all my little fuzzy puppy neurons captured in a stalag. Some of them are scattered and some are piled on top of each other. Like I said, a freak show. And I plan to write poetry when I can barely remember how to spell this word. It’s like my 40 footer papier-mâché paddle boat brain hit the Titanic’s infamous iceberg, there’s one life boat and I am trying to climb into it with one of the propellers tied to my left ankle.
But, I’m going to do it.
Uh oh, I think the last remaining still functioning fuzzy puppy neuron is mounting a Great Escape. Waiting on the other side of the fence is MacGyver with some dental floss, two pieces of kibbles and bits, a ribbed condom and a six-inch strip of uncured alligator skin – all necessary and sufficient to cut the fence. Helping him out are Chuck Norris as both offensive and defensive weapon, Leno brought the Ferrari, and Ahhhhnolllld brought everyone some Cheap Sunglasses.
Gotta go for now. Love ya mean it.
Yours most sincerely, appreciatively, and apologetically, with my kindest regards and hopes for another year of carbon footprints and global warning,
Dr. Sam Stone, Esq.
P.S. My so called best friend John told me to write to “Dear Abby.” I think I’ll pass on it. Oh yeah, here’s a little tune my other John-friend wrote. It might be about me.
Dear Java Fueled Journaling,
It is nearly five in the morning. Four hours ago I woke up — couldn’t go back to sleep — really wired now. Sleep beckons, sleep cries out, sleep screams for me to succumb. No such luck. Time soon to get ready for work.
Yesterday was misery. I was in no uncertain terms a freaking miserable
f$$k Δexpletive captured, tracked and deleted by the F(ederal) T(hought) P(latoon)Δ. Still not in much better shape. Coffee…the fuel of champions…my totem…keeps me going — price to pay though with too much of it. And I do too much of it every single expletive day.
Check out that slick use of the word of the day in the last paragraph. Somebody help me…please. I am good. That last sentence needs an awesomely thought of preposition about how good I really am, but yesterday’s misery and over four hours of java-fuel and the preposition-thinking-of part of my brain did succumb to sleep. It left the rest of us behind.
Time to go. I’ll check in tomorrow. Love ya mean it.
All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know. ~Ernest Hemingway