I know it is considered rude to use it in polite company. There are so many other ways to say it, that to come right out and be blunt is just crude. No matter what your intention to let it utter from your lips is to put a target on your back. If I could think of any other way to say this, believe me I would gladly hide behind euphemism or innuendo.
I guess I will just have to take my chances.
I feel fast.
Juancho
If it is not a rocket, a marine vessel, or possibly vomit, then you don’t launch it. That goes for Oprah’s new network, your new Etsy website, or your bold new initiative to offer free AK-47’s with the purchase of a pick-up truck.
I am here to tell you, if we just let such wanton hyperbole weasel its way into our vernacular, before long we won’t have words to adequately describe such a prestigious and awe-inspiring event as the launching of an actual rocket. Oprah’s new network isn’t launching, it is “fixing to get started up” and your new Etsy website is “now available online” and your offer of a free AK-47 with the purchase of a pick-up is “getting going on Saturday.”
We really need to be a bit more demure in our presentation. I think this is part of the America everyone else thinks needs to get over itself.
Launch this Internet!
Juancho
By tomorrow night I will have completed a rigorous 6 days of labor in 3 cities and 2 states, and Friday is not looking like a gimme.
That is why I am thinking of a Saturday morning adventure that takes me into some frosted and crackling cold beautiful place. It could be a bike ride, as I am enjoying a pro-suffering stance these days. I would prefer a simple walk somewhere. Perhaps to visit the steaming sinkholes, which will look like hot springs at 72 degrees? The coast to get the full icy effect of the wind and take some deep cool breaths of abundantly fresh air?
I don’t know, but somewhere.
What have you got?
Juancho
I am losing my road warrior edge. I sputtered into this motel in Dothan, Alabama rather than press on for two and a half more hours to get home. Forget it. I lucked out though, because I made it here in time to catch the American Country Awards.
The secret password that gets you onto the hand-cranked 28.8 bps internet is jakes which is obviously a sign. I think this is a good hideout for my alter-ego to write a little bit about his alter-ego (my third ego?)
I can’t believe I stopped. I feel like a nine-fingered shop teacher.
Juancho
Somewhere in this town is a person who travels the same routes I travel. This person goes to the parks I frequent, takes the same shortcuts, and enjoys the same restaurants. Despite all that we have in common there is one small difference between us. Where I visit these locales and enjoy them without signifying my visits, this other person is compelled to write KUDZU on the surface of manhole covers, stop signs, buildings, and restaurant bathrooms. I understand that this person perceives herself to be an artist of some renown, or perhaps as a contributor of compelling commentary on the condition or ownership of parks, restaurant bathrooms, and stop signs. Perhaps I, in my dullard state, am failing to comprehend the important message that Kudzu imparts by writing KUDZU on everything.
I know that Kudzu is noble and self aware because Kudzu undoubtedly commutes by bicycle and the evolution from derivative cliche graffiti scribble to KUDZU in a more block letter fashion shows a stripping of pretense and a coalescing of purpose and identity.
If not for a likely difference in age and circumstance I might be riding with Kudzu and keeping the coast clear while another KUDZU is bestowed on Tallahassee in chalk or Sharpie marker. Time however, has placed us on opposite sides of the radical fence. It disappoints me, as I admire Kudzu. The tenacity and diligence to continue the practice into adulthood is exactly the attitude this country needs right now. The genius of choosing as a moniker a foreign and hostile plant that spreads unwelcome and unwanted, yet is heralded as a cultural icon impresses me. I wish I had thought of it first.
My problem with Kudzu and KUDZU is best explained by that most disgruntled adolescent of all, Holden Caufield.
“I was the only one left in the tomb then. It was sort of peaceful. I sort of liked it, in a way. It was so nice and peaceful. Then, all of a sudden, you’d never guess what I saw on the wall. Another ‘Fuck you.’ It was written with a red crayon or something, right under the glass part of the wall, under the stones.
“That’s the whole trouble. You can’t ever find a place that’s nice and peaceful, because there isn’t any. You may think there is, but once you get there, when you’re not looking, somebody’ll sneak up and write ‘Fuck you’ right under your nose. Try it sometime. I think, even, if I ever die, and they stick me in a cemetery, and I have a tombstone and all, it’ll say ‘Holden Caulfield’ on it, and then what year I was born and what year I died, and then right under that it’ll say ‘Fuck you.’ I’m positive, in fact.”
Thanks Kudzu,
Juancho
This is me around September 2nd. I’m the one on the right. The woman on my left is my pharmacist. I was at home watching Wife Swap and scribbling cryptic notes in a febrile panic Flannigan/Logan a repetition of Crevecour, de Tocqueville? WRITE OBAMA! I would take an occasional break from my studies to pick up a Bleu Monday and an unsweet tea. Events other than these were regarded with exasperation, despair, and contempt. I let go of the rope and watched it drift in with the tide as I slowly spiraled out to the Gulf Stream buoyed by a PFD of synthetic opiates.
Then, in the middle of the night, I heard the keening Horn of Gondor calling me back.
This is a picture of me now-
Pools of angry butter clot the battlefield. What did I do? Everything. I changed up the dynamicity of this whole operation.
Juancho
