A Steaming Bowl of Words I Hate

Two words come to mind:

policy – I hate hearing the word “policy”. Like, “sorry, sir, it’s just our policy”. Now, I realize this could just be a case of a bum wrap. Sometimes policies are actually put in place to keep people from hurting themselves. Like if a Grand Canyon tour guide was like, “sorry, company policy says I can’t let you ride our donkey on the outside of the guard rail” – with it.

But when it’s just a vale for either laziness or just ‘the fucking you are now experiencing at the hands of our company’ then it is one of the worst words in the English language.

Second, guru – Sucks. Says nothing about credentials or bias but ESPN uses it all the time to describe any old asshole they’re inviting on the show. Eric Kasilias (spelling?) said it today on the radio – this is our guru on something or other – and a) I am not Eric’s biggest fan anyway and b) you could polish a guru and put it in a box and slap a guarantee on the box and all you’d get is a guaranteed piece of shit … yeah?

So no guru no policy only zen and love and the distant ring of a wind chime on a summer’s breeze.

A Steaming Bowl of Death in the Afternoon

The other day one of my editors came over to my desk and showed me the obituaries in The Dispatch. In one column one of the last names was Campbell, in the column right next to it was a woman with the last name of Donovan. Not the same spelling but eerie enough. To make it even more interesting the Campbell woman’s first name was Donna – I have a name tag at my desk that reads, Donna Campbell. Swear to God.

I have also had the distinct displeasure; however, of actually recognizing two of the faces that showed up in the obits this last week or so. One was a kid I grew up with, not a good friend or anything but he participated in much of the back yard football and pick up basketball that was to be had. Apparently he killed himself.

The other was one of my best friend’s mothers. She died of a disease she fought for a long time. Jenny and I went to her funeral and it is a rare thing to feel as bad as you do when you watch a good friend truly put his heads in his hands and cry. I don’t want to write anymore about that.

I’ve been to too many funerals the last few years. I’ve been thinking maybe a change of tradition would work for me. I hate to carbon copy someone else’s idea but Hunter Thompson had an interesting one when he demanded that he be shot out of a cannon over his property in Colorado.

I think maybe I could go for that. Burn me, poor me in a powder keg with a plastic funnel and and explode me all over Morgan County or something. I don’t I’d mind inciting silent curses from some housewife somewhere as she swept my dust off her front porch.

But enough of that. Can you tell I’ve been reading Sullinger?

A Steaming Bowl of Good Ol’ Friend

You just never know how much you miss something until it’s taken away. Like earlier today when Jenny and I were coming home, the sun was out and melting all the snow and slush and it was like, “damn, it’s good to see some black top”. Good ol’ black top. I missed you, friend. Don’t ever leave.

Realness.