Sunday, April 22, 2007

I just ate the last bit of manwich. I’m listening to mana. I’m drinking Captain Morgans (honestly, my second choice after Meyer’s, but Sam’s Club only has the big bottle discount specials on certain things) with diet Pepsi, as laizzes faire and Unsophisticated as that may be.

I’m here to tell you that this blog is alive again. Ring the church bells, call your friends, get your hyper links fired up, or not, be that as it may, it ain’t about that, it ain’t about the average airpseed of an unladen swallow not carrying a coconut, it’s about me, and my daughter, and my wife, and our little daughter to be, whom is only (gasp) about 2 months and a week away from arriving in this world. It’s about finally making this here space what it should have been in the ages, but yet it should not have been, because it wasn’t ready, about a young slash middle aged slashed getting older man stumbling his way through the world, a man who loves one woman more than the total gallonage of all the oceans combined, a man who’s little girl brings such a glint to his eye & a skip in his step that the sun looks dim and a frog’s hop looks pathetic by comparison. My little girl, her laugh, it’s a sound more magical than merlin waving his hands and an entire French concerto showing up in the middle of a meadow on the frozen tundra of Green Bay. In short, in long, however you want to gauge it, I’m a man who, in his own weak estimation, actually gives a shit, although you’d never know it to look at him.

And herein is where I’ll try to tell you all about it. Not about spider-man, not about the clippers, not about the latest fashions arriving in from Milan and Beirut, but about my viewpoint, about my experiences, about my LIFE. Sigh and shalom, don’t get all over me if I seem reticent at first, I’m new at this, first time on a rock, etc., but not, but you and they and the crew from the 81st contingent know where I’m coming from.

OR all the above could be just a massive load of bullshit, only I know, and honestly, even I don’t, not really. And who does, really? That is, who knows what the hell they’re gonna do from one moment to the next, and those that do, that really do, do they really want to, is it by choice? Or are they so trapped in a rigid pattern that they have no room for movement and thought whatsoever? I know what I’m gonna do within certain parameters. I am going to be my daughter’s father, I am going to be my wife’s husband, I am going to stay true to that. I am going to be my parents’ son, and my sisters’ brother, what little responsibility therein lies, but there is something there, I know if I throw my life down the crapper, that’s a reflection on them, and a reflection on my respect of the relationship, so I ain’t gonna do that neither, nevermind what “that” is.

Eh, you know what I’m talking about, even if you don’t. have a good evening, Uzbekistan. I gotta finish the dishes.