42 minutes to save the world

It has been an extremely trying month, both days of it; a mensis horriblus in layman's terms. Everything is all mixed up. We are heading to hand in a hellbasket I tell you. Something must be done about something.
Thank the Founding Fathers for this well-deserved long July 4th weekend to help us forget about the trials and tribulations being trumpeted from the webtops. There's still that annoying oil spill in the Gulf that refuses to pause even as I put pencil to paper. And more troubling, last week's Supreme Court decision that allows every man, woman, and fetus the right to own a handgun upon conception. (In an apparent oversight, stem cells were left out of the ruling.) Couple that with last month's passage of a short-sighted and discriminatory illegal immigrant bill in Arizona, drug cartel murders along the Mexican border, Lindsay Lohan's imminent arrest on probation violations and a hurricane that nearly missed slamming into the Texas coast yesterday. The Haitains never had it so hard.

Here I sit with only 39 minutes left before logging off my computer and leaving work for a three-day bender. As an American, I have the distinct privilege of carrying on with a relatively care-free existence while occasionally pondering how to solve world hunger armed with just my iPhone, car keys, a paper-clip and a sense for what the modern man wears in a beachside resort after 8pm.
The advent of the 24 hour news cycle has exposed us to strife throughout the globe, condensed and captured within the confines of a 15” LCD screen. The world is at once smaller yet more treacherous. The charwoman in Leeds may as well be cleaning the house across the street for all we know, so much have our boundaries been erased. When I was a kid, all you had to do was buy the world a Coke, and smiling hippies in pre-Stella McCartney era peasant-skirts would be grasping hands swaying from the hilltops. The halcyon days are indeed in danger of extinction, so here are my ten recommendations to help start us on the path to singing in perfect harmony:

1) The BP “environmental catastrophe” in the gulf needs to be resolved. Plugging the oil well will only be the start in a decades-long cleanup. But it will be the end of the beginning at least. (Contrary to popular belief, BP does not now nor will it ever stand for "bitch, please.")

2) Apple needs to embrace Adobe Flash. Period. Why can't we all just get along?.

3) Congress must end Don't Ask Don't Tell immediately. Much like desegregating the troops in the 50's, gays in the military should be addressed as a civil rights issue, and it is.

4) Immigration reform must occur this year. We cannot deport 11 million people and conversely, we cannot sustain the current untenable path to citizenship. Si se puede.

5) Lady Gaga must perish from the earth, forever and ever, amen.

6) Replace high fructose corn syrup with sugar. In everything. In moderation.

7) People should be required to read at least one book a month, a paper one with pages that can be turned manually.

8) Watch more Wheel of Fortune and less Housewives of New Jersey.

9) Gays should gain the right to get married, in the eyes of the law and the Crate & Barrel gift registry.

10) And finally: End the wars. Iran, Afghanistan. Iron Chef.

With the two minutes I have left, I'd like to buy more time, Pat.

beg, borrow, still....

I do not condone begging, panhandling, imploring handouts, or any general anxiousness that infringes upon my person in general. There, I've said it. In my last writing assignment, I was accused of hiding the crux of my story in the closing graf. However, I gather here today to not bury my leads, but rather to praise them.

Today on my way to the coffeehouse I was accosted by no less than three vagrants who were essentially attempting to tax me with representation. There was the war veteran – I didn't ask which war and he didn't tell me -- who commenced to cleaning my front windshield with the expectation of some small gratuity in exchange for services rendered. Instead, I asked to see an operator's permit which he said he conveniently left at home. However, I seriously doubt that when pressed he would have been able to give said address of any domicile cardboard or otherwise.
Then there was the female amputee who stood at the corner of 51st and IH-35 unabashedly holding a sign that said “ON MY LAST LEG.” Now any advertiser worth their salt would know better than to neglect to include a call to action.
I was tempted to offer my freelance writing services to her, pro bono of course, with a 15% cut of the profits but thought better of it. She needed something more along the lines of “GENTLEMEN PREFER L'EGG, DONATE TO A GOOD FLAWS.” (The grammatical error was wholly intentional and added to elicit sympathy.)
I dissemble.
Lastly, there was an amiable enough fellow who appeared to want to throw his body in the path of my moving vehicle in order to secure payment from GEICO. As I approached the intersection and mouthed the words “no insurance,” so that he could clearly see my lips move he thought better of it and stepped back onto the median.

Times may be hard, but I find it difficult to wrap my brain around the notion that anyone would want to stand in the hot sun for 8 hours and degrade themselves by asking for a handout. I personally sit in a dark cubicle for 8 hours and degrade myself and ask for a handout every two weeks, but that is neither here nor there.
My mother was right: People are starving in Africa and might I add, closer to home.

After several unsuccessful attempts to ban public solicitation by the Austin City Council, it looks as if we are indeed headed down a slippery slope that leads to the Mumbai-ization of our fine city. This does not bode well for Austin, or San Francisco, or Peoria or Trenton for that matter. The ACLU would be better served fighting for the rights of the franchised if you ask me.

I am seriously tempted to scout the nearest intersection and solicit donations for that iPad that was just released today. You see, I am short of funds and can think of no other way to bridge the gap between my current lack of monetization and the object of my affection. All that I can offer are words, words and more words. And perhaps the occasional windshield cleaning or two.

writing to hear myself write

I have decided to put pen to paper and blog again. This has been no self-imposed exile. It has been imposed upon me. I am not staging a comeback, but merely reestablishing residency. Work obligations and necessary distractions have prevented me from fulfilling the duties for which a byline requires.

These opening sentences are not however the beginnings that justify the means. And this entry should not be taken as said attempt at blogging as I have not fully made up my mind what topic I want to use for my debut, my coming out, my Sweet 41.

I have been plagued by wrongthink and false starts, and the consequences have been reams of blank pages and unused kilobytes.
I have saved a tree but lost the forest. Etcetera, etc..

But fear not for I feel a blog coming on. Once I can get past this little music festival called SXSW (which will never catch on; I give it two years, tops) and that nagging little virus called spring fever, I have every confidence that I can put actions into words. I have utterly convinced myself of éclat and the fact that you have read this far means that I have convinced you as well.

I shall triumphantly return to the notepad with the weight of those before me like Maugham and Proust and Seuss squarely on my shoulders, helping me to forge my way back into literary society.
My cotillion begins right this very minute, and the band can strike up once I finish this sente....