…the common and continual mischiefs of the spirit of party are sufficient to make it the interest and duty of a wise people to discourage and restrain it.
It serves always to distract the public councils and enfeeble the public administration. It agitates the community with ill-founded jealousies and false alarms, kindles the animosity of one part against another, foments occasionally riot and insurrection. It opens the door to foreign influence and corruption, which finds a facilitated access to the government itself through the channels of party passions. Thus the policy and the will of one country are subjected to the policy and will of another.
Blue, songs are like tattoos You know I’ve been to sea before Crown and anchor me Or let me sail away Hey Blue, there is a song for you Ink on a pin Underneath the skin An empty space to fill in Well there’re so many sinking now You’ve got to keep thinking You can make it through these waves Acid, booze, and ass Needles, guns, and grass Lots of laughs, lots of laughs Everybody’s saying that hell’s the hippest way to go Well I don’t think so But I’m gonna take a look around it though Blue, I love you
Blue, here is a shell for you Inside you’ll hear a sigh A foggy lullaby There is your song from me
"My kids are starting to notice I’m a little different from the other dads. ‘Why don’t you have a straight job like everyone else?’ they asked me the other day. I told them this story: In the forest, there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. Every day, the straight tree would say to the crooked tree, ‘Look at me…I’m tall, and I’m straight, and I’m handsome. Look at you…you’re all crooked and bent over. No one wants to look at you.’ And they grew up in that forest together. And then one day the loggers came, and they saw the crooked tree and the straight tree, and they said, ‘Just cut the straight trees and leave the rest.’ So the loggers turned all the straight trees into lumber and toothpicks and paper. And the crooked tree is still there, growing stronger and stranger every day."
My roommate’s cat has fleas, which means I have fleas. Hopefully after today, I had fleas.
His cat, Haresh, has been scratching and biting at himself for about a week. The liquid medicine and the pill flea killer has not been working effectively on him, so my roommate, lets call him Juan, decided that we needed to bomb the house and asked me if I would hold on to Haresh in the car while we relocate him to our work for 3 hours. When you set off a flea bomb in your house, you have to stay off the premises until it is aired out, no running back in because you forgot your keys or something - there are poisonous fumes dancing around. Being the kind, gentle-hearted, saint-like, caring soul that I am, I said it was no problem.
Cut to Haresh clinging onto my t-shirt for dear life, silently panting like a banshee in my lap as we came to the first stop light on our short drive to work. The little shit stayed cool calm and collected until, apparently, the sight of a cloud was enough to warrant a death cry from the bellows of his belly - and - ”Oh my God, is he peeing on me? IS HE PEEING ON ME?!” Yes. Yes he was. A hot, smelly stream of piss, from his crotch to mine. Mind you I am on my way to work with no spare shorts to hop into.
So I got out of the car with the terrified cat bawling so hard I thought he was going to burst a blood vessel…with hot pee running into places where other creature’s pee is not supposed to run into. Luckily, Juan was kind enough to buy me some temp. shorts (lavender swimming trunks) to swap for my pee pee pants. Needless to say, on the way home, we wrapped the babe in a towel with a protective layer of trash bag below.
So if you have to transport your cat somewhere without a cat carrier, cover all your bases. And please, protect your privates. Use a trash bag.
Today I decided to take the scenic route home from the co-op so I could ride down my two favorite streets in Ypsilanti. I did not, however, get the chance to do so.
Pedaling down River Street I spied a nice old wooden chair with a wicker seat on the side of the road sandwiched between a trash can and some other leftovers destined for the landfill. Being the hoarder that I am, I naturally decided to carry the chair home with me. Attempting to hold and ride it proved to be difficult if not impossible. I therefore decided to bungee cord it to my basket.
As I was struggling in the humidity to attach the piece of furniture I heard a man call out, “You beat me to it!”. There were some streaks running down the right side of his face. Waddling towards me was a clean, rather regular looking old man - short sleeved button down shirt, jeans, jesus sandals, a pair of reading glasses with the UV Ray Protection sticker still adhered to the left lens and oh, you know…the flesh on the right side of his face completely peeled off to expose the bloody, gristly, congealed mass of muscle tissue and bone beneath. I’M SERIOUS.
The right side of this man’s head was totally sans skin and he talked to me like it was no big deal. He insisted that he was happy I took the chair, his car was packed anyway and was glad to see that it wasn’t going to go to waste. He seemed so calm, so eager to talk to me - not too eager, just as eager as any 50 something man who is driving around with his eye open for junk on the side of the road would be. He went into great detail about a table he had seen earlier that day near his house, pulled out a clean lunch-sized paper bag from the trash can and drew a map of how to get to the location of the table.
As he drew the map, I discreetly examined the right side of his face. His hair was white, fluffy on top like he had just taken a shower and the sun was beginning to dry it. The hair over the wound was wet, almost greasy looking. The wound itself looked fresh, crimson blood, hardly any scabbing, white fat congealed near his ear which was fully intact, a mix of dried blood and fat running down his cheek. There was no semblance of bandaging. He talked with his right eye closed, presumably gone due to whatever caused the laceration. His left eye was a beautiful watery blue that stared right at me through his dollar store reading glasses.
He also had a smell. A musky, oddly sweet smell mixed with vaseline.
I didn’t mention the wound at all to the man. I didn’t ask him if he needed help, which I’m feeling a little weird about. His demeanor threw me off completely, he acted as if there was nothing wrong. I didn’t want to be rude to the him, nor did I want to provoke him. Growing up with prison guard parents, I have been trained to fear anyone and everyone. He gave me the paper bag with the treasure map drawn on it, I thanked him and he apologized for taking up my time. I assured him it was no big deal. The man gave one last, “it’ll be gone soon though!”, referring to the table near the Taco Bell on the map. I mounted my bicycle and turned around to take the less scenic, more populated route home. And that’s what happens when I leave my house.
"Some people turn sad awfully young," he said. "No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them."