Like An Upside Down Lawn Mower

Apparently, between now and the last time I bought detergent,
a massive change occurred within the laundry industry.
MASSIVE CHANGE, people.
MASSIVE.
SOOOOOOOO massive.
Im surprised it's not all over the news right now,
smashed right there between the murders, the rape victims,
and the tiny local girl
who won the big horse jumping contest.

Big news indeed, people.
So big.

Like an easter egg full
of gun powder
sitting under a magnifying glass
on the roof of a double decker bus.

(not sure where that came from... it just popped in there)

Yes sir... laundry will never be the same.

All of a sudden,
you can buy a detergent bottle
(any brand, mind you)
with
a
TAP.

Yes. A tap! Now you don't have to lift the bottle anymore.
And you can keep your Franzia next to the Gain and
everything will look
FINE.

Big news people.
So, so, so, so big.

I remember a time in the first grade, when my teacher had the class
draw pictures of what we all wanted to be when we grew up.

Most kids I knew wanted to be sports stars or astronauts.

Not me.

I wanted to be a GARBAGE MAN.

Why did I want to be a garbage man?

Because I wanted to ride on the back of the truck.
Why the fuck ELSE?

I distinctly remember watching the garbage truck drive by, and thinking it was so friggin' cool that a guy would just ride on the back, standing on the bumper the entire time. Everyone else on the road had to ride INSIDE their cars and sit in boring SEATS. The garbage man lived on the edge, balancing on his chariot, and sailing with the wind as he moved from homestead to homestead. Ahhhh yes... it was a romantic sight indeed.

And since I spent most of my spare time
playing in the dirt,
and rooting through dumpsters looking for treasure,
it seemed as though the life of a garbage man
was the perfect life for me.

Well... I had an epiphany tonight.

I am going to ACCOMPLISH my childhood dream.

I am going to apply to be a garbage man, dammit.
Just so I can say that I accomplished all the goals I
set for myself when I was 6 years old.

Beautiful Neighborhood Woman
"My, my... who ARE you?
And how did you get rid of all my unwanted unmentionables?"

(Woman swoons, faints, and falls into a pile of leaves.)
(Derek jumps onto bumper of truck and zooms away.)

Sometimes,
I end up sitting next to bitter, old guys at the bar,
that love to play the age card like its going out of style.

I do believe that with age comes education, life perspective,
and often times more intelligent and mature approaches to living,
but I have to say, when I see people act as if they have the market cornered on pain,
simply because of how old they are,
I have to bite my lip.

The age card does not automatically earn my sympathy when used in reference to desolation. And I don't buy it when people claim their torture to be "unique" or "special" because of their age.

Why?
It has been my experience, that age does not set the bar for how much suffering a person has been subjected too.

I have met CHILDREN that have experienced more pain in a single month than many 60 year olds have seen their entire lives. For example, a few years ago, I was substitute teaching at Linder Elementary in Austin, Texas. Just before the morning bell, a kid by the name of Damien walked in and sat down on the floor. He had his turtle neck pulled up over his head and he was acting bizarre and distant, so I decided to pull him aside and ask him what was wrong. It took a little bit of coaxing, but he eventually opened his flood gates, and proceeded to avow that he had just watched his father stab his mother TO DEATH in front of his very own eyes. I was in shock. I abruptly called the principal and in less than an hour, Damien was whisked away by the police. I never saw him again. I found out later that Damien's father had tortured his mother in the kitchen before she died, forcing him to sit in the living room throughout the entire ordeal.

Age does not mean ANYTHING when it comes to suffering,
as one, single swipe of the knife can spill enough blood
to stain a life forever.

So to all the bitter, old men out there,
including the bitter, old men of the future (one of which will probably be me),
never judge pain by age...

judge it by the weight of the eyes.

So... I became a tea drinker this week.
Recently, a very special (and talented) woman
introduced me to some assorted tea.

On Thursday, I drank about 7 cups, each cup double bagged,
and stayed up for 2 days straight with no additional caffeine needed.

Granted, I kept thinking that all the leaves on the road were rats darting in front of my car, which was rather disturbing, but overall I still managed to maintain my limited social skills as well as the majority of my mental faculties.

For most of this week, I've been at The Jimmy Kimmel Show
meeting the producers, the writers, and the field directors
and preparing for a possible directing gig there.
I wasn't sure how I would like it as I'm told the fast paced production schedule
of late night television can be stressful and annoying.

But everyone was extremely gracious and kind,
and being WACKED out on that tea actually helped my social skills
for some reason unbeknownst to me. Really, the entire experience surprised me and I never felt uncomfortable once, even going on 2 days of no sleep.

So, now I'm a tea drinker.
And I can finally lay off all the crack and angel dust. FINALLY.
I was starting to get tired of having illegitimate children and chewing on my arm.

sometimes I can feel my hands
slipping off the handle,
and my fingers snapping off the steel bar
one by one,
each with a sweaty squeak.

and yet EVEN THEN...
there in the throes of lunacy,
i cannot shake the feeling
that i'll never find the ground under my feet,
because i've never been grounded to begin with.

i have no idea what the ground feels like.

sometimes I wish my mind was less cluttered,
and I was just a big ol'
PAUNCHY SQUIRREL

with only one goal pounding through my being:

COLLECT MOUTH-WATERING ACORNS.

ahhhh, to wake up
wanting ACORNS and ONLY ACORNS
like fat kids
want butter beans.

wait...

scratch that.

not butter beans.

like fat kids want
MARSH MELLOW DINOSAUR EGGS.

ahh yes, to surrender to instinct completely.

the equanimity
of a pitch black mind
following
the bolt pistol.

i suppose even squirrels are
stuck with the mind mess, though.

they don't just think about acorns.

no ma'am.
that's only a romantic cavity we artists
desperately WANT squirrels to FILL.

The harsh reality of the world is:
Squirrels are NOT cartoons.

They are not simple and innocent.

no ma'am.
squirrels attack old people and children
and violently fuck everything they see.

(even dirty, old, grey shoes by the side of the road,
covered in dryer lint).

squirrels zip around like
retards on acid,
constantly reacting
to every jerk of the world.

sadly, they too have hard boiled eyes
and wet-towel-minds,
rigged with springs,
taut with tension,

and filled with triggers, cyphers,
and empty actions
they will never understand.