Drunk, Reject, All Around Badass

 First off, new John Pine stuff 

So, if you two people are on a train going 30 kilometers per hour twenty meters apart and one throws a football in the direction of the train’s travel at seven meters per second, the football:

A: Travels 7 mps faster than the speed of the train
B: Dark matter nebula swallows the USS Enterprise
C: The AIM 9F has an overrun speed of .75 mach
D: Ray Wylie Hubbard
E: Naked hot Vulcan chick
F: The same speed as the train

This was one of the questions I had to know about the AIMs, the air-intercept-missiles. It had to do with this fact:

The F-14A, B, and D varients had a top speed of around mach 2+*.  The Tomcat was capable of carrying four AIM-9’s via a station one or eight alpha/bravo LAU-7 or LAU-138 (hello, NSA, welcome to the show!) mounted on shoulder stations. Now, the F-14D was perhaps the baddest assest airplane ever put off the pointy end of a ship, and I forget where I was going with this. Oh yes. I wanted to finally postulate a decent theory about this little Physics 101 question, one I am sure any scientist worth their bowtie/sweatervest combination has beat their head against a wall over:

If you are on train A heading East at approximately 1.5 times the speed of smell, and your kids are crying, then passenger B must:

A: Remember handy ways to blow children apart with HEI devices
B: Drink more
C: Fucking hell, that was a small flask
D: I swear to fucking God…
E: Why does it smell like poo?
F: Holy sweet murder

Ok, so you want to entertain your little shit with a DVD. That is Fucking gee-diddly fine as fuck, but for the love of god, purchase headphones. I can’t even appreciate the boobies seen and and unseen. Those that await me on the other side of the Continental Divide (entendre!) are helpless in my memory verses the Aristocats Disney Classic Gold Edition Special One Time Release DVD blaring the fuck out next to me. Redrum redrum redrum.

Ah, yes. To the wonderful friend I had who gave me a gallon (!) of Don Q rum, I salute thee and dub thee Sir Sean of the Cats Owners and arise, Sir Knight. Or something. Fucking hell. I have found something I like less than cats in general, and that is cats animated in particular.

Booze. That is the answer to Disney. Remind me to tell the story of the time me and the Bounty Hunters raided Disneyland. That shit was priceless. And had booze.

Oh, my first rejection letter A-rived 2day! I’m pretty much OK with it. It was from these guys**, the Highwayman is apparently riddled with cliches. That isn’t the reason I am no longer sober. That reason is crying again behind me. Jesus holy hell.

Redrumredrumredrumredrum.

 *That shit is classified, bitch. 

**Not provided for you to harrass them

Genii

When I was a kid, I would draw maps.  They wouldn’t be maps of anything, really.  Some realm I dreamt up sitting on the bank of the river or hunting rabbits.  Oddly, the realm never included cities.  I had never been to one, so I guess it wasn’t possible to imagine that sort of thing.  Later on, once I had lived in and out of the urban and suburban worlds, I knew enough to form my own commentary.  If I drew a map of whatever the hell place I used to imagine as a kid, I would have cities set up, but confined and not allowed to encroach on the desert anarchists and agricultural religious folk.  The country people would have all the guns and all the beauty and the city people would stare at themselves and at the creations of other city people and see more of themselves and believe it was beauty enough to stay home.  They would leave us alone. 

 I think I’m good enough at writing.  I sit around and drink until my fingers relearn how to pound out a story and i let my mind wander into some other place.  Possibly, the only reason I write is to create.  I am grown out of drawing maps, but I can still create in my own mind, and, I hope, in the mind of a reader another universe.  One where rules are bent, but still a universe recognizable.  I use the art of wordsmithing as much as I can.  When my brain is working away, plugging at creation like a big Cat diesel, I find I use pretty words.  I use packets of information on this fictional place that slide past the minds defense against the fantastic.  Assonance and dissonance, repetition and resonance, analogy and metallurgy, to convey whatever universe I create to find a new truth.  Water isn’t refreshing, it’s “mineral copper tasting cold.”  Fuck, that’s cool.

I don’t just build the car, I throw racing stripes on that motherfucker.  At least when I’m on.  I am not, however, a genius.  No, I surely am not. 

So I sit here in a newly reorganized room reading poetry disguised as prose.  or an old man rant rendered as art.  Depends on your opinion of him.  The author is crazy.  Like anyone of any quality, he does a lot of things I don’t like with his writing.  It’s sometimes trite and sometimes shit and sometimes it just rolls out of him like another plastic useless product sold two for 19.95 on the late-night paid programming of writ.  He does a lot of bullshit.  He does not punctuate and misspells to an alarming degree.  I find around 75% of his work unreadable. 

Then old Buk, Chuck (the buck) Bukowski throws out something akin to:

“I only feel the tiny clutch at the throat, the automatic transmission blues of loveliness, that somebody has it, that they don’t even hate me…that they even wish me what?…” (Ellipsis the author’s idea)

Jesus. I think I can write and then I see “…the clutch at the throat, the automatic transmission blues of loveliness…” and know that any attempt I could ever make at that sort of double entendre or that level of elegance would net me another horrific SciFi story about a post apocalyptic junkyard.  See, the clutch at the throat turns into a metaphorical mechanism, and the mechanism is compared to another mechanical device that uses a clutch and then it all turns into a commentary on beauty itself.  Not only that, but the resonance of that statement is deep and abiding love all things.  Maybe it’s that he uses no M’s or G’s so the caveman in us knows not to look or to find a woman (that statement will mean nothing to anyone not hyper-interested in paleoanthropology).

 And for the record, I though of Chuck before Girlpants did. 

New John Pine.  Nothing that great, comparatively.