There is a tree outside my window. It's a short tree--it can't be very old. But what do I know about the age of trees: I'm not about to cut it down and count the rings. Still, you know it's a young tree. It kept its leaves through the fall. It kept its leaves through the beginning of winter. And now winter is in full swing, and we've gone beyond "light dustings" and "variable flurries" into full-fledged snowfall. And the tree still has its leaves--they're all dead now, but that tree is not giving up on them.
There's a bit of "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" to this tree--something I find rather admirable about this simple tree holding on to what it values, long after the time to let go has passed. It's like no one told this tree that the leaves will return in just a little bit.
I like that. I think I'm going to try to be more like that tree.
"To drink is nothing. It is to be drunk that is important."
Ever since I moved back in October, I've been confronted with one ugly fact. I can no longer drink in the shower. There's no convenient place to set the glass where water won't get into it.
Sin Sin, with a Swing
A bad pun went swishing around my head while in Spain, just waiting to be born. I've managed to keep it stillborn, for the most part, but like one of those parents who keeps showing around the ultrasound, I can't help but at least mention it--then we can go back to pretending it had never been made.
Simply put, "sin" in Spanish means "to be without." "Sin tomate" means you want it without tomatoes. However, Jesus said "he who is without sin cast the first stone" (why he went without casting a stone I'll never know--I suspect he was teaching one of those life lesson thingamajigs or someshit).
There's a pun to be made out of that, but bilingual puns are some of the worst.
With effort, there could also be a "Sing Sing" prison pun as well, or a Benny Goodman one, but that's so painful to contemplate that I'm hitting my head against the back of my chair repeatedly in penance.
Women, please, for the love of god, stop wearing asymetrical tops! There's not a guy out there who finds them attractive. Yes, of course, they're still taking you home when you wear them, but they're doing it to get you out of that hideous thing as fast as possible--probably picturing you wearing an over-sized button-down man's shirt later on. Sure, maybe your friends have complimented you on that freakish thing, but they're lying to you, or you're misinterpreting the meaning of the word "interesting" to fit what you want to hear.
Or, ummm, if you're wearing them because the male hierarchy has dictated fashion for far too long, and this is part of your revolt against the fascist strictures of beauty...well, can't you find something that shows a little belly or cleavage that fits the same principles? Pretty please? I'll even accept something that shows off that ass tattoo that you're inexplicably proud of--it really does make you a unique individual, of course, everyone says so.
This is the last time the Post-Modern Drunkard goes into fashion advice, by the way. The previous two paragraphs made me feel like an ass and a letch, all in just 168 words.