Adjective

Aquard: (adj.)

When a former president, infamous for illegally imprisoning and waterboarding detainees, has a bucket of water dumped on his head for charity.

///

Here’s the thing, George.

Your administration was a little while ago now. And I’m not going to start making a fuss over how, in eight measly years, you and your cohort of shitty devils managed to break the entire goddamn world.

Sure, we’re still cleaning up your mess… and will most likely be doing so for the next, oh, I dunno, fifty years or so. But that’s okay. That was then. This is now. And one shouldn’t dwell on the past. This is now.

This is now.

You can paint your paintings and hold art shows in your library. I’m actually quite a fan of your work, albeit in an infantile, elbow macaroni self portrait kinda way.

I’m cool sharing the present with you. Because that was then. And this is now. And yes, now is a terrible, violent and so so scary disaster. But we can all deal with that. So long as you don’t bring up the past and remind us what now could have been.

So please, George. Tread lightly. For once in your life, bub… be mindful.

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DepakUSDtQE

Standard
Noun

Rubble Standard: (n.)

When you blow it up, it’s evil. When we blow it up, it’s collateral damage.

///

Anyone else really tired of listening to corrupt, self-interested nations justify the wholesale bombing of… everything?

There isn’t a justification for any of this anymore.

Not really. Not when you actually think about it.

Because bombs don’t really distinguish factions or flags or to which unhappy fiction you pray. That’s the job of the guy who pulls the trigger. And when faced with that choice, our collective failure to make the right decision over and over and over and over and over again makes me so very sad sometimes.

Out with nations.

In with stars.

Standard
Adjective

Inspirrational: (adj.)

Displaying a cloying and incoherent positivity.

///

Once, while in a conversation with some impending school chums, a woman told me in utter seriousness that, “… life isn’t measured by the amount of breaths you take. It’s measured by the number of moments that take your breath away.”

She said this without a touch of irony – she just sat there radiating with shallow, dopey optimism like a Thomas Kinkade painting.

“So, death then?” I joked, hoping to change the mood.

Half the table laughed. The woman smacked her teeth and told me I was gross. And I learned who my friends were going to be.

Look…

I’m not saying good things don’t happen. They do. Every day. All around the world. People exhibit acts of pure love, kindness, and selfless altruism. People are beautiful and good and warm and glorious to one another… probably with the same frequency that others shoot, stab, or strangle one another.

Good things are… well… good.

Our planet is a remarkable little pearl, stuffed to the gills with the awesome, the beautiful and majestic.

I get just as choked up at images of galaxies and nebulae as the next guy… maybe even moreso…

The world is not a cold, dead place. And in the face of hardship, sure – hope’s an essential tonic.

But for the love of Jeff, that doesn’t justify some of the bullshit people say when trying to be inspirational.

In fact, could there be anything less inspiring than someone trying to inspire you?

The half-knowing looks. The huckstery, broad smiles and honeyhallowed voices, and the awful, awful catchphrases.

Life is far too complicated… more rich, remarkable, nuanced, and complex a thing to be summed up in such a bland little chirp of philosophy.

And thank god for that.

Standard
Noun

Lathergy: (n.)

When you’re too lazy to bother shaving.

///

I haven’t shaved in weeks… and as a result, my face has metamorphosed into a pockety landscape, reminiscent of my cat’s lounging pillow.

I cannot grow facial hair the way most men grow facial hair.

My cheeks are patchy and errant, two tufts of steel wool, the color of a doormouse.

My moustache is a downy wisp of a thing, barely there. A meringue.

And yet, the longer I wait and more I edit (I’ve since jettisoned the cheekpuffs, leaving only the moustache and everpresent tuft of chin scruff), the prouder I become.

I used to roll my eyes at those baroquely moustachioed man-chaps… and with good reason, sure. It takes a certain kind of twerp to wear a 19th century moustache while talking on an iPhone. All those tiresome hipsterettes with their twee little moustache tattoos on their fingerside. Enough, I say. Enough.

But the longer I wait… the more I see.

My moustache… it’s growing fuller. Broader. I’ve never let it get this big before. So many Movembers and Moustache Marches I’ve sat by, soft-faced and sidelined. But now… I see it, growing darker… potent and powerful.

Get thee to a penny-farthing.

Standard