Like A Doll's Eyes...
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed. - Ernest Hemingway
It had been a long time. A long time since he had sat down to update the beating heart of his league. It wasn't from lack of interest, quite the opposite. There were moments throughout his workday in which the idea of writing a new post or a clever diatribe deep into the psyche of where high school friendships evolve and fellow travellers picked up along the way pass through the velvet rope of trusted life compatriot.
The opening is crucial he decided. In order to place himself in an aura of creative thought he picked his favourite Smiths song and poured the local boxcar comfort lager into a pint glass.
"It can't be overly pretentious or else Keith might get the wrong idea about my growth as an organic being on stardust spinning top" he laughed to himself.
The truth was he probably was pretentious, but the best kind he thought. He was authentic to himself as best as he could tell, but he was aware that as time had pasted he was less the angry young teenager that left town over a decade earlier. He had left with one goal in mind, prove God exists. No simple task, but he had very little interest in doing that which came easy to so many others.
Faith was something that didn't essentially come natural to him. Whether that was brought on by intensive growing up periods he experienced as a youth or the feeling in the back of his mind that told him 'truth is subjective.'
He wanted to believe a semblance of order, a balancing of the scales to separate the just from the cruel. After travelling the world and studying every gnostic gospel he could find this feeling had remained. It was when he realized he didn't have to 'fake it until he made it' that he felt truly free.
His journeys had taught him so many things about love, literature and humanity. Some parts of this vibrant vagabond had fallen off as the passage of time brought other stages of the western experience to his doorstep. It was important for him to be true to himself or he'd regret it later. That was a huge step, it meant showing his wart's and all to a collective that were off on their own journeys and could possibly find the very nature of his views unsightly or juvenile.
"Pretentiousness be damned" he shouted at the orange tabby, his closest confidant with whom much great ideas were decided on, "If I sound like a souse and less a soothsayer of hypothetical football analytics it's for the best".
The tabby yawned and folded his front paws, as if to offer an olive branch of support to someone entirely beneath his way of thinking.
"I've got it" he exclaimed.
He showed the proud beast a photo taken during the Vancouver riots.
"You weren't even born when this was taken" he tried to faintly apply a level of intellectual superiority. it didn't seem to have the effect he wished.
"Alex Thomas was this girl next store type who went to a hockey game with her boyfriend."
The way the Tabby's eyes looked was as if this was information he was already privy to.
"She went to this hockey game in my opinion to possibly teach her boyfriend about the great game in Canada, he was from Australia you know."
Milo did know, he just knew that the punchline of this diatribe was about love and freedom in the face of anarchy, or some other hipster rubbish his inebriated food handler was about to spout.
"Anyhow long story short..."
The story, and possibly his contrived opening, was overly long already the proud puss pondered.
"After Boston won the cup on our soil, Vancouver just lost it. Well, not Vancouver per say lame balls Canucks fans, they just start tearing up the street and setting things ablaze."
Milo felt a lame attempt at a joke which faintly corresponded the rioting and the Black Lives Matter movement percolating in his master's overly indulgent meat helmet. It never came, so he shut his eyes halfway. Hopefully this would inspire his slave to go tell his ilk his contrived half baked way of combining his league with his intellectual output. He was insufferable.
"Well anyhow this nice multinational couple is caught between the authority and the lawlessness that was happening. Scott, that's her boyfriend," Milo couldn't roll his eyes but he wanted to " he decides they should just make out, like right there!"
Here it comes, the tabby thought.
"I know it's possibly taboo in today's society to express such a physical output of care and love in the face of ugliness and despair, but goddamn it that is a true connection to reality; is it not?"
He had to give it to him it was a gorgeous image. Although he found utter contentment in an afternoon meal or a long morning nap, the idea of humans finding reprieve from the self inflicted mental anguish was endearing to him.
"You see Mr. Pussy..."
He found that name emasculating, even for the queen he was.
"Ever since I handed off the Power Powell Rankings to Clarke and put my creative drive behind the next iteration of the podcast there's been simply no need for me to write a post. So I'm slightly at a loss on what to write."
The puss did what he needed to do, he walked over to the man crawled up on his bare chest and began to kneed his flabby pectoral muscles.
"I don't need to extend my claws for this, but if I don't there's a good chance he might just write about his affection for me for an overly long time and that helps nobody in TFLOEG town" The much maligned mouser concluded.
"Ouch, alright geez I'll write the thing" his hypothetical master exclaimed.
"TFLOEG is kinda all over the place puss, Aaron's in the lead and Steve's in the rear. The entire midsection of the league is up and comers who have had a couple of bad weeks, the top filled with teams that are lucky to pull out the wins by a couple of points each week."
Milo knew this was his chance to fall asleep into his normal dreams of F. Scott Fitzgerald, free of Zelda, on a champagne bender.
"If you see who has scored the most points and who has had the most points scored against them it just looks like all of our teams are like Alex and Scott, caught between what we perceive to be our real team and the unflinching reality of what we truly are. I can't even really talk crap about anyones team, outside of the podcast, because old guard players are fading and new stars are emerging. For instance my Tennessee Titans picks most thought were dumb..."
Milo was firmly with his godsend F. Scott.
"Well they're actually paying dividends now with the trade I made. Sure, I needed to trade for Demarco Murray in order for him to get injured and finally have the opportunity to play Henry as a starter. That will show all the hater's of my first round pick!"
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past" Milo thought.
"Our league is at a state of constant flux, I think I may have even forgotten to set the trade deadline this year. Crap was that for week ten or eleven? I don't want to fudge it, because the league will know. They always want to push this type of decision to the manager's meeting. I have the power to set it, perhaps I'll do it at one in the morning on a Wednesday so once the waivers go through nobody knows i forgot in the first place."
"And this guy thinks he's the most authentic version of himself..." Milo purred.
"We're halfway through the season and it seams much like the proletariat storming the Bastille that there's a change on the way. Stocks are on the way down and stars are on the rise."
The orange furred tabby could only stomach so much malarkey for one day.
-The Commish
It had been a long time. A long time since he had sat down to update the beating heart of his league. It wasn't from lack of interest, quite the opposite. There were moments throughout his workday in which the idea of writing a new post or a clever diatribe deep into the psyche of where high school friendships evolve and fellow travellers picked up along the way pass through the velvet rope of trusted life compatriot.
The opening is crucial he decided. In order to place himself in an aura of creative thought he picked his favourite Smiths song and poured the local boxcar comfort lager into a pint glass.
"It can't be overly pretentious or else Keith might get the wrong idea about my growth as an organic being on stardust spinning top" he laughed to himself.
The truth was he probably was pretentious, but the best kind he thought. He was authentic to himself as best as he could tell, but he was aware that as time had pasted he was less the angry young teenager that left town over a decade earlier. He had left with one goal in mind, prove God exists. No simple task, but he had very little interest in doing that which came easy to so many others.
Faith was something that didn't essentially come natural to him. Whether that was brought on by intensive growing up periods he experienced as a youth or the feeling in the back of his mind that told him 'truth is subjective.'
He wanted to believe a semblance of order, a balancing of the scales to separate the just from the cruel. After travelling the world and studying every gnostic gospel he could find this feeling had remained. It was when he realized he didn't have to 'fake it until he made it' that he felt truly free.
His journeys had taught him so many things about love, literature and humanity. Some parts of this vibrant vagabond had fallen off as the passage of time brought other stages of the western experience to his doorstep. It was important for him to be true to himself or he'd regret it later. That was a huge step, it meant showing his wart's and all to a collective that were off on their own journeys and could possibly find the very nature of his views unsightly or juvenile.
"Pretentiousness be damned" he shouted at the orange tabby, his closest confidant with whom much great ideas were decided on, "If I sound like a souse and less a soothsayer of hypothetical football analytics it's for the best".
The tabby yawned and folded his front paws, as if to offer an olive branch of support to someone entirely beneath his way of thinking.
"I've got it" he exclaimed.
He showed the proud beast a photo taken during the Vancouver riots.
"You weren't even born when this was taken" he tried to faintly apply a level of intellectual superiority. it didn't seem to have the effect he wished.
"Alex Thomas was this girl next store type who went to a hockey game with her boyfriend."
The way the Tabby's eyes looked was as if this was information he was already privy to.
"She went to this hockey game in my opinion to possibly teach her boyfriend about the great game in Canada, he was from Australia you know."
Milo did know, he just knew that the punchline of this diatribe was about love and freedom in the face of anarchy, or some other hipster rubbish his inebriated food handler was about to spout.
"Anyhow long story short..."
The story, and possibly his contrived opening, was overly long already the proud puss pondered.
"After Boston won the cup on our soil, Vancouver just lost it. Well, not Vancouver per say lame balls Canucks fans, they just start tearing up the street and setting things ablaze."
Milo felt a lame attempt at a joke which faintly corresponded the rioting and the Black Lives Matter movement percolating in his master's overly indulgent meat helmet. It never came, so he shut his eyes halfway. Hopefully this would inspire his slave to go tell his ilk his contrived half baked way of combining his league with his intellectual output. He was insufferable.
"Well anyhow this nice multinational couple is caught between the authority and the lawlessness that was happening. Scott, that's her boyfriend," Milo couldn't roll his eyes but he wanted to " he decides they should just make out, like right there!"
Here it comes, the tabby thought.
"I know it's possibly taboo in today's society to express such a physical output of care and love in the face of ugliness and despair, but goddamn it that is a true connection to reality; is it not?"
He had to give it to him it was a gorgeous image. Although he found utter contentment in an afternoon meal or a long morning nap, the idea of humans finding reprieve from the self inflicted mental anguish was endearing to him.
"You see Mr. Pussy..."
He found that name emasculating, even for the queen he was.
"Ever since I handed off the Power Powell Rankings to Clarke and put my creative drive behind the next iteration of the podcast there's been simply no need for me to write a post. So I'm slightly at a loss on what to write."
The puss did what he needed to do, he walked over to the man crawled up on his bare chest and began to kneed his flabby pectoral muscles.
"I don't need to extend my claws for this, but if I don't there's a good chance he might just write about his affection for me for an overly long time and that helps nobody in TFLOEG town" The much maligned mouser concluded.
"Ouch, alright geez I'll write the thing" his hypothetical master exclaimed.
"TFLOEG is kinda all over the place puss, Aaron's in the lead and Steve's in the rear. The entire midsection of the league is up and comers who have had a couple of bad weeks, the top filled with teams that are lucky to pull out the wins by a couple of points each week."
Milo knew this was his chance to fall asleep into his normal dreams of F. Scott Fitzgerald, free of Zelda, on a champagne bender.
"If you see who has scored the most points and who has had the most points scored against them it just looks like all of our teams are like Alex and Scott, caught between what we perceive to be our real team and the unflinching reality of what we truly are. I can't even really talk crap about anyones team, outside of the podcast, because old guard players are fading and new stars are emerging. For instance my Tennessee Titans picks most thought were dumb..."
Milo was firmly with his godsend F. Scott.
"Well they're actually paying dividends now with the trade I made. Sure, I needed to trade for Demarco Murray in order for him to get injured and finally have the opportunity to play Henry as a starter. That will show all the hater's of my first round pick!"
"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past" Milo thought.
"Our league is at a state of constant flux, I think I may have even forgotten to set the trade deadline this year. Crap was that for week ten or eleven? I don't want to fudge it, because the league will know. They always want to push this type of decision to the manager's meeting. I have the power to set it, perhaps I'll do it at one in the morning on a Wednesday so once the waivers go through nobody knows i forgot in the first place."
"And this guy thinks he's the most authentic version of himself..." Milo purred.
"We're halfway through the season and it seams much like the proletariat storming the Bastille that there's a change on the way. Stocks are on the way down and stars are on the rise."
The orange furred tabby could only stomach so much malarkey for one day.
-The Commish
Comments
Post a Comment