A blog whereby I motivate myself, and my readers, to punch me in the mouth.

  "Punchworthy feeds our deepest Freudian wishes!" --Entertainment

  "The consumate rocker's rocker. Charming, personable... a sucking void of inescapable inner turmoil."

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Mmm... gooose...

How can what's good for the goose always be what's good for the gander?

This is not only a stupid and obviously false claim, but also a blatantly goose-ist and offensively anti-ganderite statement.

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Going off the Depp end

I firmly believe that Jack White (of White Stripes/Rancontuers fame) is headed for a mental breakdown. Or another mental breakdown. Whatever.

I don't honestly know a lot about him, and, though I really like all the music that I've heard from him, I haven't bothered to follow him closely. Lord knows I don't need to--if you're even remotely involved/interested in indie rock music, everyone else is tailgating him so hard that you're bound to stumble over a White-induced rear-ender during every other morning commute.

But even to a casual observer like me, he's obviously getting twitchier all the time.

In my brain... where there's lots of room for this type of thought-train to wind around through the breezy mountain passes... he bears a strong resemblance to another brilliant, twitchy favorite: Mr. Johnny Depp.

Depp, strangely (there's an unnecessary word pairing for you), while known almost as much for his idiosyncratic edgyness as his brilliant work, seems to be doing a supremely good job of not going wheels-off-the-track on everyone, all the time.

Which makes me think that maybe, despite my dire prediction, there's hope for Mr. White. I think... that his salvation may be found in Mr. Depp.

I suggest they go bowling. And have a nice long chat.

Also, I would like the film rights to that encounter.

Thank you and goodnight.


Saturday, June 21, 2008

Rubbing the Antennae

I think that, in a way, we're like random worker ants.

We've probably met before, or share some common experience, as common ants.

And then occasionally, making our anonymous way across the middle of a great expanse, we meet. Or re-meet.

And we pause, briefly, or even at length (depending on the circumstance) and rub antennae.

And then we move along.


Thursday, June 19, 2008

Naked faith

Faith is more resilient than optimism.

But naked faith fails to hold the same saccharine attraction as faith accessorized by bubbly emotion and self-generated stick-to-it-iveness.

When those outer trappings are stripped away, all that remains is plain spoken, rawboned determination. A pioneer spirit. One that persists, but doesn't soar. A pilgrim's progress.

This modest garment of faith will never walk the red carpet. It will never sign autographs or become the whispered tabloid buzz of a thousand coffee-stirred conversations. It will never capture the fleeting attention of the masses.

But it will entirely transform the lives of a handful. Those of us who are standing up close enough to see it, and the dirt in its details.

And the magnetism of that small, quiet transformation is more powerful and impacting than all the sugar-glue in the world. It may not be pretty, but it's beautiful. Beyond words. Beyond understanding.

And certainly beyond optimism.