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Reaity is an illusion ...

The end of that phrase reads, "caused by a lack of alcohol."

Or at least that's the way I heard it at some point in college. And when you think about it, is that statement that far from the truth? Look at all the people we idolize in the arts, humanities, and science, both past and present. Artists, musicians, philosophers, scientists... They were all riding their own respective "highs" when they made those mind-shattering discoveries or generation-transcending works that have become the cornerstones of what we call either art or science or philosophy or literature - the list goes on.

It begs the question - are we as a human beings living on the fringe of something we don't understand when we're completely sober? Do the limits of the mind stretch beyond what we perceive without some stimulation?

Buddhists have been trying to reach a higher consciousness for centuries. Other religions and cultures have practiced similar rituals and ways of going beyond mere existence. For many, meditation, in one form or another, is supposed to be the way to transcend physical reality. But without the drugs, where does the self-flagellation and self-immolation get you? The average person, trying to find meaning. The everyday Joe trying to express himself through a poem or verse.

I suppose that all in all it gets you dead, but for those of us who are tallented to begin with, fame and immortality follow.

Which begs the next obvious question - how far are you willing to go?

Hemingway knew the answer to that question. Do you?

Do I?

An occasional troubadour's duty

There's a lot of poetry
in my galaxy
but it's plain to see
that no symmetry
is afforded me
because even must be
a matter of degree
and only God makes a tree
and money doesn't
grow on those motherfuckers.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike2.5 License.

I'm a little concerned with what I'm hearing ...

Have you ever had a really bad day and just wanted to vent? Have you ever felt just so awful that you were compelled to write it all out like scripture for the world to see? Have you gone through something that made you want to simply pour out your soul for the masses to swallow and assimilate?

Yeah we all have. Haven't we?

But we're doing it on the Internet, right? We're fortunate enough to scribe it all out on laptops from coffee shops with our wifi connections or sitting in our comfy chairs as we pain-stakingly convey our maligned existence in graphic detail through tattered keyboards accompanied by our trusty sub-standard frappachinos.

It has (not co) recently occurred to me that my situation isn't so bad; that MANY have it much worse; that my life isn't just about to fall to pieces if I don't ge that CD I've been eyeing at the local Virgin Mega-store.

It's truly tiring, and I am convinced that it is making me ill in a very real and physical way.

It makes me question what I'm doing right now.

And it should make you all question what you're doing here.

You're wasting your time.

Go be productive.

Do something nice for someone you don't know, and then don't tell anyone.

Resign yourself to one drink tonight, instead of three.

Decide to stop smoking, for good this time.

Write a poem on a napkin on your lunch break and put it in your pocket without sharing it.

Call your mother or father, while you still have a chance.

Remember something your wife or girlfriend told you that you thougth was insignificant at the time and bring it up in conversation.

Turn off your TV once in a while and talk to the other person in the room.

Read a book, from start to finish.

And if you're smug enough to believe that you've done all of this and that your attention is better cast elsewhere, then;

Pretend I didn't suggest any of this and make up your own excuse for why you won't do any of these things or find a better use of you time than sitting in front of a computer screen bitching and moaning about obviously unfair indignities you must endour.

And lastly, judge and/or dismiss this entire post because it really is just another "Dr. Phil" re-run or failed motivational speech that you already knew was bullshit and couldn't care less about.

Because - You have your own problems, right?

If I had a nickel for every time ...

Not this Sunday past, but the Sunday before that, Mr. and Mrs. The Buffalo went out on what could be called a date. We're married, so I don't know if that technically qualifies, but who cares? It was a nice night and we decided to celebrate our good fortunes by settling into one of our favorite eateries, The Chimes. This is a restaurant that has a larger drink list than menu, so I especially enjoy any chance to partake. Another one of the wonderful reasons for frequenting this joint is the Blackened Alligator (no Louisiana jokes!). It really is quite tasty and compliments just about any beer they have on tap (except that Belgian bubbly shit). Anyway, this particular day had been kind of rough for me. Work didn't exactly pan out the way it was supposed to and the whole new job thing isn't exactly panning out either. Consequently, nothing looked good on the menu to me. So, just in the interest of eating something to comfort me, I decided on a dozen oysters on the half shell. For those who don't know, I am (was) a huge fan of those nasty little filters of the gulf. And yeah, I know what they do and what could happen if I eat a glowing green one.

Nonethless, before embarking on this uncooked journey, and because I had never had oysters at The Chimes before, I asked our waitress if the oysters were in season, and if so, how they were. She told me that no one had complained and that they had been serving them every night recently. So, with that vote of confidence, my order sped away to the kitchen, along with some alligator appetizers.

About half an hour later my tray arrived, complete with horseraddish and lemon wedges, and of course, exactly twelve slimy little jems of the pond, smiling happily back at me from their pearly white shells. Not four oysters down, I rip up something beneath one of them that looked to be a strip of fleshy matter. This didn't bother me - oysters often leave a little of their "meat" behind on the shell because sometimes they aren't properly detached when shucked. But upon closer inspection, the fleshy strip seemed to have many, many tiny little legs ... and a head ... and it was - wait for it - MOVING!. Oh yes, it was a worm of some sort, occupying my once wonderful but now ominous entree.


It took a while for our waitress to return to the table, but when she did, I sheepishly told her that I was sorry, but I would have to be her first complaint about the oysters. She looked at me stupefied for a moment, so I elaborated about the moving creature writhing in my plate. Her reaction is why I will never return to The Chimes EVER AGAIN! She calmly told me that, "Oh yeah, we know they have worms. Most times, people just don't notice 'em."

At this point I think my eyes must ave widened to dinner-plate size because she simply asked me if I would like to have the order taken off my bill before quickly running away with the platter and the critter. She didn't even ask if I wanted anything else, perhaps a bottle of everclear to down in the hopes of sterilizing my innards and killing what surely must be a few worms that I missed before discovering their granddaddy! For the rest of the night, our waitress avoided our table until I had to flag her down to get our check. Afterwards, I tipped her, more than she deserved (I'm a lawyer, not a dick), then calmly explained the circumstances of our meal to the attending hostess. At least she seemed startled at what had transpired.

And here comes the best part. Not two days after this wonderful repast, I came down with some kind of bacterial infection that has had me bed-ridden until yesterday. Now, I can't prove it was the worms from The Chimes, and even if I could - what good would that do? But if I can at least let one or two people know about this wonderful event, and perhaps sway your palatte from regions Chimes-ish that would be enough for me. So, if you are ever in the Baton Rouge area, please don't bother going there. If you do, don't eat there. I mean come on, if they allow their staff to serve bad oysters, which require no preparation, no cooking, and very little contact with actual people from the time they are opened to the time they show up on my table, to people knowingly, just image what your gumbo or etouffe has in it. And lest we forget - I asked this girl if the damn slime-balls were okay! And she said they were, only to later admit that she knew damn well they weren't.

That said, no more oysters for me. One sonic bout with pneumonia or some similar streptococc-er whatever is enough to make me a believer.


On a lighter note, my job is terrible! The firm that I am working for has three attorneys in it, counting myself. My boss is basically an absentee landlord offering no mentorship, no guidance, no benefits, and plenty of requests I have no idea how to fulfill. The other attorney often asks me to help him with work he is doing and I am more than happy to comply. Unfortunately, when the boss does return to the office to find me working on anything but what he has given me to do - well ... the rage is indescribable, not for me, but for the other attorney, which then affects me, naturally. Last week, while I was convalescing at home, I was notified that the other attorney in the office gave my boss an ultimatum - either let me run the office the way I see fit, or I walk - and so there it is. Neither have spoken since and I haven't had any of my calls returned either...

Anyone know somebody who needs a hardworking attorney (please, no psychos this time around)?