Michael Kindt's Blog, page 121

I'm a simple man who wants simple things.

I want blowjobs while you’re wearing heels but not stockings.
I Iike it when your toes are painted, too, but it isn’t necessary.

I want you to shut up and listen,
and when you’re not doing that,
to call me “Sir”.

I want you to like it, too.
I want it to turn you on,
liking it even though you’re not supposed to.

I want to treat you like a princess
and I want to be treated like the King.

My masculinity is fragile, obviously.
Either that or I’m more in touch with it than ever.

It doesn’t matter.

While the people who think this is important
debate and bitch and are shocked and outraged,
how about you scurry off and get those heels?

I’ll be waiting right here.

"To me the only thing more embarrassing than going bald is trying to hide that you’re going..."

“To me the only thing more embarrassing than going bald is trying to hide that you’re going bald.”

- Hadrian Kindt, my son, who is wise and will one day go bald like me.

Spring cleaning!

Spring cleaning!

"Poetry is an echo asking a shadow to dance."

–Carl Sandburg

What the fuck does that mean, Carl? Are you stoned? Do you have “back pain” and a medical marijuana card? Is that a burrito in your pocket or do you just have the munchies?

I learned Carl’s meaningless quote in the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle I just finished. The theme was quotes about poetry and there were ones from E.E. CUMMINGS, Pablo Neruda, and a few others. One guy was called Osbert Sitwell. How great is that? Osbert Sitwell.

“How does Osbert sit?”

“Well, my friend. He sits well.”

Had I done this puzzle 22 years ago, I may have named my son Osbert Stillwell Kindt, rather than Hadrian Michael Kindt. Back then, I probably would’ve thought Carl’s quote was profound, too, rather than the silly non sequitur it is (just barely that, too).

Osbert Sitwell. Os.bert.Sit.well.

One quote almost rose to the level of humor: “Poetry is like fish–it’s only good when it’s fresh.” Don’t recall what bard said that but it doesn’t matter because it wasn’t Dylan Thomas.

If it ain’t Dylan Thomas, it just doesn’t matter. Dylan wasn’t in the puzzle, so even the puzzle didn’t matter.

Poetry is like an echo asking a shadow to dance, huh?
Maybe it’s like a shadow dancing to an echo
or a dance shadowing an echo
or an echoing ask dancing to a shadow.

One time I sat on my couch and said “Pliers” over and over again until the word had become hollowed of all meaning and sense and was rendered like the fat from a cube steak into a drab little vocable.

“Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers. Pliers.”

It became a noise, a squawk, like something a duck would say if you accidentally sat on him.

“Pliers!”

“Oh, sorry little buddy. Didn’t see you there.”

Constant repetition strips information away, as we see repeatedly in politics and other forms of entertainment. Carl achieved it in one go, however.

Kudos, I guess.

Here’s a picture of me getting kissed by my brother while my son...

Here’s a picture of me getting kissed by my brother while my son stands in the background looking disgusted. It was at a wedding we all went to this weekend and we were all smashed.

Good times.

Yelp is hilarious

I can’t believe I’ve never been to it before. Where have I been, under a rock? Of course, I have never been to Instagram either, so…

How much does a hipster weigh?
An Instagram!

*knee slapping sounds*

I went looking for someone who does alterations because my pants, they need altered. Like an old man from the 1970s, I first tried the Yellow Pages, but I didn’t even know the name, really, of the thing I was looking for. Tailors?

No tailors in the phonebook, only Tailors (Bill and Amanda, located in a cul-de-sac on Average Street in a little pink house for you and me).

*sounds of me putting a John Cougar Mellencamp album on*

I found some on Yelp, though, and one woman who works out of her house apparently is crazy. She yells at her customers, won’t settle on a timeframe, insists on ridiculously high cash deposits, which she then keeps as a “consultation fee”, even when her customers come to pick up their unaltered clothes because she won’t ever actually do the alterations they requested.

I almost wanted to use her, but, alas, I am no longer a young person, so my days of self-loathing are behind me.

I settled on another lady, who has six five star reviews and one one star review. I’m waiting on a callback because she is one of those modern businesses that don’t actually answer the phone, but simply take messages. Usually, I never use such businesses because, hello, it’s 10 o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday. You’re in business. Answer your goddamn phone–but it’s slim pickins. No one, really, does alterations and tailoring anymore, I guess.

Makes me wanna learn how to do it and go into business for myself (I would answer my goddamn phone).

“Are you shaped weird? Are you sick of wearing cookie-cutter Asian-made clothing that doesn’t fit right? Come on down to Mike’s House of Needles and we’ll fix you right up at a reasonable price and with very little groping!”

I can just see the cash pouring in.

If we live in an age when we can choose our gender, we live in one where we can choose our race as well. To hell with genes!

I suspect the person knocking on my door just now was known to me, as I saw a Wyoming plate,

but, alas, I do not answer phone calls from unknown numbers or knocks from unknown fists. I need to know you’re on the way. I am in my 40s and never once, never ever once, has a stranger come calling at my door or phone resulted in a positive experience. Never once. They always want something from me, sometimes a great deal.

I’m probably not going to pay you back and I certainly don’t want to buy anything and God knows I don’t want to listen to your peculiar take on the Bible (or in the case of the Mormons, about your peculiar new Bible).

Anywho…

It’s been a while now. I don’t think I’ll...

It’s been a while now. I don’t think I’ll ever recover from Lou’s death. Same with my Mom and Grandma. If someone I love dies, I will never recover. Life fucking kills you. It wears you down with all its death.

Rock & Roll. Velvet Underground.

"The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal,..."

“The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilised, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane. Each sentence we produce, whether we know it or not, is a mongrel mouthful of Chaucerian, Shakespearean, Miltonic, Johnsonian, Dickensian, and American. Military, naval, legal, corporate, criminal, jazz, rap, and ghetto discourses are mingled at every turn. The French language, like Paris, has attempted, through its Academy, to retain its purity, to fight the advancing tides of Franglais and international prefabrication. English, by comparison, is a shameless whore.”

- Stephen Fry