Michael Kindt's Blog, page 62
March 30, 2016
Saw a dude a little while ago with a toupee so obvious it may as well have had a chinstrap.
Embrace the bald, dude. Emphasize it, in fact. Shave that melon entirely, then shine that bitch up with some high gloss oil.
Sheen is what you’re after, my friend.
Then get your ass down to a college bar and hit on 22 year old sociology majors.
You’ll thank me later.
March 29, 2016
Marge and Burt, and their two kids, Her and Him.Tonight...
Marge and Burt, and their two kids, Her and Him.
Tonight they’re enjoying a Red Baron pizza.
Hopefully they saved that $1.00!
March 28, 2016
Ocean split in two.My theory: inrushing fresh water meeting...
Ocean split in two.
My theory: inrushing fresh water meeting salt.
The Pacific Northwest of the North American continent is the only temperate rain forest on planet Earth. Beginning in, say, Northern California and going up through Oregon and Washington and BC and southern Alaska (coastal areas), we’re talking serious rain forest shit. The amount of rain, throughout a year, equals any rain forest found in South America or Asia.
It has rained every goddman day, at least a little.
The world has become moist and beefy, just like brand name dogfood. I look up in the sky and it’s cloudy, or if it’s not the light is slanted, coming quite obviously from the side.
In this part of the world, all lighting is indirect.
March 27, 2016
You really never know about your kid.
You have to take the journey with them. They go this way, then that. My son wanted to be pitcher in the bigs. He played little league for years and was pretty damn good at it, too, but then he discovered music. You never know. Just roll with it, and by all means, SUPPORT IT.
Kreeping Klones, by Fire Nuns
At least our son amounted to something. Can’t say the same for his parents.
Everybody gets divorced, but that's not what matters.
Everybody gets divorced, just like everybody gets married. Divorce, in fact, is a graduation of marriage. Instead of pomp and circumstance, though, you get lawyers and custody battles.
When I decided I was going to divorce my wife, it was a lackluster day: Tuesday. I had just gotten paid and Spring was right around the corner, making it March, but the day still lacked luster because it was a Tuesday and all Tuesdays lack luster. It’s state law. I was standing in the kitchen looking at the fridge door. On it, held in place by a magnet I had never seen before, was a note from my wife. I couldn’t see what the note said because it was folded over, but scrawled across it in big black bold letters was READ THIS. On the magnet I had never seen before was a cartoon shopping cart. The cartoon shopping cart was simply bursting with cartoon grocery goodness, even the bottom rack. Next to the cartoon grocery cart, and much smaller than the cartoon grocery cart, was a little cartoon family–a cartoon dad, a cartoon mom, and a cartoon kid. Despite the giant size of the cartoon shopping cart and the enormous bits of cartoon grocery goodness that filled it, the little cartoon family was smiling toothily. Grinning. Like goons.
It was horrifying.
I took the note and threw it in the trash without unfolding it, then got a beer out of the fridge and drank it quickly to steel myself. When I was done, I went and stood at the closed bedroom door. I could hear my wife moving around behind it. She was probably organizing her clothes or counting her shoes or trying desperately to cram my shit into an even smaller corner of our sliding door closet. She often did. For a moment, standing there, I missed her, missed us, the way we were, but I just shook it off as nostalgia. There were a lot of things I missed in life–people, places, times, even people, places, and times that had never happened–but it was no use crying about it. Inevitable, perhaps, but no use in doing it.
I opened the door to tell her goodbye, to tell her that I really meant it this time, that it was really over, and saw two gym bags sitting on the bed where we once slept together.
“You’re all packed,” she said.
How can I get as far away from Americans as possible, but still be in America?
Alaska.
Here, people walk around with guns in holsters, just like the old west. No one is from here. Everyone is from somewhere else, running from something, like me. Granted, there are kids who grow up here and dream of Columbus, Ohio and Kalamazoo, Michigan, but one day they will leave and be absorbed into the endless gray typicality of “the lower 48”. They will no longer factor into Alaska. They will become the people future Alaskans run from.
This country is vast. I knew it was vast, intellectually, but you have to see it to believe it. It’s jaw-dropping. Not only is Alaska the largest state, but it is almost half the size of the continental U.S. If you go from Boston to Chicago, for example, you would still be in Alaska.
Vast.
Why it hasn’t seceded from the union is beyond me. Oh, and did I mention it’s rich? Apparently, just for living here you get oil royalties. In other states, you have to pay taxes. In Alaska, the state pays you taxes. “Gee, thanks for living here!”
Still, it is not without its shitiness. Like any frontier place, it is full of frontier people, with their strippers and hookers and whores. It is a place where there are far more men than women, and that NEVER results in civility. It results in drunkenness and violence and human trafficking, every single time. Men need women. Not just a few for pleasure, but a lot of women, to reign them in, make them take a shower, make them comb their beard, fucking stand up straight.
Who is going to tell us to put the seat up before we piss if there are no women? We’re animals without enough of them. This has been proven time and again throughout human history, most recently during the oil boom in North Dakota, and to this day in Alaska.
We will never understand nor accept ourselves because we think human nature, our very own nature, is wrong. Gravity is wrong, too, you know. Haha.
Silly humans. Tricks are for men.
Dirt-munching, crystal-gripping, tree-hugging hippie with druids in her eyes.
She had flowing green salad hair and a flax seed glow. Everything she wore was made from hemp, even the heart on her sleeve.
Black curly hair peopled her pits, and a petrichor cloud of potting soil patchouli followed her everywhere she went.
I was smitten.
She told me her name was Saffron, but deep down inside I knew it was really Britney Courtney Ashley.
