O day and night, but this is wondrous strange
Sometimes, you have to close down the blog you love writing, you shit your pants, and you run your wallet through the washer, all in one week. There are weeks like that. And as you spread out your dripping credit cards next to your soaked driver's license, you look at your Sushi Love stamp card - you were 2 stamps away from a free all you can eat sushi dinner at Sushi Love - and the paper is complete mush. It's tearing in your trembling fingers. The 8 stamps that proved you had purchased 8 dinners, that PROVED you were only 2 away from the free one, are blurry and incoherent. The ink is all runny and the stamps now resemble little blue spiders that hate you. How do you know they hate you? You intuit it. You believe that the little blue spiders are merely symbols for the world and you have the creeping unspoken sensation that the world hates your guts.
You imagine showing the pulpy blue stained mess to the Japenese man at Sushi Love and you see him laughing at you. It's a joyous laugh. A toothy guffaw. You want to punch him in his happy Japanese face but you don't because it feels like it might be vaguely racist. But is it? What do you care about Pearl Harbor? It's not because he's Japanese. He is merely a symbol for the world and you want to punch the world's face. You want to steal a kid's candy. Spit on a nun. Squash every blue spider to the last one.
*
My name is Bill. Or Bryan. Ben? Or how about Brad? My name is whatever I tell you it is. And it's subject to change. We all change. But my middle name is definitely Horatio because Horatio evokes a fond memory I have of a tiny old man named Howard. When I was a younger man I knew a lot more than I know now. I was spouting off about morality and Nietzsche and yelling about an act of love being beyond good & evil when Howard, with his silver hair, says "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, / Than are dreamt of in your philosophy". There was really no reason for this old dude to drop some Hamlet on me but it messed me up, you know? I short circuited. It was like a little Zen koan that exposed the limits of rationality and, right there at that very moment, I quit philosophy. Philosophy is an illness. And then Howard recited Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens from memory and made me cry. God, those oranges in a sunny chair. Howard was a badass.
So I am Bruce Horatio Jones or whatever. Jankowski? It doesn't really matter, does it? I write about changing. Nietzsche again: "Only those who continue to change remain my kin." So I am Barney Horatio Jaspers and I am a coal miner. I like dirty jobs.
I wrote a blog for about a year called Glad Dad: Wacky Kid Stories With A Zany Fun Fun Dad. It received some measure of success. Glad Dad was the most kickass Dad blog on the internet unless you're a Dad Gone Mad loyalist, in which case it was the second most kickass Dad blog on the internet (I had a bit of a row with Danny Evans but we have hugged, made up, and almost kissed with tongue. You should buy his book). Anyway, my boss at Starbucks found Glad Dad and said that no barista of hers was going to write such a foul-mouthed bunch of parental filth about kids and puberty. It was the blog or my job. The special that day was a tear-spiced latte.
I know I already said I was a coal miner. Are you even fucking listening to me?
*
The essence of the coal miner is inextricably bound up with where he does his work: far, far, underground.
*
You will have bad weeks. Japanese men will laugh at you. Blue spiders will hound your every step. You will see somone eating an egg sandwich and know in an instant that this life from front to back is patently absurd. And yet there are still tiny old men who quote Shakespeare and Wallace Stevens. There is beauty in shitting your pants. Somewhere. Maybe not. But there IS beauty. You can start a new stamp card at Sushi Love. You can wash your shorts or even throw them away. There are new days emerging out of old nights and new shorts to buy. You can spread out the contents of your wallet and wonder at the mystery of drying. It's wondrous, really. Strange. Where's all your bad luck when you're wondering about change?
And you can start a new blog. Because in a world where day becomes night and alive becomes dead, you ought to do whatever the fuck you want. That's what I do.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Reader Comments (115)
You have bigger balls than I do. I cried like a baby when I moved my blog and its still lonely and ugly over there. Glad you stuck around for the free sushi.
Welcome back to the internet. I never read Glad Dad because I don't read parenting blogs, but gosh you're kooky and you know about Nietzsche and Shakespeare and that makes you interesting to chicks, and I like things that are interesting to chicks.
3 strange days. You are the resurrection. Welcome from the mass will of the people.
Risen, and swinging. Welcome back to the water.
And right you should. Even if, and I hope I'm reading you right, you wrote this big flashy post just to defend the fact that you shit your pants.
I didn't have to shit my pants to quit philosophy a few years ago... it's a black hole, and you can choose either to spend your time self-righteously chasing the light down it for eternity while it smears your atoms across an infinite space, or you can steer clear and focus instead on honing your sarcastic remark skills. While you more fully appreciate the beauty of life, and shit.
Welcome back. And if you take your Sushi Love card into Starbucks they will give you a free pastry. It's true because I read it on Facebook.
Hi, as a long time reader of your whacky dad diaries, I'm so glad you've found another forum for your Dave Barry-esque daddy-dad daddish hilarity. So far though it seems a little morose. Cheer up. Being a dad is full of crazy insane moments like when one of your kid gets spaghetti sauce in their hair and you're all, "Hang in there baby, Friday's coming" to yourself. I look forward to more of that!
Aaaannnnndddd He's Back. Sorry about the Sushi card thing. And the blog hijack thing. But way to resurrect BHJ.
I love meeting new people I've never met before.
Hello, BHJ.
I had a tear tattooed onto my face for every day of your absence.
I'm much better now.
While picking up the pieces can be a bitch of a process, they do all get picked up and then everything is back to rights. Just keep mining the coal, I can lend you my shovel.
So good to have you back!
Slick digs, Bartholomew Howie Junior. Glad you're back.
"There is beauty in shitting your pants."
That's so hot.
First time reading you. You are really good doing this! I'll come back, for sure.
Wow. I missed you.
I missed you. Welcome back.
The fact that the sun rises on a new day each morning is a sacrament. There's my philosophy. Amen to new beginnings.
Apparently, you should wait a few minutes for your comment to post before assuming it did not and trying to recreate it.
Whatever your incarnation, you make me ponder and laugh and go "huh?" Glad to see you kicking ass and taking names again.
HA! Love it! Adding your blog to my reader for sure lol.
My favourite line? "I know I already said I was a coal miner. Are you even fucking listening to me?"
heh. :)
"Where's all your bad luck when you're wondering about change?"
This is where I'm hooked. Deflated. Questioning. Inspired.
Welcome back.
Sweet. Love the new ramblings.
Now go work on another sushi card! Starting over can suck but can be awesome too.
OMG. I almost wet my pants (in a good way) when I saw on Twitter that you were alive and writing. I haven't read ANYTHING here yet. I'm just so glad to see you back! Whew. Now I can speep at night.
THANK GOD YOU'RE NO LONGER CALLING YOURSELF A DADDYBLOGGER.
love and love and love!
THANK YOU BABY JESUS!!!!! I am so glad you are back. Whew! I was like, all, depressed n shit. Oh happy day!
Thank you, oh thank you, Big Honkin' Johnson, for coming back into my box.
Wait, I mean.....
You've just made my day. Thank you!
CORRECTION: There was no tongue, but BHJ did try to grab my ass. Like way up there where it's pink.
Welcome back, whatever-your-name-is.
Howdy, stranger!
starbucks is a coal mine.
Identity is a oil-stained bitch, and curse those who think they have us pinned down . . .
I live-blogged a divorce, and my husband found my blog half-way through it. Yeah, I've sat right where you're sitting baby. Except it took me two more years to move to a grown up space, and it took you ten seconds. Dick.
Oh, and the tear-spiced latte? I am neither kidding nor exaggerating when I tell you that a lone boogie hit my keyboard. It's good to have you back, fair sir.
That is what we all should do.
awesome. i had no idea you were a coal miner tho. that's news.
Dry up those dead little spiders and make a necklace of their tiny blue carcasses.
This ain't a real blog until I see the ads.
Praise. The. Lord. You see I was at this little blogging conference and this dad blogger of whom you speak said something in this storytelling session thingy and it turned out to be the single most important thing I learned at that conference (and I wrote about it) and then POOF!!! He was gone. And I was all HUH????? And then it seems there's a little resurrection going on and I generally dig resurrections so this is one happy Monday. Sure you may have a few holes in your side and a washed up sushi card but your disciples are celebrating just the same even without a chance for a free sushi dinner.
Hell yes.
Still kicking ass and taking names... Praise the Lord.
Hello, BHJ.
Your week resembles mine. Thanks for making it a little less painful. Glad you're back, dude.
I say throw the pants away. They'll never be the same.
Welcome back (insert phoenix reference here)!
Oh, how I've missed you. But more importantly, how mu husband has missed you. Your tears were his tears, Your pain was his pain. Glad you're back.
dude. the sushi man needs a little laugh now and then too. stop oppressing him.
He has risen. And there was much rejoicing.
Nice to see you again for the very first time.
Complacencies of the peignoir! He recited Sunday Morning from memory? Damn.
I had the same happen to me with the wallet, because sometimes I'm kinda butch and don't carry a purse. Only it was an ice cream stamp card instead of sushi.
But I've never shit my pants until today when I saw you had returned. Welcome back.
Fucking *finally*.
Also, I think your last name should be Jones so you can be related to my dog. That would be awesome.
I'm gonna call you Paul Bunyan Horatio Limonada.
So glad you're back Bruce Horatio Jones. The internet was all wrong without you writing in it.
shit stories both rock and suck. so sorry about your luck on that one.
however, i have heard stories with titles like " i think i just pooped my party dress" and "how to hide shitting on the kitchen mat from your brother-in-law on Christmas morning" and loved every second of them.
true. so i'm obviously super rock-on excited to see this.
can I call you jonesy? i think i will.
nice to see you Jonesy!