jonathan friesen

Spam

So I was mindlessly deleting the thousands of comments that ended up in my spam file. Mindlessly, because they are too stupid to read. Click. Delete. Are you sure you want to permanently delete? Yes. Click. Gone. Over and over and over again.

And somewhere between all those overs, in the mindlessness of it all, I left my spam folder and started deleting comments. Real comments. Comments that people thought of and wrote carefully. Click. Delete. Over and over again.

And so, if your comment is no longer on site, and likely it is not, it is not because I didn't like it. Blame it on spam.

Moonwalking

I danced to Don't Stop til You Get Enough at my friend's wedding.

I sat glued to MTV, waiting for two hours--they had a little countdown clock on screen--for the world premiere of the Thriller video.

I spent months trying to learn the moonwalk.

I listened to Black and White while gathering courage to begin a nerve-wracking date.

I laughed whenever I heard Beat It because it always made me think of eggs. 

I always thought Man in the Mirror was one of the classiest songs written.

I always thought B. Jean was one of the weakest.

I always wondered if all that crotch grabbing wasn't at least a little bit embarrassing. 

I can't hear him sing ABC, as easy as 123, without cheering up a bit.

I made fun of the guy.

I copied the guy.

I guess the point is that to me, and just about anyone else my age, he mattered.

Shooting Cats

If you love animals, this may disturb you. Do not read on. Here is my quandry.

We picked up two farm cats to help rid us of mice here on Friesen's farm. They are wonderful at this task. Incredible mousers. These two ladies, Streak and Lightning, are phenomenal. 

Streak especially. She regularly carries rats, mice, moles, baby bunnies, still flapping baby pheasants and squirrels into my garage to show off. It's survival of the fittest out there, no problem.

Then another stray straggles in. Little Streak. Fine. Three cats. Three female cats. Sure enough, a young handsome feline strolls in and voila, we have three litters and seventeen kittens. It's taken months to get these kittens homes. Months. Energy. Time. Etc.

So now more suitors are prowling about. I've taken to shooting them. Now, I have not hit one. I'm not a good shot, but I'm tired of kittens and so I shoot cats. Horrid. Cruel. I hate pulling the trigger.

Just take them to the doc and your problems are over--I hear cat lovers screaming. It seems it would be. But at $200 a crack, that's $600 for these three. And farm cats don't last too long, not with hawks and coyotes, etc. So with little cash but plenty of bullets I have taken to cat shooting.

I am not proud of this, and the first time I blow away Muffy I will not sleep well. Until then, anybody want kittens? I have plenty to give away. 

 

Therapy

Fifteen years ago I went to a shrink--I apologize--a therapist. Yes, he called himself that. It was a grand time. He had a nice Lazy-Boy recliner and the office had a beautiful view of Minneapolis and I would kick back, listen to mellow music, give him $90, and walk out. 

Nothing of value was accomplished, but I looked forward to meeting my rent-a-friend each week. It was very relaxing. He had this big old white board in there on which he'd draw deep psychological truths.

"Most of what you know about yourself is here." At this point he draw the tip of a mountain. "That's because you can't see beneath this." Here he drew a squiggly line that was supposed to represent water. I commented that there must not have been art classes in psycho school, but he ignored me.

"Down here is the rest of you, below the waterline, and these motivations are hidden."

"They're also wet, right?" That's me again, loopy from relaxation.

"Not wet, hidden." He actually took my last comment seriously, a very bad sign.

I asked him if he knew what lay beneath the waterline. He felt like he had a good idea. All his expertise, ya know.

"Let's compare," I said. "I make regular dives to the core of my being. You go first. You tell me what some of my real issues are, then I'll tell you some."

He went for a bathroom break. A long one. By the time he came back I had eaten all his Andes mints, you know those chocolate buggers with the green mint layer inside?

His jaw dropped. "Do you know how much cholesterol those have in them?" See, my elevated cholesterol had come up in an earlier discussion.

"Nope. I bet a lot. Do you have more?"

The bell rang. Time for the next friend. 

That was my last visit to the shrink. I never did find out what lurked deep beneath my waterline. That's probably for the better. Why bring this up? Oh those Andes chocolates popped into my mind. I'm having a craving. That's all.

Perfection

Today, I wrote with absolute perfection . . .for one paragraph. The rest is good, wonderful, and maybe to a reader, the insane perfection will be imperceptible, but in my new novel, RUSH, about an adrenaline junkie who fights wildfire in CA, there is one absolutely perfect paragraph. The words, the rhythm--if you reach it and you aren't lost in the story (which would be tragic), you will marvel. I guarantee it.

It's an awesome thing to write a perfect paragraph. Jane Austen claimed she wrote perfect novels, that not one word could be removed, and not one added. Whether or not that's true, just imagine how that would feel. To actually believe you had written a perfect novel. Wow! The high! My one paragraph turns a bad writing day into Dairy Queen time. Poor Jane must've been near immobile with ecstasy.

I thought about sharing my perfection here, on a blog where everyone visits but nobody comments (I had to write that), but then I thought no, I will hold a contest next year. The person who locates my perfect paragraph will . . .oh, I don't know. I have months to figure that out.

But it's a happy day. Jane, eat your heart out! (What a grizzly phrase that is. Where did that come from?)

Things Never Done

I am sitting here thinking of things that I have never done. Things I would like to do. But I fear that the older I get the odds of doing these things diminishes exponentially.

1. Skydive--This is on many people's lists, but I really mean it. I want to jump out of an airplane, feel my cheeks suck in to my face, spread my arms, and fall. And then find the red cord, pull it, and discover a functional parachute.

2. Run a Marathon--I think at one point this was a possibility. I could run quite a long ways. Or at least saunter. I no longer think I could even saunter twenty-six miles without a nap.

3. See the Pyramids-There are a lot of things I'd like to see, but for whatever reason this one sticks with me. I don't need the camel ride, done that. Just plop me down on the banks of the Nile, preferable not in flood season.

4. Watch an egg hatch--This was supposed to be standard in Kindergarten, but I was sick that day. Decades later I still haven't seen this with my own eyes.

5. Hit a Home Run--Any ballpark will do. Batting practice is fine. I just want to watch that bugger go. I will even submit to steroid and growth hormone testing. No asterisk after my homer. No sir.

6. Catch a fish longer than one foot long--My dogfish was close, but it was too ugly to count.

7. Go to a Drive in Movie with my wife (and have no idea what the movie was the next morning). I don't even know if there are Drive-Ins anymore.

I've decided to try. I am going to try to achieve all seven goals in the next . . . five years. Why not? 

Out of Words

I heard that Americans have a functional vocabulary of 20,000 words. I've heard other figures, but let's go with this one. Moreover, we only use a few thousand of those per day. That leaves 17,000 or so floating in the head, but rarely used, except on special occasions.

Here are the floaters I used today:

Languish--What a funky word.

Gyrate--Another word far underused.

Woodpecker--Now, this actually cracks my top 3,000. Not only because they surround our home, but also because the phrase, "hotter than a woodpecker," which means absolutely nothing, somehow snuck into my lexicon.

Oops, this post had purpose. Honest. But the lovely lying behind me wants me to turn out the light, so you'll have to settle for this fraction (I'd say 2/5) of a blog post. Sorry, but she's worth it.

Marriage

I believe marriage should be between a man and a woman.

Beep. Wrong answer. You ignorant loser.

I respect your right to believe otherwise, I but I believe marriage should be between a man and a woman.

Beep. Wrong answer. Bigot. Homophobe.

It's so great that in this country you can choose between gay marriage and traditional marriage, but I believe marriage should be between a man and a woman.

Beep. Wrong answer. Insensitive. No compassion. Pathetic.

We all hold different beliefs, and I will not condemn yours, but one of mine is that marriage should be between a man and a woman.

Beep. I'm sorry Ms. California. You lose. You had the audacity to say what you believed, what the majority of Americans believe, what the president believes. You lose. Go home. Get off the stage.

Don't fret it, Ms. California. You said what you believed. You spoke for most. That makes you Ms. USA in my book. 

Easter

What a great day. It means we win. Game over. Sure the other team will score some points and it'll look bleak, but the final score is set. We're on the right bench. Get ready to cheer.

I love this day, loved it before I knew why I loved it. I loved it when I thought chocolate bunnies ruled the moment. But now, oh my, but now? It doesn't get any better than this.

Happy Easter, everyone.

Pirates

Okay, so I get the problem. Merchant ships in international waters can't carry guns of any kind. Maritime Law. Fine. Dumb, but fine. Part two of the problem: bad guys don't seem to care much about the law. Which explains why six men in a rubber raft can float on out from Somalia and capture a huge US ship. It explains it, but something isn't right.

Water canons and sound guns (these buggers that are supposed to repel bad guys by hurting their ears, unless they stopped by the neighborhood Snyder's and bought earplugs) apparently don't do the trick, so what would? Australia plays Barry Manilow tunes to prevent mall looting. I guess that's too much for the average criminal to take, but these pirates don't seem average. 

Some ideas.

Archers. Yeah, it's old school, but we're talking rubber rafts. 

Hot oil sprayers. This is also from the middle ages, and somebody would cry unusual punishment for poor people just trying to make a living. But there would be few repeat offenders.

Lasers. We've been to moon. We can heat soup in 60 seconds in the microwave. We have to have some laser deal that burns through rubber in a few seconds. If not, what about a really big presentation pen light. Retina fryer. Should work.

Or, of course, we could simply give ships cruising along the East African coast a machine gun. Yes, we'd need to change the law. Yes, they'd need to declare it in their manifest, but it seems a small price to pay to avoid hostages and lost cargo. 

But what do I know? After all, those pirates are just redistributing world wealth-- taking from the rich and giving to the poor. Maybe that's why the admin. is silent on the crisis. Piracy--change we can believe in.