Socionary Word of the Day #5

Twitteruption [Twit•ter•rup•tion]
(noun)
1) a pause in the progress of a thing to update one's Twitter Stream
2) an inexplicable and often detrimental break in Twitter's service

Master of Mash-Up

Mind, body, and soul. All mashed-up
like music and potatoes.
No gravy, please--
can't stand the calories.
No auto-tune, please--
not all doors need keys.
Wherefore art we at this eleventh hour?
What was mine became ours.
But like so many lemon drops,
something's gone sour.
Same great taste, less chilling.
Words shaken, not stirred--put it on my tab.

Bill me.

©2009 RA

A Life of Grime

Trash on these streets
Crumples beneath feet.
Throw life away one
Plastic bag at a time;
No other way to run
A torrid life of grime.

©2009 RA

Socionary Word of the Day #4

Twitterquette [Twit•ter•quette] :
(noun)
the code of polite usage of @replies, #hashes, and DMs on Twitter and other Social Networks.

Destiny on the Rocks

It's unintentional, what I do to shape my Fate. Really. It's not like I want to shoot myself in the foot with an Armalite AR-10 carbine gas-powered semi-automatic weapon, pumping round after round into my little piggies.

Still, despite my efforts, I have this uncanny knack for building up what will some day tear me down. Perhaps the Human Condition is making decisions and taking actions that later create or become obstacles on the Road of Life. The world may never know.
...
...
My Backyard is a tumble of weeds, crabby grass, and the last remnants of civilization--bits of shingle, plastic shards, rusty nails, and so on--the stuff American Dreams are made of....I have tasked my self with transmogrifying this Post-Industrial Wasteland into a Suburban Paradise.

To do so will require much blood, sweat, and cliché. Most of my labors, however, could have been avoided had I chosen more wisely some 4 years back.

It was an evil and vile shrubbery. A spiny evergreen mass that sprawled out of the flower bed and onto the strip of pavement connecting the garage and the back door. And its time had come.

From upending its terrible roots to swiftly ushering several unhappy Black Widows to the afterlife, it took some days to purge the pestilence of the plant from the flower bed. When all was done and done, there remained but one obstruction: Decorative Rocks.

I distributed their abundance along the fence line, to seal up gaps and discourage my snoopy-nosed puppy from digging his way to Freedom...Yet, despite my efforts, there remained an unsettling surplus. There were loads of them.

So I did what I thought best: I mixed the remaining rocks in with the soil of the flower bed. 'Out of sight, out of mind'. It wasn't like I was ever going to develop a Green Thumb.

Boy, was I ever a presumptuous little prat.
...
...
Fast forward to me hunched over, exhuming each and every buried skeleton from that flower bed. A hard lesson from the School of Rock(s).

For most folks, Fate is naught but a figment of the Ego. But for me, Fate happens by my hand.
And all too often I take notice after the fact, and silently curse my fingerprints and the air I breathe.

La Gravità Sociale

Emotion ran high from the onset--

then came the condescending non-sense
of gossip: an impossible process
born of broken promises.
There's no armistice
in derogatory comments--
astrological comets
flying, falling, flaring down--
blaring sounds and varied nouns,
confounding the people I meet,
the people speaking to me....
Free speech is not always enlightening--
in spite of the peace I've tried to keep,
these sheeple keep on bleating at me--

until I'm defeated by deceit.

©2009 RA

Socionary Word of the Day #3

Imagidemic [Im•ag•i•dem•ic] :
(noun)
a widespread occurrence of misinformation on infectious diseases and their effect on the world community.

Sh*tty Sh*tty Bang Bang!

Shit happens to each and every one of us. But when it happens to me, it's not metaphorical or metaphysical. No, it's literal. And it's steamy, stinky, and slimy, too.

I had woken earlier than anticipated. Eyes flashed open and noted the low sun on the ceiling. Nostrils flared and drew in the airy promises of the day. Ears perked to the frantic whining of my nowhere-to-be-seen dog.

I could almost taste that something wasn't right...And it was then that all my senses sensed the putrescent odor of fresh morning doo.

I leapt to my feet and sheets went a-flying. Eyes darted every which way for visual confirmation of a poonomaly...Nostrils quivered in constipation...And I just about wretched as I took in the full fury of the belly of the beast. And there, cowering by the windowsill, was my dog. In a sudden rage, I grabbed his scruff and hurried him out into the cheerful and sunny world at large.

It would have been one thing if he'd left his gift(s) in an isolated corner of my room. But, nooooooo! My dog left me 3 in-between-liquid-and-solid masses of dog-bottom molasses--all of them scattered about and smiling up at me and having a gay ol' time on my floor. And the icing on the proverbial cake: my beloved Golden Child left another 1 solid pile on the bathroom linoleum.

If only it had all been done in the bathroom....


I was mistaken to think that I wouldn't feel like shit when I woke up on the Sixth of May. No, I felt nothing but shit.


End.

Socionary Word of the Day #2

Tysteria [Twys•te•ri•a] :
(noun)
an exaggerated or unfounded neurosis spread via Twitter and other Social Networking mediums.
[@PhillyD]

Gringo de Mayo 2009

I am white. Not like rice or milk or cocaine. I'm the kind of white that feels no remorse for bastardizing the traditions of other Cultures.

Take today--el Cinco de Mayo. After 28 years of living in California, I can hardly stammer out the true meaning of this day. Independence or Liberation or La Razza--some raison d'être. All for one and all the same.

I care only that the Cerveza is cold and the Margaritas are flowing. Oh, and could you pass me the 7-layer Bean Dip--it's delish--thanks!

If you're white like me, and know it, clap your hands.

*Clap*Clap*
*Clap*Clap*

Forgive me, dios mio, for I have sinned....

Socionary Word of the Day #1

Twitterrhea [Twit•ter•rhe•a] :
(noun)
a condition in which the volume of one's tweets is greater than one's home or office productiveness.

Breaking & Entering: The Gateway Thug

Predestination, how do I love thee? Let me commit Larceny to count the ways...

One: with a leap over the side gate, and a bound down into the backyard.
Two: by the bending of my self into unnatural postures and elongations.
Three: for the sudden rush of ecstasy that came with the opening of the doors before me.

I broke and entered into my house out of necessity. Out of Survival of the Witless.

I won't tell you precisely how I unlocked the "Breaking and Entering" achievement. With such information, you too could Solid Snake your way into the depths of my lair. And there'll be none of that.

I will tell you this: In my haste to meet up with a longtime friend, I threw on some clothes, checked for my wallet, and hit the streets sans one set of shiny, necessary keys. As the front door closed and was locked behind me, I knew that I would be returning to a vacant home. But I was unaware of what that meant to my future self. For, in that moment, everything was right with my picture of reality.

And so it was that as I ambled up the longish lane to my driveway, and patted at my pockets, a stark realization came over me: I was locked out.

I had no phone, no hidden or spare key, and thus no way into the house for an hour or more. Of all my neighbors, one was home, only I despise her with the Passion of the Christ and could not place my self at her mercy.

No, I kept it cool and relied on my ingenuity and awesomeness to force entry and leave no trace. From front yard to backyard to in doors was a full twenty minutes of will-power, agility, and sweat. Let it be known: Determination alone can move mountains. My crime is my proof.

I am the Gateway Thug*.


*Though an exhilarating experience, I profess no desire to pursue further a Life of Crime.

The Trials and Tribulations of a VIP [repost]

I first heard about 6/9 while sipping beer at Dub's Daily Dose. I was a regular. A trusted patron. I even helped to close a dozen or so times...So, when I was handed an RSVP flier for this "obscure party", it was nothing too unusual.

Little did I know it then, but the flier was a Golden Ticket.

Following the instructions to reserve my place on the guest list, I went to BiteClub.com, created a Profile, and added 69 as a "connection". Easy enough.

But, wait! What the heck was BiteClub?

I scanned the site and really felt it out...I added connections, posted a few pictures, filled out profile info...Simply put: BiteClub is a social networking site that caters to the "Lifeblood" of the food and drink industry--the people, places, products, services--and enthusiasts (people like me). Quite ingenious.

I added the site as a bookmark and went about my other online life. Then along came a contest. The 6/9 VIP Contest.

The rules were simple: "be an active member of the BiteClub community: connect, comment, post, and Pimp your Profile"!

Say no more! I pimped out my page with a mean backhand, and for several days I scoured for new people, added more pictures, and fattened the "about me" section of my profile...My "stats" were looking good.

Correction: The Vincible Man was looking good.

And then it happened. VIP happened. At first, I didn't believe that I'd won. But the pulsing pain in my hand reminded me of my busy life in front of the computer...And I smiled.

I was on my way to the Tequila Dreams Factory. VIP style.


The day of 6/9, I made a few last minute alternations to my person, and before I knew it, I was out of the house and into the night.

With an air of confidence and command, I sauntered up to the VIP entrance. There was a slight delay at the door as the verity of my identity was checked and double-checked, but soon after I was allowed inside...And there I was greeted by Bottle Service, a VIP booth, and thumping House Music.

I was first to claim the booth, and so sat alone for a while with plenty of room to stretch and two full bottles of alcohol. I didn't mind one bit. As I took in the scene, and scoped the gathering crowd, I poured myself a healthy dose of Patrón Tequila (gratis) and Vodka (tambien gratis), and proceeded to double-fist my self--with drinks--in front of everyone.

In a matter of a few shameless minutes, I was "feeling it". And with my drinks, and my two step, I began to pace the length of the dance floor. It wasn't too long before I was as mixed up as the drinks and the four-by-four beats...My feet were on fire with liquid courage. I let the music take control...I let go.

To those of you whom saw a fuzzy-headed, bearded, black-and-white-striped, Caucasian male doing his damn thing on and off the dance floor, I can only hope you enjoyed the view...Because if you weren't dancing with or talking to me, you were missing out.

No, really. I don't remember much else about the night, but I do recall being a Smooth Talking, Dancing King.


The next morning, the world was spinning...but at least I was in my bed, clothes still intact, no signs of rape. I had a lot to be thankful for.

And, though I was sloshed beyond slush, I am happy to report that I made not a single prayer to the Porcelain God.

You don't have to die to find Heaven. Or a Hangover.
Amen.

The Idle Time of a VIP [repost]

It wasn't just another manic Monday. It was 6/9. And when the night came, there was going to be an Industry Party like no other. For me, this meant going out on the town with the groovy crew of Dub's Daily Dose...Letting loose...Meeting new people...and helping a member of the Community.

In reality, 6/9 had a Grander Purpose. The "party", sponsored by Spirits Vendors and Local Businesses, was really a fund-raising event to uplift and benefit a local bartender in a damn tight spot. [Read about it here.]

When I woke that morning, I had new meaning to my life. I knew that, come the time of the setting sun...I would dance...drink...aide humanity--and all at the same time!

Philanthropy at its most excellent.

Most of my day was on auto-pilot. A little bit of contract work (I work from home), a few phone calls (I needed a Designated Driver), and a smattering of idle preparation...You see, up until this particular Monday, I had long hair, like Samson or one of the Mmm-bop Kids. My hair was my history and my strength.

But it had to go. I needed to be set free.

As the day began to settle into darker light, and I completed my busy work the bug of spontaneity bit me, and before I knew it I was shaving my head in front of a Camera. With only an hour until the Party, I was either committing a brilliant act, or making a bad decision.

But I wasn't alone on the quest to free my mind. My Brother (from another Mother) held to my head all manner of devices to loosen my locks onto the cold floor of the garage. Weed whacker, saw, pruning shears, scissors...and, lastly, grooming clippers were employed to conquer the mane of gold that I'd worn for nearly two (2) years.

The process of purification was mostly harmless. There were no scars...only a buzzed, "Space Monkey" dome. After I'd cleaned the concrete of my wavy memories, and said goodbye to my Brother, I trimmed and cleaned up the rough edges around my ears and any stray hairs, and rinsed my self off in the shower. As the wet stream ran freely in its chaos over the now sleek surface of my scalp, I suddenly thought of two things: I was now more susceptible to the abuse of the Sun and I was once more attractive to the Opposite Sex.

My outfit was waiting for me to stop gawking at the mirror, dry off, and hustle out the door. (It was nearing eight o' clock, and my ride was waiting.) As I dressed to impress, I spoke out loud (to my self): 'Look out, Party People, this man might be Vincible, but you are not ready for his Wit and Ability'!

In that moment, I knew I was shining brighter than the hot Star in our Sky.

And my DD said, "We need to go"!
Pop. Fizzle. Grandeur gone. And we were off...

As we pull up to Dub's, to meet with the rest of the "troops", the setting Sun was low enough to appear as though it was behind the Bar.

I smiled to my self.
Poetic justice was served.

The Very Definition of...

Socionary [So•ci•o•nar•y] :
(noun)
a collection of the slang of Social Networks and their application and meaning.