Marc Carvajal 10 September 2009 One Million Watts 765 views 3 Comments Print This Post  Email This Post

Pregnant Pony

If I write a book where the main character is a pregnant pony, the last paragraph will be this:

At last, the pregnant pony gazed out to the purple horizon. Her mind settled on this strange paradox: for the first time in her life she was alone, far from the other ponies, and yet she was no longer able to live only for herself. She didn’t wonder so much about the fact that she was already pregnant and just a pony.

Sexual Offenders

I used to work as a counselor for adolescent sexual offenders. Actually, I was less of a counselor and more someone who gave the adolescents rides around Tacoma to find the best deals on video games. One of my clients had a real counselor. You know, a therapist, someone that helped the youths process their sexually-aggressive behaviors. Though the case manager did have some keen behavioral tricks up his sleeve, one of his approaches didn’t make sense to me. He gave his clients soft-core porn, like the Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar, in order to give them innocuous outlets for their sexual minds.

This worked for some of the youth, but I know it wouldn’t work for me if I were a sexual offender. When I look at the Sports Illustrated swimsuit calendar, I don’t even look at the girls; I look at the calendar grids. And it gets me hot. I love staring down some date in the future, flirting with its thin, sultry, black, perfectly straight lines making up the square to be filled with something to do. I like looking back to the past, recalling what happened on a previous date and musing. I climax to the tautology of my future wrapped in the past, a temporal orgy. That’s how it is for me. But, after all, I’m not a sexual offender.

Sheryl Crow

I’ve given up trying to analyze the lyrics to pop songs. I get tired of songwriters who clearly have abandoned their idea in order to fit the confines of musical phrases. The result is either something that doesn’t make sense, or is an outright lie — as is the case with Sheryl Crow’s “All I Wanna Do.”

All the Crow wants to do, she says, is have some fun. Fine. But then she ominously adds that she has the feeling that she isn’t the only one.

I beg to differ with you, Crow. I truly believe that you, Crow, are the only one on the planet that wants to have fun. Your solipsistic egoism makes you generalize that everyone is just like you. Most people ARE NOT like you. A recent poll done by GrangerResearch Inc showed that 98.9% of all Americans prefer to avoid fun. Most Americans, the survey specified, prefer activities like sorting paper clips into piles of how bent they are, or observing fruit leather. Hence, Crow, your generalization is not just profoundly inaccurate, it is un-American.

But the Crow tries to redeem herself. She adds later in the song the caveat that the fun only ensues until the sun comes up over Santa Monica Blvd. (give her credit for noting the only place the sun does indeed set in America). But what will you do when your fun is over, Ms. Crow? Go back to fixing your dishwasher? Yeah, you will. You will be forced to join us, Ms. Crow, the normal populace that doesn’t write pop songs, doesn’t lie, doesn’t misrepresent America, and wants no part in having fun.

My Head

Recently, I’ve had the urge to take off my own head and play with it. Nothing extreme. Just something to take off and feel once in a while in order to take the edge off. I wouldn’t abuse the privilege. I wouldn’t, for example, show up to a pick-up volleyball game and shout: “Who wants to play with a real ball!?”

If a team accepted my head, I wouldn’t join the game and I’d subvert one team’s chances of winning by biting the net while my torso sits, drinking a Coke at a bench in the shade, yelling out proudly: That’s my head! I wouldn’t do that at all.

- Marc Carvajal

Image courtesy of That bloke