"Meat" your Maker...Market

I live in Owensboro.


That should be enough of an explanation for anything I write or say.


Today it is not enough.


I have written about, Bacchus, a bar in town a couple of times before, so it's only fair that I write about another "B" name bar--the Boiler Room.


I will be renaming it, today.


Meat Market.


I know you're probably saying, "Yeah, yeah, so what? Every bar is a meat market."


Okay, so if it is, disregard this blog and get back to your People magazine, and let me get on with it.

I was fortunate enough to attend the Meat Market Saturday night. And the sales were hot. All the cuts were there in herds. Tenderloins, sirloins, T-bones, chucks, rumps, and all! It was so tough making up my mind.

I wonder what cut I would compare to? There were fresh calves for veal, old hag cows for what I don't know, and there were the prize cows, real blue ribbon beauties.

Either entrance to the Meat Market resembles a death chute at a slaughterhouse. You are herded in and paraded in front of all the other grades. It's actually quite terrifying. There's booze and mediocre music, which I guess is there to pacify us before the slaughter. Occasionally, two bulls will get over stimulated and have to lock horns to show off in front of the females and other bulls.
I guess the only difference is that this is not a "by the pound" going rate. It's the exact opposite. The skinnier the better. The emaciated cow sells here. The emaciated cow with great milk bearing teats, that is.
God, I want a steak right now.

Power Lines. All cliches aside--this dream was whack.

I'm not the type of person that is going to blog about my dreams all the time.

But dammit if this one didn't get me in the thinkin' spot.

It's day time and I'm at my house and my ex wife shows up. She's saying something about lunch. I'm thinking, okay, what's for lunch?

Then she tells me her ex before me might drop by. A truck pulls up outside so we go out, but it's some maintenance guy from my work with a copy of some test he brought me that I had taken. I said, "Thank you."

He said, "It's getting dark."

I looked around and noticed it was dark. Then a car pulled up in the backyard of neighbors house. Sure enough my exes ex was in it. He had a little girl with him. They came into my yard. I said, "I said are we going to have to fight this out until someone dies?"

He said, "No. But she makes you love her, don't she?"

I said, "You bet."

While we were talking the girl with him had managed to throw her belt up in the power lines that weaved through an oak tree. Everyone was looking at me to do something. I proceeded through a chair up at the lines to dislodge the belt. It started to rain. Each time I chucked this chair in the air harder, the power lines connected to my neighbor's house shook violently.

I dislodged the belt with one final heave that knock the lines loose on my neighbor's house. The lines sparked and caught fire. So, in the rain I hopped the fence and filled buckets of rainwater from the ground to put out the fires while everyone watched.

I extinguished the fire and went back to my yard. I said to my ex, "He's drunk, and driving his kid around."

She said, "I know, and that's not his kid."

I woke shortly after and my whole body was sore like I had swam the Ohio.

Yeah, just a dream, but it means so much.

I'm sorry I couldn't spare you of the cliche symbols of fire and rain.

Balance and the Night

This weekend I discovered the true cyclical nature of our existence.

I'm sure that in the fashion world there is a term for when a trend hits, goes out of style, and then comes back in style.

In a similar relationship, I have realized that a simple invention, that was rendered obsolete, is now back, and I was using it last night.

Since gas is grossly overpriced, I now bike just about everywhere. Biking saves money, the planet, and it's exercise!

I rode my bike to the grocery last night and stuffed as many groceries as I could in my backpack. Again, save the planet. Unfortunately, I could not place all of my groceries into my backpack. I had to use a few plastic bags.

So, I'm on my bike, where do I put them?

I hang them on my handle bars, test the weight, and take off for home. As I rode home, I recognized the similarity of my handle bars and bags to the baskets and balance system you might see a villager using in a Central/Southeast Asia.

It is a perfect invention. And, in someway, me riding a bike and using a primitive, but effective invention, was kind of like giving oil companies and conglomerates the middle finger.

I was not spewing noxious fumes. I was not wasting any resources. There was me, the Earth, and two simple, man powered machines. I was perfectly at balance with the night, the day, and my conscious.

I was almost hit by an SUV, which made the experience perfect.

Seconds, Only Milliseconds

A few miles off a South African coast, which is heavily vacationed, is a phenomenon that takes place a few weeks out of the year.

An island that is home to thousands of seals become the site of a brutal exercise of nature's perfect killing machine...the great white shark.

Photo journalists, documentarians, and tourists flock to this area at this given time to witness the awesome power of predator/prey in the raw.

What makes the spectacle all the more astounding is the fashion in which the great whites rocket out of the water as if shot from a canon from the deep. This death plunge is the initial hit that typically stuns the seal. And rightly so. Seeing a 16 foot torpedo with razor sharp, serrated teeth flying through the air almost makes me piss myself.

The difficulty with filming the event is that the attacks last only seconds, and that's a long attack. Most will last milliseconds. So, a super slow speed camera is used. The super slow camera takes only one shot at a time and takes 15 minutes to download. So, if you blow the shot, you have 15 minutes to wait, and probably miss many other shots.

I heard on e cameraman say, "You know, it's seconds, really milliseconds that we have to catch this. And that's only if we are staring in the right direction."

My God! Is that not the most perfect explanation of life...ever!?

So much depends on those seconds, those milliseconds, and only if you're life is headed in the right direction.

Think about how many times you've nearly been involved in a fatal wreck, or ran into the love of your life, or maybe even just missed that movie at the store that someone snatched up right before you.

Yeah, it's tough looking at life in those terms, but I guess it's true. One could get hung up on that sort of thing if they had a tendency to obsess.

For now I'll just thank God that I am not a seal off the coast of South Africa, or any coast for that matter. And, I won't let time's precise manner bother me.

Punching Bob Dylan in the Face

There's no reason to get excited...

This is not a blog about literally punching Bob in the face.

No, this a blog about people covering poor Dylan's songs and just destroying them. I know there are some people out there that can do a cover justice...Scarlett Johanis...burg....but, there was certainly none of the homage covering going on last night.

First of all, don't go to an open mic night and introduce yourself and ask, "does anyone wanna hear some Dylan?"

No, asshole. We don't. We wanna hear Dylan play Dylan. We especially don't want to hear you sing in his voice either. And what the hell kind of song is there of his that last 20 minutes and sounds like one continuous verse? Seriously, does anyone know that one? Would this guy make this up? This is also the same guy that I heard sing a "children's" song like Bob Dylan about a monkey, frog, and a snake, or some shit.

Then, his friend gets up after him and plays a lame cover. His second song, "Hit me baby, one more time" was funny; I'll give him that. But his buddy, the Dylan ripper, sat there watching and listening like the Rodan sculpture. I could just hear his thoughts, Oh, wow. Brittany Spears, it's so smart. It's so inventive. So fresh.

So, the main idea I want you to leave with is; don't cover the shit if you just can't do it. Cover something you know. Cover something you can make your own. Cover something that will actually entertain people. Don't befoul yourself and Dylan, which is the equivalent of a punch in the face of a generation. And don't write blogs when you're hung over and just trying to keep your eyes open.

Last Day, First Day, and Magic Time

The longest day of the year is typically around June 21st, the summer solstice. I distinctly remember this day last year. It was when I noticed the beauty of a phenomenon my mother and her friends call 'magic time.' It's that time of day when dusk is just beginning to say goodbye to you and hello to the night.

Everything, more specifically organic, takes on a temporary bio-luminescent glow. Even your skin, which you think you are familiar with, takes on an eerie glow. I'm pretty sure the event has to do with the spectrum of light and your pupils dilating. And even if it can be explained, that still won't take away from the wonder it arouses in me.

I was in my parents friends' garden that is a stunning ornamental sight on it's own, but with the magic time element, the view is simply irreplaceable. At that moment time stood still. My life was all there in front of me in the reflection of the last few ultraviolet rays radiating from the sun to flower, and through me.

Staring there I realized the cycle of it all. This was the pivotal moment when the day gives way to night. Summer gives way to the fall, and life gives way to death.

Every moment from now on will just be a count down to the time we all dread the most. The time of year when the sun clocks out early and goes dark by 5 P.M.(Central.)

The time when possibilities are not endless anymore, you no longer have extra time to do work in the yard, and you expect that first morning chill. I know it will be ungodly hot until September and probably even until October, but just knowing that the day will already be shortening in a week is just too much today.

I see magic time already, and two days ago I happened to notice it, which reminded me of the solstice. I realize i get hung up on the finite nature of things when I should be seeing them cyclically. So, I guess today I'm trying to see the infinite, rather than the finite.

Sea of Tranquility

"Well I'd like to visit the moon...but I wouldn't like to live there..."

There is a special reason I have been listening to this song so much. I am now learning to play it, as well. It's for a friend. But, I've passed the point of learning it. I'm obsessing over it, listening to it over ten times in one day.

But there is a greater reason. I now know that when I get on track with a song, movie, or television show it's always for a reason.

I had a friend call last night who was down in the dumps. And don't we all from time to time? See, us normal people, who don't self-medicate, actually feel sadness, depression, and anxiety on a regular basis. What do you do when you're really feeling the sting? You call a friend. It's much better than going out and transforming into a drunken, belligerent asshole who runs everyone off and then ends up crying alone at the end of the night. Call a friend!

I was able to use my necessary obsession with the above mentioned song to help my friend out. The song is about staring out of your window at the moon and wanting to visit there. It's a very sweet song about wanting to get away from the moment and do something new. It's that old cliche about the grass always being greener, aside from the fact that there is no grass on the moon(it's just an expression.)

The point is, even if you are a felt, cotton, and polyester puppet, you're still going to want out temporarily--even if it's on the moon. I hear it's quite nice and peaceful, especially the sea of tranquility.

Bachelor Brunch

I definitely had a "40 Year Old Virgin" moment this weekend...and it's not depressing in the least.

Instead of staying up late, drinking too much, and abusing my body this weekend, I took care of myself.

After my second job I picked up some fast food, went home to binge, and fell asleep watching a documentary.

I woke up Saturday without an alarm. It was fantastic. I arose, slowly. I fixed coffee and whole wheat toast (standard), and played on the computer for awhile. I worked out, ran errands, and came home for lunch.

This is where it gets all "40 year old virginy." I made some soup and a sandwich. But not just a lunch. It was the perfect lunch. Perfectly prepared soup, and perfectly toasted bread cut into triangles, people!

I looked down at my perfectly centered plate with napkin and icy drink and could not get away from the vision of Steve Carrell in "40 Year Old Virgin" where he makes the perfect breakfast. I did not walk around all morning with a boner like he does during the opening of the movie. Oh, and I didn't play with action figures...this weekend.

I think my point is that I noticed, for the first time in awhile, I was comfortable with me and just me. Yes, the house is empty. Yes, I am alone, but this weekend I was just fine with it. My Catherine Keener is out there somewhere, so I won't rush it. I just hope that doing yard work, working out, and perfectly crafted lunches will tie me over until I do.

The Aud Fraternity

Yes, today, I am a man. Not in the sense that...wait. What does it mean to be a man? A mustache? A ponchie stomach? A respectable Roth IRA or investment portfolio?

No.

I know exactly what it means now.

My Father's birthday was May 26th and Father's Day is this weekend. So, my Dad, two brothers, and I went out for a male bonding extravaganza to celebrate both occasions.

There was beer drinking, darts, pool playing, steak eating, and talk about women and a little sports(not so much by me.)

It was, in most typical definitions, a "manly" night. But, there was a side of tenderness that probably went undetected by most bystanders.

There was a sense of unity and companionship that had not necessarily existed before. The "guys" had never been out before, so we had a toast to acknowledge that and a few other things with out first of many pitchers. I remember my Dad and brothers saying numerous times, "God, this is great. I'm really having fun. We should do this annually." I agreed. Imagine that, four men, never having a night out when they can get together and talk. it was a monumental night.

It was, and I will probably regret saying this later, reminiscent of a "Sex in the City" brunch. There was "men talk" centered around food and drink.

I also would like to add that us three brothers took our turns on the machine that measures your punching power. My younger brother copped the high score, it's funny if you compare his stature to my brother's and mine. But, it was fun none-the-less.

After dinner at a steakhouse, go figure, we ended back at my parent's house. But, before we went inside there was a "man hug." All four of us grouped together saying we love each other and stubble all over the place. My younger brother happened to suggest it. Good idea. It was a very tender moment.

We ended the hug saying we would do it again, and we will. The Aud boys had their night out in the name of their father, and it was grand.

The Electronic Glow and Us

It's Tuesday night around 8 P.M., on the cusp of prime-time television watching. I'm on my bike riding around the neighborhood formulating a poem about childhood and such.

I'm not telling you this to be pretentious. I'm not saying I'm any better than the people glued to their television sets. I love them. I love that their wood doors are open and just a slab of glass or Plexiglas is all that separates me from them and their living room. What's on? What are we watching tonight? God, I'm full. I ate way too much pot roast. Way to go, Mom. That's what I would say if they could hear me. But they can't. They don't even notice me.

Of course not everyone is watching television. Some are reading on their couches or in their favorite chairs. Some people are watching me from their patios and porches. It's a beautiful night. The humid weather broke and the temperature dropped about ten degrees. There are men tinkering in their garages with the doors open and classic rock or country is trickling out under bravado and engine talk.

And there's happy little me riding by, soaking it all in. I think summer is my time. Most people have about three options of which their whole year revolves around. Some peoples' years revolve around a birthday(his/hers, wives, parents), then there's the Christmas people, lastly is summer. I'm beginning to think that my year revolves around summer. Time slows down. I;m not afraid to say, "I think I'll just take my time mowing the lawn or walking to the library."

It's the unification of summer that gets me. Every one's doing "it" together. Summer is the time when you barbecue with the family, you work on the yard as a family, or you watch television as a family.

Bike around the streets of Owensboro during prime time in the summer when the sunlight is just about to say goodnight and you see it at every door.

I, warrior PENGUIN

I had a very relaxing day after work. Not one bit of exercise for me, which is unusual. I came home, watered the plants, and relaxed until having dinner with a friend of mine. It was calming to talk to her about all my worries concerning the MFA submission I have been putting off. I know that applying to a program does not mean you are committing, but it certainly is significant enough to make me worry. She applied for the same program and has not gone yet, so that makes me feel a little better. She has the experience and the inexperience to view both sides of the spectrum.

Another concern I'm having is about the essay that I must submit. I have to identify two of my favorite poets, critique them, and then explain why they are so influential on my writing. Guess what? I really don't have two! Does that make me a horrible writer? Probably. Great. There go all my hopes and dreams as a literary lover.

After dinner I plopped on the couch for a couple of discs from the "Blue Planet" series. That series is amazing. I watched the "Coastal" and "Tidal" portions of the series last night. There is something so calming about watching the cascading light on coral reefs and marine life "soaring" through the water.

I was disturbed by the poor penguins that can't fly and were just picked off by disgustingly fat elephant seals at the water's edge. The waters of the Antarctic are icy and deadly. It's terrifying thinking that hiding under a crashing, nearly frozen wave is a pair of giant tusks waiting to take to out to the water and skin you before devouring you. I'm not going to get all "March of the Penguins" on you, it's just that these penguins have to put up with an awful lot. Today, I'm giving it up to all the penguins that have to face the elephant seals of the world.

weekend wars

I'm sorry if you thought by the title, this was going to be about that really neat MGMT song. It's not.

It's about the idiotic execution of merriment that landed me in hell---all of Saturday.

I stayed up way too late on Friday night after fifteen hours of work. Instead of going to bed, what do I do? I go out and booze it like a prohibition bender hankering for a gin blossom. The thought of even smelling alcohol is making me gag...and today is Monday!

Although I am miserable, as usual in the office, I am much happier now than Saturday.

I woke from about five hours of sleep dehydrated--strike one. I brewed a pot of coffee and wasted it--strike two. I only ate a stale bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch before my 2 o'clock shift--strike three. I didn't shave, so I was reprimanded along with three other guys at work--strike four. I had a killer headache all night--strike five. My stomach was eating itself and making terribly nauseous--strike six. A friend came in to see me at work and sit in my section after I was cut and I was too hung over to hang out after work--strike seven and eight.

There's probably more, but since I suffered brain damage, I can't remember anymore.

Why again do people do this to themselves...? Thank God I'm a grown up and I don't do that anymore...

Bacchus bedlam

I'm not negative.

I will not use my blog as a soap box or a formal bitching forum.

I'm simply giving the reader(s) an account of my life.

Last night, among many other activities, I met some friends at Bacchus. Bacchus is a bar downtown(that term is used loosely) that on the surface seems like a great place to go. The name alone suggests great wine, merriment, and the occasional orgy, all but one actually do occur.

The friends and I have decided Thursday night to be the best night to go since the bar is not full of drunken idiots(just us), and Thursday is open mic night. The open mic host, Allen, has long hair, a small jolly gut, plays guitar when no one else will play, and is quite merry. I guess you could say if there is a Bacchus there, it's him. Or at least a representation of him. Allen definitely portrays Bacchus in a much more flattering light than the crudely painted monstrosity hanging to the right of the bar.

So, last night I was able to hear the usual butchered Pink Floyd, Grateful Dead, Sublime, Talking Heads, and any other readily covered song with minimal chords and horrible singing. Luckily, I did not hear any Dave Mathews or Jack Johnson. I was able to hear two of my friends play open mic and there was actually some variety in the performances. I should be happy? I had the opportunity to hang out with friends, have an ale or two, and a laugh, so I should be happy? No.

We have decided to liven up the open mic night a little bit. Next week it's on.
We are planning to do an acapella---barber shop quartet style, maybe I'll play a song, and read a poem with psychedelic music playing behind me. It's at least something we were talking over. I'm just saying that Bacchus needs some lived blown back into him or else he's going to die from boredom exhaustion.

Bonnaroo brainfart

I know this is going to sound weasely of me, but Bonnaroo, I don't think I will make my annual trip to see you.

I have been to Manchester evey year since Bonnaroo's inception, and this is the first year that it's not looking good for our relationship.

Please, don't say that I'm not tempted by My Morning Jacket, MGMT, The Raconteurs, Rilo Kiley, De Novo Dahl, Vampire Weekend, and Les Claypool. Of course I want to see others as well. And I do want to brave the heat, stink, and Bonnarehea. I would miss the slight burning sensation of my skin all day and the constant grit of dirt in my mouth. It's definitely worth it.

The only problem is money. I need money, so I work a second job. But I would have to ask off from this second job to go. Is that contradictory?

I don't even care if I go alone. I would do it. That way I could go to any show at any time and not worry about who else wants to go where. Does that make me antisocial? Does that make me like a hermit? A dirty, sweaty, Bonnaroo hermit? I just want to jam! I want to dance, and I want to feel free; feel free for a weekend. Every second of my life is taken up by something else already.

Maybe I'm convincing myself to go...

latitude and longitude

I found it. I found the exact position of happiness today, on planet Earth and it just happened to be Owensboro at the very moment I arrived there.
Let me back up. The day started gray and threatening rain all morning. Everyone at work asked each person walking in if it was raining yet. When I left my dungeon, to my surprise, it was sunny, warm, and the wind was blowing enough to completely muss your hair. Perfect.
I raced home in the car, ate the top of a blueberry muffin, and my ass hit the gel-cushion seat of my bike. I started in the direction of the Greenbelt, a paved path through Owensboro. After a brief time on the trail I realized today was one of those days that I did not need a given path. I was following some other sense. I found myself going out Carter Road, which has a steady incline that peaks at the overpass. I was tired so I stopped. And there it was. It was maybe 6 P.M. at the sun was burning it's way home for bed. On either side of me were countless cars speeding at approximately 70 mph. The wind was vortexing me. My hair blew across my scalp in all directions. This warmth overwhelmed me. It was like when you open an oven and the heat hits your face. This heat was just the right temperature, though. The clouds were spread across the sky like pulled cotton. My shirt was unbuttoned and the breeze sneaked in and cooled the sweat across my back. I was exactly where I was supposed to be at that moment. I sat there on my bike thanking someone. I biked for another half an hour, but nothing close to the feeling of being at the latitude and longitude of a perfect day.

not so "case of the mondays"

I have reported that my chronic depression has only been afflicting me on Mondays--not so. Today is Monday, and although I hate it, today I'm alright. I wrote a mean ass poem. I think that outlet helps. Crosswords definitely help me through the day, and a viking writer's blogs. There's more.
I bought a bike this weekend for three reasons: to save money, exercise, and to save the planet. Okay, the last one maybe not as much as the other two. I take that back. Of course it's for the planet. I recycle. I use compact bulbs. I minimize all trash output. I love the Earth. And I make it prettier. Yeah, Earth, I'm a pretty good boyfriend...aren't I? Earth and I have been dating for sometime now. It's not serious, though.
So, I can make it through Monday and I've got a relationship with Mother Earth, I guess you could say I'm in an okay mood today (which isn't the best for my writing.) But I'll take it.