For Sprites Only

Everything worth loving
I will love.

Everything worth doing
I will do.


You are beautiful
You are beautiful
You are beautiful.

Pickles Has Passed

A sad event occurred last week, and due to my busy schedule, I have not had the opportunity to write about it until now. I know that there are worse things happening these days like people losing their jobs and the threat of nuclear holocaust from Iran and North Korea, but I have to acknowledge my little buddy going to the other side.
I had an extremely busy day Thursday of last week. I had only a moment to slip inside my house to grab lunch. Much to my surprise Pickles was not chirping as he normally does when I open the door. I found him laid out in his cage laboriously breathing. He was nearing the death rattle, a sure sign he was near the end.
I had no choice but to go back to work.
Sure enough, when I returned home that night, he was gone. His furry little body lie stiff on his wood chips.
I buried him in a shoebox with his food bowl, a chew toy, and these two jingle balls he liked. I said a couple of words, mainly apologizing for being a bad owner, a prayer, and covered him up.
See, I had originally bought him during a time of extreme loneliness and depression. He was quite the cure for company and just an extra dose of energy in the house.
I had actually used Pickles as a metaphoric guinea pig for trying to build relationships after my last one had crashed.
I think he actually improved my ability.
Thank you, Pickles.
You helped me through a time when I really needed you.
I am much stronger now and think I can face things on my own.

Tiny Inspiration

I am not an inspirational speaker nor an author of a self-help book.

I will never make a million dollars.

I sometimes think I am slowly going deaf and blind.

I sometimes worry myself half to death about life.

These are facts.

Facts that may not always be the best reflection of me.

But facts that I accept.

So, let me say this:

If you think that I will lie down for you for even one second you are gravely mistaken.

I am strong.

I am strong in a way that you will never be able to understand.

There is always a storm brewing somewhere on the sunniest of days.

I always feel it coming.

Is your hair standing on end?

DudeandBrah; Just for Fun

I will open by saying that any great business venture never achieved success strictly by a name. But please, once you hear the name you will change your tune.
Dudeandbrah.
Here's my pitch:
Are you tired of drinking your grandparents' brew that they grew up with? Do you feel like a nobody because you go to the bar and have to settle for a beer that just doesn't suit you? Do you feel homogenized by drinking a beer-flavored water like Bud Light all while being told that it is your demographic's beer of choice?
Of course you are.
You want something that speaks to you.
You want a beer that the moment its name leaves your lips everyone around you knows what kind of dude you are.
You're a dudeandbrah, dude.
Reach for the beer that's brewed for you, brah.
I'm sorry, but the name is enough to sell me.
I' m looking for a heady brew that's not big on the hoppy, grainy after taste. I want a rich color with a caramel froth. I want you to get to the bottom with not taking off the top. More when I go into the experimental production phase.

This+That Does not Equal the Jah...Mon.

Initially, it sounded like a good idea.
And I could certainly see how it could be:
A drink special for the ladies, a relaxed atmosphere, and a DJ spinning reggae and dancehall music.
But inevitably, all non-honest-effort endeavors go wrong and do so noticeably within the first five minutes (This is not a professional opinion).
The DJ was Wine It and according to the Jamaican-clad flier the night was Wine It Wednesday. This led me to believe that there was in fact, a wine special on this night as well as the ladies' night special.
No. Just a hastily made flier.
Wine It, as I am told, is a traditional spelling of something.
WI was late. Well, not really late, but had to go back home for his records. He is a DJ and all, and his profession necessitates them. The spinning didn't start until after 10. Coming on late in the music biz is very important to any diva wannabe. It wasn't necessarily his fault. In his defense our lion of Zion had a splinter in his paw. And you can't spin with a spleeeenter.
Can you?
The music, you ask?
Pretty good, actually.
There were some tracks where the vocalist seemed to be dealing with some type of tracheal affliction. Maybe even polyps on the vocal chords, but their instrumental accompaniment was still good.
From time to time there was an interjection of, "Jah!" or "Yeah!" or "Huh, huh!" in addition to finger pointing straight up. Still don't know what the finger means. Maybe he giving the listeners the finger in the style of what a Reggae DJ would...
The guy must be cool. He looked like Buddy Holly wearing an Eminem costume. He is a character. He is unique.
I know, I know, I know.
Why so negative, Casey?
I'm not all piss and vinegar. I promise you that.
Here comes the merit.
A reggae night with a drink special in a low key bar is an awesome idea. The thought of it happening in Owensboro excited me. And if the situation improves; I will come back. But you have got to feel it. You have got to be confident of what you are doing. You got to sell it and you've got to be sure of what you're selling. Put butts in the seats and keep them there. Don't nonchalantly spin with headphones tucked on your shoulder like you're listening to the NBA game behind you on the screen.
Be in it.
Be a part of what you are doing.
Own what you are doing.
Owensboro needs you just as much as you need Owensboro and just as much as the boro needs a satirical writer. Kudos, Bacchus for trying. Keep growing and showing US what you can do.

Italiano Ristorante

All I can say is you bring it on yourself.

I had the unfortunate opportunity to eat at an Italian restaurant the other day, and I can't go on knowing that you...are not knowing.

Standing at the door a patron might think this place is worth giving a shot.

Then, said patron will watch several workers of the fine establishment walk by and look right through them. Luckily, a bus boy has enough sense to point in the direction of the guests standing at the door.

Your server will take you to your table, lazily dragging her feet, as if her entire body is saying, "Mom, Dad, I hate you for making me work." Before you sit down she's asking what you want to drink. She doesn't know what they have...but she'll find out. She comes back and asks again what her patrons would like to drink. Ooh, still don't know if they have that. Patron asks, "do you have a wine list?"
"Yeah, I think...let me go check," server disappears.
Server reappears with wine list in her hand. She seems so proud of herself for recovering it.
She flops the list onto my girlfriends bread plate. The accordion-folded paper was also wrinkled as if it had been thrown away...once. I lift it up and look at it. Curious...there is some illegible writing on the back, too.
"How about beer? Do you have bottled beer?"
"Maybe bud, a bud light or two, I think," server vaguely replies.
I settle for a Heineken.
I freaking hate Heineken.
I have what looks like whip cream on my bottle and patron's girlfriend has a piece of a label on her bottle.
What goes great with beer?
Bread sticks.
Two wrinkly, turd-like bread sticks in a paper towel-lined basket.
The paper towels...probably used before. The corner of one paper towel was stained with what most certainly could have been a spot of blood.
Patrons order, regretfully after asking themselves, "Do we want to stay?"
Our salads arrive quickly. Easy since the salad bar is 20 paces behind our table. That's where our server tonged our salad, a reminder that this place was totally a Ponderosa.
She has the Italian restaurant staple Chicken Parmesan. Other patron orders something Pomodoro...it doesn't matter by this point. Her' s is swimming in Sav-a-lot Marinara Sauce. The chicken breast is so thin it is virtually invisible when looked at on its side. The pasta? Half a box of said brand linguine.
My pasta tastes like week old Waffle House bacon grease.
I didn't even get close to finishing it, and that's saying something because I can put down a plate of pasta.
Oh, did I mention that every 20 seconds our server came by asking, "Are we doing alright...so far?"
No, server, our food sucks.
The service is laughable.
I've been staring at the Ponderosa bathroom tile since I sat down and the only entertainment has been the table of 4 obese people with the fattest sitting legs-spread, so his fat can hang between his legs laughing, snorting snot, and making pig noises.
Do we want dessert? Are you effing kidding?
Server cyphers our bill, a daunting task.
The manager emerges from the kitchen and mumbles something to the servers separated by a lattice partition whom are talking about back tatts and partying after work. She then says a name of someone and how he better get his ass up here if he wants to make any tips tonight. She's rough looking. The manager looks like she rolled out of bed into a hangover and slapped blush on her face. It's 8 something at night, by the way.
Our server returns and places the bill cautiously on the table. She should. I'm still wondering if I should be paying for torture. I didn't even get my rocks off. But then I think, she looks as though she's deciding whether or not she wants to quit tonight based on my tip. No, she's not. She's just standing over my shoulder watching me tip and sign the check. I was extremely uncomfortable to say the least. And believe me I am. Had I possessed a Molotov cocktail at that time, that place would have been toast, man.
So much for fine dining in a dingy, once Ponderosa Italian dive on a Friday night.
Incidentally, my GI has not been right since.
p.s.
If you really want to know the name and destination for the truly horrific dining experience just beg in the form of a comment to the blog.

A poem, A poem, A poem.

This house is empty
this house is cold,
this house is quiet,
this house is home.

I woke up on the couch
peeked my head from under the covers,
and felt the cold
I was hiding from.

The DVD
was on the menu screen,
with no sounds playing,
just some lights flashing.

I was afraid
for only a moment,
thinking the rushing from the electric fireplace,
was the blood pulsing in my ears.

Where are you
and why is the house so still without you?
The draft blows so much faster,
when you're not here to block it.

The way you wrap up
in just one more blanket than my own
has always made me,
keep the thermostat down.

One more toothbrush
leaving a trail of droplets,
back to the holder,
that only collects dust on one side.

Those drops are frozen
in this still house,
that creaks while I'm listening,
but always quiets when you are here.

Get well
get well.