Tangible Woes

It's lunch time in the real world. Before me is a caesar salad and a bottled water. Sitting all around me are men and women reciting familiar jargon. "Streamline this" and "Synergy that". My reflex is to set aside my package of croutons and embrace the jargon speakers warmly, draw their heads into my chest, gently pat the back of their heads, and express my sorrow for their loss. But I'm not sure what's missing.

I wonder how many are painters, or poets. I wonder how many have a secret romance with classical music but hide the fact from their Jock Rock co-workers. I wonder if the drop-dead gorgeous woman next to me is a ballerina. I bet she is. She moves like a dancer.

There's a giant of a man-more giant than man-staring out of the long cafeteria window and up into the mountains. Is he thinking of adventure or worrying about bills? Missing his family or the links? He looks uncomfortable without a beard and axe. I should offer him a dead animal to skin. Perhaps I'm wrong. Could HE be a ballerina. It's possible. He stands like one; toes pointed out and such.

Brothers and Sisters eating all around me and I don't know a single one. Compatriots in the fight of life and I don't know any of their names. There are too many 60 dollar ties and loud newspapers to feel peaceful enough to offer out free hugs and head pats. Cell phone rings equal the human population and every person is wearing shoes. I wonder how I would react to the ballerina sitting next to me, had she worn her pointe shoes today. I hope well.

I've not touched my salad or broken the seal on my water. As I type, a guy around my age is pacing behind me, talking on his asshole-blue-tooth-earpiece, and spouting out more of the same language I've grown to despise.

And I wonder, if he were to glance over my shoulder and glimpse a bit of this writing, would he understand my jargon? And would there be a hug that follows?

Body Issues

Men are men are men are men and I am one. A man that is. And so is Berk Dammit. And so is Rosie. But men are also human. Rosie isn't. But humans are people. And somewhere out there amongst the people is a person. And that person makes skinny jeans popular. 
Today Berk and I spent the majority of the day editing scenes for the cartoon that none of you believe we are working on. After an extremely productive 45 minutes we decided that we deserved a delicious meal so we treated ourselves to Arctic Circle (downtown SLC on 9th south, they give you free chocolate dipped mini-cones). After supping on our tasty burgers and golden fries, conversation turned from how poor people disgust us, to running, and how best to train for a triathlon. All very normal topics to discuss when you are two guys who rarely get much deeper than the sort of shallow conversation mentioned. However, today was different. Today we bonded.
Berk mentioned to me that he was thinking of the evolution of the "Sweet Bro". How he has gone from popped collar and upside down visor to super skinny jeans and 80 dollar shirts, torn in just the right way to make him look brooding and artistic. We laughed, mocked, and stood firmly on our soap box speaking to one another of how stupid they look in their skinny jeans. An awkward silence followed until broken by both of us confessing simultaneously that we would both really like to fit into skinny jeans. "You too!" was the follow up.
The only thing staying of embarrassment was the comfort that the other felt the same way. You see, Berk and I, along with Devon share a similar fate. We are all men who eat food and run. This dangerous combination has resulted in normal thighs. Normal thighs that when forced into a pair of skinny jeans splits junk in twain making us feel extremely self-conscious. "Could I possibly be this fat?" is the questions that nags. "Could I really have let myself turn into a meaty Olsen Twin?"
The answer is no. I'm not fat. I've just figured out that I don't have to be malnourished.
Most of the people who read this blog live in the states, and here in the U.S. we have food that we can eat. We have food that we can throw away. We have pies made specifically for throwing at clowns. Africa, I know that you don't believe what I'm saying, but I'm not telling lies out of school. Delicious key lime pies are splattered on the mugs of clowns every waking hour of the American day. We call it "Getting pied" so suck on it Africa, you condescending pricks.
Rarely do I have a point in these posts and this one is no exception. However, I do want to ask you all a question. When you judge a persons thighs by what they may or may not fit into, I want you to ask yourself, honestly, who would you rather have at your side when faced with imminent starvation? I'm looking at you Africa. After all, you started all of this "emaciated thigh" business.

Overdue and Unexpected

This is my Care Bear Stare. I am setting my heart a blaze and placing it in the window for all the Childrenkids to see.  A cry out in the dark to any remnants of those who loved us once. But that was a long time ago, and you've probably moved on to other cartoons.

We used to draw eyes like flies to this blog from all you Childrenkids from around the globe, eager to eat up the latest progress and face plants of squattersStudio. A love affair fueled by tales both small and tall.....but then we did you wrong baby. Five months with no progress posted. We can change.

We don't even know if you're still out there. If you are, you need to know that we still love you baby. All of those other side projects we've been working on have meant nothing to us. They were just floozies and scallywags. Sirens tempting us away from our true love with their sexy insurance benefits and paychecks. Sluts.

If you are there, let us know. We want you back and this time it'll be different. No more broken promises. No more otter pops. That shit messes us up and we aren't ourselves when we're on it. No more racist jokes from Cole. No more falling asleep so soon after we make love at each other. We'll spoon and talk feelings at one another for as long as you like. What's that? You had a long day? Well lay down baby, place your feet upon our lap, we'll rub your dogs and you can tell us all about it......if only you'll take us back?