Blogging On Sunshine

' "Howdy, lem," my grandpa said
With his eyes closed
Wiping the eastbound dust
From his sunburned brow

A life before doubt.
I smell the engine grease
And mint the wind is blending
Under the moan of rotting elm
In the silo floor.

Down a hill
Of pine tree quills
We made our way
To the bottom and the ferns
Where thick moss grows
Beside a stream.

Under the rocks are snails
And we can fills our pockets
And let them go one by one all day
In a brand new place.

You were no ordinary drain on her defenses
And she was no ordinary girl
Oh, Inverted World
If every moment of our lives were cradled softly
In the hands of some strange and gentle child
I'd not roll my eyes so.'

~~ The Shins, 'One By One All Day'



"I find that ducks' opinions of me are very much influenced over whether or not I have bread."

~~ Mitch Hedberg



Hello, inverted world.

I feel damn fine today. It's Nov. 16 and I wore a short-sleeved shirt to work today. Say what you will about D.C. -- and I say a lot -- at least it's warm here. Sweet, cherished warmth.

And speaking of warm, I've got a "gag me" gross dose of warm and fuzzy coming your way, about a very cherished, very insane friend, and the value of living out your dreams.

But first, a fond memory:



So I have this very cherished, very insane friend. My favorite type.

We share a deep bond, constructed of many finer, more shallow bonds banded together like fibers in a juicy, creative muscle.

And when we're together, and that muscle flexes, the creative tension tears furiously through the air, a haywire laser aimed with the utmost lack of precision, burning haphazard holes in reality.

A setting:

A man-made lake. Carved for beauty, polluted with indifference. But wet and shiny and appealing to us.

Fuck studying. It's sunny and cool and lunchtime. What better place to eat than this lake? It has ducks.

Oh, those ducks. So funny, with their feathers and flapping, wading and waddling, quacking and snacking.

And so damn fat! Imagine! So fat, so gloriously happy! No exams, just wings and water and webbed-feet and waistlines.

My friend and I have no wings, no webbed feet. But we do have food and a lake and sunshine and a cool breeze and fat, quack-happy ducks to feed.

There is joy in bringing joy to others, and ducks are easy to please.

As are we, really. We entertain the ducks and the ducks entertain us. They quack, we giggle. If they had any, I'm sure they'd feed us chocolate in return for our bread -- ducks seem the generous type.

But the ducks are ducks. Brown, some with green heads, most not. Plain. Hard for us to indentify with something so ordinary as a brown duck. We can't tell if they are insane, but aside from our insatiable appetite for bread, we have little in common.

And then our discovery: the crazed duck, the mutant, the genetic freak with a beak -- this we understand. This duck is different. It is special. It is one of us.

It is colored like a cow: black and white in a meandering pattern down the length of its body. As if it fell into a pool of God's cow-paint palette, and God said, "Fuck it, let's see what happens" and blasted the creature down to earth, to live as an oddity to be celebrated or feared.

We chose celebrity.

It's fat as could be, and eats like a pig.

We dubbed it "cow duck," for obvious reasons, though it seems fucking hilarious even now.

The cow duck!

The cow duck, that eats like a pig.

"What sort of sound do you suppose a cow duck makes?" I ask.

"Oh! Oh! It's like ... a quack ... with a moo ... and sort of ... an oink!"

We look at each other with a brief pause -- a moment of discovery and enlightenment -- eureka!

"QUOOOOOOIIINNKKK!!!" we both shout simultaneously, then nearly fall off our seats, because we are laughing so hard.

This is not hyperbole. We really almost fell over, onto the concrete path that wraps around the lake. We probably would have been hospitalized.

But we recovered in time, and the cow duck became the stuff legends are made of.



Meanwhile, back at the ranch:

In a completely unrelated series of events, my friend and I consistently dine at a seedy pub known as the Blue Danube, or more affectionately, The 'Dube.

The 'Dube is a special place: there is artwork everywhere. The walls are filled with paintings and old Guinness advertisements, and the ceiling is spattered with brilliant tiles.

Allow me to explain. In an effort to replace the sagging, musty, yellowed ceiling tiles, the management of the pub created a phenomenon: they encouraged patrons to bring in a tile of their own, painted with any design they wished, to replace the aging tiles. As an added incentive, they offered a $5 gift certificate for each tile received.

It was slow catching on. The restaurant had only a handful of tiles at first, but gradually, over a period of three or four years, the ceiling began to fill. Tiles of every imaginable type and talent. Distorted faces, 3D renderings, undiscernable shapes and figures, paintings that were exact replicas of famous works of art or even the Guinness ads on the walls.

It gives the bar a unique and nearly irresistable ambience. So many colors! So much talent!

For years, every time my friend and I went to the Dube, we'd say we would paint a tile.

Not that we ever did. It's just ... one of those things. Sometimes bland expressions sum it up so well. It's just one of those things you always say you'll do and never do.

Like, "Oh man, one day we gotta take that trip to the llama farm" or "Man, someday I'm gonna drink 24 Guinnesses in a day to see if I really do get my recommended daily allowance of vitamins and minerals."

We say these things, but never DO these things.

We said we'd paint the tile, knowing we never would. And the ceiling began to fill up.



So, years later, my very cherished, very insane friend graduated from college. I'd say that's lame, but I made the same mistake the year before.

And what do you get a very cherished, very insane friend for a graduation present? If you've never had a very cherished, very insane friend, you're

a) missing out on a lot of fun and

b) spared the anguish of trying to find the perfect gift for such a friend.

SO

I thought, and thought, and thought, and thought and thought and thought.

And then I thought,

"I've got it! The perfect gift!"



I know, you already know what I thought of, you clever bastard.



But those assholes at NASA wouldn't part with one of their precious rocket ships -- at least, not for $2.50, which was all I had, so I got her a ceiling tile instead (sorry I'm such a cheapass, HH).



I wrapped it up beautifully -- it took a whole roll of wrapping paper -- and presented it to her while her roommates eyed the package with great suspicion (they know me well enough to know I could have given her a really flat puppy). She opened the package, and her reaction was perfect.

Puzzlement.

Realization.

Wild whoops of delight.



Her roomies were still puzzled, as they were unaware of our years-long pact.



I told her to pick anything she wanted, and I'd buy the paint and supplies and we would make it together and then take it to the Dube.

She thought long and hard -- she wanted it to be perfect. And finally, after much deliberation, she opted for ...



COW DUCK! QUUOOOOOOIIINKKK!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA



We went crazy. She drew a beautiful, perfectly cartoony design (as evidenced above) -- and we painted it, decorated it with feathers and ribbons and puffy paint and they hung it up at the Dube.



And you know, this would be a great end to our story. We lived out a dream, years in the making. Made good on our pact. Our promise. Our friendship.

But there's a terrific epilogue to this tale.



A few weeks ago -- months after the Dube proudly displayed our cow duck in the ceiling -- my friend called me, barely able to speak.

"Bloobledy blanga mananga ganoe!" she babbled.

Now, usually we're able to communicate quite well with very few sensicle syllables, much to the amazement of mutual freinds. But I was utterly mystified by that statement, which prompted my next question:

"What?"

"Bloobledy cow duck mananga page-amaphone!" she said.

"Ok this time in very simple English phrases please," I said.

She breathed, which I imagine was the first breath she'd taken in at least five minutes.

"OUR COW DUCK IS ON THE FRONT PAGE OF THE PAPER!"

Indeed, a photo of our tile appeared on the front page of the student paper, the Lantern, teasing a business profile of the Dube in the Arts section.

Well, shit. That paper has a circulation over 50,000 strong, so a hell of a lot of people were seeing our artwork. But the cow duck luvin' didn't stop there.

The article itself talked about the tile phenomenon of the Dube, and how attractive the place looked with so much color, and all the social functions the tiles play -- people eat there to look at their own tiles, they spend time critiquing other tiles, they stare at the tiles when conversation lags . . .

The author went on to describe a few tiles ... including ours, which they described as a "fan favorite."

Fan favorite!

We had no idea. We were just damn proud it was up there, damn proud to see it in the paper. And though the article mysteriously referred to it as "lamenting duck" (we pictured him being quite happy), we knew it was ours -- it's the only duck tile on the ceiling.



So there you have it. We lived a dream, and now we're ready to make millions on the Columbus art scene, because we've struck the fickle vein of social popularity. And you know what? It's a great feeling.

But at the risk of dripping with sap, I have to say, the greatest feeling was just making the damn thing in the first place. You can't imagine how fun it was, arguing arbitrarily over the design, getting messy with paints, and laughing uncontrollably -- living the dream.

So my challenge to you, my very cherished, very insane readers: take the time over Thanksgiving break to think, long and hard, about something you always said you'd do but never did -- preferably with a friend. Pick a day (Christmas break?), make a plan, and do it. Take some pictures for me.

You'll value it forever.

And if you're really lucky, others will appreciate it, too.




Peace and love,

Sketch E.