RSS SPIRIT

"They write poems, name bars and ground beef sandwiches after me."

When a bar called the Skylark offers a Skylark burger, patrons consider it an easy decision. What makes the burger signature? No, it is not made out of that elusive bird which so enthralled sickly British Romantic poets in the 19th century. In fact, it is something else altogether. The standard cheeseburger is augmented, or rather slathered, with mustard cole slaw and onion rings to create a formidable stack of a sandwich. What's more, the evil geniuses in the flourescent hovel in back have added to the awesomeness by serving the Skylark burger with a mound of tater tots on the side.

Patrons dig in to this bar tack with nary a care in the world, washing things down with cascades of peewater known in these parts as Pabst Blue Ribbon. But what diners are not aware of, the Skylark Burger has properties similar to a quadruple shot latte. That is, after you pound down this burger sleep will avoid you like good breath.

As recently as last evening one Skylark patron learned this lesson the hard way. Satisfied with his meal the man paid and retired to his bed where sleep overtook him almost immediately. Alas, it was but a cruel tease. For he woke soon thereafter with frothy entrails and stayed awake for the next three hours. It was not that the Skylark burger was bad, it was just that it was not designed for mere mortal digestive systems.

The upside of this late night consciousness was that the patron had much time to contemplate the state of his life, and consider the myriad areas where improvements might be made. Additionally, the Skylark burger seems to have mild mystical qualities, as the patron in question can attest. For when he did finally assume a state of unconsciousness, the dream he had was vivid, frightening and ultimately deep.

If you look for a restless night of contemplation and wild dreams, try the Skylark Burger with the tater tots. A groggy morning is assured, but enlightenment may also be found before the first flutter of predawn birds who,

"Like a Poet hidden

In the light of thought,

Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought

To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.' (P.B. Shelley) ###

Dateline: Joyless Mudville

Some Canadian kid named Stern singlehandedly humiliated the U.S. baseball team yesterday. U.S. losing to Canada in baseball? Let us all look up to the sky, for the horsemen of the apocalypse surely descend upon us.

Does it seem lately that every U.S. national sports team now sucks? This travesty on an Arizona diamond is just the latest fiasco to be perpetrated by Yankee flubbers. Look no further than the U.S. basketball team. Remember when it was called the dream team and the only issue was whether we could make the other team cry? Now we are lucky to steal bronze away from the feisty Lithuanians.

U.S. hockey? The only question to ask of these bums is why do we keep sending professional players overseas to party on our dime, grope local females and lose to kazakhstan? From the miracle on ice we have traveled to the millionares taking a steaming dump on ice. Let us pray we never see another NHL player on a U.S. hockey team.

Tennis and golf are not doing much either. When was the last time we won the Davis Cup (yes I know nobody cares?) And does it not make you sick that our sickly representatives of humanity who play golf for U.S. ensure that all major hardware resides in Europe?

And now, baseball. We lost to Canada. What in god's name is going on here? If U.S. sports keeps shame spiralling down like this we will need to concoct an American Football world championship in order to win at a game nobody else plays.

Caveat: there is one bright spot - U.S. soccer. The one sport in which we have always lagged is now our one shot at international legitimacy. This summer's world cup might be the stage where the U.S. soccer team makes us want to root for America again. But until then, sing along with me:

"Oh Canada, land that I love..."

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Dateline: That Place Where You Ride Puffy Goo Goo Into The Sunset

Remember that silly song from the dark ages of the 1980's? Turns out it speaks the truth. Nobody figured that body thumper Bobby McFerrin would have it in him to utter devine truth. But as that trite truth goes: God don't care what you think.

The song teaches us worry is not worth it. As the song says:

"In every life we have some trouble
But when you worry you make it double."

Worry is like a worm that eats at your spirit and sucks the good ju-ju juice out of you. Nobody lives problem free in this world. It is a matter of physics. The moment you move, you cause friction and that eventually leads to some idiot and/or moron being a pain in your ass.

Happiness is a state where you can look problems in the face and say, "Kiss me bollocks." (Preferably in a Scottish accent.)

There was a study done recently that proves the wisdom of Mr. McFerrin's lyrics. People who had to make a big decision were split into two groups. One group was asked to spend a lot of time considering the issue (i.e. worrying). The other was asked to play games and then make a snap decision (i.e. be happy.) Surprise, surprise, those who made decisions from a happy state were significantly more satisfied with their choices than the worriers.

So whenever you find yourself consumed with the worry worm, get yourself to your nearest music player and start whistling along with Bobby as he proffers words of wisdom sent straight from Mt. Olympus via a New York City Songster.

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Dateline: An Alley Bursting At The Lid

Whither the garbage men? Every Tuesday residents of this old neighborhood have been awakened by the reassuring sounds of a diesel truck and hydraulic masher, the familiar rituals of the garbage men.

Like a cyclical death and rebirth the garbage men would take away the detritus of the past, leaving empty cans gapingly awaiting the future. The garbage men were of course much welcomed by the denizens who excreted their jetsam and flotsam out to the alley in back. Even if the men were heard to speak loudly in their strange language (which consists of only three words: Yo!, More! and Bi'more!) at pre-alarm-clock hours. For they were the harbingers of a new day, a new dawn. The old day they loaded, mashed and carted to a mob run landfill out of state.

But today something happened that troubled locals. The garbage men did not come. What is more, due to unforeseen heavy expunging, every garbage can out in the alley is brimming with refuse. In fact, late tossing outtakers were forced to leave boxes on to top of the cans.

A constipated gloom has settled on these old houses. Neighbors imagine vermin infestation and worse, bum infestation. One resident complained that the garbage can in his kitchen is full but he has nowhere to unload it.

The inhabitants of what was once a garbage free neighborhood ask, whither the garbage men? As they stare forlornly at the bloated receptacles flush with the ample evidence of entropy and used up life, little in the way of answers arrive.

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