Hey friends and fellow Buzzers, Conceptual Drudgery now has a music profile on MySpace!! Please stop by and listen in on some of my mashups and sound collages. Be sure to say hello and send me a friend request as well.

myspace.com/conceptualdrudgery

P.S. MySpace has nothing on Cre8buzz though!

To read more posts like this, be sure to check out my blog at: http://saydada.blogspot.com

While waiting at a traffic light, I often find myself surrendering to boredom. It’s not surprising given that the average person spends six months of their life waiting at stoplights. So, to curb the tedium of the wait, I try to keep myself occupied. One way is to honk at the car up ahead of me. When the driver looks back in his or her rearview mirror, I wave excitedly. I then mouth the words, “Alexander Fleming discovered antibiotics,” and then give them the thumbs up. I figure there are rare occasions when the driver can read my lips and must think: “That guy just said something about Alexander Fleming. I must’ve had Biology with him in high school.”

Reading bumper stickers is another way to help the time pass; although, when it comes to mobile entertainment, it can get a bit frustrating, especially if you can’t read.

I saw a bumper sticker the other day that read, “Christianity has Pagan DNA.” Immediately I began profiling the female driver: Early twenties. Raised Catholic. Became a hippie in an act of parental disobedience. Didn’t really work, her mom still complimented her tie-dye shirts and earthy sundresses. Decided she really needed to revolt. Found a book about Wiccans. Read half the book. Became a “witch”. Mom and dad were upset at this announcement, not because they knew anything about the Wicca religion. Rather, they thought people who called themselves witches enjoyed sacrificing small animals to Satan. And so, they called her transgression a sleight against God. She liked that. And when she stumbled upon this particular bumper sticker, she had to have it. “It’ll look good,” she thought, “on the back of my Jeep Cherokee that mom and dad bought me for graduation.”

I had to give this girl some credit though. Choosing just one bumper sticker that is able to wholly broadcast your personal grievances must be tough. How do you choose it? That would have to be just as difficult as deciding on one tattoo. Do I want my mom’s name on my right bicep, or do I want the Tasmanian Devil on my left ankle? Six of one, half dozen of the other.

Bumper stickers—for those of you who treat your automobile as a traveling political billboard—are the lowest form of protest. Every time I see a, “Wal-Mart: Low Wages, Low Morals – Always” bumper sticker, I want to go shop at Wal-Mart. When I see a “Honk if you speak English” sticker, I don’t honk. As for the guy with the “Cars are the Problem, Not the Solution” sticker on his Jetta, apparently he appreciates incongruity more than I do.

The other day I pulled up next to a girl that had a bumper sticker that read, “Equal Rights for All Species.” And so I took it upon myself to address her outrageous assertion. “Are you crazy?” I yelled out my window to her. “You’re not giving my cat the right to bear arms. That little shit would shoot me for having him de-clawed!”

Come to think of it, the only bumper sticker that I’ve seen as of late, that wasn’t at all misleading read, “Friends don’t let friends drink Folgers.” I can get behind that one-hundred percent. Flavor crystals are not natural! You wouldn’t want your friends or family consuming coffee with crystals would you—crystals that dissolve in water nonetheless?

Bumper stickers are merely blinkered statements intended to rile other motorists. They seem especially combative now in a time of considerable partisan divide. If for some reason you’re disillusioned and believe that slapping your views on the back of your car is opening up dialogue on your particular belief, you’re gravely mistaken. The only response you’re receiving from those on the other side of the argument is name calling, or perhaps even the occasional disgruntled honk of the horn…an act made that much more humorous by the tinny squeak of a Toyota’s horn, I might add.

Do you recall sometime back when Christians began putting the ichtus on the back of their cars? No sooner than they did, evolutionists started putting fish with feet on the back of their cars. It took a little while, but Christians finally retorted with bumper stickers that read, “Fish Don’t Have Feet.” The only way that evolutionists could continue the debate is if they would have made bumper stickers that read, “We’re not saying that fish have feet. We’re simply trying to illustrate that there were some prehistoric fish-like creatures that evolved into land animals and subsequently, after a million or so years developed into various species of apes. It is our theory that a specie of ape eventually evolved into Man.” Unfortunately, that bumper sticker would be too verbose.

My point? Don’t use bumper stickers to publicize your convictions. Between you and me, no one cares. If you truly believe in something, just go out and fight for it.

To read more posts like this, be sure to check out my blog at: http://saydada.blogspot.com

(A Satirical Essay Written Circa 1999)

Conversations come and go, and most I must admit, are a dime a dozen. I feel it imperative to credit myself to the reader as a scholar of sorts before I continue on any further. That, of course, is not a title, but more or less the overall opinion most would give of me if someone were to inquire. Still, I would never insinuate that I was a genius, considering that particular word tends to be flippantly thrown around anymore. To illustrate my point, let me tell you briefly about a PBS special I was watching that actually referred to Stephen Hawking as “a genius.” Is that it? Now anyone, no matter what they do can be given such a label? Well, no thank you. I’d rather remain under the perception of being unadorned.

Unadorned. That’s my favorite word. You could try to replace it with simple. But simple is a word that some people frown upon. It is one of those words that people are either delighted to hear or completely turned-off by. Unadorned, however, is a word I’m sure is frequently used in some other galaxy billions of light years away. An everyday Joe isn’t typically afforded the luxury of using it in a sentence. It is an expression reserved for the likes of someone who is one day in Paris, the next day in New York and the following day in Barcelona. Someone who travels 7,458 miles in three days and doesn’t have to worry about finding the most reasonable airfare on cheapskate.com because their agent has taken care of it. That person is unadorned. I am unadorned.

Up until recently, I thought I would remain a solitary brilliant mind amongst the others around me, only to battle the wits of my own self. That always seemed a bit too depressing; my entire life was in shambles because of thoughts like that. But one day something wonderful happened, I met someone who matched and challenged my intellect.

This is how it happened…

I was sitting in this coffee shop, late afternoon, sipping on a 16oz, half caff, triple shot, low-fat, extra dry cappuccino-with two sugars and twist of lemon, when this young lady walked in. She was wearing saddle shoes. I wouldn’t have looked up from the book that I was reading, which was titled How to Change Your Entire Life in 30 Seconds, but I was quite familiar with the sound of saddle shoes treading on wood flooring. She caught my attention instantly. A thought suggested itself; I had only been reading the book for approximately 29 seconds.

The coffee shop was packed; no chairs were available, well, except for one, the other chair at my table.

“Do you mind if I sit here?” She asked politely, sitting down before I even had a moment to contemplate and answer. She cocked her head to the side. “Oh,” she interrupted, “I see you’re reading How to Change Your Entire Life in 30 Seconds. Good book. Great advice. I really liked the part about calling the ‘1-800’ self-help line.”

I didn’t want to reply, everything inside of me screamed, “Don’t speak! Don’t utter a single word!” You see; I’ve dealt with girls in saddle shoes before. I’m no stranger to the shoes. Suddenly, something took over in my head; there was no way for me to hold back, I replied ever so casually, “Yes, I’m right in the middle of that chapter.”

She looked at me as if she wanted to say, “You’re so rudimentary.” The only thing that held her back, I imagined, was that she was still pondering the definition of the word.

She crossed her right leg over her left, arching her foot in a 90-degree angle, pointing directly at my jugular. I convinced myself it was coincidence.

I focused my attention back to the book clinched in my hands, trying feverously to ignore her giggling from across the table. My curiosity got the better of me when I finally looked up and asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, twirling a ringlet of her hair between her fingers.

My eyes reattached themselves to the printed page. Again the giggling began. I grunted and looked up a second time, “Why are you laughing?” I demanded.

“Why are you grunting?” She asked.

At this point, I couldn’t help but look down at her shoes. A man scorned by saddle shoes in the past, delighting in the frustration of everything they symbolized. “I’m grunting because you won’t tell me why you’re laughing.”

“I was laughing because you were grunting.”

Her insolence was too much to bear. “Are we arguing semantics now? You laughed before I grunted.” My voice now amplified my intolerance toward her crafty word play.

Her face drew a blank. She looked vacant. For a moment I actually thought that perhaps me interjecting the word semantics confused her. As if, she didn’t know what the word meant. No, that’s just what she would have me to think.

I decided to indulge in her peculiar game for a moment, so I asked, “What is your name?”

She shifted in her seat, reached down and scratched the back of her left ankle. For a brief time she held herself back from answering. This, of course is, what is known as the dramatic pause. My retort too was clever. I looked down at my book and acted as if I had forgotten that I had even asked her a question.

“Sadie,” she finally said, “my name is Sadie.”

My eyes drifted up, I focused on her forehead, which made it appear as if I was looking her in the eyes. “That’s a name you don’t hear very often.”

“I was named after the Beatles’ song Sexy Sadie. My parents are big fans.”

The Beatles, I thought, everyone likes The Beatles. Her parents probably liked The Rolling Stones too. As for me, my taste in music had recently taken a less than conventional turn. Currently I was in the midst of collecting the complete recordings of 1980s bands specializing in classic rock. Vinyl, of course.

“Do you like Dire Straits?” I asked.

“I’ve never heard of them.”

I held back my laughter and sang, “I want my MTV.”

She looked puzzled, “Don’t you have cable?”

This girl was lost in some forgotten era, we had nothing in common but the book I was reading. So I did what anyone would have done, desperate as it seemed. “Have you read anything else by this author?”

“Yes,” she said, “in fact, I met him at a book signing last year.”

“Really,” I queried. “What book was he promoting?”

“She’s a woman.” She corrected.

“But the author’s name is Chuck.”

“Yes, but its short for Charles.”

For the first time during this conversation I was the one who felt like a buffoon. How brainless could I have been? It never even occurred to me. That’s why there’s a picture of a woman in the back of the book on the inner sleeve, right under ‘About The Author.’ “I’m not usually this absent minded,” I informed her, “in actuality, I’m a genius.”

“It’s okay,” she assured, “people make that mistake all the time.”

We sat in silence in the coffee shop for a while. I was too embarrassed to say a word. The atmosphere became very uncomfortable at this point. Only she had the audacity to tinker with the friction and reset the conversation. “She’s very direct in her writing isn’t she?”

“Yes,” I agreed.

“The way she writes,” she continued, “is so exact and terse. Critics have called her bluntness cruel.”

“You know what I think is amazing,” I added, “the way that she weaves twenty-two chapters into three pages. The book is short, but staggeringly concise.”

About that time I remembered something she had said earlier in our discussion. Something that confused and baffled me to the extent that I knew I had to bring it up again. I realized though that I had to say it tactfully, otherwise she might get offended. “You said that you met HIM at a book signing, yet now you’re telling me that he is a she. How is that?”

Well I had done it. I had gone and upset her. She stood up from the table, “I suppose we’re arguing semantics again.” She began to walk away.

“Wait!” I called out in despondency. There was one thing that I just had to know.

She looked back.

“What is your favorite book by he or she?”

Her grimace made me cower. And then she replied in the sexiest rasp I had ever heard, it was a voice that made Kathleen Turner sound like Fred Flintstone, “My favorite book that IT has written is called Scorned by Saddle Shoes.” She walked out the door, and I never saw her again.

Conversations come and go, and I haven’t had one since I last spoke to her. I am like a man who refuses to wash his hands after the woman of his dreams has touched them. When people try to strike up a conversation with me, I only humor them with one-word answers. For example, if someone asks me, “How are you doing today?” I say, “Fine.” If they ask me, “Are you ever going to stop brooding over that girl with the saddle shoes?” I say, “No.”

(Warning: Essay Contains Offensive Language.)

The metaphor couldn’t be anymore apparent: Fall off the horse, get back on the horse. And people love to cram this type of advice down your throat. “Hey, you can’t stay down there forever; you gotta get back up on that steed, buddy—take life by the reigns.” They say this, as if they actually believe the drivel pouring out of their mouths. Have they no idea whatsoever that this type of counsel, if I dare call it that, is nothing more than a piss-poor cliché.

What people don’t bother to tell you is, when you get on that horse’s back, there’s nothing, there’s no moment of clarity, there is no moment of enlightenment. You are sitting on a horse’s back and all you can think is: There’s nothing beautiful or majestic about this beast. The only thing humbling about the experience is that, well, you’re on a horse’s back, and if it wanted to, it could swing its head around and eat your face off.

Twenty-one years after K.C. sunk her ugly horse teeth into my forehead, I was sitting on a horse’s back. Twenty-one years of avoiding these vulgar creatures. Twenty-one years of an implied restraining order against all stallions, steeds, mares, and even ponies. Twenty-one glorious years.

One might be surprised to learn that there was no hoopla about getting me on a horse. I suppose that after twenty-one years my defenses were down. We were making plans to visit my Uncle Tony during the Labor Day weekend. Nonchalantly he said, “We all oughta go horseback riding.” To which I replied, “Okay. I’ll go horseback riding.”

Maybe it was the excitement on his face. Maybe I didn’t want to deny him horseback riding just because I’m a little bitch. Maybe for that brief moment I thought it was time to get back up on that proverbial horse. Maybe I thought it was time I stop being a victim and start being a cowboy.

“Who’s the ‘fraidest?” Ben, the heavyset ranch owner asked in a voice that my cousin Chris described as ‘someone eating gravel’.

Everyone pointed to me.

“Well come on over here. We’ll put you on Nikea. She’s real good with first timers. We just had a nine year old girl on her this morning, so you should be fine.”

Everyone laughed. I didn’t see what was so funny. I’ll be the first to admit that most nine year old girls are braver than I am. A nine year old girl doesn’t have the wisdom that I have, therefore she lacks my foresight. A nine year old girl hasn’t considered the possibility that this horse could throw her of its back and then stomp her into the soil if it wanted. I suppose ignorance is bliss…and bravery.

“The horse flies are bad today. If you see one on your horse’s ass just hit as hard as you can and smash it.” Big Ben said.

“Hit the horse too?” I asked.

“Yeah, as hard as you can; just smash that fly.”

“Listen, I’m not saying I hit hard, but I’m not going to hit this horse.”

“It ain’t gonna feel a thing.”

“That’s fine, but I’m still not going to hit a horse. I’m not doing anything to agitate it.”

“Suit yourself.”

Mr. Jim was not only our trail guide, but he was also my personal Shamanic Counselor to the past. The winding path through the woods would be symbolic of my journey into manhood, or so I hoped.

As our horses trudged up the hillside, I relived K.C.’s brutal attack a thousand times over; first, the mashing of teeth, immediately followed by the spilling of blood, my blood. I hadn’t realized the severity of the attack until I looked down at my sleeve and saw nothing but red. Suddenly there was a throbbing pain, and I could feel the blood running down the side of my cheek. I remember the look on my friend’s faces, chilling and desperate.

“Go get help!” One of them yelled to no one in particular.

My friend Dustin took off running.

I don’t recall how much time had past when Dustin returned with my sister Angi. She walked me back home.

“I called grandma and grandpa before I left to come get you,” she said, “I couldn’t get a hold of mom or dad. They should be here soon.”

I stood in the kitchen, a towel pressed over my gaping wound, crying.

“Why are you so afraid of horses?” Jim asked; one hand on his hip, the other holding the reigns to his horse.

“I was bit in the head in second grade.” Gee, it didn’t sound so bad when I said it. I should’ve left out the part about it being when I was in second grade, I thought.

“Oh.” He shrugged. “Yeah, they do that sometimes. In fact, this little lady just bit me this morning,” he said, patting his horse as if congratulating her.

How dare him one up me. I had six stitches. They gave me a tetanus shot in my ass. They stuck a needle in the center of the wound. He has no idea what I’ve been through. It’s a goddamn tragedy what happened to me.

“Let’s get these ladies up to a slow trot,” Jim said.

No sooner than he said that, I was bouncing every which way. It was horrible.

“Mr. Jim,” I said, sounding like a 19th century southern woman, “I think I lost a testicle back there. Can we stop?”

He shook his head disappointedly.

As we rounded the last bend on our mile journey a bee stung Nikea’s left leg. She freaked out. The front half of her body dropped to the ground as she whinnied and snarled. My face was almost buried in Jim’s Horse’s ass.

“Mr. Jim, am I going to die? Should I get off the horse?”

“No you’re fine. Stay on the horse."

Another bee stung Nikea, this time on the face. She bounced back up and whinnied again. She began rubbing her face against Jim’s horse’s ass like I had practically done moments before.

“My God, why hast thou forsaken me?” I screamed.

“Calm down. She’ll be fine.” Jim reassured.

As we headed back into the ranch, I thought about the day after the attack. I remembered sitting at my desk in the morning and the embarrassment of hearing my name on the PA.

“One of our students, Tony Holloway from Mrs. Hall’s second grade class, was bitten by a horse yesterday at the fairgrounds. This is a reminder to all students, DO NOT go by the stables on your way home from school.”

Fall off the horse, get back on the horse. Fuck that. I hate horses.

“…and finally, to those students who cut through the fairgrounds on their way home from school, we have a very important announcement for you.” The principle’s voice sounded tinny and hollow through the speaker box in Mrs. Hall’s second grade classroom. Unlike the morning Pledge of Allegiance, where I just sort of mouthed the word watermelon several times over, I made a point to listen to the very important announcement. After all, I was one of the students who cut through the Shelby County Fairgrounds after school. As for my oath to America through patriotic prose, I don’t think I actually bothered to learn the words until I was a teenager and had to write a report about Francis Bellamy.

“Fairground officials have notified us that students should not stop by the stables to pet the horses. One horse in particular, they have warned, named K.C., is a bit unruly and ill-tempered and could bite you if you were to get too close. So students, let’s avoid the horse stables and just focus on getting home. Okay? We want everyone to make it home safely.”

No one has ever accused me of being a genius. It was no surprise to anyone who knew me, that as my friends and I cut through the Shelby County Fairgrounds on our way home from school that afternoon, that I would ask, “What was the name of that horse again? You know; the one they don’t want us to pet?”

“K.C.” One of my friends said.

“Yeah, K.C., that’s it. Let’s go over to the stables. I’m not afraid to pet that horse.”

My friends gathered around in a semi-circle as I approached K.C. He was a white horse who would’ve looked twenty feet tall to any second grader. His size alone must’ve made me look that much braver to my friends.

I reached into my book bag and grabbed out some loose papers and rolled them up. I began petting his nose with the papers, testing his aggressiveness. This horse seemed okay to me.

“See? He’s fine.” I said. “This horse wouldn’t hurt a fly.” I stuck the rolled up school papers in my back pocket, the way Dennis the Menace always puts his slingshot in his back pocket. I reached out and started petting K.C. with my hand.

No sooner than I began, K.C. reared back on his hind legs, the way horses always do in westerns before the cowboy on their back yells, “Yah!” and the horse hits the ground running. K.C. whinnied and dropped back down to the ground planting his teeth into my forehead, just above my right eyebrow. Dazed, I turned around and looked at my friends as if asking, “Did anyone see what that horse just did to me?” The looks on my friend’s faces was the answer to my expression.

My friend Dustin inched forward, “Tony…you’re…uh…you’re…bleeding.”

With the sleeve of my black and yellow jacket, the one my grandfather had embroidered for me at his shop, I touched my forehead. I looked at the sleeve to see how bad it was.

It was the most blood I had ever seen in my life.

(To be continued...)