bust city

January can go to hell; everyone knows that late-February to mid-March is the psychological nadir of the year. People with SAD should have checked and re-checked their overhead beams and rope strengths a thousand times already. 

Still, it does have one enduring bright spot: the anniversary of Buster Douglas knocking out Mike Tyson in Japan, twenty three years ago today. 

Why do I continue to be compelled by this event? Because it might just be the perfect example of a person getting it together, in the truest sense, to overcome himself, transcend himself, to stand immaculate in one ne plus ultra moment, and completely achieve his potential. 

I wrote an essay about it, published in Palooka magazine. The editor even submitted it to the Pushcart Prize.(1)

You can read it here.

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Big snow day on Friday. Shutting the city down. Inspiring some art work, and an audio post.

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Because of all the snow, I couldn't do my usual early morning grocery run. Ugh. I mean, there's bad skin and then there's No Frills on a Saturday afternoon. Can acne smell like stale smoke? I think it can. O -- and a shout-out to the woman who looked like a lost, traumatized Carol Pope: are you really Carol Pope? and if so, are you lost?

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I have a button with a picture of Vlad the Impaler on it. The other night, Oona asked me who it was. It's Jesus, I said. Look at his nice beard.

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(1) Bust city! But that editor had to learn, just like everyone else.