Thanks Mom

Transmitter wrote this in the wee hours:

There’s nothing like a holiday spent with family to remember why I’m so crazy. I feel like Frankenstein, a genderless conglomeration of obsessive compulsive manic depression. In a manic fit I’ll color code and organize everything in sight, then tear it all apart and leave it in a depressing heap.

Despite the even split (three sons and three daughters) my maternal family is quite imbalanced. Each one has their own manifestation of obsessive compulsive and bipolar disorders. The family all together is a fantastic site. They all feed and goad each other, toying with the seesaw of sanity. My grandma was the family fulcrum. Somehow she held everyone together.

I just lean back in my chair and finish another glass of wine. I barely notice that the potatoes need more salt.

Emote For Fuck’s Sake

Transmitter wrote this in the late evening:

Fucking fuck! I fucking hate motherfucking emoti-fucking-cons. Just seeing those little yellow pimples marring the face of discourse makes me feel like I’m vomiting through my eyes. Fucking less than three, semicolon parenthesis – fuck. Shouldn’t your words express your emotions? Can’t you communicate without resorting to bizarre combinations of punctuation? And, like piss on an open wound you fail to use punctuation anywhere else.

I understand the desire for brevity when trying to reply quickly in an instant message, but our conversations have been reduced to emoticons and acronyms. Who actually says laughing out loud? That phrase is even too outlandish for a 50’s sitcom. Technology is driving our verbal skills back in time. Emoticons are like the caveman grunts of the internet. Emoticons and acronyms are not forms of communicating; they’re stock responses. I’d rather you say nothing at all than reply with an acronym or make up for a lack of expressive vocabulary with an emoticon.

Just Roll It Around a Little

Transmitter wrote this just before lunchtime:

Clearly the story of Sisyphus endlessly rolling the rock up the mountain is a metaphor for sucking your own dick. Try as you might you’ll never reach the tip…um, top. We’re doomed to spend the rest of our lives rolling around on our backs trying to bring ourselves pleasure.

And If That Bird Won’t Sing

Transmitter wrote this at around evening time:

I will sing your song. I will listen closely and imitate. Note for note I’ll echo you, but I won’t lose my own song. Like the mocking bird I’ll sing your song inside my own. I will create a new song. A better song. I will mock you and all the ones before you as my song grows longer and more intricate.

At the 66 with Philllip

Transmitter wrote this in the early evening:

popped the fuel door
to find a moth
eating holes in my cap
sucking on gasoline

the in and out
chafing my
credit card
getting approval
from the tower

low octane
number 87
flowing through a

two o’ nine
a gallon
that dead moth
had a nice
last meal


Transmitter wrote this in the early morning:


Oft the warning signs are right in front of us. My first apprehension of my hotel was the smell that hit me across the face and then slithered deep inside my nostrils as I opened the door. A thick myst of cleaning procucts, stale smoke, and sex occupied my first floor room. When my head finally shook off the odorous cloud, I tepidly reached for the light switch. The light barely illuminated the dank room. At first I thought the orange glow was coming from the low-watt light bulb, but then I rounded the corner and saw the orange bed spread. I like the color orange. The bed spread was not a likeable color. It was a mixture of salmon and maroon, a nice shade of vomit (the kind produced from a night of too much pizza and beer). I turned the light off and crawled into the, now muted, lumpy salmon. Too bad I can still smell in the dark.

Do You Have Anything to Say?

Transmitter wrote this in the early evening:

It used to be that people were rated by their ability to communicate, produce, or contribute. A song was more than a catchy beat; it was a piece of a art, a protest, a lesson. Even the aimless wanderer had meaning. The question wasn’t, “Is it good,” but “Do they have something to say?”

When I meet strangers and new people I want to ask them what their story is. I want to know where they came from and where they’re going. I want to know what they’ve learned. I want their experiences. I want them to have something to say.