Wednesday, November 29, 2006

The Snow Patrol - yes, it is as dumb as it sounds.

To: Derilicts and Drunkards
From: Ministry of Gonzo - Kansas City Bureau
Re: Snow Editor

There are few events in life that will casue total strangers to crowd around a televison set for hours on end.

Today, the newsroom came to a halt and we observed a moment of internal silence only shortly before being barked into action by our fearless leaders willing to jump head first in to this disaster.

We were agile, nimble and ready to strike back at this vile happenstance that befouled Kansas City this day.

It is snowing. This is our 9/11.

It was the perfect storm that took our city violently and left us walking funny for the rest of the day. Rain - to sleet- to snow and then nothing but 10 degrees the rest of the day.

In its pure brilliance and quick thinking, the higher lords here designed a team known as The Snow Patrol to cover the impending death and destruction that is inherent in a snow story

Not only was their organizatioanl prowess on dispaly, but so was the publisher's ability to lable the gay troupe of reporters, editors and copy deskies after an Irish Punk band that has tried to hard to sound like John Mayer or the next Sister Hazle.

There is only room for one vaugly-homosexual frat band in my CD changer and that spot is taken by U2.

But this was not about good music, this was about the music being played by the reporters who had to talk to people in the rain - which was no one - and report on the car crashes in the area - which was everyone.

Leading The Snow Patrol was one man who was dubbed the The Snow Writer who re-wrote all the graphs and vignettes from the Snow Patrol and sent them to the Snow Editor which then went directly to the Snow Desk. From there it was laid out by the Snow Paginator for our special section on the snow titled, SNOW KILLS 45: Is this our Columbine?

I wish I was making this up.

Be vigilant, be aware, be ready to strike at a moment's notice. With the two terrorist factions, Hydrogen and Oxygen, coming together in an icy rage, we areall doomed.

Doomed to have my story pushed off the front page becasue some 3-year-old whore was doing snow angles in her front yard.

Fear not, comrades, we will get through this. We will prevail.

Do not cut and run!

Monday, November 20, 2006

I broke into the old apartment.

This is where we used to live.

This is where some of the most bizrre people came together in a two year orgy of booze, drugs and stripers with bo staffs, to sing the priases of a god that never existed.

A god that we preached would dsave us if we could ponly finish that entire tray of jello shots before the end of the night.

We screamed of a religion that wanted to warp every mind that crossed the thresh hold of this building and partook in the madness.

We grabed the wrist of every open mind and threw down, cursed it, brutlaized it and raped it until it knew that rose colored glasses are not how you view the world.

But tonight...tonight, We were locked out.

We had come from jsut about every cardinal direction to once again stoke the fires and throw rocks at the windows of convential wisdom.

But in our absence they had borded up the windos and pad locked the front door, chancged the combination and brought in the welcome mat.

Who were we now, but drunks loose on the streets with no where to go?

Looking across the face and hearing the sotires, none of us were doing well in the real world.

We went out in the world expecting our energy and determniation to keep us going, but sitting at that table looking around we had failed. We had come back to nurse our wounds and tell our stories of how life has given up the raw deal.

Only, it was not raw, it had been cooked to perfection and force fed to us. We were suckers to eat up and sell out.

Oly-oly Oxen Free, The Berg was home base and we were hiding out there for the night.

The Temple was Closed for business. All that are left now are the sleeper cells that infest this country from sea to sea.

Lying on my back in the allyway after falling it was pretty clear. Going back again was not an option - unless I wanted to face the new guard that stood at the city limits with their baseball bats waitning, watching.

Fearing the day that we return. But when we do, we simply fall. Slip on a glossy face of a product being sold to that same crowd that forced us out.

We left willingly hoping the new crowd would keep things the way we left them. But they robbed our graves and cut off all communication - half expecting, it seems, that we would dry up and stay home rubbing ointment on our sore musscles.

I gave up a long time ago. THis is about going through the motions until somehting better comes along. Only now those motions will have to consist of me not moving my lower back.

It will consist of me, i suppose, giving into the enivetiable and jsut lying back and take it.

I guess I was asking for it.