Wednesday, March 15, 2006

The Shaman

It was dark as I drove the point home
and on cold leather seats
well, it suddenly struck me
I just might die with a smile on my
face after all

There is a theory that there is a Smiths song for every occasion. This, of course, assumes that every occasion is fraught with impending doom and awash with infinite despair. Stephen sings songs about finding love, losing love, doubting the existence of love, love of sodomy, the bleak absence of love, abandonment by those you love, bicycles, gloves, shoplifting, sleep, smoking and meat.

Not everyone was a fan of the Smiths. That's OK. I insist upon maintaining respect for those in the Lounge who dissent from the prevailing opinions. However, if you were youthful and alive in the last two decades of the 20th century, and you couldn't find at least one morose Morrissey/Marr tune to relate to, then you are probably a soul-less zombie, and must be destroyed... Optimally, with fire.

Recently, a friend of mine observed that, like the Smiths, I actually seem to have a story for every occasion. Did you accidentally find a man in a wheelchair performing fellatio? Lose your religion? Discover a long-lost sibling? Sure, I've got a story for you.

However, the more I think about this phenomenon, the more I recall that Northern Exposure episode where Ed believes that he has a calling to become a shaman. The old cynical soon-to-retire shaman, disgusted by the white-man's obsession with Hollywood drivel, explains to Ed that the wisdom of the tribe is contained in its stories.

So, maybe that's it. Perhaps I am not only your bartender, confessor, ring-master and friend. Perhaps I am also your shaman. Got a problem? I probably have a story for you.


  1. Fair enough:

    Monkeys. Specifically monkeys that steal my lunch. I hate ‘em.

    Now spill the story.

  2. Oh Inog,

    Your tale of simian woe reminds me of the time when I was an astronaut. It was the funniest thing, seems my deep-space vessel crash landed on an alien planet ruled by intelligent, but malevolent, apes.

    After leading a small band of sapiens to freedom, I discovered that the alien planet was in fact future Earth...

    Well, I hope my little tale helped you deal with your loss of lunch.

  3. Hey Brian, tell me about the time you changed a colostomy bag.

  4. I have some allegorical diaper changing stories for you. Did I ever tell you the one about the shit stream?

  5. Brian smith11:37 AM

    Tell me a story about the hunting dog named zeke and you must include the word disemboweled.

  6. Zeke... Zeke... Oh, right, there was that time I escaped from prison in Mississippi.

    After winning the prison camp egg-eating contest, my mother came ot visit me. she was feeling poorly and my uncle Nedwin had to bring her in the back of his hay truck.

    Ma died shortly thereafter and the Warden put me in the Box over night to keep me from running.

    Well, I ran nonetheless, and they sent their best coon-hound, Zeke, after me. However, I was able to hypnotize Zeke and trained him to fetch nutria for me from yonder pond. I would disembowel the wet rodents and make soup of them for Zeke and me. We lived that way until I was able to change my name and move to Portland.

  7. Anonymous2:44 PM

    well done

  8. Horseshit liar. You have no uncle Nedwin.

  9. Well, no, not since Uncle Nedwin became Auntie Nelliander

  10. a reader losing patience8:47 PM

    Ooh, tell me the one about how you fucked with the format of your blog so much that it became distracting for your readers. In fact, tell me the one about how the whole thing started to have that hackish myspace / GRAB look like it was produced by a 14 year old girl and became annoying as fuck.

    Yeah, tell me that one. I want to see how it ends (though I have a pretty good idea).

  11. Dear Reader Losing Patience:

    Thank you for your costructive comments. As always, the Lounge continues to expand and evolve. As you may recall, the ugly olive-green was actually the third layout, following the halloween orange and the space-age polka-dot original.

    It is my hope to create a visually stimulating, yet somewhat refined reader-friendly atmosphere.

    That having been said, What the hell kind of fucktard are you? Distracting? It's dark font on WHITE for christsake! The background bubbles are pale, yet effervescent. You must be 7-kinds of stupid, or just missing the taste gene. Are your parents siblings? You need to put down the crack pipe before posting your comments.

    Thanks again for your contribution.

  12. Heh Heh. Bri accusing someone of missing the taste gene. Classic. Good going, sweater vest boy.

  13. Uncle Nedwin8:23 PM

    I miss you Boy

  14. a reader losing patience7:28 PM

    Mea culpa. I am a fucktard. I'll stop complaining about the layout and enjoy the witty, always informative banter the you inspire.

    Actually, I'm princess leah in disguise. I was hoping to avoid getting rightfully verbally pounded for being so self-involved, shallow and vapid that the only thing I have to talk about is the bun in the oven. Unless I'm falling back on my predictable jab at your vests.


Be compelling.

Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.