The wells of my eyes
Were dry;
The waters of time,
Dripped away
And dry my eyes remained.
Until that day
When I first took in the mountains;
For they reminded me of my massive and muscular arms.
Before me was a lake as calm as a mirror.
My sculpted triceps twitched involuntarily,
(As if angry at being confined)
And my shirt sleeves rolled themselves up, neatly.
Was that the water or my pythons rippling?
So moving was the sight of my brawny pipes,
That, weeping, I fell on my back,
And rapidly flexed at the sun
Until it retreated behind the mountains.
The moon dared not emerge
To guide me home,
And so I made my own way,
Led by the light
Of my blazing guns.

Bemidji, MN- In a competition normally dominated by small dogs it was the underdog, rather than a canine, that took home the title. Billings, a 2 year-old ostrich, and his trainer Tim Grass won the Golden Leg in this year's National Pole Humping Championships with a decisive 29-7 final round victory over fan favorite bull-terrier Maximilian and renowned trainer Remy Higginbotham. It was the first time in the 79 year history of the NPH Championships that a bird walked away with the title, and the first victory by a non-dog since 1985. The pro-dog crowd of 23,000 at Paul Bunyan Stadium looked on in stunned silence as the unranked and unseeded ostrich decidedly outhumped his opponent.

Billings had already made history earlier in the week when he became the first bird of any kind to qualify for the elimination round but no one, including his trainer, expected his run to last through Thursday night.
"Honestly, we didn't have a lot of expectations coming in," Grass said to reporters shortly after the award ceremony. "At the same time, I knew Billings had a lot of hump in him, and when he got going he wasn't to be denied. Once we made the field of 16, I knew we had a shot."

Indeed, Billings seemed to carry the momentum from previous matches directly into the final, where he took an early lead at the first humping pole and never looked back. Although Maximilian, 6, seemed to match the ostrich in both Vigor and Force early on, Billings was utterly dominant in the third category, "Overall Creepiness". As the match went on Billings steadily distanced himself from the bull-terrier, who appeared to be thrusting half-heartedly by the 12th and final pole.

It was a heartbreaking setback for Maximilian who as recently as 2006 was considered one of the top humpers in the nation. After failing to reach the finals in three straight seasons despite top seeding and then shockingly missing the cut in 2007, this was an opportunity for redemption.
"You'd like to think we'll be back here again, that we'll have another shot at it next year," said a dejected Higginbotham during the post-match press conference. "But you just never know. . . This one stings. We thought we could get it done and it didn't happen for us." This latest setback will likely fuel speculation that Maximilian, a naturally gifted humper who has come up short in several big matches, lacks the killer-instinct necessary to win a championship.
"I don't know what to say about that," said Higginbotham when asked about his dog's drive. "I believe he has it in him. If I didn't I wouldn't be training him. Other than that, it is what it is. People can say what they want." Higginbotham himself may be in jeopardy of losing his job as trainer, despite leading Maximilian to his first championship match. He declined to comment on his job status.
"I feel for Max and Remy," Grass said. "Any other year, they probably take this thing. But Billings was on a mission today. Today is Billings' day and I'm just proud to be along for the ride."

The Billings camp also dealt with its share of controversy. During the later rounds of the Championship scrutiny from experts, fans and even other trainers concerning Billings' Creepiness scores began to surface. One trainer, speaking on condition of anonymity, argued, "Ostriches aren't seen as frequently at major tournaments as most animals and the judges don't know how to score [Billings] for Creepiness." He added, "Are they creeped out because he's got creepy technique, or are they creeped out because he's an ostrich?" Billings set a tournament record for single category dominance winning in Creepiness at 68 out of a possible 72 poles in his 6 total matches, a remarkable 94% clip. That bested the record of Bubs McPherson; the legendary Chuhuahua took the Vigor category at 89% of his poles in 1991 on the way to the first of 6 consecutive titles. Grass acknowledged that Billings may have had an advantage in Creepiness, but downplayed it saying,
"Any competition that is scored by judges is going to have its share of controversy. All I know is I'm proud of my ostrich. Advantage or no, you still have to go out there and hump those poles, and Billings did that, and he did a damn good job of it."

In the final match Billings proved that he was far from a one-dimensional humper. Not only did he sweep all 12 poles in Creepiness, he solidly won the other categories as well, drawing winning scores 8 times in Vigor and 9 times in Force. And don't count the runner-up trainer as one of Billings' detractors.
"The Ostrich wanted it more, simple as that," Higginbotham stated. "You can talk about records, advantages, judging, what have you. But this competition is about want-to and the other animal wanted it more. We'll just try to learn from this and pick it up next season."

Contoversey or no, Billings and Grass must be applauded for employing a gameplan that emphasized the bird's natural creepiness and often seemed to catch opponents off-guard. In a sequence that seemed to sum up Billings' improbable run to glory, the ostrich humped the second Championship pole so creepily that he actually appeared to creep himself out; the bird lingered awkwardly and was slow to respond to the transition bell. Yet he was able to recover and quickly dart to the third pole, which he humped vigorously while staring directly into the eyes of the judges.
"The stare-down is a big risk, especially in a championship match," Grass admitted, "but it was Bill-bill's call and he was feeling it, so I gave him the nod. If you're gonna do it, especially on that field, the 3rd pole is the place to try it because the judges' table is right in the line of sight. He was feeling confident, so we went for it. You have to dare them to love you." And love him they did. After that gutsy stare-down the judges were especially kind to Billings, awarding him 23 of the 27 remaining points as the improbable ostrich coasted into the history books.

I sincerely appreciate all of the wonderful movies you make and the hard work of your actors, writers, producers, directors, designers et. al. But Hollywood, I do have a request that I need to make, and I ask that you take it seriously. You see, every time I see a falling bridge scene (FBS) in a movie, a little part of me dies. And I need you to stop. Just stop. There was a time when the FBS was suspenseful. But, just like with anything else, there comes a time when it is better to let go and that time has long since arrived. As far as Action/Adventure movies are concerned it seems as if the FBS is inserted as a matter of course; as if it is an essential element of the genre. I assure you, it is not.

Especially in the suddenly numerous Fantasy/Adventure movies I have found the falling bridge scene to be unnecessary at best, and a major annoyance at worst.
In Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, for example, Frodo, Gandalf & company are in constant danger. The inches away from death suspense, so essential to Adventure movies, is accomplished in many creative ways throughout the story. So why, in between battling a Cave Troll and fleeing from hundreds of Orcs and a Balrog, was it necessary to insert a lengthy scene in which the party navigates a crumbling bridge!? The answer, it seems, is that the FBS has somehow become an absolute necessity of the Adventure movie. How else can we justify the considerable chunk of time devoted the the FBS in Fellowship of the Ring? After all, this is a film that a) had little room to spare in squeezing Tolkein's exquisite storyline into a few short hours and b) was already fraught with suspense. A more recent Fantasy/Adventure film The Golden Compass also contains an irrelevant FBS, which failed to create any added suspense whatsoever.

Now, Hollywood, if you absolutely insist on continuing to use the FBS, or other inches away from death moments of its like (teetering on the ledge of a tall building, grasping on to a high rope, etc.) please, I beg of you, use them sparingly. And if possible connect them directly to the plot. Simply cutting and pasting them in just reminds me "HEY, YOU ARE WATCHING AN ADVENTURE MOVIE. IN CASE YOU FORGOT, HERE'S A SCENE WITH A PERILOUS BRIDGE. DO YOU THINK [insert name(s) here] WILL MAKE IT ACROSS? STAY TUNED TO FIND OUT!" And I just don't need that all the time, it takes me out of the story.

And while I'm on the subject of cutting and pasting, why is the Cave Troll in Harry Potter the exact same Cave Troll from Lord of the Rings? I would imagine that two different fictional worlds would yield two different looking Cave Trolls. But maybe that's just me.

Thanks very much for your consideration, Hollywood. I just felt the need to get that out there.

Affectionately Yours,

When the talons of the winged thing
Grapple you like a big man
And throw you to the ground like a salty pancake
The worms will not befriend you.

When the winged thing bellows at you
Like a cowboy on an elephant
You will probably cry like a snowman under the sun.

So before you melt away
Whistle a tune,
Slow and simple enough to last,

And cling to that moment,
Wrap your eight arms around it
Like an arachnid,
And with your final strength,
Poop a web.

Ahoy Elephant cowboy! Ahoy!
This vessel is for thee!

Reader's comments on NATHONIUS.COM have been disabled due to the prevalence of spam and abuse on this website. NATHONIUS.COM intends to enable comments again in the future, possibly with added security measures which may include: Requirement of a secret password in order to post comments, background checks of would-be commenters, satellite monitoring, spying, placement of microchips and/or other homing devices on the persons or property of commenters with or without notice, knowledge or approval and other methods which cannot be disclosed. Those who attempt to post comments on NATHONIUS.COM now or in the future do so at their own risk. NATHONIUS.com shall not be liable for any injury, physical, mental, emotional or otherwise to those who post comments, their families or those with whom they come in contact, which results from the above mentioned security measures. NATHONIUS.COM shall not be liable for any general feeling of uneasiness that arises in those who post comments on this site, their families and those with whom they come in contact, resulting from shadowy figures that seem to follow their every step speaking in hushed tones and then slip away into the ominous night, leaving no trace save an imminent feeling of peril and dread that strangles the heart from within. Email support@nathonius.com for a list of complete terms and conditions. All rights reserved.

1. PASSING:

a) In general if you wish to pass another vehicle pass definitively.
b) Do NOT multitask while you are passing another vehicle (e.g. pass someone, scream profanities and eat your turkey dinner all at the same time).
c) During rush hour it is NOT acceptable to create a new lane on the right in order to pass people. Everyone is in a hurry and you are slowing other people down by trying to illegally merge into traffic. Jerk.

2. CUTTING PEOPLE OFF

a) If you need to cut into traffic always enter with the maximum amount of space possible. It is rarely necessary to truly cut someone off (i.e. to the point where they need to slam their breaks to avoid hitting you). Hit the gas! Accelerating quickly is not against the law. When turning onto a busy street you should accelerate to the estimated speed of traffic as quickly as possible without looking like a drag racer. And guess what, if necessary, go ahead and be a drag racer for 3 seconds of your life.

b) In the event that you do cut someone off don't add insult to injury by pooping along at 12 miles per hour. Yes, they already hate you, but that's not an excuse to become suddenly distracted by your cranberry sauce and poop around like a fat worm.

3. SLOW-MOTION RIGHT TURN

a) NEVER, I repeat NEVER perform a Slow-Motion Right Turn. There never has been, nor shall there ever be, any cause for a slow motion right turn on any roadway.
b) A Slow-Motion Right Turn slows down traffic unncecessarily.
c) A Slow-Motion Right Turn makes you look lost.

4. APPROPRIATE RESPONSES TO A SLOW-MOTION RIGHT TURN

a) A loud and sustained honk.
b) Pass the vehicle while shaking your fist (Note: this is a justifiable exception to rule 1b).
c) Throw a canoe paddle at the vehicle while yelling "Why don't you take your boat down to the lake!?"

5. TURNING LEFT

a) Signal as soon as possible when turning left to allow traffic behind you ample time to get in the other lane. (If you are familiar with your route and know that you will be turning left in from a street that has no turning lanes there is no excuse for not following this rule).

b) Since people are probably backed up behind you wating for you to turn, TURN! At the first resonable opportunity. You should be keenly aware of oncoming traffic and not using this time to make a phone call, change radio stations or eat your turkey dinner.

c) Though the Slow-Motion Left Turn is seen much less frequently than its twin, the Slow-Motion Right Turn, it is nonetheless equally apalling. There is no need to have a seperate section on the Slow-Motion Left Turn because even the most idiotic drivers are not stupid enough to stall in front of oncoming traffic. If you find yourself doing this, please accelerate quickly to get out of danger. Then step out of the car, throw your keys as far away as possible and resolve never to drive again. Then kick yourself in the face.

d) Oh, so you would like to turn left from one busy street onto another, but you find yourself in the right-hand lane . . . guess what . . . TOO BAD. Whatever appointment you're running late for isn't worth everyone else's time. So you MAY NOT, I repeat, MAY NOT come to a complete stop in the middle of traffic in order to get in left lane and make your precious turn. "But if you only knew my situation--" SHUT IT! Your only option is to keep going and turn at the next available intersection.

6. SIGNALING

a) Signal

b) Use the correct signal.

c) Don't assume that other drivers know where you are trying to go, especially since you are lost and don't know where you are going yourself.

SIMPLE LIST OF DOs AND DON'Ts

DO: Drive at the speed limit and/or with the flow of traffic.
DON'T: Speed past me like a flaming banshee.
DON'T: Coast in front of me (especially after you just cut me off) and slow down even more at every green light as if you are afraid it might turn yellow and then slam your breaks when one does turn yellow causing me to stop at a light I would have otherwise made easily.
DO: Take a Sunday drive ON SUNDAY, and preferable in your own culdesac or at least on streets with speed bumps.
DON'T: Take a Sunday drive on a weekday at 8:00 AM on busy streets or highways.
DO: Signal early and signal correctly.
DON'T: Signal right and turn left.
DON'T: Signal left, look both ways, signal right, begin a Slow-Motion Right Turn, hit your breaks, look both ways again and then complete your turn. Impossible is it may seem, it makes you look even more lost than you actually are.
DO: Know your route and think ahead when choosing lanes.
DON'T: Make up an imagainary lane on the right side of traffic and then try to merge like you're on the expressway. I'm not letting you in.

Here's hoping that this will help a little bit. If you have found this helpful, you should really thank Liz. She is the inspiration behind these rules, in fact she made up a lot of them.

You doubt?

Well here it is. Ponder it and weep with longing:

Jack Black (HARPSICHORD)
Janis Joplin (MOST MASSIVE CHURCH ORGAN EVER ASSEMBLED)
Wesley Willis (LEAD VOCALIST)
Mel Torme (BACKGROUND VOCALS and COWBELL)
Shakira (BACKGROUND VOCALS and TAMBOURINE)
William H. Macy (RECORDER)

Why these instruments, why these people? Well, for starters, the instruments are not the kind of instruments you would normally see in a band, but they all have one thing in common: A sort of grating dissonance. And if these instruments are played to their fullest potential, that dissonance will eventually lead to hidden harmonies, new and moving sounds that have never been conceived before.

The key of course is that each instrument is played full-out, with passion and with purpose. This is a band of heart and intensity, not a band of skill and "timing".

Imagine if you will, the first shrill note from William H. Macy's recorder. He plays with a stillness and concentration that rocks you like nightmare. Just one note, long as a river, scratching at your soul. Then, as you are about to lose your sanity, a tambourine chimes in and Shakira begins to hum and yodel. The power and beauty of her voice begin to entrance you, for a moment you are drawn only to her. The recorder fades into the background, it now begins to sound like a distant cry for help, perhaps irritating, but somehow forgivable against the soft rain of the tambourine. Then the jarring sound of a cowbell, impossibly loud--suddenly your head is ringing. In between clanks you hear a rich voice speak-singing in hushed tones, and although you want to laugh at it, it intrigues you, and so you lean in and listen. Somehow, Mel Torme seems to be reciting the most beautiful poems ever conceived, but you can't quite make them out amongst the other noise. That noise increases tenfold as Jack Black starts getting down on the harpsichord. He is oblivious to everything, rocking out like a mountain of soul. His harpsichord somehow sounds like an electric guitar and it begins smoking beneath his rampaging fingers. As the smoke begins to cloud the stage Wesley Willis kicks in with the vocals. Shouting with a strained intensity you have only seen in professional wrestlers, screaming profanities that you never knew existed. He is instantly a sweaty mess. Shakira's tambourine and Torme's cowbell seem to be competing now. Her yodeling intensifies as she tries to lend her support to Willis' now incoherent vocals. Torme still seems to be talking, but you can't tell if it's part of the song or if he's talking to his cowbell, which he is shaking violently and at an impossible pace. You look to see what William H. Macy is up to, but suddenly all your senses are rendered hapless. When you regain your vision you see Janis Joplin at the massive organ in a frenzied state of passion and bliss. You bravely take your hands off of your ears only to be bombarded by ten lifetimes of pain. Mercifully, the organ ceases. Joplin is content and only sways to the music. Your hearing begins to return and you think you can make out the sound of a crude drum...scanning the stage you find the source: Wesley Willis has wandered over to Jack Black and his harpsichord; The two of them are headbutting each other rapidly and with increasing force. And then, in a flash, the song falls into complete shambles and hiccups its way to a vague conclusion. Torme drops his cowbell on Shakira's foot. She lurches in pain and then tries to fade the sound of the tambourine out gradually.. Joplin stops swaying. Willis and Black get tired of headbutting each other and lose their inspiration. The noise has stopped, except for the ringing in your ears (which you doubt will ever go away). Wait...is that your ears ringing or is it...is it William H. Macy still playing the same note on the recorder? He is standing in the same position, and has been all along, so you can't quite tell. And somehow, not knowing is freeing to you, it awakens your spirit. The minutes pass, the band packs up and goes out the door, but William H. Macy is still there. The high pitched sound has not stopped. Your eyes meet his, and you can tell he is not going to leave until you leave. So you leave. And you wonder...

2) Always dwell on yesterday and you will never have to deal with any of today's problems until tomorrow. And by then you can't really do anything about them except dwell on them, so you aren't responsible.

3) He who has no aspirations knows only the numbness of listless existence, and therefore cannot feel failure's sting.

4) Even if there is "someone" out there who loves you and cares for you, there are probably billions more people who don't even know you exist, and couldn't care less about your happiness one way or the other.

5) Maybe vampires don't exist, but if you live with someone who seems to have his/her eye on your blood, there's no harm in driving a stake just a little ways into thier chest while they're sleeping to see how they react. If they begin to dissolve, or curse at you in a forgotten tongue, you've destroyed yourself an undead predator.

And now, some poems for your pains:

MISSIVE TO THE BEARDED MOUSE IN MY MIND

Why do you comb your beard like an old goat?
Why are your shoes as green as the Emerald City?
If I feign indifference, will you laugh and leave me to other musings?
Will you let me sleep?
Why is your beardcomb so yellow, so sharp?
Why are you playing the piano like an octopus with no rythm?
Why does your fanny pack mock me like a beaded curtain?
Why are you bellydancing with sun glasses on as your comb swoops gracefully through your beard?
Stop it!
Stop it I say, or teach me the secrets of your soul.

THE PERFECT STORY

Magical, comforting.
A story to send me dreaming, soaring, exploring
Hoping.
Always beginning with,
"Once upon a time
In a land far away"
Always ending with,
"And that's how you disembowel a walrus"

THE ORANGE IN THE CHERRY TREE

Why am I so large?
All of my friends are small, bite sized little morsels.
They mock me,
They look so tasty.
I hope they don't hear my stomach grumbling like a tornado.
That little man over there, he's sleeping.
I could digest him quite subtly.
I wouldn't even need to puncture his pretty red skin.
I could open up like a Venus Fly Trap
Sing to him
Make him sleepdance to my side.
I don't eat my friends.

Why am I on this cherry tree?

Unable to reconcile the earlier question of the mermaid, (see the entry "Do Mermaids Have Butts?" --Jan 6th-- for further info.) I wandered out onto my porch and gazed inquisitively at the sunset. As the sky's blue canvas deepened to black and the stars began to emerge, I noticed a second sun rising in the northern sky. Naturally, I assumed I was lying to myself--or just seeing things. Yet, upon looking again, the northern sun was still there, red and distant, an angry torch mocking my baffled mind. I was utterly bewildered and moderately agitated, so I went back into the house for a glass of yak milk to calm my nerves. When I went into the kitchen my agitation increased, for my Yak was nowhere to be found. I yelled for the milking boy, he did not answer. I bellowed for my yak, she gave no reply. In fact, no one at all gave any reply. I suddenly felt very alone, as if my whole estate had been deserted, as if I had unkowingly stepped into a time portal and been transported to a cold, lifeless future.
Not knowing what to do, I sat on the floor and stared at the ceiling--and that is when I was struck with an overwhelming feeling, an insistent pull from upstairs. Something was directly above me, I was sure of it, and though I've never been much of an intuitive, I followed my heart around the corner and up the spiral staircase that lead to the guest wing. All of the doors on the second level were flung open, and a thin layer of dust blanketed the creaky wooden floor. I was absolutely apalled. This was, after all, the guest wing. My servants knew better than to leave the guest rooms open and exposed to a drafty and inexcusably dusty hallway. Thomas-Lou, the Butler, would have chopped heads had he come across such a spectacle! Once I had managed to overcome my shock, I noticed that one of the doors was indeed closed. It was the door at the very end of the hallway, the door to the lounge. Of course! It was, in fact, the guest lounge that was directly above the kitchen. This was the room I had been drawn towards. Yes, yes . . . it all made sense. I began to calm down a bit. Perhaps Thomas-Lou was sick and the servants were slacking off. No need for alarm, I probably just hadn't been sleeping enough. The milking boy was probably in the guest lounge throwing darts, letting his little sister feed the yak while everybody played cards and gossiped. Yes, I was silly to think that my whole estate had been abandoned. I had been letting my earlier conversation with the mermaid get to me too much.

. . . or . . . had I?

I can't write more now. The experience I've been through the last few days has been . . . well, let us just say I need to take my time to process it. Shall it continue . . . ?

BRATLEY: Muga. Mungamunga, munga! Muggga mugga.
If the dreamer examines his pillow, why doesn't the beaver examine his DAMN
Face? Does he not see himself!?"
[The speed of BRATLEY's typing increases as he continues]

Muga, mungamunga.
There are forty five thousand thieves in the toilet.
It's high time we introduced them to MR CLEAN!!
Muga, mungamunga. Do my few remaining friends have any idea that I am beginning to resemble a beaver!?

[The speed of BRATLEY'S typing increases tenfold, nay, much more than that. Steam begins to rise from the typwriter. BRATELY begins to cry]

You silly typewriter . . .(With insane rage) LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE!!! NOW I MUST EXTINGUISH YOU!!! I TRUSTED YOU!!!

[BRATLEY removes his tophat and pulls a ridiculously large hammer out of it. He uses the hammer to smash a hole in the wall of his apartment building. He sticks his beaverish head through the hole in the wall and bellows to his neighbor]

Stunkus! Stunkus! Loan me your fire extinguisher!

STUNKUS [offstage] Loan me your sandals!

BRATLEY: FIRE EXTINGUISHER!!! NOW!!!

STUNKUS [walking through the hole. He is a tiny man.] Close this hole. What's wrong with you? Hey, hold on . . . is it just me or are you beginning to look like some kind of . . .

BRATLEY: What?

STUNKUS: of . . . well, you just look . . .

BRATLEY: Say it, Stunkus!

STUNKUS: You, you, you, you, you look a . . . a bit like a . . . a

BRATLEY: A BEEEEEEEAVER!!!!!??

STUNKUS: Don't come near me! You should fear me. Look at me. Look how tiny and strange I am! I'm a strange little man, Bratley. A strangle little man that puts munchkins and all other strange little scary things to shame. You should think twice before you make another hole in my wall.

BRATLEY: It's my wall too!

STUNKUS. Well, anyway, there's no fire, so I don't know why you called me over here. Watch your back, Beavis. [exits through the hole in the wall]

BRATLEY: My name is Bratley. DAMN YOU!

STUNKUS: [offstage] Yeah, I bet you WOOD like to dam me, wouldn't you, you disgusting, beaver-like weirdling! Only I'm not a river! Why don't you go and talk to your friend Mr. Mississippi!?

BRATLEY: [to himslef] Calm, calm, stay calm. I am not a werebeaver. There is no such thing. I am a man. A man and nothing else. I'm at a point in my life where my body is going though a lot of changes. I may be experiencing new emotions and feelings, and that is okay. This is perfectly healthy for a thirty-nine year old. [BRATLEY absent mindedly wanders to the fireplace, grabs a log out of it and begins nibbling on it as he continues.]
Well, well, well. Wump, lungfish . . . take a chance on the old times. That's what I say. That's what I say.
My gosh, I haven't slept for three days! Three . . . days.

[BRATLEY munches on his wooden log as the lights fade, very, very slowly, to black]

So before you read on, pick one of the three catagories, get an image in your mind of a specific person . . . and you may begin:

YOU

I'd like to make a YOU turn
Onto the highway that leads to
You being with me.
And once I get on that highway
I'll never look for an off ramp,
But I will slow down for the construction
Of a lasting relationship.
And I'll pay the tolls.
As long as those tolls aren't you telling me that
You don't love me the way I love you.
You, you, you, you,
I love you, and without you,
My soul would wilt like a flower in winter.
Water me.
Water me or I will die.

SUNRISE MY SWEET

Before I met you, the sun looked like a grape.
Now the sun looks like a mass of flames.
Speaking of flames,
Have you felt the heat of the flames
Of my love for you?
Assuming you have, did it make you uncomfortable?
If not, would you please fan those flames
With the constant reasurrance that you also love me?
Although you probably don't love me,
Because nobody ever has,
I have this irrational hope that perhaps you could be the one,
To finally bring a little light to my pathetic life,
To love me for who I am,
And believe in me,
Even though I don't believe in myself,
Because I'm not actually sure if I exist
Or if I'm the figment of someone else's imagination.

A LITTLE LOVE RECIPE

One cup of sweet thoughts,
A few sprinkles of laughter,
A smattering of kisses,
A pinch of disaster,
A spoonfull of recovery,
A few pints of forgiveness,
A dash of damnation,
Another pint of forgiveness.

This is a recipe
For a love strong and true.
If you'll be my Iron Chef,
I'll be your surprise main ingredient.

I LIKE YOU

You have taken my heart.
Give it back!
But you can't just give it back,
It belongs to you!
So the only way for me to get my heart back,
Is for you to belong to me!
Be mine, be mine,
Cause my heart is yours.

Your eyes are multifaceted
Like diamonds.
You are wonderful
Like the sky at sunset.
Those are just two of the reasons why I like you.

I'll tell you a hundred and one
More reasons why I like you
If you promise to be mine forever.
Do the math, sweet owner of my heart,
Do the math.
That's a total of one-hundred and three
Reasons why I love you.

[Note. If you didn't think those were funny, pretend Sean Connery is reading the poems to you]

**the examples used to help illustrate category 1) are NOT a reflection of people that Nathan Davis was ever romantically interested in. They may, however, be a reflection of people that his friends and/or family were romantically interested in.

Which brings me back to the story of my first and last day as a FAI: Never have I been so utterly underappreciated; not to mention humiliated, embarrassed and, quite literally, shat upon. I think the basic problem was that nobody really knew what I was doing. Perhaps I should have explained my "act" (as it were) in some way, but my plan going in was to let observers figure out for themselves what I was doing. I knew they would find it weird at first, but I expected people to flock around me and begin a spontaneous guessing game. They would notice, first of all, that I was not pretending to be a human or recognizable animal. They would notice my apparent lack of a spine, and the mindless, yet organic quality of my movements. Finally, someone would observe a seeming weightlessness surrounding my being and blurt out "Amoeba! Amoeba! He's an Amoeba!" The crowd would cheer, perhaps begin repeating a chant of "AMEEEEEEBA! AMEEEEEEEEEBA!" and work themselves into a nearly insatiable frenzy. Then and only then would I stand and take a few modest bows, humbly accepting donations for my performance before moving on to the next location.

But that was a dream, a vision. Reality proved colder than the grizzled maw of Winter. It was in fact a cold day, which threw my plan off from the start. I had daydreamed the idea while in a warm room. And in my daydream it was springtime, students filled the quad and street gangs lunched on the soft grasses. But I decided not to let a minor detail like the weather upset my chosen course. I arrived in front of the Student Union at noon and began immediately, as planned. My only potential audience was too busy rushing to get out of the cold to take much notice of me. After an hour my legs and arms were completely numb, save the occasional shooting pains that ran through my bones like tiny bullets.

Ultimately, though, it was the complete lack of any support from anybody whatsoever that convinced me to stop. Usually if you're involved in the arts you can do something abstract and experimental and count on a few strange minded people to be there for you and offer their encouragement. But, in this case, that was completely lacking. At no time did anybody say or do anything whatsoever that could have been interpreted as complimentary. People taunted me throughout my performance. A guy wearing a cape laughed at me and called me a weirdo. I resigned to get up and walk away at that point, but since all of my limbs were numb and partially frozen I had to curl into a fetal position for a few minutes to gather up enough warmth and energy to stand. I looked up at the sky, hoping to find some measure of solace in the brightness of the sun, and it was then that the only bird that hadn't flown south for the winter hovered over me and, using the last of its remaining energy, shat upon my face. Its life force spent, the bird fell to the ground beside me and died as I began weeping (not for the bird, for myself). Unfortunately, it was so cold that when I wiped my tears away they had become tiny icicles, which scratched and stabbed my eyes.

So, although I'm not the kind of person who would just give up on his dreams because he had a bad day, I chose to retire after less than two (2) hours as a FAI. Thanks for the suggestion, Husayn. I know you meant well.

My teachers probably do have a point. I mean I wouldn't doubt that there are lots of college students sitting in classes that they hate, or studying for tedious midterms, who would love to get a degree by playing pretend instead. But look at it from my perspective. In class I have more than once thought to myself, 'I could be learning about the affects globalization on the world economy, or comparing Kant and Aristotle, or acquiring vocational skills that have the potential to earn me money some day. But I'm here instead, rolling around on the floor pretending to be an amoeba.'

Seriously though, there are a lot of great things about going to school for the arts. The best of them being that it really forces you to use your imaginative powers. And imagination is, to use an understatement, awesome. It's really what separates humans from other animals. And the more I learn about different strands of knowledge, the more I realize how similar they are, fundamentally. On the surface, one might think that scientists and artists are on completely opposite ends of the proverbial spectrum. But great scientists and artists and philosophers and doctors all rely heavily on the imagination. The ability to think beyond what is already understood, proven or accepted is essential if any new progress is to be made.

So please, whatever your career path seems to be at the moment, don't let it confine you in the rat infested hallway of narrow self definition. The deeper our knowledge in one subject the greater our understanding of reality and, therefore, of all other subjects. I really do want to know everything, and I actually think that might be possible, or at least more possible than it generally appears to be.

"Knowledge is a single point which the ignorant have multiplied." -Baha'u'llah