Shallow Graves

(A Maudlin Country Song)

Listen to the graves and the graves are bawling,
sad and tearful ‘cus no one’s calling
their names.
They’re forgotten just the same.

The dead still love the ones who didn’t
pay attention when they were in it;
neglectful takers whose appreciation,
ignored syncopation.

Listen to stones weeping under the willows
sad and lonesome with dirt for pillows.
Cedar-sheltered from pouring rain,
they’re drowning just the same.

The dead are devoted most entirely
to imperfect moments between soulless bodies,
to lover’s with empty recollections
of the coffin’s collections.

Doesn’t really matter if they found love truly,
rightly, thusly or over-duly,
dead tears are shed for the callous wasters,
for love’s criminal erasures.

I Think I'll Treat Myself

Automobiles. In America it's practically essential to own and operate one. To get from Point A to Point B it takes more than just a straight line. Moving along is no longer a matter of perambulating on foot or whipping your oxen. Travel and transport are ruled by the automobile.

Automobiles under my care have a habit of exploding. [Children under my care often have this same trouble, but this post isn't about babies bursting, it's about my relationship with Henry Ford et al.]

When I was 16 I got my driver's license from Al Salazar. It's gauche to say anything bad about the departed, but Al was a terrible teacher. He couldn't have cared less whether his students knew how to drive or not. Al's driver's ed course consisted of: one two hour course in which we watched Red Asphalt; and four turns behind the wheel. Despite my being unable to parallel park, I convinced Al to issue my license anyway. He did. And a few weeks later I had a New Mexico driver's license. And on that license, I had blue hair.

My first car was a nasty-gold Hyundai hatchback that I bought from a mechanic my father deemed honest. The car had sullied fabric, barely went 50 miles an hour and lasted me less than a year. I was 17 when I bought this car and before I was 18 the engine seized up like a stroke victim and died. My father and I took the car to the mechanic we had purchased it from. He took one look at the feeble machine and estimated that years of abuse had damaged the engine beyond repair. We reminded him that it was from him that we had purchased the car not 12 months before and that it could not have been me that put years of abuse on the engine. The mechanic momentarily feigned amnesia and unconvincingly said, "Well, maybe I spoke too soon..."

My first year in college I didn't have a car, but the summer after my freshman year my parents gave me their old Subaru Wagon. Needless to say this was not a stylish car but it did have character, a tape deck, and a turbo engine. Unfortunately, it also had a combustability issue and on a hot day driving north from Albuquerque the radiator blew wide open with the sound and white spew of a bag of popcorn. I had the car towed to a garage my father deemed reputable but proved to be otherwise. The mechanics at the garage first claimed to have done some engine repairs, then claimed to have not yet started the engine repairs, and later amended their story by saying that they had indeed done the repairs and we owed them several hundred dollars. For obvious reasons, we were incredulous of the repair estimates. The mechanics took our car hostage because we refused to pay for repairs that hadn't been made, and rightly so. I never saw the Subaru again.

As I was working out of town for the summer I needed a car and I needed one fast. So my dad and I went to a dealership and picked out a 1994 Mazda Protege. It cost us just over $4,000. It ran like a charm, got great gas mileage, and never leaked oil. Once in a while, when the weather got cold, the horn would go off on its own, and maybe there was a minor electrical problem or two, but the Mazda and I had a relationship. I understood it. I treated it with respect and it took me where I needed to go. It didn't backtalk, fuss or blow gaskets. But while I was studying abroad in Spain, my mother hired our neighbor to do a few minor repairs to the Mazda. Instead, he drilled hole clear through the radiator. Then my mother had the car repaired by an old hippy who I swear had more acid in his spine than a kaffir lime. He was coherent enough to install the radiator properly, but too whacked out to attach the hose connecting the radiator to the engine. By the time I noticed the engine wasn't receiving coolant I had driven my little Mazda 10 miles, and I imagine that the damage to my parched engine was irreparable.

After this incident, the Mazda leaked oil. It overheated. It became bitter and angry. It ran for a few more years, but it eventually pooped out on me while driving cross country.

I went a few years without a car, relying on friends or public transportation to tote me around. But now that I've moved to a new place and am starting a new life (the old one was growing wearisome and filled with troubled memories) I've invested in an automobile. My father says a car is not an "investment" because you will never make money off of it, only lose money. I'm sure he's right. But I bought a new car anyway. A BRAND new car. And it looks just like this:



And in order to increase my car's lifespan, I swear I'll never take it to a mechanic on my parents' recommendation. They'll be lucky if I let them ride in it.

Curious Gorge & the Man With the Yellow Fat

At 22 years of age Joey Chestnut is America's top dog of digestion.

Chestnut is a competitive eater and a good old boy from San Jose. He's garnered comparisons to Roger Clemens (for unknown reasons, for he is neither fat, old, unkempt, nor particularly athletic) and great white sharks (another unlikely comparison, for he is neither equipped with gills, rows upon rows of teeth, nor dorsal fins). While one would think Hebrew National or Oscar Mayer would certainly be itching to enlist Chestnut to the growing ranks of celebrity athletes they sponsor, Chestnut is a lone ranger. He works construction to pay the bills instead of accepting handouts from multi-national corporations. He's a self-sufficient man. But when it comes to free food, Joey'll stuff as much of it into his mouth within a given time as humanly possible.

When Chestnut's not building homes or stirring concrete, he's chewing. And when he's not chewing he's swallowing. And when he's doing none of the above he's daydreaming of unhinging his jaw and swallowing a whole suckling pig. He makes Cool Hand Luke look like a predinner nibbler and the feast in Petronius's Satyricon look like a light lunch.



Chestnut spent this past fourth of July in NYC in the pursuit of a victory for the ages. On the day that commemorates our nation's formal declaration of independence from our friends across the pond, Chestnut was a true patriot. He stuffed his face for you, for me, and for all our soldiers overseas. He stuffed his face for freedom. He stuffed his face to prove that "freedom of eats" is just as important as "freedom of speech" and that along with baring arms, every American should be permitted to bare a distended stomach and a swollen colon regardless of color or creed.

As is tradition, this fourth of July was honored by Nathan's Famous International Hot Dog Competition. In this time-tested gauntlet of the gullets, Chestnut went head to head with Takero Kobayashi, a professional eater from Japan who has been hailed the Babe Ruth of professional eating. Comparing Kobayashi to "the Babe" makes more sense than the comparisons made about Chestnut, as Kobayashi and the Great Bambino both resembled ruminant animals while engaged in sport.



The crowds gathered outside Nathan's for the challenge. They cheered. They demanded an American victory. They wore rainslickers should any of the participants spray partially-digested pork hooves and relish on them in a Gallagher-esque fashion. But on the day America was born, on the day our forefather's said, "Hey you Brits, go back to your home on whore island!" Chestnut was unable to bring home the gold for his countrymen. I was disappointed and so was the the nation as a whole. Shamed animals in the northern sector began hibernating early. News from South Dakota reports that the busts on Mt. Rushmore were heard sobbing from as far away as Omaha. Guam put their American commonwealth status to a vote. And foreign embassies lowered the American flag to half mast.

We can't really blame Joey Chestnut for his failings; he was slated to compete against Kobayashi, the greatest eater of all time. Chestnut gave it his all and ate an impressive 52 hot dogs in 12 minutes, a personal best for the munching monster. Kobayashi became the repeat weiner winner by besting Chestnut's four baker's dozens by two dogs. Woof! Woof!

If you ever happen to meet Joey "Jaws" Chestnut, let him know that you support his cause and that you'll be watching him next year. Let him know that his eating makes America proud. It's what makes corn grow and birds fly. But should you feel compelled to ask him questions keep them simple, because while Joey's an award-winning competitor of shoving things in his mouth, he has trouble when things are expected to come out of it. For example, he was recently quoted as saying:

"Competitive eating is a reason to stay in school."

Never before has there been a more effective slogan for education. It's just too bad Joey Chestnut didn't speak out sooner. He could have saved scores of high school drop-outs the ignominy of leaving school because they only ever received high marks during Lunch and Snack Time.

Additional footnote of idiocy: In the tradition of ironic and nonsensical things uttered by sports announcers, one of the commentators selected to give a play-by-play recount of Nathan's bulimic festival remarked that "a bear was the only person who's ever beaten Kobayashi at eating."