I'll be as quiet as a stone 
if you just leave me alone,
and I promise we can bone
just as soon as 
we get home...
if on the ride...             
                 you keep your hands to yourself.  
Then you can tear up my insides; 
turn me into tanned hide; 
live in every dream 
you've always wanted              
but
never seen.

Be the surprise 
in your eyes 
when you don't cum.  
I've been wading three days 
through a slick of chum 
for a shark to bite 
chew me out of sight, 
but I guess another night 
won't mean a thing.  
I can keep on waiting.  

It's never enough -- trim the tuft --  
Plain geometry. 
 
Kisses in the shadows 
tell of fellows 
who want 
but fear past the shallows 
as if the gallows swing,  
Hooking all those 
with strange longings.  
 
Do as your told 
to prove you understand 
I want a volcano on hand 
to explode 
just as soon as         
                     we get home.  
 
Fuck boring:
Ruining.
Improving:
Fuck boring. 

Ah, the Olympics. While the Olympics offer the opportunity for countries to compete in a semi-bloodless fashion, it maintains the worldwide reality that all may seem equal but only some have worth.   Take the opening ceremonies.  Yes, it's a pissing contest (even now spectators wait with baited breath to see how London attempts to outdo the Chinese spectacle from 2008.), however, in the midst of that golden measuring spray all of the athletes assemble to stand as one for... certainly no more than forty or so minutes.  Afterwards many of them will never be seen again. In fact, save for a few broad sweeping camera shots, most of the assembled athletes won't be featured on television. Why?

Because the Olympics is comprised of 26 events divided into several disciplines, many of which people aren't even aware exist.  Reasons for this abound, yet the most obvious answer would be that some sports either seem too ridiculous to mention or that popularity is key.  The viewing public prefers to see Michael Phelps do his dolphin impression for world records rather than witness the battle for gold between Olympic trampolinists.  And this makes sense.
 
Despite all the declarations of global togetherness, the Olympics have never really distanced itself from its original purpose:  Fuck y'all; we're the best spot on Earth.  Greek city-states existed under an interesting dichotomy which dictated that they rely on one another for military and political alliances but compete with each other for resources.  As such, the Olympic Games became the most advantageous opportunity to demonstrate a particular region's superiority --the best athletes must come from the best city-states(1).  Anyone who grew up under the auspices of the Cold War can see how this spirit of deathless conflict persists even to this day.  However modernity seems to have transmuted the meaning of the Olympics, hosting the games is still a sign of economic capability and rank.  After all, the games cost money.  A lot of money.
 
Taking on the Olympics as a megaproject is a costly endeavor.  For example, Montreal hosted one of the most expensive Olympics at a cost of $6 billion which took 30 years to pay off.  Some analysts even surmise that the Athens games in 2004, with a price tag of $3 billion, may have helped weaken the Greek economy as it left a considerable lasting debt. Though Olympics typically overrun cost expectations, London is already 107% over budget at a possible $13 billion dollars.  So, all in all, the Olympics cost a great deal of money.  The duh-reaction to such an observation little belies the point.  Olympics accrue massive costs for the areas in which they are held.  Ergo, expenses must be recouped by any means necessary. In this day and age, that means advertising dollars.  
  
Tourism and prostitution(2) alone won't foot the bill for the Olympics(3). Drugs might, but countries rarely seem to welcome an influx of drug money.  So the only legitimate option left is to pour on the advertising.  "During the 1996 Atlanta Summer Olympics, the average cost of a 30-second ad was $250,000. In contrast, advertisers for the 2006 Torino Winter Games paid an average of $350,000 per 30-second ad(4)," and that price hasonly increased.  DOW chemical spent $6 million dollars to have banners flying featuring their logo which wouldn't even be seen during the actual games(5).  Technically, the games are free from advertisements, but that only really applies when the cameras are on the games.  Unlike a baseball stadium, no  commercial advertisements are allowed to be visible during the Olympics themselves.  But TV stations do have to break for commercials from time to time, and there is always the official directory of services.  For as little as £599 (roughly $939) a business can find itself placed snuggly in the Olympic business directory(6).  None of this would seem odd at something like the Superbowl or the World Cup where the message is supposed to be one of domination.  The end of result of a hard fought struggle is victory over a broken and crushed opponent.  Yet, the Olympics constantly attempts to endorse some message of quasi-unity, global togetherness, all the while hailing only those who carry the most gold.  A message extended to what it gives viewers.  It's this thinly veiled hypocrisy which makes the games so easily satirized through a cynical lens.
 
Trampoline does sound ridiculous as an Olympic sport.  One expects to see the competitors huffing paint before the contest, and the arena itself some Londoners' backyard.  Dressage may get some attention this year because of presidential candidate Mitt Romney, but who is really going to stay tuned for horse dancing?  Badminton, field hockey, handball, these all get shunted out of sight.  Yes, some commentary will be set aside to mention who is advancing over whom, but the games will only be seen on TV at 3 a.m. by half drunk insomniacs begging the television gods for something to dull them asleep.  The Olympics will focus on the quick victories:  the 100 meter dashes and such -- those competitions which offer immediate results and speedy points.  Volleyball triumphs over (European) football; weightlifting trumps table tennis; and basketball overshadows archery.  

This isn't to say what's right or wrong.  The games are costly, and unlike Woodstock, someone is expected to pay off the bill.  It's mainly to say:  keep in mind what's really going on at the Olympics.  A city has been scrubbed clean and every crack repaired and even some new shining edifices erected so the world can gather to see just how much money there was to spend on something that won't feed one hungry person.  But fuck it.  We won a gold medal.  
 
 
 
FOOTNOTES:

1.  This, in itself, lead to some interesting practices.  In 630 B.C.E. Cyrene was founded by settlers from Thera.  To aid the settlement, Sparta loaned three time champion Chionis.  Apparently, the presence of Chionis alone, the prospect of settling with an Olympic victor, helped populate a colony and increase its political connections.  Or in the instance of Sotades -- according to the historian Pausanias, "Sotades at the 99th Festival was victorious in the long race and proclaimed a Cretan, as   in fact he was.  But at  the next Festival he made himself an Ephesian, being bribed to do    so by the Ephesian people.  For this act he was banished by the Cretans."  
  
2. http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/magazine/article3450069.ece
 
3.  Some countries make the smart move of using Olympic Games as a means to push through prohibitively expensive infrastructure upgrades.  Athens, for example, used the games as an excuse to improve Athens International Airport, formerly Eleftherios Venizelos Airport after the Greek statesman and revolutionary.  Today, A.I.A. is Greece's main civilian airport and the 27th busiest in Europe. Subways systems, railways, city streets, air pollution, all get tackled in the run up to Olympic Games.  Cities want to look their best; however, this doesn't always mean future tourism.  
  
4. http://blog.nielsen.com/nielsenwire/media_entertainment/olympics-advertising-rates-up-40-in-last-decade/
 
5.  http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/olympics/8679938/London-2012-Olympics-Dow-wins-race-to-advertise-on-Olympic-Stadium-wrap.html
 
6.  http://www.olympicbusinesspages.com/page.php?id=advertise


Bibliography:
 
http://blog.nielsen.com/nielsenwire/media_entertainment/olympics-advertising-rates-up-40-in-last-decade/

http://www.businessinsider.com/the-lasting-legacy-of-the-olympics-2012-6?op=1

Flyvbjerg, Bent and Allison Stewart, 2012, "Olympic Proportions: Cost and Cost Overrun at the Olympics 1960–2012," Working Paper, Saïd Business School, University of Oxford.
 
http://www.olympicbusinesspages.com/page.php?id=advertise

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sport/olympics/8679938/London-2012-Olympics-Dow-wins-race-to-advertise-on-Olympic-Stadium-wrap.html
 
http://www.thetimes.co.uk/tto/magazine/article3450069.ece

Easy on the rhetoric Jimmy kid.  There aren’t many people who care.  And the one’s who do:  fuck ‘em.  The world got tired of preachers the second the first opened his mouth.  Course, that was back before anyone had TV, so they let it slide. Something to do.  Then the lip flappers got to thinking people cared what they said, that no one was going home to make fun of the ranting, “Didja see Abe yammering the other night?  Staring into the fire talking ‘bout slice our pricks and what not?”  Crazies for passing the time got to thinking people believed what they said; and just like nowadays, some assholes can’t tell the difference between what’s real and what’s on TV or movies or those vid games -- ya know? -- little fuckers got thinking, “Well everybody listens to so&so every night. Must be getting something right.  Right?”  Next thing you know, loonies are getting whole houses built where they can blather on for hours on end.  Most folks let it go thinking it’s theater, but like I said, those that don’t start really getting into it.  Like trekkies back before Trek.  The super fans want it to be true so bad they start believing on mass, letting the cracks slip out of focus, and telling other people about such and what not like it’s all truth -- "100% reliable, I swear to all mighty".  That’s how the world got shifted:  people believed because they wanted to; “Fuck facts!  I got a feeling this is right.”  Slowly it gets where no one can doubt a fucking thing without getting told, “You’ll burn for it.”  And sometimes a righteous cunt comes along decided, “I’ll make you burn for it.” Sends you off to the hell he expects is waiting for you.  Can you imagine if Trekkies got that severe?  Started hunting Star Wars nuts like infidels and suicide bombing their booths at comic cons.  Not far off if you ask me.   
 
I know your Moms don’t like me talking this way.  She says it‘ll corrupt ya.  She means well, and who’s to say?  Don’t take my word for it.  Hell, just think about it.  You got your own life to live.  
  
#
 
Well okay Jimmy hun, let me tell you somethin’ about your father, okay? He’s a good man.  I wouldn’ta married him otherwise, donchaknow, but he’s got some demons.  Some fine monsters I tell ya.  So he doesn’t really have faith in the world; he can’t see Gahd’s beauty.  Donchaknow how sad that is?  It’s like being in hell before you even get there.  That’s kinda how I fell in love with him.  Here was this man who needed someone to pray for him, and he wasn’t gonna ask for it himself.  He had no sense anyone could or would care for him. That’s kinda why I think he don’t believe in Jesus.  And I’m not saying there’s only Jesus, I’m just sayin’ Christ works for me.  You take that reincarnating -- if we were all repeating things all the time why do we keep making the same mistakes?  Answer me that Batman.  You’d think people would come around the second, or third time at least, thinking, “Hey, maybe I shouldn’t do this and that.  It didn’t work out too well last time.”  
  
But I’d just like your father to believe in something more; that the world doesn’t stop when his eyes aren’t looking.  Though that’s what I figure he’s thinking of life:  nothing more than what you think it is.  But things are just so darn mysterious, there’s gotta be something more.  Ya know, they still got no idea what happened the second before the Big Bang and until some scientist says, “This here is what happened,” then I’ll keep on expecting them to atom smash a glimpse of Gahd, thank you very much.  Just because people don’t get religion right doesn’t mean it‘s wrong.  That’s like a student telling the math teacher, “I got the wrong answer, so math mustn’t exist.”  No sirree Bob.  
  
Though your father is right about one thing, and that’s the other reason I fell in love with him.  We all got one life to live -- unless you’re a reincarnater (though I don’t think that voodoo is real.  Unless it‘s like both:  people keep making the same mistakes cuz they haven‘t accepted Christ.  Now there‘s something, eh?  We all got pieces of the whole, maybe?  Where was I?).  So we gotta make the most of it donchaknow.  Carpe Denim or something.  I forget, but it’s no less true.  We can all agree on that I’m sure -- one life, grab hold. 

I thought I'd do it classy:  a bottle of wine, some smooth jazz or masterful classical, and a quiet reflection on the last few weeks whilst watching a Charlie Kaufman movie or paging through a collection of essays.  However, the night ended, one might say predictably, with my dick in the neighbor's front lawn.  
 
Rewind?  Rewind:
 
The heat wave cracked, if not broken, I took a walk down the street to the Liquor Barn, a squalid warehouse storing an immeasurable plethora of booze.  From crowd favorites to label whores' most desired and down into stuff sponged from the gutter, the Liquor Barn is a plain testament to the intention:  I came to drink.  Yet, standing out front, an image popped into my head I couldn't shake.  I saw myself sitting in a leather chair sipping fine brandy from a snifter.  Wearing a smoking jacket, I sat with a book in my lap and a look of deep introspection on my face.  Tonight would be my chance to truly ponder the facets of my life, of existence so far, and I didn't want those contemplations ruined by mainlining 100 proof corn whiskey and firing off homemade car bombs.  So, much to the surprise of Hajnalka, the old Hungarian cashier lady, I procured three bottles of wine -- red, white, and interracial -- as opposed to my usual whiskey and a hazel nut chocolate bar.  
  
Normally I would jet home and start the boozing.  However, this time I took a moment to set the appropriate mood. Instead of barreling into the evening I prepared things.  I bought two packs of cigarettes in advance, a frozen pizza in case I got the nibbles, set out the books I wanted to read and prepared a playlist of the music I wanted to hear.  I turned on a few lights, casting the glow one expects in a Fincherian flick, though it pertains to libraries as well, then dressed comfortably.  I found an old smoking jacket in the closet, a bit worse for wear, but it would serve its purpose.  So, attired in smoking jacket and boxer shorts, I sat down on the couch. I poured a glass of wine; read from a Library of America collection of Mark Twain... started getting bored... finished the red... turned on the melodies of Jean Sibelius... then, half way through the white, I found myself making up words for Sibelius's work.  

"Eventually, I'm gonna die, and there's nothing I can do but screw this greasy prostitute, prostitute -- she took my money but not my cum -- prostitute, prostitute. Good god, I don't wanna die, but I look around and can't wait to end.  There's that lady with the creepy eye, leaking white.  I want candy now..."
 
You get the idea. (Maybe it sounds better in Spanish -- Con el tiempo, me voy a morir, y no hay nada que yo pueda hacer, pero el tornillo esta prostituta grasa prostituta, - ella tomó mi dinero, pero no es mi cum - prostituta, prostituta. ¡Dios mío, yo no quiero morir, pero miro a mi alrededor y no puedo esperar hasta el final. No es esa señora con la mirada escalofriante, fugas de blanco. I want candy ahora -- but I don't trust my Spanish to be accurate.)
 
It wasn't that I found Sibelius or Twain meaningless or dull by any stretch.  I just felt the overwhelming sense I could be enjoying myself more so.  Primarily by not thinking so much.  So I turned on the TV.  
  
It took about fifteen minutes to finally settle on some grindhouse classic called Satan's Bloody Fist.  The plot centered around a biker gang chasing a group of people through the woods to various stops where varying numbers of people died in exceedingly bloody ways.  For instance, a bartender tried to hide one of the sexily dressed victims and was then tortured by having his tongue removed with a broken bottle.  (That seemed counterproductive, since how could he say where the girlie had gone, however, she gave herself up by screaming in terror, so the matter falls by the wayside.)  But it was a fun ride.  Satan's Bloody Fist wrapped up and the station promised to follow it right away with Cutey with a Shotgun.  And I quote, "A sassy cheerleader out for revenge.  Rah, rah, sis-boom, PAH! Cutey with a Shotgun."  
  
The white bottle drained, I skipped the mixed.  There was other booze in the kitchen.  I snatched a vodka out of the freezer, cut it with some orange juice, and settled in for Cutey with a Shotgun.  Midway through the opening credits -- go-go dancers blended with what looked like stalker footage of a high school -- I had an idea:  I wanted to watch TV like when I was a kid. So I jumped off the couch and got down on the floor.  Lying on my stomach, I arched my back to stare up at the screen.  The TV suddenly seemed taller, a drive-indoors, but I had to support my head with my hands, elbows digging into the rug.  Then I thought, "This night needs some rain."  
 
I've always enjoyed the sound of rain on the rooftop.  Not the threatening whoosh of torrential downpour, but the steady plink-patter of slow rain.  But there wasn't a cloud in the sky.  Standing in the driveway, drink in one hand and cigarette in the other, I came up with an idea.  I pulled the hose out and slung it over a branch in a low hanging tree.  Angling the sprinkler to face the living room window, I turned it on.  The spray fell across the one side of the house, and from inside not only sounded like rain but through the open blinds, it even looked like a mild shower.  
 
After refreshing my drink, I plopped back down in front of the TV kid style:  stomach flat, back arched, feet kicking air, and head propped up by elbows.  It took about twenty minutes before the growing pain in my back prompted, "Aw fuck this shit."  I got up, my spine feeling set to snap.  How in God's name I spent hours doing that as a kid without incurring back problems that would haunt me all my life is a miracle.  Straight miracle.  
  
Cutey with a Shotgun played out.  It didn't inspire much more than a desire to tuck a gun into my boxer shorts and go wandering the neighborhood hunting for penis cars.  Realizing how foolish that sounded, I put on a pair of jeans before heading out -- no sense in strolling the suburbs in my underwear.  I tucked a .45 into my belt and plugged a pair of headphones into my head. I also took a beer, tall boy I found in the fridge hidden behind a great wall of Chinese takeout.  I was about to grab an umbrella when I realized, "It's only storming in my backyard."  
 
Still, the heat had mercifully dropped.  After several straight days of over one hundred, anything can feel cool, but that doesn't make it any less appreciated.  I ambled to a nearby park and sat on the swings, smoking as I listed.  My portable jukebox on random, a song started playing I hadn't listened to since high school.  I didn't even know I had it in my player -- Metallica's "Wherever I May Roam".  

Yes, when I was younger I used to listen to Metallica.  It's become something of a sin these days to like Metallica.  However, there used to be a time people could only site personal preference against the band instead of moral outrage; and despite the hatred the so-called Black album engendered, the truly regrettable Metallica albums were still off in the distance.  But when I was sixteen, I liked little more than to jack in my headphones, crank up "Don't Tread on Me", and wander the streets and alleys.  Sitting on the swings, some fourteen years later, some of the old feelings came creeping back.  I remembered sneaking out of the house one night, a twenty ounce Sprite full of cheap whiskey, and sitting in the playground near my folks house, listening to hard guitars thunder as I drank and smoked, trying not to think about the girl that just broke my heart; stomping down the alley to "Battery" after fighting with my Pops; doing my best just to enjoy seventeen, rather than worrying about what happens next.  Sitting on those swings, I went back and forth between then and now, realizing how little life had changed.  Yeah, I don't listen to Metallica anymore, mainly because a burgeoning cynicism sent me down heavier roads, but it still felt like little had really changed.  
  
I still worry about the women I love and have loved and might love, get into fights with people over dumb shit, and I'm still trying not to worry what happens next.  
  
The song ended, changing to Clutch's "Electric Worry".  It was a sign not to linger in certain thoughts.  I got off the swing, set the empty tall boy on a bench, then got back on the swing.  Standing on the swing seat, I got a bit of an arc going, pulled out my gun, and fired away. Hit the can on the second shot then jumped off the swing at perigee, landing just shy of the can.  Lights around the block snapped on.  I ran back home, cutting down alleys and through dark backyards to keep from being seen.  

Laughing, I poured another screwdriver to loosen my screws.  Cranking up the stereo, I jumped around on the furniture, yahooing all over the house until my neighbor came along, banging on the front door... I think you know how this ends.
 
Sometimes you just have to say, "Fuck reality.  I'm living strange."

After last year -- Rhys Branagh blowing himself up with a stick of dynamite mistook for a Roman Candle -- we all decided to pass the Fourth in our own way.  Getting together would've just been to mourn the idiot, and we didn't want that depression taking hold.  Heat waves make for foul moods without need for past grief.  So we all decided to spend the Fourth in our own ways.  

I didn't know what the other guys planned for themselves.  Me:  I planted myself on the roof of my house, figuring to watch the fireworks from all around.  Even before the sun set, folks were popping off rounds all over the neighborhood.  If it wasn't one direction it was another -- amateur pyrophiliacs coloring the sky one explosion at a time.  I'd hear a hiss then pop-BOOM!, my chest rattling as sixty bucks burned up in the night sky.  Three seconds of purple spread out in a sphere.  If the launch was close enough to my house I sometimes heard kids going, "Aw Cool!"  which meant, whatever
the expense, it was totally worth it.  
 
It went on like that till about nine.  Sometimes I missed the full effect, only catching the last flicker.  For the most part, I laid back on the roof, a bottle of whiskey beside me, smoking with my headphones in.  Seemed smarter to recline on the roof than try to keep my head on a swivel.  Sure, I missed a few bangers that sounded like they were worth witnessing, but I saw enough to feel satisfied.  Around nine, however, I stood up to make sure I could turn at will, hoping to watch two or three displays at once.
 
Sid and I figured this out when we were fifteen.  Our folks used to take us to the Morton Grove fireworks show when we were younger.  However, one year we got left behind for being "bitchy shits" like most teenagers are.  We were sitting in Sid's backyard when we heard the first round of bangers going off from Niles West High School.  Sid got it in mind, "Ya know what?  If we got up high enough we could probably see that."  We were both stoned at the time, so the idea of climbing onto Sid's slanted roof didn't sound too stupid.  The two of us clambered out Sid's bedroom window, pulling ourselves up by the gutter, onto the roof.  We sat with the peak of the house driving into our crotches, but from up there we caught four fireworks displays going off all at the same time.  Next year we stayed home on purpose, though the same accusation recurred -- my Pops said, "Stay home if you like, ya bitchy little shits.  I don't need you to have fun."  That year we went up on my roof.  The slant is less severe than Sid's, and we were able to relax more and enjoy the show. Though I have to admit, nothing will ever be as fine as that first performance.
 
It was a clear night, the first time.  Not a cloud for miles.  At one point, I swear we saw Navy Pier lighting up, though it wasn't close enough to see anything more than colorful flares -- nothing more than a tight pocket of colors flickering near the city's silhouette.  But the local pyrotechnics, neighbors' and professionals', went up all around us in one brilliant display.  It almost seemed like everyone had unintentionally decided to set off their finger killers at the same time. 
The roof shook beneath us as a hundred concussive colors blossomed everywhere at once.  The night turned into a flickering rainbow; and it was more proof things could work out better doing what I wanted instead of what my folks wanted.  
 
People can say, "You two were just stoned.  It wasn't that grand."  But fuck all: I prefer the way I remember it.
 
Over the years our buddies started to join us on my roof.  Eventually my Pops caught on, but he didn't mind.  Told us, "Just don't break ya fucking neck.  I ain't cleaning up that mess, ya shit yourself after..."  Me and my buddies hanging out on the roof gave him, in a way, a night off  where he and Mom could go to the Morton Grove show alone.  They didn't get much time for themselves back then.  Mom was still working part time, and Pops was putting in all kinds of hours.  That's the thing about days like the Fourth:  it's one of the few times of the year just about everyone is guaranteed some time off.  I always quit a job that won't give the Fourth off (or at least overtime for making you work that day).  It doesn't have to be a patriotic affirmation, when all is said and done. It just has to be a day a person can kick back and say, "I'm free to do as I please."  Though I guess that's maybe the same thing.  Fuck all.  
  
Back in the day, me and the guys would smoke weed, drink Shitty Liquor (our term for whatever cheap gut poison we could get our hands on), and just zone out to the show.  It always felt like our own private fireworks.  Afterward, we'd climb back down to the lawn and bullshit till my parents got home.  Sometimes we'd disperse or wander the neighbor for a few hours more, slinking down alleys to toss whole packets of fireworks into backyards... on occasion having to run into said backyards having forgotten to light those same packets and getting chased out by dogs or drunk neighbors or both.  When we got older we started heading over to the Village to close off the evening.  Although, we never gave up the alley assaults.  
  
Anyway, this time around I found myself alone on the roof.  About half way through my bottle, nine o'clock tocking past, the sky started popping.  I stood up, pulled out my headphones, and soaked in the concussion and colors.  Purples, greens, reds, blues, all sizzling, crackling, snapping, banging, pa-BOOM!  

Nice.

It was nice. Just not the same.  So in the middle of things, I got down off the roof and started wandering.  The explosions lit the way, though I didn't really think about where I was going till I got there.  The fireworks were just dying down when I strolled into the Village.  
 
Sid sat at the bar flanked by Pete and Toby.  They waved me over.  I bought a round of shots, and we all raised glasses. 
The rest of the night went like that:  rounds and cheers.  I guess, in the end, good times or bad, our way is best together; we split apart just to reunite because being alone is fine for a while, but eventually, you realize life is better with others; the best times are the ones shared.