Friday, October 31, 2014

And I know that I'm right

Dexter's an asshole
I don't like my dog anymore. He barks all the goddamn time, he loves TGB while I am nothing more than his manservant, he might be racist, and he sometimes tries to blind me. Fucker.

Saw an old man catch a stingray yesterday. By now you've seen the pic. It was cool. If not, here you go...

I think this is George and Gracie's kid, Ronnie.
I don't get into the whole celebrating dead people's birthday thing, but today I make an exception. John Keats was born on this day in 1795. He was one badass mothafucka. By 25 he created more beauty than most people could create in ten lifetimes.

When I was in high school I failed English five out of eight semesters and got a D twice. The only time I was ever interested was when we covered the romantic poets. The only A I ever got in HS English was for an essay I wrote on a Shelley sonnet.

And by the way, this was way before Dead Poet's Society came out.

Shelley was my favorite, but I wanted to be Byron when I grew up. However, there was something about Keats that just hit a part of me I didn't know existed. I felt less alone because I realized I wasn't the only one who looked up into the sky and saw entire movies in the sky. I felt less nerdy for loving books, I felt less weird for needing the ocean to feel centered. I felt less alone and to a confused, angry kid, that means everything.

When I have Fears That I May Cease to Be

When I have fears that I may cease to be
   Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pil├Ęd books, in charactery,
   Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
   Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
   Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
   That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
   Of unreflecting love—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

So, from adolescent Rudy, happy fucking birthday John Keats. You don't look a day over 218.

Coffee beach time.

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