Stu Says: April 2002 Archives

Oh sweet revelation! The rapture has occurred, the breakthrough I thought would never arrive. The Pork Pony staff has commissioned a theme song and they've chosen my words as lyrics!

The changes this has brought are immeasurable. Respect for my words, respect for my space, respect for my values. The clan seems to be dressing sharper and David Kendall's been drinking less. He's nearly cleaned up completely. 'Tis true! This may be a redeemable lot after all. I've probably been too harsh on them in the past. These young chaps work hard around the office, writing, editing, and web designing. Maybe they are a little ragtag, but who isn't?

I still haven't heard this ode to my words, but how could anything but joy spring forth from them? I'm sure it will be a melody of immaculate bliss and I'll certainly frolic about and sing it. I await it with breath most baited.

Life is a strange. When you think you're down and out and everything's wrong, something magical happens that turns it all around. My spirits have been lifted and I'm humbled. Thanks Pork Pony.

Dear reader, welcome back. Have you noticed that I've cut back on my Pork Pony related slander? Does this please you? Do you wonder, "Is Stu fitting in? Making friends?" End all postulations for the answer is but two simple letters which form one simple word: no.

Here's a bit of catching up:

Pork Pony is: filth, drivel, poppycock, useless, used, inane, stinky, horrid, awful, wretched, dirty, sullied beyond relief. I loathe it and despise it.

That's all for now. I'm off to watch a PBS program about the revival of Verdi.

A day to pay or be paid. A day to break even or even to be broke. A day on which the post office is open until one, but only one person works there.

Tax Day.

A day of silly scribbles and deductions and lies. A day of numbers, forms, papers, and lines. A day of Federal poppycock and outrageous bribes.

Tax Day.

Ernest did his taxes in January, although he knew he owed. He believed in the state and its way of business and thought himself a champion amongst citizens. But, alas, tax day did pass and an auditor called. He wanted to check poor Ernie's books so they scheduled the date.

Tax Day.

Kyle put it off 'til April 15. He had money a-flowin' down low. Location to be exact: near the table, but underneath. He had seventeen workers, all Mexican, he called slaves.

Tax Day.

A young lass called Brenda did waitress with pomp. Her father pampered and prepared her papers for the IRS while she smoked half a pack of Kools with the gals from the shop.

Tax Day.

Poor Stu, a man of extraordinary taste, is relegated to writing tax day-themed waste. He gets paid in hot dogs, Kool-Aid, nickels and dimes while the Pork Pony staff eats steak, couscous, and sips fine wine.

Tax Day.

Dear reader, if you're anything like me, you love to prowl the library. I can spend hours upon hours amongst the stacks of musty books. Dewey Decimal and Library of Congress systems, I've mastered both of them. The library is my playground and the shelves, sections, and card catalogs are my sliding-boards, swing-sets, and jungle gym. It disheartens me, I must say to look upon the current state of the library system. Card catalogs are becoming digital, run on computers. The books are torn and the dreaded lot of you would rather drink your latte at the "pay library" known as Barnes and Noble than give the community a bit of money to restore one of our greatest public resources. And worst of all, librarians are getting smaller and mousier.

When I was a boy, librarians were a rugged bunch of women. Strong shoulders from hoisting books, strong minds from reading the same, these ladies were the apple of every Chaucer-reading lad's eye. When these husky Helgas would strut down the aisles of my local library in Massachusetts, I had to do everything in my power to keep myself from following their sacred, muscular rumps. On the few occasions during which I lost control and either stared or accidentally touched, these librarian lasses would administer the naughtiest slap to my own behind. I say, I liked the pain!

Now we only have weak, atrophied mice women. Glasses weighing their faces down, machines and immigrant workers filing the books, they've become naught but heady waifs. They sullenly move about, answering questions and the getting out of the way. They browse the Internet and strain their eyes while searching their databases. In essence, these women are about as appealing as a room full of Pork Pony writers.

My place of employment is filled with a bunch of louts and my playground, the library, has become a place for the homely and frail to sulk.

Bah.

As winter fades away, a distant memory, its last flakes of snow glisten for they have been melted by the golden sun and are now drops dew beaded on blades of grass. Tadpoles who have recently garnered legs rush to land and join together in a chorus of peeps. Longer days strangle the night and elation absorbs one lad's mind.

This dandy we shall follow, for he is of great import to the remainder of this story. He is a man of letters, a refined chap, the kind who tips the shoeshine boy a dime on each morn. Hermetic and dedicated in his work, adventurous and curious in his play, our lad drinks the Spring! The smell of the flowers and their pollen is like God's breath to him. Trees painted amber with the glow of the sunset are pillars illuminated by the light of heaven. Our boy is life!

The dandy fears not frolicking. Skipping from one destination to the next, he'd paint the streets pastel if he could. The soft pale colors would warm the city streets and all would praise the lad and gambol behind him. Arias echo in alleyways as our boy passes through them, his smooth tenor a perfect compliment to this spring morning. A quaint house lies ahead. "Alas, my fair Clarisse," the dandy exclaims as he dances toward the doorstep of his favorite lass.

Does our lad care that the fair Clarisse is a bit taller than he? Nay. Is it of his concern that she is a bit brawny? Nay, he loves her the same. She peeks out the door as the boy approaches. Her shoulders (which are, admittedly, a bit broad for a feminine frame) are bare and her body is wrapped in a pale pink dress. The dandy's heart leaps as he espies her. "She is the prettiest of flowers," he thinks, "and the thorns on this rose only make it prettier."

"Have you come for our walk?" the lass inquires.

"Why yes, are you ready to bask in the joy that is April?" our lad adjusts his cravat.

"My body is ready to appreciate the beauty of the Earth's vernal state. Shall we?"

With a smart nod, the dandy moves toward his love, who kneels down next to him. The boy climbs atop her sturdy shoulders and, with muscular strides, the lass carries him away, the pair singing the sweetest springtime harmonies.