It wasn’t an attempt at
gratification
or inflating my ego.
No this was me.
Very unlike myself

I didn’t make a scene.
No cameras.
No friends.
No matches.
Just a rusty dumpster
feasting on my jealousy.

I threw you away today.
No more shoebox in
the closet.
There went the wal-mart bag
I kept you in.

That’s what you came to be
A bunch of memories left
to dust in a tattered plastic sack.

The frame you made me on the beach is gone.
I’ll be brave and say that four
walls can’t trap me.

But if that were true,
would I still remember the look
you gave me on the lawn
in your black tank top, kahkis, and a
pink bra strap hanging from your left shoulder?

Would I remember your dark brown hair
next to my crooked grin watching
the old man listen to the game on the radio?

Would I remember the green shorts you wore to bed?

I’ll be brave and say these four walls won’t trap me.
But if that were true, would I remember?

I feel this need to write profound things that impress people and leave them wondering what the hell happened and how this guy struck a nerve left cold since the last vanilla tv movie they watched. What is a damn shame is that I wouldn’t feel like sharing a single line if only I could be with you.

Everyone says it will get better, but I know different. See, all the wax in the world will not fill this hole you left.

Why does everyone want something from someone? And I’m the worst about it. But seriously, stop using me, and start loving me, dammit.

And yes, that goes for you.

Game 4 is on the tv. It’s going to be something seeing the Big Three do what that came together to do. And ignoring the fact that I may or may not think that basketball on the professional level teeters on the edge of an atrocity, my guys like it, so I watch it.

Turns out shooting a pistol beside your dad’s head into his floor doesn’t fix his heart. It does and always will take a doctor.

I just made a Farrah Fawcett joke. Yea, I forgot she was dead. That Tim-Logic doesn’t worry about committing a fallacy every now and then.

11 days until chapter 17 of my life begins.

Isaac Taylor still has my pink shirt. That night we snuck them out was epic.

Hannah Storm’s husband is a lucky man.

Grab me a bud. I’ve already got the fireworks.

I still miss you.

Growing up, even in the little school out on highway 96, we knew the difference between right and wrong, good and bad, important and irrelevant. No, we weren’t holding protests in the classroom or picketing around the school, but we knew the difference. Even in our pre-pubescent, immature, third-grade minds, we knew. Our minds were not pure, that’s for sure, but they were unadulterated.

What is this that we knew? Let me learn you something. We knew that people were different. We knew that we would not always see eye to eye. We knew that everyone was entitled to their own opinion, their own dream, their own life. And we knew that it was not going to hurt us if we differed.

I was in Kindergarten the first time I cast my vote for the presidential election. Yes, this was in the fall of 1992, and no, I am not scared to admit I chose Clinton over Bush. I was born a liberal living in the boots of a conservative. I holster my .38 right next to my bleeding heart.

Ms. Schlemm taught me that was okay. She told me that I can have my own opinion, my own dream, my own life, and that it would not hurt anyone else. But something happened to that VHS tape she always played for us. Maybe she recorded the breakdown that Bill O’Reilly had on Inside Edition, or Wolf Blitzer reporting over Monica’s fifteen minutes of fame, but I no longer hear the School House Rock jingle that I grew up listening to.

You see, boys, it seems today that a guy just can’t catch a break. I’m either too liberal or too conservative. My coworker is too homophobic or too androgynous. You are either too radical or drowning in your own apathy. What happened to the middle ground? Is it really so bad?

Why do I have to catch flack from my conservative buddies that I have a heck of a time going out with this firecracker of a feminist? Or why do I get grief from my liberal buddies that I think all life is sacred?

Is it so scary that I think the world of my friend Ahmaad? Is it really going to ruin your evening if I tell you that if what two men choose to do in their own house gives them contentment, I’m not going to fuss? Are you really going to run off if I tell you that I love my Lord and hate it when I can’t make it to worship on Sunday mornings because of work?

What happened to you do your thing and I’ll do mine? What happened to I don’t agree with you, but dammit, I’m going to love you anyways? What happened to trusting that if we do right by one another, everything will turn out alright?

What happened to our melting pot? Did the soup get too hot for its stainless steel? Or like the Liberty Bell, did our impudence strike a blow to it’s core?

06/2010
Dear Clarksville,

Alcohol has become a natural progression in the course of most every college student. From frat parties to mini fridges, dark parking lots and coffee mugs in class, it has permeated academia completely. And I have to be frank, I am just fine with that.

I can remember when I first moved here. The bars on Franklin, were frequented solely by college students and military folk. And some how we, the college students boasting in our revelry, found mutual fellowship with the troops. In a sense, it was a perverse paradise.

A few years ago, a new trend came to Clarksville. It may have been that the smokey atmosphere of the Tap Room had thinned out. Old Towne Tavern might have been sterilized. The price of drinks and quality of music at the Deli became inversely related. And so, there arose a need for a place where students could have fun, fraternize with fellow classmates, and find cheap entertainment.

Along came the Peay Patch and drunkenness found an all-time high.

Sadly though, a weary trend has found comfort in downtown Clarksville. The putrid stench of the Red River delta has settled at the corner of Franklin and University.

What is the name of this problem?

Townies.

I realized a downward trend this summer. When the college students left, the night owls of Clarksville came out. And in full force did they come.

For a few months, it was tolerable. Yes there was the occasional grandma dancing in the middle of the floor, or the hobo that would ask you if you knew where his beer went. But it has reached an all-time low.

Tonight at the Peay Patch, I found maybe twenty fellow students. And yes, the MC was announcing that they were at capacity. Townies everywhere. Old men playing beer pong. Former coworkers starting fights. Less than mildly attractive people with even less attractive people. What happened to our haven?

So Clarksville, thank you for becoming the trashiest place in Tennessee. My buddy always told me that Clarksville is the place where everyone comes to die. I am still not sure about that, but it is definitely where you come to act like the backside of a horse. 

Regretfully yours,

Teabiscuit