Prepare for 29 years of ginger RAGE to all spill out onto one post. You have been warned.
________________________________________
I HAVE HAD IT.
For the past 20+ years I have been thought of as a human anomaly based solely on the fact that my hair is an orange/auburn color and I have freckles on my skin.
You name it, I have heard it:
- "Red on the head like a #$^& on a dog"
- "Firecrotch"
- "Ginger"
- "Carrot Top" (This one always amused me because the tops of carrots are GREEN)
- "Big Red" (began after I started lifting weights )
- "Fanta pants"
- "Red-headed stepchild"
- ...at least a dozen others.
I am here now making my proclamation that I am an AWESOME redheaded guy who is not only good-looking, but who can also rip your damn phone book in half. Twice. That is, if you needed your phone book ripped in half for whatever reason. I don't just go around ripping phone books in half.
I also happen to be very intelligent. Don't believe me? Ok, then. Fine. I challenge to you to find a grammatical, syntactical or spelling error ANYWHERE on this post. Don't even try, because I got a 750 score on the verbal part of my SAT. So THERE. What did YOU get? And if your score WAS higher than mine, is your hair red? I didn't think so.
Look - less than 3% of the population in sum here on earth has red hair. That includes hot chicks from Ireland. And, that number is shrinking. Current estimates point to the year 2250 for the general time when there will no longer be identifiable redheads in existence.
DO YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS?
That means you really have only about 241 years to enjoy the company of this dying species. We are a hallmark archetype of the Human Instance and so WHAT if we burn easy or have near-transparent body hair. That just means we're solar-sensitive and less chromatic when it comes to the hue of our bodies. SO SUE US.
Let's consider some very popular redheaded men:
- Ron Howard
- Conan O'Brian
- Me
I guess my point in posting this is to engage the general Denver public in a discussion about the merits of redheads. We are an unstoppable force of ginger power and we will continue to be prominent anthropological beacons for ALL cultures to admire. Well, at least for the next 241 years.
You want to know what is even more awesome about this post? I am actually SINGLE and RELATIVELY YOUNG (29 is the new 24).
I also have a few freckles in unmentionable places which I believe also makes me pretty awesome. Those few freckles actually emanate a ginger-specific power that only redheads know about. It's true. I'll show you sometime if we get to know each other REALLY well. I have one freckle that is shaped like a butterfly. Swear to god.
ASK A BLOND DUDE IF HE HAS A FRECKLE IN THE SHAPE OF A BUTTERFLY. I BET YOU HE WILL SAY 'NO'.
He will probably also look at you funny and walk away.
However, I will not. I'm a nice guy.
I'm a nice, redheaded, sincere, slightly neurotic guy, actually.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Monday, March 23, 2009
Monica Fell
A brown styrofoam cup time has chipped at the rim
Keeps the strangers' change together, held by fingers long and thin
The weathered woman sighs, sitting alone in the park
Quietly she weeps counting regrets through the dark
Dawn breaks softly and its new light stings the eyes
Of Monica Alper, homeless white female, age sixty-five
The birds and the businessmen both spring from their hiding
The woman draws her pen and her paper; a clear mind begins writing
Things weren't always this way for this failed life in dismay
Thoughts trickle out now of memories that can't be erased
What exactly went wrong is remarkably clear
Though not cared for today, her words fall on deaf ears
So a tired, spiral notebook plays canvas for words
Writ in blue ink, the color a parallel to her hurt
As the fog lifts slowly from the drab cityscape
Monica scribbles on what will be the book's only missing page
"Sixteen and dreaming somewhere in Maine" she slowly writes
"Aced all my classes, entered college and found Christ"
"Majored in finance, got a man, a car and all that..."
Tears well in her eyes as the story turns black
The morning sky ripens to blue and the streets burst with new life
The woman scratches a spot on her back, using a plastic butter knife
Taxis start honking and cops start chatting over coffee
A new day has broke, as has the heart of Monica, softly
She returns to her writing and ignores the many glances
Of those walking by, their polished lives so enchanted
"A day would come soon from which there was no going back"
And soon she began detailing her addiction to crack
"At the time I got hooked, my daughter was five"
Before she got any further she took a moment to cry
A stranger en route to a meeting across town
Finds a quarter in his pocket and tosses it down
Monica manages a smile for the man dressed in gray
Who just nods and proceeds briskly along on his way
The woman takes a brief moment to use the back of her hand
To make waste of the tears as best as she can
"After trying so hard..." her threshold of pain at it's limit,
"My husband intervened, I was admitted to a clinic."
"6 weeks of therapy...oh the pain," she wrote with a frown
"That insult they call methodone - was all I was allowed"
And she continued to describe, with painful detail
How hard she fought for her life - blood, sweat, tooth and nail
As the day draws on and the mounting sorrow she feels mounts
She gets the compulsion that morning to end her days in that town
Monica stands smartly from her stoop near the stairs
And abandons her bags, shaking the sand from her hair
She tears from her notebook, the page she had written
And crushes it into a ball, concealed in her mitten
"There isn't room for me here now, no...not with this past"
She thinks to herself as she walks through the grass
The page from her notebook still clenched in her fist
She makes a beeline to where the nearest train station is
"Here's to you, Jack - I'm sorry I failed you"
She whispers to herself under a signed marked, "Rail 2"
"I did what I could and still ended up here"
And at that very moment, Monica released all her fears
Standing upright with her dignity's remains
All pooled together, she hears the oncoming train
With a final, frim grip on the ball of paper she held
She smiled as she stepped, and to the end Monica fell.
Keeps the strangers' change together, held by fingers long and thin
The weathered woman sighs, sitting alone in the park
Quietly she weeps counting regrets through the dark
Dawn breaks softly and its new light stings the eyes
Of Monica Alper, homeless white female, age sixty-five
The birds and the businessmen both spring from their hiding
The woman draws her pen and her paper; a clear mind begins writing
Things weren't always this way for this failed life in dismay
Thoughts trickle out now of memories that can't be erased
What exactly went wrong is remarkably clear
Though not cared for today, her words fall on deaf ears
So a tired, spiral notebook plays canvas for words
Writ in blue ink, the color a parallel to her hurt
As the fog lifts slowly from the drab cityscape
Monica scribbles on what will be the book's only missing page
"Sixteen and dreaming somewhere in Maine" she slowly writes
"Aced all my classes, entered college and found Christ"
"Majored in finance, got a man, a car and all that..."
Tears well in her eyes as the story turns black
The morning sky ripens to blue and the streets burst with new life
The woman scratches a spot on her back, using a plastic butter knife
Taxis start honking and cops start chatting over coffee
A new day has broke, as has the heart of Monica, softly
She returns to her writing and ignores the many glances
Of those walking by, their polished lives so enchanted
"A day would come soon from which there was no going back"
And soon she began detailing her addiction to crack
"At the time I got hooked, my daughter was five"
Before she got any further she took a moment to cry
A stranger en route to a meeting across town
Finds a quarter in his pocket and tosses it down
Monica manages a smile for the man dressed in gray
Who just nods and proceeds briskly along on his way
The woman takes a brief moment to use the back of her hand
To make waste of the tears as best as she can
"After trying so hard..." her threshold of pain at it's limit,
"My husband intervened, I was admitted to a clinic."
"6 weeks of therapy...oh the pain," she wrote with a frown
"That insult they call methodone - was all I was allowed"
And she continued to describe, with painful detail
How hard she fought for her life - blood, sweat, tooth and nail
As the day draws on and the mounting sorrow she feels mounts
She gets the compulsion that morning to end her days in that town
Monica stands smartly from her stoop near the stairs
And abandons her bags, shaking the sand from her hair
She tears from her notebook, the page she had written
And crushes it into a ball, concealed in her mitten
"There isn't room for me here now, no...not with this past"
She thinks to herself as she walks through the grass
The page from her notebook still clenched in her fist
She makes a beeline to where the nearest train station is
"Here's to you, Jack - I'm sorry I failed you"
She whispers to herself under a signed marked, "Rail 2"
"I did what I could and still ended up here"
And at that very moment, Monica released all her fears
Standing upright with her dignity's remains
All pooled together, she hears the oncoming train
With a final, frim grip on the ball of paper she held
She smiled as she stepped, and to the end Monica fell.
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