Fruits Of My Labor

I have recently been on the hunt for rad t-shirts. I think I called them appropriately ironic t-shirts on facebook. And I just wanted to share with all of you the bountiful harvest which I have experienced. I braved the sweet sickly smell of Savers and Deseret Industries. I braved the crying children and harsh fluorescent lighting. I braved the unhappy cashiers and mustard-stained clothing racks. I braved the wash of cold, odd guilt that came over me as I realized that I have the money to shop elsewhere. I braved the unorganized ruddy shelves and piercing sideways looks from observers in my furious quest. All for these gems. The beacon and source of artesian hope. I had a large budget, yet this is probably the best $2 I have ever spent.

Ok, Donny and Marie Osmond are cool enough in their own right, right? But what about the Osmonds you've never heard of? The coolness is simply exponential. They are even clad in 90's regalia. The 2nd Osmonds have a phallic 'G' as their symbol. It is a symbol of prowess, kinda like The-artist-formally-known-as-Prince. The color scheme is a delight to behold, as are their shining, quasi-toughguy  faces.

There isn't much to say about this one. Maybe it is the unintentional play on words, that makes us read: "Right on! Freedom!" Or maybe it is the fact that everything is starred and striped, but the fact remains, this shirt made my day. I don't know if Lady Liberty has ever ridden a Chopper. But maybe she should consider it. After all, she looks dang good. This shirt also makes me want to Ride On Freedom. I also ride on the fact that America will continually ruin its own patriotism with strange mash-ups of revered symbols. I love freedom just as much as the next guy, but now I can wear it on my chest. Right on!
 
[Keep following children, I'm saving for a motorcycle.]

Masquerading on. And on.

What a difference a day makes. I think Annie was right. No matter what happens in our today, tomorrow still has an imagination. And it's better than yours. Way better.

Life tends to be a smug masquerade. We are all dancers on it's floor. We wear our ornate costumes, drape ourselves in exotic fabrics, and elegantly spin as if nothing were amiss. We have our masks; our self-deceptions, pride, and narrow pessimism. As if no new dawn could lavish hope.

Little do we know that around each spinning step slinks an opportunist fate. A met glance. Another chance. Or the audacity of romance. We simple fools. We dance on. Side-stepping our mistress luck for the gatekeeper solitude. We cloud our eyes with ethereal fantasy and drift past waiting out our lives as if it were some one-time-only movie showing.

The sun will come out tomorrow. Though you can't fathom its glory. The while we study the barbican moon. The haunches of its dimness. Shortchange those we love and whittle away the minutes. There is contentment but not joy. We experience a sort of damning lack of progress with contentment. We would have joy but for sadness. Fear whips us into hovels.

I for one am in a beaming moment. Warm-faced and blissful. Spirits akin to longing, now embrace like long-parted friends. Keep me loving and I get away from the dance and tear off my mask; and live.

[Keep following children. Happy days are upon us if you look hard enough. Who knows? Maybe you will wake up 50 years from now to a sterile gray dawn and short days filled with ashen snow.]