What a Difference Four Years Makes

Four years ago tonight I did a really stupid thing and put the first "Bunny" out on the web.

Then I waited for the accolades to come in, the book offers to knock and the door and the world to turn bright and shiny once again.

Thanks for reading, both of you. But you know what really happened. I gathered an audience the size of my bevy of cousins, the book is written but there's a thing called "balls" between it and publication and the world, while it has gotten very much better since those days, still has its blemishes.

I wrote about fireflies in an open field. The field is sold and I live in town. Standing out on the back deck buck naked for the 'flies would be looked upon critically now. Just proves once again though, that bugs are generally smarter and less inhibited than we are.

I wrote about friends who told me I should write. I interacted with them daily. Now I troll through Facebook and Ass Journal to catch up with them.

What I didn't write about was the relationship that was barrelling into a wall and would soon be over. That was private and continues to be. It ended. A new one began and I'll mention Thumper but there it ends. What she and I have is ours. Sorry folks, but if you want details on intimacies, you're going to have to read "Family Circus."

What I also didn't write about was the perigee of my life as it seemed to be then. I'm not here to whine. That's not the point of the blog and you should read for entertainment not empathy. Things have improved, dramatically, since then but I have to confess: I miss that back deck that looked out on farmland and woods whereupon I once stood, scant of fabric and wondered if "Bunny On" were a dirty challenge.

I ended that first blog with "enjoy the ride." Thanks for riding, it's been an honor to have you along. Enjoy the next year, the next two, the next decade if you will, 'cause I've no intent of leaving unless of course NPR signs me up. But I doubt it. Who the hell do I know in Washington anyway?

Bunny on!

I F'd up on NPR

Pretend you're me for a second and there's a challenge on the web to write as badly as "this" guy. This guy being the fellow who won the Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest for bad opening sentences to a novel, as sponsored by the University of San Jose or someplace close to that.

Bulwer-Lytton are the duo who chanced upon "It was a dark and stormy night" as bad writing and the rest is history or a Peanuts cartoon depending on the depth of your cultural immersement. Me? I'm with Snoopy and the lost Van Gogh.

But NPR featured the winner of the contest and his first full winning sentence and I, singing to the tune of two lunchtime martinis, thought I could do just as well if not better.

And herein lies the distinction between talent and alcohol. See, the tenets of the contest call for you to write the worst first opening SENTENCE to a novel and while my entry garnered a pretty good collection of recommends, they all came from barflies such as myself who can't seem to distinguish SENTENCE from PARAGRAPH which is to say the first has words, the second PUNCTUATION. Alas, death by period. Something most of my high school girlfriends at first feared then prayed for.

So I entered NPR's little joust but really disqualified myself by entering a first paragraph rather than a first sentence. Publicly humiliated, I'm a little short on the shame quota, because whatever you fuck up in the national arena, you can always take back and mulligan in private.

So here it is. My NPR entry for worst writing, had I been paying attention.

Big Jake stopped his pickup and threw it into park like most folks would throw a bag of dirty clothes that came to represent their worst life memories into a corner of the basement, he opened the door and stuck his boot into the dust, raising a cloud that could have been his life's hopes and dreams, 'cause they settled just as quick as he pulled one last swig off of the tequila bottle which jiggled his contents like so many Jell-o desserts his Momma had made him; tighten your belt, boy, put "the negotiator" in its holster, breathe in deeply and walk as calm as you can to that waiting spaceship.

Shucks, I could have had a 34 second interview.

Bunny on.

Son of Facebook

A sibling of mine and I were recently arguing the merits of Facebook and other social networking sites. Of course I was right, but being tolerant and generous I let her opine freely. I'm often, nay, usually right about such and most things but give others their due particularly in the case of my sister because she is after all several hundred miles distant from me but in times of closer proximity she's got a wicked backhand that can dislodge molars.

I don't get the point of Facebook. I've opened it up once or twice and am basically exposed to small snapshots of people I either don't know at all, don't care to know or know currently or knew once many years ago. The people I know currently I don't need photos of. That's what memory or face recognition is for. Tall blonde woman is Denise. Repeat several times over until its captured in your brainpan and you don't call out her her as "Ivan" at a ballgame. People I knew a long time ago, well that's just an exercise in facially catching up and noting that they've either "aged well" or "time's not been kind" or the pretty bastard is still a pretty bastard and thirty years later can probably walk off with my girlfriend all over again.

Don't think this is autobiographical.

Sis noted that Facebook was much more. It was a networking site that relied on brevity for users to catch up with each other in bits and spurts and not have to commit themselves to long letters or emails summarizing what's been happening with themselves since high school graduation or college or release from prison depending on your aspirations and such.

She noted that she had just caught up with a gal she knew once in college and found that they had had miraculously similar experiences that they shared in forty two characters or less. Either they found their life's calling at the same time in Calcutta working for the Sisters of Mercy and dedicated themselves to God's work on earth or they had the same rose tatoo on the inside of their thighs. I wasn't paying too close attention.

And I wasn't convinced. Admittedly, I don't get it. I can't sort out my Facebook from my Ass Journal from my Elbow Digest.

There is an idea for a networking site I can support though and it came to me the other morning. I'm tentatively calling it S.O.N. which of course is the Social Outcast Network. The structure is simple and you don't have to recommend, invite, tweet, toot, fart inconspicously or otherwise.

As a lone user of SON, you can link into popular groups through a url that allows you to "peer in the window." Groups such as professional organizations or collections of friends can "take pity" on your profile or "keep you at arm's length" or shun you altogether. You can keep up with others by "chattering" about what you're currently involved in or working on or otherwise doing and they can respond to you by "who cares" and "did somebody say something or am I hearing things?"

SON users can of course be connected to each other and can compare groups that they've been "ignored by" or "made fun of by." Connections between SON users would take the forms of "mumbles" or "mutterings."

With SON you could conceivably link up with hundreds of other SON users who would be at the periphery of real social networks not really knowing what to do next. One SON user could compare his or her sorry state to another SON user and note that he or she, as bad as things were, had at least not been kept out of "that" site. They'd feel better. Of course there would be other users who would be better of yet than they.

This would drive traffic immensely.

Not bad for an idea crafted in the cold, grey insomniatic dawn.

Or was that a hangover talking?

Bunny on.

Man's Second Greatest Thrill

In a place bereft of gravity, I'm sure that I would enjoy flying without any kind of reservation whatsoever. Trouble is though, it's the law and that's one freaking long arm. Reaches up to thirty five thousand feet in my imagination and damn that's a long way down to a relatively hard place.

Earth wouldn't be too bad a place to land but they've covered it with rocks. The hard kind. They're everywhere. They seem to be multiplying too. I noticed that the last time I went mountain biking. Biking over treacherous terrain was fun and thrilling when my thirties seemed to stretch out ahead of me like the best advertising hook you can imagine. But now that my forties seem to be heading for the exits like they've downed a jumbo soda at a slasher film festival the idea of explaining traction to a bunch of kids that work for you ain't funny no more.

Red convertibles I've got a plausible story line for. Endo's on the single track, not so much.

Every now and again I get on a plane. Really, wings glued to aluminum sheathing so thin that were I olive loaf, the foil wrap would sport a note inviting salmonella to come on in, the water's fine. Screw some engines on, akin to holding a tug of war with Bible-paper rope and you get the idea that we're just fucking with physics in a bad way here.

But that's not the point. What seems to get me is that once down the jetway, sort of the long sharp needle that Mr. Plane cries about every time Nurse Airport pulls it out, every time we descend that ramp humanity seems to get automatic asshole enhancement features.

Nowhere was this more in evidence than when I just flew the red-eye home.

I used to think that the red-eye was a glamorous thing, never having taken one. High powered folks took the red-eye to save time. Jump on an all night plane, stretch out in total comfort and arrive refreshed. Oh, the flight attendants might sprinkle a little sand in your peepers and give you a peck on the cheek just to make it all believable but essentially you were just in your big jet engined bed in the sky.

Now I know better. Shove yourself into economy class where your chin is intimate with the breastbone of the passenger ahead of you. Fold yourself into the shape of a paper clip and get some turbulence-addled shuteye until all the cabin lights come on so they can offer you what's left of the orange juice.

Your feet are hugging your one legal-sized carry on, shoved under your seat because apparently the folks six rows down, the ones transporting their infant to the Utica colic festival think that carry on has the same amount of syllables and essentially means the same thing as "checked bags big enough to fill a city bus."

Of course, you've got a few hours. Took about six to get out here so if you take out the sudden jerks awake when you realize you've drooled the contents of Lake Mead on your shirt or rested your hand inappropriately on the lap of the knife salesman sitting next to you, you'll still get about four solid hours of rest. Too bad the prevailing winds will blow you home in less than three hours so by the time you land in the office bat-shit tired and ready to sign contracts that promise you washing the client's car into the second Palin administration you're only running on about an hour and even that gets interrupted for "Orange juice?"

And while the Colic Clan sprint merrily off to parking lot B, I'm dutifully at the carousel waiting for my bag which is no doubt being retrieved from Burundi.

There's another great adventure in travel out there somewhere. I just don't know where and if I find it I'm keeping it to myself for a while. In between fifty five, toll booths and construction sites, Amtrak hot dogs and TSA strip searches of yogurt, I want to keep the government from fucking up another experience. Add to that the happy colickers doing fifty two in the left lane, stretching across three seats or packing up everything but Jethro and Granny's rocker for the flight to L.A. and you start to understand that while God may have made beer to prove that he wants us to be happy, he made travel to warn us of the hot place that lies beyond selling your soul for a first class upgrade.

Best regards from fifteen miles above the limit, three gin and tonics in the club car and the personal tv screen and free socks in business class.

Oh, and if there's turbulence, toss two parts gin and a dash of vermouth in a shaker, I'll hold it for the duration.

Bunny on.

I'm With Stupid in Fill in the Place Here

Every time I leave home for a few deserved days of not letting the rats win, I seem to forget to pack all my stupid saying silk-screened T-shirts. How about you?

I have a ritual: Check tickets at least twice, ensure that the light timers are plugged in and set to P.M. this time, toss distracting handfuls of kibble at the cats and smash all the "I got loaded in..." shot glasses on the floor.

Strangely enough, where ever I go I always manage to make sure that cheap cotton lays upon my back, an asinine bon mot I could not conceive on a bender graces my front and my highballs will be born in a crucible of "I got hammered in..."

Fill in your favorite destination.

That would be o.k. It's all part of the modern paradigm that includes "carry on" luggage the size of a Cadillac, layovers you have birthdays on and flights where I'd just as soon hold a flask of gin and vermouth and I'll get back to you about the olives once we're out of this kidney-wrenching turbulence.

But travel broadens the mind just as it tightens the sphincter to a point of being able to snap a wooden dowel if we suddenly drop another five hundred feet in a split second. Fortunately I'm back and safe and sound. All set to fly "Air Chair" for a few thousand miles and some postings about the latest effort to self-age ten years on a red-eye.

Bunny on.

Sure Ain't Fungus County

Mountains with hills at their knees

Where in the world is Bunny?

Floor? This is the basement!

August 25, 2008

Dear Rex:

Although I've always valued your opinion as my broker, I feel that you're leading me into too much of an equities-only position and wonder if pulling back into more diversified bonds and cash might not be wise.

I keep hearing about the home market values sliding although I must say that rising prices still seem to be the norm and "flipping," "trading up" and "buying the dream" are still quite popular in my parts. My neighbors closed yesterday and sold seventeen minutes later at a 60% profit.

Well, maybe you're right.

Bunny

Dear Bunny:

The average American home has appreciated 17,000% since 1985 and there's no end in sight. Sure, you hear about "tight credit" in the news but let me tell you that those reports are coming from somewhere else. I don't know where, but it ain't here. I've invested a large chunk of your portfolio into high yield mortgage backed securities. Looking forward to retiring at fifty?

Rex

September 20, 2008

Dear Rex:

Dunno. This "credit crunch" kind of worries me. I think we should pull out of the mortgage-backed securities 'cause mortgages are still too easy to get. I mean, come on, when I bought my first house I had to account for a dime I found in the street. This last place, I was on a "98.6 plan." Yep, they took my temperature and approved me for $300K. Trouble is, I don't want that much. I don't need to trade up. My friend Jim bought his dream home last June and for God's sakes, I don't begrudge him but the place is so big he hasn't seen his wife in a month. I remember that he has two kids but he's no longer sure. Where's the fun in that?

Ok, so Chrysler's undervalued by you. I guess you're right.

Bunny

Dear Caus'

You may have noticed that the market's been a little unsettled lately. No cause for worry and you know that in the long run, equities is your best value.

Rex

October 1, 2008

Hey Rex:

Calling the market a little unsettled is like calling Charlie Manson occasionally grumpy. Ok, so we agreed to stake out a long term position and ride out the short term bumps but what do you suggest for this short term sheer drop to nowhere. Can we get away from equities and commodity futures and maybe invest in apocalypse futures. I hear they're real hot right now.

CB

Dear Bunny:

Of course, Wall Street has always had its ups and downs. We know that and can advise you on how to chart the safest course in any storm.

Rex

November 15, 2008

Rexo:

The safest course in this storm may be praying to God almighty to pick me up off this ship. Ok, Lord, I'm sorry for hitting Shirley in fourth grade. I really didn't know how else to channel my pre-pubescent lust. And I apologize for mooning the neighbors the first time Patrick and I had three beers each. I thought you put the stuff on earth to prove that you loved us and wanted us to be happy? Oh, and taking your name in vain? Yeah, I've done a lot of that lately. Sorry.

Rex, I really think we need to talk about that GM buy.

Caustic Bunny

Dear Caustic Bunny:

Market uncertainty can be market opportunity if you know how to invest wisely in troubled times. Call me for an appointment.

Rex

February 12, 2009

Rexhole:

Could you possibly send me a diagram showing which parts of the English language you don't comprehend? Let's start simple: "A" is for apple which we shall shortly both be selling. Circuit City is "hot hot hot?" What the "fuck fuck fuck" are you talking about??? I'm waiting for the bailout that bails out the bailout.

Caustic Freaking Bunny

Dear Mr. Bunny:

It has been a difficult time in the markets. Equities have lost, on average, 46% of their value. Bonds, given current pressures on the credit markets, are not a safe haven by any means. Regular bank accounts and certificates of deposit are not paying significant yield by any means but for our more cautious investor they do remain attractive given their FDIC backing.

In short, we live in perilous times where from day to day we can only be thankful that we are working and have means to provide for our families. As your broker I would advise you that it is now as always prudent to put aside some of that income to provide for you and your loved ones in the future and, God forbid, on that rainy day. May I suggest that we you develop a monthly budget and stick to it. I'm always available to speak to for investment, secured and otherwise, opportunities.

Personally, I hope that you are sleeping better lately and don't dream about that "Rex" fellow any more.

Best wishes,

Bruce

ps. What is it you toss over your shoulder when you leave my office? Bunny on?