Past the point of nothing left to say.
Days recede along the crest of illusion.
Forgotten memories reassert at importunate moments.
Impossible opportunities flutter through.
Till they can not be seen,
like the setting sun
in its red-yellow splendor.
Life goes by.

Trophies are a relic of the past.
A past before the invention of photography, photo albums and camcorders.

Nate Cornejo's Scouting Report


2004 Outlook
"Cornejo made strides last season in his mental approach by developing a bulldog attitude. But his lack of velocity raises a red flag. Where it looked like he was a potential No. 1 or 2 starter a couple years ago, it appears he now might be a No. 4 or 5 starter at best. Not throwing as hard may have helped him stay in the major leagues, but it's a double-edged sword because Cornejo simply might not throw hard enough to reach what at one time seemed like his considerable potential."
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Is thinking like a canine really an improvement (a "stride") in one's mental "approach"? I don't think dogs are capable of such complicated concepts as approaching. Accosting maybe, approaching, certainly not. Even uber-sports-guys, those permitted to write scouting reports, betray the stupidity that sadly plagues too many American men.

OK OK. Bulldog is a common slang phrase used to describe unrelenting determination. To me, it's an backhand compliment, because of the following facts:
-bulldogs are ugly and ungraceful.
-dogs are not as intelligent as humans, dolphins, or even pigs.
-The term is somewhat condescending because it implies that you are simply TOO bullheaded to know when to stop, and therefore ironically effective. Whereas the accuser (or person doling out the compliment) knows when to stop, relent and quit, he views this as a necessary weakness. Almost a requisite fault that goes along with being human: "I know I can't build a house, so I need to hire a builder. But that guy, he's a bulldog, he just built it himself." Meanwhile the other guy's name is Jack and he lives in nonfunctioning clubhouse.

Orgasm's apex of peeled-away layers,
revealing the known, the mundane, the dirty,
jealousy clenches passion stained,
The smeared wobble of reflection.

If I plagiarize Shakespeare on a piece of paper, claim that I wrote it (privately of course), and then promptly burn the paper and never speak of it again. It is certainly not plagiarism.

If I write it in my journal and keep it locked away for no one to ever read. And it is not read until after I am dead. Again, it cannot be considered plagiarism, at least not in a court of law.

What if I write it and I offer it to my friends to read, but they never do. It mustn't be plagiarism because no one read it.

What if I offer it to the world, and no one reads it? If a tree falls in the woods, of course it makes a sound, noise occurs independent of human consumption. But plagiarism needs 1) people to consume it, and 2) the people to be familiar with the original.

Boston globe columnist Mike Barnacle was fired/let-go for plagiarizing Georgle Carlin's, "Braindroppings", in one of his articles. After everyone discovered this (Mike made the mistake of plagiarizing material that was rather too new and familiar to pass by unnoticed), there was a frantic rush to sift through all of Barnacle's old columns to find other instances of plagiarism. Several rival columnists from other papers did just this and Barnacle's reputation was decimated.

I always wondered whether or not the obscure plagiarism that they found in his past articles actually existed before people started look for it. He wrote those articles, people read them and loved them--he built a fantastic reputation as a witty, wry, cynical columnist. And no one suspected him of plagarism. In fact some of his alleged abuses dated back twenty years. The evidence was incontrovertible, but the fact remains that through the span of twenty years, no plagiary existed.

The idea is that passing interest took seriously is the most heartfelt of lies and utterly despicable. It's sadly comical to see the 30 something woman with her brightly colored spandex outfit, cleated sneakers, $3000 bike, and stern looking face, walking her rig up a mild incline. As I, with jeans and a tee shirt and a rusted clunker, set to "medium" because the gears don't work ( this is not entirely true, the gears indeed change, of course, it requires stopping, flipping the bike over, and manually yanking the chain to different gears) breeze right by her and her expensive bike. You've read all the bike magazines and bought all the gear the salesman told you to, such that you look like some other brightly colored personage with funny shoes that exits a car--in bunches. You've studied the lingo, competed in the races (finished with a dreadfully slow time, but who cares it's not about the race, it's about the competition and everybody's a winner and the networking and socializing that occurs afterwards), in short you've become a hardcore O.G. biker. All I see is a wannabe with a fat ass. At some point, it must be admitted, your weight prevents you from becoming anything resembling anything athletic. Just as I never tried to run marathons when I smoked cigarettes, you should stay away from bikes and hills if you insist upon continuing to eat as much as you do. Smokers know what they're doing harms them, they're intimately aware of their own doom, they also know that they can't have it both ways--smoking and athletics just don't mix. But the fat 30 something biker is blind to this, by their own consumerism or their own foolish desire.

All this and bitter hatred at one person's denial of the obvious, circle my mind as I ride swiftly past, my baggy pant bottoms nearly getting caught in my chain, popping wheelies to show my disdain and to mark my territory. This hill is mine bitch, and I don't even care. You name the sport and I'll give you six months to read the magazines, learn the lingo and buy the gear, and I'll still kick your ass in jeans and a tee-shirt.