Smart Girls (A Lyrical Commentary)

A CLEAN rewrite of the lyrics to "Blurred Lines." I call it "Smart Girls"

(No moral high ground here, this is just what happens when I am bored.)

"Smart Girls"

(Everybody book up)
(Everybody book up)
(A, A, A)
(A, A, A)
(A, A, A)

I just can’t believe, what that guy just said
He should feel lucky, to be alive not dead
Maybe I'm going deaf

(A, A, A)
Maybe I'm going blind

(A, A, A)
Maybe I'm out of my mind

(Everybody book up)

OK now he was gross, tried to objectify you
But you're intelligent,

Lady, it's in your nature
Don’t let his song get to you
(A, A, A)
No need to be a hater
(A, A, A)
That man is not your maker

And that's why I tell you you’re a smart girl
Your mind I love it
There’s so much in it
Your mind I want it
You're a smart girl
You’re way smarter than me
You're far from plastic
Talk about getting bested

I hate those sick guys

They think they've got it
They think you want it
But they don’t know it
That you're too smart girl
The way you study
Must wanna get a degree
Go ahead, and best me

(Everybody book up)

What do they make curves for,
When you got them test scores?
I already know that
You the smartest brain in this place!
I feel so lucky
(A, A, A)
You wanna tutor me?
(A, A, A)
Your brain is sexy!
(A, A, A)

OK now he was gross, tried to objectify you
But you're intelligent,

Lady, it's in your nature
Don’t let his song get to you
(A, A, A)
No need to be a hater
(A, A, A)
That man is not your maker
(A, A, A)

And that's why I'm lookin’ for a smart girl
I know you are it
In spades you got it
Jealous I’m of it
You're a smart girl
Can't let you get past me
You're far from plastic
Talk about getting bested
(Everybody book up)

I hate those sick guys

They think they've got it
They think you want it
But they don’t know it
That you're too smart girl
The way you study
Must wanna get a degree
Go ahead, and best me

One thing I ask of you
Let me be the one you to walk to class with you
From Chemistry, to Math class (ew!)
Yeah, I’m gonna be late, but I had to
So hit me up when you passing through
I'll carry your books if you ask me to
Study on, and when your book’s open
I’ll try my best not stare at you
In a hundred years not dare, would I
Let you study Calculus with another guy
Nothing like your last guy, he too dumb for you
He don't read no books and test prep with you
So I just watch and wait for you to compute
And calculate
Not many men can refuse your thinkin’
I'm a nice guy, so please just hear me

Stretch your brain, get smart, get smart
Study ‘til it hurt, ‘til it hurt
I’ll just watch you work

Here’s a not to read; I wrote this when I missed ya,
It says I love you and I would like to date ya. (uh-huh)
No more pretending
(A,A,A)
Cause now you winning
(A,A,A)
Here's our beginning
(A,A,A)

I always wanted a smart girl
I know you are it
In spades you got it
Jealous I’m of it
You're a smart girl
Can't let you get past me
You're far from plastic
Talk about getting bested

I hate those sick guys
(Everybody book up)

They think they've got it
They think you want it
But they don’t know it
That you're too smart girl
The way you study
Must wanna get a degree
Go ahead, and best me

(Everybody book up)
(Everybody book up)

(A, A, A)
(A, A, A)
(A, A, A)

Blurred Lines?

Lightning woke me from my coma-like sleep the other night. I thought it was my wife taking photographic evidence of my shaking-paint-from-the-walls snoring, but it turned out to be Mother Nature competing with me for noisemaker of the night.

Once up, I couldn’t fall back to sleep, and so I decided to watch the natural fireworks display with my wife and kids. They were sitting in the breakfast nook, surrounded by windows. The show was dramatic; brilliant bursts of white followed by menacing thunder that echoed along the mountains and up the canyon behind our house.

But the thunder and lightning wasn’t the real threat that night. The real danger befell us when I let the dark stranger into our home.

We have a doorbell. When it rings, we have to answer it and let in the person that rang it. That is the way it works, am I right? Just like the phone; if it rings, you have to answer it, and you have to speak to the person on the other end of the line.

Wrong.

I opened the door as lightning flashed, illuminating the dark stranger. He stood a head taller than me, dressed in a black overcoat and grinning like the devil when he’s found out you’re dead. He held a hunting knife in one hand, and a baseball bat that dripped blood and rain in the other.

“Hello,” he said. “I would like to come in, but won’t unless you invite me.”

“Well, come on in,” I replied, stepping aside to allow him passage.

And so he entered.

The dark stranger tore through our house, smashing precious memories with his bat and tearing priceless works of art from the walls. He opened our kitchen cupboards and threw our china out onto the floor, then rifled through our bedroom closets and tore apart our clothes. He set fire to our cars in the garage, kicked our computer down the stairs, and rammed a chair through the big screen TV. As he did, he wiped his filthy boots on the carpet, leaving the dark stains and wretched smells of dog mess and blood everywhere.

And then he got personal.

He grabbed my kids by their hair and dragged them into the basement, where he beat them bloody, stripped them to their underwear and tied them to chairs with extension cords. He sat down before them and started sharpening his blade, laughing as they sobbed, begging for their lives. Satisfied with their terror, he left the room, leaving them to whimper in the dark basement while he took my wife on a terrible tour of our home. He mocked her cries as he ripped memories into pieces, stomped on clean bedding, and slashed curtains and carpet alike with a massive hunting knife.

And as he did, I sat on the couch eating a bowl of cereal.

He soon left, slamming the door to mark the end of his rampage.

Only then did I get angry. How dare he enter my home, hurt my children, torture my wife, and damage my property beyond repair? I shouted and roared, waved my fist in the air, and promised vengeance. I stood in the middle of my broken home, my broken family around me, and I raged like never before.

Who had let this menace into my home?

Oh right, it was me.

I opened the door when the bell rang, and when I saw the massive and dark stranger standing there with weapons in hand, asking to come in, I welcomed him into my home.

The man oozed danger, smelled of damage, and personified evil, and yet I let him into my home.

I have no right to cry foul.

Okay, so none of this happened (except for the snoring and the lightning show), and the story is pretty over-the-top and dramatic, but the message is this: When given a choice, choose wisely, and accept the fact that you are also choosing a consequence, one over which you have little or no control.

I know that Miley Cyrus danced like a whore on a pole at the VMAs, but only because the news told me that people were angry about it. I know that two people were pressing their naked flesh together in a commercial that aired during “Good Morning America” because a mother decided to complain about it entering her home as she ate breakfast with her babies. (see her blog post that went viral and somehow became newsworthy here, but not until you are done reading mine)

My response to the righteous indignation of these out criers is as follows:

First, if you admit to watching the VMAs, I don’t really need to argue with you, your admission is fuel enough to burn your argument to ashes.

Second, if you are surprised by Miley’s behavior, I want a hit of whatever you have been smoking for the past several years, because you live in oblivion. That girl walked off the set of “Hannah Montana” and stepped on a large but unfunny banana peel, and she has been sliding around on her ass ever since. Wake up and smell the cheap and whorish perfume.

And finally, to Rebeca Seitz, the outraged mother and “GMA” watcher, who wrote that the sex-filled commercial was seen by her young son “because somewhere, someone made some decisions.”

No, Rebeca, someone made one decision, and that someone would be you. (Insert funny image captioned with “You’re Doing It Wrong!” here.)

You chose to watch “GMA” (really? GMA?) and so it is your fault. Of course, you can argue the timing of the commercial (and you have) as if the outcome of the world depended on a boycott of ABC. In rebuttal I would ask, why did it take you this long? ABC has pumped out amoral garbage on their “Family” channel for years. (And why wouldn’t they, when it sells?)

Hint: Close the door and the dark stranger will go away.

Listen, I get it. I go to church, I believe in God, and I know that the world is at any given time and in any given place a real manure pile. Morality is mocked, sex is bandied about as if no one ever had or ever was a child, and life itself is all but worthless. Kids are assaulted from the moment they leave the house, regardless of your best efforts at home.

You can’t prevent the assault, but you can prepare your kids to defend themselves against it.

But it ain’t that bad; I also feel that for the most part, the world is beautiful. It is overflowing with good people, fascinating wonders, and evidence of a loving creator. Sex is great, and in the right context it isn’t dirty, evil, or immoral. The same goes for guns, video games, television, the internet, and a whole mess of other things that can corrupt if we choose to let them.

As much as you would like to, you can’t force your morality on others, just as you shouldn’t let them force their immorality on you.

The church that I attend (LDS) encourages its youth to “stand in holy places and be not moved.” When I first heard this said, I laughed. It sounded so pious, silly and self-righteous. I didn’t want my kids to be weird, or to become religious zealots, and I worried that being “not moved” would actually move them there. But then I was asked to write a letter to my children, telling them what I believed, and how I felt about them. As I wrote, I realized that when it came to my kids, being “not moved” wasn’t so pious, silly, or self-righteous after all. I want them to be good and happy people, and so I took the encouragement even further, suggesting to them that they themselves could become a “holy place,” a place that could not be moved by peer pressure, the world, or Miley Cyrus, the VMAs, and ABC. (And they could still be cool, or whatever word is used for being “hip” these days.)

Don’t get me wrong; I am not taking moral high ground here. You might be shocked at some of the things that I choose to watch in my own home and even some of the things I choose to allow my kids to watch.

But it’s my choice, and I choose to live with the consequences.

If you can’t, you’re doing it wrong.

Dis-ciple?

Jesus! I don't write or say too much about the man. For some time now I have held my Jesus cards close to my chest. This is not because I am ashamed or embarrassed to admit my love for and belief in him, but because what I feel and know about him is personal.

Think what you will of me, and base those feelings on anything you choose; something I have written, said, or done, a brief moment that we may have shared years ago, or even something someone else said about me. Look at a photo of my fat head and decide that I am worthy of ridicule, read my book and choose to hate me, it doesn't bother me (anymore).

Just don't dis my Jesus, or somebody else’s Buddha, or Allah, or Yahweh, or even the belief that none of them exist.

For a world wishing to be draped in a garland of tolerance (a terrible word if you think about it), we sure do hate a lot. The Religious and the Atheist, the Liberal and the Conservative, the Coke and the Pepsi; we find it easy to express disdain for each other.

(If you have to be right all the time, then you are probably wrong most of the time.)

Not too long ago I was at a special family gathering at an LDS (Mormon) church in Salt Lake City. We filed in and sat down, filling the room with happy chatter and light laughter. While we waited for stragglers to arrive, a man with authority walked in and introduced himself. After some shaking of hands, he made an announcement.

"Well, the election is over, but if I were made king, I would outlaw tattoos, Halloween, and motorcycles."

My reaction was immediate, even automatic. Without a word or a thought, I stood and made for the door as if deeply offended and unwilling to listen to another word that the opinionated stranger had to say. As I reached the threshold, my father-in-law said in a half-jest, "I think we have all three of those categories here tonight."

The family laughed at both my reaction and my father-in-law's statement, while the man with authority stood before us looking confused. I turned around and sat back down with a smile, believing that I had made clear my point.

But upon reflection, I doubt that the man with authority grasped the message behind my humorous disagreement with his narrow-minded and unsolicited declaration, or my father-in-law’s subtle warning to respect the family that he loves in spite of their many imperfections.

If he is out there reading this, here it is. I hope he figures it out this time.

Since you are a Mormon, I know that you believe in Jesus. You believe that he came to save sinners from themselves. Some of these sinners wear suits, colorful ties, and scuff-marked loafers, while others sport black leather jackets, blue jeans, and scuff-marked riding boots. A good amount of sinners drive mini-vans, work ten hour days, watch golf on television, and check their 401k online every four minutes. Others ride motorcycles, work ten hour days, watch Clint Eastwood movies, and check their 401k online every four days. All of their hearts pump blood, all of them sleep when they are tired, and all of them eat when they are hungry. They love their wives (I hope), care about their kids (they’d better), and all of them want to be happy.

And since you believe in Christ, you believe that they all sin.

You are aware that you are one of them, right? A sinner?

I’d like to think that your announcement on that happy night can be excused by your suffering through some traumatic childhood event. Perhaps one dark Halloween night as you trick-or-treated, your mother was run down and killed by a tattooed biker. Maybe Daddy didn't love you as much as he loved tattoos, trick-or-treating, and his motorcycle. Maybe you loved all three as a teenager, but your parents were zealots and beat that love out of you.

Because as a believer in the same Jesus, I would hate to think that you feel that way in order to be like him.

I’m not sorry to say this, but that ain't my Jesus.

A man that I admire above most (and one that I am sure you wish you could be more like) once spoke of a bumper sticker that had taught him a powerful lesson. It asked of its readers, “Don’t judge me because I sin differently than you.”

Full disclosure moment: I fall into all three of your would-be-illegal categories. (stories about each to follow in time)

I am no great study of theology, and I don’t think any of them are real ardent sinners, but I am willing to bet that Jesus, Buddha, Allah, and Yahweh wouldn't hesitate to slap that same bumper sticker on whatever they drive.

And I bet at least one of them drives a motorcycle.

Blueberry Eyes

“I’ve done some bad things to get here,” I admit through cracked and bleeding sunburnt lips.

The man I have chased across the desert lies captive and silent at my feet, his hands tied behind him with rope, his naked ankles cinched together with rawhide strips. 

I take a sip of water from my canteen and refuse to wince as the hot metal burns the sores that have plagued my mouth for days. I distract myself with memories of her and the pain subsides, but in deference to hatred rather than love. My boot swings back, then finds its way forward in an instant, connecting with the man’s stomach. He folds in on himself and coughs blood onto the ground.

“Several months back I was a decent man. I spent weekdays behind a clerk’s desk, Saturdays with my family, and Sundays in the presence of the Almighty. A good and kindly married fellow, I was happy to be a father, content to be simple, and determined to be God-fearing. I had never so much as yelled at another man, let alone shooting one in the gut and watching him die, like I did to your brother. I shunned confrontation, hid from violence, and tempered my emotions. Modeling myself after meekness, I hoped to one day inherit the earth.” My throat dry with confession, these last words sound gritty and desperate.

I take another sip of water from my dwindling supply.

My prisoner, the father of who I have become, looks up, his eyes squinting in pain and sunlight. I move to cast some shade across his face, then ignore his pain while searching his eyes for terror. There is none. Not yet.

“But then you came and murdered the meekness, strangled the temperance, and filled my path with confrontation and vengeance,” I explain, before spitting blood and bits of burnt lip onto his cheek.

He shudders as the gob of blood, spit, and skin trails down across the bridge of his broken nose. I chuckle with dark pleasure and walk over to my horse. She is a beautiful grey that until last week carried someone else, someone now dead and unburied. I pull a small leather pouch from my saddlebag.

Returning to his side, I squat low beside him. The knife stuck in my belt fills his view, and his breath escapes in sudden bursts of panic as he struggles to turn his face away from my reach. Small clouds of dust rise with each desperate gasp. The red drool of the broken and beaten drips from his lips. I watch, a tickle of satisfaction running up my spine. Terror is rising within him, I can feel it like a warm breeze on my face.

“Ever been a father?” I ask quietly.

He stops struggling and drops his head into the dirt. Comprehension has paralyzed him.

"I'll take that for a yes." I shift my weight, and my heels dig deeper into the dust. I fumble with the leather pouch, and the soft cloth figure falls out into my hand.

She is a simple affair, hand-made from love and left over cotton scraps, her face painted on with patience and blueberry juice. Her red and white checked-gingham dress remains clean and bright, but its time inside the protective leather pouch has pressed it into wrinkles. Looking down at my daughter's doll, my eyes fill with tears.

"I don’t expect I'll ever inherit the earth; I've resigned myself to eternal hellfire with the dark sins I have committed since the day you rode into my life," I hear myself saying.

The man on the ground begins to sob. His body trembles in the dust. "Please Mister, don't kill me," he cries.

The sound of his despair is beautiful to me. Her doll rests still and soft, cradled in my left hand. I slide my right hand down to my gun.

His sobs grow louder and more wretched. I look at him; he has turned his head to face me. His eyes fill with sweet terror as they dart from mine, to my gun hand, and finally, to her doll.

Thunder rolls. I look up at the clear indigo sky. No clouds. And then I feel it, the gun in my hand, my finger on the trigger, the barrel clear of the holster.

Her doll stares up at me with those blueberry eyes.

-The End.

----This short was inspired by the terribly painful sores now coating my sunburnt lips, my boyhood love of "The Sacketts" paperback book series (written by Louie L'Amour and gifted to me by my mother), and the fact that my daughter is away this week and I miss her.

Lend Me Your Laboratory-Grown Ears!

A human ear has been grown on the back of a mouse. This is gross, but also cool; the future is now. Rather than get into a lengthy and heated discussion on how this proves (to some) that God and Science can’t get along, let’s look into the marketing potential of this exciting news story. Don your Kafka sunglasses and ride this one out with me.

Marketing potential for laboratory-grown human parts:

-Smoking Never Felt So Refreshing As It Will When You Win A New Lung From Big Tobacco! Buy A Carton Now To See If You've Struck It Lucky!

-Cirrhosis, Schmirrhosis! Drink Up, You Just Might Win A New Liver! (Details at the bottom of this bottle.)

-Eat Your Way To A New Heart, Only At (insert any fast-food chain name here)! Collect Matching Game Pieces To Win A Brand New Laboratory-Grown Heart!

-Carpal Tunnel From Too Much Late Night Computing? Buy A Computer From Us Today, And We’ll Guarantee You A New Wrist When Yours Blows Out Completely! (No embarrassing questions asked.)

-Brain Dead From Watching Too Much Terrible Network Programming? Want Re-Runs To Be New-Runs Again? Watch Even More Television To Be Entered Into Our Drawing To Win A New Brain!

There are many more and I would have continued, but I have a lot of smoking and drinking to catch up on...