Rhyme. No reason
So I was at the airport waiting for a flight back to Cleveland two weeks ago.
I had a pen and some paper and I was writing some thoughts down for an upcoming column.
The column was titled, "The Psychological Ramifications of Standing At the Urinal Getting Ready To Pee And You Go To Spit, But You Spit On Your Whizzer By Accident."
I decided to scrap it, though. Only because I figured people would be kinda grossed out. And I didn't think anyone would care what the psychological ramifications would be.
Even though they'd be significant.
At any rate, while I was scribbling, I noticed a young couple watching me.
She had dark hair down to her shoulders with a pink clip in the shape of a rose pulling her hair off to the left side. She had beautiful dark eyes, red lipstick -- Maybelline's Japanese Rose Garden, I believe. She had a tight white Gap t-shirt under a thin, green cotton/rayon 60/40 blend sweater. Her simple gold chain draped around her neck and came to rest just above her breastbone. Her skirt was made of a long faded stone-washed jean, ending just above her ankles. It had an 18" slit in the back. Her stockings were black -- Ralph Lauren, I believe. Her shoes were a soft black leather, with no heel to speak of, but they perfectly formed to the shape of her size 7 ½ foot.
I think he was wearing jeans. But I can't be sure.
Apparently, they were somewhat mystified by the gibberish on my notepad. Because after about 15 minutes, he finally said, "Excuse me?"
"Yes?" I said.
"Are you a poet?" he asked.
Y'know in the cartoons when somebody's hurt badly, and they say, "Could you excuse me a moment?" and then they walk into another room, shut the door and scream?
It was kind of like that for me. Except I wanted to laugh.
I mean, I've been called a lot of things in my life. Poet is definitely not one of them.
NOT COUNTING THIS POET THING, THE SEVEN MOST POPULAR TERMS USED TO REFERENCE TO LANE STRAUSS, 1961-PRESENT
7. Fat Dumb Ass
6. Loser Poopy Face
5. Clearly, The Smartest Man I Know
4. Lint Breath
3. Charles, King of England
2. Rat Bastard to the Nth Degree
1. Hey, you.
"No, I'm not a poet," I said. "But thanks."
"Really? You look like a poet," he said. "The way you're dressed (black shirt and jeans). Your glasses (thin and wiry). Your hair (none). Plus the way you're writing in the middle of all this activity around you and everything. It's like you're taking it all in and you're trying to capture it in words.
"At least that's what you look like you're doing," he said. "You look like you should be a poet."
I thanked him again and told him that was probably the nicest thing anybody had ever said to me.
NOT COUNTING THE POET THING, THE FIVE NICEST THINGS ANYONE HAS EVER SAID TO LANE STRAUSS, 1961-PRESENT
5. "You sir, are a pathetic human being."
4. "Y'know, I really think skin grafts would help."
3. "I swear to God, if you even think about <I>touching</I> that hole, you're dead."
2. "Congratulations! You could be our next 10 million dollar winner!"
We chatted for a bit after, passing the time until we had to board the plane. When their row was called, they shook my hand and said, "Take care, poet man." We all laughed and waved goodbye.
And as I watched them disappear into the darkness of the ramp, I thought to myself, why not?
I mean, at first I laughed at that poet thing. But why the heck not? Why couldn't I be a poet?
I mean, I've done some writing in the past. And while none of it has ever been called "poetry," or "prose" or "not a piece of crap," heck, I know what a poem is. I know about the nasty young girl from Nantucket. I know these things.
And even though I've never written a poem before in my life, how hard could this be?
You spend some time. You find a rhyme.
You just start typing. Then you stop griping.
My God, people. I do believe I'm a natural.
Maybe, just maybe, this is finally it for me. Maybe this is how I'll make my mark on the world.
Frankly, I've always felt that there was something bigger for me out there. Something special.
Something that would cement my greatness in history.
NOT COUNTING THIS POETRY THING, THE FIVE GREATEST ACCOMPLISHMENTS OF MY LIFE, 1961-PRESENT
5. Not intentionally killing anyone.
4. The one time I asked a kid in the lunchroom at school if he was going "to eat his apple crisp." And he gave it to me.
3. Tickling my sister and watching her fall off a chair and break my toe.
2. Seeing that girl wearing that thing at that place.
1. Blinking for 41 consecutive years.
It's almost as if fate led these two inspirational people to me
Perhaps two seemingly random strangers at the airport were brought here on a mission by forces greater than any of us will ever understand.
Perhaps they were brought here to steer my life in new direction. To show me my true chosen path. To help me plant a seed for my future.
Whatever it was, it worked. Because now I was thinking about planting a seed for my future.
I was also thinking about planting a seed in the girl with the tight white Gap t-shirt under a thin, green cotton/rayon 60/40 blend sweater.
A collection from America's super new Mr. Big Shot Poem Guy
I think my farts smell good.
Like wood. Or an egg on my hood.
I often consider my farts like art.
Beautiful and memorable.
Like a Van Gogh. With gas.
Others might not readily agree
But the thing is, they're my farts,
so I love them all. You see.
I love them as they fill the air.
Escaping through my underwear.
I love to watch others
when the gas leaves my ass.
When I fart, I think of spring
Of flowers blooming
Pinto beans and chimichangas.
When I fart, I sometimes think
Sometimes, I just fart.
Big men in tight pants
I like to
United as one,
with a single
their way with the
Like a well-made arrow
Straight and narrow.
I like women
I don't like men.
If I said it once,
I'll say it again.
Kindly keep your balls away from me, sir.
Men watch games,
Not other men's asses.
Manly men drink beer
From other men's glasses.
All normal men
Like to be with a chick
The other kind of man
Like men named Dick.
I like women
I don't like men.
If I said it once,
I'll say it again.
My BVD's say "Exit Only," sir.
There once was a pizza guy from the city
Who sold some pizza that tasted really shitty
"It needs more sauce,"
He said to the boss
And soon the pizza guy was collecting
Ashley the Judd
I wanna be your bud.
If you ever crossed my path,
I would like to give you a bath.
I think you have a lot of class
I think you have a really nice ass
From the West Coast beaches to the Eastern shores
I'd like to see you on all fours.
I know you date a racecar guy,
But I could stab him in the eye.
Them I'd comfort you and give you a hug
And soon we'd be humping on a rug.
I know I'm a dud
But if you ever gave me a chance,
I'd like to see what's in your pants.
Until then, though, the best I've got
Is this 8 x 10 glossy shot.
I work in Cleveland and if you're able,
I can have you meet me under my table.
I'm not a stud.
But believe you me, I'll worship you.
Like one sorry-ass pathetic Jew.
in a row.
the time I
saw a guy
and I didn't
Of all the toilet paper I can find,
Charmin in best on my behind.
It's soft and gentle in my special hole,
And ultra-convenient in that nice, round roll.
So thank you Charmin, you are a winner.
Now if you'll excuse me,
I need you to help me get rid of my dinner.
A cute young hooker from L.A.,
Said to a guy, "If you want some, then pay."
"How much?" said the guy.
"Two hundred," was her reply.
And so he paid and then it turned out she was an undercover cop and then he had to explain the whole thing to his wife and it was a really, really, really big mess.
It's a proven fact, without taking a stance,
That a man will lie if given the chance.
About where he's been, or what he's done,
About what he's thinking, or all of his fun.
If gambling and girls were part of his play,
He'll tell the little lady, "Yawn. What a boring day."
Even with small things, he'll lie with a smile,
Just to stay out of trouble. (At least for awhile.)
When he looks at a hot girl and he's asked, "Is she hot?"
He says without blinking, "You are. She is not."
When he's asked the old question, "Do you think I look fat?"
The answer is "No way!" in, like, two seconds flat.
When her food tastes like crap and she asks, "Is it good?"
He says, "You should open a restaurant. You really, really should."
When he asks her for sex and she says that she's sleepy.
He says, "That's okay." Then he grabs his own pee-pee.
Why do this, you ask? Why lie at every pass?
It's easy of course.
So she'll stay off your ass.
Well, well, well.
Personally, I think I'm on my way toward finalizing my place in the long and storied history of professionalism poem writing.
Between the Brownings and the Frosts and the Kiplings, there is now me.
I will now spend the rest of my adult formative years collecting thoughts, observing the world, and putting it all into a form of prose that speaks to the essence of our culture and the influences that guide our lives.
And while I have no idea what that means, I read it on a professional poem people Website and it sounded damn good so I copied it.
I wish I could thank my young airport friends who helped me find my way. For they've shown that poetry is a unique and storied way for me to present my message to the world.
So thanks, beautiful girl. Wherever you are. I appreciate all you've done for me.
Hey, were you with a guy? I don't really remember.
Ode To The Beautiful Girl At The Airport
I once stood at the airport waiting for a plane.
How stupid would I be if I was there for a train?
As I looked at the runaway, I was so all alone,
Then I saw a young girl, about 40 feet from a phone.
She was a sight of sheer beauty,
A sight like no other.
I saw a guy next to her,
Please God, let that be her brother.
We talked and we chatted and once our eyes met,
I wished I was a dog and she was my vet.
I knew it wouldn't work, though,
I was old, she was young,
But still I was hoping,
I could suck on her tongue.
As we shook both our hands and each said goodbye,
I thought to myself,
"Can I please see your thigh?"
I sat on the plane and thought of her face.
Me trying to kiss her.
And her, spraying her mace.