The Lost Art of Fist-Pumping

It's been a while since I've really witnessed a good "fist-pump," which is one of the most quintessential celebratory actions man has ever created. When one accomplishes a victory, whether it is over another being or merely over one's self, thrusting that fist up into the air just feels so good. And it doesn't just feel good, it looks good. It means something. It's that upper cut to the atmosphere that says "Right now, at this moment, I'm the best."

But where has that gone? Why don't people pump their fists anymore? I got on to thinking about this because of an article I read in the Washington Post about last night's State of the Union Address. The article ended talking about President Bush's praise of some Good Samaritans at the end of his speech. "Everybody on the floor rose, in unison this time, and Sen. Jim Bunning (R-Ky.) punched a fist in the air." I just envisioned Senator Bunning in this strange euphoric slow-motion fist-pump that embodied everything the man was feeling at that exact point in time. He meant it, and he deserved to use it.

Perhaps the best use of the fist pump in the last century was at the end of the "Breakfast Club." While the movie itself may not be that great (except for the incredibly long dance montage), it ends on a fantastic note: A fist pump, a freeze frame, and a crazy letter. Crazy letters aside, I would love to see more films end this way. It sends the audience out on a good note, while spreading the popularity of the fist-pump. Just imagine James Bond or Harrison Ford in "Air Force One" doing a fist-pump at the end. The movies would end on such a positive note that no one could deny their excellence.

In today's culture, the fist-pump has been cast as a move only made by dorks, geeks, and the like. Only people far removed from current acceptable behavior actually practice the fist-pump, and it's a darn shame. Who does the fist-pump the most right now on TV? Dwight on "The Office." Not a good role model for a move that is incredibly cool and powerful. Perhaps this is because the culture as a whole frowns on excessive gloating, specifically that which reminds people of violence. But if you think of the fist-pump more along the lines of someone holding up a non-existent flag, rather than someone trying to punch the Sun, it becomes a bit more acceptable.

It's a show of triumph, originating from gladiators... and maybe one of the Apostles ("Jesus is risen!" *Fist pump!*) I just hate to see something that fantastic fall to the wayside, or fall into the stereotypes of geekdom. We need to bring it back, and Senator Jim Bunning of Kentucky has already started the ball rolling!

Coffee Raises My New Year

I have been sick all year. Sure, while it may be a trite statement to make on the 8th of January, it's very much the truth. In fact, about 85% of everyone I know has been sick... all year. I spend the first two hours of every morning emptying my head and learning to talk again. The rest of the day is like going through a second stage of vocal puberty, where I transition from the nasally way I normally talk to a poor James Earl Jones impression.

The worst part about being sick all year is that I had to cut back on coffee. The first week of the year and I barely touched the stuff. Thankfully, over the past three days, I have been able to bounce back, and I've been making up for lost time. At the end of last week, I visited my favorite cafe three days in a row. By the end of the week, one of the baristas said to me: "Glad to hear it doesn't sound like Satan is living in your throat anymore." I, too, was very glad he left... I was sick of having sulfur breath.

Speaking of coffee, one of my highlights of this new year has been the discovery of "Coffee Cake Coffee;" a Flavor of the Day that I never imagined I would actually like. However it was recommended to me last Friday, I tried it, and I couldn't get enough! At the same time, I couldn't help but taste a sense of irony: a coffee that tastes like a dessert made to be eaten with coffee. It had a cinnamon-y vanilla taste to it, and wasn't nearly as "crummy" as the actual dessert. I'm currently in the throws of a long decision-making process to decide what blend of coffee I shall be taking back with me for my final semester of college.

Prior to Friday, I was set on a pound of "J.P. Hearty." It's a Prestogeorge Pittsburgh original that sounds like a Tammany Hall politician but tastes like a Bull Moose Senator! It's a dang good blend that never seems to let me down... that is, until I found this Coffee Cake Coffee. My concern is that if I have too much of it, I may get sick of it. That has always been my concern with flavored coffee. Too much of that flavor and it became lame and tired. So, perhaps I may be compromising, going with the pound of J.P. Hearty and a half, or quarter pound of the Coffee Cake Coffee.

Thus far over break, my creativity has been on vacation as well. With the only Dweller show being one that we wrote three years ago, and a break in the radio show writing, I haven't felt the need to blog to express myself. But, as things wind down (faster than I had previously expected!) I find my creativity returning. The Dwellers are in the brainstorming stages of a new show slated for May, James and I have begun writing our next four episodes of Dodge, and I'm able to drink coffee again... which means more oxygen is getting to my brain. Plus, my ability to breathe through my nose is giving me access to more oxygen in general. I'm watching alot of movies, I'm reading pulp novels, I'm catching up on all of the Fall episodes of "The Unit"... things are coming around and the laziness of the Christmas season has been packed away in boxes in the basement.

Knowing my luck, I will discover a great new project to work on days before moving back to school.

Assorted Sods

My solace quakes and shivers. Twilight on the eve of Libra leers. Peculiar tidings gnaw my britches.
Never before has a meteor shower claimed so many. Brother Talbot was pelted on a venture to the shower-house in hopes of cleansing his in-betweens. We mourn his unfortunate passing. In tribute, a gathering of young men will flock to the town square and mimic Talbot's best known contribution to Cajun soul music, a random series of pelvic thrusts punctuated by a kind of primal yodel. Finally, per his latest diary entry, brother Talbot's remains will be vaulted into the crisp November air via catapult, and dive-bombed by trained water fowl. Talbot himself would appreciate such a curious display.
In preparation of another such tragedy, I have proposed to the chancellor a blueprint for an elaborate infrastructure of underground pods linked by reinforced tunnels which would support the reemergence of, what would likely become over a period of an indefinite amount of years, a breed a mole-people. Although I bemoan the awkward image of creeping cramped through crawlspaces and bending buckled in bunkers I believe the execution of my depictions to be necessary.
The vultures salivate on their perches crowning the oak buds on high branches as clouded rain water gathers in catch basins. Any dullard would testify these are tell-tale signs of the planet's fatigue. Despite such tidings, I shall instruct my fiddlers to sack those who adorn crushed velvet chaps, as we have agreed at the previous assembly of their pagan attributes. Their innards shall be trampled with rusty paperweights; their jihad will be rendered null.
However, I shall not hasten to announce the disputed arrival of Baby Horace, the fatherless child of an elderly seamstress of the peasant chambers who scripture has dictated to grant fortune through uncharted misery. The child's birth is indeed welcome.
My ink blot is as mud on the desert floor so with these words I bid you: clog your cupboards with rose pedals and douse your dormitory with herbal thistle. Speak hands.

bm

Side Project: VOTE TODAY

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