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F'n Rad Update: Neck Triangle Takeover

A while back, I posted about the Neck Triangle and how it's taking over the world. At the time when I wrote the piece, the Neck Triangle was appearing on sweatshirts everywhere. Well, just the other day, as I had smartly predicted, I saw it for the first time on a tank top. I don't know about you, but I'm getting quite concerned about the way the Neck Triangle is spreading across the nation and the world. And let me reiterate this question:  what the fuck is that thing?

There is no real purpose to it. And when did it start appearing on clothes everywhere? Slowly, it's making its way through clothing everywhere -- all stores, all brands, all sizes, all styles. First, just sweatshirts. Then tank tops. Next, the (more than likely mobster) people in charge will figure out how to attach some material to bras, men's undershirts, and bathing suits, I'm sure. I can see it now -- men in Speedos, with a long string running from their crotch to their necks, ending at the Neck Triangle. Women in bikinis with material attached that ends in the Neck Triangle. There's a conspiracy going on here, and actually, I'm probably at risk for simply writing this blog, but I wanted to make sure I warned everyone, because it's spreading, and it's ruthless. I see it sneaking its way into the public, daily taking over.

Be afraid. Watch your clothes. The Neck Triangle is everywhere. Sneaky, maddening, baffling, and absolutely pointless, it is popping up on the nation's clothes as I write.

What the fuck is that thing?
C.A. MacConnell


F'n Rad Job Interview

Manager:  Hi, nice to meet you. So, according to your resume, you have really done a lot of different things. Wow, and you have won many awards. What have you been doing lately?

Potential Employee:  Nice to meet you too! I love, love, love it here!

Manager:  Well, okay, but what have you been doing job-wise?

P.E.:  Man, did you know there's a fortune teller scale in the bathroom?! That is so rad. And a punching bag down the hall. I would totally fit in here, just sayin'. I love this!

Manager:  I'm glad. So this is a copywriting position, and we received your samples. You know you only had to do one of the samples?

P.E.:  Oh, I know, but I got really into it, so I did all three.

Manager:  Yes, yours was different than any of the others, that's for sure. How long did that take you?

P.E.:  Oh, I just whipped the sucker right out.

Manager:  You know this is a gourmet & specialty grocery store? What kind of experience or interest do you have with food and foodies?

P.E.:  Hm. I had an omelet this morning. It was delicious.

Manager:  I see, so you like to keep things simple? Well, what do you know about this store?

P.E.:  Nothing at all, actually. I've never even been here. But this office is so awesome!

Manager:  Oh, well, thank you. So you do have a lot of writing experience.

P.E.:  Oh, yeah, I can write anything, any genre. Been at it forever. I just wrote a book. It's on Amazon. You should check it out. I have a card on it in here somewhere.

Manager:  That's nice, but do you have copywriting experience?

P.E.:  Oh, yeah, I wrote a lot of it for an ad company years ago, but I don't think they even exist anymore. Not sure. It's on my res. You ever heard of that company? You think they're still around?

Manager:  No, never heard of them. So do you have an actual sample of your copywriting?

P.E.:  Well, I was digging around earlier, but I couldn't find a damn thing. I did a gazillion of those ads, but then I deleted them all because they were dry as hell. I mean, they wanted dry, so that's what I gave them.

Manager:  I see. So what do you know about food?

P.E.:  Not sure. All I eat is frozen meals. Occasional Snickers and Bear Naked bars. Sometimes Pop Tarts. Not much else can be trusted.

Manager:  But you want to work at a gourmet grocery?

P.E.:  Oh, yeah. I can write anything. Did you know there's a Danielle Steele novel out in the hallway? When I was waiting for you, I started reading it. It was about a 6' tall, blonde model who was really pretty, and just when you came to get me, she was about to meet up with a very pretty brunette who was either going to be her sister or best friend, not sure. I think she was going to be the sister, because usually the best friend character isn't pretty.

Manager:  Okay, well, I think we've got it all covered here. Wait, one more thing. What kind of environment do you like? Where do you see yourself?

P.E.:  Well, I like to run around and stay busy. Like, even if you wanted me to go downstairs and straighten out the apples, I'd get right on it.  Seriously, I can write anything, any subject, no lie. But I suppose I should have lied when you asked me if I've ever shopped here before. Most people would probably make something up I guess.

Manager:  Well, at least you're honest.

P.E.:  Thanks! Yeah, people tell me that all the time.

Manager (standing up, reaching out a hand):  Well, I'll show you down.

P.E. (shaking hand):  Cool, I totally dig that elevator. Did I tell you I used to be an elevator operator?

Manager:  Interesting.

P.E. (stepping on elevator):  That job was fun as hell. I liked that environment as well. Up, down, up, down. Well, nice to meet you.

Manager:  You too. Now you can wander around the store and check out our wonderful food selection.

P.E.:  Oh yeah, fascinating! Hey, have you checked the weather today? I can't stand being cooped up inside like this. I can't wait to get out of this shirt and head out for a power walk.

Manager raises brows as elevator door closes.


Tat Ten.

What can I say...I thought about a hawk, but by the time the artist got there, I thought it looked dumbassssss, so I'm really glad he was late. So I just put this word there. Fierce. Me, the fierce warrior. :) Like a tiger, a lion, a beast, okay, you get the drift. Anyway, I love it. I love all of you fierce warriors. And there is one in particular I really love in a very, very, creepy way. I'm joking. Not creepy, just dreamy. My heart hurts, you know. Sheeit, at some point I may grow up, but I'm still working on that area. Fuck it. Hopefully, one day I will find a match that is at a similar "swingset" mentality. Ha.Gotta laugh at your badass self. Seeya.

I hope that you have a beautiful night. Be transparent.

Love, C.A.

Wet Hooky

Rain, go ahead. Come
Go ahead. Change your mind
and spit.
I have no say
in the way the sky
Soak me heavy.
Send bullet-hail. Weigh
my brown hair down.
Darken all the light things –
everything alive,
Darken this too-soon autumn
night. Whatever the season,
I'll still open
my mouth, letting my bottom lip
hang loose, like an old horse.
I'll still let you touch
my tongue.
I'll still wait for you
to slide over me, clean or polluted.
Sometimes, even fresh rain
tastes nasty.
I see your wet, wide work.
I see you water
this and that ground.
Some drops dance
for a penny-living.
Some drops
shoes --
sporadic, uncertain,
pausing for thunder,
no more than damp,
distant fingertips
pressing dirty rooftops down,
making gutter music.
Some hammer it home,
turning surface skin
and the people hours become
all about the weather.
Go ahead. Come down
softly. Go ahead, change
your mind.
You are employed by the sky
I've found, and up there,
that’s where I’ll look for you --
in each, full moment
when the clouds spread.
You pour,
I sip.
We play hooky in the lightning.

C.A. MacConnell


Painter, your hands moved
to make me.
Seattle raindrops
landed on reaching fingertips,
dying there.
The weather came slowly,
stopping and starting
through the strange trees.
sifted through leaves
and the muck of dreams.
You made them scatter,
a good use for coin.
We watched them almost fall --
sharp, dark shapes
that flew only for you.
We watched the wing songs
blur to one shape,
and then all were sleeping --
each on a chosen limb.
Later, we broke in,
Painter, with your hands,
still faces came alive.
All over the walls,
they hovered,
frozen in silent looks
of smiles and screams.
And I knew that outside,
those trees must still be
melting into wings.
You were so clean.

C.A. MacConnell


Man Jeans

A while back, I bought a pair of ancient Wranglers in the men's section somewhere. Can't remember where I scored these, and I think they cost around 5 bucks. Now, these jeans had some interesting characteristics. First off, they were so big, I could slide them on and off without unbuttoning them. Also, they were so worn out, they were paper thin, and in the wash/wear, you could see the actual body outline of the man who used to wear them, which was incredibly creepy, and I figured the former owner was probably dead. And because they were way too long, I had to turn up the bottom and make a cuff that was about 1 foot high. And most importantly, they made me look like I had a penis, and you could actually see the outline of the bulge where the former owner's penis used to be. What's even more interesting is this:  I wore them every chance I got.

Why? You might ask. Well, they were so comfortable, it was like wearing Kleenex. I'm not big on jeans in general, and I hate skinny jeans, so when I do wear them, I prefer the ridiculously loose kind. Although some people like to draw attention to the ass when wearing jeans, I prefer to wear jeans that make it look like my ass is sliding off into no man's land. Of course, sometimes people would comment on these jeans. But most of the time, people would just stare at them. When I say stare, I mean THE BIG STARE -- this is when people "secretly" look at you when they think you're not paying attention, and they let that long gaze run all the way from your shoulders to your ankles while they're intently checking out your goods. I'm not sure what THE BIG STARE meant. I've decided it either meant that people thought that I needed some serious help, or they were secretly jealous that I had the balls to wear those horrible pants. And indeed, as aforementioned, they gave me balls.

After many years of wearing these Wranglers, I decided to take a break from the "ass-slide" pants. I thought I might try to fit in a little. So I finally threw the suckers out, much to the relief of some of the well-meaning women in my life. I tried out some skinny pants, some "boyfriend" pants, you know, all those ridiculous styles. Well, here's what happened:  when I wore these new pants, the whole time I had them on, I was focused on my pants. Someone could be talking to me, or I could be writing, and yet still, I thought about my pants, how they felt funny, how I felt stiff. I thought I might adapt, but no matter what, I felt uncomfortable, annoyed, and preoccupied. I threw them all out except for one pair that I keep for special "blending" occasions, ha.

Now, I do have plenty of jeans from my horse riding days, but they're all loose and wide at the bottom. They call them "boot cut" for a reason. When you ride, you wear boots. But recently, I was doing some grocery shopping, and I happened to glance at the boys' clearance section. And there they were...a pair of boys' jeans on sale for like 5 bucks. I tried them on right there in the aisle, slipping them on top of my Adidas track pants. Perfect. They were so loose I could slide them on without unbuttoning them. They made me look fat as hell, and they made my ass look like a pancake. They were so long I had to cuff them about a foot. And yes, they made me look like I had a penis. Not as clearly as the Wranglers, but it was still there. Perfect! I bought them, and I was grinning the whole way out of that store.

As an experiment, I've been wearing them the past few days, just to see if anyone will say anything. So far, no one has said anything out loud, but I've definitely gotten THE BIG STARE multiple times from men and women all around me -- at the grocery, the food mart, everywhere. It's hilarious. And you know what? When I wear them, I feel comfortable and chillin'. I feel like me. At 40, I think I'm hitting the rebellious stage that most people hit back in grade school. Well, I mean, the nineties were one big freak show for me, but I had so much going on, i.e., I was fucked up, that when I was a kid, I never really had the chance to find myself, so to speak. So I guess I'm doing some of that investigating now.

It is a weird phase I'm in. Last night, I thought to myself, after years of therapy and self help groups and the like, I think that half of my problem is really much more simple. Catholic schools, making the grades, pulling the knee socks up, keeping quiet -- I'm sick of it. I have always been intensely creative, but I've had to find it and express it all on my own, and I've definitely had to live it out with nearly all of the encouragement coming from the inside. Living in this conservative city with a conservative family, I feel like I've never had the chance to really be me. I mean, I do have all the tats and whatnot, but I want more creatively. I want to wear my man jeans and write about stars, skateboarders, musicians, and lovers. And make a damn good living at it. I want more.

See, here's a simple example. I want a new tattoo. A hawk. They seem to visit me a lot these days, and they make me feel fierce. And I want that tattoo on my arm, in the most visible spot possible, so that I can look at it and be reminded to stay fierce. I'd also like purple highlights in my hair. Things of that nature. Maybe these are just visuals, but to me, it's sort of a rite of passage. I brought these ideas up to some people close to me, and I was met with a huge NO. This happens a lot. My whole life, I've been fighting against this NO. Who wouldn't go "crazy"? Normally, I wouldn't use that word, as I hate all of the stigma attached to it, but in this instance, I mean it ironically; that is, who's the "crazy" one here? All I want is to be myself.

Seriously, after all this trudging and whatnot, I just want to be me. Why do people give a fuck if I get a tattoo at 40? I'm 40. Why do people give a fuck if I wear jeans that make me look like an old man? Who cares. If it makes me happy, and I can be me, I can be of best service to others. I don't judge others when they plan a fancy wedding. Whatever, that's you. But I may show up in my man jeans, because I can't afford that kind of dress. That's me. That's how I see it. Sometimes, I feel like I'm in a cage for sure, like I want to pack my book bag and take off and not look back. Now, I've done this before, but at the time, I was pretty addicted to everything. It is different now. I am focused, determined, and I have years of hard work under my man jeans. Yo, I am fierce.

Let's see how it all unfolds. I may sound restless and discontent, but actually, I'm grinning a little. Why? Because although I may be consistently met with THE BIG STARE and the NO, I have a little secret, a "crazy" spirit inside me that says, YES.

C.A. MacConnell


Special Delivery

The bedroom wall is peeling. Take me.
Lead me to my new employment.

I'd make an expert paintbrush or vacuum.
Take me to a strange residence -- siding,

stone, or brick -- where even the new house
lives and breathes on a fresh street. I hear

knocking, my special delivery. Pick me up
in a rusty truck. Pack my words in back.

Me, bare or made up. I know we both see
the same moon. Take me to a new quiet,

a new thunder. Pick me up in the smallest
plane. We'll shoot across, making a sky exit,

barely sliding through the slightly cracked
door of lightning. See the room full of boxes.

The family swallows my dreams for dinner.
Take me. Bring me any life but the high rise.

C.A. MacConnell

They Have Room

Sure, I can get caught up with money issues. Whether you're a lawyer, a billionaire, or a thief, I believe that everyone feels this pressure from time to time, but one night a while back, my mind had been racing about finances all damn day. I had that "dread" feeling in my heart and gut, the one that speaks of this:  tread lightly. Don't trust. As a result, I'd had the day from hell. You know the ones.

Well later, I was with some friends, and I sat down next to this curious, brown-haired woman who had sneaked in with the group. She had an odd look -- an eerie, yellowish glow. Wide-eyed, she stared at me intently, as if she were convinced that she knew me from somewhere, some time, some place. So I said "hi," and we tried to figure out if we had ever met, as people often do. Perhaps we had worked together? No. Maybe we'd shared some friends? No. She even asked me if I frequented a certain gas station where she "hung out." No, I said. We couldn't seem to find and answer, so we both stared at the wall for a minute.

Soon we got to talking, and I felt immediately comfortable with her. Connected, in a way. I started to open up, telling her some of my concerns -- that I had lost a bunch of work, that life had thrown me some recent setbacks, that I felt like it was all piling up.

She smiled, nodding and listening. Her eyes looked watery. Not teary. Watery.

Finally, after I was done spewing out all of my childhood angst, I asked, "How are you?"

"Well, I've been living in my car," she stated.

Immediately, I felt an asteroid in my throat. "What happened?" I asked her.

"I lost my house, my husband, and now I'm in my car. It's not bad. I have my independence," she said. Weirdly, the whole time, she was grinning.

I nodded, and I wrote down some numbers for some possible shelters, rooms, and other places to stay.

At first, she wasn't interested, but she took the number list and explained, "Earlier today, I was at a mechanic's place. I set up a lawn chair in the garage and got some sleep there, but I have to catch him when the place is open to get some rest time," she said. Again, the whole time, she was smiling.

Faintly, I smelled the alcohol on her, and I noticed the "lost" look buried deep within her eyes. And I noticed the leathery, yellowish skin, the distended stomach, and other signs of long term alcohol abuse. I thought hard about offering up my place, but I worried about what her withdrawal was going to bring on. I had a connection at a nice housing place near a park -- a warm, safe place for women. She'd have her own space, get her basic needs met, have a chance to sober up, have protection, and there would be medical attention. It seemed like the ideal solution to me.

She shook her head. "I like my independence," she stated.

I nodded, listening to her. I pushed the idea, encouraging her to call. "Call tomorrow. Last I heard, they have room," I said.

"Maybe I will," she said. "You're the second person tonight who has given me the name of that place. Maybe it's supposed to be."

I nodded. "Yes."

We talked for a while and by then, my stress faded to nonexistent. I realized that no matter what was going on in my life, there was so much to be grateful for. I was sober, safe, I had supportive friends, my loving cat, a roof over my head, hot water, dinner waiting for me, and a sense of spirituality that carried me through. Certainly, my life was far from glamorous, but it was damn more than enough.

Today. Sometimes I fail to see all of the blessings surrounding me, and my vision becomes too cloudy. I get trapped in the state of want, want, want. I try my best not to go there, but it happens. Thinking about this brown-haired woman certainly re-opened my eyes. She reminded me about what's important, what's real, what's tangible, what's beautiful in its simplicity.

I've been praying a lot lately, praying for others who are suffering and praying for the universe to lead me to do the next right thing, whatever's best for all involved. I've been praying for happiness, peace, and freedom from suffering, and the ability to best serve others. And I know this:  usually when things disappear, it's because new things will be moving in. Perhaps they don't move in as swiftly as I would like, but in my experience, they do come.

I'm tuned in to what may be next. Action has been key, and I've taken many, many steps, so we'll see what rolls on in. In spite of my naturally brooding self, I am hopeful. And thanks for the lesson, my dark-haired friend. You listened to me, even though your bed that day was a lawn chair. I learned from you, and you may have thought you were some woman merely putting one foot in front of the other, barely getting by, but to me, like everyone around me, you were divine.

They have room.

C.A. MacConnell

P.S. Today's odd jobs were very autumn-celebratory. Okay, yard work. Also, I'm thinking of a hawk tattoo. Leg or shoulder? Love to you. Teary. Peace. Out.

Glass Study

Here I am, eating a late night dinner in my glass study. Give me
the blankie. Make no mistake. I’m lucky to have short-nailed,
writer’s hands, strong fingers ready-made to release and bind,
but I have a bone to pick with my magic mind. God, can’t extra

sensory perception be true this year. Can’t strange love become
the new style. Let it break down and burn up science. No stamp
needed in this here ghost town. I like the sound of twigs snapping,
the moment when they are forced into kindling, and I must try

to describe it. We are forever on some couch. The skin isn’t skin
at all. You are made of smoke, smog, fog, dreams, an intangible
buffet, a cirrus cloud, a vast, gorgeous vapor. I know the fingers
aren’t really there. I know the shoulders are made of static,

but I swear I see you facing me, stunned, hot, and grinning.
Something hangs between us – a fight never fought, the fast
walks, the quick trips, and the makeup screw. We are the loss
never lost. I live this way, speaking without sound, without

words, through a speck of dust, between notes, moving
to the rhythm of one. To your life. To my life. To the strange,
unshakable silence -- from the dirtiest laundry to the purest note.
Sometimes, I imagine I see you shaving. I see your version

of a late night dinner – orange glass, green plate, no napkin,
bare kitchen that holds the slightest scents within the walls,
and when the intruders, my panic, my war, comes, I feel you
holding me close. I feel us breathe just in time, cutting the quiet

in two. I see our small house, paint chipping on the left, the heart
side. I see you call the painter. I see me call the gutter man.
Here we are, relaxing in my glass study. At last, you’re present,
and no matter how the meal ends, empty or full, even if I could,

even if I should, I wouldn’t take anything back. I see us sit down
at the same time, sinking into high-backed, plastic chairs, praying,
laughing, and digging in, whether or not people need to eat
in heaven.

C.A. MacConnell


SNL Commercial: F'n Rad Neck Cone

I think that someone (me) should market and sell these neck cones as accessory items for humans. We could use them when we get sick or when we need to keep our focus on projects. Or how about using them as a punishment for adults when they’re bad people at work…you’re late, sorry, fucker, you get the neck cone for a day. You call in sick and you’re lying, sorry dick, you get the neck cone for a week. You gossip about your coworker, that’s right, people-hater, neck cone for you. And even use it for the boss. Let’s say the boss is an ass one day, well, sorry boss, you’re not special, shitsack, neck cone is on its way to your office, special delivery.

The opportunities are limitless. I envision myself starting a new yoga class -- I'll teach with a super serious face, repeating all of the most beautiful mantras in the world, all while wearing the neck cone. I think I’m on to something here. It'll be so unique -- a yoga teacher that can’t even turn her head at all. That's right, "Neck Cone Yoga." To my knowledge, this is the only type of yoga that's never been done before.

Just sitting here trying to add some thoughts on world peace. Also, I think I may suggest this at my job interview today,

C.A. MacConnell



Rad, fresh off the presses. Nice to have something new. Hope you are happy today! Finally got some rest last night...well, rest for me, which is like 4-5 hrs. It's cool, it's just because I'm a genius, I'm convinced. I feel very awake and stubborn, and I feel a lot of love as well. Weird mix, but I'm smiling! Man, I'm seriously making a muscle. Can't stand doubters. Going through some sheeit, but whatever...everyone is! No biggie. Ha. If all of my incessant fb posts are annoying, sorry, I get passionate, and I write...wherever, although with integrity in mind, always :) Love to you. I have a strange urge for apple cider. :) Fall. <3


He came in pieces.
All greedy eyes widened
at his matchless, rare, fiercely kneaded, half-baked, erratic
Forked smiles scratched their way across his face,
and the holes
became his eyes,
and the eyes
became his breath.
She checked the timer, fearing mean seconds,
the naughty, too-soon scent, and the wicked, secretive
He rose and fell
into the sleepiest, softest invention,
and then he was simply
Morning, sticky silence rolled into the kitchen,
Flattening all sound, pinning it
and the crumbs were far from golden,
but what remained – jagged, half-cut, and real –
was still cooked, honest, steamy, and sneakily
All eyes settled on his full, thick shapes,
carving out a slice. Even the close ones didn’t believe
that she had created, cooked and cut into him
until one day,
when he returned,
ingredient by fragment,
settling back
into her mixing bowl.
Crowding the oven, all eyes widened
at his sweetly cooked, fully baked, decadent, erratic crust, his coat,
his casing.
All mouths salivated with desire, and the ravening crowd
was overcome by the licking of
but before anyone dug in,
she heard his heated, sugary voice rise up
at last. Only to her,
he called out,
I am with you, bad apple.

C.A. MacConnell