To counterbalance that last one

From Ben Jones’s “Benblog“:

That is our challenge, unique in the cosmos, to know that our own brief existence is simply a moment in time, and to experience that breath in the universe with a smile, knowing that we will fade once again into the oneness, floating someday, cosmic dust in a snowflake, minerals floating the phloem, breathed ourselves in and out of the ever unfolding universe.

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Greatest 1st sentence of any blog post, ever

From Ben Jones’s “Benblog“:

In thinking through my sadness about whether or not I alone can help stave off the destruction of humanity, as important as I feel it is to ensure we do not subject future generations to endless strife, I couldn’t help seeing the aged sadness in my eyes, facing the near futility of the task, and the personal sacrifices that entails, if nothing else than subjecting one’s conscience every day to the true misery of the world we’ve made, by our own choice.

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Denise-ism #49

Denise is reading Ben Jones’ blog & laughing uproariously every minute or so. Then she finds a post that really kills her.

Denise (laughing): Listen to this one: “People make fun of the fact that I wear a Speedo when I swim.”

Scott: Like you are now.

Denise (outraged): I’m not wearing a speedo!

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Ben’s crazy dream

Following is a dream from my buddy Ben’s blog, in May 2002. Ben’s dreams are great. Most people’s dreams are boring as hell, at least when they’re retelling them to you, but I always enjoy Ben’s. In fact, I still have an email he sent me 5 years ago describing a dream he had involving floating and Bach’s music. Enjoy.

Dream 5/1/02

I dreamt last night of going to an alternative theatrical presentation of the works of Mark Twain, down at what started out to be Marshall, Missouri and ended up being Drury College, in Springfield. Jans and I did help stack sand bags for a fire station in Marshall, which became an impromptu fly fishing workshop. The college had the most amazing printed flyers, generated by their print shop. I went back to see the print shop, and the director of the library, who was in charge of the print shop, thought I was trying to hire away his prize employee. I saw the speech beforehand, but missed the performance itself. People talked about how amazing it was – the performance was ongoing, and focused on character sketches of various Mark Twain creations in everyday settings, so one could simply walk in and catch snapshots of it without losing the narrative flow.

Coinciding was an animation festival, which included cartoon and live-based animation, with special effects. Howard, of Kaldi’s coffee, had an entry about a man trying to fend of a giant mosquito that was keeping him up at night. One of the entries was a live action puppet show, with an interaction between a large, golden painted, crudely made beetle and a quarter that kept up a barrage of insults and challenges, underneath a glass dome, . To hear it, you had to stand right next to it, which I let the rest of the crowd know when they were trying to figure out why they couldn’t hear since I was the only one nearby.

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A man who loves his feet

From Ben Jones’ Benblog, in February 2003:

My friend Ben Jones talks about his feet, back when he was a waiter: “My feet are my lifeblood. Even after I’m done waiting, I don’t think I’ll ever think of my feet the same way. They have been my best friends over the last year, suffering through miles of abuse and experimentation. Now, I know them better. I know what they like. They’re less like the strange reptilian appendages they sometimes seemed and more like mongoose, cute and furry and sleek, but capable of turning it on when danger is near. Riki-tiki-tavi. I love my feet.”

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Ben contemplates fatherhood

From Ben Jones’ Benblog, February 2003:

I was also thinking it strange, the idea of being a businessman. How, when I have children, and people ask what their daddy does, they’ll say, “Oh, he’s a businessperson.”

Maybe I’ll wait until I retire for little ones, just so they can say, “Oh, he gardens. And writes. And draws stories for us. And cooks. And sings. And plays harmonica. And makes up songs on the piano. And saves beautiful wood. And makes mommy laugh. And make other strange happy yummy noises when their door is closed. And dances. And paints with paint he grinds himself sometimes. And cooks. And camps. And photographs. And plays sports. And reads. And other stuff. Sometimes, all dressed up. But mostly, he just hangs out with us, doing the stuff we want to do.”

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