Let’s have a mind and raise flowers.

Are you aware that the lyrics to the song Happy Birthday — published and copyrighted in 1935 — are still protected by United States copyright laws? To be in compliance, lawful citizens must pay royalties to Time Warner — current owner of the copyright — each time Happy Birthday is sung in public. This may include but is not limited to elementary schools, parks and restaurants.

The website unhappybirthday.com explains:

According to United States copyright law in United States Code, Title 17 §106, authors of works such as musical compositions have the exclusive right “to perform the copyrighted work publicly.” In United States Code, Title 17 §101, the law defines publicly performing a work as “to perform or display it at a place open to the public or at any place where a substantial number of persons outside of a normal circle of a family and its social acquaintances is gathered.”

This means that if you sing Happy Birthday to your family at home, you’re probably not committing copyright infringement. However, if you do it in a restaurant — and if the restaurant hasn’t already worked out a deal with ASCAP — you may be engaging in copyright infringement.

For detailed information about how to fight this vagrant and widespread crimewave of copyright infringement, please attentively browse the unhappybirthday.com website. Join Mindflowers in this grassroots movement!

Like any God-fearing Atheist, I recognize Pride as one of the eight deadly sins (Patriotism is the recent addition) and I’m sinning like obesity, baby, with my four quarts of yellow Pride in The Cloud Appreciation Society (TCAS). I am a card-carrying, dues-paying member (seriously!), and if you have any self-respect left in that amoral empty soul of yours, you will join TCAS quicker than I can fill my water-bed with Pepsi (fourteen hours, eighteen-minutes, 6225 12 ounce cans).

And now, for your eyes only, porn from the Clouds That Look Like Things thread on the TCAS website. If you spooge or get wet or your nipples harden or your ears twitch or whatever being turned on does to the physical you, I understand. Don’t feel bad about your desire. Shame is for losers and Mindflowers readers have won seven of the last eight Triple Crowns (Note: Many Mindflowers readers are, in fact, horses).

[Apologies for the abundance of numbers and measurements in this posting; I spent today writing grants and Foundations adore quantifiable data. I am stuck in that mode].

As your primary news source, Mindflowers has diligently reported on the upcoming International Pillow Fight Day to be held on March 22nd. A preliminary pillow fight flash mob was held last weekend at a park in Seattle. According to a Seattle Parks Department press release:

On Saturday a flash mob left Ballard’s Bergen Place covered with feathers after a pillow fight and on Sunday night vandals scrawled graffiti across several structures in Discovery Park. These two weekend incidents took 10 hours of staff time to clean up.

On Saturday afternoon, about 50 people converged on downtown Ballard’s Bergen Place for a spirited pillow fight. After about five minutes, feathers covered the entire park. Participants left soon after that without picking up after themselves. Parks maintenance crews spent six hours cleaning up the mess and a Parks security officer is trying to track down the organizer and other participants.

Mindflowers proposes that, if caught, the evil pillow fight perpetrators be immediately shipped to Guantanamo Bay to be sexually molested and detained for the rest of their sorry, pitiful lives without being charged. And their friends and family members should all be given water-boarding torture to find out what they know (hopefully something about the meaning of life). And, to avoid future 9/11′s, pillows SHOULD NOT be allowed on airplanes.

In conclusion, be conscientious about your pillow fighting. Unless you prefer hell to heaven. I know I do.

Look: What goes on at my farm is none of your business.
If I want to call the two person tent in my yard a ‘barn’ its a barn.
If I begin digging a feces trench from my three seasons porch towards your yard, that sounds like a personal decision that really doesn’t involve you.
Where my sewage sluice will end up is for me to know and you to find out.
Seriously. I’m sick of your notes on my porch suggesting that you’ll “call the Humane Society, PETA, or the police” because my cow milking process replaces ‘cows’ with runaway dogs and ‘milking’ with blood letting.

Remember: Family owned farms are the backbone of America.
And my farm in particular will soon be building a silo filled with runaway dogs’ spines.

I don’t want to be a bad neighbor. I don’t. That’s why I built my moat so deep and my gun range berm so high.
So let’s just say that if you put in a good word for me at the “Concerned Neighbors Task Force Meeting” tomorrow, I’ll hook you up with fresh cow’s milk for a year. (wink wink)
Those winks don’t insinuate a bribe.

Ryan McGivern

KPHO in Phoenix AZ: http://www.kpho.com/news/15579448/detail.html

I have always wanted to enter the tutelage of a horse whisperer.
I think that those equine shrinks could really help me expand my necromancy
to include deep conversation with Secretariat.
My nickname growing up was “Barbi Benton” while I was a baby, “Wet Bed McAsshole” when I was a toddler, “Late Blooming Onion” when I worked at TGIFriday’s, and “Platypus Sack” when I worked at “Outback Steakhouse”.
I had always wanted to be called “Stallion”, but I would have settled for “Mare”.
Is it wrong to love horses? I don’t think so.
Is it wrong to hit a lying down cow with a tractor?…Well, yes. Probably. But that’s beside the point.
As I have now made at least 30 dollars during my six months of sperm donation (A lot of my samples have been tainted because I add tap water to my sample cup to impress the lab workers) and I’ve thought: “Maybe I should start a sperm bank of my own!” And then I started thinking: “Maybe I could combine my love for making money off sperm with horses!”
Eureka.
I went by the fortune teller shop that’s near my acting class and I stopped in real quick to get some pointers on how to spiritually connect with horses.
“What is your spirit guide?” She asked me.
“I dunno. Platypus?”
“And you want to tell the futures of horses? Like for betting purposes?”
“No. I didn’t even think of that! I’d just thought I could make some quick dough off of horse sperm donation.”
“Oh, like a stud farm for raising horses?”
“No. I didn’t even think of that! I’d just thought I could make some quick dough off of horse sperm donation.”
I didn’t get much more help from her since she asked me to leave then, but I think I got at least one good idea: Crystal balls look awesome.
How this will tie into my idea for a unicorn dating service, I’m not sure.
(My business model is an escort service that would employ outcast Amish and excommunicated Jehovah’s Witnesses and dress them in Unicorn suits. They would then give massages that would barely comply with state and federal laws.)

Suggestions on how to summon the spirit of a dead horse, psychoanalyze farm animals, get rid of scabies, or convince those who have been ostracized from religious communities to join you in an uncertified massage/dating service are appreciated.

Ryan McGivern

Best Damn Horse I Did Ever See:
http://www.secretariat.com/
Worst Damn Critter I Did Ever Have: http://www.metrokc.gov/Health/prevcont/scabies.htm

“Why did we choose this insane task? Why have knowledge at all?”
- Friedrich Nietzsche

I told him, “Did you ever notice that there’s always someone dominant and someone submissive in a relationship? Like there’s this competition, and it’s mean, ’cause there can only be one person always calling the shots.”

Cul de Sac by Ryan McGivern

“I don’t like where you led me!”

I wrote in sidewalk chalk to you,

turtle backed tough and cold in spring.

“I didn’t lead you. You followed me.”

you wrote back in cracks unnoticed by

the Oakland Public Works Department.

I would have left you long ago had I

not been lost.

HOLLYWOOD, CA. – Deputies said an Irishman in Hollywood sat on his and his roommates’ toilet for twenty minutes, and they’re investigating whether he was mistreated.

Los Angeles County Sheriff Bryan Whipple said a man identified as Ben Watson called his office last month to report that something was wrong with his Irish roommate.

Whipple said it appeared that either the 30-year-old Irishman’s skin had grown around the seat, or else he was reading a Variety magazine and drinking a Pabst. Initially, the man, who authorities are calling “McGivern” refused emergency medical services but was finally convinced by responders and Mr. Watson that he either needed to be checked out at a hospital or ‘shit or get off the pot’.

Whipple said investigators planned to present their report Wednesday to the county attorney, who will determine whether any charges should be filed against “McGivern”.

“There aren’t really any tenet laws or protections for roommates in cases where one roommate will hog the bathroom for a long time. I think that the fact that he was reading a Variety and drinking beer led to him being in there for twenty minutes. Either he’s mentally retarded, or just kind of inconsiderate. I would hate a roommate like that, either way.” Whipple said.

“He was not glued. He was not tied. He was just sitting there. Well, and reading and drinking beer.” Whipple said. “It is hard to imagine. … I still have a hard time imagining it myself.”

Watson and Ellingson told investigators they brought their roommate food and water, and asked him every few minutes to come out of the bathroom.

“And his reply would be, ‘In a minute!,”’ Whipple said. “According to the roommates, he did not want to leave the bathroom.”

Police found the Irishman sitting on the toilet, his sweat pants down to his mid-thigh. He was “somewhat disoriented,” and his legs looked like they had atrophied, Whipple said.

“He said that he didn’t need any help, that he was OK and did not want to leave,” he said.

Authorities said they did not know if he was mentally or physically disabled.

Police have declined to release the Irishman’s name, but said that he was “really Irish.” and his name was “something like McGivern”.

“I don’t think anybody can make any sense out of it,” he said.

“He always takes like twenty minutes in the bathroom.” Said Mr. Watson. “He never does his dishes either.”

Ryan McGivern

A recent study has found my 11 year old cousin Paul gets a boost from coverage in the news media that shows support for me letting him up off the ground.

Two Harvard University economists found that my weak-kneed and asthmatic cousin Paul is responsive to “anti-bullying-resolve” statements in the media.

“The study shows that Paul does respond to anti-bullying media coverage and shows that a successful bullying strategy should take that reality into account,” Jon Smart, a co-author of the study and a postdoctoral fellow at Harvard’s Center for Science and International Affairs, told US News and World Report.

My cousin Paul’s struggling against my titty twisters increased between 7 and 10 percent immediately after a spike in “anti-bullying-resolve” statements in the media, according to the findings.

The study was published by the National Bureau of Economic Research. My Aunt Linda was excluded from the study and the study did not review overall wedgie-to-scrotal-pressure-ratio or account for child abuse laws.

“The wedgie-to-scrotal-pressure-ratio is high!” said my cousin Paul.

Ryan McGivern

PART ONE

I grew up in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, home of more gun racks per square person than anywhere south of the Santa Claus Residence. Like most people that aren’t hippies or Rapunzel, at times I would get haircuts. I’d typically do this whenever my mind was wooing a girl (note that mind and reality are different beasts, a lesson I still haven’t internalized. Also note the irony in having to “internalize” the value of extroversion).

From almost birth through pubescence, my folks lived in a former plantation house and I in the slave quarters, not unlike most families in the Deep South. Maybe I’m kidding? I frequented an old-school barbershop titled “Don’s” within walking distance from my home. This barbershop was stuffed with old white men in over-polished loafers and Duck Head polo shirts, a parking lot conglomeration of pickup trucks, plywood walls mule-packed with tiny framed photographs of hunting trips and football legends, conversations exclusively about hunting trips and football legends, and a clock that seems to move at a pace slower than time. And most importantly, a Nike poster of multi-sport star Bo Jackson and musician Bo Diddley that exclaims loudly, “Bo Knows Diddley.”

A quick side-note that begins with a dose of context: Auburn University is the arch-rival of the University of Alabama, the mega-school headquartered in my home town. There have been murders over this rivalry. I once owned a shirt that screamed in bold orange text, “Auburn Is My Team But Jesus Is My King”. Gosh darn it, babe, I live to spark absurd controversy.

Being Jewish and as cheap as raining cats and dogs in monsoon season and nonsensical analogies, my heart angrily skipped a beat every two years or so as Don’s Barbershop would hike their price a buck. Considering I lived in Alabama, off and on, from age 5 to 23, the price went from $8 to $17. When I was 22, I discovered a different barbershop across the railroad tracks, called “Ricky’s”. Ricky’s had a sign out front that advertised haircuts at $6. Bling bling, I felt as if I’d won the Golden Ticket to Willy Wonka’s factory and then proceeded to defeat the leprechaun guarding the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow!! This is too good to be true, I thought. And it was.

I walked inside and noticed two things. First, the Ricky’s Barbershop interior was a splitting image of Don’s — the architectural layout was a carbon copy, the framed salon style photo exhibition was there, and even the Bo Knows Diddly poster made an appearance. But there was one sizable difference: the barber, clientele and the people in the framed photos were shades of brown. As I froze in confusion, my pale Caucasian body became even whiter as blood rushed towards my face. I looked like a freshly bleached mannequin with a maroon balloon head. My emotional desire was to leave, but how much more rude and racist could I get? So I sat down in the waiting area and everyone was as cordial and friendly as can be. I was fourth in line, so there was some waiting, and, of course, plenty of conversation about hunting trips and football legends.

Finally, it was my turn. “I’ve never cut a white man’s hair before,” my barber said. “But I’d love to try.” I turned even redder; my maroon balloon face was filled to capacity and ready to pop. I learned that black barbers only use clippers and mine didn’t own a pair of scissors. He buzzed my hair into a faux hawk, all the while apologizing to me , just the sort of thing you want to hear when you are getting your haircut.

He finished with, “This was an experiment. I can do better. Promise me you’ll come back and let me try again?” A bit of a nightmare question. I lied quietly to appease him. “Today your haircut is free,” he said.

Truthfully, I didn’t mind the cut. I mean, it is other people that have to look at me, and there weren’t any girls on the horizon. But still, I would unwittingly and unintentionally get revenge.

PART II

At the time I was employed enslaved at Olive Garden serving over-salted minestrone soup and diarrhea-inducing, bland-as-Indiana pasta to idioticos who, due to effective brainwash tv marketing, honestly believe that corporate scientifically developed assembly line food is somehow superior to an independent, homegrown restaurant whose cuisine is made with creativity and heart and whose staff have a sincere passionate stake in the quality of the dining experience. And, personally, I prefer my hard-earned dining bucks to hop inside the pockets of some local high-rolling playboy chef, as opposed to boring soul-less investors lazily carcinagizing their pale skin in the flaring sun outside their Florida winter-homes, whose eventual skin cancer treatments will force healthcare costs to pop up like a teenage boy’s boner. And these are the same venomous “humans” that despise universal healthcare. But I digress like a motherfucker.

So two questions remain:

QUESTION ONE: Considering my aforementioned disdain for Olive Garden, why in Atrayu’s name would I work there?

ANSWER: I wanted to be a server and Olive Garden hired me first; other places wanted experience and I hadn’t even had sex yet, much less served at a restaurant. From then on out, in all my job applications, I’ve learned that lying gets you places, including probably Hell. But anywho, it was that simple — I needed a job like a cavity needs a tooth. Or something like that.

My initial week was lovely– I was trained in a haze of booze, always downing glasses of wine and whiskey before sampling all the culinary mediocrity on the menu. Drinking is part of the process because, as the bartender/trainer/flamer told me while putting his hand on my thigh (a benefit at this particular Olive Garden), “Honey, when you are lit everything and everyone taste fabulous!” As I sipped my third brown-sugar rimmed House Margarita, my trainer winked at me and I winked back, and then we walked off into the sunset, which is pretty hot up close.

QUESTION TWO: How inside Virgin Mary’s asshole are you going to return full circle to the barber revenge plotline?

ANSWER: Ah, you are one bright blinking LED bulb, aren’t you? I eventually morphed into a quasily-competent Olive Garden server, mesmerizing customers with nonsense banter, slinging plates of food with my eyes closed, up-selling customers into buying appetizers they didn’t want and house wine marked up 5000% (up-selling is an Olive Garden regulation; employees who don’t are sent home).

Six months after my haircut on the other side of the tracks, Ricky — my African-American barber — sat in my section with his picturesque family dressed in their Sunday best. They were jovial and I became nervous, because not only did I not keep my promise to return, but I also had a fresh Don’s Barbershop $17 haircut.

“You didn’t come back,” he said with accusatory sadness once he recognized me. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “But I swear I’ll make your dining experience a delight.”

Everything went wrong. I spilled the tray of soft drinks on the barber’s beautiful wife; we were out of fresh breadsticks, so I gave them lukewarm stale ones; the minestrone soup was not to their liking; the entire kitchen crew was out back smoking cigarettes and pot so their main courses took infinity; I incorrectly punched their food into the computer so instead of Chicken Parm the barber received Veggie Lasagna; and the kids’ pizza came with the wrong toppings — they specifically requested no onions or olives and lots of pepperoni, but I heard it the other way around. I apologized continually throughout the meal, just the type of thing to enhance a dining experience.

After I brought them a complimentary dessert that I personally paid for (Olive Garden locks their desserts and only the Kitchen Manager has a key), I limped away to the kitchen and into the walk-in freezer. As I began to cry, tears froze to my cheeks.

They left me a 20% tip.