Ascending
with an extra spring in his step.
The Prizefighter heads upstairs
To bed
Alone.
But with a scent of victory on the lips
And sweat behind the ears.
Tonight’s victory was seized
By hands and feet that still
Ache with every battle
That came before it.
That ache, dulled now
Will return.
The Prizefighter knows this.
Now though
Now is the time to revel
In the afterglow
Of another night
When modesty is left for
The con-men
And hopeless romantics.
It is then and there
That he knows
He is invincible
He is untouchable
It is with this that he smiles
At that big empty bed.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Meaningless meanings
The folowing is an excerpt from my correspondence.
My fingernails have a length and grime about them that is in itself a testament to the last ten days spent on the road. There seems to be an extra amount of resilience imbedded in each nail, as if the culmination of experiences that were fashioned with or recorded by each tip, acted as some sort of ‘essential mineral’ that aids in strength. You know, like all the other essential minerals and vitamins that never seem to cause you any problems until you read about them while waiting in line at the grocery store. This may be true, but it could just be that I’m still fighting tooth and nail to avoid reality, and the weight of a Monday that lies just around the corner. In my fight to fend off reality on this motha-fuckin’ humid Sunday, I have armed myself with a combination of some of the finest tools the creature of man has in his arsenal. A box fan roars in one corner to fight off the heat, while a cold beer has my flank. My trusty pipe is within reach of my trigger finger at all times, and a reserve of left over pizza from the night before is warming in the toaster oven. Large headphones encompass my ears so that nothing but the abstracted recycled video game sounds of Crystal Castles, and my tormenting tinnitus, are allowed on that channel. I’m now just hunkering down to write you, and take my mind away from the thought traps that ensnare the idle in the calm before the storm, the storm of a big Monday battle back into reality. Coffee will be my weapon of choice for the offensive that will be necessary to make it to Tuesday. But that is tomorrow, and for the present I’m just going to sit behind this wall of defenses and write to you.
Voicemails need to be checked, emails erased, laundry to wash, but those will be tended to in time. Writing to you has bubbled up the priority ladder, but don’t feel too special, for I’ll probably use excerpts of this text in a posting about my feelings after this road trip. Of course I’ll also have to excerpt this very paragraph, just to show what a self aware prick I can be! Woo Hoo!!
I will not take the time to string out all the details of the trip. I will save those for the proper time and place when I can wave my hands about wildly and grapple your attention with the proper vocal inflections. Something I’m much better at while recalling a personal story off the cuff, but not so much when I’m trying to read a book out loud. Lovecraft, no less. Something I learned about myself on this trip, but I’m just trailing off on a tangent. Where was I? … Oh yes, the details will be saved for another time. I just wanted to express some thoughts and feelings that have molded themselves in the mind upon my return.
I find myself entertained by thoughts and ideas on the topic of “meaning”. Did this trip have a meaning, or better yet, what meaning will I eventually construct for it? That will only come with time, and I’m okay with that. It is not this very trip’s meaning that I’m interested in, but the idea of trying to fashion a meaning itself. How do I go about this? It seems like an automatic process, one which we rarely step back from to look at. We already have to step back from all the finite details of the trip itself in order see it as ‘one’ event with which we can try to attempt to adhere a meaning to. But I want to step back even further, and take note on just how I decide to organize and sort all the experiences and emotions from such a trip. How did the vague expectations prior to leaving mix with the then present reality of the trip, and how does that mixture settle and cool on the window sill of hindsight?
I am afraid I’m putting the cart before the horse, for I have yet to even decide upon a meaning, if any, with which to deconstruct from or reverse engineer if you will. I not even sure if I could construct a proper meaning, if all the while I’m always on my own heels in search of a reason behind the meaning, and the subsequent meaning of that reason. Two steps forward, and one step back. So goes the slow dance through life.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
A Bad Seed
There comes a point when traveling through the garden of the mind, when one is taken aback at the discovery of a rogue. Something so bizarre, that one will quickly loose site of everything around him. His mind is no longer a garden, but one potted plant, sitting in the dark with only his conscious light illuminating.
In finding myself staring at such a similar potted plant, I was no longer tending to all the prim and proper activities that had, up till then, been my routine of adult maintenance. No, for if what this new planted thought - one which was not intentionally planted myself - was implying were true, then there was no point in my other needs. It seemed to make no sense at all, but complete sense at once. A paradoxical weed that could be seen with such a clear lucidity that I recoiled in horror before its image could be captured with words. A debilitating thought trap that could only be escaped with an amputation; by the irreversible cut of psychosis. Out of self preservation, I reached for any infliction to jar the consciousness away. This works to a degree, but makes a mess of the reality around you. When those meat-hooks set in, you have snap out of it quickly, or else be torn apart by horses. The steed of social norms on one side, and that of personal health on the other. I needed help.
What could be explained or conveyed to my more traditionally educated friends, conjured up references to books and authors and ideas, who rang little familiarity. Names I had a phonetical history with, but nothing more. It was then that a good, and well read, friend of mine gave me a little book. He warned me just how thick this book was, despite its modest size. It would not be an easy read. But the similarities of that rogue thought, and those which could be found in this book, may be of some use he assured me.
It was then that a man by the name of Camus gave a name to this rogue; the Absurd. It was in fact not a rogue at all, but a rather common and eternal weed. Overlooked by most, but known for besieging even the most respected minds of their time. This provided only a marginal comfort to me at first. After what is now going on eight months of mental mending to the rest of the garden I left in disrepair, it seems all these books have become my new distraction. For you see, even Camus himself cannot remove this weed. It's always there, right around the corner of my eye. Just on the edge of my peripherals. Not daring to turn my back on it, but directly avoiding it like the high noon sun.
I've seen it once. I'm sure of it. Deep inside the realm of sleep. I have no recollection of anything that lead up to it. Just that split second dropping of the soul as one pulls their foot off a land mine. The only visual I have is that blinding full spectrum, akin to direct sunlight. Wrapping my mind fully around the Absurd, became it.
The adrenal gland, following orders from the natural processes, roused me back to reality. Back to keeping it in the corner of my eye.
In finding myself staring at such a similar potted plant, I was no longer tending to all the prim and proper activities that had, up till then, been my routine of adult maintenance. No, for if what this new planted thought - one which was not intentionally planted myself - was implying were true, then there was no point in my other needs. It seemed to make no sense at all, but complete sense at once. A paradoxical weed that could be seen with such a clear lucidity that I recoiled in horror before its image could be captured with words. A debilitating thought trap that could only be escaped with an amputation; by the irreversible cut of psychosis. Out of self preservation, I reached for any infliction to jar the consciousness away. This works to a degree, but makes a mess of the reality around you. When those meat-hooks set in, you have snap out of it quickly, or else be torn apart by horses. The steed of social norms on one side, and that of personal health on the other. I needed help.
What could be explained or conveyed to my more traditionally educated friends, conjured up references to books and authors and ideas, who rang little familiarity. Names I had a phonetical history with, but nothing more. It was then that a good, and well read, friend of mine gave me a little book. He warned me just how thick this book was, despite its modest size. It would not be an easy read. But the similarities of that rogue thought, and those which could be found in this book, may be of some use he assured me.
It was then that a man by the name of Camus gave a name to this rogue; the Absurd. It was in fact not a rogue at all, but a rather common and eternal weed. Overlooked by most, but known for besieging even the most respected minds of their time. This provided only a marginal comfort to me at first. After what is now going on eight months of mental mending to the rest of the garden I left in disrepair, it seems all these books have become my new distraction. For you see, even Camus himself cannot remove this weed. It's always there, right around the corner of my eye. Just on the edge of my peripherals. Not daring to turn my back on it, but directly avoiding it like the high noon sun.
I've seen it once. I'm sure of it. Deep inside the realm of sleep. I have no recollection of anything that lead up to it. Just that split second dropping of the soul as one pulls their foot off a land mine. The only visual I have is that blinding full spectrum, akin to direct sunlight. Wrapping my mind fully around the Absurd, became it.
The adrenal gland, following orders from the natural processes, roused me back to reality. Back to keeping it in the corner of my eye.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
This thing called Love
The following in an excerpt from my correspondence.
As for myself and dating, well I've been a bit on hiatus from such endeavors. Romance can addle ones goals, and leave them believing that it is the means to a greater end. Unlike novels and movies this "end" only exists in our fantasies, and its whole existence depends upon the efforts of two individuals. Two individuals who will always be individuals at the core, no matter how deluded one or both of their identities becomes from the sweet sip of romance. Then when the bleariness starts to clear, or if the rug is pulled out from under you, ZANG! Back to square one before you're really sure what that even means anymore.
I must stress that this is only my perception on such matters at this current time in my life. This perception, like all my others, will change and evolve with time and experience. Love can be just a game of short lived wins and losses to some, and more power to them for not giving it any more weight then that. I never seemed to be able to treat the word so lightly. Some people use Love as a philosophy, similar to searching for the meaning of life, whether they are aware of it or not. More than any witch doctor or high priest in our foul new millennium, Love conjures up an emotional power whose authenticity cannot be denied by most. This is something real. Something that cannot be replicated at will. Something that powerful must surely be worth pursuing, right?
It's not my goal here to discredit this thing called Love. I know it's real. It has been one of most real forces shaping who I presently am. I would be a fool to write it off. Such actions are taken, and usually only temporarily, by those who have been battered around and emotionally steam-rolled by Love. A sailor cannot doubt the existence of vitamin C and believe he need not worry about a fruitful diet, without suffering the effects of scurvy. So it goes with Love. One cannot proclaim they do not believe in this thing called Love, without experiencing some bitter side effects. True love, soul mates, till death do us part, Mr/Miss Right, these are the culprits whose authenticity should be questioned. Not Love. Love is an abstract power with many faces and facets whose perception from one soul to the next may bear entirely different results. It is through this frame of reference that I want to view Love, and from a safe distance for now.
As for myself and dating, well I've been a bit on hiatus from such endeavors. Romance can addle ones goals, and leave them believing that it is the means to a greater end. Unlike novels and movies this "end" only exists in our fantasies, and its whole existence depends upon the efforts of two individuals. Two individuals who will always be individuals at the core, no matter how deluded one or both of their identities becomes from the sweet sip of romance. Then when the bleariness starts to clear, or if the rug is pulled out from under you, ZANG! Back to square one before you're really sure what that even means anymore.
I must stress that this is only my perception on such matters at this current time in my life. This perception, like all my others, will change and evolve with time and experience. Love can be just a game of short lived wins and losses to some, and more power to them for not giving it any more weight then that. I never seemed to be able to treat the word so lightly. Some people use Love as a philosophy, similar to searching for the meaning of life, whether they are aware of it or not. More than any witch doctor or high priest in our foul new millennium, Love conjures up an emotional power whose authenticity cannot be denied by most. This is something real. Something that cannot be replicated at will. Something that powerful must surely be worth pursuing, right?
It's not my goal here to discredit this thing called Love. I know it's real. It has been one of most real forces shaping who I presently am. I would be a fool to write it off. Such actions are taken, and usually only temporarily, by those who have been battered around and emotionally steam-rolled by Love. A sailor cannot doubt the existence of vitamin C and believe he need not worry about a fruitful diet, without suffering the effects of scurvy. So it goes with Love. One cannot proclaim they do not believe in this thing called Love, without experiencing some bitter side effects. True love, soul mates, till death do us part, Mr/Miss Right, these are the culprits whose authenticity should be questioned. Not Love. Love is an abstract power with many faces and facets whose perception from one soul to the next may bear entirely different results. It is through this frame of reference that I want to view Love, and from a safe distance for now.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
If I were an Entrepreneur. . .
First, like any good story writer, I must give you the background story:
The East coast of the US and various areas in the middle parts of America are a full month into being pummeled by the throes of Father Winter's frigid wrath. What this can translate into, for the uninitiated, is sub-zero (that's Fahrenheit) temperatures, white-out driving conditions, and half-inch-thick ice covering everything from cars door locks to telephone wires to red-ripe fruit still hanging on to branch-tips with the tenacity of a small and vicious dog's clinging to an unwanted visitor's trouser cuff. Unfortunately, the powers that be do not cancel the world and it's incessant needs during such treacherous outdoor conditions. They can't really, for in certain parts of this vast and complicated country, such heinous weather lasts for months at a time, and allowing people to use the truly valid excuse of completely unsafe driving conditions as a reason to stay home from work could hypothetically ground all productivity, and even worse - all consumption - to a definitive halt. Yikes. How very un-American.
To battle this need for continued rat racing and good consuming, areas that are accustomed to such intense (and deplorable) weather conditions have management techniques in place. Plow trucks, salt trucks and sand trucks are among the most commonly used methods to battle the icy conditions that cause countless vehicle pile-ups and excruciatingly long commutes for those rueful rats racing to and fro all the livelong day. But there's one massive problem with those problem solvers. And that is. . .if the temperature drops much below freezing, (that's 32 degrees Fahrenheit), they are completely useless. That's right. When ice is falling from the sky, pummeling everything in sight, rendering electricity outages across miles of cityscape and leading to many an old-lady breaking her hip, those salt trucks are no good. No good at all.
So, what to do? What to do? Well, several cities have proposed an interesting new solution in recent years. That being. . .beet juice. You heard me right. Plain-old sticky-sweet sugar-beet juice. Reports would have you believe that it works like a god-sent miracle, melting even the thickest of ice off streets and highways with a quickness not seen since the senior Earnhardt dominated the NASCAR scene. So why isn't it used all over the frozen land? Why do massive swaths of American landscape remain locked under fractions of inches of treacherous solid water while the salt trucks sit idly in their service vehicle parking lots? Because beet juice is a little bit stinky, a tad bit sticky, and worst of all. . . a deep, dark, staining red.
People can't stand that the juice dyes the tires of their cars. And the sidewalks of their streets. And the soles of their shoes. It's red, it's vegetable juice, and it goes nowhere very very slowly. So this is where my entrepreneurial spirit (which I didn't previously know I had) bucks up and gets very excited. I have the perfect solution ,and it will make me scads of money (uhmm, and I'll be helping lots of people be safe and stuff which is really good, too. cough).
Have you ever read the series of children's books written by James Howe? If you haven't, I highly suggest you get on that, and quick. At any rate, the stories are all very cheeky and pseudo-scary, and center around a strange little rabbit named Bunnicula. The vampire rabbit. With clever titles like, "The Celery Stalks at Midnight," Howe details the antics of this juice-sucking vampiro-bunny as he hops from garden to garden, depriving the root vegetables in each row of their distinct colors and striking fear into the hearts of every subterranean tuber.
Well, if you don't see the obvious connection here than you're apparently not quite awake. This is what makes this idea so deliciously brilliant. First step is, I procure some nice fertile, open land and plant some beet seeds. Next, I hunt down Bunnicula (he's not hard to find when one follows the country's only trail of colorless rutabaga) and win him over with my personality, cheesy jokes, and stockpile of veggie juice. He'll be as juiced up as an alcoholic at an Irish-Catholic Christmas party. Then, I breed him to create a whole army of vampire bunnies. I will name them things like Incubunnyus and Lehoppystat, and we will all be friends. I will keep them sated with bulk v8 supplies procured from CostCo as I hatch part three of the plan: tend those beets on my beet farm and start weaning the fanged little furry fiends off their myriad juices and get their juice-lust honed in on the money-pot. . .sweet, sweet beet juice.
Once their thirst for the thick red nectar is insatiable, and their fangs drip and glisten in the moonlight with their desire for a fresh kill, I will release my army of vampire bunnies into the rows of juicy beets. I won't watch the carnage; my cruelty only goes so far. But once they have had their way with the heart-shaped roots, I will reap what I have sewn; I will harvest the red-juice-depleted vegetables, and press them for their remaining sweet nectar. This red-free beet juice will descend like a savior on the winter-embattled citizens of the land, bringing them freedom and traction and paths to productivity/consumption they never before imagined during the coldest of seasons.
And that is my plan. And I know it's ridiculous. And I don't care :)
The East coast of the US and various areas in the middle parts of America are a full month into being pummeled by the throes of Father Winter's frigid wrath. What this can translate into, for the uninitiated, is sub-zero (that's Fahrenheit) temperatures, white-out driving conditions, and half-inch-thick ice covering everything from cars door locks to telephone wires to red-ripe fruit still hanging on to branch-tips with the tenacity of a small and vicious dog's clinging to an unwanted visitor's trouser cuff. Unfortunately, the powers that be do not cancel the world and it's incessant needs during such treacherous outdoor conditions. They can't really, for in certain parts of this vast and complicated country, such heinous weather lasts for months at a time, and allowing people to use the truly valid excuse of completely unsafe driving conditions as a reason to stay home from work could hypothetically ground all productivity, and even worse - all consumption - to a definitive halt. Yikes. How very un-American.
To battle this need for continued rat racing and good consuming, areas that are accustomed to such intense (and deplorable) weather conditions have management techniques in place. Plow trucks, salt trucks and sand trucks are among the most commonly used methods to battle the icy conditions that cause countless vehicle pile-ups and excruciatingly long commutes for those rueful rats racing to and fro all the livelong day. But there's one massive problem with those problem solvers. And that is. . .if the temperature drops much below freezing, (that's 32 degrees Fahrenheit), they are completely useless. That's right. When ice is falling from the sky, pummeling everything in sight, rendering electricity outages across miles of cityscape and leading to many an old-lady breaking her hip, those salt trucks are no good. No good at all.
So, what to do? What to do? Well, several cities have proposed an interesting new solution in recent years. That being. . .beet juice. You heard me right. Plain-old sticky-sweet sugar-beet juice. Reports would have you believe that it works like a god-sent miracle, melting even the thickest of ice off streets and highways with a quickness not seen since the senior Earnhardt dominated the NASCAR scene. So why isn't it used all over the frozen land? Why do massive swaths of American landscape remain locked under fractions of inches of treacherous solid water while the salt trucks sit idly in their service vehicle parking lots? Because beet juice is a little bit stinky, a tad bit sticky, and worst of all. . . a deep, dark, staining red.
People can't stand that the juice dyes the tires of their cars. And the sidewalks of their streets. And the soles of their shoes. It's red, it's vegetable juice, and it goes nowhere very very slowly. So this is where my entrepreneurial spirit (which I didn't previously know I had) bucks up and gets very excited. I have the perfect solution ,and it will make me scads of money (uhmm, and I'll be helping lots of people be safe and stuff which is really good, too. cough).
Have you ever read the series of children's books written by James Howe? If you haven't, I highly suggest you get on that, and quick. At any rate, the stories are all very cheeky and pseudo-scary, and center around a strange little rabbit named Bunnicula. The vampire rabbit. With clever titles like, "The Celery Stalks at Midnight," Howe details the antics of this juice-sucking vampiro-bunny as he hops from garden to garden, depriving the root vegetables in each row of their distinct colors and striking fear into the hearts of every subterranean tuber.
Well, if you don't see the obvious connection here than you're apparently not quite awake. This is what makes this idea so deliciously brilliant. First step is, I procure some nice fertile, open land and plant some beet seeds. Next, I hunt down Bunnicula (he's not hard to find when one follows the country's only trail of colorless rutabaga) and win him over with my personality, cheesy jokes, and stockpile of veggie juice. He'll be as juiced up as an alcoholic at an Irish-Catholic Christmas party. Then, I breed him to create a whole army of vampire bunnies. I will name them things like Incubunnyus and Lehoppystat, and we will all be friends. I will keep them sated with bulk v8 supplies procured from CostCo as I hatch part three of the plan: tend those beets on my beet farm and start weaning the fanged little furry fiends off their myriad juices and get their juice-lust honed in on the money-pot. . .sweet, sweet beet juice.
Once their thirst for the thick red nectar is insatiable, and their fangs drip and glisten in the moonlight with their desire for a fresh kill, I will release my army of vampire bunnies into the rows of juicy beets. I won't watch the carnage; my cruelty only goes so far. But once they have had their way with the heart-shaped roots, I will reap what I have sewn; I will harvest the red-juice-depleted vegetables, and press them for their remaining sweet nectar. This red-free beet juice will descend like a savior on the winter-embattled citizens of the land, bringing them freedom and traction and paths to productivity/consumption they never before imagined during the coldest of seasons.
And that is my plan. And I know it's ridiculous. And I don't care :)
Saturday, December 13, 2008
More than just a Dead Sea
Ah, the Mall. There is no finer petri dish of American, than the good ole' American Mall. It has everything you love to hate about America, and sometimes a fountain. Most of my contemporaries have abandoned the mall as a regular staple of their consuming habits. Only making the trip when absolutely necessary. I've had these same feelings as well at one time, but I've grown up a bit and realize that if I hate the Mall, but if I still have to go there for "this certain store" or for last minute gifts, then I'll continue to hate it unless I change my attitude. So now I treat the Mall like a trip to the circus! It doesn't happen often, and half the fun is in people watching. Like a reality soap opera.
At the Mall today, I noticed what seemed like an large increase in the center booths. You know the ones, they sell anything from cellphones to hermit crabs. Sweet Christmas Baby Jesus, there was a lot of them!
"Were there this many before? I'm not sure, it's been a while" I thought to myself while weaving in and out of them. I then realized that no body, and I mean nobody comes to the Mall specifically for these crap-stands and shit-booths. They are just bloated versions of the check out line of WalMart. But there were many more than I could ever remember.
I was then accosted by one of the Dead Sea Salt ladies, asking to see my hands. "Can I see your hands, please?"
"No, don't worry, I know you're just trying to sell me a product."
"No no no. I just want to show you the product," she reaffirmed.
I had a question I was dying to ask her. "How do you feel about what you do?"
"Oh many people have no idea about the Dead Sea. I came all the way from Israel for the season to show you this product."
"Yeah I know, they're all from Israel!" I retorted. "I want to know how you feel about having to harass people all day? You're not stupid, you know you have to bother people to sell your product. I just sat back there and watched all kinds of people wave you away. How do you feel about that?"
She held her composure well. "Well the customer has the right to say no, if they are not interested. I just want to introduce them to this product."
"No no no. Set all that aside," I told her. "Outside of the job and the product and what you are paid for. How do you feel about having to badger people all day, personally?"
"This is just a job, I am a nutritionist. I come from Israel over the season to introduce people to the wonderful salts of the Dead Sea!"
She wasn't listening to me. My anger flared from her lack of coherence, and I thought it would be sporting of me to threaten calling security on her for touching me. She did touch my hand. I did present it, "but I never said yes, officer of the peace."
I let this manic notion go.
I realized that in seeking her answer, I have now only created two more questions.
Was she A: Sticking to her sales persona so well, that she would not allow me to see the real her?
Or was she B: Genuinely passionate enough about these damn Dead Sea Salts that she really did believe in them to the point of spending her weekends in high heels and product soaked har, badgering the weak willed until they tried her faith in hand products? A belief that is so strong that she cannot transcend beyond these damn Dead Sea Salts, and think objectively about how she is interacting with people everyday?
"So your telling me, that you believe in the product so much, that it's more important than how you feel personally about your job?"
"Yes!" she didn't hesitate to say.
"WOW, you have some fortitude! That all I needed to know," I said, and they were my last words to this absurd individual. Walking out of the Mall, I was only flooded wondrous confusion, and even more questions. Either she is stupid with faith, or she will go home with my question rolling through her mind. Over and over for weeks, till she either wakes up to her own sorry reality, or falls off the deep end. I better be careful, these sort of questions might be dangerous to the general public. Should I even worry, I was never asked to save anybodies soul?
Who am I kidding, she thinks I'm the crazy one!
At the Mall today, I noticed what seemed like an large increase in the center booths. You know the ones, they sell anything from cellphones to hermit crabs. Sweet Christmas Baby Jesus, there was a lot of them!
"Were there this many before? I'm not sure, it's been a while" I thought to myself while weaving in and out of them. I then realized that no body, and I mean nobody comes to the Mall specifically for these crap-stands and shit-booths. They are just bloated versions of the check out line of WalMart. But there were many more than I could ever remember.
I was then accosted by one of the Dead Sea Salt ladies, asking to see my hands. "Can I see your hands, please?"
"No, don't worry, I know you're just trying to sell me a product."
"No no no. I just want to show you the product," she reaffirmed.
I had a question I was dying to ask her. "How do you feel about what you do?"
"Oh many people have no idea about the Dead Sea. I came all the way from Israel for the season to show you this product."
"Yeah I know, they're all from Israel!" I retorted. "I want to know how you feel about having to harass people all day? You're not stupid, you know you have to bother people to sell your product. I just sat back there and watched all kinds of people wave you away. How do you feel about that?"
She held her composure well. "Well the customer has the right to say no, if they are not interested. I just want to introduce them to this product."
"No no no. Set all that aside," I told her. "Outside of the job and the product and what you are paid for. How do you feel about having to badger people all day, personally?"
"This is just a job, I am a nutritionist. I come from Israel over the season to introduce people to the wonderful salts of the Dead Sea!"
She wasn't listening to me. My anger flared from her lack of coherence, and I thought it would be sporting of me to threaten calling security on her for touching me. She did touch my hand. I did present it, "but I never said yes, officer of the peace."
I let this manic notion go.
I realized that in seeking her answer, I have now only created two more questions.
Was she A: Sticking to her sales persona so well, that she would not allow me to see the real her?
Or was she B: Genuinely passionate enough about these damn Dead Sea Salts that she really did believe in them to the point of spending her weekends in high heels and product soaked har, badgering the weak willed until they tried her faith in hand products? A belief that is so strong that she cannot transcend beyond these damn Dead Sea Salts, and think objectively about how she is interacting with people everyday?
"So your telling me, that you believe in the product so much, that it's more important than how you feel personally about your job?"
"Yes!" she didn't hesitate to say.
"WOW, you have some fortitude! That all I needed to know," I said, and they were my last words to this absurd individual. Walking out of the Mall, I was only flooded wondrous confusion, and even more questions. Either she is stupid with faith, or she will go home with my question rolling through her mind. Over and over for weeks, till she either wakes up to her own sorry reality, or falls off the deep end. I better be careful, these sort of questions might be dangerous to the general public. Should I even worry, I was never asked to save anybodies soul?
Who am I kidding, she thinks I'm the crazy one!
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Socially Acceptable Stalking?
The following is an excerpt from my correspondence.
Everyone is a stalker on the internet, to some degree. No one wants to admit it though, because they don't want to view themselves as a stalker. Who does? It's a nasty label, and we have all experienced situations that border on, or even cross, the stalker line. So the bigger question is; At what point do we decide that this behavior is actually stalking?
So you may have looked at my profile, unbeknownst to me, and you chose not to message me so that I wouldn't have the impression that you are a stalker. Relax, people do this all the time. Why? Because it's easy, and can be done from the comfort of your own home. Real drive-by stalking of the past takes work, and most Americans are too lazy for that. Some journalists have claimed that this modern stalking behavior is voyeuristic, or at least borderline. My problem with that is such a word implies some sense of sexual gratification, which I feel is an over sensationalized attempt to play into the public's appeal of anything taboo and sexual. People are not browsing profiles for sexual gratification, a small percentage maybe, but not the majority of us.
My theory for why so many of us stalk the internet, is that it gives a false sense of empowerment. Being "in the know" is a common desire for any human. We crave to understand what is going on around us, even if it is trivial. Just look at tabloid sales for example. I have no facts or figures to wow you with, but it's pretty common knowledge that gossip sells. This is the whole core of what fuels traffic to sites like Facebook and MySpace. We have the power to know when our friends break up with their stupid boyfriends or shiftless girlfriends, before they even have a chance to tell us in person. Or we know what literary tastes someone has without having to take any effort to get to know them, like we used to do back in "the day". It's just society's next big step towards a collective consciousness. But it's not as scary as that sounds.
Why is it not so scary? Why do I feel it's a false sense of empowerment? Because it's a watered down version of the truth, of reality. The information is relatively unproductive knowledge, for the most part just like celebrity gossip, that is of little value for the pure fact that it is so watered down. Everything on these sites is filtered by every user to some degree. Since we only post what we are comfortable with the world knowing, it's only part of the story, part of that person. Some people seem to pour their heart out, but I can assure you that it's still only the tip of their personal iceberg. Most people will steer plenty clear of divulging anything that may incriminate them, or bring about unwanted scrutiny. It's only natural to not open your vulnerabilities to attack. We have to be aware of this when reading the information of others online. Since most of the info is of little significance or value, why do we waste our time? I'm not sure really, but maybe most people are really just unaware of how filtered all these wall posts and status updates are. This leads them to think the information is more valuable than it really is, which in turn gives a false sense of empowerment. For knowledge is power, but trivial knowledge really only produces trivial power.
Our ability and methods of communication are rapidly increasing in this new millennia, but it's a double edged sword. The easier it is for others outside our physical proximity to connect with us, the more we naturally have to guard what we divulge to them. Having a face to face, heart to heart, with a friend cannot be replaced with a Facebook status update. I'll be damned if I see the day anyway.
What I find a real test of will power, is avoiding the urge to seek out this unproductive knowledge. That false empowerment can become addicting, just like any form of power. Take for example, women who I have dated in the past. I use this example because it involves people who I have been very intimate with, but that intimacy is now something of the past, and I have a different dynamic with them than my relationship with some dude who shared a drawing class with me four years ago. Sure, I'm still friends with these women, and even friends on Facebook. I can hop over to their profile anytime I want, but I don't, unless I have a reason to send them a message or something. Even when I know they visit my profile (hacks on the internet can reveal a lot more info than people think) and rarely leave me a message or any other sign they've payed a visit, I still resist the urge to silently look at their profile.
Maybe I'm weird, cause it seems a lot of people visit their ex's profiles, but I think it's only because they crave information on them. That craving can be even greater when it's someone who you know as close as an old boyfriend or girlfriend. Don't get me wrong, it's completely normal to wonder how an old girlfriend or boyfriend is doing, especially if you parted on good terms. But there is a difference between sending them a letter or email asking how things have been, and scouring their profile reading and judging every wall post from the other people in their life. I feel like it's snooping in on them. It makes me question my motives for clicking on their profile in the first place, if I didn't go there to actually send them a message. I guess that I'd like to think that if there was anything important that I should know, that they would be sure to inform me.
Now here's a paradox for you: If I'm aware that everything posted is filtered information that is consciously displayed for everyone to see, then is it really snooping when you visit their profile, if nothing private or personal is there to read anyway? Maybe not. But, I am aware of the deception of one's own perception. I've heard too many stories about so and so leaving comments on someone's profile, when someone just dumped whoever. I've had to tell a few of my friends to stop scouring their ex's comments, looking for dirt. I'm sorry dear, but any floozie who leaves a comment on your ex boyfriend's wall is going to be suspect in your mind.
I guess that may just be the main reason I steer clear of such behavior; because I don't want to give my imagination any reason to make up stories that are based on its own false pretenses. Stories that may cause emotional responses and thought loops that are not only unfounded, but just waste mental energy. My imagination is wild enough, thank you very much. It's my responsibility to keep it in check.
Everyone is a stalker on the internet, to some degree. No one wants to admit it though, because they don't want to view themselves as a stalker. Who does? It's a nasty label, and we have all experienced situations that border on, or even cross, the stalker line. So the bigger question is; At what point do we decide that this behavior is actually stalking?
So you may have looked at my profile, unbeknownst to me, and you chose not to message me so that I wouldn't have the impression that you are a stalker. Relax, people do this all the time. Why? Because it's easy, and can be done from the comfort of your own home. Real drive-by stalking of the past takes work, and most Americans are too lazy for that. Some journalists have claimed that this modern stalking behavior is voyeuristic, or at least borderline. My problem with that is such a word implies some sense of sexual gratification, which I feel is an over sensationalized attempt to play into the public's appeal of anything taboo and sexual. People are not browsing profiles for sexual gratification, a small percentage maybe, but not the majority of us.
My theory for why so many of us stalk the internet, is that it gives a false sense of empowerment. Being "in the know" is a common desire for any human. We crave to understand what is going on around us, even if it is trivial. Just look at tabloid sales for example. I have no facts or figures to wow you with, but it's pretty common knowledge that gossip sells. This is the whole core of what fuels traffic to sites like Facebook and MySpace. We have the power to know when our friends break up with their stupid boyfriends or shiftless girlfriends, before they even have a chance to tell us in person. Or we know what literary tastes someone has without having to take any effort to get to know them, like we used to do back in "the day". It's just society's next big step towards a collective consciousness. But it's not as scary as that sounds.
Why is it not so scary? Why do I feel it's a false sense of empowerment? Because it's a watered down version of the truth, of reality. The information is relatively unproductive knowledge, for the most part just like celebrity gossip, that is of little value for the pure fact that it is so watered down. Everything on these sites is filtered by every user to some degree. Since we only post what we are comfortable with the world knowing, it's only part of the story, part of that person. Some people seem to pour their heart out, but I can assure you that it's still only the tip of their personal iceberg. Most people will steer plenty clear of divulging anything that may incriminate them, or bring about unwanted scrutiny. It's only natural to not open your vulnerabilities to attack. We have to be aware of this when reading the information of others online. Since most of the info is of little significance or value, why do we waste our time? I'm not sure really, but maybe most people are really just unaware of how filtered all these wall posts and status updates are. This leads them to think the information is more valuable than it really is, which in turn gives a false sense of empowerment. For knowledge is power, but trivial knowledge really only produces trivial power.
Our ability and methods of communication are rapidly increasing in this new millennia, but it's a double edged sword. The easier it is for others outside our physical proximity to connect with us, the more we naturally have to guard what we divulge to them. Having a face to face, heart to heart, with a friend cannot be replaced with a Facebook status update. I'll be damned if I see the day anyway.
What I find a real test of will power, is avoiding the urge to seek out this unproductive knowledge. That false empowerment can become addicting, just like any form of power. Take for example, women who I have dated in the past. I use this example because it involves people who I have been very intimate with, but that intimacy is now something of the past, and I have a different dynamic with them than my relationship with some dude who shared a drawing class with me four years ago. Sure, I'm still friends with these women, and even friends on Facebook. I can hop over to their profile anytime I want, but I don't, unless I have a reason to send them a message or something. Even when I know they visit my profile (hacks on the internet can reveal a lot more info than people think) and rarely leave me a message or any other sign they've payed a visit, I still resist the urge to silently look at their profile.
Maybe I'm weird, cause it seems a lot of people visit their ex's profiles, but I think it's only because they crave information on them. That craving can be even greater when it's someone who you know as close as an old boyfriend or girlfriend. Don't get me wrong, it's completely normal to wonder how an old girlfriend or boyfriend is doing, especially if you parted on good terms. But there is a difference between sending them a letter or email asking how things have been, and scouring their profile reading and judging every wall post from the other people in their life. I feel like it's snooping in on them. It makes me question my motives for clicking on their profile in the first place, if I didn't go there to actually send them a message. I guess that I'd like to think that if there was anything important that I should know, that they would be sure to inform me.
Now here's a paradox for you: If I'm aware that everything posted is filtered information that is consciously displayed for everyone to see, then is it really snooping when you visit their profile, if nothing private or personal is there to read anyway? Maybe not. But, I am aware of the deception of one's own perception. I've heard too many stories about so and so leaving comments on someone's profile, when someone just dumped whoever. I've had to tell a few of my friends to stop scouring their ex's comments, looking for dirt. I'm sorry dear, but any floozie who leaves a comment on your ex boyfriend's wall is going to be suspect in your mind.
I guess that may just be the main reason I steer clear of such behavior; because I don't want to give my imagination any reason to make up stories that are based on its own false pretenses. Stories that may cause emotional responses and thought loops that are not only unfounded, but just waste mental energy. My imagination is wild enough, thank you very much. It's my responsibility to keep it in check.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
A steaming pile of Prop 8
The following is an excerpt from my correspondence.
I forgot to mention this, but your hood will be an essential ground zero point for stories on Porp 8. For the many stories for and against Obama that I will no doubt find in the south, must be contrasted by the debacle that has become Prop 8.
More power to all the negros who finally reached their day in the sun, and history owes them, no doubt. But Prop 8 is just another steaming shit pile that America can't ignore.
Lets bring some abstract and hypothetical math to the situation. If the gay population is ten percent of the population as a whole (which I always thought was a low estimate), then you will always be part of a minority. No matter how much the American population increases, you will still only have ten percent who actually carry themselves as openly gay. You can't just pop out a bunch of gay babies to increase the ranks and eventually out vote the rest of the country. Hell, it's hard enough for you to adopt! So unlike the racial minorities in this country, who are gaining ground and becoming the majority, the only option you have is to teach the ever increasing ignorant straight population that you are NOT trying to put your dick in their ass! My own crack-pot theory is that buggery is at the core of their fear, just think of how many men cringe at the thought of a colonoscopy. But that's off topic here, and I could touch more on it in the book.
The point being that you have to fight against the fear that breeds in the religious and isolated straight American. Not an easy task. No, but I do believe you have the advantage of the modern technology that is already chipping away at the old sour-puss religions in this world. For I really feel that is what will bring about its undoing. The spread of information will show the younger generations that the gay population is just as "normal" as the straight.
Let me know what you think of those points. Send word. I'd love to use some of your stories in the book, and think of a crafty pseudonym for yourself that I can use. I'll capture them in person once I arrive there. Can't wait for you to parade my ass around the city.
I forgot to mention this, but your hood will be an essential ground zero point for stories on Porp 8. For the many stories for and against Obama that I will no doubt find in the south, must be contrasted by the debacle that has become Prop 8.
More power to all the negros who finally reached their day in the sun, and history owes them, no doubt. But Prop 8 is just another steaming shit pile that America can't ignore.
Lets bring some abstract and hypothetical math to the situation. If the gay population is ten percent of the population as a whole (which I always thought was a low estimate), then you will always be part of a minority. No matter how much the American population increases, you will still only have ten percent who actually carry themselves as openly gay. You can't just pop out a bunch of gay babies to increase the ranks and eventually out vote the rest of the country. Hell, it's hard enough for you to adopt! So unlike the racial minorities in this country, who are gaining ground and becoming the majority, the only option you have is to teach the ever increasing ignorant straight population that you are NOT trying to put your dick in their ass! My own crack-pot theory is that buggery is at the core of their fear, just think of how many men cringe at the thought of a colonoscopy. But that's off topic here, and I could touch more on it in the book.
The point being that you have to fight against the fear that breeds in the religious and isolated straight American. Not an easy task. No, but I do believe you have the advantage of the modern technology that is already chipping away at the old sour-puss religions in this world. For I really feel that is what will bring about its undoing. The spread of information will show the younger generations that the gay population is just as "normal" as the straight.
Let me know what you think of those points. Send word. I'd love to use some of your stories in the book, and think of a crafty pseudonym for yourself that I can use. I'll capture them in person once I arrive there. Can't wait for you to parade my ass around the city.
Monday, November 24, 2008
Bloodletting
Was I dreaming, or driving? No, no I'm driving all right, and I appear to still be safely between the white lines.
Excellent! I'll just close my eyes for another second or two.
Sweet Jesus you idiot! Pay attention. You still have to pick up beer in Platteville.
Freeways always do this to me. When the only mental function necessary to operate the motor vehicle consists of minor steering corrections over great spans of time, I fall asleep. I'll be the first to tell you that this may be what brings Death knocking on my own door.
Death. That scallywag prick has handed me my second invite to a funeral in less than a month. I'll be damned if I give him a chance to cash my check today.
I struggle the rest of the way to Platteville's WalMart, where I commenced napping in the parking lot immediately. I later wake up with frozen feet screaming to be moved. I hustle in and grab a pack of Bush Lite; the Walter, and Grant County beer of choice.
I arrive early. My cousin is there, and we chat briefly as I postpone the inevitable moment of approaching the death bed. I do not want this. But I must take this, for it will shape me thereafter.
Following the caretaker into the dinning room, I sit in a chair next to the hospital bed. I distract myself with the humor of this gigantic hospital bed that is devouring a good percentage of the square footage of this room. This room we should be having Thanksgiving dinner in. Damn, back to reality. Those nasty meat hooks always catch up to me faster than I would like.
Mother warned me of this moment.
This moment, which has been waiting for me here in this room, is really just a combination of sensory perceptions. The sight of her frail body. The smell of old bones and tired flesh. The sound of her raspy breathing. These are not pretty things in and of themselves, but when they are perceived by my brain and immediately referenced against 25 years of memory, the meat hooks dig in deeper.
"She hasn't eaten in six days." Says the caretaker. "They usually pass between seven and ten days after they stop eating."
I hear this, and comprehend it. But it's just a trickle in the thought-torrent I am trying to wade through. Sadness: Christ, she's so small and frail from the last time I saw her. Cynicism: She's just a breathing pile of flesh and bones under that blanket. Anger: Don't think that you asshole, that's fucking Grandma.
These are only the emotions I can adhere with logical labels, but there are many swirling around that are too abstract and powerful for words.
I hold her hand, which is warm, but lifeless. Her skin on her hands still feels really soft. She always did have soft hands, when she used to spit on her thumb to wipe dirt off our faces.
I need another beer.
By dinner time, the grieving party was in full swing. Whiskey Cokes, Bush-Lite, and fresh pizza from Burton Tavern. Grandpa was telling his dirty jokes per usual. The uncles were giving each other shit. The aunts were helping. Grandma was breathing, and listening in the next room.
What would she say about all this? She would probably just sit back and say, "I tried to raise you kids right!" Boy, she did a fine job.
I was now full of enough beer and whiskey to confidently give the Matriarch her final goodbye. I sat next to her in the dim light of the dining room. The chatter of the kitchen mixed in with the hum of her space heater. My brother came and sat in the chair beside me.
We reminisced over old stories. Like the time these two little shits tried to race across Grandma's half acre garden, in muddy March. We ran like Jesus himself, until our mortal little boots began to sink deeper and deeper into the mud.
Slog. Slog. Slo. Slo.
We were trapped! I had seen quicksand in the movies before, even at the age of seven, so I knew I had to act quick.
"Grandma! Grandma! Grandma!" My little brother and I began to squeal. Paul Harvey must have been over, for she heard us inside the kitchen. Stepping out the front door, she asked us rather tartly, "What's the matter?"
"We're stuck!" was shouted as we writhed and struggled to show her the seriousness of the matter. She headed back in the house for a moment, then returned outside and walked the distance across the front yard and driveway, as we helplessly watched her approach. Was she mad? I hope not. Instead of yelling at us, she pulled out her camera. She proceeded to take humiliating pictures of us, pictures that still exist to this day. We both wanted out of that mud hole something quick, but we waited like humbled boys in dunce caps. For that woman was the only person who could save us, and she wasn't one who listened to a child that begged. We couldn't do anything but let her get her kicks.
She said she would get stuck herself if she came in after us. This wasn't what we wanted to hear. So she headed back in the house for a moment, and back she came with a stack of cookie sheets. Grandma placed one right after the other, like giant steel Lilly pads in the mud, stepping her way out to us. She then pulled us out, and sent us to hop our way out on the cookie sheets. That right there was magic for this little shit. For it was that moment when I realized maybe Grandma isn't just a grouchy old lady after all. Maybe she's really smart. She sure was that day.
This is when the bloodletting begins. The tears start to flow. Then sobs begin to sputter. My brother rests his hand on my knee, and I crumble. I cry for the Grandma that left us a while ago already, but who still carries on in my heart. For she has touched it more than even most of those hooligans in the kitchen.
After drinking then crying myself into a stupor, I want nothing more than to just rest my weary head. The family that is still drinking in the kitchen, instructed me to take the field road up to Mom's. So, driving when I absolutely shouldn't, I follow the winding "field road" that leads from my Grand parent's house up to the house where I grew up, which used to be my great grand parent's house. This road that I've traveled thousands of times, brings back many many memories in my bleary consciousness.
I make the short trip with no troubles, and stumble into the garage. In the darkness I can see two beasts rousing my way. "Da Puppiesss!" I slur while reaching down to pet them. Lassie and Cassie are far far from being puppies anymore, but I still address the two miniature collies this way.
This is where things start getting blurry, but I do remember crawling up the garage steps to the foot of the door. Puppies sniffing and licking me all the way. I fell on my back and let them crawl all over me. They pranced around me in the dark and let out little grunts of restrained elation. They've always sounded that way when they are happy to see you. It was the most wonderful feeling, being showered in the unconditional love of these two animals, while I giggle in the drunken stupor that has put me down on their level. In more ways than one. I resigned myself to spending the whole night right here. This puppy love was all I need to wash my troubles away.
The door to the office opened up into me. "Craig?"
"Sorry Mom, sorry. I was just saying hi to the puppies."
"I've had those nights too." Mother said as she helped carry my weary head to the couch.
Excellent! I'll just close my eyes for another second or two.
Sweet Jesus you idiot! Pay attention. You still have to pick up beer in Platteville.
Freeways always do this to me. When the only mental function necessary to operate the motor vehicle consists of minor steering corrections over great spans of time, I fall asleep. I'll be the first to tell you that this may be what brings Death knocking on my own door.
Death. That scallywag prick has handed me my second invite to a funeral in less than a month. I'll be damned if I give him a chance to cash my check today.
I struggle the rest of the way to Platteville's WalMart, where I commenced napping in the parking lot immediately. I later wake up with frozen feet screaming to be moved. I hustle in and grab a pack of Bush Lite; the Walter, and Grant County beer of choice.
I arrive early. My cousin is there, and we chat briefly as I postpone the inevitable moment of approaching the death bed. I do not want this. But I must take this, for it will shape me thereafter.
Following the caretaker into the dinning room, I sit in a chair next to the hospital bed. I distract myself with the humor of this gigantic hospital bed that is devouring a good percentage of the square footage of this room. This room we should be having Thanksgiving dinner in. Damn, back to reality. Those nasty meat hooks always catch up to me faster than I would like.
Mother warned me of this moment.
This moment, which has been waiting for me here in this room, is really just a combination of sensory perceptions. The sight of her frail body. The smell of old bones and tired flesh. The sound of her raspy breathing. These are not pretty things in and of themselves, but when they are perceived by my brain and immediately referenced against 25 years of memory, the meat hooks dig in deeper.
"She hasn't eaten in six days." Says the caretaker. "They usually pass between seven and ten days after they stop eating."
I hear this, and comprehend it. But it's just a trickle in the thought-torrent I am trying to wade through. Sadness: Christ, she's so small and frail from the last time I saw her. Cynicism: She's just a breathing pile of flesh and bones under that blanket. Anger: Don't think that you asshole, that's fucking Grandma.
These are only the emotions I can adhere with logical labels, but there are many swirling around that are too abstract and powerful for words.
I hold her hand, which is warm, but lifeless. Her skin on her hands still feels really soft. She always did have soft hands, when she used to spit on her thumb to wipe dirt off our faces.
I need another beer.
By dinner time, the grieving party was in full swing. Whiskey Cokes, Bush-Lite, and fresh pizza from Burton Tavern. Grandpa was telling his dirty jokes per usual. The uncles were giving each other shit. The aunts were helping. Grandma was breathing, and listening in the next room.
What would she say about all this? She would probably just sit back and say, "I tried to raise you kids right!" Boy, she did a fine job.
I was now full of enough beer and whiskey to confidently give the Matriarch her final goodbye. I sat next to her in the dim light of the dining room. The chatter of the kitchen mixed in with the hum of her space heater. My brother came and sat in the chair beside me.
We reminisced over old stories. Like the time these two little shits tried to race across Grandma's half acre garden, in muddy March. We ran like Jesus himself, until our mortal little boots began to sink deeper and deeper into the mud.
Slog. Slog. Slo. Slo.
We were trapped! I had seen quicksand in the movies before, even at the age of seven, so I knew I had to act quick.
"Grandma! Grandma! Grandma!" My little brother and I began to squeal. Paul Harvey must have been over, for she heard us inside the kitchen. Stepping out the front door, she asked us rather tartly, "What's the matter?"
"We're stuck!" was shouted as we writhed and struggled to show her the seriousness of the matter. She headed back in the house for a moment, then returned outside and walked the distance across the front yard and driveway, as we helplessly watched her approach. Was she mad? I hope not. Instead of yelling at us, she pulled out her camera. She proceeded to take humiliating pictures of us, pictures that still exist to this day. We both wanted out of that mud hole something quick, but we waited like humbled boys in dunce caps. For that woman was the only person who could save us, and she wasn't one who listened to a child that begged. We couldn't do anything but let her get her kicks.
She said she would get stuck herself if she came in after us. This wasn't what we wanted to hear. So she headed back in the house for a moment, and back she came with a stack of cookie sheets. Grandma placed one right after the other, like giant steel Lilly pads in the mud, stepping her way out to us. She then pulled us out, and sent us to hop our way out on the cookie sheets. That right there was magic for this little shit. For it was that moment when I realized maybe Grandma isn't just a grouchy old lady after all. Maybe she's really smart. She sure was that day.
This is when the bloodletting begins. The tears start to flow. Then sobs begin to sputter. My brother rests his hand on my knee, and I crumble. I cry for the Grandma that left us a while ago already, but who still carries on in my heart. For she has touched it more than even most of those hooligans in the kitchen.
After drinking then crying myself into a stupor, I want nothing more than to just rest my weary head. The family that is still drinking in the kitchen, instructed me to take the field road up to Mom's. So, driving when I absolutely shouldn't, I follow the winding "field road" that leads from my Grand parent's house up to the house where I grew up, which used to be my great grand parent's house. This road that I've traveled thousands of times, brings back many many memories in my bleary consciousness.
I make the short trip with no troubles, and stumble into the garage. In the darkness I can see two beasts rousing my way. "Da Puppiesss!" I slur while reaching down to pet them. Lassie and Cassie are far far from being puppies anymore, but I still address the two miniature collies this way.
This is where things start getting blurry, but I do remember crawling up the garage steps to the foot of the door. Puppies sniffing and licking me all the way. I fell on my back and let them crawl all over me. They pranced around me in the dark and let out little grunts of restrained elation. They've always sounded that way when they are happy to see you. It was the most wonderful feeling, being showered in the unconditional love of these two animals, while I giggle in the drunken stupor that has put me down on their level. In more ways than one. I resigned myself to spending the whole night right here. This puppy love was all I need to wash my troubles away.
The door to the office opened up into me. "Craig?"
"Sorry Mom, sorry. I was just saying hi to the puppies."
"I've had those nights too." Mother said as she helped carry my weary head to the couch.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Last Respects to the Matriarch
This morning all plans have been up-ended. I must now hit the road and pay my last respects to the Matriarch. A venerable soul slipping away with the body that flourished it. I always knew this was coming, but I also knew I could never prepare for it.
Shotgun therapy with my brother will be necessary to pull my mind free from any logic traps that will no doubt try to ensnare me. I better pack the pistol.
Shotgun therapy with my brother will be necessary to pull my mind free from any logic traps that will no doubt try to ensnare me. I better pack the pistol.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Go to Church!
The following is an excerpt from my correspondence.
Life's a wave dear. One night you can be having the time of your life, then the next morning it can seem so futile, distant and meaningless. Enjoy the ups, but remember the lows are only temporary.
Here is something you should read; The Myth of Sisyphus. Read this Wikipedia article, and it will give you a basic understanding of what the book says. Remember that it is one interesting outlook on the whole Absurdity dilemma, but don't hold faith in any sound alternative to religion.
I'm starting to believe that we all have to make up our OWN meaning to Life. For if what each of us considers "reality", is really only made up of our perceptions of outside stimulus (what we see, smell, hear, touch, and taste), then each of us are only living in our own reality. Sure, there is a real common world out there that must be dealt with by all of us, we can't forget that. But if that real common world still has to be perceived by each of our brains, brains that are all different in their own little ways, then each of us will no doubt have a differing perception of what the "real" world is.
So if we all see the world a little differently, then why must there be one true Meaning for all of us? Why believe in any religion? Why not make your own? We can each make up a church for ourselves, and it's so exclusive that only the God of the church itself is allowed to attend mass. Yourself.
Are we not all gods ourselves on this damn planet? We may not be immortal, or have amazing super powers, but we have a highly evolved consciousness. This allows us to study and learn and create and destroy. For good or ill.
Start laying the foundation for your own church. This can hold any sort of beliefs you want, because it's your church. Borrow all the really good ideals from any religion you have learned from, and leave the bullshit out. You can even make up your own rules as you go. So long as they are life affirming and honest, you're on the right track.
That's what I am doing. I'm only now starting to lay the foundation, for the shotgun shack I worshiped in prior was blown away this summer. It will take a lot of hard work and heavy notes, but I'm making progress. I have a good feeling about this temple.
Life's a wave dear. One night you can be having the time of your life, then the next morning it can seem so futile, distant and meaningless. Enjoy the ups, but remember the lows are only temporary.
Here is something you should read; The Myth of Sisyphus. Read this Wikipedia article, and it will give you a basic understanding of what the book says. Remember that it is one interesting outlook on the whole Absurdity dilemma, but don't hold faith in any sound alternative to religion.
I'm starting to believe that we all have to make up our OWN meaning to Life. For if what each of us considers "reality", is really only made up of our perceptions of outside stimulus (what we see, smell, hear, touch, and taste), then each of us are only living in our own reality. Sure, there is a real common world out there that must be dealt with by all of us, we can't forget that. But if that real common world still has to be perceived by each of our brains, brains that are all different in their own little ways, then each of us will no doubt have a differing perception of what the "real" world is.
So if we all see the world a little differently, then why must there be one true Meaning for all of us? Why believe in any religion? Why not make your own? We can each make up a church for ourselves, and it's so exclusive that only the God of the church itself is allowed to attend mass. Yourself.
Are we not all gods ourselves on this damn planet? We may not be immortal, or have amazing super powers, but we have a highly evolved consciousness. This allows us to study and learn and create and destroy. For good or ill.
Start laying the foundation for your own church. This can hold any sort of beliefs you want, because it's your church. Borrow all the really good ideals from any religion you have learned from, and leave the bullshit out. You can even make up your own rules as you go. So long as they are life affirming and honest, you're on the right track.
That's what I am doing. I'm only now starting to lay the foundation, for the shotgun shack I worshiped in prior was blown away this summer. It will take a lot of hard work and heavy notes, but I'm making progress. I have a good feeling about this temple.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Defusing the Game
The following is an excerpt from my correspondence.
One thing I've learned from constant observations of the Patterns of Life, is that so many people play their cards close to their chest. They do this in all types of relationships, and I have noticed that it's really prevalent in dating.
Another pattern within this larger pattern, is that when Person A approaches the boundries of Person B's super-ego, B will pull their cards even closer. It's those moments when a question or situation that strikes at a person's core and forces them to take a stand for what they believe in, no matter who is looking, that they will either stand tall or pull their cards in closer. The closer someone pulls their cards in, the more they are afraid or uncertain of where they themselves actually stand. These situations are a great way to shed some light on how self aware they really are.
The problem I've encountered, is that when someone pulls their cards in, the other person will pull theirs in as well. It's a natural defense mechanism for self preservation: If someone isn't going to be vulnerable around me, I'm not going to be vulnerable around them. The sad part is that this is actually the core of "The Game". We've all played it, and it's bigger than what most of us think of when we talk about Players and The Game. The bigger Game is that awkward feeling each other out phase that happens when two people are starting to get to know each other when they are dating. It becomes a game of dancing around each other. You want to know more about them, but you're uncertain how much of yourself to share with them. How vulnerable are you comfortable being? This all ties into "Presentation of Self" and Impression Management", which you may already be familiar with, or I could rant about later. Everyone plays to a certain degree, but relationships with good communication will quickly become comfortable to the point where the game is no longer needed.
The Game itself can be diffused, but it takes a strong will and a risk of a backlash. The quickest way to diffuse The Game, is to put your cards on the table. Think of life like poker, if you put your cards on the table, The Game changes. There is no strife with someone who shows you their cards. You don't have to out wit someone who puts it all on the table, there is no longer anything to out wit. It's just honesty laid out flat for you to see.
There is still the risk that the other person will not agree with the cards that they see, which is the whole reason people play the game in the first place. Even if they don't like what they see, at least you can cut out the weeks or months of ambiguity involved with trying to get down deep in order to understand someone to the core.
So I had a moment where I was a little paranoid. It happens, but it wont go away if I just ignore it, so I took a chance by laying it out on the table for you to see clearly. Because you can see it clearly, then you can easily return your response clearly. BAM! Honest communication plain and simple. It's really only hard because it seems to go against everything we have learned growing up and being socialized by not only our family, community and church, but the growing beast of modern media. The trial and error of modern dating leads all of us to start playing The Game, because we have grown accustomed to everyone playing it at least a little bit.
If you want to be a real social rebel, don't harden your defenses like a "badass", fuck the system by NOT playing The Game. It will quickly weed out the people not worth your time. Those who are afraid to even look at their own cards, are the ones who will hold them really close. These are the types who will run away as if you have leprosy. It's not fun for the ego to scare people away, but in the grand scheme of things: good riddance to bad rubbish!
One thing I've learned from constant observations of the Patterns of Life, is that so many people play their cards close to their chest. They do this in all types of relationships, and I have noticed that it's really prevalent in dating.
Another pattern within this larger pattern, is that when Person A approaches the boundries of Person B's super-ego, B will pull their cards even closer. It's those moments when a question or situation that strikes at a person's core and forces them to take a stand for what they believe in, no matter who is looking, that they will either stand tall or pull their cards in closer. The closer someone pulls their cards in, the more they are afraid or uncertain of where they themselves actually stand. These situations are a great way to shed some light on how self aware they really are.
The problem I've encountered, is that when someone pulls their cards in, the other person will pull theirs in as well. It's a natural defense mechanism for self preservation: If someone isn't going to be vulnerable around me, I'm not going to be vulnerable around them. The sad part is that this is actually the core of "The Game". We've all played it, and it's bigger than what most of us think of when we talk about Players and The Game. The bigger Game is that awkward feeling each other out phase that happens when two people are starting to get to know each other when they are dating. It becomes a game of dancing around each other. You want to know more about them, but you're uncertain how much of yourself to share with them. How vulnerable are you comfortable being? This all ties into "Presentation of Self" and Impression Management", which you may already be familiar with, or I could rant about later. Everyone plays to a certain degree, but relationships with good communication will quickly become comfortable to the point where the game is no longer needed.
The Game itself can be diffused, but it takes a strong will and a risk of a backlash. The quickest way to diffuse The Game, is to put your cards on the table. Think of life like poker, if you put your cards on the table, The Game changes. There is no strife with someone who shows you their cards. You don't have to out wit someone who puts it all on the table, there is no longer anything to out wit. It's just honesty laid out flat for you to see.
There is still the risk that the other person will not agree with the cards that they see, which is the whole reason people play the game in the first place. Even if they don't like what they see, at least you can cut out the weeks or months of ambiguity involved with trying to get down deep in order to understand someone to the core.
So I had a moment where I was a little paranoid. It happens, but it wont go away if I just ignore it, so I took a chance by laying it out on the table for you to see clearly. Because you can see it clearly, then you can easily return your response clearly. BAM! Honest communication plain and simple. It's really only hard because it seems to go against everything we have learned growing up and being socialized by not only our family, community and church, but the growing beast of modern media. The trial and error of modern dating leads all of us to start playing The Game, because we have grown accustomed to everyone playing it at least a little bit.
If you want to be a real social rebel, don't harden your defenses like a "badass", fuck the system by NOT playing The Game. It will quickly weed out the people not worth your time. Those who are afraid to even look at their own cards, are the ones who will hold them really close. These are the types who will run away as if you have leprosy. It's not fun for the ego to scare people away, but in the grand scheme of things: good riddance to bad rubbish!
Friday, November 14, 2008
Tootsie, Fuck Off!
For the past two weeks I've been playing a maddeningly (what a ridiculous word) cyclical game with my fantastically obese cat, Tootsie. It was only just now that I actually realized it was a game.
I would be sitting at the desk, writing a bunch of wild words in some order that I can only hope will be digestible enough for the masses. A standard weeknight as of late. Then Tootsie will start to howl at me from my feet. I ignore her like the small child she is, but after about seven to nine howls into it, I just start cussing out venomous obscenities between my feet without taking my eyes of my work. But the words "Tootsie, Fuck Off!" bounce off that pink little cow nose of hers. Only sticks and stones for Tootsie.
She puts her front paws on the edge of my chair and rests her head inside my crotch, nothing sexual, just a "hey, what'cha doin' up there?" This begins to really distract me. I have lots of work to do, that no one is paying me for. So I reach for the laser pointer.
That little red dot zips around the room faster than any mother fucking fly Tootsie has ever seen. Zip, Zam, Zoom! My little cow-cat gallops off, udder swinging to and fro, in chase of something that can never be caught. That fact alone is proof that they don't have a conscious, for it would blow their tiny little minds.
I'm laughing at how dumb I can fool my cats into behaving. Using their natural instincts for my amusement and leaving them no satisfaction of the kill. Would PETA support this? Wait, I eat meat, never mind. The real problem is I'm just not getting any work done.
So back to writing gibberish. Then, sure enough, five minutes later ... there's a pussy in my crotch again!
I would be sitting at the desk, writing a bunch of wild words in some order that I can only hope will be digestible enough for the masses. A standard weeknight as of late. Then Tootsie will start to howl at me from my feet. I ignore her like the small child she is, but after about seven to nine howls into it, I just start cussing out venomous obscenities between my feet without taking my eyes of my work. But the words "Tootsie, Fuck Off!" bounce off that pink little cow nose of hers. Only sticks and stones for Tootsie.
She puts her front paws on the edge of my chair and rests her head inside my crotch, nothing sexual, just a "hey, what'cha doin' up there?" This begins to really distract me. I have lots of work to do, that no one is paying me for. So I reach for the laser pointer.
That little red dot zips around the room faster than any mother fucking fly Tootsie has ever seen. Zip, Zam, Zoom! My little cow-cat gallops off, udder swinging to and fro, in chase of something that can never be caught. That fact alone is proof that they don't have a conscious, for it would blow their tiny little minds.
I'm laughing at how dumb I can fool my cats into behaving. Using their natural instincts for my amusement and leaving them no satisfaction of the kill. Would PETA support this? Wait, I eat meat, never mind. The real problem is I'm just not getting any work done.
So back to writing gibberish. Then, sure enough, five minutes later ... there's a pussy in my crotch again!
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Preparing for the Great American Decline
The following is an excerpt from my correspondence
For as excited as I am about the winds of destiny taking us where they may, I've not spent much time looking for existential destinations to steer towards while on the way. I do want to hit the brothels in, was it Carson City? Guaranteed to meet some characters there, and a whole different angle than any the mainstream media is covering. How are the shadier sides of the Capitalistic market doing? Maybe that's where all this fucking money went to. Who knows? These things still seem so abstract and jumbled, no matter how many Newsweeks or Times I read on the toilet. But forget about all those imploding banks and starving whiskey gentry. My only concern is that my credit card works, and that it can pay for our much needed sponge bath from LEGAL hookers. There is no better sketch of the American spirit; than two soiled and disheveled men of the road dragging their soggy asses into a LEGAL brothel full of beautiful women. Women who fill up two tremendous tubs of soapy water for us to soak away our weary troubles, while they slowly sponge us down. Washing away a week of dirt. While we chat in a friendly manner about the current economy, and how it is, or isn't, affecting them. A good hour to chat and relax in a scene so decadent, that only MasterCard could afford it.
Other than that, there was this porn star turn call girl who works in the Greensboro, NC area. I'm going to solicit an interview with her about the porn/call girl economies. I've seen her work, but that can't be mentioned. For I am no fanboy who she can "charge" to be interviewed. I am a respectable author traveling on research for his next article. She will be privileged to POSSIBLY get a mention in my upcoming book. Yes my dear friend, it's all in how you sell it. For in the end, she's still sucking cocks for a living, and I make brochures for window blinds. It sounds heavy when I put it like that, but I do give her props for making the most bread she can with what shes got. That's true American spirit!
For as excited as I am about the winds of destiny taking us where they may, I've not spent much time looking for existential destinations to steer towards while on the way. I do want to hit the brothels in, was it Carson City? Guaranteed to meet some characters there, and a whole different angle than any the mainstream media is covering. How are the shadier sides of the Capitalistic market doing? Maybe that's where all this fucking money went to. Who knows? These things still seem so abstract and jumbled, no matter how many Newsweeks or Times I read on the toilet. But forget about all those imploding banks and starving whiskey gentry. My only concern is that my credit card works, and that it can pay for our much needed sponge bath from LEGAL hookers. There is no better sketch of the American spirit; than two soiled and disheveled men of the road dragging their soggy asses into a LEGAL brothel full of beautiful women. Women who fill up two tremendous tubs of soapy water for us to soak away our weary troubles, while they slowly sponge us down. Washing away a week of dirt. While we chat in a friendly manner about the current economy, and how it is, or isn't, affecting them. A good hour to chat and relax in a scene so decadent, that only MasterCard could afford it.
Other than that, there was this porn star turn call girl who works in the Greensboro, NC area. I'm going to solicit an interview with her about the porn/call girl economies. I've seen her work, but that can't be mentioned. For I am no fanboy who she can "charge" to be interviewed. I am a respectable author traveling on research for his next article. She will be privileged to POSSIBLY get a mention in my upcoming book. Yes my dear friend, it's all in how you sell it. For in the end, she's still sucking cocks for a living, and I make brochures for window blinds. It sounds heavy when I put it like that, but I do give her props for making the most bread she can with what shes got. That's true American spirit!
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Vote or Die
Four phone calls and two voicemails from friends and family requesting you call them back immediately; will never lead to a conversation about Hannah Montana being exposed as a thirty two year old man. This is going to be bad.
I call my brother back. “What happened?”
And that was it. That was the moment my friend Eric died.
He actually died around 9pm the night before, but in the universe inside my head, he was still alive until I got that phone call. Confusion, tears, sobs and a lot of pacing back and forth took place. I was already running late for work. With the proper medicine, I was able to turn into a cubicle zombie who moaned his way to the end of the day.
By Saturday I learned that the wake would take place on Monday, followed by the funeral Tuesday. To accommodate this with my work schedule, I ended up spending the day as a zombie again all alone in my cube on Sunday.
On Monday, I went to work early in order to make it back home for the wake and I would then take the day off Tuesday. My associates expressed their sympathies, but equally if not more fervently, their concern that I get back in time to vote.
Vote? “You think I’m actually worried about voting right now?” Brow furrowed, blood boiled, muscles tensed. It finally became apparent, like some omnipresent force that lurked in the shadows this whole time, and I’ve only now found the right pair of eyes to see it; The Church of Politics.
I’ve never heard of it before, and this was the first term that came to mind, but I’m sure it’s been written about before. All of my original ideas have been pondered and discussed at length by old dusty dead men hundreds and even thousands of years before me. This I’ve humbly accepted. But a quick Google search only brings up articles talking about religion and politics as separate entities, but I did find this excerpt from a discussion forum that is close to what I am hinting at: “Religion and political leadership are so intertwined across eras and cultures because they are about the same thing: performing the miracle of converting unrelated individuals into a group.”
Everyone has become a member of The Church of Politics. You belong to a party, which is like your church, and you stay with that church for the rest of your life. Why? Well because your parents belonged to that church, or maybe it’s because it’s because your parents were Catholic and you’ve now joined a Protestant church in order to differentiate yourself from them. Then of course, if one church has been really popular with the townspeople for some time, they may start to get comfortable and kick up their feet. This leads to sermons that begin to lack in the substance and inspiration that should be feeding the core beliefs of their constituents, who are now in dire need of spiritual guidance (like good social policies). Well if the church in power sits on its ass too long, then those independent parishioners will flock to another church.
The funny thing about these different Churches is that they all belong to the same religion, The Church of Politics, so they all celebrate their biggest holiday every four years on the first Tuesday of November; The Presidential vote. If you don’t vote, it’s as if you skipped Christmas Mass. Straight to HELL!
After many hours of agitated thinking and pondering this discovery, I realized that blasphemy was the only course of action. I was not going to vote, because MY vote didn’t matter.
I realize all the bile and venom this must regurgitate in my readers, friends and peers, but hear me out.
We do not vote for the President and Vice President when we go to the polls, we vote for electors in the Electoral College. According to Wikipedia; “Rather than directly voting for the President and Vice President, United States citizens cast votes for electors. Electors are technically free to vote for anyone eligible to be President, but in practice pledge to vote for specific candidates and voters cast ballots for favored presidential and vice presidential candidates by voting for correspondingly pledged electors … the ticket that receives the most votes statewide 'wins' all of the votes cast by electors from that state.” So by the rules of the Electoral College, since most of Wisconsin (definitely Madison) will be going for Obama, he will get all of our electoral votes. The national populace vote doesn’t count here people; don’t you remember how Bush fucked us in 2000?
Now this is not some sort of nihilistic statement to “screw the system”. I would have just voted for McKain, or Nader if I wanted to be an asshole like that. I just did the math. Obama has more than enough support to take all the electoral votes in our state, without MY vote. I stress the “my” because this is not some argument that ALL voting doesn’t count. I’m thankful that Obama had enough support in this state. If it was a really tight race like 2004, I would have felt more obliged to make a difference, but that pressure just wasn’t there. It was just that “Vote or Die” mentality that seems to have brainwashed everyone around me. I somehow snapped out of it.
One of my best friends since middle school wrapped his car around a telephone pole. What makes things even more confusing is that our friendship became distant after he returned from Iraq. He was in Platteville and I was in Madison, this is true, but he was a different guy from the one I grew up with. I watched from a distance, a very slow decline in who this person was to me. I was making horrible life choices on my own while stories would trickle up from friends about him essentially giving up on life. My friend who shared an on stage seat with me for “Rage Against The Machine’s” Chicago show in 99’, was being chewed up by that Machine.
People change, we all do. It’s just hard to see friends getting stuck in the ruts, especially when you just break free from one yourself and now have the momentum and blind fervor of a man on a mission. I never thought he was a failure; he was just stuck in a rut.
We chatted only two or three weeks ago over Facebook. I was unveiling my plans for my custom distressed textiles to him. We made small talk, and then concluded that we needed to hang out soon. That was it. That was the last communication I had with him. A little bud in what might be a rekindling of an old root system. Just like that, the bud turns to ash, with nothing left but an old and extensive roots of personal history.
After the wake and funeral, I now find myself sitting here with the same mixed bag of feelings. I’ve learned to not try and reason with that which cannot be defined, so I wait, letting things out as they must. Grief spasms, anger ruptures, morose stares. Let it all hang out. This is much more comforting than waiting in line at the polling center.
If you still think it was wrong of me to proclaim that MY vote didn’t matter, then you’ve missed the whole point, and you are a very faithful parishioner. I want to thank all of my friends who helped me over the weekend, and to all those who still made sure to get their vote in as well. I have to also thank the Electoral College’s stupid rules for allowing me to justify my argument. I actually don’t support the system, but tonight is not for banter like that.
Tonight I sit alone, and hope.
I call my brother back. “What happened?”
And that was it. That was the moment my friend Eric died.
He actually died around 9pm the night before, but in the universe inside my head, he was still alive until I got that phone call. Confusion, tears, sobs and a lot of pacing back and forth took place. I was already running late for work. With the proper medicine, I was able to turn into a cubicle zombie who moaned his way to the end of the day.
By Saturday I learned that the wake would take place on Monday, followed by the funeral Tuesday. To accommodate this with my work schedule, I ended up spending the day as a zombie again all alone in my cube on Sunday.
On Monday, I went to work early in order to make it back home for the wake and I would then take the day off Tuesday. My associates expressed their sympathies, but equally if not more fervently, their concern that I get back in time to vote.
Vote? “You think I’m actually worried about voting right now?” Brow furrowed, blood boiled, muscles tensed. It finally became apparent, like some omnipresent force that lurked in the shadows this whole time, and I’ve only now found the right pair of eyes to see it; The Church of Politics.
I’ve never heard of it before, and this was the first term that came to mind, but I’m sure it’s been written about before. All of my original ideas have been pondered and discussed at length by old dusty dead men hundreds and even thousands of years before me. This I’ve humbly accepted. But a quick Google search only brings up articles talking about religion and politics as separate entities, but I did find this excerpt from a discussion forum that is close to what I am hinting at: “Religion and political leadership are so intertwined across eras and cultures because they are about the same thing: performing the miracle of converting unrelated individuals into a group.”
Everyone has become a member of The Church of Politics. You belong to a party, which is like your church, and you stay with that church for the rest of your life. Why? Well because your parents belonged to that church, or maybe it’s because it’s because your parents were Catholic and you’ve now joined a Protestant church in order to differentiate yourself from them. Then of course, if one church has been really popular with the townspeople for some time, they may start to get comfortable and kick up their feet. This leads to sermons that begin to lack in the substance and inspiration that should be feeding the core beliefs of their constituents, who are now in dire need of spiritual guidance (like good social policies). Well if the church in power sits on its ass too long, then those independent parishioners will flock to another church.
The funny thing about these different Churches is that they all belong to the same religion, The Church of Politics, so they all celebrate their biggest holiday every four years on the first Tuesday of November; The Presidential vote. If you don’t vote, it’s as if you skipped Christmas Mass. Straight to HELL!
After many hours of agitated thinking and pondering this discovery, I realized that blasphemy was the only course of action. I was not going to vote, because MY vote didn’t matter.
I realize all the bile and venom this must regurgitate in my readers, friends and peers, but hear me out.
We do not vote for the President and Vice President when we go to the polls, we vote for electors in the Electoral College. According to Wikipedia; “Rather than directly voting for the President and Vice President, United States citizens cast votes for electors. Electors are technically free to vote for anyone eligible to be President, but in practice pledge to vote for specific candidates and voters cast ballots for favored presidential and vice presidential candidates by voting for correspondingly pledged electors … the ticket that receives the most votes statewide 'wins' all of the votes cast by electors from that state.” So by the rules of the Electoral College, since most of Wisconsin (definitely Madison) will be going for Obama, he will get all of our electoral votes. The national populace vote doesn’t count here people; don’t you remember how Bush fucked us in 2000?
Now this is not some sort of nihilistic statement to “screw the system”. I would have just voted for McKain, or Nader if I wanted to be an asshole like that. I just did the math. Obama has more than enough support to take all the electoral votes in our state, without MY vote. I stress the “my” because this is not some argument that ALL voting doesn’t count. I’m thankful that Obama had enough support in this state. If it was a really tight race like 2004, I would have felt more obliged to make a difference, but that pressure just wasn’t there. It was just that “Vote or Die” mentality that seems to have brainwashed everyone around me. I somehow snapped out of it.
One of my best friends since middle school wrapped his car around a telephone pole. What makes things even more confusing is that our friendship became distant after he returned from Iraq. He was in Platteville and I was in Madison, this is true, but he was a different guy from the one I grew up with. I watched from a distance, a very slow decline in who this person was to me. I was making horrible life choices on my own while stories would trickle up from friends about him essentially giving up on life. My friend who shared an on stage seat with me for “Rage Against The Machine’s” Chicago show in 99’, was being chewed up by that Machine.
People change, we all do. It’s just hard to see friends getting stuck in the ruts, especially when you just break free from one yourself and now have the momentum and blind fervor of a man on a mission. I never thought he was a failure; he was just stuck in a rut.
We chatted only two or three weeks ago over Facebook. I was unveiling my plans for my custom distressed textiles to him. We made small talk, and then concluded that we needed to hang out soon. That was it. That was the last communication I had with him. A little bud in what might be a rekindling of an old root system. Just like that, the bud turns to ash, with nothing left but an old and extensive roots of personal history.
After the wake and funeral, I now find myself sitting here with the same mixed bag of feelings. I’ve learned to not try and reason with that which cannot be defined, so I wait, letting things out as they must. Grief spasms, anger ruptures, morose stares. Let it all hang out. This is much more comforting than waiting in line at the polling center.
If you still think it was wrong of me to proclaim that MY vote didn’t matter, then you’ve missed the whole point, and you are a very faithful parishioner. I want to thank all of my friends who helped me over the weekend, and to all those who still made sure to get their vote in as well. I have to also thank the Electoral College’s stupid rules for allowing me to justify my argument. I actually don’t support the system, but tonight is not for banter like that.
Tonight I sit alone, and hope.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
All Hail the King of the Hipsters
Knees were weak and I was already getting pugnacious with a cute butch over the coffee pitcher. Just another Sunday morning, paying others to cook food that is no better than what your lazy entitled ass could have done in your own kitchen. But fuck it, this is America, and we’ve learned how to not be so hard on ourselves.
After eating like a starving raccoon, I steered our conversation in the direction of an interesting article I recently read, titled; “Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization”
To quickly sum up this article, I’d say: Hipsters are kids who hate everyone for being just like them (this happens in all scenes). But, the Hipster is the first “counter culture” that will not acknowledge themselves. The word Hipster is only used with disdain or in a self-deprecating manor. They will deny belonging to such a group, but at the same time wearing clearly stereotypical fashion elements of a Hipster. This “counter-culture” is a dead end because the Hipster’s “self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution.”
This article raises a lot of great points, and I started conjuring up my own questions: How long can you define yourself by somebody else’s art? Is tattoo removal the new rebellious thing to do? Cause, it’s definitely no-longer rebellious to get them. How long can you go out on the scene dressed like an ironic jack-ass, before you eventually become that jack-ass? Did our parents really raise us to put fashion over food? Whatever happened to color-coordination? Why isn’t it cool to be a Hipster?
Wait a minute. Oh shit I can see it now. If nobody wants to be a Hipster, then why couldn’t I be “King of the Hipsters”? It’s perfect. Here is this group of people that could be doing something more creative than taking terabytes of crappy digital pictures of each other, but no one will stand up and take the reins. I could take the crown unchallenged. Who would dare fight me?
The kicker here is that your true hipsters would never join me. They’d scoff and have another cigarette and scoff/cough some more, inside secretly despising me and this burst of brilliance.
I may not have the best credentials for the job. I actually grew up on a farm. I’ve been a part of the working class. I have true Hill-Billy in my blood. My parents haven’t paid for anything since high school. And I can’t stand those shitty sunglasses, or those fucking bandannas (Go rob a train!).
Jesus, calm down. You’ll never win over the constituent if you belittle them like that. Maybe these stray cats could be herded with high voltage cattle prods and a trail of cheap sunglasses. What would I do with such a following??
Hold on. Back up the tape.
If the true hipsters would never join me, then how could I be the true King of the Hipsters? There is a paradox here. If one of the core elements of being a true hipster requires that you cannot acknowledge that you are a hipster, but then you are in fact a true hipster. So if I claim to be the King of the Hipsters, would I no longer be a TRUE hipster? Would anyone that follows me as king, just be a hipster poser? Would there be some horrible rip in fashion-space-time continuum that gives everyone terrible haircuts from the 80s and pubic hair from the 50’s? Messing around with paradoxes can bring all sorts of trouble. Trouble I don’t need with a hangover like this.
Wait, I see the angle now. This is like a tax loophole. Sure, by proclaiming to be King of the Hipsters, you automatically are exempt from being judged as a true hipster by the powers that be. At the same time, you can continue doing the hipster clichés you enjoy, since you publically and proudly carry yourself as King of the Hipsters. That’s the American spirit!
So that means I can still upload party pictures to Facebook and expand my social network with the patriotic mentality of quantity over quality. Yes, I can keep adding more friends, whose last names I never knew anyway. So much to do and so little time, I better get to work.
Right … just a minute. I haven’t checked MySpace in a week.
After eating like a starving raccoon, I steered our conversation in the direction of an interesting article I recently read, titled; “Hipster: The Dead End of Western Civilization”
To quickly sum up this article, I’d say: Hipsters are kids who hate everyone for being just like them (this happens in all scenes). But, the Hipster is the first “counter culture” that will not acknowledge themselves. The word Hipster is only used with disdain or in a self-deprecating manor. They will deny belonging to such a group, but at the same time wearing clearly stereotypical fashion elements of a Hipster. This “counter-culture” is a dead end because the Hipster’s “self-involved and isolated maintenance does nothing to feed cultural evolution.”
This article raises a lot of great points, and I started conjuring up my own questions: How long can you define yourself by somebody else’s art? Is tattoo removal the new rebellious thing to do? Cause, it’s definitely no-longer rebellious to get them. How long can you go out on the scene dressed like an ironic jack-ass, before you eventually become that jack-ass? Did our parents really raise us to put fashion over food? Whatever happened to color-coordination? Why isn’t it cool to be a Hipster?
Wait a minute. Oh shit I can see it now. If nobody wants to be a Hipster, then why couldn’t I be “King of the Hipsters”? It’s perfect. Here is this group of people that could be doing something more creative than taking terabytes of crappy digital pictures of each other, but no one will stand up and take the reins. I could take the crown unchallenged. Who would dare fight me?
The kicker here is that your true hipsters would never join me. They’d scoff and have another cigarette and scoff/cough some more, inside secretly despising me and this burst of brilliance.
I may not have the best credentials for the job. I actually grew up on a farm. I’ve been a part of the working class. I have true Hill-Billy in my blood. My parents haven’t paid for anything since high school. And I can’t stand those shitty sunglasses, or those fucking bandannas (Go rob a train!).
Jesus, calm down. You’ll never win over the constituent if you belittle them like that. Maybe these stray cats could be herded with high voltage cattle prods and a trail of cheap sunglasses. What would I do with such a following??
Hold on. Back up the tape.
If the true hipsters would never join me, then how could I be the true King of the Hipsters? There is a paradox here. If one of the core elements of being a true hipster requires that you cannot acknowledge that you are a hipster, but then you are in fact a true hipster. So if I claim to be the King of the Hipsters, would I no longer be a TRUE hipster? Would anyone that follows me as king, just be a hipster poser? Would there be some horrible rip in fashion-space-time continuum that gives everyone terrible haircuts from the 80s and pubic hair from the 50’s? Messing around with paradoxes can bring all sorts of trouble. Trouble I don’t need with a hangover like this.
Wait, I see the angle now. This is like a tax loophole. Sure, by proclaiming to be King of the Hipsters, you automatically are exempt from being judged as a true hipster by the powers that be. At the same time, you can continue doing the hipster clichés you enjoy, since you publically and proudly carry yourself as King of the Hipsters. That’s the American spirit!
So that means I can still upload party pictures to Facebook and expand my social network with the patriotic mentality of quantity over quality. Yes, I can keep adding more friends, whose last names I never knew anyway. So much to do and so little time, I better get to work.
Right … just a minute. I haven’t checked MySpace in a week.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Old Man Logic needs to shut his mouth, and go watch Wheel of Fortune!
The following is a selected excerpt from my correspondence.
Ah, the ever familiar battle between the Head and the Heart. Old Man Logic and the beast called Emotion. Like Palestine and Israel, it will never end. This sounds like a thick pill to swallow, but there are hopeful options: Peace Treaties.
I'm starting to learn that neither side is good or bad, wrong or right. But, the two of them both reside in this head of mine, and they have to learn to work together before they end up killing each other and possibly my body as a whole.
After my divorce, I think I became a bit afraid of how strong my emotions were for someone who constantly shat on my self esteem. After about a year on group therapy, I finally started to feel like I was figuring it all out. Essentially I didn't trust those rotton emotions, and I would start to rely on Old Man Logic to guide my decisions. Well that's all fine and dandy until that Goddamn bastard LOVE jumps on your back after a couple months of dating and digging a lovely new lady friend.
LOVE starts to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, making you perform all kinds of inefficient subtleties for this other human being. Opening doors, back rubs, listening to stories about work drama, giving advice about work drama (then learning to never give advice about work drama ever again), small gifts when you are out of town, kisses on the top of the head, back scratching, spooning, prolonged gazes, fingers through hair, notes on windshields, surprise Chinese carryout, and buying an extra toothbrush. And hopefully the LOVE whispering in his/her ear will start telling them just as many inefficient subtleties that they Must perform for you.
None of these things are logical, if you think about it. There is no reason to run my fingers through the back on my girlfriend's hair while she is driving, or rubbing her knee for a brief moment while I futz with the radio. But, I feel compelled to do these things from time to time. I'm not doing this because I'm clingy, but I also don't do it because I feel obligated to. I just feel it. It feels good to convey that emotional bond and connection with another human being. I can't explain it with cold logic, because it just seems absurd when you really try.
Take for instance the scientific view that we mate and pair up as a way to best raise our future generations of children with the support of a family system and local community. Sure, these seem like logical reasons to explain why we form intimate relationships with others, and some people may actually take some of these things into consideration when choosing a mate. But this is not LOVE!
LOVE is stupid, chipper, whimsical, electric, smitten, chaotic, engrossing, magnetic, and other adjectives as well. It's an emotion, and we can't waste too much time trying to explain it with a mortal's logic.
So it's just an emotion, but we both know how strong those little bastards can be at times. Instead of fighting with the emotion, just acknowledge it. In a way, this disarms the ticking time bomb. If you start to feel yourself slipping, just say to yourself, "Oh, yeah that's depression creeping in. What up depression? Make yourself at home." Go to your room, or do whatever you like to do when you are sad. Fully embrace the melancholy, the grief, the sorrow, the pain, and just let the tears fall where they may.
This may be a bit intense the first couple times. I cried a lot my first time. I cried, and cried, and cried some more. Probably some old tears that were never fully ringed out from years ago. I just, let go. The key for this to be effective, is that you have to ignore logic, because it is anything but. You can't beat yourself up. You have to learn, to enjoy crying.
Once we stop trying to always apply logic to explain emotion, then we can deal with the two of them as different camps that will never understand one another. But they can help each other, so long as they both stop trying to jokey for position in a race to the Final Answer, which we never end up getting to in the end anyway (but that's a whole other rant).
Ah, the ever familiar battle between the Head and the Heart. Old Man Logic and the beast called Emotion. Like Palestine and Israel, it will never end. This sounds like a thick pill to swallow, but there are hopeful options: Peace Treaties.
I'm starting to learn that neither side is good or bad, wrong or right. But, the two of them both reside in this head of mine, and they have to learn to work together before they end up killing each other and possibly my body as a whole.
After my divorce, I think I became a bit afraid of how strong my emotions were for someone who constantly shat on my self esteem. After about a year on group therapy, I finally started to feel like I was figuring it all out. Essentially I didn't trust those rotton emotions, and I would start to rely on Old Man Logic to guide my decisions. Well that's all fine and dandy until that Goddamn bastard LOVE jumps on your back after a couple months of dating and digging a lovely new lady friend.
LOVE starts to whisper sweet nothings in your ear, making you perform all kinds of inefficient subtleties for this other human being. Opening doors, back rubs, listening to stories about work drama, giving advice about work drama (then learning to never give advice about work drama ever again), small gifts when you are out of town, kisses on the top of the head, back scratching, spooning, prolonged gazes, fingers through hair, notes on windshields, surprise Chinese carryout, and buying an extra toothbrush. And hopefully the LOVE whispering in his/her ear will start telling them just as many inefficient subtleties that they Must perform for you.
None of these things are logical, if you think about it. There is no reason to run my fingers through the back on my girlfriend's hair while she is driving, or rubbing her knee for a brief moment while I futz with the radio. But, I feel compelled to do these things from time to time. I'm not doing this because I'm clingy, but I also don't do it because I feel obligated to. I just feel it. It feels good to convey that emotional bond and connection with another human being. I can't explain it with cold logic, because it just seems absurd when you really try.
Take for instance the scientific view that we mate and pair up as a way to best raise our future generations of children with the support of a family system and local community. Sure, these seem like logical reasons to explain why we form intimate relationships with others, and some people may actually take some of these things into consideration when choosing a mate. But this is not LOVE!
LOVE is stupid, chipper, whimsical, electric, smitten, chaotic, engrossing, magnetic, and other adjectives as well. It's an emotion, and we can't waste too much time trying to explain it with a mortal's logic.
So it's just an emotion, but we both know how strong those little bastards can be at times. Instead of fighting with the emotion, just acknowledge it. In a way, this disarms the ticking time bomb. If you start to feel yourself slipping, just say to yourself, "Oh, yeah that's depression creeping in. What up depression? Make yourself at home." Go to your room, or do whatever you like to do when you are sad. Fully embrace the melancholy, the grief, the sorrow, the pain, and just let the tears fall where they may.
This may be a bit intense the first couple times. I cried a lot my first time. I cried, and cried, and cried some more. Probably some old tears that were never fully ringed out from years ago. I just, let go. The key for this to be effective, is that you have to ignore logic, because it is anything but. You can't beat yourself up. You have to learn, to enjoy crying.
Once we stop trying to always apply logic to explain emotion, then we can deal with the two of them as different camps that will never understand one another. But they can help each other, so long as they both stop trying to jokey for position in a race to the Final Answer, which we never end up getting to in the end anyway (but that's a whole other rant).
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Keep Pushing
The following is selected excerpt from my correspondence.
I was raised a Protestant. But, in the third grade my Father had a scandalous affair with another married woman in our little piss ass town of 700 people. He left my mother and married this woman, and they lived together in that little town.
Every other Sunday they took us to church, made us sing solos about Snow White Doves and the Sweet Baby Jesus, and put a dollar in the collection plate. A splendid little show for the town's people. They all KNEW what had happened.
It was just this open festering wound that my Father and Step-Mother tried to heal with the bandage of GOD. Finally at some point in my teenage years, They came to their senses and just stopped participating. After years of having two Sunday mornings a month robbed from me, my captors had succumbed to the ultimate weight of the Christian religion. GOD wasn't listening. GOD wasn't healing. After taking that bandage off, they finally let the fresh air of REALITY do it's work. While not painless, it usually brings rapid progress.
I consider myself a medium agnostic. agnostic should never be capitalized, because it has the insight to know it's no better than anything else. Personally, I find most religions to be silly and idealistic. Even the interesting ones, like Buddhism, have gone through a Californication (only the appealing sections are copied and pasted into a coffee table book for Barnes and Noble) of sorts.
Even though I cannot find a religion worth believing in, I will still not call myself an Athiest. No. They are the ones who will end up stuck in that black hole of Absurdity that pulls so strong. It pulls me too, but like Sisyphus I keep pushing that weight. I have to madly laugh with glee as I keep pushing till that rock falls down the other side of a new mountain.
I find myself captivated with fact that for all the genius brains and the shared knowledge of our time, we still can't figure out what happened in that split second right after the Big Bang. Math and Science just lock up like dragsters pushed to their limits. That is beautiful.
Now if those weasel scientist ever come to the last thing, that last piece of the puzzle to connect quantum mechanics and general relativity, what will we do then? Will everything unravel, or will we actually see the end of every future action taken? Can man continue reading if he knows the last chapter? That may be the singularity in the black hole of Absurdity. The point where the only escape from Hell is to take the pills, pull the trigger, slit the vein, make the leap. That is scary.
Enough about my beliefs. Yours sound a little deeper rooted. I can't just tell you not to be ashamed of your hormones, but I can tell you that ignoring them will only cause more conflict between biology and reason.
As far as "Fucking the College Education", it's not completely worthless. You just have to accept that it amounts to a piece of paper that helps get your foot in the door. This country is run by idiots with college degrees in "something or another!" You just have to be ready to fight and claw and push and kill your way to the top. IF, that is really where you want to go? We were all raised to believe we could be anything if we just put our minds to it, but they didn't tell us we would need to sacrifice our hearts and souls as well.
Keep writing. Keep asking. Keep pushing. That's all you can do in order to escape the harsh reality that swallows our friends and family day by day.
I was raised a Protestant. But, in the third grade my Father had a scandalous affair with another married woman in our little piss ass town of 700 people. He left my mother and married this woman, and they lived together in that little town.
Every other Sunday they took us to church, made us sing solos about Snow White Doves and the Sweet Baby Jesus, and put a dollar in the collection plate. A splendid little show for the town's people. They all KNEW what had happened.
It was just this open festering wound that my Father and Step-Mother tried to heal with the bandage of GOD. Finally at some point in my teenage years, They came to their senses and just stopped participating. After years of having two Sunday mornings a month robbed from me, my captors had succumbed to the ultimate weight of the Christian religion. GOD wasn't listening. GOD wasn't healing. After taking that bandage off, they finally let the fresh air of REALITY do it's work. While not painless, it usually brings rapid progress.
I consider myself a medium agnostic. agnostic should never be capitalized, because it has the insight to know it's no better than anything else. Personally, I find most religions to be silly and idealistic. Even the interesting ones, like Buddhism, have gone through a Californication (only the appealing sections are copied and pasted into a coffee table book for Barnes and Noble) of sorts.
Even though I cannot find a religion worth believing in, I will still not call myself an Athiest. No. They are the ones who will end up stuck in that black hole of Absurdity that pulls so strong. It pulls me too, but like Sisyphus I keep pushing that weight. I have to madly laugh with glee as I keep pushing till that rock falls down the other side of a new mountain.
I find myself captivated with fact that for all the genius brains and the shared knowledge of our time, we still can't figure out what happened in that split second right after the Big Bang. Math and Science just lock up like dragsters pushed to their limits. That is beautiful.
Now if those weasel scientist ever come to the last thing, that last piece of the puzzle to connect quantum mechanics and general relativity, what will we do then? Will everything unravel, or will we actually see the end of every future action taken? Can man continue reading if he knows the last chapter? That may be the singularity in the black hole of Absurdity. The point where the only escape from Hell is to take the pills, pull the trigger, slit the vein, make the leap. That is scary.
Enough about my beliefs. Yours sound a little deeper rooted. I can't just tell you not to be ashamed of your hormones, but I can tell you that ignoring them will only cause more conflict between biology and reason.
As far as "Fucking the College Education", it's not completely worthless. You just have to accept that it amounts to a piece of paper that helps get your foot in the door. This country is run by idiots with college degrees in "something or another!" You just have to be ready to fight and claw and push and kill your way to the top. IF, that is really where you want to go? We were all raised to believe we could be anything if we just put our minds to it, but they didn't tell us we would need to sacrifice our hearts and souls as well.
Keep writing. Keep asking. Keep pushing. That's all you can do in order to escape the harsh reality that swallows our friends and family day by day.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
Tighter than you could possibly imagine.
Imagine:
A very large star in distant space.
As the star grows in size over the eons
it becomes harder and harder
for its rays of light to leave
the increasing pull of it's own
gravity.
The arches of light beams get tighter
and tighter.
Eventually gravity is so strong,
that all light becomes trapped
in around its atmosphere.
Think of it as an aura of light
around the entire sun,
but it couldn't be seen from any outside observer.
For none of it is able to leave the sun's grip.
Then gravity will cross that point
where all light starts to be sucked back
into the star.
The star is now SO heavy
that its own gravity is
pulling all of it's matter in upon
itself.
Matter
Light
Energy
All compacted in and crushed,
imploded.
Stuffed down by forces beyond
the reversal of any creator.
ALL of it,
crammed down to what scientist call
a singularity.
A singularity.
The mathematical representation
of a black hole.
A very large star in distant space.
As the star grows in size over the eons
it becomes harder and harder
for its rays of light to leave
the increasing pull of it's own
gravity.
The arches of light beams get tighter
and tighter.
Eventually gravity is so strong,
that all light becomes trapped
in around its atmosphere.
Think of it as an aura of light
around the entire sun,
but it couldn't be seen from any outside observer.
For none of it is able to leave the sun's grip.
Then gravity will cross that point
where all light starts to be sucked back
into the star.
The star is now SO heavy
that its own gravity is
pulling all of it's matter in upon
itself.
Matter
Light
Energy
All compacted in and crushed,
imploded.
Stuffed down by forces beyond
the reversal of any creator.
ALL of it,
crammed down to what scientist call
a singularity.
A singularity.
The mathematical representation
of a black hole.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Put this on the Corporate tab
With the past week being nothing but a pollen barrage on my respiratory system, I didn’t wake up that Saturday morning with any ambitious plans on the top of my list. No. I only found myself waking up and feeling as if I was some 65 year old vagrant who swallowed his Swisher Sweet after passing out on a park bench. After numerous bouts of flailing, twisting, turning and other bed acrobatics, I finally submitted to the fact that I was not going to fall back asleep. Not with this pounding headache, stuffed sinus, and constricted bronchial.
I stumbled from room to room, and pill to pill, until I was sure there was nothing else that could be done but to turn into the “piece of shit” that I now felt like: Just another Saturday, pissed away until about 1pm to 5pm, until my sum-bitch of a conscious gives me a swift kick in the ass with guilt. Guilt that doesn’t get very far when you have no plans laid out in the first place. So, I sat there for a moment in the kitchen waiting for some spark of inspiration to cut through the fog.
Instead, everything was cut by the jingle of my phone. After bearing the burden of an unbalanced trip back to my room, I managed to catch Cindy’s call (Cindy is just a pseudonym to protect innocent bystanders from any collateral damage my actions may bring about).
“You ready for the SoCo Music Experience?”
I’ve had enough experiences in the 30 minutes I’ve been up! I couldn’t help but thinking. “Oh shit Cindy, I forgot! Listen, I’m feeling like crap right now. My allergies are killing me! No, I tried the local honey, it only made me long for graham crackers. Okay. Yeah. Get outta town. Yadda, Yadda! Well I’ll call you a little later and let you know if I feel any better. Later!”
Fast-forward the tape to 5:30-6pm.
Adjust tracking. Recording quality may not be reliable.
After the aid of many chemical compounds pumping through my blood stream, I found myself following Cindy and her friends on a reckless bike ride to the Allient Energy Center. After hastily securing our metal steeds to the chain link fence, we followed the masses towards the entrance. Cindy’s friend Linda found herself pressured by the weight of corporate information gathering, and was held up while they scanned her drivers license to; “Take your First and Last name.” Mitch and I both harangued her about giving up her information to “the Man”, and we both agreed that “the Man” already had enough on the both of us.
There was a flood of Déjà vu on all senses. This feels just like the Grant County Fair, minus the rides of course. Over priced food. Long beer lines. Weirdos comfortable in they own natural mannerisms. Hell, they even went right down to the wood chips on the ground. But once I saw the huge group playing bean bags, the fear crept in.
They’re stealing my culture!
Being 100% German, so far as I know, I often felt as though I have no cultural roots with my German ancestors; other than a taste for hard liquor and beer. But many cultures have the taste for libations. I always wished we gave out steins for Christmas, or maybe my grandmother would pass down her secret recipe for bratwurst. Nope, none of that when I was growing up. However, recently I’ve started to realize that I do have a culture, and while much of it I reviled after leaving my little rural town for the pearly gates of Madison, I’m starting to accept the fact that there is much of it I really like!
I like spinning doughnuts in my pickup. I like sitting around a fire pit, swilling (insert cheap beer brand here), and looking up to a sky with no light pollution. I liked pretending I was Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer, and fishing out of Grandpa’s bottom land by the Grant River, using only worms, hooks, fishing line, and tree branches.
I like shooting. I like shooting a lot. It’s a hard lust to describe to my more liberal peers. There are few words that can describe the feeling of sending a 12 gauge slug ripping through your old “piece of shit” Lexmark printer that was recently replaced by a much better Epson: Shattered plastic and twisted metal fly in all directions, while your brothers hoot and holler behind you. Yes, that cursed printer represents all the petty/stupid little problems in your life that can’t be cured with a pill or a different shitty job. The only easily accessible reference I can give to most is the scene from “Office Space” where they smash the fax machine with a baseball bat in slow motion, while “Die MotherFucker” by the Geto Boys plays in the background. Yeah, that about sums it up.
But Bean Bags! That’s a game I take some pride in knowing the full set of rules for. Shit, someone was doing their homework here. I found it hard to believe the people pulling the strings for SoCo could pull this off in any other city. The Brown-Forman Corporation (headquartered in Louisville, Kentucky and the purveyor of many other overhyped brands such as; Jack Daniel's, Canadian Mist and Early Times Kentucky Whisky) must have sent their weasels into my state long ago. They’ve studied our habits and took many notes.
I ran into many familiar faces, and carried many nonsensical conversations. Most of which were spit into the SquaWkBox. They have yet to be transcribed from the raw audio, so I’m writing this in the warm mist of the “day after recollection”. At this point I can only comment on the experience as a whole.
The Black Keys and The Roots were great, and they were really the only bands I was interested in seeing. I’m not a music critic, and I can’t conjure up any obscure references that would make me feel superior to my four weekly readers. So take my word for it, if you were in my shoes and my skewed frame of mind, the show was Fuckin’ Great!
So I find myself, this quiet Sunday morning pondering how I’m supposed to reflect upon the event.
My piss-ant high school punk rock ethos would instruct me to spit bile all over the fact that some big corporation (whose name had to be looked up on Wikipedia) was orchestrating this well oiled marketing machine. It seemed like some sorry low-rent Woodstock meets the county fair with a bloated marketing budget. Yes, part of me was raised and molded by some great (and some not so great) bands that would have poured gasoline and set the fucker ablaze by now.
No, no, you idealistic moron, don’t you realize how much fun you were having? Yes, I had a blast. I sang and danced and my heart was full of joy! If only Nickelback had headlined, it would be so much easier to cut this event down to something the masses could digest. But these cash-cows sent out there weasel henchmen to infiltrate my culture and musical taste. Then, to top it off, they toss the whole event “free of charge”; which means you can buy three or four of their overpriced drinks and still come out feeling like a winner.
Okay, okay, I admit it … they put on a pretty great little carnival, even if it is on a corporate bankroll. AND, because I had such a great time, which stirred up the conflicting thoughts presented before you, and then prompted me to waste the day on this keyboard; will I always think of Southern Comfort when I recall that show? I mean, hell, I can’t change the name. It’s the “SoCo Music Experience”! That’s true, but I guess I don’t feel any urge to run down to Star Liquor and buy a liter at the moment. I have enough Citadel as it is.
Maybe I’ll just make another drink and sit on the back porch. Softly chuckling to myself over what a good time I had for only one $6 beer the night before. Yeah … I only did buy one of their drinks … suckers!
I stumbled from room to room, and pill to pill, until I was sure there was nothing else that could be done but to turn into the “piece of shit” that I now felt like: Just another Saturday, pissed away until about 1pm to 5pm, until my sum-bitch of a conscious gives me a swift kick in the ass with guilt. Guilt that doesn’t get very far when you have no plans laid out in the first place. So, I sat there for a moment in the kitchen waiting for some spark of inspiration to cut through the fog.
Instead, everything was cut by the jingle of my phone. After bearing the burden of an unbalanced trip back to my room, I managed to catch Cindy’s call (Cindy is just a pseudonym to protect innocent bystanders from any collateral damage my actions may bring about).
“You ready for the SoCo Music Experience?”
I’ve had enough experiences in the 30 minutes I’ve been up! I couldn’t help but thinking. “Oh shit Cindy, I forgot! Listen, I’m feeling like crap right now. My allergies are killing me! No, I tried the local honey, it only made me long for graham crackers. Okay. Yeah. Get outta town. Yadda, Yadda! Well I’ll call you a little later and let you know if I feel any better. Later!”
Fast-forward the tape to 5:30-6pm.
Adjust tracking. Recording quality may not be reliable.
After the aid of many chemical compounds pumping through my blood stream, I found myself following Cindy and her friends on a reckless bike ride to the Allient Energy Center. After hastily securing our metal steeds to the chain link fence, we followed the masses towards the entrance. Cindy’s friend Linda found herself pressured by the weight of corporate information gathering, and was held up while they scanned her drivers license to; “Take your First and Last name.” Mitch and I both harangued her about giving up her information to “the Man”, and we both agreed that “the Man” already had enough on the both of us.
There was a flood of Déjà vu on all senses. This feels just like the Grant County Fair, minus the rides of course. Over priced food. Long beer lines. Weirdos comfortable in they own natural mannerisms. Hell, they even went right down to the wood chips on the ground. But once I saw the huge group playing bean bags, the fear crept in.
They’re stealing my culture!
Being 100% German, so far as I know, I often felt as though I have no cultural roots with my German ancestors; other than a taste for hard liquor and beer. But many cultures have the taste for libations. I always wished we gave out steins for Christmas, or maybe my grandmother would pass down her secret recipe for bratwurst. Nope, none of that when I was growing up. However, recently I’ve started to realize that I do have a culture, and while much of it I reviled after leaving my little rural town for the pearly gates of Madison, I’m starting to accept the fact that there is much of it I really like!
I like spinning doughnuts in my pickup. I like sitting around a fire pit, swilling (insert cheap beer brand here), and looking up to a sky with no light pollution. I liked pretending I was Huck Finn or Tom Sawyer, and fishing out of Grandpa’s bottom land by the Grant River, using only worms, hooks, fishing line, and tree branches.
I like shooting. I like shooting a lot. It’s a hard lust to describe to my more liberal peers. There are few words that can describe the feeling of sending a 12 gauge slug ripping through your old “piece of shit” Lexmark printer that was recently replaced by a much better Epson: Shattered plastic and twisted metal fly in all directions, while your brothers hoot and holler behind you. Yes, that cursed printer represents all the petty/stupid little problems in your life that can’t be cured with a pill or a different shitty job. The only easily accessible reference I can give to most is the scene from “Office Space” where they smash the fax machine with a baseball bat in slow motion, while “Die MotherFucker” by the Geto Boys plays in the background. Yeah, that about sums it up.
But Bean Bags! That’s a game I take some pride in knowing the full set of rules for. Shit, someone was doing their homework here. I found it hard to believe the people pulling the strings for SoCo could pull this off in any other city. The Brown-Forman Corporation (headquartered in Louisville, Kentucky and the purveyor of many other overhyped brands such as; Jack Daniel's, Canadian Mist and Early Times Kentucky Whisky) must have sent their weasels into my state long ago. They’ve studied our habits and took many notes.
I ran into many familiar faces, and carried many nonsensical conversations. Most of which were spit into the SquaWkBox. They have yet to be transcribed from the raw audio, so I’m writing this in the warm mist of the “day after recollection”. At this point I can only comment on the experience as a whole.
The Black Keys and The Roots were great, and they were really the only bands I was interested in seeing. I’m not a music critic, and I can’t conjure up any obscure references that would make me feel superior to my four weekly readers. So take my word for it, if you were in my shoes and my skewed frame of mind, the show was Fuckin’ Great!
So I find myself, this quiet Sunday morning pondering how I’m supposed to reflect upon the event.
My piss-ant high school punk rock ethos would instruct me to spit bile all over the fact that some big corporation (whose name had to be looked up on Wikipedia) was orchestrating this well oiled marketing machine. It seemed like some sorry low-rent Woodstock meets the county fair with a bloated marketing budget. Yes, part of me was raised and molded by some great (and some not so great) bands that would have poured gasoline and set the fucker ablaze by now.
No, no, you idealistic moron, don’t you realize how much fun you were having? Yes, I had a blast. I sang and danced and my heart was full of joy! If only Nickelback had headlined, it would be so much easier to cut this event down to something the masses could digest. But these cash-cows sent out there weasel henchmen to infiltrate my culture and musical taste. Then, to top it off, they toss the whole event “free of charge”; which means you can buy three or four of their overpriced drinks and still come out feeling like a winner.
Okay, okay, I admit it … they put on a pretty great little carnival, even if it is on a corporate bankroll. AND, because I had such a great time, which stirred up the conflicting thoughts presented before you, and then prompted me to waste the day on this keyboard; will I always think of Southern Comfort when I recall that show? I mean, hell, I can’t change the name. It’s the “SoCo Music Experience”! That’s true, but I guess I don’t feel any urge to run down to Star Liquor and buy a liter at the moment. I have enough Citadel as it is.
Maybe I’ll just make another drink and sit on the back porch. Softly chuckling to myself over what a good time I had for only one $6 beer the night before. Yeah … I only did buy one of their drinks … suckers!
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