The Evolving Revolution

May Fifth

2009-05-05T10:58:00.001-07:00

It never ceases to amaze the American public's desire to make any excuse to drink booze. I'm not sure when we did it, but we've successfully co-opted a Mexican holiday, making it our own in the name of Margarita drink specials. In fact, Cinco de Mayo is a much less significant date in Mexico, being celebrated with zeal in just one state south of the border. Beyond that, the day is little more than a date on the calendar there, a dog-ear in the history books. Certainly, they recognize it, but Mexicans aren't all atwitter the way that we are. And "we" hardly know what the hell the date signifies anyway.

We have a drinking problem. That's no secret. And we fully endorse weekday benders--in bars, on television, in newspaper headlines, everywhere--without seeing the irony. The ongoing drug apocolypse in Mexico is fueled, in large part, by Americans' other healthy appetite, that for drugs. And a largest portion still of that drug economy is the supply-and-demand of the good herb. Yet we admonish those who buy and sell drugs, deplore the degeneracy down south, and many legalization naysayers panic at the notion that pot could be a legal, regulated and taxable commodity. Still, those same anti-rationality rubes are more than willing to order a rocks-salt with little guilt.

That is, they unconsciously endorse something that is little more than a drinking holiday, a day that, until we make significant strides in immigration and its legalization, means pretty much nothing to Americans. They're endorsing alcoholism. They're certainly are endorsing a lethal enterprise with origins in Mexico, and it ain't drugs.

Let's face, it makes far more sense for pot to be legal than alcohol, from nearly every logical standpoint. But with the ubiquitous binge-drinking, coupled with a paranoid affliction to pot progress, the American bureaucracy is doing well in one area: murder. And all in the name of money. Changes to both behaviors would save a lot a folks. Seriously.

Step 65: Legalize pot. I said it. Astonishingly, this is far more popular a belief than many believe. The under-35 set, no matter the party lines, broadly agrees its silly not to legalize. We're not all stoners, we're just reasonable people. I'd go so far as to say make alcohol illegal, but prohibition clearly doesn't work, and I like whiskey. But advancing from a culture of booze would be a good thing. Unfortunately, altering the paradigm of an industry worth billions seems like a bad idea to them. Again, I see irony.

Piggies

2009-04-30T16:10:00.000-07:00

Have you seen the little piggies
Crawling in the dirt
And for all the little piggies
Life is getting worse

Every other headline and even more Facebook status updates suggest an ill wind is drifting through town. It's a flu. And it comes from pigs. Scare, scare, say the headlines. Har, har, read the status updates.

The media made a big deal of the bird flu, and the public, following suit, made jokes about it. And if you can name one person you know who got avian pox, please raise your hand? I don't see any hands. Oh, that's right, because you don't know anyone who got it. Stories aplenty came out of Asia at the time, but, in case you forgot, we don't live in Asia. And now there's this. A bit closer to home it has hit. Mexico, and sure, some places here in the States. But the wave of paranoia is absurd. It's not unlike fretting about the impending genocide in Kansas because of headlines out of Darfur.

But at least people have been dying there. What's the headcount of swine flu? Four? It's roughly as dangerous as walking down the street, and slightly less frightening than patting your head and rubbing your belly at the same time. It's the fucking flu. And it's the fucking flu that you're not going to get. And if after writing this, I get it? I'll put my foot in my mouth shortly after having survived, in two to three days, my bad cough.

But apparently, we're led to believe that we should be wearing masks sprinkled in tea-tree oil or eucalyptus. We're supposed to keep a first-aid kit near. We're supposed to have extra batteries for our flashlight. Because swine flu takes out power lines, too. It's gonna really suck when swine flu starts dropping nukes on us. Hope you have plenty of non-perishables stocked.

I guess my biggest problem is that the cause du jour is a cold, and I have to read about everyone worrying about it. Even they're jokes on Facebook is veiled anxiety. It's at the fore of their hourly functioning. The think, I'm gonna connect with people by talking about the flu, because its obviously a big enough think that everyone will understand what I'm getting at, and if everyone can understand what I'm getting at, then everyone knows about it. And if everyone knows about it, then everyone saw the story about the 2 year old who died yesterday because of swine flu, and maybe I'm a little scared that that 2 year old could be my neighbor's 2 year old, or my 2 year old and if it could be her 2 year old or my 2 year old, then it could be me, and if it could be me, then it could be anyone, which means it could be my Facebook friends and the headline writers at CNN. OMFG, I need some more batteries for more flashlight. TTYL.

Maybe what's most frightening is the revelation of swine flu. There wasn't enough evidence before, but the verdict is, and now we're finally and inextricably linked to pigs. Oink, oink.

Step 64: I'm not saying you shouldn't care about swine flu. I'm not saying you shouldn't feel sympathy toward the poor saps who've gotten. I'm just saying, ask yourself exactly what the fuck it is you're wasting so much energy on. Har har or horror, there's worse epidemics going on, always have been. Mostly, though, this latest display of dipshittery, particularly by the media and my Facebook friends, is unsettling.

The Oscars are Over

2009-02-22T21:15:00.000-08:00

If you'll notice, I did, as one commenter suggested, peter out. Trying to keep up with the second-by-second onslaught of ridiculous behavior was dizzying, and ole Y2 got hungry.

That said, some final thoughts:

Celebrities and actors are not your friends. You have no intimate relationship with them. If they cared about you as much as you care about them, they'd be high school guidance counselors, not actors. Keep that in mind next time you feel anything resembling anticipation when watching an awards show.

The awards that you take a piss during are as much responsible for you enjoying the film as was some narcissistic dip shit. In fact, it's those awards that feel the most honest, because the "big awards"--picture, director, actor, actress, etc. are not really "best," they're the most popular on the best team. Sean Penn is like Tim Tebow.

That said, Mickey Rourke woulda received my vote.

Hugh Jackman loves musicals.

2009-02-22T18:52:00.000-08:00

Congratulations are in order...

2009-02-22T18:36:00.000-08:00

For the nominees of the Scientific and Technical Awards. Translation: This is the best we can offer considering we don't give a shit about you.

But he is genius, Mr. Roboto.

2009-02-22T18:10:00.002-08:00

That guy doesn't look French.

2009-02-22T18:10:00.001-08:00

Jack Black doesn't...

2009-02-22T18:03:00.001-08:00

...bet his salary on Oscars, he spends it on mushrooms.

Jennifer Aniston is still hot.

Slumdog wins it's first Oscar...

2009-02-22T18:01:00.000-08:00

...and there are still slums in India.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button Sucked.

2009-02-22T17:59:00.000-08:00

David Lance Black wins an award.

2009-02-22T17:52:00.000-08:00

If you're not sure who he is, he wrote the script for "Milk," the story of the gay city councilman (or whatever) in SF. This just in: David Lance Black is also gay.

At least it's an original screenplay.

Penelope Cruz wins Best Supporting Actress

2009-02-22T17:47:00.001-08:00

And, shockingly, she's saying something in Spanish.

Who knew Tilda Swinton was an albino?

2009-02-22T17:44:00.001-08:00

Oscar Winner Montage

2009-02-22T17:40:00.000-08:00

I didn't realize this before, but apparently anorexic boys qualify for best supporting actress oscars. Oh, wait, no ... that's Tilda Swinton.

They're using cardboard props.

2009-02-22T17:34:00.000-08:00

Lots of emails about the cardboard props. Why are they using them? Well, ceremony organizers have told EvRev that they used the props to cut costs in the midst of a deepening economic crisis. "We thought it would be funny to underscore the opening sequence with a running joke about how poor people are becoming in this country," they told us. Boy, those guys really do care.

Total budget for the show: Just 51 cents.

It's Started!

2009-02-22T17:32:00.000-08:00

Hugh Jackman: "Clearly, this is the biggest movie event of the year. And I'm gay."

People Cheering in the Background.

2009-02-22T17:27:00.000-08:00

Which is amazing, because after the ceremony ends, they'll still be drowning in credit card debt and a twice-refinanced mortgage they can't pay.

Accountants in the House

2009-02-22T17:19:00.000-08:00

They look like robots. And for the record, it seems strange to hear a fashion expert commenting on accounts attire--their "ensemble pieces" and "accessories" and that they "strangely, make it work." Strange, because they're accountants. Normally they're wearing Rockports, black socks and khaki shorts.

RDJ...

2009-02-22T17:13:00.001-08:00

...has cocaine in his pocket.

The Oscars, apparently, are like Prom

2009-02-22T17:12:00.000-08:00

and Zack Effron jsut referred to someone as a "great kid." Can't wait till Zack dies.

Mickey Rourke...

2009-02-22T17:11:00.000-08:00

...has cocaine in his pocket.

Frank Langella

2009-02-22T17:04:00.000-08:00

Always struck me as a dick.

Josh Brolin is actually cool.

2009-02-22T17:02:00.000-08:00

But more importantly than whether he comes away with a statue, is that his wife is hot.

Kate Winslet is British.

2009-02-22T17:01:00.001-08:00

Oh.

Aerial View of Hollywood Blvd.

2009-02-22T17:00:00.000-08:00

If you look closely, there's a train of trannies hooking on Cahuenga.

Catching Up on the Red Carpet

2009-02-22T16:51:00.000-08:00

Dial Anti-Oxidant and Cranberry Body Wash is bringing you the red carpet show. Or, The Greatest Show on Earth is sponsored by Soap.

The red carpet festivities started an hour and a half ago, maybe more. So, to catch you up, here's what happened.

Ryan Seacrest welcomes you: "Here we are live at the Kodak Theater in Hollywood..." Translation, "I sound like an asexual cheesedick, and it's made me rich."

Also, bunch of people showed up in 40-pound outfits that will eventually be ripped off of them later tonight in a drunken, post-awards sexual rage. Two reasons for this: Celebration or depression.

Lastly, HUGE NEWS: Zack Effron is filming a movie where he plays a 17-year-old.

Live Blogging the Oscars

2009-02-22T16:46:00.000-08:00

You probably think the Academy Awards are a bloated, masturbatory glam fest, where the only films nominated are those with a big enough marketing budget to get them the nod. But don't be so cynical. The Academy Awards are the Alpha and Omega. If you're not watching, you could die.

On Spontaneity and Simply Not Giving a Shit Anymore (for the next five minutes)

2009-01-19T23:31:00.000-08:00

I was going to sit down here and write something. (I hate starting sentences with "I," but I always do it, even with this one.) Anyway, I was going to write something, but I'm not sure what I was going to write. Some inspired bullshit, which is to say, I wanted it to sound inspired, but it would actually be bullshit. I had the first three words all worked out in my head. "Listen, it said." Those were the three words. It was going to be some existential tripe about the arc of our lives. See. Bullshit. That's not to say something couldn't be written by someone somewhere about the arc of our lives that isn't existential tripe. It's really to say that whatever would've followed those three words would've sucked. It would have been unequivocally uninspired. Back in the day, whenever I posted something here, I had nary a concern about inspiration, mine or yours. I made references to genitals--male and female--as many times as I started sentences with "I." (Which, I think you're beginning to realize, is a lot. I can admit that.) I called this thing a revolution, but more than anything, I just put words on a page as they came. Sentences sometimes didn't make sense. Thoughts were often unclear or muddled. But they arrived spontaneously. I wasn't trying, see. Now, sometimes, I do. Maybe it's why some of these posts are pretentious word masturbation. Maybe it's why I only post once of month, if I'm lucky. Because, to be honest, I don't want to post here, really. I force it so my archives on the left sidebar provide a clean, continuous chronology without any hiccups, even if I did miss one month one time. (That's 100 percent the truth, too.) My posts then were better. Maybe some sound better now. But before, when I simply impulsively vomited onto the page, I posted more often, more people read, more people commented, and this thing was more. Now, I waste hundreds of words espousing the meaning of fucking life, with a step attached, when the reality is I'm 27 years old. And that means I don't really know shit. I think I try too much, is my point. Maybe we try to much. I used to think that the sad and terrifying existential fact was that no one was trying. We were all, for the most part, living a default actuality. We took the next steps that were immediately visible, and we weren't trying to maximize our possibilities. (I'm not talking about hard work here. Plenty of people sweat, bleed and tear their way through life, wearing the face of effort. I'm not talking about that. Trying and working hard are different.) I thought that we were coasting, hard work included--entering a school, a job, a relationship, a thought process that was simplest and least scary but might still arrive at the results we dreamed. Money, love, a lifetime supply of Charmin Plus with Aloe. And I thought that was the bane of existence. I thought that was limiting our potential. But maybe I don't think that anymore. Or at least, for the few minutes I'm tapping away feverishly at this pointless fucking keyboard tonight, I don't. Maybe our best efforts are our worst enemy. Maybe when we try, we operate less frequently and with less gusto. Maybe we should operate from the gut, perfection be damned. Guts don't guide without brains, mind you. My Brand New Philosophy doesn't tell me to act with intestinal fortitude and disregard my brain. But it says just let it happen--whatever it is--rather than forcing some thing to happen. That thing may have a sheen to it, like all the pretty fucking words on these pages over the last year or so, the simile abuse, the adjective-drunk paragraphs, the inane hyperbole, the stupid fucking points. They looked a lot better, but the product, in the end, was worse. It's not like I didn't have goals before. I had goals. And the irony is, when I wasn't trying, I was arriving at them so much more easily (traffic, user engagement, utter catharsis). How's that? So, not from this day forward, but for right now, I'm operating in auto-drive, perfection be damned. Because once I've idealized that thing--whatever that thing is--I make every effort not to fuck it up. And in doing so, I limit my possibilities. The same way I thought people did when they didn't try.

And you see? After all of that, without trying, only following some stream-of-consciousness thought diarrhea, I managed to actually write some inspired bullshit*, existential tripe, as it were. And I've just proved that My Brand New Philosophy holds water.

Fuck steps. Stop trying.

(Also, I just realized, just this very second after all of this was written, that this is my 100th post. A milestone was hit without even trying. Holy shit, My Brand New Philosophy's efficiency rating boggles the mind.)

Just a short one...

2008-12-09T16:56:00.000-08:00

A "quickie."

Some Things

2008-10-31T16:23:00.000-07:00

I read your comments on the last post. Yeah, I get it. Moving on, some things of which you should take note:

It's Halloween, but I'm not dressing up. But in the grand tradition of 21st century Halloween ridiculousness, I'll be sexy not dressing up. On that note, if you see a sexy anything this evening--a sexy witch, a sexy maid, a sexy lunch lady--tell them you can see their nipple, and then ask them what it feels like to be so emotionally dependent.

I have a radio show thing going on. It's kind of like a webcast, but it's also a radio show. I need to think of a name for it. Help me think of a name. (That means leaving a comment with a suggestion. You can make fun of me if you want to.)

On Tuesdays from 10 a.m.-12 p.m., go to Little Radio and listen, at work or at home, to my show that you may or may not have named.

With no concern for the debut of my radio show, the United States of America decided to hold a presidential election. That's fucked up. Still, since they're having it, just go ahead and vote. Even if it takes all day and prevents you from listening to my radio show, do it. Somethings are more important than impermanent jobs and nameless webcasts.

Keep in mind that I write a lot of stuff and a lot of other places. If you just want the Twisted Gospel of Joe, you can find it if you seek it out.

That is all. Thank you.

August is Ending

2008-08-29T17:39:00.001-07:00

That means September is in like two days. Which means October is a month away from that, and then follows November, but you all went to grade school, so you know that. I'm not entirely sure how time goes by so quickly. When I worked in an office, it--time--operated is such a manner. But when I started working from home, I figured things would slow up a bit--time, my head, the rate at which my bank account balance increased. Only the last one has so far proven to be true. Time goes by faster than ever, and my mind is constantly racing, something to do with the endless injection of caffeine coupled with the the slight anxiety I feel about what exactly I'm going to be working on from one week to the next. But this isn't a dear diary, so I'm not going to head down that road. In fact, I'm not too sure which road I'm heading down, with regard to this blog post, and other things, I suppose. I just started typing because it's August 29, it's a holiday weekend, and I knew that if I didn't put words down on this thing today, I wouldn't this month. I've done that twice before, and even though it seems like an insignificant thing, this blogging, not doing it for a whole month is something of a letdown. I mean, if you can't muster an extra 30 minutes a month to at least post something ridiculous, then what exactly can you drive yourself to do? Shit, I'm frighteningly close to diary douchery again. Again, this is just a sort of thing for me to get words down, so there's no real plan, and maybe that's why that diary shit is coming out. Though, I'm not in any sort of contemplative mood or anything, which makes me wonder why I'm using the word "I" so much. Normally, I'm talking about other things, like why Britney Spears is a train wreck/total whore (mutually exclusive items, to be sure). Once, I posted about finding an apartment, which I'm in the process of doing now, and when I posted that, it was because I stumbled across a Craigslist ad in which a man, presumably in his 40's or 50's, was searching for a woman, presumably in her 20's or younger, who would stay at his place, rent-free, in exchange for cleaning, cooking and probably some illicit shit, like posing as Dorothy with Toto for a photo shoot, with heavy concentration on the shoes, probably because this guy--a guy who would post an ad like that--gets off on looking at ruby red slippers. That's something I never really understood. Bestiality makes way more sense, and you don't even have to think about it that hard for it to do so. At least animals are living, breathing, hot-blooded (most of the time) things. I'm not implying that when I see a woman walking her pet goat--which could happen, in New Zealand, maybe--that I prefer the goat to the woman. I'm just saying that if I saw a goat walking a ruby red slipper, I may in fact, prefer the goat. Maybe you'd have to put a gun to my head to get me to admit that preference (even though I just did, sans gun), but it's a just a thing, really, and before you call me crazy, "Oh, that crazy Joe out in Califone," you take a gander at a goat, and then a slipper, and if you pick the slipper, you're one twisted person. Feel free to respond with your answer to that in the comments section, unless you're my mom. Because frankly, I'd prefer it if my mom didn't have any kind of preferences whatsoever about anything when it comes to that. Moving on, I just burned my hand on a small pizza that was cooking, and that sucked. They always offer you these cooking instructions for the ready-to-eat meals, and the cooking instructions always make the thing too hot. I don't know who they're fooling, really, but I for one am not looking for a home-cooked meal. I don't need the illusion that I pounded egg and flour and rolled the dough (if that's how you even make dough), and sliced the tomatoes, dried them (with the sun, apparently) over a period of time, crumbled the feta and pitted the olives. Fuck, I don't even like olives on my pizza. So, I don't get why Trader Joe's wants to convince me that I like olives by telling me to cook the pizza to a point where it feels "fresh out of the oven." When I make this kind of stuff, I want it to be warm and cooked, but I want it only to be warm enough that it's not cold, and not so hot that it prevents me from shoving the thing down my throat in less than two minutes. That's the irony, really. When you're making these frozen, prepared meals, you're typically doing so because you're pretty hungry, you want to eat, and neither you nor your stomach has the patience to make a real meal of food. So why in the hell do these cook times make so I have to wait an additional five to 10 minutes after cooking before I can eat the damn thing. If you factor oven pre-heat time, that's like 25-30 minutes. Now that I think about, I probably could have made my own dough in that time. Probably could even gone out back, milked my goat-friend walking the shoe for a gallon's worth and made my own fucking feta. Looks like goats are preferred to frozen pizza, too. On that note, I'm going to eat my pizza because I feel it's sufficiently cooled, never mind my frustration about having burned my palm on the top rack of the oven, dropping the pizza into the crevice between the oven and the oven down and smearing the melted cheese to the point that it looks like a gutted zombie from a shitty George Romero flick (not Night of the Living Dead, of course).

On that note--not the one from before, the other one--I'm going to eat. Since it's Friday, August 29, by the time anyone reads this, it will probably be closer to Sept. 15, at which point I may have an entirely different perspective on both frozen goods and goats, but I probably won't get around to posting it because I, for the life of me, can't muster 30 damn minutes to even let you know that much. But at least I don't have a shoe fetish.

Rock on with one sock on,
Youngling #2.

This is how beards do ...

2008-07-22T21:40:00.000-07:00

Radovan Karadzic was one of the world's most wanted men. Orchestrating what has been called the most pervasive ethnic cleansing and genocide since World War II, the former leader of the Bosnian Serbs during the Yugoslav Civil War in the mid-'90s has been on the run since 1997 after being indicted on two counts of war crimes. (That was a long sentence, I accept that.) He's been in "hiding" for quite some time, due to what many believed was a vast network of Serbian loyalists (of which, he had many). While that may be true, the fact is, he has been walking freely around the Serbian capital, even giving lectures on alternative medicines. How could he get away with this? Well, apparently, he was an amateur poet and former psychiatrist. Mash those two things together and medicinal hocus pocus doesn't seem that far out of reach. Oh, wait, you mean, how did he get away the hiding? Not the speeches? That's easy: An awesome beard. I hate to make light of an alleged mass murderer, but the fact is, a beard this special only comes along once every third blue moon. And check the hair pulled back in a ponytail to match. Abracadabra, and you have yourself a new age Serbian.

Anyway, he's been caught now. Which means, he's probably going to be executed. (Actually, I'm not sure what a war crimes tribunal sentences for genocide, but I'm sure it's not good.)

Yeah. That's the same guy.

Gorgeous Hipster Writing

2008-07-14T10:03:00.000-07:00

A couple of recent pet peeves:

1) There's a new "it" word in music writing these days: gorgeous. I guess it;s been used ad nauseum for quite awhile now. But I've been reading more music stuff as of late, and it the word jumps off the page ever time I see. A few days ago, I was reading a live show review about some obscure glam rock band. Their music was described as "gorgeously" constructed. Gorgeously. Simon and Garfunkel have gorgeous harmonies. That's gorgeous, if you were to be so bold as to toss out the term. I don't know if you've heard any glam rock lately, but while it can certainly be good, it's rarely something you'd call beautiful. It could be this lone writer, in all of her douchery, but it's not. It's a larger epidemic of desperate, shopworn riffing. If you're in a business, whether the business of music writing or the business of, well, business, you're accustomed to certain turns of phrase, jargon and idioms that seep into daily communication. The corpo-world is not stranger to absurdities like value add, value propositions, reaching out, low-hanging fuit, pinging me (or her or him), looping in and managing out, all which, if you're not already using them, should be used moving forward, of course. To me, words like gorgeous are like that. But I find it a more pathetic situation because writers are expected to wordsmiths. It doesn't mean that every thought they have is original. The further we progress--in anything--the harder it becomes to avoid derivation. But these wordsmiths are stealing words, not using their own. And they're doing so because they've read it dozens of times, and they think that's what people want to hear. It's likely not a conscious practice at this point, like our corpo-speak. It's so consuming and suffocating and infectious, that we're overcome by it. And then we lean on it. Because it requires too much of us to deviate from it. Of the nine people who currently read this barely updated blog*, I'm sure at least three of you--and I'm low balling--have used one of those aforementioned corpo-terms at least once in an email or conversation today. And it's only 10:30 a.m. on the West Coast. (I'm too frightened to speculate as to how many times you've heard or read it already). And already today, I've seen the word gorgeous to describe someone's sound. The saddest part is, "reaching out" or or the G word might be the most apt term in a given situation, but since it's been abused, it comes off an eyesore, a a face cringer and the thought that, "My god, this person is a douche."

2) I was going to say my second pet peeve was when hipsters write derisively about hipsterism. I was going to say to that it bothers me for a few reasons, beginning with a) the fact that it's essentially hipster to exclude yourself from hipsterism, b) that, at this point in 2008, it's a little tired to pick on the bunch and c) as a result, there's little, if anything, insightful to be said after years of ragging on them. I was going to say all of that, until I realized that would mean I was writing about hipsters. And that means I'm fucked.

Step 62: We're at a crossroads, collectively speaking. We're lazy and we're accommodating. We say what we think people want to hear, cognizant of pandering, until we've done it so often that we forget what we actually wanted to say to begin with. It happens with writers. It happens in business. It happens in politics. Our cultural conversation is starting to sound like a broken record. And I find that to be upsetting.

Step 63: Let's give up on the hipster bashing**. It's boring. Maybe that makes me a hipster, maybe it doesn't. But let's pick new battles, once that aren't so tired and easy. From there, refer back to Step 62.

*I missed June. It was the first month I've missed since Sept. 2006, and even then, I managed to post something on 9/30/06 that admitted I missed the month. Here's to the people who still check in once a month: Persian, Alli J, The Aquarium Drunkard, maybe Dave, Matty, Martin, Jane Donuts and my mom.
**I was guilty of hipster bashing as recently as last week, yesterday and this blog post. I realize that. Sorry for being so boring.

Signs of the Apocalypse

2008-05-07T13:07:00.000-07:00

An estimated 100,000 are feared dead in Myanmar after the weekend's devastating cyclone. If not apocalyptic enough, Al Gore thinks Cyclone Nargis is a consequence of global warming.

An earthquake of 6.8 magnitude shakes Tokyo.

In Indiana, a local dipshit had this to say about Barack Obama: "I can't stand him. He's Muslim. He's not even Pro-American as far as I'm concerned." A unique perspective or an all-too-common one? Needless to say, I'm encouraged.

Either to impress or belittle, a 28-year-old woman told me her SAT score at a bar. Not to be outdone, I informed her that I was an alternate for my little league all-star team when I was 10.

It's cold in May. Take that, Al Gore.

Step 61: Take a day off to enjoy yourself. And, should a bout of insecurity strike you, tell someone your GPA from spring semester, sophomore year.

Las Vegas Bachelor Party

2008-04-15T12:15:00.000-07:00

The end.

Step 60: What happens in Vegas, doesn't stay in Vegas--it's wiped from historical record.

Some Kind of Irony

2008-03-24T20:42:00.000-07:00

I had been meaning, for the last week, to read the transcript of Barack Obama's speech on race in America. I read all of the peripheral stories, and saw the quotes from his former pastor, The Reverend Jeremiah Wright. I had my own thoughts on the subject, but wanted, nonetheless, to see how Mr. Obama handled the situation.

His eloquence never ceases to amaze me, and I can see why it can frustrate political traditionalists. Whether he's saying nothing or he's saying everything, he's always saying something.

Still, what he said this time--no matter it's value--wasn't warranted, in my opinion. First, it's a response to his pastor. The leader of his church. And for whatever reason, we still have troubled tearing ourselves from that unwanted union: religion and politics. We tend to forget that the Rev. Wright was intended to be a spiritual adviser, not a political one. We also tend to forget that those comments were few and and good distance between. But we also tend to forget that Rev. Wright is right.

Maybe I wouldn't have used the language he used, as volatile and potentially divisive. But where do people think we're living these days? As united as we may be, this is still a very segregated country. Sure, it isn't marked with such clear lines as "Whites only" and college admissions, but it's there. Guess white people hate to be reminded of the fact that they get nervous walking past a black person. Guess white people hate to count their non-white friends and find out they total to zero. Guess white people, who may even try so hard to be open-minded and exist without judgment or stereotype, hate to see that try as they might, some of that still lingers there. It may not be hateful, but it's suspicious, unsure. It's even a little scared. It's a cat with a dog on one side and a river on the other. It's there.

So, I had that in mind when I was reading the transcript, finally, today. And my wonky touchpad mouse accidentally touch-clicked the "stumble" button on my toolbar. The page I was on was redirected to one of the millions of tagged pages marked by my preferences, checked categories, likes and dislikes. And the page redirected to a photo. The photo may be old, but it's representative, still. And I can't help but think this moment of serendipity, of wild circumstance, isn't that wild after all. Are the chances that slim? Or are they that precise.

This is the photo.

Step 59: It's there. Don't let it be there.

Paris Hilton Gets Yogi, U.S. Political Infastructure Breaks Down

2008-03-04T11:00:00.000-08:00

In the interest of full disclosure, let me say that I'm embarrassed at even having watched this CNN report. I suppose it's a report, anyway. If you haven't clicked on the link yet, then I'll warn you: This has nothing to do with elections, economic crises, wars or South American strife. It's about Paris Hilton (primarily). Apparently, she has a yogi now, like the Beatles and Luke Skywalker before her. Yogi in tow, she showed up at Urth Cafe in west Hollywood. It's a fairly hip coffee shop, if by "hip" I mean overt displays of utter douchebaggery are ubiquitous. Anyway, she and her yogi--this spiritual fellow who apparently hangs out in West Hollywood--spend about five minutes at Urth. (Yes, it's pronounced like that, "like the planet, but with edgier spelling. U's are edgy. Misspelling stuff is edgy," says a spokesperson, who pauses between sentences to self-indulgently contemplate his reflected profile in a nearby spoon.) But when Paris Hilton gets up to leave this edgy planet of wanton lameness, she takes off her diamond necklace and gives it to another customer. A customer, by the way, who just paid like 9 bones for a latte. Later on, Paris calls it the "gift of giving" or something. I don't know, I could barely hear amidst the gurgling and spitting of me choking on my vomit. This is clearly a publicity stunt, and Paris Hilton is no more enlightened than silver, sparkly pipe cleaner.

At any rate, the above was just the requisite summary for you so you don't actually have to sit through that video, like I did. I'm ashamed and will spend the next couple of hours trying to figure out how to get those minutes of my life back. But this post has nothing to do with this act, specifically. The problems there are obvious.

The real problem I have is with the show that this was aired on, Showbiz Tonight (a thing on Nicole Ritchie came on after). The show's host for this segment was someone named Brooke Anderson. The genuine excitement displayed by Anderson and her panel of "experts" is significant in its absurdity. They have an entire show dedicated to this kind of thing. That's no real surprise, I guess. I mean, tabloids and entertainment bits have been around for quite some time. But this thing is hardly newsworthy, even for the scum seekers that my watch this folderol. The experts and this walking tripe-spewer Anderson even admit that this is nothing more than a publicity stunt. Read that last word again: "stunt." If they know this to be true, then why are they offering time and space to it? It's one thing if, say, a celebrity champions some cause in Africa, adopts 80 Nigerians, a Kenyan and a gaggle of Sudanese, and buys grain for the whole of Ethiopia. That might be a publicity stunt, but there's clearly some cause-and-effect larger than the stunt itself, right? And that, inherently, is the nature of "news." I acknowledge the fact that these shows exist to cater to the appetites of the socially, intellectually and philosophically shallow, but at least stick to implied stunts. It's the difference between unwittingly eating a plate full of dog shit thinking it's chocolate, and seeing a steaming heap on the lawn, getting on all fours and lapping it up, giddy as you do. And Paris Hilton's only real career is this. She'd be wealthy anyway. But these shows--and us watching them--have made her far wealthier and, worse, famous. This stuff is filler. Filler is infused in dog food and fast food to offer the appearance of substance when, in actuality, there's very little of it. It leaves you feeling kind of gross, but still kind of hungry. Like after eating a couple of donuts--you're sick to your stomach, but you're still scavenging for sustenance. (Still, that's not even fair to donuts.) There's absolutely no reason this should be broadcast anywhere at anytime. And I'd challenge anyone on the planet to argue the quality or even basic entertainment value of this. You just can't.

Step 58: Don't eat the filler. Even if you're virtually retarded, at least try to find something more than this. Try to advance as a human being by ingesting at least something of value. It's like my brother said (about something unrelated, but appropriate here): It's stuff like this that's responsible for the abominable state of our political system and international image. We sit by consuming this crap, not even informed enough to make any real decisions about the country's future. And that's only if we're participating in it. Most of the people consuming this stuff are apathetic--they can't be peeled away from Showbiz Tonight to do anything about it, which would imply that it's less significant to them. And that's just sad, man. I'm on the verge of boycotting CNN.

Also, after some research, I found out that the other host's name is A.J. Hammer. Seriously. He apparently vaulted into this gig after a moderately successful stint in gay porn.

Pursuing Happiness

2008-02-23T14:55:00.000-08:00

The World Database of Happiness, in Rotterdam, collects all the available information about what makes people happy and why. According to the research, married, extroverted optimists are happier than single, pessimistic introverts, and Republicans are happier than Democrats. Nurses enjoy life more than bankers, and it helps to be religious, sexually active and a college graduate with a short commute to work. The wealthy experience more mirth than the the poor, but not much. Most people say that they are happy, but perhaps that is because they are expected to be.

That's the opening paragraph from a story printed in the January 19 issue of The Economist. It's actually a book review--a few of them, to be sure, rolled into one. While the entire review is compelling, it's those last two sentences that caught my attention, along with a few others that I'll get to in a moment.

Imagine what that means for a second, that the wealthy are not much happier than the poor. We, most of us anyway, strive for success in whatever it is that we do. That holds a particularly strong truth with regard to work. There are a few reasons for this, I suppose. We want to be successful so we don't get fired. We want to be successful to collect the admiration or simple respect from others. We want to be successful because it means we make more money. The first of those three is a natural survival instinct. The second of those three is a matter of personal pride and self-respect spilling over into and controlling outward actions and appearances. The third, then, becomes confusing, if we factor this study's findings. Because you have to ask yourself why is it, then, that we desire success as an inroad to financial gain if the difference is negligible? Security, familial responsibility and perceived happiness.

I gather, and not too astutely either, that it's less about the money, more about the lifestyle that the money can afford. The lifestyle that we envision, down the road, into the future, is a template, really. We couldn't mold our imagined futures--house, kids, car, vacations, etc.--without examples placed before us in the past. It could be our own family or the one next door or the one on television, but it was an existing way of life that created the template for yours. Or, more to the point, the template for what you'd like it to be. And you'd like it to be that way because you grew up happy or your neighbors seemed content or the idyllic television family knew no woes.

Looking around us, the standard American life appears to be a happy one. There are extremes, of course. We see the destitute and the debonair, but the large, smiling swath that creates the mean is one of simple happiness. But still, we don't have that. And even when we ostensibly do have that, we're still trying very hard to achieve happiness, no? So, if we're perpetually seeking happiness, can we be happy right now? The logic of that statement would imply, no, we can't. Or, at least, not to the most desirable degree. Because if we haven't arrived at happiness, how can we be there already? Yet, if someone were to ask you right now if you're happy, if I ask, "Are you happy?" You'll probably say yes. And you won't even know that you're lying.

Americans, who "work longer hours and commute greater distances than virtually any other people in the world," struggle hardest to be happy, and are often blind to their own failure; perhaps because the pursuit of happiness is an "inalienable right" in America.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It's true. If those are our inherent rights, if they're automatic, then with every absolute, we have life, we have freedom, and we have a path to happiness. So, if it's "guaranteed," then maybe it's impossible for us to admit that we're following the wrong path. Or maybe it isn't.

I think we can all, very easily, point to our frustrations or the mundane details of our lives that piled up to a toilsome climb. We can point to the obvious and banal culprit, our jobs. But we could look to so many other places. Our living situation, our friends, our family ... the general rut syndrome where we advance in our careers and relationships, yet we feel as though we've never really gone anywhere, that our lives are, to some degree, stagnant. In short, we're not really happy. We're probably just average.

And there's nothing really wrong with average. Average gets you into college, average gets you a contract extension in professional sports, average can make you a leader among peers. But why, then, settle for average, if you're already caught up in pursuing something above and beyond that?

As Eric Hoffer, an American social philosopher, once observed: "The search for happiness is one of the chief sources of unhappiness."

To an extent, I agree with Mr. Hoffer. But it isn't all searches for happiness. It's the search for that template of happiness that causes unhappiness. Because life doesn't have a template, a reality we all know, but might not consciously acknowledge. So, why then are we trying to fit into one? Because we think it will make us happy? The inalienable truth is that it won't. And our inalienable right to pursue happiness would never put such shackling limitations on what happiness can be.

Step 57: Pursue happiness. Really pursue it. Don't pursue the template. Don't dismiss a lifestyle that could make you happier simply because it seems "hard" or even impossible. Because happiness, like burdens, is relative to your station in life. No matter how difficult it is to fathom, cast aside what it is your doing and reshuffle the deck. It's OK to start over. It's OK to be honest when you're asked, "Are you happy?" The ultimate idea--the pursuit--is that you're being honest when you answer, "Yes, I am."

Inside an American Tragedy

2008-02-13T23:40:00.000-08:00

Britney Spears: Inside an American Tragedy. That's was the sell line on the cover of the latest issue of Rolling Stone Magazine. Hell, that's the cover of every rag these days. And it couldn't have been more unwittingly accurate. It's accurate because it is an American tragedy. Unwittingly so because Rolling Stone thinks the tragedy is Britney's.

I blogged a couple of years ago about Britney, predicting much (not nearly all) of this mess, including her divorce. I'm not giving myself a pat on the back, either, because it was painfully obvious to most of us. We see people like her everyday. Poorly educated, poorly informed, poorly suited to be a parent. They perpetuate chaos by reproducing. We perpetuate the chaos by turning a blind eye.

I had said in my earlier blog post that Britney was no different, a mountain of money don't clean up that trash. But I think I was wrong. Her kids might actually have a chance because her life is so publicized. We can't turn a blind eye because she's Britney fucking Spears, and that apparently means something to us. All of a sudden, the low rung of human existence becomes vastly significant to we, the selectively righteous, catering to our sympathies, our anger or our disgust. Because we're looking, she gets treatment. Her kids get attention. Her pregnant teenage sister will have to--at least in small degree try--turn the Spears tide when she gives birth. Even if she is doomed to repeat her sister's life, she can't let everyone see her slip so easily.

But what about the Britneys in our backyards? In the destitute reaches of America? A nameless woman whose marriage is in shambles neglects her children to drink and drug and shop and sleep around. She's so emotionally out of control, her absent ex-husband has to step in to parent, while paying child support from a previous relationship. Her younger sister, barely in high school, barely understanding reproductive cycles and her own biology--barely past puberty and cartoons--gets pregnant. The 45-year-old grandmother who raised these negligent and irresponsible human beings intervenes out of guilt, guilty because she knows she fucked up when it was her turn. But the thing is, no one is watching that. We aren't watching that. Us Weekly certainly doesn't care. Rolling Stone magazine doesn't know anything about it. We don't know anything about it. Without that publicity, those kids aren't going to have a chance. So, a crazy mother raises her inevitably crazy children who watch the fights between their parents, play witness to the drug and alcohol abuse and, sometimes, the sex with strange men. They watch the cops come and drag their mother or father out of the house, only to see them back there the next day. Maybe DFCS steps in, but probably they don't. They watch their 16-year-old aunt try to raise a child--without the watchful media and the dark public shadow cast by her sister--only to fail as badly as her sister did. And their grandmother weeps with her hopeless head in her helpless hands as her hungry grandchildren starve for food, for attention, for affection, for some normalcy that we all knew, while their mothers sit at a bar, a million thoughts and a case of beer from their starving children. See, there are a million of those. There's only one Britney Spears. Where's the real American tragedy?

I hate the media and their illuminating these tragic American tales because they only focus on the cult of celebrity. Of the famous and notable. And that implies that the true tragedy is the downfall of an American icon, one of this species' "best." While that maay be sad, tragedies happen on a much larger scale. And when it's happening to the gears that grind the American hope, I could give a flying fuck about Britney Spears. I want to know about real Americans and real tragedies.

Step 56: Don't be the American Tragedy. Because isn't those hapless or frustrating or infuriating parents. We're the tragedy because we don't do anything about. You could make the welfare argument, but I'm not talking about altruism and giveaway programs. I'm not even talking about the flaws in the educational system. I'm saying hold them accountable by calling them to task. It seems to work when we do it with Britney, but where is the story in the local newspaper? Where is the local acknowledgment, the publicity? At best it's a whisper and a frown from the neighbor, when it should be a shout and a snarl. These people are fucking us up, and we don't do anything about it. If that statement is true, then that means we're fucking us up. So, with that, I ask you again, where's the real American tragedy here?

Vote or Die

2008-02-05T09:47:00.000-08:00

Sean Puff Daddy Puffy P-Diddy Diddy Combs said that once. But really, if you don't vote, you probably won't die. It may hurt a little, though.

Step 55: Vote or die ... die, possibly if you've been suffering from a terminal illness over the last many months, and you happen to kick the bucket today or early tomorrow. Otherwise, just vote. Don't die.

Apple of My Eye, Fissure in My Ass

2008-01-18T19:30:00.000-08:00

It's dead. My computer is dead. According to the "geniuses" at the Genius Bar where genius insights are made about my genius bit of Steve Jobs technology, my computer is dead. Granted, they veiled the harsh news in euphemism: "It isn't connecting to your hard drive." But let's be honest, that means it's dead. And that's their fault. The three years of writing, ideas, photos, music -- my life -- not being backed up, and lost as a result? That's my fault. With a huge kick in my own ass, that's my fault. Still, I wouldn't be in this predicament if it weren't for Apple.

I bought into it like everyone else. Three years ago, I saw the sleek, silver Apple products beckoning, like the future existing in the here and now. I caved. I got one. But the result is a messy, precipitous drop into the shackles of Apple. Microsoft has been criticized for monopolizing the personal computer market, creating an arsenal of personal technologies that made it impossible to exist without them. Apple, on the other hand, is far more devious. They make their technologies readily available to third parties, like Willy Gates & Co. But once you've bought into Apple culture, and your personal technologies are singularly focused on that little fucking fruit, you're screwed. You can buy peripheral products, like an iPod, only to see them implode conveniently near the warranty expiration. So, you buy the newest iPod, only to find out that it isn't compatible with your older version of iTunes. So, you try to update your iTunes. But that version of iTunes isn't compatible with your operating system, so you have to buy a new operating system. This, only to realize that the operating system isn't compatible with your three-year-old computer, which, by the by, is ancient by now. So what does your computer do? It crashes. With more than 60 percent of it's available storage free for use, your computer crashes. So, that's where it's Apple's fault. Kind of.

Like I said, the fact that I lost my life, that's my fault ... and not just because I didn't back it up. I lost my life because like everyone else, that's where it exists. On a computer. I'm writing this right now on a "blog". What in the fuck is a blog? Thomas Paine was a pamphleteer. That's how they did these thing then. If only he knew how common sense that was. We, however, have moved away from any sort of tangible existence. We can't even touch or feel our own lives. Our photos never knew what film was. Our music never spun in a record player. Our words never grew life because they never entered the world. Hell, our money doesn't even exist but for a few Times New Roman characters on Bank of America's website.

We've given up our lives. You can call it Microsoft Monopoly. You can call it Apple Handcuffs. But in the end, it's murder. And we're the murderers. We're killing our own personal freedoms. Our freedom of ownership is gone. They own it. But they don't own it like capital. They wish to own to destroy it. They are The Nothingness. And we let them be.

Step 54: This is going to be a difficult one. Take ownership of your life. Take back the things that mean something to you, and treat them like they do. Your life isn't a file on a hard drive. It's here, and it' real, and you're living it. I'm living it and breathing it, being kicked to the curb by it and lifted back up again. People say that's impossible, but maybe people have forgotten how to live.

Here's to starting over, in more ways than one.

National Broadcasting Company, indeed

2008-01-15T15:22:00.001-08:00

Tonight, a 9 p.m. EST, NBC is hosting a democratic party presidential debate ... and Dennis Kucinich isn't invited. In fact, after Kucinich requested a restraining order against the broadcast company, they are actually fighting it. In the waning hours before debate, it's still unsure whether Kucinich will have the opportunity to participate. A hearing an hour before will decide.

Now, I know Dennis Kucinich has about as much chance of winning a primary as I do, if I entered my name today. It just ain't gonna happen. But let the man play, for chrissakes. "Fair" isn't even necesarily the reason this bothers me so much. Since when does a fucking broadcast media company have the right to determine who is running in an election. Because that's what they're effectively doing. That's what they've been doing for decades, in fact.

NBC stated that candidate eligibility is based on a top-three finish in the primary elections held thus far. That makes three: Obama, Clinton, Edwards. I don't know about you, but I'm shocked. Who knew they were the most popular? So, according to NBC, two primary elections have essentially determined the outcome. Residents of the other 48 states, about 298 million of them, apparently have no say. Furthermore, if candidates like Dennis Kucinich aren't afforded a forum from which they can bolster their support, then how could they ever have the opportunity to even compete. And if they can't compete, then how can they find a forum from which to bolster their support? Sounds like DK is caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Oh, and did I mention that ABC wouldn't let him debate in New Hampshire? Apparently, all they needed was an Iowa vote to brainwash New Hampshire. Imagine if they had only allowed the top two. After Iowa, that would mean political mascot Hillary Clinton wouldn't be able to debate. But that would never happen.

That would never happen because we don't live in a democracy. Not just anyone can run. Only the top of the pecking order, the popular, the puppets really have a shot. Deviate your diatribe one bit from the script of political sitcom, and you're out. But we, the people, never said so. The media said so. Lobbyists for big-money industries said so. Fat cat politicos with expensive suits and private jets said so. Our president isn't voted in, he's hand-picked by the top 1 percent.

Cynics have said, much to Rock the Vote's chagrin, that our vote means nothing. Well, that's not entirely true. It means what NBC wants it to mean.

Step 53: Fuck TV, and get your head out of your ass. You and you and you. They only get away with this crap because we let them. We're a country of fair-weather fans. We rally around the Patriots, but don't know who's quarterbacking Dolphins. How will we ever know the game, if we don't know its players? Our political system means well. If it works, it means well. But it doesn't work. Blast me all you like, but it doesn't work. Not as well as it could, anyway. Are there really only seven candidates capable of running this country? Are they even capable? Are they the most qualified? We'll never know because those who might be have been marginalized by a poisonous environment. So, why bother running if you aren't allowed on stage? That's the culture we've created, and that, among other things, is why this empire, like all great civilizations, is slowly killing itself. Change is needed quick, or we're the UK. Or worse, Canada. (I kid).

Ed. Note: After a good, long, Kerouacian road trip, I'm back in action. I said there'd be changes, and there will be. As far as a cosmetic adjustment, give me a little while on that one. If Rome wasn't built in a day... Well, that's lofty, but basically, re-designing this thing will take some time. If you pester me about it, I'll let it take longer.

The Evolving Evolving Revolution

2007-12-17T12:37:00.000-08:00

In the two and a half years since this blog began, I've had strings of constant updates, spells of absence and a change in direction of the posts. Keep in mind, the idea remains - to revolutionize the revolution.

Now more than ever, it seems, we need a revolution. We need revolutionary thought. It's an act of arrogance on my part to assume that I, and I alone, am the one to carry it out. I am not the chosen one, I am just a person who has thoughts and frustrations and emotions, and above all, an idea that we can be better than we are. We can do better than we do.

The cult of celebrity is sickening, the state of politics is just sad, and at a time when we need fresh voices, we get stale diatribe. And worst of all is that people are numb to this. With that in mind, this blog is receiving a facelift...in more ways that one. Call it an early new year's resolution. Actually, call it a new year's revolution. Keep your eyes peeled, your minds open and, as I said at the onset of this thing, let's revolutionize some shit.

Stay tuned...

My birthday, it would seem

2007-11-30T17:05:00.001-08:00

I have a story to tell, but I’m not gonna tell it. It’s for me, really. But I do have this. I scribbled this in my notebook on the train from Aguacalientes to Cusco the night of my birthday. It’s gibberish of the highest degree – a stream-of-consciousness account of everything all at once, if that makes any sense. It’s transcribed here, just as it was written, when it was written. So forgive me if it in some way doesn’t make sense. Maybe it’s not meant to.

We sit rocking in the dim yellow light of the train cabin. Outside, framed by a thin window, is the pale expanse of the Andean valley, guarded by hilltops. And as the cool air brushes into the stuffy cabin of perspiring hikers and chatter, I marvel at the live blue clarity of a night sky when it isn’t concealed by existence. I saw Machu Picchu today. It’s my birthday.

Moments ago, happy birthday was sung aloud in Spanish, Quechua, German, Polish and Hungarian, not all at once, of course. My handwriting sucks now – as opposed to any other time – because of this rickety train. It’s called a “backpacker’s train” for a reason. It’s cheap, and it feels cheap. Sweaty passengers sprawl across the seats with their packs and their body odor. Couples sleep on each other. Strangers – strange travelers – chat about where they’re from, where they’ve been and where they want to be. The porter stumbles with the sway of the train, and is drunk, I think. And I love it. I love all of it. So, before I forget, there’s a conversation about globalization going on behind me…wow. In front of me are two Polish women – strong, tall, big women. They are attractive, and it’s cross my mind more than once that I would like to sleep with them – which one, no matter. I think we’re about two hours from Cusco now. Two hours past Aguacalientes, and a lifetime beyond Machu Picchu. It’s not likely I’ll be back…but who knows. Bummed about the tourism explosion that occurred. I guess it was to be expected, this a wonder of the world and all. Still, in a place as truly magical and spiritual as Machu Picchu, it’s difficult to have a religious experience with so many people around. Or at least, not the one I was looking for. With a dearth of personal space, there is a dearth of personal enlightenment. Out there as it sounds, it’s just true, man. Did I say dearth twice? I’ve been reading Jack Kerouac lately – On the Road (again) to be sure. It’s taken far too long to get through, but it’s good for pages here and there. What I dig about it, though, is the freedom – of the road, of life. Everything exists on a whim…everything. That’s what traveling is like, I suppose. Traveling here, now. Traveling before. Completely detached from the world you’ve created and simply – yes, simply – existing in the world at large. The train smoothed out for some reason – oh, it was stopping. Now, we’re going backwards. There was a jolt like we just ran over a boulder. I almost fell. Seriously. Oh, I almost fell because I’m standing – failed to mention that. At any rate, the train is going backwards because that’s how it handles switchbacks as it climbs the mountain. It his a point in the rails, changes rails, throws it in reverse until it hits new rails and shoots forward, putting the “z” in zigzag as it goes. Although, I guess “zigzag” – the term – probably came about because of the z shape, so this train probably didn’t put the z in the word. I love this stream-of-consciousness bullshit. I don’t care about fluidity and transition. In the name of such a method, I’ll talk about this Peruvian vaquero, or maybe it’s guacho here, sitting across from the Polish women. He’s wearing a leather hat and boots – real shit-kicking boots, but clean – so less kicking of shit, really. He has a vest and a plaid shirt and is properly wasted. He’s been purchasing Cuzqueñas – a local beer – and drinking them since he got on the train. He smells, but only a little, so he’s got that. The Indian guy who sits across from my currently vacant seat wants to sleep with the Hungarian chick sitting next to him. He has no chance, the poor bastard. But he’s nice enough and she does yofa, and I’m not sure how that makes a match other than the fact I’m certain she could bring her ankles clear around to the back of his head if allowed him back to her room in Cusco. Still not really a match, but whatever. It should be said that I can write while standing because I’m bearing down on a luggage rack near the end of the car – car of the train, of course. I just looked up and this American girl with a large ass was picking her ear. Train whistle blows. “Bloooow!!!” I’m going to stare out the window now. Watch the land rolling by.

No steps here...

Existence has no meaning; Existence means everything

2007-10-05T20:06:00.000-07:00

Caveat emptor: This blog post is long as shit.

When I describe something I’ve done or attempt to impart my own life experiences to others, I prefer doing so very soon after an event has occurred. And there’s no big secret as to why. It’s because the story is ripe and clear and immediate. The distance of time manipulates stories. It changes them. Some things are lost, elements are added, distorted by nostalgia. The result is an allegory for what actually transpired. Maybe that’s more effective, then, if you’re in the business of altering perceptions. Or, maybe it’s detrimental to the preservation of life, of personal record. So, at first breath, to tell of my trip to Honduras, I have mixed feelings. Because, as I sit typing these words, I’m not sure which words will follow – those of what actually happened, or what happened as I see it today. But I’ll write them and hope that you see my experience. And my experience was this…

My flight left at 1:30 in the morning that Friday. I’ve always preferred the redeye because, while I lose my mind with exhaustion, I gain a day of life, which I figure outweighs the former. The truth of it is that I find the airport to be an incredibly lonely place filled at once with miserable, frustrated, frantic and tired faces. Particularly at this dim hour. Eyes weigh heavy, and bodies lay heavier in plastic chairs affixed to each other in such a way that an adjacent stranger immediately becomes an intimate travel partner. People shift impatiently and wander the corridors of the terminal looking for something that doesn’t exist, and if it did, it would probably be closed. Headphones drum anonymous, hollow cacophonies. Terminal announcements interrupt thought. Children sleep. We wait.

It just so happens that this is a terrible time for me to live through the airport at night. I’m currently entangled in the most existential of crises, if, in fact, there are degrees of existential meltdown. I question everything I do, and have been for the better part of two months. My job, my living situation, my dreams, my life and the people I allow to be in it. I’m trying to find the point of it all in a world that lacks definition. It’s a difficult thing to do.

So, I, too, lay heavily in a plastic chair, staring endlessly out at the runway, the portal for the lonely. I’m about to leave the country, yet I can’t even conceive of anticipating the trip. On occasions like this, I would typically imagine what the place will be like, if I haven’t been before. Or I’ll become nostalgic if it’s a destination with which I’m familiar. None of this is happening.

After an early-morning layover in Houston, I board another plane for Tegucigalpa, the capital of Honduras. I embark as though I’m going to work. I slog through the boarding process, tired and stinking of a large body missing a day’s shower. Here, the first images of Honduras consume my trance. I’ve been told it’s a third world country, which I assume is an exaggeration for “very poor.” I’m educated enough – social studies, history classes, whatnot. But in my view, up to this point, the third world was in Africa, isolated parts of Asia and probably Haiti. To me, Central America is a tropical place, green and rich with resources, but, sure, varying degrees of financial stability.

By the time we land, adrenaline has awoken me and straightened my thought. The pale, fluorescent glow of the Los Angeles airport is hours behind me, as is my depressive state, and I feel like I’m prepared to enjoy.

I exit the airport and see what looks to be a poor country. There’s no third world here. I pass time smoking stale, pocket-crumpled cigarettes on the curb with my pack roped around my shoulders. Before I left the States, I was assured there would be a ride waiting for me, a welcoming party, even. But I see none of that. Only eager taxistas hoping for big fare from the gringo down from Rich Country. I have to take a piss.

After removing the pinch in my bladder, I find myself standing in front of the sink, washing my hands. This is odd—and keep what I’m about to say a secret—because I rarely wash my hands after urinating. I do at work, but that’s because I don’t need people I shake hands with judging me. And as a gesture, I wish not to frighten them. Mostly, though, I don’t do it because I’m not entirely sure why the skin on my genitals is any different than the skin on my arm or my face or your face. It seems it’s less a sanitary issue, and more the lingering effects of archaic taboos. Or, possibly, I’m just a disgusting person. Nevertheless, I wash my hands this time, and dry them, too. As I dry them I hear a voice.

“Dona?” the voice says. The small Honduran is clearly speaking to me, and I begin to think of the numerous illicit airport bathroom encounters of conservative senators and transit authority figureheads.

“Su madre es Dona?”

I see now. This man is Macklin Amendares, and he’s my ride. He’s a friend of my mother’s, and she’s told him to look for the largest person in the airport, and that would be her son. I could be 5’11”, and I’d be the largest person in this airport. But I guess I like to exceed expectations.

I embrace my mother when I see her in the airport common. I do this because we rarely see each other, but also because it’s just what we do. We pile in Macklin’s van with my mom, Macklin’s wife Bessie and their daughter Celeste. Celeste, it should be said, is a firecracker, a bundle of energy, a shining light for just a 7 year old. And I see more wisdom is Celeste than I see in a dozen grown people at home. I’m about to understand why.

Macklin’s erratic driving further jars my jetlagged equilibrium, as we peel through downtown strips of brick and mortar. The city looks increasingly destitute as we continue. The only sturdy buildings, it appears, are two shopping malls, two hotels and numerous fast food restaurants. In fact, as I count, there is a Ruby Tuesday and a Burger King on nearly every corner. And while this is the ostensible indication of economic growth, it’s more desperate than that. As the finest structures in the nation’s capital, it would lead one to presume that they are some of the finest dining – the same dining that we make lifestyle documentaries about and chastise others for consuming. After all, if it’s not organic…

And it also means this country is looking for money from anyone who will give it. So, Tegucigalpa is less a city than it is edificial stock car, branded with every cheap vendor the country can get.

Beyond the miles of fast food, the city streets deteriorate to winding roads that lethargically climb their way up the mountainside. And it’s a mountainside that never ends, accounting for more than 80 percent of the country’s geography. The result is a rocky terrain that can grow little more than sparse patches of corn and houses small communities of poor families struggling to pull life from the scorched earth.

Ten years ago, Honduras was finally prospering. There was potential after decades of inconsistency. Nine years ago Hurricane Mitch hit. The swirling gusts and airborne floods of the category five hurricane slammed into the hillside with so much force that entire towns disappeared. More than 70 percent of the country’s crops were flattened or ripped from the ground. Nearly 80 percent of the transportation infrastructure was gone. Roughly 33,000 homes destroyed, tens of thousands more damaged. Close to 10,000 people were killed, 12,000 left wounded. When the hurricane had finally passed, $3 billion in damage remained. In a country whose GDP is roughly $13 billion, the consequences are more than financial. Imagine the Unites States hit by a storm whose destruction costs $3 trillion. That’s what it’s like. That’s what these towns, these people had to endure.

Macklin is telling me this as we head up the mountain. If ever I hoped this trip to be an escape form my life, it serves only to exacerbate my own crisis. Because what is the point of my life, if this is going on here?

We pull off the main road and up to the right. This is Reynel Funez, Macklin’s home. Wood huts with tin roofs are stacked across the mountain, with a panoramic view of Tegucigalpa in the distance, wedged between two peaks. Generously described, these are shoddy cabins, many of which are not much larger than my bedroom. They are typically occupied by families of four, seven, ten. That’s possibly the reason so many children scamper through the dirt roads, barefooted and energetic. Where else is there to roam when you have a home like this? Natty dogs bark at passersby, chickens bob and peck beneath strings of drying laundry and buckets wait for rainwater outside front doors.

There’s very little indoor plumbing in villages like Reynel Funez. Most residences have outhouses and use those rain buckets for drinking water. Where there is plumbing, the water is supplied by 100-gallon tanks buried in the ground. Water trucks come up from the city once a week, twice a week, making stops at this village and others to fill them. This is poverty unlike any seen in the darkest slums of urban America or the desolate reaches of its rural cousin.

Despite the absence of money or simple convenience, every face that greets me is smiling. They’re smiles of gratitude, appreciating every waking moment. This is important to me. To see this, it’s important. Because while I struggle to find the meaning of my own existence—while we all do, in fact—these people seem to find meaning in existence itself. They realize how poor they are and may even acknowledge the disparity between my life and theirs. But it doesn’t bother them as it might you or me. We are accustomed to the automatic life, creating struggle when it need not exist. We do so because we don’t understand what it is to manage on a basic level. And I don’t mean paying bills and feeding ourselves. Managing on a basic level means managing our emotions and our thoughts before anything else. It’s easy to forget that those are the foundation of everything we do. Still, we allow envy and competition and worry to consume us. We’re envious of those who appear to have a better life, resulting in our competitive nature. And we worry that we may not obtain that coveted life, whether it concerns matters of the bank or the heart. These people don’t have that. You can see it on their faces. You can see it on Celeste’s face.

I shamelessly say this with the knowledge that, after that first day, I was envious. I was envious of them. Even removed from my station and placed among the salt of the earth, I cannot remove these pathetic things like envy from my own perception. I’m jealous of their simplicity, their fulfillment on what appears to be nothing. Satiated by life alone.

In my brief time, I’ve been fortunate enough to have experienced firsthand great pieces of the world. I have more stamps in my passport than fingers and toes to count them with. But I’ve never traveled like this, among the people, as it were. Having Macklin as a guide and living the lives these people live, even for just a few days, offers the ability to see through new eyes. In other parts of the world, and even within our own borders, I have, at times, tried to venture off the path of popularity. But it’s impossible, not matter how far outside a guidebook you wander, to view anything but with the numbness of a tourist. Because, even then, it’s me—you—who is making the decisions on what I eat, where I go, what sounds I take in. It’s still very much a tourist experience. But on this level, my faculties as a tourist are removed. I see what they see, eat what they eat and go where they go. And they go places I’ve never felt before.

I wake at 7 that next morning with a weary, clouded sting in my eyes left over from the redeye. We intend to work that day, and we do. I realize quickly that I am a laborer. I have no specialized skills – carpentry and electrics are more foreign to me than this country. I am put to task shoveling a mound of dirt and gravel, placing it in a wheel barrow, and lugging it to another mound of dirt and gravel, where it would be dumped. From there, this composition is directed through a series of sieves until it’s reduced to the finest powder it can become. Larger stones are cast aside. Mixed with water, this becomes their concrete, their plaster, their walls, their floors, literally the foundation of all construction.

The sun pushes fiercely against my face, and I sweat thick, heavy drops. The mounds of dirt stink of urine from stray dogs and people, too. A small boy, Ricardo, maybe 10 or so, emerges from the slatted entrance of a nearby dwelling. He attempts to lift shovel loads and place them in the wheel barrow for me. He says his favorite subject in school is math, and if he could be anything in the world, it would be a carpenter. Ah, the simplicity of it all. At that age, I wanted to be an astronaut, a firefighter, a cowboy, a doctor and an artist, and I wanted to be them at once. I’m not even sure I knew what a carpenter was. If ever there was a sign of our spoiled view of life, this is it. Even at young ages we have grandiose visions of the world. Ricardo and I chat intermittently while he shoves more earth in my direction. Struggling every so often, “Empuje, empuje, empuje,” I encourage.

The laboring has piqued my distraction, not my thirst. And my curiosity takes my eyes to the door that Ricardo came from. It’s his home, and I ask him to take me to it. A gate, six feet high and about as wide, clings to life in the form of six or seven eroded planks. It swings open, with a clothesline in place of a welcome mat, spanning the length of an awning covered, open-aired room. A small door 10 feet away leads to the main of the house, and the smell of sizzling plantains seeps into my olfactory center. The house is actually two rooms, each about 12 feet by 6 feet. The plantains are cooking on a small fire and a hammock swings from the ceiling. This hammock isn’t a luxury for summer nights like at home. This is someone’s bed. Two teenage boys are inside, proud of their home, and prouder to show it to me.

But it isn’t all so innocent as it is in Reynel Funez. Thirty minutes to the south, in the the city proper of Tegucigalpa lives a stench of despair far more desperate than I could have imagined.

We go there with plates of rice and tortillas covered in foil, and pamphlets that aim to direct the hopeless toward god. In the interest of full disclosure, this makes me uncomfortable. I am a spiritual person, but I am not religious. But while I have my own reservations about “spreading the word of god,” I have no restraint in the form of spreading good will, offering a just a modicum of hope, just to tell someone that people care, if only for a moment.

The street is littered with garbage, piled in the corners where curb meets street. The block reeks of cooking food, rotting flesh, piss and alcohol. Dozens loiter on the pavement. A brothel is across the street, where men and sad, easy women pose like listless corpses against the dingy facade. One of every two women we see seems to be pregnant, prostitutes knocked up for the price of a meal, or a beer. One woman, about 20 and a month or so from her water breaking, has been on the street since she was 2.

Among the people, there is less concern with the pamphlets, more with the food. So, when the glossy slip of paper is doled out, it’s quickly dropped to the ground or stuffed in a bra strap. Most are carrying with them what looks to be jars of baby food. Come to find out it’s glue, rubber cement. They sniff it as a hallucinogen – the men do, the women, the pregnant, no matter. They’re pale-faced and strung out. Vacant eyes reveal drug-induced apathy. I hold a stack of pamphlets, too guilty to hand them out because of my own hypocrisy, when a man approaches. Standing upright, he might be tall. As it is, he slouches, his gaunt shape curled over like a wilting flower. He has dried vomit crusted to the hairs on his chin, as well as trash, likely from digging in garbage cans for food. He mumbles in a low, rasping tone, barely coherent even to native speakers of the language. When he extends his hand for me to shake it, I notice the vomit dried there, too. Instead of offering my hand in return, I give him a pamphlet to avoid contact. I feel ashamed and embarrassed by this action, this reaction. Giving into my hypocrisy out of disgust. Because that’s what it is, disgust at the thought of touching his hand. That leaves me disgusted with myself.

His feet are bare, a crusted with a thick black fungus like barnacles on a ship. I imagine he hasn’t worn shoes out on this street in months, if not years. When handed a plate of food, he drops to the ground and gnaws at a fistful of rice and tortilla like a dog to bone. After swallowing the chow whole, scraps falling on his pants and the concrete, he tries speaking. The first words leave his mouth, and then he spits up on the street, a small distance from where I stand. His guts must be so fragile and deteriorated from malnourishment that he can’t hold down the food.

He drags his forearm across his face, wiping the drool and grit from his mouth. His murmur pipes up again, something about an injury he sustained. He removes his shirt, revealing his skeletal body. His concave chest contrasting his protruding bones—ribs, clavicle, shoulders—make his body seem contorted, twisted. On his right shoulder blade are scars from a burn. They extend down to his waist and up and over to his right arm, further mangling the image in front of me. On his left hip is a gaping hole, a gash. About two inches in diameter, it’s red and raw. The skin around it has blackened and is dead. What it is, I do not know. It looks like a lesion, similar to those found on AIDS patients, has gone untreated and grows like a swarm of maggots on rotting meat.

A tap on my shoulder.

“Are you proud of what you’re doing?” a mustachioed man asks. His curly mane sprouts from underneath a baseball cap and a leather rucksack hangs over his left shoulder. He doesn’t fit in with this decaying landscape. He looks clean and the flicker in his eyes suggests clear thought, not the foggy haze of the drugged.

“Are you proud that you’re letting a man eat from his knees right here on the street?” he clarifies.

I tell him we’re merely offering food. He retorts that we’re trying to offer more than that. We’re offering them religion, he says. And religion is a mafia, no different than Sicilians. I insist that I have no agenda, and this concerns only the chance for a better life. Whether that life is found through religion or merely the idea of hope matters none to me. But he presses on.

It isn’t just religion that is the mafia, but we Americans are, too, he says. We, as Americans, aggressively disseminate our way of life, and we do so many times in countries fraught with poverty and despair, that are vulnerable to our influence.

“This is our fight,” he says. “Not yours. You will leave here and fly far away back to your home. And we’ll still be here. This man will still be here.”

He tells me that he holds no resentment toward me or my country, that this diatribe is just a lesson in current affairs and diplomacy. For 20 years, he worked as a journalist for one of the local newspapers, so I trust his opinion is somewhat informed, even if I don’t wholly agree with it.

An hour or so there, the food is gone and we’re back in the van, fighting our way through city traffic. As we cross the river, I’m told this is where many of the deaths occurred during Hurricane Mitch. The river flooded while homes on the hillside collapsed into the water, and the homeless were swallowed by the swelling tide.

We’re headed to El Valle de los Angeles, a small mountain town, one of the few tourtist destinations around. There, small shops selling knickknacks and trinkets line narrow streets. Small art galleries with doors flung open hang art, many of which feature images of corn or sculptures of large rugged hands. Subtle tones of Aurelio Martinez echo through the small plaza, and a proud church stands as the largest building at the top of the square. Women line the streets, cooking pupusas for what equals pocket change in dollars. The air here is cool with the fresh scent of a recent rain. My generation sits at coffee shops. They wear long hair and sandals and that, coupled with the art galleries and the green environs leads you to believe you’re among bohemians. You get the feeling there’s money here, albeit modest sums.

In one day, I’ve ventured from the poor but happy suburbs of Tegucigalpa, to it’s penniless slums to the clean air of this isolated village, and I can’t help but feel sad.

It’s late in the evening by the time we return to Tegucigalpa, and we’re greeted by the news that Honduras lies directly in the path of Hurricane Felix, a category five. It’s supposed to hit that Tuesday, the day of our departure. The faces of our Honduran friends show concern, but not for themselves, necessarily. They show concern for us. They show concern for those people outside the brothel, who will be helpless when the sky opens up and the rain begins to smother them.

Television stations interviewed experts on the wind speed, the rains and the damage that would occur. Residents of the river basin were told to evacuate. Mud slides were all but guaranteed. Comparisons were made to Mitch.

My flight was the second to last out before they shut down the airport. Our goodbyes were as long and emotional as our hugs, as we bid farewell to Macklin and his family. An eerie quiet took over and our small group, who had been so comfortable with each other for five days, barely said a word..

When my plane took off, the sky was black behind us. It was the hurricane approaching. By the time it touched down, it had been reduced to a tropical storm. And while we worried for the safety of the people we left behind, I realize now that it served no purpose – the worry and the sadness. Because feelings of pain and hardship are really associated when you apply value to things in your life. Just like our search for meaning of existence, and their knowledge that meaning is existence. When you’re wise enough to know that the value of life is life itself, the pain of loss carries much less weight.

Step 52: If we carry out our endeavors to the end. If we really examine what we call happiness, does it not wind up meaningless? What is the point is having a job that makes money? And what is the point in going to a bar or listening to music? What is the point of having a nice car? What is the point in living to the right home? If we follow each of those individual paths—the job, the bar, the music, the car, the house, anything—to its end, we find out that all there is is that thing. It is no inherent meaning, only the meaning, the value that we assign it. And we mistake that as the significance of our own lives. The only good the practice does is fulfill a selfish desire. It impacts no one but the self. And not the self as a soul, but the self as the mortal here and now. Is it fair to make that judgment? Probably not. Am I guilty of the same selfish pursuits? I’m listening to music right now. And if I haven’t conveyed this clearly enough, it’s possibly because it’s ransacked my brain over the last many weeks, and I’d rather you be sitting in front of me so I could tell you about it. But my point is, you can do any of those things and have any of those things, but they do not give purpose. They are not what allow you to live passionately. They are merely constructs of a somewhat civilized society. Real purpose and meaning is everything you do above and beyond that. Real purpose is acknowledging your station in life, whether the wealthy suburbs or the hillsides of Honduras, and knowing that it simply does not matter. What you feel and what you think and what you believe does. I think my new Honduran friends have figured that out. And I think you should to. Look at what you’re doing and what you have. Look around your desk or table where you sit right now. Look at your computer, the plastic and metal. Look at the clothes on your back. Look at everything around you and ignore them. Because they mean absolutely nothing. But your life means everything. So live it despite those things, not because of them.

It Will Be All Right

2007-10-01T22:03:00.000-07:00

I think this is very important.

Also, Honduras will be tomorrow, I would guess.

Honduras is coming (tomorrow)...

2007-09-30T21:46:00.000-07:00

...but for now, please marinate on these words for just a bit.

Human beings come
from the same source.
We are one family.

If a part of the body hurts,
all parts contract with pain.

If you are not concerned
with another's suffering
we shall not call you human.

Argue that one.

This a blog. I understand that.

2007-08-30T19:14:00.000-07:00

I should blog more. I really should. This isn't going to be a step, just a quick update on something you should try.

I was at the coffee shop at the bottom of my building. Yes, that coffee shop. It's the coffee shop where I drink coffee, socialize with the amiable and eclectic staff, and even date its employees, when there's time. It serves as a nice break for me, this coffee shop. From work, from other stuff.

Today, there was a man, slightly built with silver hair. And sideburns. He had sideburns. Long, winderful sideburns, more comfortably worn in 1974, to be sure, but working out very well here in 2007. His voice was high-pitched, his glasses rectangular and his drink order ridiculous ("I'm dangerous," he exclaimed upon order his latte). I was in awe as I hovered behind him, watching, admiring. I placed my order and approached him as he waited at the counter.

"I'm Youngling #2," I said. "I wanted to introduce myself."

"I'm Bill," he responded. "And why is that?"

"You seem interesting, and I wanted to meet you."

"Interesting," he said. "And are you interesting?"

"Oh, I thought you were, but I'm not," I clarified.

"Don't do that."

"Don't do what?" I asked. "Apply conditions when describing myself?"

He took the tone of a sage: "Don't say things like 'but.'"

"You mean I shouldn't use conjunctions?" And then my mind drifted off to Schoolhouse Rock.

The exchange that followed informed me that Bill has been a psychoanalyst for 50 years, and was curious what kind of person approaches an old man. I was curious, too. I also found out that Bill was 82. I lied and told him he didn't look a day over 50. But had I told the truth, I would have told him that he didn't look a day over 60.

He left a few moments before I did. And when I finally walked out the door, I saw him waiting at the street corner. He turned and waved a geniune wave. At first I thought he was saying "thank you." Only after I got back to my desk did I realize he was saying, "You're welcome."

So, this isn't a step simply because I don't want it to be. But I do recommend approaching strangers that seem like they may be interesting, because in fact, they probably are.

----

Lastly, I said I would blog about Italy last year. I did not. But I will blog about Honduras. Promise you that.

Live Free

2007-07-13T15:08:00.000-07:00

We who are caught in the throes of corporate American life have very few things to cherish. They are, in no specific order: recognition for a job well done, a slow day, payday and holidays. And that’s really about it. Strung together, that accounts for about one third of the job in a given year, which I guess isn’t all bad. Despite the brief respite – and occasional moments of joy – that this list offers, there is one gift granted that surpasses all others: The surprise half-day.

I know that might seem a trifle insignificant when weighed next to a paycheck and the accompanying (albeit temporary) comfort a large bank balance offers. But it’s not. And it’s sad that it’s not. Not because money is the foremost inroad to bliss, and should be our primary source of happiness within the confines or our work environment. It’s because the surprise holiday is an act of freedom.

Love our jobs or hate our jobs, we work because we have to. Some of us enjoy our lives of steady income and steady work and a steady life. Some of us arduously and ploddingly pursue other dreams, dreams often blighted, and ultimately replaced, by the 9-5 we need to feed ourselves. And some of us live out our dreams, only to find every avenue has its price, its toll on our personal freedom. Whether that’s good or bad, I cannot say. It’s not my place to because it’s different for every person. But for me, right now, the price is too high. And I am a prisoner to the life of getting by.

So maybe that’s why last Tuesday was such a good day. Some person who exists in some office larger than the one I don’t have, on some floor above the floor on which I fester each day, bestowed upon me the freedom to leave my job at one o’clock. It’s a freedom because, though I could do it any day, on this day I do it without sacrifice.

I left work at 12:57, surprised I even lasted that long with summertime angst stinging my attention span. On my way home, I felt good…relieved that I had the rest of the day off, and looking forward to the official holiday that followed on the next. But I was tired. On days like these, I might find something to do. But typically, and somewhat shamefully, I would just relax in my home, with the front door gently opened, relying on a slight draft to pass over and cool my exposed, shirtless belly as I lay on the couch. But this day wouldn’t have that.

A friend called explaining that she was taking some out-of-town guests up to Malibu in the late afternoon. To be honest, I didn’t care to go at the time. The thought of taking pre-Fourth of July traffic up there wasn’t appealing, and I had been wistfully anticipating that aforementioned breeze. However, it was quickly made clear to me that I didn’t have a choice in the matter and that I was, in fact, going to Malibu for the day. “In that case,” I offered, “I will drive.”

Once you hit the PCH, the drive to Malibu is one of those venerable drives that needs to be driven. Big Sur, Route 66, the Blue Ridge Parkway…this is one of those. The road peels with the bending coast, leaving the constant feeling that you’re turning into the ocean as it welcomes you to the west.

The 27-mile stretch of Malibu coast begins with a green road sign that reads, “Malibu: Population 13,000, Elevation 16.” Beyond that, small homes and ramshackle condos begin to dot the shoreline, followed by larger beach houses and, ultimately, private roads that lead to lavish, private dwellings owned by public figures.

A few miles later, the road straightens itself out just long enough to pull up into an incline, at the top of which sits Pepperdine University. It still amazes me how students there get anything accomplished with a view like that.

The PCH then carves out a portion of the hill as it sweeps back down the coast. As the area becomes less populated, the beach becomes more exposed. White-frosted waves plunge their blue water down on rocky alcoves and golden sand. The sun coats the road ahead, and at this point, it might be a good idea to put on sunglasses. But you don’t. You don’t because the sight, no matter how many times you see it, needs not be tinted.

On this day, rows of cars line the road, and umbrellas shade beach-goers. Past some of the more popular areas of beach is a spot that hides from the rest. People still go to it, but not the throngs that some of those beaches closer to Los Angeles proper see.

Near the north end of Malibu, around mile 20, a road to the left offers itself to be taken, so you take it. First, a quarter mile of trees, and then it opens to a public beach--by appearance more similar to those further south. Switching back and making a u-turn at the beachfront, a mile or so drive brings you away from the dozens of cars and coolers, to Point Dume.

It’s nearly six in the evening by the time we get there. A half dozen families and couples are stretched across a half mile of sand. The air here is cooler than in Venice or Santa Monica, much cooler than East Coast beach destinations. But not cooler in temperature, necessarily. It's cool in the way things feel cool when they are very clean and pure. As we spill out of the car, the wind pushes through harder than it should be for evening, but seeing as the sun still has nearly two hours till it sets, I guess that’s normal. The coastal breeze doesn’t die until the sun goes down. I’m sure there’s science behind that, but I don’t know what that science is. I just know that it happens that way.

We unload our bags and towels, and march nearer the water to drop our belongings. After stripping down to suits, the notion of jumping in the cold Pacific is a bit more intimidating since the air feels crisper, purer. Standing at the water’s edge, I stare at the blue expanse with hesitation, goose bumps forming on my chest and stomach. It feels cold, but very fresh and good…the external equivalent to ice water pouring down your throat. There’s only one way to force myself into the water. I begin running. Short, choppy steps turn into high-stepping lunges as I get deeper and deeper, each advance delighting more of my body to a rush of algid water. Once my legs cannot be lifted higher than the water’s surface, I push off of my right foot and dart, fingertips first, into a crashing wave. Submersed for a moment, the only sound I hear is the swirling water around me before I break the surface with my arching body. The water suddenly feels warm as the low, amber sun greets me. As liberating as this is, however, it is not why we came to Point Dume.

There is a tall cliff to the south that juts out into the water. Climbers clinging to rock, held confident by rope, scale the 300-foot face, while that same greeting sun paints their backs. It is our intent – it had been since we arrived - to climb to the top ourselves during sunset. But our climb would be in the form of a well worn trail that ambles its way up to the top.

To pass the time before sunset, we hop barefoot across the shore-level rocks and throw the Frisbee clumsily in the gusts. And every so often, usually after a nosedive into the sand, I race back into the water, which feels more and more familiar with each dive.

To the north, there is a bluff that creates the line for the next county. The edge of land cuts into the water, forming, from our view, a crescent coast until it meets the horizon. The sun hangs just above the land, preparing to rest, and we begin our ascent.

Normally a five-minute hike, it takes 10 this time, as our water-logged sandals become dusted with sand and dirt. When we arrive at the top--only 30 or so yards from the edge of the cliff--the trail narrows and slices between rock formations, while dropping a few feet in elevation before ramping back up to reach the drop off. The nebulous shape of the point is about 40 feet across at its largest section as it extends out into the air.

The sun arrives at sleep more quickly now, dropping rapidly. To our left, the south, the sky is a faded blue with hints of gray, having bid adieu to the waning sun moments before. Hundreds of feet below, there is a cluster of fins arcing out through the water. The shallower water is clear to us from above, and we see in a curling wave two dolphins, side by side, riding it toward the shore, as I remember doing so many times as a child in the warmer Atlantic waters during summer vacations. Perhaps these dolphins are out at dusk to feed, or perhaps they are out to play. Rolling in and out of the water, we watch them move north. At once, a breaching dolphin thrusts itself out of the water, at balance, it seems, for an instant on its tail, its body straight and bottlenose pointing to the sky. They are playing.

Moving our attention from the dolphins, seven pelicans – seven because I make point to count them – float by at eye level from our view on the Point. I say float, not fly, because the wind carries their motionless bodies, which seem to sway and rock just as the wind blows. We follow them back toward that bluff. Half of the sun has disappeared, melting into the distance, while the other half sprays the skyline with streaks of pink and yellow and orange and gold and purple and blue. The sea below is a pewter silk blanket, tucking itself into the coast with each breaking wave.

A woman pulls herself up from the north side of the cliff, rope attached. She has just scaled Point Dume, and shimmies her way to a better vantage point from which to view the sun that, up to now, only her back has known. She watches quietly, waiting for her partners. Her profile says she’s satisfied and happy and at peace.

Focusing back on the sky, the colors of the setting sun trail like a comet tail into the gray of the south, and the contrast is remarkable. While the sunset itself offers an unspoiled and unalterable image to gaze upon, the emptiness of the south is a blank canvas, waiting to be filled with the next day’s sunrise, or the current moment’s imagination.

Thirty minutes pass atop Point Dume. The sun finally fades into the edge of perception. The clarity of that time, the harmony of wind, ocean, land, sun and moon revealed something to me that I have missed before, but what that climber already knew. She was free. I am free. We, are free.

And that’s what I know now, and maybe I knew it before, but took it for granted. Freedom can be granted to you, yes. But freedom can also be had at will. Allowing yourself to embrace the world, accept its handouts and maintain the innocence of first sight, these are things no life, no job, no prison can take away.

Driving back to Los Angeles, the black road becomes glittered with city light, and within the hour I am home, and it is I who am at peace, even in this urban sprawl. I am at peace because we who are caught in the throes of life have very many things to cherish.

Step 51: We allow ourselves to be a slave to the man. We take our lives for granted. We forget that we have the ability to do things. I know we do - we all do. I do, you do...everyone does. Freedom isn't being able to say what you want to say when you want to say it. Freedom isn't being able to purchase things without worrying about it. Freedom isn't a democracy or a theocracy. Freedom is peace of mind. Freedom is enjoying moments, small moments, large moments...the moments that make up, that define our lives. We go to work, we pay our bills, we go out to eat, we have drinks, and occasionally we do something special with little acknowledgement or appreciation of what it is we're actually able to do. We move through life simply trying to complete one day to arrive at the next. If you do that, you will look back years from now with no timeline, no memory of your life, just a generalization of who you were and what you did. It doesn't take much to escape. It doesn't take much to be free. I know because I tried it. You should, too.

A Revolutionary Recap: Part II

2007-06-06T21:38:00.000-07:00

It's been a long ride. And hopefully, it ain't over just yet. I've had a lot of people stop by a read, some of them regularly. I lost a good bit of them for one reason or another, but you guys are still there. Some of you visit often, some just every so often, but thanks for sticking around.

Below are steps 21-50. You may have to skim the post for some context. You may do that and still wonder what the hell I'm talking about. But that's OK, just read them. Let's hope our one good, loyal reader's recent comment is wrong, and revolutionaries do still exist. If not, then why do we bother at all? Here's to the next 50. Peace.

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Step 21: Amazing I could squeeze a step out of this one. If you’re looking for a room to rent, don’t be demanding, curt or hot and sexy in a half-Japanese, Indie rock sort of way. If you’re looking to rent a room, don’t take shit from anybody. It’s your place. Also, if soliciting prostitution works for you when looking for a roommate, go for it. Oh, and one more thing, don’t stab yourself in the penis.

From Room for rent, but not for you you rude son of a bitch. But maybe you over there

Step 22: Do without that which you don’t need. I surely don’t live by that, and I know most of you don’t either, but look what happens when you let greed and want interfere with your everyday lives. Normalcy turns to insanity. You shouldn’t feel left out if you don’t have something that others do. Don’t sacrifice anything in the name of a deal. Don’t abuse old men. Don’t beat people with lawn chairs. And for shit’s sake, don’t fucking pee yourself.

From Let's Make a Deal

Step 23: I think it’s good to express yourself. Often times people worry too much about what others will think, so they hide how they really feel for fear of exclusion. I think this is true of many social clubs, be they sororities, fraternities, knitting groups, poker groups, neighborhood tennis teams or even book clubs. It’s true really of any group of people. What the majority says in many situations, people will go along with just for comfort, and maybe, for the insecure, acceptance. Sometimes people grow up and grow confident in who they are. Other times, they don’t, and they become sad individuals who try to hide their own feelings of inadequacy with a false, superficial sense of confidence, all the while knowing the truth - the changeable truth. Whichever person you are, find an outlet of expression, it will help. It’s healthy. Join any of those clubs, but stay true to yourself. Write, paint, dance, hell, just speak, but make sure it’s your mind, not the one that others gave you. I think that’s why many of us in the blogging community do so, whether we know it or not, we’re doing something healthy – emotionally and intellectually. Find what works for you and let it flow. Talk about whatever you want to talk about. Paint whatever you want to paint. Write whatever you want to write. But express yourself. Be healthy. Be true. Be the blog.

From Be the Blog

Step 24: It’s easy to live your life and not worry about the poor or starving. I wouldn’t say it’s selfish, that’s just how life works. It’s hard enough to worry about the people you are close to. But being aware is almost as good as doing something. And I’ve said this before in my blog - most people, such as myself, live their lives in a bubble. The try and relate their own experiences to those of people who are living a far different life. They are living in the same country, but a different world. And assuming it’s there because they didn’t do anything about it isn’t going to fix things any time soon. Something should have been done before, and something better be done now.

From The Land of Opportunity

Step 25: I’m going to steal a little bit: Know when to hold ‘em. Know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run. Thing is, I’m still throwin’ down bets, and I don’t run all that fast.

From Why don't you just fucking post already

Step 26: The world, and Hollywood, should accept open relationships as the standard in La La Land. Everyone screwing everyone all of the time. Age…beauty…whatever. People like to invest themselves in relationships like my mom invests in stock: Spend big, no return. Bennifer’s I and II, Brangelina, what the fuck is going on here. All right, all right, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson, Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, blah blah and blah blah blah. I’m talking about the ones that are talked about. And the secret wedding is just as much a PR ploy as the “open wedding.” Have you seen the check out lines lately? None of it ever really means anything. It’s like middle school all over again. You “go out” with someone for five days until you fall in love with someone else for six. These people in Hollywood are emotionally inept; there’s no reason you should be, too. Write them off.

From Love is a many splendored thing

Step 27: Say how you really feel for chrissakes. I battled with the thing myself for many years. I tried to be a full-blown Christian, but I couldn’t. I am agnostic. I feel spiritual at times, but I don’t know what’s there. And for that, I have been called atheist by the Christians who are about as spiritual as Charles Manson. There is no need to fake it. There is no need to jump on the bandwagon. If you care more about the presents, then say it. People will still think you are a complete fucking loser, but probably a little less so. Wake up and smell the coffee. You don’t believe in Beatles, you just believe you.

From I don't believe in Beatles, I just believe in me

Step 28: Take the time to enjoy things. Don’t consume mass quantities of shit simply because they’re available. Try and enjoy the truly great things out there. Seek them out. Pay them attention. In the grand scheme, they’re very few. Or, to be so lame as to quote Dead Poets Society, suck the marrow out of life.

From Blogging. Quality.

Step 29: Don’t try to reshape yourself to be something your not, find your own flavor. That’s part of the beauty of blogging – to find that flavor and to give everyone else a taste. Then they can see if they like it or not. Check out my links. Each person, you get an idea of who they are without having met them. And, though my East Coast friends doubt me, it’s why blogging, in some form, will soon be ubiquitous (cgpop is ahead of the Atlanta game). It’s a pretty true form of expression. It’s hard to fake it here. From time to time, you will unintentionally stumble onto something someone else has given birth to – it happens, you bet your ass. I guarantee there are instances in this blog where it’s happened. But don’t do so consciously. It’s sort of a pet peeve of mine. And when it happens to me I get angry. Pretty fucking pissed, actually. Because it’s usually someone I thought was unique themselves. But I find out the truth. I see who they are. And it’s ugly. And to those people, I say, go get your own fucking cookie and quit eating mine.

From Chocolate chips and a dash of cliche, and you've baked yourself one hell of a loser.

Step 30: Spend a little time thinking about the good things, the steady things, the things that make you and keep you who you are. Everyone gets so caught up in the here and now and the dealing with today, that they rarely realize that today becomes yesterday, then last month, then last year. The things to truly be thankful for, and the things that actually get you through the day never go away. Like Charmin Plus with Aloe. Think about them every once and awhile.

From Go Thank Yourself.

Step 31: It’s OK to move on, so do it. It isn’t just parents with their kids, it happens in every relationship on every level. It could be a friend moving away, a significant other meeting new people, or a co-worker getting a promotion. If you let those things slide. If you go with the proverbial flow, then you’ll probably be all right. If you don’t, then you’ll be scared, sad, frustrated, angry, violent or jealous. It may be tough, but just let it happen. It’s all a part of the process, so grow the fuck up.

From Growing Pains

Step 32: Don’t buy into the bull shit on either side of the story. It’s like being friends with a divorced couple. You have to hear all of their shit when the truth lies somewhere in the middle. I may happen to be better friends with the husband (read: liberal), but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to his bull shit. At the same time, I can stand listening to that crazy, lying, manipulative bitch of a wife of his talk about what a pussy he became. I may have appropriately digressed, but the step still stands: Take in both sides of the story and discern the truth. This goes with any situation. I think the problem with the war, though, is that the situation is actually grim, but one side pretends it’s not and the other pretends it’s worse and no one wants to look at what it actually is.

From A spoonful of good press helps the democracy go down.

Step 33: More than a little morbid, I know. But it happened, just so. I could have even gone on further, in greater detail, but I wasn’t sure how long you’d hang on for that. Anyway, more than anything I just felt like this needed to be blogged about. There are 60,000 deaths in L.A. County alone each year. Imagine how many there are in the country. Be thankful you’re alive. More than that, be thankful you made it this far. Some don’t make it past the age of 2. Additionally, though, regard death as a fact of life. You shouldn’t feel sad for these people because they are dead, and you don’t know them. Think about their families, sure, but don’t worry for them, and definitely not for the soul that’s gone to wherever you believe souls go. Just embrace the good things in life. Make sure your life checks out OK, so that when you check out, when you’re on the brink of death, whether tomorrow or 40 years from now, your last thought can be, "I lead a good life and had a good time doing it." Do you think the Grateful Dead fan who shot himself thought that in his final moments? I kind of doubt it.

From The Facts of Life

Step 34: I can’t speak for personal relationships (right now anyway), but with a book or a movie or, Christ, even a television show, find the value in it for you, and the rest of it toss away. The banana peel is part of the banana, but you don’t have to eat it. It’s what’s inside that matters. And for Oprah, for her to cast a stone at all is unbelievable. First, she defends him. That’s unpopular. Then, she feels betrayed by Frey? For the record, if you find value in what Oprah does, then by all means, keep watching. But understand that the same reason Frey sold 3.5 million copies of his book is the same reason Oprah maintains such an ardent following: They’re both fantastic liars. Fuck you Oprah.

From A Confederacy of Dunces

Step 35: You don't have to have things all figured out. Even when they're not, things can turn out very good, generally.

From Going to the Mall Perpetuates My Weirdness Which You'll Read in this Post and See that I Also Can't Afford Nice Things, Generally

Step 36: There’s no need to kill yourself at work, or at anything for that matter. If you aren’t currently spending at least 15 hours a week at work using the Interweb, or anything, for entertainment, then start. If you’re currently operating that way, then keep your hours in check - no more than 20. No one condones (not even me) slacking, apathy and whining. The fact is, quality work needs to be produced in an appropriate period of time. And if upward mobility is your bag, then by all means, throw a couple of extra hours of work in there. But since the 40-hour workweek isn’t going to change any time soon, you might as well take advantage of the leisure that rests at your key-tapping fingertips.

From Surfs Up: Why not doing work isn't bad

Step 37: Don’t be racist, don’t be greedy, don’t be greedy (I said that twice, didn’t I), and get rid of useless, one-sided agendas. With politics in mind, basically, let’s say fuck all, move forward, and hope that we can endure the next three years until, hopefully, there is some stability, not just in the White House, but on Capitol Hill and the world in general. Jesus Christ, can you believe this shit? Wha’ happened?

From Wha' Happened?

Step 38: This is a common step in my blog, and comes off as a bit trite, but it’s important: be honest with yourself. Do your own thing. Walk in stride with your own shadow, not the crowd’s. It’s a shame because this happens all over the place, not just Hollywood, and it causes a great many things to go under-appreciated or over-looked. And for crying out loud, don’t be a fucking Vilanch about life. (You’ll notice, I just made up my own word, which I’ll continue to use - Vilanch: anything negative and overtly lame)

From The Outsiders

Step 39: Don’t do that. Use your best judgment, but don’t be scared, you’ll hurt feelings a lot less with recognition rather than restraint. You could take this in any number of directions, too. I only scratched the surface of the "ignorance equals comfort" argument (different than ignorance is bliss). It’s like saying penis or vagina in public. If you were to say those in front of a number of people in more conservative parts of the country, Oh my shit.

From Tabooger

Step 40: Don’t wear nice clothes to the airport unless you arrive at least three hours ahead of time. Don’t operate a kiosk if you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing without complete supervision. In fact, don’t even leave the house if you’re so fucking retarded. Don’t take the freeway when surface roads are faster. Don’t shove people down at airports, whether they deserve it or not, because you’re likely to go to jail, not to mention look like a complete ass. Don’t press a newspaper to your chest when you’re sweating. Don’t go see Danny Gans perform. Ever. Don’t say snafu.

From Danny Gans, an Airport and the Big Snafu

Step 41: Life is more than A’s and B’s. Even after school, having the right job and the right paycheck and the right life plan can’t really be all that fulfilling if you don’t live an actual life surrounded by actual people. Some may think it is, but they’re just the ones who haven’t ventured outside of it. And those same people are setting up children, smart and stupid, rich and poor, for fucking disaster. That’s what I've got for now. But mostly, I think Newsweek is bullshit for making this the cover story. And they have now made my boycott list. Uppity fuckers.

From Preparation H-School

Step 42: Keep your dick in your pants. Keep your legs closed. Stay off the junk. Don’t be a whore. Promiscuity perpetuates two things other than multiple orgasms: pregnancy and disease. Both of which are dangerous things, more so if you don’t have the means to deal with them appropriately. And also, Britney and Kevin Federline should be destroyed. Seriously. What losers.

From Britney and K-Fed are Baby Killers

Step 43: I hate this sort of shit, I really do. Next thing you know, Black Jack is going to try and kick out all of the blacks and the Jews. Fundamentalists hurt this country. Things change for a reason: adaptation...evolution (ha). The Cleaver Family Experience flew out the window years ago. People are trying to make it work anyway they know how. Why ruin a good thing with marriage, if marriage isn’t the answer? And “I do” doesn’t settle things. People seem to forget that times change. You know, the Black Jack city council, the governor of South Dakota, and that whack job Kevin Ham (the T-Rex Mule Museum) should be reminded of a few things. There was once something called Protestantism. There was once something called the Emancipation Proclamation. There was once something called the 19th Amendment. At one point those things were unholy, as well. At one point, they were. Funny how there’s all the fuss, when it’s all for nothing. Leave shit be and let it happen.

From Living in Sin

Step 44: First, to Stan Lee. You approved this shit? Fucking hell. I wasn’t even a huge comic book fan, but I’m seriously disappointed. Second, to all of you jokers out there expecting to meet someone in the park when your dog humps theirs and then get married a week later and the rest of you political and corporate pundits, how about some fucking muscle to do it yourself. It seems the theme of most of this Reolution here is to not act like fucking sheep, but it only gets worse. Everyday it gets worse. We are consumed by consumption and we ape that which already mimics. We are a sad lot, folks. Ignore it all you want, but it’ll only get worse.

From The Reel Life

Step 45: Yeah, before you comment calling me out on this, I do it. So do you, and you and you. (By “do it,” I don’t mean that I use needless punctuation and ridiculous smiley faces). But don’t you think it’s a little out of hand? I’m simply saying be honest when you can. Avoid making things harder. You may be hated for it at the moment, but it will save you a world of pain later on. Trust me.

From Go Fuck Yourself! :)

Step 46: Somebody used to say, hell, maybe everyone, that excuses and buttholes were kindred spirits, mostly because of their respective smells. I think they were right. And I think we’ve become so comfortable making excuses and pointing the blame, that accountability flew out the window long ago. It’s a strong argument that we live in a delusional society. It’s an accurate one if we keep this up. So take what’s yours so nobody else has to. Be accountable for shit’s sake.

From Everyone's Got One

Step 47: I was going to flesh this out a bit, but I don’t think that I need to. The situation in Pagosa Springs is a cartoon of the real scenario, but it’s indication enough. It’s the small, exposed sore, where in reality there’s a sick and pervasive underlying viral disease. That’s not too extremely put, either. Debate is gone. Rational thinking is gone. We’re trying to win abroad, while we’re fighting each other at home. Maybe I’m so naïve as to think it hasn’t always been this bad. But I’m a cynic, and cynics aren’t so naïve. If a fight really needs to be won, then embrace the symbols you defy. Acknowledge their significance. And acknowledge that the mess we’re in here, anywhere, is at war with both of them.

From Peace Out

Step 48: I don’t care what kind of slang is being used. I just hope it isn’t coming at the cost of something else. My fear is that it is. Practice makes perfect, I guess, and all these kids are perfecting is language akin to Neanderthal grunts. It's really a lack of appreciation for or an ignorance of the stuff that got us to where we are. It's not about replacing an old arsenal with new weapons. It's about adding fire power to what you've got.

From LOL: The New Lexicon

Step 49: The problem with the Great American Ideal is that it creates either an ignorant or jaded community. Ignorance comes from never having confronted reality. Jadedness comes from working to get somewhere you're never going to. If you’re ignorant, you forget that while you're flitting around reality, people are working to allow you to do so, many of them happily (albeit ignorant in their own right that they’re supporting it). If you’re jaded, you can’t possibly see the successes in your own life. But it's those that create the real ideal. And that’s the beauty of it all. You can work at a coffee shop and be happy. You can drive around in a diamond-paneled SUV and be happy. But don’t assume that one person isn’t because their happiness doesn't come from where yours does. Be cognizant of the fact that success is different for everyone. Do that, and you’ll find your own.

From The Great American Ideal

Step 50: Read steps 1-49.

From You're not the only one who's irritated

Peace.

You're not the only one who's irritated

2007-05-31T23:19:00.000-07:00

I had a blog post all worked out. I even started writing it – something revolutionary, this being the 50th step and all. It was this self-righteous piece of shit where I even referred to myself in the third person. Then I received an e-mail.

“I’m irritated.” That’s what the subject line read. And, given the person it was coming from, I immediately started making excuses for things that I was sure the body of the e-mail would accuse. But it wasn't irritation at me. It was irritation at the state of things. Granted, two specific irritating items were targeted: A man with tuberculosis had neglected to tell anyone about it, and a woman had nearly burned down the aggravated e-mail sender’s small office building by improperly disposing of her cigarette butt. And it got me to thinking. In fact--and in so many words--it asked me to.

I’m irritated. I was two years ago when I started this blog, and I am now. And for quite a few reasons.

I’m irritated we’re at war. And I know that tired argument. It’s as tired as the argument that we’re at war with terror. Both have been spit out and swallowed and regurgitated again, and mostly by stupid people. Both of them...arguments, by and large, made by stupid people. At least, they’re the only ones you ever hear talking about it. They make claims in a stinking breath that seems more like they’re gasping to convince themselves that they still believe what they’re saying - that they still even care. They say it while they go about their lives, eating and drinking and laughing and playing and screwing and farting and burping and pissing. But I’d have to ask, because it begs the question: What is a war on terror? And why should it turn a blind eye to the death of the nation here at home?

I’m irritated because a war on terror makes little sense at all. Terror is, by definition, an overwhelming fear. So, are we at war with an overwhelming fear? How can you do that? While we’re at it, why don’t we start a war with depression or sadness or despair or ignorance? At least that would make more sense. Those things contribute to poverty and obesity and domestic social strife. We need to battle those, don’t we?

I’m irritated, to a degree, because we’re at war, and we probably needed to be. Or better said, we needed to do something. At the time, we needed to do something. And it irritates me that I believe that. It irritates me that people I know and you know are fighting for us and dying for us while we, like those stupid people, are consuming and screwing and farting and worrying more about our paychecks than anything else. Nonetheless, here we are spending far more money on guns and bombs and an infrastructure in a Middle Eastern country than we ever have on education or health care, for instance. And the result is a bunch of uneducated kids carrying weapons and carrying out our diplomacy. These are people who couldn’t receive the education they deserved.

I'm irritated because even if they were given what they deserved, they would be increasingly distracted by video games and celebrity and drugs and general apathy to really take advantage of it, so it would all go to waste.

I'm irritated because, meanwhile, these uneducated kids are being governed by people – told to kill by people – who received a life that no one really deserves. And don’t get me wrong, this isn’t a Republican-Democrat argument. We live in an aristocracy, where the rich become powerful for no reason other than the size of their bank balance, so screw them all until they figure out that there is some real, actual life going on here, and it isn't one big chess match. And that leads me to the next thing that irritates the shit out of me.

I’m irritated because a lot of people in this country have money. A lot of people are born into opportunity and continue to breed others into it. And what are they doing about. I mean, in an age where the dollar rules all, what the fuck are they really doing about it? In Los Angeles, there are 212,000 millionaires, and they don't do anything but eat at a place called "Providence" and shop at a place called "the Grove." Now, being a millionaire doesn't carry the same hauteur as it once did. Plenty of people are millionaires these days, and they're barely living within their means. And isn’t that grotesque? Zod forbid they pare down to an operating budget of say, a few hundred thousand annually, and use the cushion to make good. And beyond that, the people who have a real and immediate ability to affect change, the most powerful (read: rich), what are they doing but a few masturbatory charitable acts each year? What are they doing? They’re building schools in other countries, rather than helping to improve our own. They’re wrecking $2 million vehicles on roadways that lead to $40 million dollar homes. They’re purchasing trips to outer fucking space, and recycling their cans to justify it.

I’m irritated because the middle class - the upper middle class, the lower middle class - isn’t doing anything about it. That’s us. We raise our kids with a sense of entitlement no one should have. We teach them to view school as a necessary step to ultimately getting paid rather than enriching their lives. We go out on weekend benders and play automotive roulette when we’re adequately lubricated. We’re competitive with each other rather supportive. We’re concerned with how we look, highlighted with each glimpse in a mirror or a storefront window as we walk down the sidewalk. And like I said at the onset of this revolution - this ineffectual blog that’s a lot of talk and no action - I can say these things, hypocrisy in tow, because I do them. I’ve done them. And that's why I know you do them, too. And don’t you find it embarrassing? I do. I wish I felt this embarrassed with myself everyday, then I might get off my ass and do something.

I’m irritated because I write these steps, and start this “Revolution,” but am I following them, it? Am I practicing what I preach? Are you? Is anyone? This blog is a form of entertainment, isn’t it? Don’t I write these because, to an extent, I like to? I derive satisfaction from writing them? And don’t you – you few – read them because you’re expecting the occasional creatively placed “fuck” or joke about balls or shitting or, on the rare occasion, some cheap, trite, 10-cent Chicken Soup for the American Soul insight?

I’m irritated because I say all of this now, like it’s an impetus for change with me, you, this blog. But things will go back normal when I wake up in the morning. Things will go back normal when hit the last keystroke. And currently, how fucked up is normal?

I’m irritated because I’m mad as hell, and I probably am going to take it some more.

Step 50: Read steps 1-49.

I'm Blogging (Still)

2007-04-30T22:40:00.000-07:00

We're nearly due for a recap, but not quite. It took me two months to get to step 20. It's taken over a year and a half to log the next 30. We're days away from another post...and another recap. I wish it could've come more quickly. And I'd like to make excuses for why it hasn't, but I can't. If I did, I'd have to blog about myself. Fact is, I may have to do that anyway. The 15 or so of you out there who still pop in from time to time, well, you're more patient than I am.

In the meantime, here's a video that came to me months ago from someone who doesn't have a blog, but probably should. If you've already seen it, then why don't you just go ahead and see it again.

The Great American Ideal

2007-03-31T00:00:00.000-07:00

It’s late afternoon, but the sun is still high. For most of the day, the sky has been clear, but now a thick amber plume is rolling over the hill. There’s a fire burning in the Valley somewhere, I think, and it’s not all too uncommon – when there are fires, that is – for thick amber plumes to roll over hills. Or down coasts. They do that, too. For whatever reason, the wind always pushes the smoke southward. That’s logical, I guess, if you equate “south” with “down.” I wonder if there’s anywhere where smoke, and maybe clouds, drift north? The South Pole, probably, because it can’t just float off into the ether. Can it? No, it can’t. It floats north. It must. To Buenos Aires, I presume. But then, the aires wouldn’t be so buenos after all, would they?

You think I digress, but I don’t. I’m thinking about this right now, as I stand in the coffee shop. I think about this because it’s late afternoon, and late afternoons are perfect for the nondescript glaze to wash over your face. Still, it is a pretty good day. In front of me, a couple is hugging each other. But less a hug, and more one of those lean, chest-to-chest maneuvers, as though each is a buttress for the other. The fact that the girl’s arms happen to be draped across this guy’s shoulders is incidental.

Normally, I hate these couples. But I was prepared since I had already made a comment about them to two of my friends when we saw the buttressing through the window. The two of them – the friends, that is – walked down the street to another coffee shop, allowing my eyes to glaze over. Glazes cannot wash over one’s face if one is the presence of friends. Family members, however, can actually induce the glaze. Now I digress.

The guy is stroking his girlfriend’s hair, pushing it behind her elfin ear, and running his fingers down the side of her neck as he follows through. She smiles and marvels at her reflection on his mirror-paned sunglasses. They remind me of “the Gropers” – a certain couple from high school, one the son of a WCW wrestling announcer, who would desperately hang on each other like a wet pair of jeans to a thin tree branch, soaking up every last breath of that six-minute break in between classes. They had to have something to carry them through the following, oppressive 50 minutes.

I watch as the new Gropers order their drinks – two iced green teas – and do so while refusing to separate their bodies.

His phone rings. She is discarded. As he talks about “making things happen” (not a quote, a summation) to whomever he is talking about things with, she ambles thoughtlessly around the space in front of the counter, staring for great lengths at things that never deserved so much attention. I order my iced tea – something called a “Red Rooibus” that the baristas insist is delicious on ice. Given the high sun and the amber plume, I need something wet and refreshing, so I heed their claims. All the while, I am watching her amble and him talk, and thinking about how it might be better if, on this day, I were at home, and not on a coffee (tea, rather) break from work.

As I lean against the counter amidst all of this, well, this opposite of chaos – this normalcy, I guess it is – my eyes begin to glaze again. The guy who took my order has shoulder-length hair that longs for 1978. I think about that as he openly admits, “I know why you got the tea. We have to steep it. That’s five minutes you’re not in the office.” I hadn’t really thought of it like that before. I just like tea. But I responded “exactly” because I figured that’s what such an assertion needed. Besides, it was a pretty good thought on his part. And his hair is pretty cool, too.

Just after this exchange, the girl’s aimless motion focuses itself on the counter and stops, next to me.

“Uh, how long is this gonna take?” she impatiently propels at the barista. I look at the timer, set when she ordered, which appears to have ticked away just over two minutes of the five.

The tea maker turns from me and flashes a look her way, innocent enough - hiding his murderous thoughts - and says, “Just a second. We have to steep the tea for a few minutes.”

I look back at her boyfriend as he hangs up his call. He has now pushed his glasses up on top of his head. I guess it’s less bright inside the store now than it was three minutes ago. My eyes shift back to the girl. The undue annoyance on her face tarnishes its otherwise impressive beauty. Her beau returns to her side, having time for her once again. He fluidly slides his hand to her hip, wanting to caress the sparsely covered contours of her ass, but stopping short.

“It’s not ready yet,” the girl needlessly whisper-whines to her boyfriend. Then, back to the barista, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you had to do that,“ as though she has put him out some how by ordering a drink that likely two dozen people had ordered earlier that day. The insincerity that powered her apology could only suggest that she wasn’t really sorry for anything, not that there was anything to be sorry for.

In reality, to someone like this, work of nearly any variety is a woeful endeavor, even when it’s as simple as waiting for dried leaves to soak in hot water. That’s where the apology stemmed from. She thought there was some tapped tub of green tea from which the employees pull the beverage. Anything more than that is effort. And effort, aside from applying eye shadow heavily and thinking about who Lauren’s next date is on The Hills, should be avoided at all costs.

“I’m really sorry, I didn’t know,” she needlessly says again (Aside: This actually happened). With this, she has only reinforced my point above to a similar extent as someone saying twice that the sky is blue.

Her boyfriend tends to agree, it seems. Admittedly, though, the malaise on his face could be attributed to a life of wealth, which has begotten a certain lethargic daily agenda. At this point, I know his car is worth more than everything I own.

After moments pass, their teas are ready. As they fumble around for plastic tops at the self-service counter with the cream, sugar and wooden stirring rods, my Red Rooibus timer goes off. The tea maker with the hair pours my drink, and I head outside to meet my two friends. They are waiting for me at one of the latticed metal tables that abut the curbside parking. I push the door open with my ass, nudged out a bit, my tea facing into the coffee shop. The couple is directly in front of me at this point, inside. And as I try to maneuver my vast carcass in such a way that I can hold the door open with my ass, leaving enough room for them to pass, my tea, filled to the brim, tips and spills a bit. Mostly, my hand has fallen victim to the drip, but some also manages to splash the ground, which, in turn, splashes the girl’s slippered feet.

“Well, we just can’t take you anywhere, can we,” she says in a motherly manner, as though I’m operating the dissonant body of a 13-year-old going through puberty. She is (most likely) 20 years old.

I hate these people, I think. “I’m sorry about that,” I say.

I sit down at the table with my friends, remarking briefly about the spillage incident, and then looking momentarily back to the amber plume. The couple walks to a Mercedes G500, that abortion of an SUV that looks like a transport for the high rank of the Third Reich (and it costs $85K). I knew it.

And I knew it about the people, too. They are Hollydouche. That sect of the Los Angeles social structure that tarnishes its international image just as the annoyance did that girl’s face. We who live in Los Angeles know these people and despise them. In my weaker moments, I believe they live here and only here. My weaker moments find me wrong. It’s bigger than that.

It's bigger because we all have bathed ourselves in this image of prosperity. Maybe because we’ve grown up in it in the immediate sense – our home, our neighborhood. Maybe because we’ve grown up in a prosperous nation. And somewhere down the line, an ideal was set. The American archetype positions each and everyone one of us as wealthy without trying. Big houses are the backdrop for sleek cars that carry 2.3 kids to private schools where they’ll attend class with mostly white people. That’s too bad because that’s the unlikeliest of scenarios, if that’s the life so desired.

For those who it does happen for, they are blind to the more likely scenarios. That’s not to say everyone else is unsuccessful. Quite the contrary. Success is as diverse as the roads that travel there, and means different things for different people. But these other people, who buy into the archetype, and often live it, they don’t realize what this really is and where they really live and what they’re really doing.

In this world, in this country, in this neighborhood, people work to exist. So, don’t apologize to them for doing it if you don’t.

Step 49: The problem with the Great American Ideal is that it creates either an ignorant or jaded community. Ignorance comes from never having confronted reality. Jadedness comes from working to get somewhere you're never going to. If you’re ignorant, you forget that while you're flitting around reality, people are working to allow you to do so, many of them happily (albeit ignorant in their own right that they’re supporting it). If you’re jaded, you can’t possibly see the successes in your own life. But it's those that create the real ideal. And that’s the beauty of it all. You can work at a coffee shop and be happy. You can drive around in a diamond-paneled SUV and be happy. But don’t assume that one person isn’t because their happiness doesn't come from where yours does. Be cognizant of the fact that success is different for everyone. Do that, and you’ll find your own.

I'm not the only one LOL'ing over here...

2007-02-13T11:37:00.000-08:00

Loyal reader Persian spotted an AP wire story on CNN.com that deals specifically with my previous post. Check it out, I'm a soothsayer, a seer of things. This is the story. We're doomed because teenagers are idiots. Good eye, Persian.

Students use IM-lingo in essays

ORLANDO, Florida (AP) -- Middle school teacher Julia Austin is noticing a new generation of errors creeping into her pupils' essays.

Sure, they still commit the classic blunders -- like the commonly used "ain't." But an increasing number of Austin's eighth-graders also submit classwork containing "b4," "ur," "2" and "wata" -- words that may confuse adults but are part of the teens' everyday lives.

This "instant messaging-speak" or "IM-speak" emerged more than a decade ago. Used in e-mail and cell phone text messages, most teens are familiar with this tech talk and use it to flirt, plan dates and gossip.

But junior high and high school teachers nationwide say they see a troubling trend: The words have become so commonplace in children's social lives that the techno spellings are finding their way into essays and other writing assignments.

"The IM-speak is so prevalent now," said Austin, a language arts teacher at Stonewall Jackson Middle School in Orlando. "I'm always having to instruct my students against using it."

Vicki A. Davis, a high school teacher at Westwood Schools in Camilla, Georgia, said she even finds the abbreviated words in term papers.

"I'm Southern, but I wouldn't use the sayings, "squeal like a pig" or "kick the bucket," in formal writing (because) some people may not understand," Davis said. "IM-speak should be treated the same way."

Fourteen-year-old Brandi Concepcion, a pupil of Austin's, said wit, da and dat -- used in place of with, the and that -- sometimes creep into her homework.

"I write like that in the rough draft, but I try to catch the mistakes before I turn in the final draft," she said.

Some educators, like David Warlick, 54, of Raleigh, North Carolina, see the young burgeoning band of instant messengers as a phenomenon that should be celebrated. Teachers should credit their students with inventing a new language ideal for communicating in a high-tech world, said Warlick, who has authored three books on technology in the classroom.

And most avoid those pitfalls once they enter college, said Larry Beason, director of freshman composition at the University of South Alabama in Mobile, Alabama.

"Some of the same kids that I teach now were probably guilty of techno spellings in high school," Beason said. "But most students realize that they need to put their adolescent spellings behind them by the time they get to college."

LOL: The New Lexicon

2007-01-31T22:39:00.000-08:00

There was a time not all that long ago that kids didn’t have computers. They didn’t have typewriters. There was a time, not all that long ago, that kids wrote longhand. This was for school and carried on into work. Most frequently it was in correspondence, as letters were the most effective way of communicating, particularly over long distances. And written communication, after a telephonic hiatus, is making a big comeback. This is due in large part to technological advances. Whatever the cause, the result is embarrassing, to say the least. And while kiddies have more and more access to porn and pederasts and popular media, they are increasingly retarded.

With an emphasis - pre- and post-typewriter - on not fucking up so often you had to start over, it was a simple matter of convenience that forced people to use proper grammar rules. No one wants to start a page over after they’ve written it. And to use grammar effectively and efficiently, you actually had to know it. Fast-forward years later, and the programming behemoth Microsoft, among others, installs spelling and grammar-check solutions in its primary document software. Now, kids don’t really have to learn grammar rules. They don’t have to learn how to spell. The computer does it all for them. Never mind the fact the computer is often wrong (or at least, not always right). And never mind the fact that the same part of the brain that forms the sentence on the page is the same part that’s controlling the way in which that nonsense is coming out of your mouth. If you don’t have a fucking grammar check in your head, your voice sounds, quite literally, like as series of bumbling, spitting, sputtering burps and farts, and you likely say “funner” when you think one thing is more fun than something else.

Unfortunately, we’ve reached a new level of enlightenment. With the use of instant messaging, messaging boards, MySpace sparkle letters and the desire to keep up to speed with all their peeps, kids – and adults – are whipping out afaik’s* like they’re lol’s*. The your-you’re-there-their-they’re-it’s-its problem has only gotten worse. People don’t understand how and when to use an apostrophe. In fact, I’m not even sure they know what an apostrophe is. They ramble and use run-ons. The insta-talk has translated to e-mail language, as well. When at its dawn – and now, at its best – e-mail was treated with the same structural significance as a thesis was in longhand, now periods seem not to exist. They are replaced, instead, with a series of commas and ellipses – if you’re lucky. Thanks has become thx. If something is funny, it isn’t funny, but lol (or, more offensive, the all-caps LOL). But that’s all very basic. If you use those, you are likely a dipshit. I can’t take that back. You just are. But they are basic nonetheless, and even you dipshits probably don’t know half of what we’re up against. You think I’m being ridic?

Parents, apparently, have no idea what their kids are talking about these days. Shocking, I’m sure. It must be the first time that’s ever happened. Well, this time, it isn’t groovy, far out, dink, ditz, awesome, sick or bad that’s throwing them off. It’s acronyms. An acronym, as we all know, was usually reserved for heavy shit like HIV, AIDS and the CIA, boring organizations (think FDR’s New Deal – CCC, AAA, etc.) or athletic leagues. Now they’re a whole new animal. Everyday phrases are being shortened through acronymic manipulation (and, yeah, it’s a word – spell check told me so). Various entities have dispensed guides this for combating this teen pop-culture code. Essentially, these are dictionaries. This language has its own dictionary - multiple. And languages that have their own dictionaries have their own speech, their own spoken word. And that’s what worries me.

As these phrases, acronyms and generally moronic shorthand become commonplace, there will be more widespread communication of them. When the people who primarily use them – preteens and teenagers – move on and enter the world where we exist, this vernacular won’t be in its infancy any longer. No, it will have grown up. It’s likely that the most familiar terms – because that’s what they’ll be – will be spoken. You can see it now with “ridic.” You'll see it later with gmta*. Essentially, our language is being butchered. It is dying.

As the Internet Age continues, and technology increasingly dominates the corporate world (which has increasingly dominated our world), you could argue that the cultural aesthetic is dying. Art, in any form, becomes yet another capitalist avenue. As that reality confronts us, many more will be driven away from it and toward this. This world. TMI* is simply a startling reminder of this and an indication that this process is on overdrive. Soon, a large portion of the country will be fluent in a language that didn’t exist two decades ago – a technical language. A language first easy on the fingertips, then easy on the brain. The problem is, we’ll be unable to communicate in the way that’s most necessary. Because it’s not just talking your way from A to B. It’s about emotions and thoughts and feelings and most of that is lost in an abbreviated language, an abbreviated life. What will the great writers and speakers a century from now sound like? Will they even exist?

Do I believe we’re getting dumber? Not necessarily. Graduation rates decline, but that’s because kids are ever more distracted, not stupid. In fact, I think we’re getting smarter. But is it the right kind of smart?

All I know is that the instant I say hello to someone, and they respond with wu*, I’m building a subterranean shelter stocked with non-perishable goods. Because the end of the world is at hand. WTF, man.

Step 48: I don’t care what kind of slang is being used. I just hope it isn’t coming at the cost of something else. My fear is that it is. Practice makes perfect, I guess, and all these kids are perfecting is language akin to Neanderthal grunts. It's really a lack of appreciation for or an ignorance of the stuff that got us to where we are. It's not about replacing an old arsenal with new weapons. It's about adding fire power to what you've got.

Peace

* afaik - as far as I know; gmta - great minds think alike; TMI - too much information; wu - what's up; WTF - what the fuck; ridic - ridiculous

Peace Out

2006-12-01T20:13:00.000-08:00

We are at war. Civil war. We may not being firing shots on each other and flinging mortar rounds from red states to blue, but we are at each other’s throats. We’ve forgotten who we are and where we come from. Intellectuals are reduced to rants and belligerence. Illiterates are lifted as icons. Up is down. Right is wrong. Freedom is shackled in false pride. We are confused and mistaken, increasingly believing we are accurate and just.

A woman in Pagosa Springs, Colo., is being fined $25 a day by her homeowner’s association until she removes a wreath from outside her home. And it’s not because she lives in a Jehovah’s Witness commune. Her wreath is fashioned in the shape of a peace sign. Some in the community believe this to be anti-war sentiment, while others have marked it a Satanic denotation.

The woman has said she thought nothing of Iraq – nor the devil, I can rationally presume – when she began decorating. But her initial motivation is a trifle irrelevant, really. She is now embroiled in a battle of bullheads, no matter how absurd and utterly baffling the homeowners association’s stance may be. Her purpose now is to defeat them. They are at war because of peace. An all too familiar scenario.

I have a Nalgene bottle that I used to bring to my old job, everyday. It was a gift – well, more of hand-me-down – from my brother. There were stickers placed on it from years past – the late ‘90s, I think. Why those particular stickers are there, I do not know. Maybe he thought they looked cool. Maybe he was stoned.

One is a purple spiral: a single strand, swirling inward to form a circular coil (though coils are, by definition, circular). On the opposite side, there is an American flag. One afternoon, I was in the kitchen, filling the bottle with water from the water cooler – the one where talk goes on, I hear. I was filling it with water because that’s what I drink, less because it’s healthy, more because it’s cheap. A co-worker approached me, and with sardonic breath asked, “Why do you have an American flag on your bottle?” I was confused by both because his bitter interrogation and the fact that I didn’t know why it was there. Realizing the finger he was pointing, I, embarrassingly, actually started blaming my brother. That’s right...blaming. Blaming him until I was overcome with anger, in large part because I like my brother a good bit, and fuck this guy, right? I mean, since when is it a show of poor character to display an American flag? Since when does doing so mean you’re a Republican? And since when does that even fucking matter?

First, if the Stars and Stripes has a bedfellow, it’s the peace sign. Or it once was. At least, it should be. Yet one is a battle sign, and the other is an icon of defiance. And the two are pitted against each other like logos on a football helmet.

As we continue to throw good sense and fresh minds out the window, we degenerate into soulless clods. Armed with backwards thought and twisted perspective and branded with our party symbol, we attack our neighbor, quite literally.

What people fail to realize is that patriotism, and pride in the American flag, is real, even in conscientious objection. Especially in conscientious objection. Still others forget that peace is something we’re after in war. I don’t understand the logic either, but it’s somebody’s logic. And it’s that same somebody who feels brandishing a peace sign is an act of treason, of war.

Step 47: I was going to flesh this out a bit, but I don’t think that I need to. The situation in Pagosa Springs is a cartoon of the real scenario, but it’s indication enough. It’s the small, exposed sore, where in reality there’s a sick and pervasive underlying viral disease. That’s not too extremely put, either. Debate is gone. Rational thinking is gone. We’re trying to win abroad, while we’re fighting each other at home. Maybe I’m so naïve as to think it hasn’t always been this bad. But I’m a cynic, and cynics aren’t so naïve. If a fight really needs to be won, then embrace the symbols you defy. Acknowledge their significance. And acknowledge that the mess we’re in here, anywhere, is at war with both of them.

Peace.

Editor's Note: If you read through my archives, I used to sign out with "peace" after each post, and most comments. I don't know why I stopped.

It's been busy, but good

2006-11-30T20:49:00.000-08:00

It's been a busy month, with many trips. That's really just another excuse. I went to the old college stomping ground to watch my school get stomped. But it was fine. Not really, but I tell myself that. It was my birthday. Which means nothing save the fact that I get to say that.

I also went to Italy. I'm really only mentioning it for these two reasons:

1. There will be related blog posts.
2. I'm shamelessly bragging.

Here's looking ahead to December.

Everyone's Got One

2006-10-20T00:05:00.000-07:00

Mark Foley is a fucking pervert. And nearly impossibly, that’s not his worst trait. The now-resigned-out-of-shame congressman from Florida is a liar, too. He’s a lying fucking pervert. When news first broke of his instant messaging transgressions and advances to teenage boys, I thought with mild apathy and not the least bit of surprise, “Huh, ‘nother pederast in congress, I guess.”

It all seemed so humdrum, so mundane. It was the every-friggin-day blues of it all that left me about as affected as an atheist at a Pentecost. I know that may seem callous, but how much sleep am I to lose over it? But then Foley comes with the excuses. First, it’s outright denial. Then, the poor bastard realizes he’s thigh-high in a shit heap, so he resigns, and vows to enter himself into rehab to exorcise his alcoholism. The blame game has begun. Finally, when he figures out that being drunk isn’t a get-out-of-jail-free card, he made himself the victim of molestation. He claimed that his childhood priest back in the ’60s sexually abused him. Hello Captain Obvious: If you’re going to Catholic Church in the first place, you’ve got to be expecting that. My old roommate is Catholic, I don’t hear him bitching. It’s like going to get a hair cut, and then getting pissed when they touch your head. But this isn’t about Catholicism, striking similarities aside. It’s about pedophiles and lying. But mostly lying.

Mark Foley’s run-first reaction wasn’t bred from his own sick mind. As a good American, it’s what he knows best. We always have a finger to point, no matter the issue. When I was in school, I was in the habit of trying to get teachers fired because they didn’t put up with my truancy and wanton disregard for the rules. No matter what I had done, I had never done anything wrong. Sure, I acknowledged that I had been in a less than desirable situation, but it was as situation I had been nearly forced into. Guided by the hand of authority to some destiny – predetermined trouble and completely beyond me. In my case it was saying “fuck” publicly and going to the gas station rather than class. With Foley, it was sexually harassing boys.

I guess I can admit a lot of that now (though I still hold that one 7th grade teacher was a lunatic). But how hard is it, really, to take sole responsibility for your actions? The kid who drinks and drives blames the cop. The slacker blames the time. It so disgusting that no one is accountable. If we are deemed as much by a court of law or by some higher power, like a babysitter, then we maintain our partial innocence. We stand by it with a blue face and slobbering spit and likely convince ourselves that we’re innocent – pulling an O.J., as it were.

I had made a comment in my last post that we makes excuses to run from difficulty. The only difference between excuses and blame is the side of the bed they’re sleeping on. We’re spoon-fed so much sugar, that we don’t know how to taste the salt. Its constant encouragement for everything we do – from family, friends, bosses, even the media sheds a pro-American light on everything, regardless of what conservative Republicans may think. In short, we don’t like bad news. Not because of the news itself, but because it means, in some way, we’ll have to alter our perceptions, our ideas, our sensibilities – ultimately, a portion of our life. But instead of adapting, we try to remain steadfast in our defense by pointing the finger. At something.

Take for instance, the War in Iraq. The topic, as immediate as it is, is a horse that’s been severely beaten, postmortem. But it’s accessible and relative. Initially, there really was no right or wrong, whatever anyone said, it was hearsay and speculation, for or against. At this point, however, no one – being honest with themselves – can really believe that this is working. It’s the reason a war has become hackneyed, stale. With that in mind, whenever a view divergent from ours enters the conversation, we dismiss it or assign it some illogical source and attach a swear-word adjective to it. If we’re against the war, anything positive gets a “fucking Bush.” Because apparently he created the spin. If we’re for the war, everything gets a “fucking media.” Because apparently it created the spin. When all the while, we’re just afraid to realize that maybe our initial inclination was somewhat wrong. Maybe we can’t holdfast to our original story. Maybe we have to blame someone or something else to do so. Because, in the end, we think it might save us some dignity. We think that it will dull the salty taste. But when all is said and done, more-than-necessary destruction remains, and we’re stuck with the same outcome, the same guilt and the same anger.

So, yeah, Mark Foley, you’re a fucking pervert. But you’re a fucking liar, too.

Step 46: Somebody used to say, hell, maybe everyone, that excuses and buttholes were kindred spirits, mostly because of their respective smells. I think they were right. And I think we’ve become so comfortable making excuses and pointing the blame, that accountability flew out the window long ago. It’s a strong argument that we live in a delusional society. It’s an accurate one if we keep this up. So take what’s yours so nobody else has to. Be accountable for shit’s sake.

It's Not You, It's Me

2006-10-06T17:23:00.000-07:00

There's been some pretty good material out there as of late. By "good," I mean truly depressing. Litte Amish girls being bound and executed, pervert, pedophile politicians, Alex Rodriquez's postseason performance. Regardless the degree, the failures of human beings can be found everywhere, and it's embarrassing. But, I don't want to dwell on that. Or, I should say, there are more triumphs than failures. It was the whole point of this thing, really. This revolution. There's no doubt I'm a cynic. And it's to my detriment at times. But someone once said this blog was dark, meaning this Revolution is dark. And again, that's not the point. It's more that there are so very many good things, but folly, misfortune and bad deeds are so much thicker in our moral and social consciousness. It weighs us down and is contagious. They are elements that wound the human experience, in that we turn a cold shoulder, a blind eye, become at once desensitized and overly sensitive. It's not what we're doing, per se. It's how we're reacting to what others are doing. We use religion as a blanket, not a vehicle for personal enlightenment or spirituality. We use weapons for revenge or some other satisfaction. We use excuses to run away from difficulty. We use the designated hitter rule, even though it's illogical. My point is, very little of it is out of malice, even if what is spotlighted is malicious.

Non-Step 1: The tone of this blog, if you read through the archives, has changed a bit. I've noticed there were a lot of four-letter words for things you do to or on other people, usually of the opposite sex. It softened up a bit. And then it stalled. I'm not promising more cursing, or even more posts. I'm really just pointing that out. And I just really needed to blog. Man, I can't believe I missed September.

I missed September...

2006-09-30T17:20:00.000-07:00

...ouch.

Crippled Sex

2006-08-21T22:06:00.000-07:00

Somebody found my blog by searching for "paraplegia vagina." Just sayin'.

Go Fuck Yourself! ☺

2006-08-02T21:42:00.000-07:00

I don't really trust people who use exclamation points and smiley faces in e-mail. I think they're full of shit, really. Maybe not all of them. But most. I think that the two symbols are excessively used. For instance, :) or any variation of (=), ;), :p) is an indication that someone probably wishes you dead. At the very least, if you were on fire, they would gladly warm their hands on your burning body rather than piss on you.

People throw the two out there when they're not needed. Many times, they are used when someone wants to gloss over written-word sarcasm. (In doing so, however, it's no longer sarcasm, is it.) Many times more, however, they are used in place of a period, or just after one. And all that well-wishing makes me leery of their intentions. Reeks of ulterior motives, I'd say.

An example: “Hey! How are you! What have you been up to! It’s been so long since we’ve talked, you’d probably think I’d forgotten about. =)”

The sentence that’s lingering – that’s waiting for you to respond – is “I’m in a bit of a pinch, can you loan me $500. :P”

People just aren’t that happy. I’m in a good mood most of the time. I really am. But I don’t use that bunk. Not in my correspondence. Yet, I’m fairly cynical. Still, I know innocents just the same who don’t let annoying punctuation rape their prose. It’s because sincerity says a lot all on its own.

The exclamation point/smiley face phenomenon is like typing out sorority rush. At face value, it seems as though this person is excited to hear from you, delighted to see you, overall pleased that you’re interacting. But really, behind the elevated annunciation lies a sinister thought.

It can happen in the workplace. You know how someone, in another office, in another part of the country – someone you do not know – writes and asks for a document of some kind? When you send it to them, they reply, “Great! Thanks!” But is it really so great that you just added to their pile of work? This person who you don’t even fucking know, just had to stay at the office 10 minutes longer on a Friday night because of you. They hate you.

It speaks volumes in terms of where we are today. People can’t be honest with each other. The result is that it’s harder for messengers to deliver bad news, which makes bad news more difficult to receive. There is such an emphasis on being polite and courteous, that the notion of acting in such a manner has taken a back seat to hypocrisy. People who claim to be good people say, for example, that it was good to see someone, and then say how fat that someone looked once they leave. They’re telling them what they want to hear to benefit themselves. Because to make a moment less painful by lying is to add comfort to you life.

Politicians do it all the time, and worse than ever. You can’t get a straight answer out of any of them because they’d just as soon give you a blowjob than tell you to your face that your taxes are increasing. What happens is two divergent opinions, in politics or otherwise, are colored over with nice and pretty words. When the inevitable truth comes to light, through third parties like friends, the media or the woman telling the rushee she’s not getting a bid, the sting of it all stings that much more. And that backlash lashes that much harder. In response, nicer and prettier words are said, and the cycle starts all over. When, if at first sight, the truth was told, it would sting, there would be backlash, but it would be nearly harmless in the long run.

What if Mel Gibson had said, after Passion of the Christ, “Yeah, I hold a grudge against the Jews because I hold them responsible for the death of Jesus.” He still would have made assloads of cash, regardless of the public relations nightmare created. But now, after he’s caught saying “The Jews are responsible for all of the wars in the world,” no one would be shocked. Everyone would call him an ignorant dickhead and be done with it. Instead, he says he loves Jews, and offers to make an HBO mini-series on the Holocaust. Ouch. How’s that sting feel now?

See…you’d find out your taxes were going up, but at least you got it from the horse’s mouth. You’d find out the girls at Iota Beta Worthless didn’t like you, but at least you wouldn’t believe you had new friends. You’d ask for $500 right off the bat, but at least you wouldn’t fool someone into thinking you actually gave a shit about their day.

So, ☺ may seem innocent enough, but it’s indicative of a larger problem. It’s the real reason our country hates each other like we haven’t since Reconstruction. It’s the reason people have social anxiety. It’s the reason you do this - ! =) – in the first place.

Step 45: Yeah, before you comment calling me out on this, I do it. So do you, and you and you. (By “do it,” I don’t mean that I use needless punctuation and ridiculous smiley faces). But don’t you think it’s a little out of hand? I’m simply saying be honest when you can. Avoid making things harder. You may be hated for it at the moment, but it will save you a world of pain later on. Trust me.

Oprah's gonna get it...eventually

2006-07-30T21:53:00.000-07:00

All right, seriously, I’m still blogging. I swear. I’ve been in a transitional period that’s required the attention of a portion of my brain that had been set aside for blogging. Check back in the next day or so for a post – if you’re still “checking” at all, that is.

Go blog yourself,

Scrubby Nub a.k.a. Youngling #2 a.k.a. I’m not dead a.k.a. (seriously)

Reel Life

2006-06-20T12:57:00.000-07:00

I think movies might be running and ruining our lives. Damn, I love to watch 'em, but I think some people love them a little too much - a little coitus cinematus.

As someone who passes each day in his Own Personal Fantasyland, I’ve always loved the comic-book movie spin-offs. Superman set the tone for the modern-era comic book hero with larger-than-life characters whose sense of right and wrong was not simply stenciled on a page, but it was palpable, as were the crisp, wholesome gleam of Christopher Reeve and the egomaniacal sanctimony of Gene Hackman. Later on, when (Michael Keaton’s) Batman came out, I urged my brother to play the Batman theme on his guitar continuously for a week after I saw it. I thought it was genius. Still do, even. And the latest deluge of superhuman super flicks hasn’t let down. The X-Men movies have been solid, though I haven’t seen the third. The new Batman feature was a return to greatness for the winged hero that had unremarkably turned to shit in his previous three installments. And, certainly not least, Spiderman swung onto the scene in a tour de force unmatched, in my opinion, by any cinematic superhero – Kryptonian, winged or otherwise mutant. That was the first Spiderman. The second, well, the second one sucked. That’s an unpopular opinion, I know, but if you put your own selfish desire to be entertained aside and look at the facts, Spiderman II was a waste of $220 million. First, the love story between Peter Parker a.k.a. Spiderdouche and Mary Jane torn from the same cloth as a Dawson’s Creek adolescent pet-fest. And most egregiously was the fact the Spiderman, who for decades had saved lives, anonymity intact, revealed himself to a trainload of people and to his woman (in the name of pussy, sure). That wasn’t supposed to happen. And it was pandering to an audience that has to be satisfied with omniscience and happy fucking endings. There was always someone who knew who Batman was, but he never came out and said it. Dropped hints, maybe. Revealed the lower half of his face, yes, but he never came out of the cave, so to speak. The consequences are undeniable and now no longer potential, but here.

In "real life," Spiderman, the comic, the drawn figure, takes off his mask at a press conference in Times Square, announcing, "I’m proud of who I am, and I’m here right now to prove it." That’s a kick in the thorax to the Spiderman of old, dominated by nothing more than peace, justice and humility. It goes to show that movies are dictating life, not the other way around anymore. "The ultimate taboo" of revealing Spidey’s face is said to have some correlation with WMD and wiretaps and the state of the Union. But I call bullshit. The move found success in the revelation, so why shouldn’t the comic book? Don’t get me wrong, everyone knows Peter Parker is Spiderman. Everyone knows Bruce Wayne is Batman. Everyone knows Clark Kent is Superman. Just like everyone also knows that romantic comedies are fiction. Just like everyone knows most documentaries are dressed up and dramatized so that our increasingly obtuse society to chew on otherwise dense and convoluted information. But we don’t really know, do we.

See, my Own Personal Fantasyland used to be OK. It was fairly harmless. But look at our Own Societal Fantasyland that has emerged. Our notion of love and romance is contorted and colored over, forcing most people to live with an impossible dream of love at first sight or relationships that work without any work (See the dependence? Things only work if you work at them). Documentaries like Enron’s chronicle, The Smartest Guys in the Room, are given suspenseful bass lines and drum beats during transitions and, all of a sudden, the viewer is led to believe that California’s entire energy supply was at stake. Count it, all of it. All because of Enron. Michael Moore threw his own spin on Fahrenheit 911 with a fine show of editing, but the result was a flock of liberal disciples regurgitating his spin as truth in arguments with conservatives, ultimately sounding like dipshits. Conversely, conservatives ignored any shred of truth existing, declaring treason on someone who is, quite honestly, patriotic, misled as he may be at times.

Our movies stars and celebrities have no identity unto themselves. Jennifer Aniston will always be Rachel. Russell Crowe will always be a Gladiator or a Schizo. Hell, to bring it full circle, name something Christopher Reeve did past Superman besides Noises Off... (ha, gotcha). What’s more, how many times did you simply refer to him as Superman, at least before you started referring to him as the crippled?

This all seems innocent enough, but it’s not. Because ignorance and delusion is not innocent. Where before entertainment was an escape from reality, people are now trying to make it reality. Movies, film stars, musicians, always had an influence on style and fashion. And some might argue that film and music has been the voice for a generation in the past, that the two were always linked, side-by-side, brothers in arms, as it were, fighting the man. But then art was imitating life. Now life is imitating art thinking it’s imitating life.

Peter Parker can go ahead and take his fucking mask off for all I care. And 22-year-old can keep getting hitched thinking all a marriage takes is an “I love you.” And voters can run around feigning empowerment and an authoritative voice after seeing the latest Shockyoumentary. You guys can go ahead and do that. I’m go to head back to my Own Personal Fantasyland and pretend that we make movies; moves don’t make us.

Step 44: First, to Stan Lee. You approved this shit? Fucking hell. I wasn’t even a huge comic book fan, but I’m seriously disappointed. Second, to all of you jokers out there expecting to meet someone in the park when your dog humps theirs and then get married a week later and the rest of you political and corporate pundits, how about some fucking muscle to do it yourself. It seems the theme of most of this Reolution here is to not act like fucking sheep, but it only gets worse. Everyday it gets worse. We are consumed by consumption and we ape that which already mimics. We are a sad lot, folks. Ignore it all you want, but it’ll only get worse.

Living in Sin

2006-05-19T15:49:00.000-07:00

The City Council of Black Jack, Mo., rejected a measure that would allow unwed couples with children to live together – just as one couple was denied an occupancy permit because they have three children, but have not married. A step further, other such couples – abominations in the eyes God, I’m sure – could face eviction. Well, I guess a city that is the namesake of a card game and pastime that oozes greed, lust, booze and general debauchery has the moral jurisdiction to make those kinds of judgments.

But Black Jack is simply following the trend. The St. Louis suburb is doing something that myriad suburbs, cities, states and the politicians that represent them are doing: retreating to the moral high ground amidst a deluge of (supposed) moral turpitude. But doing so makes about as much sense as retreating to a doghouse during a tornado – with salvation in mind, damnation ensues.

Similar acts of ethical puppetry have taken place over the last year. In South Dakota, they’ve tried to outlaw abortions, of any kind – rape and incest no matter. Gay marriages have been banned, with a battle currently being fought (again) in Georgia, and science text books were asked to print disclaimers: “Caution: Theory of Evolution Could Remove the Blindfold from Your Children.” In that same regard, a museum has opened in Kentucky – with much Christian fanfare – depicting dinosaurs donning saddles, as though they were beasts of burden. Clearly, the Brachiosaur was just another harnessed mule that lived in harmony with man 5,000 to 6,000 years ago, plowing the fields and lazily chewing cud atop a grassy hillock at the far edge of his fully upright proprietor’s acreage. (And apparently the tonnage of all dinosaur species had no significant impact on the buoyancy of Noah’s Ark.)

The problem with this retreat, this deliverance from evil, so to speak, is that it is only likely to evoke a negative response, not just from the heathens and heretics, but from Heaven’s Holy Warriors, as well. It’s a civil war of the worst kind. It’s a war of ideologies. And those fights find much more difficulty in reaching an accord.

Let’s suppose, for instance, that abortions were federally prohibited. And let’s suppose that South Dakota’s anti-anything laws were imposed nationally, as well. What do you think would happen? It’s a matter of public dissent and political unrest – conscientious objection that would bring abortions to the black market. Abortions wouldn’t actually go away, they would just get dirty. It’s why Sandra Day O’Connor, though not an advocate of the practice, in ruling was hesitant to proscribe it.

The problem with wars of ideology is the pointed-finger, devious jabs and the perpetual notion that the other side is always wrong. The fact is, there is a right and wrong. It’s right to let people be people. It’s wrong to try and recruit, assimilate and ultimately force others to adhere to your own rigid rules of existence, regardless the plane of extremity.

Take Black Jack, for example. Who are they to determine the legality of a devoted couple’s relationship and family? Who are they to determine if they’re even devoted? And what does love and devotion really matter to a city council, whose primary concerns typically ping back and forth between zoning ordinances and infrastructure budgets? It doesn’t matter, and it doesn’t affect them, only their dim worldview. If something is in discord with a moral or political belief system, that system feels – unduly, at times – threatened. As mentioned in my previous blog, I am not a fan of irrational and irresponsible conception. However, it is a couple’s right to decide if marriage is what works for them. I doubt that the city council would take issue if it were two emerging local businesses that teamed up to raise funds for a new recreational facility, possibly a park. There’s no legally binding contract, just two entities that would like to come together for the love of children and a community. That’s a huge and intricate hypothetical, I know, but it makes a point. Because a marriage license is simply a contract. But since it’s doubtful a city would get involved in a personal, non-contractual agreement (with the exception of lawsuits), it seems that it is an (if I may) unholy matter that is being discussed. However, I would venture to say that it is more unholy to uproot a family, causing stress and disorder and probably tension within said family. Rather than accepting a family – children of God (if I may) – shun them, close them off. The respective sides will battle, words will be flung, and ultimately, propositions far more extreme will arise. And that’s just what’s happening.

One side presents a solution, and the rebuttal takes it a step further. Meanwhile, step by step, two sides of an argument are not inching, but leaping in opposite directions. The result is not reaching a compromise – that compromise being, leave shit be – but moving an already flammable situation closer to the fire on both ends.

I can’t wait for the lawsuit in Black Jack. If only I were a gambling man...

Step 43: I hate this sort of shit, I really do. Next thing you know, Black Jack is going to try and kick out all of the blacks and the Jews. Fundamentalists hurt this country. Things change for a reason: adaptation…evolution (ha). The Cleaver Family Experience flew out the window years ago. People are trying to make it work anyway they know how. Why ruin a good thing with marriage, if marriage isn’t the answer? And “I do” doesn’t settle things. People seem to forget that times change. You know, the Black Jack city council, the governor of South Dakota, and that whack job Kevin Ham (the T-Rex Mule Museum) should be reminded of a few things. There was once something called Protestantism. There was once something called the Emancipation Proclamation. There was once something called the 19th Amendment. At one point those things were unholy, as well. At one point, they were. Funny how there’s all the fuss, when it’s all for nothing. Leave shit be and let it happen.

Britney and K-Fed are Baby Killers

2006-05-10T15:16:00.000-07:00

Holy hell, Britney Spears is pregnant again. It didn’t take long, did it? What was it, like seven, eight months? It’s a sad thing, really. First, she’s driving around with her poor, unfortunate, ill-fated son on her lap like he’s a Pomeranian in a Louis Vuitton carryall (or in Britney’s case, a hairless mutt in a plastic grocery bag). Then, the little guy gets dropped on his head, which is immediately blamed on the immigrant help rather than the drunken parents. So now, Miss Responsible – the woman of 51-hour marriages, barefooted filling station bathroom visits and reality smut programs chronicling tobacco-filled sexual exploits – is having another kid, another cursed soul to call Britney and K-Fed Mom and Dad. What a shame.

Given her life, though, it’s no big surprise. I had blogged months ago about what true Louisiana trash Britney is. That she was just a product of many meetings between a record label, a publicist, and ever-so-eager parents hoping to create a virgin pop icon – the Bethlehem to Madonna’s Sodom and Gomorrah. They were successful, too – monumentally so – for a while anyway. But there is only so long you can keep a bird caged, or a slut cherried. And what has taken flight is one big comedic cartoon of an albatross weighing on American societal evolution. (And irrelevant, but necessarily noted, Britney Spears weighs more than me.)

Yes, we laugh, we sneer, we cringe; we do all of these things while we poke fun. But it really isn’t that funny. Aside from a name and a pocketbook Britney Spears is no different than any other reckless irresponsible whore, spreading her legs with no thought of the consequences (It should be said that it isn’t just whores – it takes two to tango). The fact that she is married matters none. Planned parenthood applies to both the wed and the unwed. Being a good parent isn’t having the money to spend on a kid. Britney, or maybe her future inmate of a son, is the poster child for an all-too-common trend in the U.S. And though having cash doesn’t mean you’re going to be a good parent, it can at least ensure some stability in terms of child welfare. However, most people aren’t Britney Spears (and thank Zod for that).

In the last couple of days, a study reported that the United States had the second-highest infant mortality rate in the developed world. That is disgraceful. As the supposed world super power, that is outright ridiculous. In the first 24 hours of life, two million infants died in the U.S. last year. The only country that falls behind us, out of 125 studied, is Latvia. Cool. I think it that says something about the kind of people giving birth. Even though we foot the bill for unparalleled medical treatment costs – seemingly excluding the lower third of the tax bracket for medicine’s benefit – we still have more neonatologists and neonatal care beds per person than Canada, the U.K. and Australia. It’s not for lack of effort – on the AMA’s part, anyway. To a large portion of the population, any negative consequence of an early or unexpected pregnancy is an afterthought. Or maybe not a thought at all. A number of couples are running around and getting drunk and fucking, and that’s about it. Many of them are in no shape to take care of a kid, let alone the pre-natal processes that lead up to that. Not all kids are bastardized party favors. Some of these people genuinely want children. But to them, kids are novelty items or trophies or creatures that are cute until they start crying and need to be fed.

I, for one, think Britney and K-Fed (what fucking stupid name) represent a couple of those demographics. First, they clearly love to get cocked of a few dozen Budweisers and a fifth of Beam and fuck for hours with many interspersed cigarette breaks and shit breaks. Mostly because I bet the two of them, Britney in particular, shit a lot. Second, they both want pet kids. If Britney Spears wasn’t a manufactured performer, she would have probably gone to LSU or Louisiana-Lafayette, met some redneck swamp swimmer, quit school, gotten married and hosted the knitting club for Tabernacle Evangelical and Charismatic Church at the Natchitoches Camper Cathedral & Trailer Park. About a dozen or so children would also be part of that equation. It’s a southern rite. K-Fed, on the other hand, doesn’t want kids because they’re like stuffed animals. He just loves to litter the world with his seed, knocking up broads from here to the Hudson Bay.

Further, it’s unfortunate because Britney and K-Fed will be getting divorced as so as the new kid comes along. The tabloids, trash as they may be, are rarely wrong in their gossip and assertions. The scum of the Earth, but they find breaking news months before the mainstream media catches wind. (There’s something to be said for that, as well. And it may be a blog topic for a later date.) Us Weekly had been reporting for weeks that Brit was getting sick of her mooch of a husband. Apparently, he was abusing his allowance. The shame. Most people I know quit getting an allowance once they learned long division. So, maybe he still qualifies. Not the point. Point is, the two of them are bringing a child into a crumbling union. Why add to the dysfunction of the world?

I hate to pick on Britney and Federline (well, no, I don’t), but they’re representative of a larger group and a significant problem. I’m not an advocate of population explosion, but I also refuse to accept the fact that a supposedly advanced culture such as ours can simply fuck like hyenas and commit virtual infanticide like rabid lemmings.

Step 42: Keep your dick in your pants. Keep your legs closed. Stay off the junk. Don’t be a whore. Promiscuity perpetuates two things other than multiple orgasms: pregnancy and disease. Both of which are dangerous things, more so if you don’t have the means to deal with them appropriately. And also, Britney and Kevin Federline should be destroyed. Seriously. What losers.

Preparation H-School

2006-05-04T11:43:00.000-07:00

Newsweek apparently has figured it all out. The magazine has released its findings for the Top 100 Public High Schools in America. They are ranked according to which performs the “best job of preparing average students for college.” And the formula for said rankings goes like this: The schools are ranked according to a ratio devised by Contributing Editor Jay Mathews, where the total number of Advanced Placement and International Baccalaureate tests taken at a school are divided by the number of graduating seniors. Well, that makes complete sense to me. Because obviously all of the "average" students are those in AP classes. Additionally, I think the various states have thrown some ringers in there. It says public schools only, but the victor in this year’s contest – and let’s be honest, that’s what it is – is a school in Dallas called The High School for the Talented and Gifted. I would assume, given its name, that the talentless and average need not apply. You can’t maintain a name like that and allow dopes to attend. Yet, this school receives public financing?

Well, it’s called a magnet school, which is not uncommon. There are a number of magnet schools in a number of cities. The idea is to promote the gifts of a student in a specific scholastic sector – math and science, languages, performing arts, whatever. But this school actually is a magnet for all subjects, taught in six separate structures by teachers who specialize “in talented and gifted teaching methods for the classroom.” And in a city like Dallas, which is vomiting a population burst all over itself, this school typically graduates between just 40 and 50 students. For me, all signs point to private school. But again, the state pays for it. They even granted Talented and Gifted (TAG) the right to move away from the “inner-city” school that it was a part of, build the mega-campus and hire that specialized staff. That’s why it’s a ringer. The state is funding a laboratory for test-tube students. It’s sickening, really. And it’s not the only one.

Without going into details for matters of brevity, I’ll just rattle off of few of the names for other top schools. Stanton College Preparatory School in Florida (trying so hard to carry an Exitor-esque moniker), the International Academy in Michigan, Metro Academic and Classical in Missouri, Los Angeles Center for Enriched Studies, Edgemont (no "school," no "academy," no "center," no nothing, fucking seriously. This school is so up its own ass that it’s a singular, like a fucking pop star. Jesus). Oh, and this one is particularly choice: Harding University. It’s a fucking university. There are also a number like The Insert-Pretentious-Name-Here School. Anyway, you get the idea.

Sorry that took so long, but I had to set them up before I knocked them down. Why the fuck are these schools getting so much money to educate "average" students? There’s no denying how retarded our country is on the whole. People bitch about the education America’s children are getting, but wouldn’t it be better if those kids at that inner-city sister school of TAG had the same opporunity to learn from specially trained teachers? Teachers who are getting paid sufficiently? Teachers who are presumably more involved and engaging with their students? At the same time, wouldn’t it be better for both sides, rather than creating a bubble, to integrate the gifted students and the not-so-gifted? Learning is more than numbers and words. And learning is more than street wise. Learning is human interaction, understanding what the world has to offer and what it doesn’t. Seeing who comprises the future, not just who invented the past. As it is, this system seems to be trying to advance the advanced and further hinder the already hindered. I know the motivation for many of these schools is to find the “diamonds in the ruff” or the kids who may not have adequate opportunities in front of them. But what about the others? What about the actual average minds that could possibly make a minor contribution to the world – a major one, collectively – rather than being led to believe the best they’ve got is confined to an eighth-grade reading level and math skills that end at subtraction. As well, many times the gifted or magnet schools aren’t located in terrible areas, but upper-middle class suburbs, where the environment is already more conducive to higher education.

I would think rather than concentrating funds in one area, spreading them out across a region. It’s like making brownies. If you spread the batter evenly in the dish before you cook it, they come out well cooked and tasty, and they look good, too. If you just slop in it there, then it's clumpy and uneven. Some parts are undercooked and hard, others are overcooked and soft. The whole thing is a mess. And kids these days are coming out like that – hard, uneducated malcotents, or overly pampered pussies. Neither of those two can make a lasting contribution to this country other than to its downfall.

Also, who the fuck thinks there is an equation for good preparation? Who the fuck does ratio guru Jay Matthews think he is? "Well if you divide a test number by a class size and an IQ and the number of vending machines at that school, then you come up with a fake number credited to me..." Yeah, just like if I multiply the number of carbs I eat by my fat intake, dividing that number by dairy consumption, then I know which of my turds will stink the least. I mean, you can’t just make something up, can you? And what about the intangibles? The actual environment, rather that test scores and graduation rates. The attitude of the people around you. Extracurricular activities. I mean, I don’t think a dork who throws like a girl is going to get very far in life. But that’s just me.

Preparing someone for college is preparing someone for life. It’s the first stepping stone. A fantasy land it may be, but it’s where, for many, you’ll bounce your first check, burn your first home-cooked meal, get blackout drunk and throw up on a stranger for the first time, have large amounts of unprotected sexual relations and spend your first night in jail. And no, I’m not just talking about me. My point is, you have to juggle a lot of heavy shit, all while going to class and taking tests and failing them, too, because everybody does at least once. It’s not a specialized environment set up for you to succeed. It’s a culture of chaos, and those who survive are those who can adapt. In my experience, adaptation only occurs successfully after exposure to the elements, not confinement to an educational sanitarium.

Step 41: Life is more than A’s and B’s. Even after school, having the right job and the right paycheck and the right life plan can’t really be all that fulfilling if you don’t live an actual life surrounded by actual people. Some may think it is, but they’re just the ones who haven’t ventured outside of it. And those same people are setting up children, smart and stupid, rich and poor, for fucking disaster. That’s what I've got for now. But mostly, I think Newsweek is bullshit for making this the cover story. And they have now made my boycott list. Uppity fuckers.

As many of you know, I posted the Revolutionary Recap: Part I after my first 20 steps. Well, this is step 41, so it seems obvious that I'm not doing one after the second 20 steps. That's because I'm waiting until I get to 50 steps for the next recap. I think it's a good mark.

A Brief Repose...But Not Too Brief

2006-04-25T20:19:00.000-07:00

Hey Pals,

Youngling to the Second has been busy at work and a bit ill at the same time. All of that is a fancy excuse for having not blogged, but, alas, it is unfortunately true. Something a bit uncharacteristic of me - but it has been done before - a filler post to tide you guys (and myself) over. This, I think, would be appreciated by my man Triple J over at Not Jack Kerouac. I am going to steal someone else's words for the time being. Words from a revolutionary. An icon of a generation. The Beat Generation. The following is a passage from On the Road. The story of a free-spirited nomadic discoverer of everything. A story by Jack Kerouac. Thus begins Part One, Chapter Three:

It was an ordinary bus trip with crying babies and hot sun, and countryfolk getting on at one Penn town after another, till we got on the plain of Ohio and really rolled, up by the Ashtabula and straight across Indiana in the night. I arrived in Chi quite early in the morning, got a room at the Y, and went to bed with a very few dollars in my pocket. I dug Chicago after a good day's sleep.

I dug Chicago after a good day's sleep...damn, that's cool.

I'll be back in a bit. Thanks for sticking around.

Your friend and fellow countryman,

Youngling #2

Danny Gans, an Airport and the Big Snafu

2006-04-06T16:50:00.000-07:00

I don’t really care for Las Vegas too much. It’s a theme park for adults that never shuts down, and, as theme parks go, the novelty wears off after the first visit or two. And also like theme parks, Vegas tends to attract the sunburned trash of America. It’s like South Georgia and North Jersey converged on a location in the Southwest and made it their home. So, as you can imagine, if I don’t like Vegas for play, then I certainly don’t like it for work.

I was called to Sin City for a conference of sorts. I was told it would be a three-day, two-night event that would require, among other things, myself, a pen and paper, a tape recorder and a set of eyes with reasonably intact vision. And a nametag. There would also be a nametag. Generally speaking, this combination of things makes me anxious because it adds up to work – work with strangers approaching me, acting like they know my name as they stare at my chest and not my adequately efficient eyes. But for all of this to happen – the work and strangers, I mean – I naturally have to get to the conference first.

As I’m inclined to do when traveling, I put off packing until the morning of my flight. It doesn’t matter where I’m going, how long I’m staying or what time my flight leaves, I just can’t bring myself to fill my suitcase until the last possible minute. Telling about my nature, in general, I think. So, for this trip to Vegas, my flight was leaving at 10:41 a.m. That would mean I wake up at 8:15, take a shower, pack my bag, call a taxi so that it arrived somewhere around 9:20, allowing for a 15-minute commute to the airport, plus five minutes or so of wiggle room factoring in traffic, slow driving or poor route selection (as cab drivers don’t always like to listen – arrogant bastards, they think they know everything when it comes to getting to and fro). I wake up at 8:30. My plan is in serious trouble. I give myself a less-than-thorough cleaning, hastily load my bag and still manage to make it to the airport by 9:39, according to my cell phone, which I have come to trust over the years. You’d think an hour and two minutes before for a 44-minute, domestic flight would be sufficient. At least, you’d think it would.

I am amazed at the general technological incompetence of anyone over the age of 40, but I can at least understand it…a little. I say 40 because the first Macintosh was introduced in 1984, the dawn of the Personal Computer Age. It was also about the time said 40-year-olds were probably seniors in high school, enabling them to reap the full benefits that the ongoing Technological Revolution is sowing – thus making them fairly proficient as a demographic, I would gather (being there every step of the way, and all). So, for people under the age of 40 to not understand the simplicity of checking in at a ticketing kiosk in the airport absolutely boggles my mind. And, as of April 3, 2006, that ineptitude now infuriates and frustrates me.

As most of you know, these touch-screen devices print your boarding pass after you have swiped some sort of identification and press of series of “OK’s” and “Yes’s.” And that’s all you have to do. The whole process takes about 30 seconds, 37, if you factor in printing time for the receipt and ticket, 47 if you feel like reading everything on the screen. For someone to spend 10 fucking minutes staring at the screen, looking around for help, and unwilling to grasp the helping hand proffered is inexcusable and execution seems a reasonable penalty for delaying FUCKING EVERYONE at the airport. However, the fact that these people travel in flocks and can synchronize their kiosk arrival to the point where they occupy (and hold up) all of them simultaneously is noteworthy. Still, it forces me to pace back and forth, pat my hand on my leg repeatedly in a twitch-like fashion, curse under my breath and sweat a little in panic. Given those people and the now omnipresent security-line cluster fuck – shoes off, laptop out, pockets empty, torso bent over, rear end taking one deep – it takes me 42 minutes to get my ticket, pass through the metal detectors*, remove the security cock from my ass, straighten up, refill my pockets, put my laptop back in my bag, strap my shoes on tight and ready myself for air travel. As I climb the escalator toward the terminal, I check my boarding pass to see from which gate my plane was departing (I had neglected to do so earlier). With a little surprise, but not much – and zero anxiety – the gate isn’t printed on my ticket. I thought it a little odd, but figure I could find it on any number of the dozens of departures screens lining the terminal walls. I look. And I look. And I look. I see a Las Vegas flight listed, but that one is for 12:44 p.m. – clearly not my flight.

Since I know the Vegas flights leave from the 70-series terminals, I walk briskly down that corridor. Both carry-on and computer bags are strapped to my person, while I read each counter sign – 70 through 79 – for its destination. I see nothing in the form of "Las" or "Vegas," and I begin to worry. There is a United Airlines customer-service desk, but the line has about 150 people in it (if I low-ball), forming a line that snakes through rows of chairs, magazine booths and scurrying travelers. Since I now have about 15 minutes to catch my flight, adding to the tail will serve no purpose. Worse, there seem to be lines at most of the gate counters around me. With seemingly no options for help, I see a group of airport employees milling about, eating what looks to be a late breakfast. There a four overweight women who are nice enough, an a young, slender man wearing a backpack (or rucksack maybe, if you’re from New Zealand). I quickly explain my predicament, and they insist that the gate should be listed one of the screens. I insist to the contrary. The backpacked (or rucksacked) young man leads me to the screen, glances over it and looks back at me with confusion: "I ain’t ever sent that shit before." After realizing, through her coworker’s acknowledgement, that the screen is lying to me (or not telling me the whole truth, anyway), one woman says, "Try gate 74." So I try gate 74. I now have about 12 minutes to get to the plane. When I get to gate 74, I notice that the destination for this particular flight is Shanghai. Since I need to get to Nevada, and not China, I certainly feel misled for a moment.

With more speed than expected, I am back at the group, asking for further assistance – it’s amazing how your body recognizes panic to the point that it very fluidly moves independently of your brain’s involvement. So, after the initial shock of witnessing panic-induced speed, I hear the woman tell me to check the gates numbered 80-88. That poses a bit of a problem considering I now have about nine minutes to catch my flight, and the 80s series is down another corridor, at least 80 yards away. That, by the way, is 80 yards to run another 150 or so in the terminal. At this point, I am sprinting with both bags over my shoulders and a newspaper clutched nipple high. And I am sweating. Not like a light, anxious sweat anymore, but like a workout sweat because I am now panicking and working out – a deathblow to the sweat glands.

After running down and back, I see the turn that takes me to gate 70 and beyond. As I’m rounding the corner in full stride, I hear one of the overweight airport workers – the most (yet least) helpful so far – yell out, "Gate 76, honey! Go to gate 76!" I run down to gate 76. There are about 10 people sitting in the seats around it, and a small Asian man standing beneath a sign with no destination streaming across it, simply the tag "Thank you for choosing United." I immediately think fuck.

I approach the counter and ask him where the gate is for my flight. His name is Ming Lee, but he probably grew up in Southern California, as his accent suggests. Ming tells me that the gate I need is gate 71 – a gate that read “San Francisco” before. I say that it was impossible to know that, he assures me that it was not, and our eye contact tells us each that we are agreeing to disagree. Though my eyes, with appropriate enough sight for this trip, are also saying, “Fuck you, if my fucking flight was listed any-fucking-where in this fucking airport do you fucking think I’d being fucking talking to fucking you right fucking now you fucking dick.” But I just smile a small smile instead. He informs me that it is now 10:41, and that I am not going to make it to the plane. So, I ask if I can be put on the next flight. He throws me on the standby list, not guaranteed, for the 12:44 flight – something I feel is hugely unacceptable – but I am told to take it up with that particular counter when they begin boarding that particular flight because Ming doesn’t give a shit about my particular situation. In all fairness to Ming, it wasn’t Ming’s fault, but my current mood forbids me to be fair, so fuck Ming.

Instead of going immediately to the gate, I sit down in this sparsely populated portion of the terminal because I am pissed off, I’m tired, I look like hell and I need to cool down comfortably in the presence of nearly no one, and certainly not the hundreds of people who saw me running wind sprints down the terminal for the last 20 minutes. Because the show’s start time is 3:30 that afternoon, my 2 p.m. arrival – if I make the flight as a standby – has me a little worried. It is kind of important for me to be at this show, as well, because my magazine is hosting it, therefore, I have duties like introducing speakers and such. A tough task to carry out over the phone. Sitting there, thinking about that and cursing the situation at hand, I look down at my shirt. I had to wear my slacks and button-up shirt on the plane because the show started roughly the same time as check-in, and I was supposed to be staying at another hotel at the time. The thought was: attend the conference, check-in after. However, when I arrived at the airport, my publisher called to say that he had scored me a room at the Mirage, and that all I had to do was pick up my key at the conference registration booth – he had already checked me in. So the attire was pointless. Nonetheless, I had sweat through the pants. I had sweat through the shirt. And the newspaper that had been pressed against my body had smeared its black newsprint down the front left of my white shirt, leaving it black. I assume it was the fresh morning ink moistened by my body’s heightened glandular activity that was responsible. Either way, I looked like shit.

As it turns out, there are 22 people from my flight that missed it for the same reason. We are all waiting for open seats. We are told very early on by the woman at this gate that we should not approach her about open seats because she will not know anything until 12:25, so we should not ask about getting a guaranteed spot regardless of our snafu. I think she actually said "snafu," too. Fortunately, everyone makes it on the flight, and my seat was even upgraded to economy plus – a poor man’s first class. The seat next to me is open, and, weary from the day so far, I sprawl out and fall asleep.

After debarking in Vegas, someone points out, through the window, how crowded the taxi line is. That is not the news I want to hear because it is 2 p.m., and I need to get to the Mirage in a bad way. I pick up the pace and arrive at the taxi line, greeted by a couple of hundred people wrapping themselves in and out of a zigzag maze, waiting for their taxi cheese. Up 50 yards, back 50 yards, up 50 yards, back 50 yards, and so on and so forth. They have 14 or 16 – I don’t remember – taxi pick-up points to where they shovel the passengers, so the line actually moves fairly quickly. The length of it, on the other hand, still creates about a 25-minute delay in my travel plans. For travelers like myself, we walk, bags in hand, back and forth, waiting our turn. For larger parties, or at least those with more luggage, one would enter the line and move at its pace, while another in the group slowly crept by, handling a large number of massive bags very awkwardly.

By the time I get to the front of the line, it’s 2:30. The guy who hails the taxi – maybe you call him a porter or something, I don’t really know – he asks me how many in my party. I say one. He directs me to pick-up point #3. The attractive-for-her-age woman behind me with silken black hair, European – Spanish, I’m almost positive – says that she is one of two and that her husband is navigating the line, loaded with their suitcases. She is told to wait on the side for him. As I make a u-turn to my right, walking down the curb to #3, parallel to those waiting in line, I see a man of slight heft, about 50, struggling past people politely, and with little wind to his voice he pants "excuse me" each time. All of a sudden, a man shoves him into the white chain link separating the waiting line from the portion of the curb where I am walking. The man tumbles onto the ground, taking the chord and many posts with him, as his bags scatter into the street. His wife runs up to him, yelling at the man who pushed him: "What the fuck is your problem, man. You fucking asshole." The man who has been pushed begins yelling "police" and waving his arms. Given his accent, it comes out as "Poh-LEETH! Poh-LEETH!" Another woman, on her phone and unrelated to any three of them, chimes in with her two cents, agreeing with the wife that this 30-year-old, goateed, aggressive line-goer was, in fact, a fucking asshole. The hundreds of people glaring at the situation seem to agree as well. The Pusher is trying to defend himself, justifying the shove by saying that the older man was cutting in line. No one seems to care. He then says, "Maybe I am an asshole. That’s fine. Bring the police over. I’ll tell them what happened." I don’t think this man appreciates the sensitive airport situation these days. Do not pass go; do not collect $200. His security experience was clearly different from mine. Sure enough, two police officers come running down the street. Normally, I would hang around to see what happened. You know, be one of those people. I am so late at this point, though, that I really don’t give a shit what happens. I squeeze past the crowd and forget the commotion, hopping into the taxi at pick-up area #3.

My Filipino cabbie has a kind face, and when I tell him to make it to the Mirage as quickly as possible, he floors it. Even though you can get to the Las Vegas strip without getting on the freeway, this little guy floors it right onto the on-ramp of I-15, and right into stand-still traffic. It is 2:45. My frustration level has peaked to the point that I reactively scream "fuck" with no censorship control whatsoever. The man jumps and looks back at me, saying very calmly and confidently, "It’s rush hour, man, you know?" But I don’t know because it’s 2 fucking 45, and there isn’t supposed to be traffic at 2:45 in any city other than Los Angeles. This Filipino, however, has some maneuvering ability, and he wiggles his mini-van taxi in and out of cars, off the first exit he sees and around a bend or two until we land at the back entrance of the Mirage. It is 3:01. The registration area where I can find my room key is by the Danny Gans Theater, on the other side of the casino. And casinos tend to be fucking enormous. Danny Gans, by the way, is the Mirage’s Wayne Newton. He does impersonations and songs and some other shit. He looks like a complete douche in the pictures I see as I sprint (yet again) past hotel check-in, across the lush, tree-filled atrium, through the din of clinking slot machines and drunk North Jersey/South Georgians in the casino and around a corner or two. At last, I am at the Danny Gans Theater. Duffy Gold, the woman I am supposed to hook up with at my rendezvous point tells me she’s been waiting for me when I arrive, panting, sweating and wanting to die. It is 3:05.

I go up to my room, and strip off the shirt I have now sweat through multiple times. I take it off less because of the sweat and more because of the wrinkles that make it look like a cloth scrotum and the black smear that might indicate I just finished playing in a coal mine. I quickly unzip my bag and snatch another shirt out. As the iron heats up, I splash water on my face and brush my teeth. I then iron my shirt, put it on, place the nametag – yes, that nametag – on my pocket and rush down to the show. It is 3:22.

Back down there, I see my publisher who knows nothing of my plight. I see Duffy who says, “Nice work.” I see the man I am supposed to introduce first. I realize that the worst part of this trip hasn’t even begun. But the rest, well, I’m sorry. What happens there stays there.

Step 40: Don’t wear nice clothes to the airport unless you arrive at least three hours ahead of time. Don’t operate a kiosk if you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing without complete supervision. In fact, don’t even leave the house if you’re so fucking retarded. Don’t take the freeway when surface rods are faster. Don’t shove people down at airports, whether they deserve it or not, because you’re likely to go to jail, not to mention look like a complete ass. Don’t press a newspaper to your chest when you’re sweating. Don’t go see Danny Gans perform. Ever. Don’t say snafu.

*When waiting in line, I saw Dr. Drew and a woman I assume was his wife. He got to go to a fast line, though because he is moderately famous or because his seating class was fancy, I can’t tell which. In the Vegas airport on my return, I saw the Verizon, "Can you hear me now" guy and almost beat him up for being so fucking lame. I guess it was my week for seeing celebrities that three people in the world give a shit about. Thanks.

Clarity for Clarity's Sake

2006-03-15T09:42:00.000-08:00

Sasefina brought up a good point regarding my previous post. Admittedly, I wasn't on top of my game late in the day yesterday when I posted this, so I wasn't clear on a thing or two. And I don't feel like editing my post (I never actually edit them, I'm against it right now). So, I posted her comment and my response. I hope this clears things up a bit. Now go forward and do good deeds. (If you're confused, then you should read the post below. You'll probably still be confused, though)

Nice topic, but I'm going to need some clarity here. I don't understand when I should ask someone why they're crippled. I feel like I should wait for that shit to come out when they're damn good and ready to tell me.

But I agree about the boogers. And the bad breath. But not the zit. Because a zit doesn't instantly happen. You should check your appearance each morning in the mirror, and anyway, you just know when those things are forming. You have to be vigilant.
sasefina | Homepage | 03.15.06 - 1:49 am | #

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Yeah, I admit this was hastily done toward the end of the day. That's why I figured I would do more on it later. But the red light/green light deal works with the more severe cases, too. After about a week, you should bring it up. Now, if you see the person on Monday, and then again the following Monday, that doesn't count. However, it doesn't necessarily have to be seven days in a row of hanging out with a handicapped person before it can be discussed (five business days, if that's how you want to look at it). If you only see the person once a week, then a period of four weeks is probably OK. In other words, four days, then you can say, "Wha' happened?" This may not seem like a solution since the shock value - the stupefaction on the healthy party's side - occurs during what we know as the "primacy period," or the first time you meet the person. However, that fact that you know that you will be broaching the subject at some point in the near future immediately alters your perspective on the situation. However, in terms of desensitization, it would help if you had a crippled or disfigured member in your family. (Un)Fortunately, my step-brother is autistic and mentally retarded, so over the last four or five years, I have increasingly become more comfortable. And, as I mentioned before, I am an amputee. Empathize, yo.

As far as the zit goes, I do check my shit in the mirror in the morning (I'm very vain, you see). But this I do know: Sometimes a whitehead bursts into action at some point during the day. Many times, I do not have to pee or poop until midday, and I do not keep a compact or other small reflection device on my person, so my bathroom visit is the first chance to examine the facial. I don't think I'm alone. That said, the hours of 8 a.m. to 1 p.m. are crucial in zit-spotting. Past that, I agree, you're probably on your own.
Youngling #2 | Homepage | 03.15.06 - 12:45 pm | #

Tabooger

2006-03-14T16:28:00.000-08:00

There’s this thing I’ve been uncomfortable with for quite awhile. Contrary to popular belief, it actually concerns a show of poor etiquette. When I, or anyone else on the planet has a whitehead, a hanger or dragon breath, then whoever is in their presence should alert them immediately. I think that most people are afraid to point that out, as if it is a show of bad manners. Maybe they think it’s disrespectful, I don’t know. But I would argue that it’s the utmost display of social propriety to point those things out.

Because I know most people are uncomfortable with this, I go ahead and give them the green light pretty early on in our relationship, be it working, social or romantic. Obviously, we’re operating on red with anything outside the realm of comfort for about a week. Past that, I make a pact. It’s as simple as this: You tell me if I need to pop a zit, breath mint or tissue, and I’ll do the same. Very easy. You scratch my back; I tell you there’s a crater on your noggin. Well, you get the point.

But only kind of. Because the point is aimed at a larger issue. These minor handicaps are an indication of how uncomfortable we are with major impairments (Handicaps they are, indeed, if you’ve ever tried to get a job with a salty snooger creeping out of your nostril during an interview).

In the same way that your eyes are drawn to someone’s whitehead (or its smaller, yellowish pustule cousin) in conversation, you are concentrating on someone’s wheelchair or the skin graft scars or the muscular dystrophy-induced limpness. You almost forget what they are saying for a moment and think, "Oh my shit, that’s horrible." It is, but it’s OK to be talked about. If anything I think both the victims of the minor and major handicaps would appreciate at least acknowledgement. For the pimple and the stink and the snot, the person would be able to amend the situation. For the more severe handicap, they would know that you are on a level playing field, that you’re beyond their physical condition. I know this to be true because I am missing a finger. Nothing compared to paraplegia, but it gets people’s attention, no doubt.

See, I’m a handsy talker. As soon as the unaware catches a glimpse of the nub, I can see their eyes rolling in circles, following my hand up and down, left to right. I see their eyes, and I can tell when the oh-my-shit moment hits them. It’s like they’re both stoned and hypnotized – completely zoned out and mentally incapacitated – tongue on the verge of hanging out, drool pooling in the corners of their mouth. And as someone who looks at his amputation as one of the top two greatest things he’s got going for him, I don’t care so much that they feel the need to dedicate so much energy to it. Hell, I like it. But as a talker – a big talker – I get pissed. And I think that’s true of anyone.

I digressed a bit, as I tend to do, but acknowledgement is key, it makes everyone more comfortable. But there are a few exceptions.

First, and the most mild, is the food caught in the teeth. That needs to be pointed out, the same as anything, but people seem to do that anyway. Like having a green leaf in between your front two teeth is worse than having a pimple on your chin. It doesn’t really make sense. So, the normal "rules" of sensitivity don’t really apply to the food-in-the-teeth thing.

Also, you can never, under any circumstances, point out the snot, breath or zit to a superior at work. If they are wheelchair-bound, go ahead and ask them how it happened. A wheelchair is like having a 40-lb. pimple. How could you not say something? But the smaller things present the power struggle. In maintaining their superiority at work, a higher-up must also feel as though he or she dominates in every other aspect of life that comes with them to work. That includes personal hygiene. That doesn’t mean that someone afflicted with chronic halitosis or acne or severe hangage has trouble cleaning themselves. These things happen. To any of us, really. But the implication is that, if one person has bad breath, and the other doesn’t, then the one with normal breath must do a better job of brushing their teeth. There’s no two ways around it. So I would avoid that one – for now. We might have evolved to that point in 40 or 50 years, but not yet.

Also, if someone has Down syndrome, there’s no need to say, "Man, that Down sure is a bitch, how’d you get it?" That would be rude. But you can take steps not to treat people with Down syndrome as very small children. They’re very normal people, more normal than us, really, because they’re too innocent to become bitter and jealous and mean and whatever else happens to us as we grow and start having sex with people.

Mostly, people don’t need uncomfortable and nervous around things that are natural, but that societal conditioning has told us are unpleasant. Whether it’s allowing a co-worker to carry on with bad breath or staring at a guy’s leg, amputated above the knee, in the end you’re going to be responsible for making them feel like a dipshit.

Step 39: Don’t do that. Use your best judgment, but don’t be scared, you’ll hurt feelings a lot less with recognition rather than restraint. You could take this in any number of directions, too. I only scratched the surface of the "ignorance equals comfort" argument (different than ignorance is bliss). It’s like saying penis or vagina in public. If you were to say those in front of a number of people in more conservative parts of the country, Oh my shit.

I might do more on this later.

I did not blog about this because someone stared at my finger or smelled my breath. It just struck me while I was cursing someone who sent me an e-mail.

Also, I avoided the abortion thing from before because fuck you. You know how I feel about it. You either agree or disagree, and I don’t care which. It would be wasted space, and create some crazy debate in my comments section that would have no real solution. Wait, no it wouldn’t create debate. Most of you who come to my blog don’t comment, which brings me to another point...

...Why don’t you comment? I can see where you come from. I can track you – not by name, but I can track you. Some I can figure out. But who in Boulder always reads? I don’t think it’s my brother because of the hours that this person logs on. And do I know anyone at Suffolk University? Because you’re here a lot, too. I actually almost blogged about this. If you like a post, say you do. If you hate a post, most definitely say you do, those are the best ones. If you just have general thoughts, provide them. Otherwise, what’s the point? This is an evolving revolution, not anonymous disillusion. Let’s revolutionize some shit, shall we?

Fear the Locust Swarm and the First-Born Death

2006-03-06T15:16:00.000-08:00

South Dakota Gov. Mike Rounds signed a bill that bans nearly all abortions in the state, even in cases of rape or incest. In other news, Alabama made an amendment to its state consitution which will permanently re-segregate schools. New York has voted to reinstate Hammurabi's Code. And in Utah, virgins will now be sacrificied at the altar of the Church of Latter Day Saints.

Read my other post for now. More on this in the coming days. There's a fire a brewin'.

The Outsiders

2006-03-06T12:09:00.000-08:00

I was reading an Academy Awards preview on Friday, and I was a little offended. I consider myself to be a movie aficionado. Hell, who isn’t? No one dislikes movies. In fact, everyone enjoys movies in some form or another. But that’s not the point.

The point is, this guy, an Oscar show writer who means about as much to the world as freeze-dried ice cream, was quoted as having issues with someone like Jon Stewart hosting the show. His concern was that Stewart comes from television, thus not understanding the dynamics of the film industry to the extent that an Oscar host should.

"He's an outsider looking in at the system, which is always problematic with a show like that because it's the ultimate insiders show," said Bruce Vilanch (nobody loser).

Forgive me, but I believe the vast majority of the millions upon millions of viewers who tuned in are "outsiders." In fact, if the show were primarily catering to insiders, then it wouldn’t be televised. If anything, the movie-going experience is an outsider experience. The insiders are doing what they do, not for other insiders, not to entertain themselves, but to entertain us - to elicit the most honest reaction from the audience that they possibly can.

The awards are given to insiders by insiders, but making a comment like Vilanch’s (douche bag) implies that the average outsider is too obtuse to be the judge of quality in film. And I think that couldn’t be further from the truth. Any Average Joe can find quality in film. It doesn’t take smarts or innate artistic savvy; it just requires an experience – two hours, give or take. Because a powerful film or performance strikes a chord with the audience, any audience.

Vilanch (possible pedophile) was referring to the host, but his comment was inadvertently directed at us. I don’t know where his credibility comes from. He just writes faux dialogue and cheesy punch lines, but I guess he feels qualified to tell Stewart and the rest of the world that we don’t really have any business being involved. He forgets that the only reason he even has a job is because outsiders are watching. And he forgets that probably the most successful host in the 78-year history of the Oscars was five-time emcee Johnny Carson, an outsider. And he might also forget that the Oscars typically suck aside from the winners being announced, not because of outsiders, but because they’re stuffy and a bore and a bunch of pretty people are taking themselves very seriously. I just didn’t know that someone as insignificant as Vilanch (herpes spreader) was able to get caught up in the hoopla.

But it seems everyone does. And it seems Vilanch was right…kind of.

I was discussing Stewart’s performance with Youngling #1 after the show, and we had the same feeling. We thought he was funny – very, at times – but most of his jokes fell on crooked sneers and silent stares. Many of his jokes were aimed at Hollywood, and though they hit their intended target, their intended target didn’t hit back. It’s amazing that the insiders couldn’t laugh at his “inside” jokes. We’ve known for quite some time how seriously Tinsel Town takes itself, and how much importance it places on what it is that they do. I’m just amazed that a group of entertainers are so hard to entertain. In fact, the feel (from an outsider’s perspective) was that the industry was too constipated to laugh, at itself or otherwise. Because constipation is the ultimate in self-concentration.

An article on MSNBC explained, as well, that the biggest reaction from the audience came when Lily Tomlin and Meryl Streep dueled in a scripted, "off-script," Robert Altman-esque dialogue. But it also made the shrewd judgment that, "The theater's audiences of celebrities laughed almost too hard, as if to prove that, finally, there was some intelligent, sophisticated humor for them to appreciate."

Celebrities tend to do a lot of things "almost too hard" - rally for political matters, talk about the arts, suck interviewer ass. As naked as those acts may be, this was the most telling of all. They laugh, not at what they feel is funny, but at what they expect others to find funny. Or better yet, what they expect others to expect them to find funny. You have that sitting beside Stewart’s subtle (and not-so-subtle) industry jabs, and it is clear exactly how painfully dull and out of touch Hollywood is. Because, as MSNBC notes, "that sort of contradictory, somewhat nuanced humor didn't work well for the Oscars' audience. The theater audience's lack of laughter was judgmental and was odds with viewers who were laughing because this was the funny Jon Stewart we know from cable."

So, in the ultimate insider’s show, who were the real outsiders? The couple of hundred industry folks who either didn’t get it, or were too up their own asses to laugh? Or us, who see the industry, inside and out, through both fanfare and foible?

It seems Jon Stewart hosting the show was problematic...for Hollywood. It would rather smirk at the tame, and seem uncomfortable and unsure when hit with reality. As for our Oscar who writer, it seems he’ll have a job for quite some time, writing predictable one-liners, expecting what might as well be canned laughter. And in that regard, I don’t mind remaining an outsider. Rest easy, Vilanch (fag).

Step 38: This is a common step in my blog, and comes off as a bit trite, but it’s important: be honest with yourself. Do your own thing. Walk in stride with your own shadow, not the crowd’s. It’s a shame because this happens all over the place, not just Hollywood, and it causes a great many things to go under-appreciated or over-looked. And for crying out loud, don’t be a fucking Vilanch about life. (You’ll notice, I just made up my own word, which I’ll continue to use - Vilanch: anything negative and overtly lame)

Wha' Happened!

2006-02-23T15:19:00.000-08:00

In the latest of White House "Wha’ Happened" episodes, President Bush and Secretary of Defense Donald Rumsfeld have defended a deal that would allow six major U.S. ports to be sold to a United Arab Emirates state-owned business, Dubai Ports.

Dubai may sound familiar, as it is the latest international getaway for the über-rich and famous (and pedophilic... ahem, Michael Jackson).

The oil-rich – and just plain rich – country is more than willing to shell out the $6.8 billion asking price for control over shipping operations in New York, New Jersey, New Orleans, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Miami.

The deal has drawn ire from Republicans and Democrats alike – from Bill Frist to Hillary Clinton – criticizing Bush’s endorsement of the deal for reasons of national security. Bush initially responded by saying, "I’ll veto yer ass" when emergency legislation was suggested to suspend the sale. Now, because a presidential threat alone has proved fruitless (once again), Bush has coupled a threat with an excuse (once again), pleading ignorance (once again).

Amazingly enough, he and Rummy Cube both claim they had barely caught wind of the deal until it was complete. And that makes me want to break wind.

Granted, it didn’t have to land on the president’s desk for review and approval. But in dealing with sale of some of your country’s largest import/export checkpoints to a Middle Eastern country, located in the same Middle East where you have been waging war for the last three years, you’d think you’d at least know the basics of the deal, no?

When asked if it was true that the president didn’t know about the deal until after it was finalized, White House spokesman/lackey/puppet Scott McClellan answered, "That’s correct."

However, I have to agree with the president on one fairly substantial point. He thinks it foolish that those who are trying to stop the deal have expressed concerns that it would expose our fragile borders to a Middle Eastern state that had a link to 9/11. That theory sucks, and here’s why. The UAE’s involvement with financing 9/11 is isolated to a conduit bank and two UAE-born hijackers, and it’s independent of the government and most of the country’s big money. (The country has larger concerns, like how to ship in enough sod to build another 18-hole golf course next to its latest five-star construct of opulence.) If that is a cause for concern with UAE, then there should be cause for utter terror in our continuing friendship with Saudi Arabia – Bin Laden’s Allah-granted homeland and domicile of, what, nine hijackers? So what gives with the concern about UAE all of a sudden?

It has been explained again and again that the Persian Gulf coastal country would not control security operations at the ports, which is ultimately what we’re talking about here. We clearly don’t have a problem with a foreign investor owning the ports, since British company P&O had previously managed them. So, it seems to me this is just another example of our continued fear of allowing anyone with coffee-colored skin and charcoal hair to play a role in this country’s economic, political or social atmosphere. And that’s bullshit.

In an already volatile climate, where many people don’t like or don’t trust the United States, why put anything up for international sale, and then say, "England, you’re OK, and maybe Japan, too, but all of you in the Middle East, and some of you in Southeast Asia, you can go fuck yourselves." Because that’s basically what both the right-wing cultural absolutists and left-wing cultural relativists are doing right now, becoming cultural xenophobes. Really, there are two options: maintain complete domestic control or allow a sale to anyone who doesn’t pose a real and imminent national security threat.

Ostensibly, the Bush administration is arguing for the latter. But an administration full of wiretaps and mosque raids and moral crusades couldn’t possibly believe what they’re saying. And it’s fascinating that the first W-imposed veto in his five years in office would, at the end of the day, aid a large financial transaction for a Middle Eastern country. It makes you wonder what the real motivation is, and only goes to perpetuate the conspiracy theories of the Bush Dynasty sharing a wallet and an oil drill with much of the Middle East. Honestly, before I had thought of those claims and pointing fingers as mostly bunk. But why now, after everything thrown at him during his controversy-laden tenure, is George Bush so fervently supporting this port transaction by potentially throwing out an at-all-costs veto?

The contradictions across the board are astounding. Picture this: A GOP-dominated congress won’t support its poster boy. A tree-hugging, politically correct, ACLU-fucking left-wing is race-carding an entire region of the planet, simply to defy republican interests. And a president, who has been unwavering in his skepticism of anything or anyone even remotely related to 9/11, now is about to brandish his most powerful political weapon to bolster a monumental port deal with a country linked to the 2001 terrorist attack.

If anything, this is an example of exactly how screwed the state of our political structure is. Democrats and Republicans pitted against each other like a cat and dog in a burlap sack, Neo-McCarthyism with a splash of cultural-profiling bigotry and big-time politicians appearing to endorse deals with financial gain in mind rather than the greater good.

So what’s my take? I say sell UAE the ports. I don’t see the point in maintaining a damaging paranoia for the rest of our existence. If the Bush conspiracy theories are more than theories, screw it; we wouldn’t know the difference anyway.

Step 37: Don’t be racist, don’t be greedy, don’t be greedy (I said that twice, didn’t I), and get rid of useless, one-sided agendas. With politics in mind, basically, let’s say fuck all, move forward, and hope that we can endure the next three years until, hopefully, there is some stability, not just in the White House, but on Capitol Hill and the world in general. Jesus Christ, can you believe this shit? Wha’ happened?

Surf's Up: Why Not Doing Work Isn't Bad

2006-02-21T18:31:00.001-08:00

I remember telling someone a few months ago – and another person last night – about how much time I spent on the Internet at work. The discussions that followed spun around a decline in productivity levels, output and ultimately the quality of work turned in. Part of this is because the younger portion of the workforce, particularly, spends much of its time on news sites (guilty), checking e-mail (guilty), fucking around on MySpace (seriously guilty) or hell, I don’t know, looking at porn, playing games, shopping on eBay, whatever (guilty, guilty, guilty…all of it, guilty). To be clear, everyone fucks off on the Internet, young and old. But because workers in the 22-35-year-old set have grown up as computers have, they are more familiar with them. Or better yet, more adept at surfing the Web, taking full advantage of its distractions, ultimately procrastinating, putting off their work until the last possible minute.

And it could be supposed, I guess, that the brief period of time that employees are actually working, the work produced is hastily thrown together, with a few quick facts yanked from the same place they were fucking around to begin with: the Internet. Many times, I think that is true. In general, fact-checking and research in any sector is sub-par, particularly the media. But that’s the fault of the person, not the Web, and that’s another blog post entirely. The reason I said “I guess” that could be supposed is because I don’t think that’s always the case. The Internet has most definitely made the average employee more efficient producing the same quality work.

At my job, I read, write and edit shitty stories for a living. For interviews, I can find phone numbers across the country in an instant. Public documents can be found online, as well as company information at various Web sites. If I’m not sure how to spell a word or what it means, I can maximize my Google window that I already have open (see, I don’t think my mom would know what that means), and type, for instance, define: panoply. I had to do that recently. I admit it. I didn’t know what that word meant. Now, had I flipped through a number of pages in the dictionary, it could have cost me precious seconds. Though I do keep one near me at all times.

Same thing goes for the phone numbers. What did people do before the Internet? I know that seems ridiculous to be asking, but seriously, do you know? I have no frame of reference because I’m too young. I imagine there were a couple of options. You either a) collected a number of phone books from major metropolitan areas across the country or b) called 411. What they did before those two things, I haven’t the foggiest. Telegraph, maybe, but I’m barely conversational in Morse…I’d have been screwed. But what happens, for instance, when I have to call Alaska? (I know you don’t believe me, but I actually had to. And it was very refreshing.) You look the number up on the Internet in a matter of seconds rather than speaking with a doofus operator who thinks Alaska is still a territory, yet amazingly doesn’t know what a territory is. Or you search for the Greater Juneau phone book that your company didn’t purchase because Juneau isn’t a major metropolitan area. Nor is Anchorage, nor is Fairbanks, nor is another town that I’ll give you $3 if you can name because as far as I’m concerned those are the only three cities in the territory. And, unlike a dictionary, I do not keep a phonebook handy for Los Angeles, or anywhere else for that matter. (Luckily, dictionaries to not discriminate regionally. They are consistent anywhere you go. There could be an argument made for the prejudice of phonebooks, but, again, that’s for another post.)

As far as company information goes, without the Internet to find a business’s Web site or do a company search on Hoover’s, you have to call them to get it. Now, again, what if the company is headquartered in Juneau? It might as well not exist.

Admittedly, you can work your way around those things. But public documents are another story and an enormous pain in the ass (or ass-pain, to some). Now, for those that you can’t find on the Internet, which are few, you call (see above) a courthouse or legislative office, for instance, and have the files dug up (from their own database) and sent to you via fax or e-mail or FedEx overnight or stork, if it involves adoption records. I assume, in the old days, like way back in 1990 (whoa), you had to find the phone number (!) call the entity in question and submit a public document request. This still needs to be done at times, and it sucks so bad that I just come up with a new story idea if I have to do it. Even when it is necessary, it can be done electronically. And it still takes forever. Can you imagine how long it would take for someone to approve your legitimacy, find the file, make a copy, and send it regular mail? With traditional post, a package containing three pounds of paper at a distance of 3,000 miles, it will take approximately three years to arrive.

So yes, it’s made things more efficient. That horse, however, died two paragraphs ago, and I'm still kicking it. At the same time, quality hasn’t necessarily been sacrificed.

My job is roughly the same as it was in 1986, when the magazine was created. Sure, different topics are covered – like technology – but the magazine, the final product, is about the same. And I think that’s true of most jobs. In fact, I think that’s true of nearly every job that isn’t IT-related. The result is essentially the same. It’s the means to that end that is different. Before, an eight-hour workday was allotted eight hours because it probably took an average of six hours a day to do your research (30 hours a week) and two hours a day to produce the actual work. Keep in mind that’s an average. You think I’m lying because you remember your last crunch where you worked three 10-hour days in a row, but you had to do that because you were fucking off on the Internet. So, see, I’m telling the truth. With the speed and efficiency of the Internet, you can do your research in an average of two hours a day. That’s two hours a day to ultimately spend two hours a day producing the same thing you would have produced two decades ago.

So what does all of this mean exactly?

Well, first, it means that Europeans are correct it claiming that we are insane workaholics who don’t appreciate life because we get 10 days of vacation a year. Taking away those two weeks, including another five days for sundry holidays, acknowledgements and hookies, we work 1,960 hours a year over 49 weeks. By my technologically adjusted work week, you could cut that time in half to 980 work hours over 49 weeks at four hours a day, or over 25 weeks at eight hour days with 20 hours of overtime factored in. I think that’s a genius idea, and I think you think that, too.

But since the bureaucracy of the working world insists on creating working-class stiffs to carry out its orders and maintain its rigid (yet outdated) structure, that isn’t going to happen any time soon. So you might as well sit in your cube and IM your 2,305 very dear MySpace friends to tell them how you bought this great cell phone on eBay that you read about on Yahoo! News when you got to work. Because you’ve got all the time in the world, about 980 hours worth.

Step 36: There’s no need to kill yourself at work, or at anything for that matter. If you aren’t currently spending at least 15 hours a week at work using the Interweb, or anything, for entertainment, then start. If you’re currently operating that way, then keep your hours in check - no more than 20. No one condones (not even me) slacking, apathy and whining. The fact is, quality work needs to be produced in an appropriate period of time. And if upward mobility is your bag, then by all means, throw a couple of extra hours of work in there. But since the 40-hour workweek isn’t going to change any time soon, you might as well take advantage of the leisure that rests at your key-tapping fingertips.

Note:
(a) Panoply is a noun meaning 1) a complete suit of armor 2) any protective covering 3) any complete or magnificent covering or array.
(b) I don’t know Morse Code.
(c) I don't really look at porn...at work.

Two Shakes of a Lamb's Tail

2006-02-15T08:40:00.000-08:00

Srubby Nub a.k.a Youngling #2 has a lot on his plate right now. Rest assured, the revolution will continue by the end of the week. Over the next month or two, there should be more frequent posts, rife with foul language, irrational diatribe and overall just some weird shit.

I'll be back in two shakes...

Going to the Mall Perpetuates My Weirdness Which You'll Read in this Post and See that I Also Can't Afford Nice Things, Generally

2006-02-03T17:43:00.000-08:00

I went to the mall today. I don’t know why I went to the mall today. Why did I go to the mall today? Well, sometimes I go to the mall to eat Chick-Fil-A because Chick-Fil-A is very good. If you think I’m lying or disagree, then I’m sorry, but you’re probably a loser. Chick-Fil-A is tasty, but that’s not why I went to the mall today. I don’t have another reason besides Chick-Fil-A to go to the mall, so it makes the situation that much more confusing. I don’t know why I went to the mall today.

When I got to the mall, I parked in generally the same place I always park when I am going to eat Chick-Fil-A, and I entered through the doors through which I generally enter when I’m going to eat Chick-Fil-A. And generally, after I enter those doors, there are a man and a woman, both of whom work behind the makeup counter or perfume counter or purse counter or whatever kind of counter. I never know what kind of counter because I usually only want Chick-Fil-A, so I generally don’t give a shit.

Anyway, at this counter, the man, in his 20’s or so – not the same man always – is a greasy, slightly built fellow with spiked hair, who wears black slacks and a black shirt and some kind of burgundy or purple or probably actually black tie. He probably also sprays himself with Polo Sport. I can’t smell him, which is surprising because most people who wear Polo Sport can be smelled from quite a ways away, but yes, I’m sure of it, he wears Polo Sport.

The woman, in her 30’s or so – no the same woman always – is portly and of small stature who wears whatever it is that portly, small statured women wear (here, portly isn’t the best word, because really she just has a round bottom, and round bottoms are not altogether bad, in fact, they’re generally altogether good, but because her stature is so small, her torso is too, so the distance from her round bottom to her chest – measured from her waistline to her bra strap (the shape of which is always visible) – is very near, so maybe I’m mistaking the roundness of her backside for a roundness of her person, generally). Anyway, she probably doesn’t spray herself with anything, and probably just smells like stale deodorant by the end of the day – kind of how I think I smell at the end of my day, but maybe not.

Logically, it makes no sense that I might be able to vaguely describe the people who work behind the counter, but I do not know what the counter holds. Maybe this is because I am not interested in ever purchasing makeup or perfume or purses or whatever else, but I am interested is possibly ribbing two strangers when the mood strikes (like now) simply because I can, or maybe, more realistically, because they like their jobs more than I like mine, and I know this because of the effort to apply the Polo Sport that I cannot smell. I do not wear Polo Sport. I would rather have my co-workers smell my stale deodorant.

This is a department store that I enter, but soon I am in the mall proper (I say that like it’s a city, but it kind of is). The thing about the mall that I never understood is that I’m always a little cold, but always a little hot, too. I mean, I could wear a jacket if someone were to offer it, not that they would, but I sweat without the jacket that was not offered. And I sweat in the places where I generally sweat, and I’ve mentioned those previously here on my blog and those are my brow, balls and back. I don’t know why all of the places where I sweat the most have to start with a “b”, but they do (Unless, of course, you were to say forehead, testicles and latissimus dorsi, then they wouldn’t, but I never say those things, generally).

On this occasion, but not always, there is a group of older men and women, all of whom are mentally retarded to some extent, and they have a chaperone. I know they are mentally retarded because, well, that is obvious to someone who is not, but I won’t say any more than that because I will not rib people who are mentally retarded unless it is an imitation, which I only do in public, but only when I think strangers can’t see me. I do this because I act like it’s funny and act like I don’t care, but if a stranger saw, then I would be ashamed, and then it would show to the people for whom the imitation was intended that I didn’t really think it was funny, and that I do really care. So I won’t say anything about these older mentally retarded people, but they were there, and I was there, and it was the mall, and I think that says enough without being too offensive or showing how I really feel because in actuality I care. Sometimes.

Because I was not at the mall for Chick-Fil-A (remember, I don’t know why I went to the mall today), I tried to figure out what I wanted to do. I did figure that out, but this part is hard for me to admit, and I’ll tell you why it’s hard for me to admit, but I won’t say too much, because admitting too much is even harder than admitting anything. It’s hard for me to admit because it involves a store that no one wants to admit they went into past 1998, and maybe even before 1998 it wasn’t OK, but I can admit it up until then – it’s not that hard. I went into Abercrombie & Fitch. I know…that was hard. That was hard because it’s equally as hard to admit that you went to a rave at 1 p.m. and considered wearing for a moment a number of pairs jeans that look as though they were pulled out of eight different dumpsters, eight different times. I went into Abercrombie & Fitch.

I left the rave. I left the rave, and I walked over to Nordstrom’s. I can easily admit that I walked into Nordstrom’s because I can easily admit that I walked into a clothing store. I wanted to look at jeans that didn’t suffer from the 8X8 look. That’s very difficult these days. Remember, I don’t know why I went to the mall today. So, I obviously don’t need jeans because if I needed jeans, then I would know why I went to the mall. I am just trying to figure out what I can do at the mall. I looked at the jeans at Nordstrom’s. It’s not actually Nordstrom’s, it’s a store within Nordstrom’s that sells brands that are not Nordstrom’s (or Faccionable, which seems to be Nordstrom’s). However, you can buy the brands that are not Nordstrom’s at the Nordstrom’s counter, so I guess they’re Nordstrom’s. And if the store (seriously, though, really, it’s more like a section) that is selling those brands sells brands that can be bought at Nordstrom’s, then that store (section, really) is Nordstrom’s. But it might not be.

As I look at the jeans of a brand that may or may not be Nordstrom’s, I notice that the jeans look OK. I feel like I’m getting close to figuring out something to do at the mall, which would be trying on these jeans. I can’t find the price. I don’t try on jeans if I don’t know the price because I fear that I will like the jeans after I have tried them on and then I will find out the price, but at that point I will think the jeans look very good (later I find out otherwise) and convince myself the price doesn’t matter. So I end up paying very much for a pair of jeans that may or may not look very good on me. So I don’t try on jeans unless I know the price.

I can’t find the price. A man in his 20’s – maybe not always the same man – with tattoos on his arms and a black t-shirt asked me how I was doing. I asked if he worked there. I immediately followed with, “Of course you work here because you asked how I was doing. If you didn’t work here and asked how I was doing, then, well, that would be strange.” But now I’ve made it strange. Or weird. I tend to make things weird when other people are normal. It’s both a joy and a curse. But mainly it’s just weird. I asked this man with tattoos how much the pants were. He points to a tag that is very easily found that I did not see, so now I am almost as ashamed as I am when imitating a retard, but not nearly as much. He tells me they’re $187. For me, and for anyone, really, except for maybe Beyonce because she does well – financially, anyway, - $187 is too much to be paying for a pair of jeans. But then, Beyonce wouldn’t be buying these jeans because they’re men’s jeans, and she wouldn’t buy men’s jeans, but she could because, between you and me, she has a large bottom, or maybe it’s portly. But that’s not the right word.

So, to acknowledge that, in fact, I heard this man tell me this exorbitant price for a large bundle of cotton, really, I gave a slight nod as to reveal that I hear this every time I am at the mall trying to figure out what to do and looking at jeans, and that $187 is actually right about my price range, maybe even a little cheap for my taste. But to make this nod believable, sellable even (unlike $187 jeans), I had to stay at the rack for another 30 seconds. To maintain a length of 30 seconds, you have to ask one question (mine was, “How long are these, typically?” – they were those kind that give one pant size, not waist and inseam. He told me they had an inseam of 33 or 34, perfect for someone my size. Oh, really, perfect. So little is ever perfect that it’s interesting that it’s perfect.). In addition to one question, you must continue in a two to three sentence (short, preferably) back and forth. I do this with some small talk about jeans that I don’t remember, but if I did I would probably be embarrassed to sound like such a loser, regardless of how good I know Chick-Fil-A is. After that back-and-forth, you must look as though you’re trying to find your size. At 30 seconds, it is then OK to leave that rack, but slowly, not too quickly, very slowly or it will be obvious, and move to another rack of clothes that, quite honestly, you’re not that interested in, you find them ugly even, but it’s much better, at this point anyway, to seem like you have bad taste than to seem poor, even though the jeans are $187 and only Beyonce would buy a pair, rationally. Eight seconds is sufficient at the second rack, generally.

I left that store (section, really) and eventually left Nordstrom’s. I walked past Abercrombie & Fitch, and the thumping Euro rave dumpster store motivated me into a brisk walk so that I wouldn’t have to see it or hear it anymore. With all of this faking and walking and figuring things out, I had really worked up an appetite, but, chemically or biologically or physiologically, or maybe just logically, my sweating from the forehead, testicles and latissimus dorsi probably worked up that hunger. So, I walked to the escalator, which I rode to third floor (from the first where the rest of this took place) to the food court and walked over to eat Chick-Fil-A because Chick-Fil-A is very good, and if you think I’m lying or disagree, then I’m not sorry, but you’re probably a loser.

I went to the mall today. I don’t know why I went to the mall today. Why do I even ever go to the mall? Whether I want to or not, I guess I go to the mall to eat Chick-Fil-A, generally.

Step 35: You don't have to have things all figured out. Even when they're not, things can turn out very good, generally.

A Confederacy of Dunces (that means Oprah's book club)

2006-01-30T15:59:00.000-08:00

The James Frey situation is far from breaking news. But I’m not a 24-hour news station or daily newspaper, so I can cover it whenever I damn well please. Though the discussion – some say controversy, others say argument – surrounding Frey’s "memoir" A Million Little Pieces is somewhat stale, Oprah’s response(s) to the issue have forced me to throw a little penicillin on the fire. Additionally, there was nice commentary sparked over at Not Jack Kerouac, and another post at Left Coast Baby not too long ago, both of which address the two popular sides of the running debate: fact vs. fiction.

If you’ve kept up with my blog since the beginning, I make no secret of my hatred for Oprah Winfrey, who the New York Post (classic entertainment brought to me by dear Sasefina) referred to as "an out-of-control icon whose use of the medium for her
various personal crusades is getting tiresome and overbearing." I couldn’t have said it better myself, which is why I included writer Linda Stasi’s genius. Anyway, I’ve hated Oprah for several years and for several reasons, mostly concerning her insincere pandering to a desperate audience in a megalomaniacal effort to mark the world as her territory. What a bitch. (see slighted-at-Hermes, power-driven lunacy)

As if Oprah’s racial conspiracy theories, false tears and store-bought sentimentality (of the Hallmark variety) aren’t enough, she started this thing called a "book club" where "she" "recommends" good books for her audience to “read.” Let’s remember that this is a viewership whose (for the most part) prior reading experience, if any, consisted of Danielle Steele novels and grocery-store paperbacks adorned with an airbrushed Tonto, garb unlaced, locks trailing him in the wind.

First, it’s embarrassing that these women (and few men, read her chat room if you don't believe me) actually believe Oprah is reading anything she presents in her club (read: cult). More than likely, it’s a few underpaid Harpo Productions interns who provide a scribbled Cliff’s Notes version of the text to the Queen, who then relays that to the public. Still, even the interns couldn’t have known what they were getting Oprah into when they jotted down the summary of A Million Little Pieces.

So, as you all are aware, but I’ll recount anyway, the Web site The Smoking Gun reported in early January that some of Frey’s memoir was embellished, if not an outright lie. Frey’s words sparked a war of words that could be found in chat rooms (including those of Oprah’s book club), newspapers and, well, blogs, over the authenticity of a man’s work, and how it should be presented to the public.

There’s one view that says a memoir is fact, thus any deviation from assumed truth should negate any value or inherent truth that lies within the binding of the book. Another says that the man was making a marketable piece of work that wouldn’t sell as fiction, so it was tidied up and sold as non-fiction, and that the real truth of the book is its message, not the way in which it gets to the message.

I stand by the latter.

Though I don’t agree with passing off a lie as fact, I don’t think it really matters in Frey’s case. First, it’s the guy’s memoir, his life. He can retell it any way in which he pleases. The one thing that is known to be true – the most important – is that the man was an alcoholic and a drug addict, and the book chronicles his road to redemption and recovery. There are two ways this could affect a reader who has led a similar life (or anyone else for that matter). Either it’s fiction, and that reader thinks, "Wow, this guy hit the nail on the head. How did he get it? How does he know so well what it’s like?" Or it’s fact and the reader says, "James, I can relate to you, man. I know where you’re coming from," as he beats his chest and flashes Frey’s back-cover headshot a peace sign. In both scenarios, it affects the reader. I haven’t read the book, so I can’t say that it has affected me. But its sales alone prove that it affected someone, millions, even. And isn’t that the true value of any piece of literature?

Unless it’s a journal entry, a writer isn’t writing for himself, he is writing for an audience. He is writing in hopes that the audience will feel what he feels. In Frey’s case, it was the depiction of a desperate lifeaholic who had used up all of his trump cards. If that’s what the reader felt, if he could put himself in the drug addict’s shoes by the end of the book, didn’t it serve its purpose? Didn’t the reader find value in it?

I think more importantly is that the book was purchased, not on the notion that it would be reference point from which to work, a manual explaining how to and not to be a human being, but for entertainment – fact or fiction. Now, and this is an argument I’ve made before, if James Frey was writing high school history books, then yeah, some issue should be taken. But he’s not. (And him even being mentioned in the same breath as Stephen Glass or Jayson Blair is ridiculous.) So I don’t know why a reader should feel duped, as so many have claimed. The feeling the book gave you was genuine, even if the book itself was not. But that’s also probably why people feel so cheated.

It’s like meeting a person at a bar, you get along great, you love the same things, hate the same things, work in the same field. A few weeks pass, and you’ve got the warm fuzzies. You’re excited when the person calls, you cancel anything else, no matter how important, just to grab a bite with them, even if it’s a restaurant you’ve been to a million times. You genuinely like this person. Then you find out they’re married, didn’t ever hear live that band you love, never read that book you have an original print of and they don’t even do for a living what they told you they did. Your feelings were genuine, but the other person, theirs were not. You invested something in them, and it hurts to find out it was an empty investment. It’s kind of the same thing with A Million Little Pieces. It’s an indication of how such a prideful culture hates to get hurt. The thing is, this is a fucking book. No matter how romantic your experience was with it, it is something you put down and step away from. It is something that affects you a little less with each book you read thereafter. So, with regard to the book, get over it. Toughen up. Besides, you probably couldn’t do what James Frey did, no matter how hard you lied, so give the man some credit. He’s a writer damn it.

Initially, I think Oprah agreed with me (to a certain extent). When Frey appeared on Larry King Live, she called in defense of the obviously disheveled, hairy little scribe. She basically said, "The message stands." For an instant, before I slapped myself and applied jumper cables to my balls, I started to have a little bit of respect for Oprah.

Apparently, her thoughtless book club disagreed. Because no more than two weeks later, Oprah brings Frey on her show and asked "Why did you lie? Why would you do that? Why would you choose to make me look so stupid when I am clearly aiming for global domination?" See, Oprah’s apology on Thursday, and her grilling of James Frey were not her genuine feelings. Genuine feelings are gut reactions. Genuine feelings are putting down a book and saying "Hot Damn!" Genuine feelings are picking up the phone and calling Larry King to stand by your book club’s most popular author. Genuine is not listening to the jeers of your wooly (and by wooly I mean sheep-like and pathetic) audience, and back tracking to save face.

If anyone is the fucking liar, Oprah, it’s you. Your influence is much farther reaching, much more expansive than James Frey’s. Yet you have the ability to be as fickle and as false as you need to be, as you please. You can change your mood, change your feelings, and plug any piece of shit you want to to your congregation, your constituency, because you know that they’ll take it all, even though you don’t have a fucking clue what it is you're peddling. You pamper them with gifts (purchasing fans) and cry alongside them, and you tell them anything you can to keep them by your side and keep your ratings high. At least James Frey is an artist. At least there were shades of truth in his story. But you Oprah, you are false and a farce and a fucking liar. Oh yeah, and your relationship with Steadman Graham is arranged you fucking dyke.

Step 34: I can’t speak for personal relationships (right now anyway), but with a book or a movie or, Christ, even a television show, find the value in it for you, and the rest of it toss away. The banana peel is part of the banana, but you don’t have to eat it. It’s what’s inside that matters. And for Oprah, for her to cast a stone at all is unbelievable. First, she defends him. That’s unpopular. Then, she feels betrayed by Frey? For the record, if you find value in what Oprah does, then by all means, keep watching. But understand that the same reason Frey sold 3.5 million copies of his book is the same reason Oprah maintains such an ardent following: They’re both fantastic liars. Fuck you Oprah.

The Facts of Life

2006-01-09T11:18:00.000-08:00

In addition to the various court fees and fines, alcohol classes, suspended driver’s license and general paranoia that come with a DUI conviction, Los Angeles County likes to send its transgressors to the county coroner’s office for a day of sensory punishment in the presence of the county’s recently, and not so recently, deceased.

It was a strangely luminous and warm morning for someone such as myself, a cold-thriving southerner with at least a dozen bitter, icy winters under his belt, to be experiencing in early January. As I climbed into my car – running smoothly for the first time since my last January – the words from that song rang in my head. “It’s gonna be a bright, mmm, bright, bright sun-shiny day,” bounced between my ears as I ripped off, coffee in hand, to the county morgue.

Approaching the building 45 minutes later, I tried to think away the beads of sweat that had formed on the ridge of my spine and around my brow, conceived during the coitus of a 10-minute walk from the visitor’s parking deck and a long-sleeved shirt accustomed to temperatures much cooler. The building was, as I imagined, an angular, prismatic convergence of 1950’s conservatism and 1960’s early modern, timid experimentation, with long narrow windows – no more than a foot wide – and a gold-flaked, Nixon-era, stenciled explanation of the structure on the glass doors that opened it:

L.A. County Coroner’s Office
1104 N. Mission Rd.
Los Angeles, CA 90033

The description made me forget about perspiring, as did the cool, eerie greeting of the conditioned air inside (though, maybe the Meth Head standing in the corner of the lobby distracted me a bit, as well, and made me care less, about the sweat, about life, in general.)

About 20 or so people stood and sat in uncomfortable conversation and nicety that revolved around arrest and court procedures and jail experiences as everyone waiting had spent at least one night as guest of the California Penal System. I avoided any gauche anecdotal exchange by heading to the bathroom to unleash my bowels.

A few seconds after I exited the latrine, a woman ambled through a pair of swinging doors. Her name was Pat, and she was awkwardly built around a pair of skinny legs that bowed at the knee. Her hair was dyed the color of marigolds and coiffed in such a way that a translucent ball rested on her scalp allowing gleams of the building’s fluorescent light to break through the strands. Not enough, she had a dime-sized cold sore or fever blister or something else just as scabby and grotesque that was sucking the life from her upper lip. I would guess she nurtured it just so by injecting it with steroids and feeding it Vitamin D milk and red meat. Maybe that’s why I murmured BALCO Blister to myself every time she passed.

So The Blister summoned us, and through the swinging doors we followed to a small door on the side of a narrow hallway. I noticed a portly Asian man with an identification card pinned to his shirt pocket scramble by our group with a sack lunch in hand. I figured people who worked in a place like this would go out to lunch. As I continued to follow his figure down the hall, around the corner, I realized that the rest of the group was leaving me behind as it entered the classroom hidden behind the door. Inside, a series of chairs - the cushions of which had been worn thin and faded by the asses of a thousand delinquents before me – were lined in rows facing another woman who was leaning against a small folding table at the front of the room, just at the base of a modest projector screen. She had black boots on with not enough tread to be lesbian, but butch enough for their purpose. Her black pants lead from the ankle to a wedge in her long, flat ass that revealed itself as she turned to grab a stack of waivers that were optionally mandatory for us to sign. She had a light belly to which her beige shirt clung and a pair of ample breasts that reached to her collar, then to her toad of a neck. Her nipples were hard enough to show their girth, with the reason for their arousal locked away downstairs waiting to be seen and smelled. I took a seat next to the Meth Head.

She was 18, the Meth Head told the class when asked why she was there. She had been sitting in her parked car with a friend, smoking crystal and weighing out bags of marijuana when the cops found them. She swore to the group, her collective parent for the morning, that she didn’t smoke meth anymore, but the stammer in her speech, the cloud of her thoughts and the pocks on her face admitted that she was lying. It went on like this for a while. Each of us took our turn, telling our tale of incarcerated woe. Some drove drunk, some drove fast, some punched people they shouldn’t have punched. After, Butch Boots clicked on a slide projector that showed on the screen images of death and scraps of metal, twisted and skewed, that used to be a Honda Accord, or maybe a Dodge Intrepid. Then she yelled at someone for having a toothpick behind his ear, and directed him, with some confrontation, toward the trash receptacle.

Throughout the entire display – the slides and the toothpick – I found myself antsy, impatient. My eyes were repeatedly drawn to the boxes of latex gloves, cloth masks and shoe booties that were stacked on the edge of the table. I knew that when we put those on, we were going to fulfill the morning’s destiny.

When the last slide clicked by – a young Latino couple and their 3-year-old and 6-week-old children, bodies contorted and bloody, dragged across the pavement of the 101 freeway – Butch Boots grabbed for the boxes. As she passed out our accessories, I started to squirm a bit. I perked up, sat up straight, tweaked my neck and moved in my seat as though my ass itched. Maybe it did. You know what government-subsidized toilet paper is like.

My booties barely stretched around my size 13, and the right ring finger of my glove, as it tends to do, dangled loosely from the tip of my nub. As the last of us dressed, we followed Butch Boots out a different door than the one through which we had entered. Back in the hallway, we were lead to another door, just on the left – the entrance to a staircase. I fought my way to the front of the line and, given the squeamish looks on some of the faces, I wasn’t met with too much difficulty. Before we walked down the stairs, we were told that this wasn’t supposed to be a “scared straight” experience. They merely wanted us to know what consequences our actions can have. The only people resting in the morgue – 444 of them that day – were homicides, suicides, car accidents or other accidents that needed investigating or could have been caused by a drunk behind the wheel like us.

By the time we made it to the bottom of the stairs, I was third in line behind Butch Boots and another.

The door swings open. First, the small man in front of me walks through. I quickly follow. I see dead people.

I smell them, too. Right inside the door is what used to be a white man, maybe 50-years-old, eyes closed, skin yellowed, and legs limp and stitched from ankle to hip. They had pulled out all of his tissue and bones and replaced them with metal rods as to keep the legs from flailing about. Funny, I thought he was dead.

I still smell them. The stench is like a thousand dead rats decaying on my chin – or maybe 444 dead bodies. I try to breathe through my mouth to block some of the smell. That makes it worse. I can taste the death from the tip of my tongue to the back of my throat. Breathing through the nose is better.

There are a number of bodies scattered throughout the hall, and various doors are open with men and women in surgical gear in the rooms, dicing up insides. None of them are wearing masks. As we progress, I hear Bob Marley’s Waiting in Vain echoing through hallway. A pair of double doors slides open automatically as I pass them. I think of the butcher at a grocery store. A man with a dark, thick beard and small ponytail, a doctor, I presume, turns to me and says, "Welcome to the real world." Beyond him I can see the body of a 2-year-old black boy. His scalp is folded down over his face, peeled back like a banana, and two men are angling a circular saw around his bare skull. They remove the shell and rip off the dura mater – the membrane that cushions the brain from the skull. The track on the CD player kicks over the Redemption Song. They pull the brain out of the little boy’s head. They throw it on a scale as if they are weighing carrots in the produce section. It weighs 1.4 lbs.

On the table next to the boy is an Asian man, late 20’s, 30’s, I don’t know. It’s too hard to tell. There is an hourglass-shaped stoop under his body, about 10-12 inches high, nestled between the man’s shoulder blades. It is propelling his torso upward, while gravity pulls his limp head down toward the metal table, the top of which is facing the reflection of his body on the surface. From his throat to his waist, his body cavity is exposed, rib cage pried apart and innards wanting to spill out. His arms hang off the table at either side of his body and his ankles are crossed while an examiner carves an organ on a tray above his legs. Jesus is an Asian being autopsied in the L.A. County Coroner’s office after a double homicide. The sacrificial lamb, cut open to see why a bullet kills the way it does.

It is explained that each organ has to be “bread sliced” so that any infection can be detected. Once an area has been examined, it is tossed into a plastic bag. When the body is empty and the bag is full, the examiners tie the bag shut, place it in the body and stitch the cavity back up. What’s more brutal, that, or a torso that looks like a deflated basketball?

Down the corridor we continue. A large, steel door is at the end of the hall, just before the hall veers to the right. The door is open and waiting for us to enter. Inside is a refrigerated room, much like a meat locker or walk-in freezer at a restaurant. Dozens and dozens of bodies are lined on shelves at either side of the room. Some are on operating tables in front of the shelves. The room is about to burst with bodies at various stages of decay. Those that have been autopsied – about two-thirds – are wrapped in clear plastic, while those that await dissection are wrapped in opaque white. A veil of innocence and a modicum of peace before their questionably necessary postmortem surgery.

The fetid fumes are more intense than ever, refrigeration no matter. For many of the bodies, race is indistinguishable as they have turned hard and black. Tattoos can be made out, but only as grooves on what look like, but are not, charred remains. Many of the bodies that come to the coroner are not claimed by family, or their loved ones simply cannot afford a funeral – rites running $7,000 on average. For the claimless, they wait. Six months is standard before they are sent to the county crematorium. One body has been there seven years. And people have the nerve to bitch about the DMV.

Below me, on my right is a suicide – fresh, only 10 hours old. He was in a standoff with the police, wielding a gun, making threats, apparently. Rather than shoot at the crowd, he aimed for his right temple. His white covering is hanging open. I am 18 in. from the hole in his head. It’s smaller than I thought. But I remember it’s the exit wound that makes the mess. For whatever reason, I am more intrigued by the Grateful Dead skull tattoo on his arm. I’m somehow amused that it’s a skull. He has another Dead tattoo with a rose. I wonder if he saw Jerry Garcia live.

At the Dead’s feet is a car accident victim. He has a gaping hole on the top of his head that spiders out from its center. That is the point of impact, we are told, that is where he landed when he was thrown from the car. His left eye is open and slightly clouded and blued. His hair even looks dead, like a cheap wig from a costume store.

As we turn to another refrigerated room, more bodies welcome us. But more startling, is a rack, similar to the stacked cubbyholes at an elementary school, about 20 of them. In each slot is an infant or toddler, feet hanging out. All I can see are feet. And toe nails. The nails are long and mangled. These are not real babies to me. Most of them died of SIDS, others, from abuse. Most, we find out, have traces of drugs in their systems – alcohol, crack, heroine. I look back at the adult bodies.

I am trying to figure out each story, each death. I could have had a conversation with this man a day ago, and that man last week, while another might have stood in line with me at a gas station. Their families sit, sometimes aware, sometimes unaware. Caring at times, often not. But one thing they certainly don’t know is that I – a 24-year-old, college graduate from Atlanta, with a DUI on my record, an affinity for the strange and sympathy for almost none – I am inches away from a body they knew, they interacted with. I am closer now to their kin than they could ever be. And I feel bad for them.

By the time I get to my car, I am sweating again, but I don’t care because I can sweat. I pull out of the parking deck into the sunshine. Friday was a pretty glorious day and about to get better, because as of that afternoon, my license wasn’t to be suspended anymore.

Step 33: More than a little morbid, I know. But it happened, just so. I could have even gone on further, in greater detail, but I wasn’t sure how long you’d hang on for that. Anyway, more than anything I just felt like this needed to be blogged about. There are 60,000 deaths in L.A. County alone each year. Imagine how many there are in the country. Be thankful you’re alive. More than that, be thankful you made it this far. Some don’t make it past the age of 2. Additionally, though, regard death as a fact of life. You shouldn’t feel sad for these people because they are dead, and you don’t know them. Think about their families, sure, but don’t worry for them, and definitely not for the soul that’s gone to wherever you believe souls go. Just embrace the good things in life. Make sure your life checks out OK, so that when you check out, when you’re on the brink of death, whether tomorrow or 40 years from now, your last thought can be, "I lead a good life and had a good time doing it." Do you think the Grateful Dead fan who shot himself thought that in his final moments? I kind of doubt it.

It Ain't Over Till It's Over

2006-01-04T15:37:00.000-08:00

Friday will mark one month of blogging absence. A hiatus like that could lead some to believe that a mother fucker can't handle the pressure of a blog. That, however, is not the case. I have not quit. I have been busy traveling the reaches of This Great Land, ensuring that the Revolution does not falter in the face of adversity, namely, apathy.

The journey shall continue, and the Revolution will hold strong. Thank you for your patience. Blog on, brother, blog on.

A Spoonful of Good Press Helps the Democracy Go Down

2005-12-06T17:34:00.000-08:00

Something was brought to my attention by fellow blogger, Sasefina. The head honcho (I believe) at her company wrote a piece on a recent “blog nyerd post” regarding the pay-for-play disaster that is currently taking place in Iraq.

I nearly re-posted his thoughts on the subject, but after an e-mail exchange with Sasefina and Marty, I felt the need to offer my own take.

Pay-for-play, if you’re unfamiliar with the current version, is the practice of paying members of the Iraqi media to allow for pro-American play in some of the country’s various media outlets. Basically, money is handed down from the Pentagon to the Lincoln Group, a PR firm, of sorts, that presents storyboards to Iraqi journalists, who get paid for relaying the information. I think the budget runs somewhere to the tune of $300 million. It seems, as Sase’s boss argued, that this smells more of advertising than PR. And there’s a word for this sort of thing. It’s called propaganda.

Propaganda, in my opinion, is not necessarily a bad thing, but the current state of affairs points to a larger problem. A couple of them, actually.

First, is the disgrace that is print, broadcast and online journalism in the U.S. these days. Second, is that fact that the American government is essentially trying to purchase support for the occupancy in Iraq. Those two things beg for the questions to be asked: Why is there a “need” for a propaganda program in Iraq? And, who is really being targeted?

It begins with the media here. Anyone who opens a newspaper with a circulation of larger than 5,000 or switches the boob tube to CNN or MSNBC knows full well that the umbrella of journalism coverage in the U.S., like a pair of balls, hangs more than a little to the left. But it’s hardly their political leanings that thrust them that way. It’s pop, or junk news. The fantastic headlines and reader grabbers come not with any good news from the ongoing situation in the Middle East (or anywhere else for that matter). They come from death and suicide bombers and impossible scenarios and insurmountable hurdles. As such, the “news” that is published or broadcast comes as inflated death tolls, conspiracy theory and whatever well-armed, anti-admin supposition the media can muster, never mind anything positive. In that regard, a battle for the American media would ultimately be a fruitless endeavor for Bush and his cronies.

Additionally, the presence of rogue independent Internet journalists and bloggers offers widespread dissemination of information that goes factually unchecked. In other words, it’s wrong. But it’s everywhere and it’s easily accessible, so people read it. And those people tell their version of what they read. The nightmarish telephone game that ensues churns out some dramatized accounts told with complete confidence and certain vigor when anything in opposition, though possibly accurate, is presented. Talking heads aren’t the only pundits now. Everyone is, apparently.

And everyone thinks President Bush is a fucking disgrace. Well, a lot of people do anyway. People, even many who once supported the guy, are fairly appalled at how things have turned out. Aside from whatever ever “news” they’re reading, they have pretty good reason, too. It doesn’t even look like what we have done is being welcomed with open arms. Iraq is like the little kid at the dinner table who can’t leave until they finish their plate. Our democracy is their Brussels sprouts, and they’re just trying to take it down so they, and we, can leave the fucking table. But everyone can see the cringe as they swallow.

The government in place is feeble, at best, and insurgency springs up, not just in Fallujah and Baghdad anymore, but everywhere there are American troops or Iraqi strides toward independence. People are, for the most part, scared, angry or depressed, and they know that the only chance of a departure from this war zone is the American watchdog.

Knowing that living anywhere east of Jordan, north of Saudi Arabia and west of Iran sucks right now only fuels the American media. Liberals like to make the argument that “they don’t even want us there” like we could just pull out tomorrow. (Conservatives, on the other hand, like to ignore truth and polish their presidential turd with “patriotism.”)

Bush could suggest we take out Western Europe and Delaware and paint the White House magenta and still be confident that most of his Republican support would remain. It’s us left-wing, liberal pussies that are the problem. So they purchase, not our impossible media, but Iraq’s.

If stories run proclaiming American positivism, further and real Iraqi liberation, and possibly the never-present global support this war has wanted, then the Iraqi population might just think our presence in Iraqi is not just necessary, but good. They might actually be fucking smiling while they take their last bites of democracy.

But the Pentagon didn’t buy the media to wrangle Iraqi support, convince the country of the worth of the occupancy or curb insurgency. At least, not entirely. At this point, the administration doesn’t really give a shit if the Iraqi’s are happy or if they die and if all of the buildings in the country crumble from suicide bombs. That is, at least not for the Iraqi people’s sake.

The ultimate goal is to have as much good news over there – Iraqi support and smiling Shi’ite faces and as the Stars and Stripes fly by – so that the trickle down hits the American media and maybe, just maybe, the New York Times prints a headline that reads: American Occupancy Sees Growing Iraqi Support.

That’s how they win the war over here. That’s how they get all of us left-wing, liberal pussies to shut up and finish our fucking Brussels sprouts.

Step 32: Don’t buy into the bull shit on either side of the story. It’s like being friends with a divorced couple. You have to hear all of their shit when the truth lies somewhere in the middle. I may happen to be better friends with the husband (read: liberal), but that doesn’t mean I have to listen to his bull shit. At the same time, I can stand listening to that crazy, lying, manipulative bitch of a wife of his talk about what a pussy he became. I may have appropriately digressed, but the step still stands: Take in both sides of the story and discern the truth. This goes with any situation. I think the problem with the war, though, is that the situation is actually grim, but one side pretends it’s not and the other pretends it’s worse and no one wants to look at what it actually is.

Mu Mu and Me

2005-12-02T15:33:00.000-08:00

I found this story in the New York Times slightly more than a week ago. I guess you could say Party Girl and I are kindred spirits with kindred blogs. However, where mine is intentional and farsical, hers truly is revolutionary. Mu Mu is her name, and honestly, I think we should probably marry. As a self-described "Party Girl," I think, politcally, we might have some issues. But I am an idealist - or so I've been told - and that's not so far off from a communist sometimes.

Mu Mu is one of many tearing up the blogospheres of influence in China. I wish they had given a link to her site. I tried finding it myself, but no dice. Just as well, the content would probably be butchered in a AltaVista Babel Fish or Google translation. I think the real revolutionary, though, is Mu Zi Mei, whose site was blocked from the Web by Chinese officials a couple of years ago after some Carrie Bradshaw, Sex-in-the-City-esque chronicles of her sex life. She has a new site up somewhere, but I'm too lazy to look for that one. And Mu Mu's getting all the press.

Without further ado, here is the story of a true revolution, blogger style.

A Party Girl Leads China's Online Revolution

On her fourth day of keeping a Web log, she introduced herself to the world with these striking words: "I am a dance girl, and I am a party member."

Pictures from the Web log of a self-described Communist Party member from Shanghai who goes by the pseudonym Mu Mu. One expert says China's new bloggers talk back to authority, "but in a humorous way."

"I don't know if I can be counted as a successful Web cam dance girl," that early post continued. "But I'm sure that looking around the world, if I am not the one with the highest diploma, I am definitely the dance babe who reads the most and thinks the deepest, and I'm most likely the only party member among them."

Thus was born, early in July, what many regard as China's most popular blog.

Sometimes timing is everything, and such was the case with the anonymous blogger, a self-described Communist Party member from Shanghai who goes by the pseudonym Mu Mu.

A 25-year-old, Mu Mu appears online most evenings around midnight, shielding her face while striking poses that are provocative, but never sexually explicit.

She parries questions from some of her tens of thousands of avid followers with witticisms and cool charm.

Chinese Web logs have existed since early in this decade, but the form has exploded in recent months, giving flesh to the kind of free-spoken civil society.

Web experts say the surge in blogging is a result of strong growth in broadband Internet use, coupled with a huge commercial push by the country's Internet providers aimed at wooing users. Common estimates of the numbers of blogs in China range from one million to two million and growing fast.

The new wave of blogging took off earlier this year. In the past, a few pioneers of the form stood out, but now huge communities of bloggers are springing up around the country, with many of them promoting one another's online offerings, books, music or, as in Mu Mu's case, a running, highly ironic commentary about sexuality, intellect and political identity.

Xiao Qiang, director of the China Internet Project at the University of California, Berkeley said: "People have often said you can say anything you want in China around the dinner table, but not in public. Now the blogs have become the dinner table, and that is new.

A fresh example was served up last week with the announcement by China of five cartoonlike mascot figures for the 2008 Olympics in Beijing. They were lavishly praised in the press - and widely ridiculed in blogs that seemed to accurately express public sentiment toward them.

"It's not difficult to create a mascot that's silly and ugly," wrote one blogger. "The difficulty is in creating five mascots, each sillier and uglier than the one before it."

A leading practitioner of the sly, satirical style that is emerging here as an influential form of political and social commentary is a 38-year-old Beijing entertainment journalist named Wang Xiaofeng.

Mr. Wang, who runs a site called Massage Milk, is better known to bloggers by his nickname, Dai San Ge Biao, which means Wears Three Watches.

His blog mixes an infectious cleverness with increasingly forthright commentary on current events.

In a recent commentary, as the patriotic sentiment was stoked during the commemoration of the defeat of the Japanese in World War II, Mr. Wang asked who really fought the enemy, making the provocative observation that only two Communist generals had died fighting Japan, while more than 100 of their Nationalist counterparts had.

"In blogging I don't need to be concerned about taboos," Mr. Wang said. "I don't need to borrow a euphemism to express myself. I can do it more directly, using the exact word I want to, so it feels a lot freer."

Another emerging school of blogging involves bringing Chinese Web surfers more closely in touch with things happening outside their country.

Typically, this involves avid readers of English who scour foreign Web sites and report on their findings, adding their own commentary, in Chinese blogs.

Several bloggers like this have become opinion leaders, usually in areas like technology, culture, current events or fashion, building big followings by being fast and prolific.

One of the leading sites was run by Isaac Mao, a Shanghai investment manager who had built a following writing about education and technology.

Mr. Mao, an organizer of the first national bloggers' conference in Shanghai this month, recently went online at isaacmao.blogbus.com/s1034872/index.html.

By far the biggest category of blogs remains the domain of the personal diary, and in this crowded realm, getting attention places a premium on uniqueness.

For the past few months, Mu Mu, the Shanghai dancer, has held pride of place, revealing glimpses of her body while maintaining an intimate and clever banter with her many followers, who are carefully kept in the dark about her real identity.

"In China, the concepts of private life and public life have emerged only in the past 10 to 20 years," she said in an online interview. "Before that, if a person had any private life, it only included their physical privacy - the sex life, between man and woman, for couples.

"I'm fortunate to live in a transitional society, from a highly political one to a commercial one," she wrote, "and this allows me to enjoy private pleasures, like blogging."

Growing Pains

2005-11-30T23:28:00.000-08:00

America is scared to have its children grow up. Parents treat their kids - and adults in general treat children - like fucking pussies. I blogged about it before. You know, the little league team that was kicked out of the league for being “too good.” Officials were worried that they would damage the self-esteem of the other kids in the league because they beat them so badly. Well, sorry to say, but you keep score for a reason. There are winners and there are losers and the sooner kids figure that out, the healthier they will be emotionally when they are adults. But it’s bigger than competition. It’s bigger than sports. It’s bigger than winning and losing.

There’s no one (at least there shouldn’t be) out there who hasn’t heard the censorship of television debate. Parents complain that guns and violence and murder and sex and drugs portrayed on television, video games and movies contaminate the little sponge-like brains of kids. I guess the theory is that kids are more likely to get high and destroy shit if they watch R-rated movies and listen to gangster rap while playing Halo. I know that after every time I played Doom on the computer, I ran to my closet to pull out my BFG 9000 high-voltage ray blaster so I could go shoot second-graders that I pretended were tentacle-flailing, floating Cyclops alien orbs. That’s how it works, you know. It all makes so much sense, doesn’t it?

Honestly, that’s not even my biggest beef (though I do think the psycho fuck little shits who shoot people and set stuff on fire would be psycho fuck little shits regardless). I was spent on this whole rag. It wasn’t anything that interested me. And then I read about Young Jeezy.

Young Jeezy was living the drug dealer’s dream. Once known as the Snowman for selling his fair share of the chowder, Young Jeezy gave up that racket to bust rhymes, kick beats and tell his tale of life on the streets. And he has a logo. A trademark. A calling sign. His bat symbol. It’s a Snowman.

The three-balled (not testicular) little man is plastered all over shirts and chains, covered in ice (not frozen) and rappin’ that dope game right along side Jeezy. The sad thing is people thought it was some way of sending a message to kids, not just to buy a little glass mirror and a gram of yeyo, roll up that hundy and toot away. The message, these parents believed, was to buy that gram of coke from Young Jeezy himself, and that his music was a forum from which he could pilot some massive drug ring. Whether you agree with the man’s lifestyle or not, you’ve got to see the absolute buffoonery on display in that theory. I don’t do coke, and I don’t really listen to rap. But I also don’t think that Young Jeezy is trying to sell my nephew drugs because he has a fucking cartoon on his shirt.

When I saw that, I started getting a little fired up. I had even planned to devote an entire blog post to him. But, the moment passed. The wave, however, washed back over me yesterday when I saw that a high school newspaper had been seized by the administration for publishing material that wasn’t “acceptable” to be viewed by the student body. Apparently the paper performed an act so egregious, so heinous, so rabid and blindly insane that the adults themselves could not let it go on: They published a photo of a tattoo and a story about birth control. Those foolish youngsters. How immature and irresponsible. Shame.

The First Amendment implications alone are enough to make me say whatthefuck out loud. But what’s scarier is that these high school kids are being shielded from some pretty common, everyday kind of stuff.

The kid with the tattoo got the ink job unbeknownst to his parents. The picture was a close-up of the tattoo on his arm, the kid’s anonymity intact, as well as his parents’ delusion that he is still a 5-year-old. The principal didn’t want to be a part of keeping something from his parents. I say this a lot, but he really is out of his element. There is no way that it would be appropriate for him to tell the kids parents, therefore, he shouldn’t feel guilty for keeping something from them. The only way this would be appropriate would be if the kid was getting the tattoo while smoking a cigarette in the bathroom and cussing a teacher.

But most shocking to me is the fact that they were concerned about the birth control story. The story listed success rates for different types of birth control and contraceptive devices. I would think that is fairly important given the large number of dick warts and bastard fuck children going around these days. But the adults, the parents, they want to believe that their children are pure and virgin and aren’t going to copulate until marriage. See, they are scared for what their kids might get into, they’re scared that their kids may not be such little kids any more. It’s some grossly damaging preemptive form of Empty Nest Syndrome.

But this can be said, just because a teenager knows what condoms or birth control pills are doesn’t mean he or she is going to have sex. But if they do have sex, fuckin’ A if that ain’t the best way to have sex (and by best, I mean safest, not best meaning best).

Along those same lines, just because a kid sees a tattoo, doesn’t mean he’s going to go out and get one. And for the parents of the kid who got the tattoo, they better get prepared because he’s probably going to get more and stop hiding them.

Listening to Young Jeezy doesn’t mean he rapped himself another customer. Playing games with guns doesn’t mean that kids are going to shoot other kids.

What all of those things mean – the sex and the tattoos and the music and the violent games – is that daddy’s little girl and momma’s boy have grown up. The parents have lost control and they hate it. But you know, sometimes that ship has just got to fucking sail.

Step 31: It’s OK to move on, so do it. It isn’t just parents with their kids, it happens in every relationship on every level. It could be a friend moving away, a significant other meeting new people, or a co-worker getting a promotion. If you let those things slide. If you go with the proverbial flow, then you’ll probably be all right. If you don’t, then you’ll be scared, sad, frustrated, angry, violent or jealous. It may be tough, but just let it happen. It’s all a part of the process, so grow the fuck up.

I also just want to mention that there is another post just below. It is step 30. I hate to call attention to it, but it's been so long since I even posted in the same week, let alone the same day, that I figured it would go over looked. But it's a step, and it should be read. Plus, it might piss a few people off, and I would enjoy that.

Go Thank Yourself

2005-11-30T23:21:00.000-08:00

I wrote most of this my last half hour at work the day before Thanksgiving (also my glorious birthday), and finished it on the plane flying to Denver. I didn't get around to posting it because I was eating a lot of food and getting picked on by two of my brothers. Ah well, the blog's been empty for a bit, and I had a step to fill. Better late than never.

Well, folks, the Giving of Thanks is upon us - the least appreciated holiday in the U.S. next to Flag Day. I mean, seriously, Christmas decorations are already up – bright lights and faux pine and greens and reds and all of that shit. How come nobody decorates their house with orange, brown and yellow, with turkeys and cornucopias spewing vegetables and legumes? Probably because shortly after we dined at the table of unity with the Native Americans, we proceeded to murder them with guns and disease and starvation, and after all of that we kicked the remaining few out of their homes and sent them packing to a land far, far away…Oklahoma. So out of obligation and with a fuzzy memory, we eat turkey the last Thursday of each November, but pretty much try to skip the shit and get ready to open gifts in December. Anyway, this is just the beginning of what has become a very insincere, superficial holiday.

Everybody likes to give shout outs and toasts to those people, places and things for which they are truly thankful. They’re thankful for their parents, for their children, for their friends, for their just-good-enough-to-not-be-miserable job and for not getting caught doing that thing in the bathroom at that party that one time. Yes, indeed, to all of those things…thanks. But are you really thankful?

It seems to me that the only time I hear anybody say anything about being thankful or grateful for something is somewhere around the November 20’s. I don’t doubt if you were to sit down on, say, June 3, and think of everything that is gratifying or rewarding in your life, that your “thankful” list would look much different than it does now – barring, of course, a kidney transplant from an anonymous donor between now and then.

In that regard, Thanksgiving is a lot like the Academy Awards for the normal person. When someone heads up on stage to accept their Oscar, they begin fiddling through the list of everyone who helped them along the way – from the director to the producers to the wardrobe and makeup people to that guy Fernando who ran to the store to grab them a case of Red Bull and a carton of American Spirits when they got pissed because their trailer wasn’t already stocked. However, I would bet my left testicle, and my right, that they spent nary a moment from the day they finished shooting to that night among the stars thanking anybody but the guy who sold them their Maserati they paid for with their grossly inflated paycheck, shortly after a shopping spree at Barney’s Beverly Hills.

But you see, rarely do any of us, like the Academy Award winners, regard or consider those things that make our lives better any other time of year. We take for granted the fact that people call us to congratulate us when something great happens or to console us during the bad times. We don’t acknowledge delivery food when we’re tired, taxis when we’re drunk or a swift breeze when the summer heat has got your balls dripping like an ice cream cone in a microwave.

We love our family and friends, and, in some cases, say so often, but how many times is the “I love you” just a reaction – to them saying it, to the end of a call or the sign off of an e-mail.

We go about our days confronting each singular issue that presents itself trying to think about how our lives could be easier, what the best way to react to a situation is. Thinking, how could I best handle these circumstances? What would have the least severe outcome? How can I live a life without stress?

The thing is, the answer to those is not necessarily avoiding procrastination, working a little bit harder, or preparation because, in the end, the everyday problems will still be a fucking bother. And those solutions are, at best, fleeting and masturbatory. The thing to consider is every constant – the things that, at the end of the year, are still there to take a little bit of the edge off, that make the ride a little smoother.

So with that, I am going to begin today, and continuing on for as many days as I can, by giving thanks to those things that I am thankful for. Hope you do the same.

I’m thankful for (aside from the givens)…

My nub – Some people don’t believe me, but I really do love the fact that I’m missing a finger. I hate to say that something so small defines who I am, but it’s true. I can’t tell you the number of situations for which this thing becomes a useful tool – an icebreaker, a punch line, a mark of sympathy. Plus, I mean seriously, you have to admit that my hand looks pretty fucking cool without that right ring finger.

Finger Puppets – They make my nub to sleek and stylish. Sometimes they make is fun and laid back. Sometimes they make the little guy reflective and insightful. Sometimes they make the nub revolutionary (If you’ve seen the collection, then you know what I’m getting at.

Charmin Plus with Aloe – You should all understand how great it is to treat your ass kindly on the toilet. This is one thing where you should never skimp on the dinero. We should take advantage of some of the toiletry options we have here, that other places don’t. I once wiped my ass in the Frankfurt, Germany airport and it bled on the first stroke. In Costa Rica, I think I used a piece of notebook paper. In Amsterdam, I used rolling papers, but that’s because I was stoned. Buy Charmin…walking around all day with a chaffed ass blows.

People who beat up/pick on retards – Never do I feel better about myself – not after sex, not after a job well done at work, not after I did my finger tricks and people laughed – than I do after I see one of these degenerates in the headlines. Like that softball coach who paid $25 to have the autistic kid beaned? That guy is a genius. I can now knock a paraplegic out of his wheel chair and feel OK about myself.

Couscous – if you’ve been broke more than once in your life, then you’re past the Raman noodles thing. Couscous is it’s classy cousin (makes you feel like less of a loser…if you add some lentil soup).

Things you don’t have to think too hard about – this is really because I think we spend too much time thinking way too hard about things that we shouldn’t be devoting so much time to. But the no brainers, like whether to touch a hot stove, or whether to crash your car into somebody else’s because they cut you off in traffic, or whether to sleep with a tranny because it looks “close enough” to the real thing.

There are a lot of things that make me thankful, and I couldn’t possibly mention them all here. And maybe it’s contradictory that I said I was thankful for shit after the argument I made above. And some of you may disagree with what I say, believing that you are truly appreciate all of the great things in your lives on a daily basis, but that’s a lie, really. How many times do you say out loud that you are thankful for a family member? How many times to you even think it? A couple of brief instances a year, I bet. Tell me I’m wrong, but I’m just not this time. I can’t speak for the good things in your life, and I’m sure they’re there, and I’m sure you appreciate them…at times.

Step 30: Spend a little time thinking about the good things, the steady things, the things that make you and keep you who you are. Everyone gets so caught up in the here and now and the dealing with today, that they rarely realize that today becomes yesterday, then last month, then last year. The things to truly be thankful for, and the things that actually get you through the day never go away. Like Charmin Plus with Aloe. Think about them every once and awhile.

REVOLUTION ALERT!!!

2005-11-11T15:05:00.000-08:00

REVOLUTION ALERT: Papa Bear has moved. His apartment is empty. It is currently being scrubbed clean of any drug, cigarette, smuggled Asian and hooker residue. If you don’t know who Papa Bear is, then please, please, please read this. They sure don’t make ‘em like they used to.

Chocolate Chips and a Dash of Cliché, and You've Baked Yourself One Hell of A Loser

2005-11-07T22:14:00.000-08:00

I remember I had this class when I was younger – elementary school and middle school only. The whole class was centered on creativity and originality, plus we were able to study some pretty cool stuff, like pirates and sharks and snakes, but not superficially. We actually delved into the subject matter like a fat kid trying to find the cherry cordial in a box of chocolates – we learned a little bit about everything while focusing on one very specific goal. For instance, I spent five weeks studying Sir Francis Drake during the pirate lesson. Most people don’t even know that the dude spent the final years of his decorated naval career raping and pillaging. A serious bad ass on both ends. Anyway, you get my point. We studied the various levels of Bloom's Taxonomy to understand why teachers taught the way that they did and how we can learn and, more importantly, think on another level, on our own level. It wasn’t just about learning shit, it was about taking a deeper approach, an original approach. Thing is, it took me a while – at 8 years old – to distinguish between original and general. I thought they were the same thing. I think it was the soft "G."

It’s tough to be original these days. It just seems that everything has been done before. So many times books, movies, hell, even people, are re-shaped cookie cutters of the same ol’ chocolate chip. There’s nothing new about the content, it just looks a little different.

Right now Dan Brown is being sued by a couple of dudes from whose book, Holy Blood, Holy Grail, Mr. Brown took a couple of ideas while writing The Da Vinci Code. The authors of the former were suggesting theory, while Mr. Brown was submitting fiction, so it's doubtful they'll win the suit. But you see, all the rage – and outrage – surrounding The Da Vinci Code could have flamed up two decades earlier. It didn’t - at least not on the same scale - because Mr. Brown dressed it with murder and deceit and hundreds of years of lies, secrecy, cover up, and spiritual orgies. So more people read it. More people got pissed off. Basically, they – and I – ate a Dan Brownie when it was the chocolate of Holy Blood, Holy Grail that they were tasting.

You see it all the time in movies, too. Romantic comedies, in particular. Unfortunately for most people involved in making these sap masters, Shakespeare has had the market cornered on those story lines for quite some time. Even when people are trying to steer away from him, they inevitably are headed in that direction because it’s all been covered – all of the themes. Unattainable love, unrequited love, love lost and found and lost again, love battling the impossibility of the circumstances in which it lives. It’s all been done.

But those things are slightly more general. The small stuff, the every day stuff, that’s a different story line.

Every person is original. Looks, thoughts, feelings, problems, agendas – they may seem similar, but they are unique. That’s why it’s such an egregious act when there is a blatant rip off of someone else’s…anything.

It happens all of the time in social circles. People like to talk about stuff, especially friends. During a discussion, one friend will roll off something interesting or insightful or just plain obscure. Then, another friend, usually the most insecure and probably guarded of the group, will then pass that same information along to another group of people as though it was his own. As though it was original to him. And he’ll do it in the presence of someone who knows its true origin.

That’s not illegal, and it’s not entirely wrong either. Many of the things we know – facts and tidbits and stuff – are derived from a source not our own. Typically, there is a grace period, too. I’d like to call it citing the source, at least for a while. Like saying, “I read somewhere…(a lot of times a lie, though)” or “A friend of mine told me” or “A friend of mine read somewhere.” Then, after a while, you get to have it as your own…kind of.

However, you can’t steal someone’s wit, someone’s insight or someone’s habit and call it your own. And you can’t really steal it and cite the source. When you do that, you’re fucking faking it. And soon enough, people will be able to tell. It may not be the thing that you’re stealing right now. It may not be the thing that you steal next week or next year. But fakers are always revealed. And fakers get less respect than liars. At least a fucking lie is original. And shit, a good lie is downright laudable. But you steal someone else’s mind, and you are forever pegged a fake, a hack, and ultimately, a fucking loser. No matter what you’ve done in your life, no matter who you are, no matter how many times you’ve been genuine, you will be labeled. You become the cliché. Cheaters never win? Uh-uh. Fakers always lose.

Step 29: Don’t try to reshape yourself to be something your not, find your own flavor. That’s part of the beauty of blogging – to find that flavor and to give everyone else a taste. Then they can see if they like it or not. Check out my links. Each person, you get an idea of who they are without having met them. And, though my East Coast friends doubt me, it’s why blogging, in some form, will soon be ubiquitous (cgpop is ahead of the Atlanta game). It’s a pretty true form of expression. It’s hard to fake it here. From time to time, you will unintentionally stumble onto something someone else has given birth to – it happens, you bet your ass. I guarantee there are instances in this blog where it’s happened. But don’t do so consciously. It’s sort of a pet peeve of mine. And when it happens to me I get angry. Pretty fucking pissed, actually. Because it’s usually someone I thought was unique themselves. But I find out the truth. I see who they are. And it’s ugly. And to those people, I say, go get your own fucking cookie and quit eating mine.

Note to Bref and S75: I have been meaning to post another political rant to appease the Dunwoody gods, but I have not. It will happen, mark my words, it will happen. But first, I have to blog about drug-dealer-turned-rapper Young Jeezy. That'll be Wednesday. Politics Thursday...or two weeks from now.

Blogging. Quality.

2005-10-24T17:07:00.000-07:00

I haven’t been the most consistent blogger lately. I’m through with the epic comeback posts. I can’t do one every two weeks. But a man by the name of Mr. Pop commented on my previous post, giving a few recommendations that might make for more regularity in my blog – kind of like fiber and bowel movements, I guess. He was making the case for quality versus quantity. Though my posts do tend to run on for days, long past the attention span of most readers, they don’t necessarily warrant the label of “quality” work. However, I am trying to revolutionize some shit, so I have to carefully consider what it is I’m going to post as most of my posts have to be some means to the ultimate end (changing the world and taking full credit).

In the argument of quality versus quantity, I’ll take quantity first, mainly because it’s going to lose. In the blogging world, quantity can work. Blurbs, shout outs, links, pics, polls, countdowns – they all fit into the mold of the Internet. The Internet offers you anything you could possibly want, from Pokemon to Porn and everything, and I mean everything, in between and outside. It’s easily accessible, it’s quick and there’s a lot of it. When you Google a word or phrase thousands, if not millions of Web sites appear in seconds. But really only the tiniest of fractions is going to have what you need. So there are shit loads of them, but most aren’t going to do you any good. Quantity.

And since I have a couple of dogs (sure they aren’t with me at the moment, but they are still mine, fuck off), I’ll talk about dog food. There are about as many dog foods out there as there are Web sites dedicated to them (46,300,000 in 0.23 seconds). These dog foods range from Gravy Train (cheap, you add water and it makes this gross fucking dog gravy, Salisbury steak kind of dog food concoction) to the organic dog foods like Natural Balance (not so cheap, you fucking hippie). A lot of dog owners opt for the cheap stuff, gotta save money. Fewer others go for the organic. If you are buying the cheap stuff, then you can purchase a lot more of it in one year than you could organic dog food with the same amount of cash. Quantity.

But you would also have to feed your dog a lot more of it because the cheap stuff has “fillers” in it. Or the fake shit that fools the dog’s body (and yours if you eat fast food, candy, potato chips, whatever) into thinking it’s food when really it doesn’t have anything the dog needs. Imagine a diet of ice cubes…not much different. The dog absorbs the little amount of nutrients and vitamins and whatever else. The rest is waste. In other words, the result of buying Gravy Train is a whole heap of runny, smelly, wet Gravy Train-induced dog crap. Quantity, fucking shit loads.

The organic dog food may cost more. You could probably only afford, in a year, maybe two-thirds as much organic dog food as you could Gravy Train. But you don’t have to feed your dog as much food. Its body uses more of the dog food. You could even get an additional four to seven days out of the organic stuff per bag, simply on the quality of it alone. Ultimately, your dog will have better teeth, better hips, a better coat more muscle tone, less fat – it’s going to fucking live longer, but you decided to save cash on the Hungry Man dinner for dogs. Oh yeah, and your dog isn’t going to have explosive diarrhea.

I myself went for Purina. I guess I’m into balance. Plus, I could never afford organic and the poop is manageable.

Though I’ve probably already made my point, I’m going to turn to books or writing, in general.

Jesus H., the fucking people whose books they publish. Some of them are downright painful. I’m talking passing a stone painful (I’ve never don it, but apparently is like giving birth through your urethra). Physical fucking pain to read what they’re writing.

Most books, though, are just good. Not great, not terrible, they’re good. Or maybe OK is appropriate. I don’t know. I’d rather call them good, though, because I couldn’t write them, and it’s an arrogant son of a whore that calls a writing writer’s writing (that’s right) bad, or OK.

Anyway, the point is, you read through these books, and if a theme even exists, if there is, in fact, any subtext, many times those things won’t reveal themselves until the end and are scarcely visible elsewhere in the novel. They’re like Gravy Train in that regard – very little to chew on.

But great books, great books are hard to come by. Now, I’m not going to identify any great books because books resonate differently within different people. I, for one, think Cat in the Hat is genius, but that’s me.

These books, in my experience, begin to open up gradually, with different references or allusions to previous portions of the book. They force you to recontextualize something you believed to be true on page 58. Now, on page 194, you realize that page 58 has a new meaning. It’s an amazing thing. It’s great, even. And that one passage or one sentence or, sometimes, one word on 194 can be a far superior piece of writing than the entirety of any one of those good books. Quality.

Basically, quality wins over quantity. You may have to spend more, be it time, money, patience, love, whatever, but the outcome is a lot less shitty.

Step 28: Take the time to enjoy things. Don’t consume mass quantities of shit simply because they’re available. Try and enjoy the truly great things out there. Seek them out. Pay them attention. In the grand scheme, they’re very few. Or, to be so lame as to quote Dead Poets Society, suck the marrow out of life.

This is no criticism to Mr. Pop, Cult Goes. He is a fine man (I’m lying, I’ve never met him) with a fine blog (true). His comment on my last post inspired me to blog again. His blog is one of the rare “quality with quantity” items that I’ll have to devote another post to. I don’t have time to address that now. Currently, I have to go to my alcohol class because I got a DUI. Sucking marrow. Sucking marrow. Court didn’t buy it.

Thank you. Peace.

I Don't Believe in Beatles, I Just Believe in Me

2005-10-11T13:08:00.000-07:00

It’s no secret that I am sickened by much of celebrity life. There are plenty of entertainers for whom I have respect, but there are plenty more – usually the least talented, but not always – that I despise. What’s interesting to me, however, is what many of the latter represent, not what they are.

Though the Lindsay Lohan’s and Britney Spears’ and Tom Cruise’s feel that they somehow exist is this special creative sect of the human experience, they are really more like Joe Schmoe than Joe Somebody and are rarely Joe Cool. They are, for the most part, very average people. And if they’re not average, then they do average things. The masses can relate whether they realize it or not. They marvel at the glory, sure, but really they are marveling at one of their own rising to the “top.” Once their own is comfortable “up there,” however, there tends to be a backlash. A celebrity’s actions are under a magnifying glass, therefore stripped of the camouflage that the everyman so comfortably wears. They look, well, ridiculous. And people don’t want to see these celebrities look ridiculous because that means that the gawking people, too, have a little ridiculousness in them. But again, they have to realize it. But they don’t. So that laugh, they get angry, they protest, they react. I need to clarify.

Madonna. What a poser. Does anyone wish to be British more than she does (besides Gwyneth Paltrow)? Quite honestly, it makes my stomach rumble and forces a trip to the loo. Not the point, but she’s a poser, and in more ways than that. Madonna wears her religion on her sleeve, but she seems to change clothes a lot. Raised Catholic until she converted to Hollywoodism (Kabbalah), she might as well have been a Muslim then an atheist. Could you pick two more distinct “religions?” I’m not going to lie; I don’t really know what Kabbalah is other than Judaism with a splash of capitalism. But then, that’s not really being fair to Kabbalah – or what it’s meant to be, I guess.

So most people remember, or at least are familiar with, Madonna’s Like a Prayer. Didn’t receive too a warm welcome from the Catholic Church, or any church for that matter. Did she really mean on-your-knees prayer, in congress with God? Or did she mean on-your-knees prayer, bringing one to orgasm? Well, now that she’s a Kabbalist, she’s at it again.

Apparently, too prove her faith - above and beyond the millions of dollars and the Kabbalist education center in a $5 million brownstone in Manhattan - she has graced the community with her new single Isaac. Isaac is supposed to be a tribute of sorts to Yitzhak Luria, a 16th-century Jewish mystic and Kabbalah scholar.

Again, she has pissed off, and on, her religion.

Rabbi Rafael Cohen, who is one of the overseers of Luria’s tomb, reprimanded Madonna, telling Israeli newspaper Maariv “Jewish law forbids the use of the name of the holy rabbi for profit. Her act is just simply unacceptable and I can only sympathize with her because of the punishment that she is going to receive from the heavens.” Take that, Madonna.

I don’t think she wrote the song for profit (necessarily), but she has proven her poserism while in pursuit of whatever other isms she claims. The scary thing is, she is just like most of the country, if not the world. Many people, for instance, claim to be Christian (I’ll use this because of my Bible Belt nativity). They are hardly Christian, though. By default, if you ask if Jesus is the son of God, they say yes. And then they open presents on Dec. 25. They don’t regard, consider, revere or pay tribute to God or Jesus or anyone else in that book any other day of the year except maybe when they are in need (out of) something – like money. There is nothing spiritual – or faithful - about their “religion.”

When they see someone like Madonna and religions like Kabbalah, they think, “How silly that is!” or “Can you believe her?” or “What is Kabbalah anyway?” But they fail to ask themselves how silly they look going to church for the social convenience rather that spiritual worship. There doesn’t seem to be any disbelief that they say Christmas is celebrating the birth of Christ, but they bitch if they don’t get the right present. What is their Christianity anyway?

When they speak of their respective religions, Madonna and these Christians talk in circles without really saying anything. But no one calls them on it because no one else knows what they are talking about either (And by the by, I’m not talking about all Christians, here). And that’s why it grows.

Ashton and Demi and Britney and Madonna can throw a yarmulke on and others want to do it so they can be accepted in that community. So, to avoid any conversation about how they really feel, exposing the fake of it all, they just say that they are Kaballists and are done with it.

A bunch of pseudo-Christians can throw their hands together in “prayer” and others do it because they don’t want to create any possible tension by saying they care more about what car they drive than they do about God. So, to avoid any conversation about how they really feel, exposing the fake of it all, they just say that they are Christians and are done with it.

Many times, they don’t recognize they’re doing that, but any real talk makes them feel “uncomfortable” or brings a response like “I don’t want to talk about this stuff.” That’s their subconscious saying, “Listen, man, you’re fucking lying to yourself and everybody else.”

This is proven because the same avoidance is played out on the political stage. Politicians now feel like they need to be a devout Christian to get elected. Republicans always did, and somewhat convincingly (and successfully). Now Democrats do it, and it seems forced. It seems reactionary. Rather than say how they really feel for fear of judgment - not from God, but from the people – they just say, “Oh, yeah, God and Jesus and immaculate conception and all that stuff, that’s me. God Bless America”

They are doing what Rabbi Cohen called using religion for profit. More than that, they are doing it because it would be uncool not to.

Step 27: Say how you really feel for chrissakes. I battled with the thing myself for many years. I tried to be a full-blown Christian, but I couldn’t. I am agnostic. I feel spiritual at times, but I don’t know what’s there. And for that, I have been called atheist by the Christians who are about as spiritual as Charles Manson. There is no need to fake it. There is no need to jump on the bandwagon. If you care more about the presents, then say it. People will still think you are a complete fucking loser, but probably a little less so. Wake up and smell the coffee. You don’t believe in Beatles, you just believe you.

Love Is a Many Splendored Thing

2005-10-04T16:55:00.000-07:00

Love is in the Hollywood air. The surprise wedding of Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore left a not-so-shocked nation not-so-giving-a-shit really. But I’ll blog about it. Same goes for the break up of the Lovers Paris. I’m pretty sure most people glanced at the story, gave it a once over, and said, "huh." These, along with a few other headlines, show that true love, in fact, does exist in Tinsel Town.

First, I’ll go with Ashton. A handsome, tall (by today’s Napoleanique standards) drink of Iowan water moved Out West to make a name for himself as an underwear model turned clownish retarded stoner turned juvenile prankster come shitty actor. And he succeeded. But none of those are his greatest accomplishments. Demi is.

Ashton Kutcher is only 27, which means movies like Ghost, Indecent Proposal and Disclosure were coming out at prime masturbatory age. Even Striptease came out when he was only 18. From the screen to print, there had to be dozens upon dozens of images for which to gaze at in the candle light while romancing a tube sock. For Ashton Kutcher, to be able to husk that corn (Nebraska, but go with it) is a true triumph. He is not the dreamer of the dream; rather he is the liver of the dream. When he first told his buddies back home (which may not be all that likely since he probably wrote them off like the arrogant piece of shit that he is) what his dating situation was, you know they said, "Dude, you’re totally fucking G.I. Jane!!" To which he would respond, "I know, man! It’s fucking sweet!"

See, he doesn’t love her; he loves the fact that he’s with her. Or, if I may be so bland, he loves the idea of her. To him, it is 14-year-old, jerking-off little Ash lying in bed next to Jules Jacoby. I don’t doubt that he may think it is love. For instance, I have had a long-running obsession with Jennifer Aniston. I still have her centerfold spread from the March 7, 1996 issue of Rolling Stone magazine hanging on my wall. I’ve hung it on every wall I’ve had since March 8, 1996. The pages are yellow and torn (and not entirely from that) and I look up at it from time to time and I think, "Is there anyone as perfect? I could marry her, and the rest of my life wouldn’t matter." Unfortunately, I’m sure - and I hear - that she is a huge cunt. That may or may not be true (I certainly hope it isn’t, so our wedding day won’t be ruined), but it wouldn’t really matter because for me, right now, I would have her if she asked me. The difference is, I would like to think that I am a stronger, more down-to-earth, in tune with myself kind of person than Ashton is, so rather than intoxicate myself with the idea, I’d just have my way with her and leave her gone – just to “live the dream” for a while. But Ashton, a complete loser, doesn’t see past the raspy voice and the potters-wheel sex scenes and the beautiful nipples. He loves Demi, but he doesn’t love Demi.

But it takes two to tango. Or, euphemisms aside, it would be rape and kidnapping if Demi didn’t consent to the relationship and marriage. But she can’t help it. She is also in love.

In the mid-80s, Demi Moore was attractive, with a round, soft face, needy eyes and an average-sized athletic rack. By the early 90’s, she upgraded that rack to a full-on meat stand. I didn’t care. She also lost a little bit of baby fat as to square her jaw a bit and tone her legs. So it was ’96 Demi that blew Jules Jacoby out of the water (since this is my second reference to Jules, I’ll let those of you who don’t already know that this was her character from St. Elmo’s Fire. Shame on you). But it gets to the point where a body has just got to age. It needs to age and its proprietor should let it. But ’05 Demi doesn’t want to let it. ’05 Demi wants to one up ’96 Demi by dropping a face-lifted SCUD right on ‘96’s silicone valley. Unfortunately, her legs aren’t the muscle machines they were when she was doing PT, kicking up sand with Viggo Mortensen. She’s lost a few ell-bees. Her boobs, well, they’re fake, and probably upgraded, so they’re pretty much on par with the old pair. But her face. Jesus, her fucking face. It likes someone hooked her ears and tried reeling her head in. Her cheeks are thin and fragile like shizu paper. The corners of her eyes are moments away from cutting through temples. She no longer has the look of lovelorn desperation that said "fuck me." Instead, she looks likes like an angry Japanese-American with PMS and rabies that says "fuck you." (Side note: Nicole Kidman looks frighteningly similar - alien. How come facelifts aim to make someone look better, but end up turning them into an aerodynamic geisha?). Image change after image change, the only way for Demi to capture – and destroy – the 20-something beauty of herself was to get involved with a 20 something. She loves herself and how she looks in the mirror, not alone, but with her boy toy at her side.

Most Hollywood relationships have one of these elements, in some shape or surgically altered form. But they don’t work out because there is a trade off, or trade up, that leaves one of them stranded. The stranded is not wounded, however, because the love was narcissistic not idealistic. The reason why Ashton and Demi might be able to make it for a while is because they love themselves so immensely. They love how they make each other look. But mark my words, in years to come Demi will get old while Ashton is still young. Demi will go under the knife one more time in her effort to replicate Joan Rivers and Ashton will marry recent Yale grad Dakota Fanning.

Oh, and why did the Paris break it off with Paris? True love. The Heiress Paris loves the cock.

Step 26: The world, and Hollywood, should accept open relationships as the standard in La La Land. Everyone screwing everyone all of the time. Age…beauty…whatever. People like to invest themselves in relationships like my mom invests in stock: Spend big, no return. Bennifer’s I and II, Brangelina, what the fuck is going on here. All right, all right, Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson, Mel Brooks and Anne Bancroft, blah blah and blah blah blah. I’m talking about the ones that are talked about. And the secret wedding is just as much a PR ploy as the “open wedding.” Have you seen the check out lines lately? None of it ever really means anything. It’s like middle school all over again. You “go out” with someone for five days until you fall in love with someone else for six. These people in Hollywood are emotionally inept; there’s no reason you should be, too. Write them off.

And oh by the way...check out Not Jack Kerouac’s post from a couple months ago about a Paris Hilton and Ricky Gervais (The Office) encounter.

Why don't you just fucking post already

2005-09-30T16:36:00.000-07:00

It’s pretty fucking sad that every time I post I have to make it a "comeback" post. It would be nice if it could just be a post. As you may or may not know, Marty and I have terminated the debate, agreeing that there was no real winner, but that really, I was more right than him. (OK, we didn’t agree on that, but the debate is over, it’s my blog, and I declare myself, not the winner, but the "most correct." I can do that, you know. I don’t mess with the magik on his blog) Anyway, back on track. Though this wasn’t the three-week hiatus of before, it has been two. And two weeks is a dreadful thing in the blogging community. Some of you (Satisfied) were hoping that I came back. Some of you (heartthrob) may despise my blog and everything it stands for or hopes to make the world stand for. And those people, you probably wish that, if URLs could, in fact, blow up, then that would happen to mine. Others still may not have particularly strong feelings, but you’re proud of me anyway for dusting myself off (not dirt from being knocked down, but dust bunnies and mothballs from being packed away) and getting back out there, or here…whatever. In honor of all of that, here I give you some comebacks that get me going.

Comebacks that should have never happened

Barry Bonds: I hate this motherfucker. Steroids, no steroids, his attitude has sucked since he had that fucking cross dangling from his ear back in Three Rivers territory. He claims his image ahs been tarnished because of steroids, and that’s why he’s getting booed? No, no. He has been smeared and booed because he is an arrogant dick who feel the fans are there, not for him to entertain, but to bow at the alter of the greatest player of all time. And nobody wants him to be the greatest player of all time. But it may have happened. He shouldn’t have come back. I’m considering taking out his knee. Once and for all.

Rafael Palmeiro: Case in point. Nobody hated Raffy after the steroid suspension. I think people wanted to believe he was innocent. But the dip shit had to come back, get hurt, and then tattle tale on his teammate. That’s some juvenile, schoolyard bull shit. It just goes to show that actions hurt a reputation, but attitudes irreparably mutilate them. What a fucking pussy.

Backstreet Boys: Speaking of pussies, these guys need to get a grip. They sold a lot of records. Made a ton of dough. And lost all self-respect. It boggles my mind that they thought they would be able to get that respect part back if they churned out another pile of teeny-bopping crap catering to people who have either out grown the music or weren’t old enough to listen to it four years ago. (I don’t know official record sales and Satisfied admittedly likes one song on the album, so some may disagree. Eat it.)

Bill Bennett: Former Reagan-era Secretary of Education and drug czar for W the First, Bennett has largely been out of the public eye for last decade and a half. But the old man made a fierce comeback when he claimed he knew how to reduce the crime rate. According to Bennett, “If you really wanted to reduce crime, you could – if that were your sole purpose – you could abort every black baby in this country and the crime rate would go down.” What a fucking freak. As if it wasn’t bad enough, I thought the GOP frowned upon abortion, anyway. Ouch! That cuts you twice.

Michael Brown: Ex-FEMA Director Fatty stepped down after a swirling storm of criticism washed him out of New Orleans, scampering back to Washington like a wet cat. Then, thinking his resignation didn’t place the bull’s eye right on his big fat ass, the quitter starts blaming everyone (comeback) BUT himself for the debacle, namely the local government (they did deserve some blame). Further, he complained that people “want me to be the superhero” in the Gulf Coast. Well, big fella, superhero only means doing your job, not quitting. But, to his credit, he said he was “happy to be the scapegoat.” A shining model of altruism. You know what, Brownie, you did do a heck of a job.
Jeeeesus, what a fucking loser.

Comeback (the show): Lisa Kudrow was all right as quirky hippie-esque Phoebe on Friends. Though the show isn’t her "comeback," it fucking sucks.

George W. Fucknutt: I don't really need to give an explanation. I don't know if John Kerry would have been a good president, but I also don't know of a president whose approval rating and IQ matched.

People I Hope Don’t Make Comebacks

Britney Spears: Man, a few years ago, I thought she was the bee’s knees and I liked her steez. That Britney Spears was one fine piece of ass. Now she is one fat piece of shit. Baby or no baby, she’s some hard up trailer trash, lawn gnome having kind of skank. And Federline fits perfectly into the mold. I hope she gains the postpartum 50 and walks away from entertainment for good. I just don’t think I could handle her turning out another album. Or talking.

Tom DeLay: This guy is in a world of misappropriation-heaped trouble. Well, maybe it’s not straight up stealing, but no doubt some shit has come to light that has likely ruined the man’s career. However, usually when the political bigwigs see something like “charged with criminal conspiracy” on resume, they eat that shit up. Just think if he gets convicted. We could be looking at a future Secretary of State, at the very least a post-Bolton representative to the U.N. Everyone thought the Tom DeDouche was a cocksucker anyway. Way to prove everybody right, asshole.

Zebra Pants: Those things sucked, man. I don’t even think you were allowed to wear them if you didn’t have a rat tail.

Things I hope make a comeback

New Orleans: Everybody has their Nawlins story: Stumbling around Bourbon Street drunk. Losing all you cash on the boats and in the strip clubs. Getting picked of for free by a taxi because he thought you were going to get shot. Pissing on a church during Mardi Gras, only to be stopped by the cops. Riding with a hooker to a flea bag, trick-turning hotel, smoking drugs in the back of a taxi with her on the way to buy more drugs at a crack house (not my story, but a good and scary one). Sex in bathrooms, sex in bars. Good tunes. Great tunes. Etouffee. Jambalaya Remoulade, Ragout. Beer. Café du Monde. Antoines. Café Arnaud. French Quarter. Jackson Square. Vampires and Voodoo. There ain’t another city in the world like you and we love you. Comeback Bayou, comeback.

Troops in Iraq: What a fuckin’ mess these guys are in. I’m not going to get involved in any kind of debate here, but these guys, whether it’s next month (obviously not gonna happen) or next decade (probably), the warriors of the Iraq Conflict need to come home safe. I don’t necessarily support the war, but I’ve got to support those guys.

Aliens: It’s been a really long time since the Roswell sightings. And I think the people of Lajas, Puerto Rico agree: We need more aliens damn it. The town is constructing a UFO landing strip, endorsed by the mayor, after years of "sightings." Already posted is a sign that reads “Extraterrestrial Route.” After all these bull shit abductions stories, claims about the birth of the universe and the superiority of the human race, I’d like some hard ass aliens to come down here and let us know how small we really are (sorry for the rip off Patrick Swayze from Point Break a.k.a. Bodi). I want to know how intelligently design those guys are. For real.

When in Rome: I don’t know if you guys are familiar with the song “The Promise,” but it is a classic. It also happens to be one of like four songs the band recorded for the public’s ears, and shit if I don’t love the thing. I’d like the band to change its name to Conformity and put out an album - to show the Backstreet Boys how it’s done.

Comebacks I’m Proud Of

NYC: It’s been a while, so I don’t need to say much. But props to .you. I hope you handed New Orleans some notes

Judith Miller: She isn’t a coward like Matt Cooper. She went to jail. She served her time. She’s out now and fingering (not that way) Cheney’s former chief of staff as the leak. Apparently Karl Rove isn’t the only fucking asshole. Hey Jude, you pretty much carried the world there for a while. You’re out and about and I’m pretty sure you’ve still got a job. Hang out with your kid for a while and soak of the freedom. You, my friend, are one righteous, kick ass bitch. Word.

Bethany Hamilton: As a fellow amputee, I’ve got to give a shout out this chick. A champion preteen surfer gets her arm torn off by a shark, only to return as a one-armed champion surfer. That is fucking amazing. And here you have fat bitches like Michael Brown trying blame their problems on the world. Way to suck it up, Beth. I would say more righteous and more kick ass than Judith Miller. But I only have four fingers on my right hand, so there’s a little bias in the mix.

Dave Letterman: Screwed by NBC and one-time friend, current hack Jay Leno, and Dave still takes the cake. Moved to CBS, makes fun of his network, Jay, and Oprah. What more could you ask of a late-night host. Cheers Dave.

Step 25: I’m going to steal a little bit: Know when to hold ‘em. Know when to fold ‘em. Know when to walk away. Know when to run. Thing is, I’m still throwin’ down bets, and I don’t run all that fast.

Taking Responsibility: The Debate (Cont'd)

2005-09-16T12:17:00.000-07:00

I go out on a limb when I offer up debate to Marty, but that doesn’t mean I back down from what I said. Marty, you have made some good points. And I firmly believe that you are, as I told you, a rare thoughtful member of the majority view, thinking critically and not caustically. You are a rare case because many of the majority sees things - very basically, mind you - the same way, but their vision is backed sharply by racial, economic and class distinctions and motivations. That said, I think many of your statements, though not wholly wrong, are far from right. I think it is largely black and white, and if it’s not it’s rich and poor. But before I get ahead of myself…

First, I want to reiterate that I never (specifically) placed blame on a single person or group. And if I feel that the federal government could have done more, then that also means that I think the state and local governments could have done more. If New Orleans was neglected, and always has been, as a result of its moral turpitude and fiscal irresponsibility, well, then that’s some kind of tragedy in itself. But my problem is not with gambling and booze and prostitution making a redheaded stepchild of the city and state in the eyes of the federal government. Marty, you said:

“More than be angry with one given person, group or entity, I think we as Americans should be frankly embarrassed that this could happen within our borders, and emboldened to prevent future debacles of this ilk.”

And I completely agree. But for me, it’s not simply the hurricane that is the debacle. And it isn’t just the handling of it that is the embarrassment. And the prevention for the future is not sand bags and stronger levees and evacuation plans (but there you might agree).

So, to Ralph we go.

For Emerson, I think the real theme was an individualized “self” more than “doing it for yourself,” regardless of how he painted the picture. It was backlash against the British for calling us a country of conformity. Emerson was saying that the social norm or agenda should not necessarily be your own because those “constants” are not so static. He likens society to a wave, but the people to the water. Waves slowly roll by; they come and go, it’s inevitable. But the water stays the same. Inside, people do not change. He meant be true to yourself. And above all, I think that is what black culture is trying to do. They are trying to pick themselves up the best way they know how. You can’t help but think that the shackles from centuries ago remain in some form, as a burden to carry, to slow them down. If someone is called a nigger for so long, do they not start to feel like it? There isn’t much hope to be seen because for all of the Oprah’s and Bill Cosby’s and the inspirational black figures who overcame adverse situations, there are 10 Dr. Dre’s and Biggies and Tupacs and G-Units. When looking at the options, which seems a more likely outcome?

For those same reasons, you can’t really compare them, as you did, to the Asian American population. No doubt the internment camps of World War II were appalling, but honestly, the Asian plight has been much less severe, and much, much shorter, than the black community’s. And a majority of the Asian community has arrived here post-Civil Rights, certainly many of them as a result of international commerce and a global marketplace. There are nearly 10 times the number of Asian Americans in the U.S today than there were in 1970, representing 4.5 percent of the population compared to the less than 1 (.75) percent in ’70. The black population, on the other hand, has only grown by 50 percent, a representation growth from 11 percent to 13 percent of the population. I’m saying they were exposed to the worst of it and I think it crippled them, not by reliance on welfare, but from a white elitist mentality. In addition, 55 percent of blacks live in the South, while 51 percent of Asians live in the West. In the South, where less than 10 years ago, interracial marriage was still outlawed by Alabama’s constitution. Where everyday Confederate flags fly from cars and windows. “Heritage not hate” my ass. Though it’s more visible there, the attitude exists everywhere. And then you have what is dubbed the “Left Coast” as home to more than half of the Asian population. I think the environment alone is more conducive to prosperity. And prosperity breeds prosperity which begets opportunity. It opens so many more windows. Which was my argument before.

Sure, there does seem to be a complacency, or maybe even a reliance on government giveaway programs for the poor. But are the programs really helping, or are they about sustaining what’s already there? It’s making little better of a bad situation. It takes more than giving money. It seems to me that the money is only given because it has to be. Most people don’t give a shit about how things progress, so long as things are quiet. But if people were aware and accepting and offered a modicum of hope and respect along with the food stamp, then that’s a truly generous handout. It’s like trying to save someone from quicksand by handing them a twig, when you should be extending a tree branch. Until those types of giveaway programs are available, the government will continue to pay for the now and not for the future. We are only, at most, three generations beyond the Civil Rights movement. I know this is a plodding process, and there have only even been three decades of any real significant change. It has been the first real hope for any kind of large-scale cultural education. So you ask why there aren’t more inspirational leaders? Why Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton point fingers? Because when they were educated, there were fingers to be pointed. And just as older generations influence you and me, today’s young blacks have been told about the hate and the division. That is the sum of their wisdom and attention from their families, and it aligns itself with Ice Cube and the like. That is a generalization, but it’s valid, I think.

So from there, I think education is the biggest step. Currently, the “rough” areas, be they urban or rural, have trouble finding teachers. All of the teachers would rather teach in, well, white upper-middle class suburbia because, that’s where it’s safe? I don’t know that they’re really any safer (Columbine, Paducah, Ky.). And I went to one of those schools, and I can tell you, drugs and alcohol are just as big. The difference is it’s not malt liquor, it’s Miller Lite. It’s not dirt weed, it’s “dank nugs.” And it’s not crack, it’s coke. It’s the same, but costs more. So, no, it’s not where it’s safer, it’s where it’s whiter. Aside from Teach for America, there’s no real effort to entice strong teachers to poor areas. Even their perks aren’t that attractive. No Child Left Behind is joke. It addresses the problem with superficial, politically minded solutions (which means no real solution).

Also, Marty, in your comment to my post, not your response, you argued my point about upward mobility by comparing us to other nations and pointing out what a desirable place the U.S. is to live because of the opportunities to be had. I agree that there is more upward mobility in the U.S. than other countries, but the degrees of mobility vary. There is no model, no perfect situation, for us to look at. Essentially, we have to set the standard. And right now, it’s a pretty poor standard. There are plenty of dreamers that come to this country, and many of them are washing dishes or cooking or working construction for minimum wage. It might be my problem that I settled with a fortunate life, rather than taking advantage, but I’m not the only one, Marty. In fact, I think there are more people like me than otherwise, just taking another step in the life plan. Most of the people who read this blog are sitting in their cubicles, in their apartment, in their parents’ living room, in front of the big screen, never having really worked hard for anything. I’m being critical of myself for a reason. Because I am closer to the reality than the dream.

I hope this was coherent rather than a rambling rant (as I’m prone to do). But then, the situation isn’t so rational or logical. Basically, the biggest problem is that it is a “we” and “they” thing and not an us thing. It is that way to the extent that I am guilty of it right now. It’s that way worldwide, and there’s not much to change it. But if we really are, as you said, the beacon of opportunity and inspiration for the rest of the world, then why do things look the way that they do? How come black people die and white people live? I think that inspiration walks hand in hand with hope, and right now, things seem pretty hopeless. As the rest of the world progresses, and we stand still, will we really remain that beacon? Our country is moving toward the right; we are regressing, which is a turn off for the rest of the world. The European Union will eventually stabilize and centralize Western Europe (maybe), and they will replace us. By 2025, we will look like a high tech 1950 version of ourselves with a larger Hispanic population. Unless people’s attitude’s change, then nothing will. I’ve been talking about education for the poor, but maybe it’s the rich white kids that need to be educated, as well.

Anyway, I understand your stance, and I don’t feel that it’s racist, and it’s only slightly culturally insensitive. But your argument is based on taking responsibility for your actions. How can the black community take responsibility for theirs, if we don’t take responsibility (and accountability) for our own actions first?