The Once Wide World

"Oh, Mickey, como estas? Como estas, me gustas mas" indeed

2006-06-25T10:43:00.000-07:00

The recent recording of the National Anthem in Spanish has sparked a political debate – due in large part to the courageous efforts of the White House to spread awareness of both the recording and of a political debate about it – of a complexity not seen since the flag-burning debates of the early-90’s. A number of frequent questions and concerns have arisen, which I thought I might address.

Q: Is it really important that the anthem be sung in English?
A: Absolutely! While it’s true that the US has no official language it is widely accepted throughout the world that English is the “best” language because of its straight-forward rules, consistent grammar and spelling, and the fact that it is the newest language in the world, thus has not gotten clunky and, well, old.

Also, you can’t just change the language of a song! Remember the English version of Nena’s 1983 song 99 Luft Ballons? Wasn’t very good, was it? Should we change the words of Don Ho’s classic song to all English so it goes “'Merry Christmas' is Hawaii’s way of saying Merry Christmas to you”? It’d sound moronic! And let's not even get in to the abomination that was Toni Basil's Spanish version of Oh Mickey.

Perhaps most importantly though, there is the slippery-slope of translating songs; what’s next? Translating books? “Dubbing” movies? Translating religious texts? I shudder to think.

Q: Is our National Anthem really not about the American Revolution?
A: I think we can all agree that the Revolution was a fairly inconsequential skirmish, especially when put in the shadow of the cataclysmic apocalypse that was the War of 1812. Ask any schoolchild about it and he’ll rattle off the names of all those important people involved and talk about the thing, or things, that caused it. The Revolution may have forged the nation, the Civil War may have seen it cleaved and then blissfully reunited, but the War of 1812 showed us the most important lesson of all – that the thing that caused it should be avoided.

Q: Hey, what are ‘ramparts’ anyway?
A: It’s what you get in a gyro along with the feta cheese and tzatziki. Aaaaaaaahahahahaha! Get it? Get it? Hahahahahahahaha!

Q: Isn’t it a bit demeaning that our anthem is to the tune of a British drinking song?
A: Ram Parts?! Come on! Ram Parts! Hahahahahahaha…aha…ah, what do you know from funny.

Q: Isn’t this concern over a Spanish-language version representative of our paranoia at the Mexican influx and a shift in the proletariat power-base?
A: Nothing could be further from the truth. It’s that it is offensive for nebulous moral reasons, but also there is the issue of efficiency – we’re all going to have to learn the anthem in Mandarin in a few years, so a Spanish version is just a waste of energy.

Q: Hey, remember that joke about the near-sighted Mexican who goes to the ball game and thinks Americans are so kind because they all sing, “Jose, can you see?”? Why isn’t that enough for the Hispanic community?
A: Excellent question. It’s indicative of Mexican-Americans incredible greed and insensitivity toward a nation that has showed them nothing but compassion and nurturing.

Q: Did I see on the news that Bush is against the Spanish version but Laura Bush disagrees with him?
A: Of course not. You must have eaten too close to bed time and dreamt it. A terrible, terrible dream.

Q: I’ve always been trouble that our anthem is about war – the only anthem which is.
A: Oh, give me a break. For starters, that’s not a question. But whatever. Look, what should our anthem be about? Puppies? The ideals of Democracy? Ours being the first nation to be forged by philosophers instead of tyrants? Yawn. Sounds snobby. War’s a crowd-pleaser. Got oomph. Plus, if you want to be a pussy about it, what about the fact that it’s not about war? Technically, the song if about after a battle is over. Your argument is a fallacy! It’d be like saying that Away in A Manger is a song about labor-contractions and epidural. Is that what you’re saying? Because I find that appalling.

Q: Isn’t this whole “issue” another attempt to fabricate a simplistic controversy, one lacking in any nuance or options besides the “for” and “against” camps? Isn’t this just the latest in Karl Rove’s tricks to distract the populace from real, complex issues and from scrutiny of this disgraceful, failed administration?
A: Aaaand… we’re out of time.

Oh, yes. Lets.

2006-06-08T07:29:00.000-07:00

Well, as I’m writing, the seniors at the high school have just finished their last day. The tradition is that when the bell rings the seniors throw their papers in the air. Of course, they can’t hear the bell, so they just sort of do it. Also, they don’t have their papers, so they go around the school rooting through recycle bins looking for paper. Then they chant “Let’s get wasted.” It’s inspiring.

For some reason they’re playing 80’s arena rock while they do it. Hm. Why? Is it because they, too, would like to “Jump”? Fair enough. Jumping’s fun. As is being shaken all night long.

I tried, just for variety, to bribe the seniors to instead of “let’s get wasted”, chant “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it” but apparently they wouldn’t go for it. Too bad. That would have made them stand out. The “let’s get wasted” chant is just so boring, you know? Because, of course, obviously you are. Is it that crucial that the underclassmen understand your intentions for this evening’s celebratory festivities? Or is it the thrill of announcing it in the school? I suppose that’s it. What about chanting something like, “Let’s burn this mother-fucker down”? That’d be interesting and new. No rhythm, though.

I’ve been surprised how many of these seniors I’m pretty attached to. There was this thing earlier in the day in which the staff was required to form a gauntlet through which the departing seniors pass and we clap or high-five or spray them with beer or whatever. It was smarmy and cheesy and forced and ridiculous…but cracked my jaded exterior some because there were actually some many people I was really sorry to see go. It wound up being at points rather touching. It was, of course, tempting after the whole year of being forced to bottle in personal views to yell at them as they went by, “Evolution is real! Bush is a moron!” and so on. It would likely have the same cathartic appeal as “let’s get wasted” does to an 18-year-old. Kind of a “do you know how long I’ve been waiting to tell you that?” feel. Hardly interchangeable, though. The staff chanting “let’s get wasted” would just be depressing. Funny, but depressing.

Anyway, I’m sure I’ll write more on this time of year – it always gets me reflective.

You can't spell "Satire" without "tire"

2006-06-04T20:16:00.000-07:00

As in, "I'm really starting to tire of this shit."

Sweet fucking Jesus, people. How many times, in how many fonts, shall I state that the "kids Today" bit is satire. SATIRE! It's humor. Please stop sending me your diatribes about my unfair castigation and generalizations of today's crop of adolescents. SATIRE! It uses irony and humor to expose a, in this case, hypocritical attitude of adults toward teens who have, in fact, not changed in general appearance or behavior since we came out of the trees. IF THEN. The only substantive difference between kids today and kids, oh, say, in the Middle Ages is height and intake of high-fructose corn syrup. Yet people are constantly condemning the present crop while using virtually synonymous terms with more positive connotations to describe their own youths.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!

(Brief pause while Byron mops his brow and puts his head between his knees for a moment)

The part that hurts, the part that breaks my little heart, is the idea that anyone who has read this site at all or, God forbid, knows me would actually think I would give this crusty "back in my day" rant in sincerity. Seriously? People are reading it and thinking I genuinely find meaning in Dead or Alive's "You Spin Me (Right Round)"? Seriously?

It's like this time I was out for beers with my best friend since third grade and, just to mix things up, said "lakheim" a Jewish toast which I am misspelling, and he looked at me for a moment and asked if I was Jewish. What? Yes, I didn't tell you about my bar mitzvah and have been sneaking off to synagogue all these years and am, in fact, a Rabbi.

That, by the way, was sarcasm, a sort of simplified, crude version of satire. You see, I am not Jewish, but by saying that I am to an exaggerated extent, I illustrate the silliness of his asking if I was. When he plainly should have known that I was not, you see. Oy vei.

You know, back in my day we got satire and we read addendums which explained it.

Quick Aside-

2006-05-15T13:18:00.000-07:00

I feel I must offer an addendum to the "Kids Today" entry. I'm not really trashing on teenagers. I was being ironic. It always strikes me as funny the way people talk about the youth as a bunch of degenerates, then describe their own formative years using terms that are virtually synonymous, but with different connotations.

Oh well. You know what they say - if you have to explain it, it ain't funny.

Proposal for Increasing Federal Wetland Acreage in 2007

2006-05-12T12:36:00.000-07:00

Secretary of the Interior Gale Norton announced recently that the Bush White House has increased the total acreage of U.S. wetlands by approximately 191,800 acres. This has been accomplished in large part by redefining the criteria of being a “wetland” to include, among other things, water hazards in golf courses.

In the fifty years that the U.S. government has been tracking, and attempting to preserve, wetlands, not once has anyone been able to hold steady, much less increase, the acreage of wetlands. Until now. President George W. Bush has accomplished this incredible goal in spite of nay-saying environmentalists (who, it is worth noting, have not increased the net acreage of protected wetlands at all. Losers.) while at the same time having a job that I can only describe as being ‘hard work.’ Kudos. Kudos!

The trick, it turns out, is not to waste time trying to “save” dirty, old, asymmetrical wetlands that have a bunch of – forgive the indelicacy – excrement in them, much as the love-sick will attempt to “save” a shiftless sponge. In a testimony to positive thinking, the Bush administration simply found new, better wetlands, some of which help the economy by providing tax breaks to the wealthy so they drop everything and rush out to buy products and services and create jobs for the poor.

Thus inspired, I submit the following for inclusion as federally protected wetlands:

1. The beach (high-tide).
I can’t believe we’ve missed this one for so long. When the tide is in the amount of shallow water increases around forty feet laterally, and for what can only be described as “a really long way”. If there is any doubt that this fails to meet the criteria for wetland, I submit a quick visual appraisal – I believe you’ll notice, oh what are those? Birds? Sitting? Yes, birds! Tons of them!
Approximate acreage gained: 15 million acres (estimate based on sense of bigness of the beach combined with equivalent sense of 15 million being a very big number).

2. Indoor swimming pools (privately owned, only).
Now we’re talking environment, economy and property values. Trifecta! The birds stop and rest in a private pool, protected from the elements and predators. The pools are heated, clean and there may even be a Jacuzzi to take the autumnal migration chill off. The envy of the wetland-hopping crowd. Extra tax breaks will be afforded to indoor pool rooms who keep a large-screen plasma television tuned to Animal Planet at least 50.1% of the time. And, oh, what the hell, we’ll make pool tables tax deductible for having the word “pool” in them, thus increasing Wetland awareness.
Approximate acreage gained: 78,000 acres.

3. My backyard.
My dog is something of a digger. Ordinarily I fill these holes in with mulch and profanity but, inspired by the administration, I would be willing, with proper government funding, to fill them with water. I would also allow a natural environment to develop by stopping all mowing and pruning. This promise would extend to any property turned over to me – eminent domain? – like my neighbors lot. I think this would make a terrific wetland, and am quite sure it would provide a very real economic boost to at least one person.
Approximate acreage gained: Amount to be determined, depending on administration commitment, and dog’s persistence in digging.

4. Mars.
Follow me here. Global warming is definitely happening. But, as study after study has shown (well…one. Part of one.), it definitely isn’t our fault. This means there must be some other factor. An external factor. Logically, if our planet is warming, and it isn’t our fault, all the planets must be warming. Mars has those ice caps, which are then, logically, going to melt any day now. Wetlands ahoy! Admittedly, Mars is not on the regular migratory route for many birds, but is not extinction the price of failure to adapt?
Approximate acreage gained: 1 gajillion.

5. The God-damned clogged sink in the bathroom.
Because that shallow body of water ain’t going anywhere soon.
Approximate acreage gained: 1 (rounded to the nearest acre).

Kids Today...

2006-05-02T14:50:00.000-07:00

When I was a teenager I was cut-loose, care-free, full of joie de vivre. Irreverent and jocular? Perhaps. I saw life as a joyous romp, in spite of silly, mundane rules laid down by adults. Not like kids today. Kids now have no sense of value or responsibility. They take nothing seriously and think everything is one big joke. Someone needs to explain to them that life is just a blunt-edged club that beats you and beats you and beats you until…well, it just beats you.

Kids today also listen to loud music that is poorly written, lacking in melody, linguistic merit and praises sexual behavior as well as the attendance of unsupervised social events. How as this generation sunk so low? When I was a lad rock n roll was wild, funny – it tapped into the voracious energy we all had! It had poetry, depth. It captured the words we couldn’t find; it put voice to the feelings inside me, found a way to say how Heather MacDonald did, metaphorically, “spin me right round, baby, right round, like a record baby, right round, round round.”

And I should also note that initially I thought the lyrics were, “You spin me right round, like a ragged baby.” And I disapproved of spinning and shaking babies, because I had values and morals, unlike kids today.

And fashion. Why, when I was a youngster our fashions were bold! We created a look that was distinctly us – hip, new. Oh sure, the fogies might not have gotten it, but that’s because they were uncool. This is utterly unlike the situation now, where I, having established my understanding of cool, don’t like teen fashions at all! Tight, revealing clothes? Boys wearing pants in an impractical manner in order to accentuate the genital region? When did this happen? How did fashion – usually so sensible and representative of responsible, God-fearing forthrightness – go so wrong?

It’s strange really – sad, even tragic. Kids today are so immoral, irresponsible, disrespectful and fashionably backward, instead of being like we were at their age, which was wild, zany, care-free, irreverent and dressed in bold, uniquely us style.

For example, do I exist, or am I just telling you that I do?

2006-04-26T14:45:00.000-07:00

Some years ago while I was still working as a comedian I was watching another comic and kind of studying the audience, and I had a little epiphany. Lower case “e.” This wasn’t a finding Jesus, realizing I was gay, kicking heroin type epiphany. I’m not even sure it counts, in fact, because I don’t still subscribe to the idea.

What I began thinking about was the idea of creating our reality through perception, and how the only definitions we have are the ones we create, and choose to believe. If we choose to believe something, it is true. It was sort of Arjuna & Krishna thing.

The warrior Arjuna is in the midst of a terrible civil war. His advisor/concigliere/buddy is the god Krishna (thus showing that leader have always said that “God is on my side” just some have meant it more literally than others). Arjuna is feeling uneasy about slaughtering his cousins and neighbors, but Krishna reassures him that all of this is just a veil of illusion, and has no bearing on what’s really, really real. It was all very Matrix.

So my feeling, that night, was that since all experience is unique, and it is impossible to communicate with others without some level of façade, or illusion, then honesty, was in effect, impossible. Thus, if everything is a lie, then nothing is a lie. The only truth is that which we create for ourselves. So if you make up things about yourself, who cares? What you have made up as an idea of yourself is as close to the unvarnished truth as anything you’re likely to way when trying to be honest, while have the luster of at least reflecting who you would liketo be.

Now, I no longer believe this, but I am still fascinated with the concept, particularly in relation to celebrity and pop culture – both entertainment and political. Especially in the way that a moment of unvarnished honesty can become so jarring and confusing. We don’t want that – we want the polished, publicist-approved text. Tom Cruise? When he lectured the Good Morning America guy? Picked on Brooke Shields? Jumped around on Oprah? He stops the perfect control machine, acts like a human being in public and people think he’s gone crazy. Yet these sorts of things go on all the time, it’s just that usually it’s fixed through editing, reshoots, rewriting the answers to the interview questions. And we like it that way, because we want the illusion.

There’s a current interview with Tom Cruise in which he’s asked about his recent behavior, and the interview has so clearly been worked through and sanitized – preplanned answers, set talking points in order to explain away everything. Make it vanish. Yet it restores the illusion we so much want. When Oprah rips a guest a new one, or gets them to say something stupid, we want that illusion to be the reality, rather than the idea that those interviews are manipulated through editing so that she always comes out the people’s hero.

And celebrity culture, I suppose, is supposed to be this way, but the trickle down is kind of frightening. Celebrity illusion is now becoming the normative M.O. MySpace profiles, fictional degrees from prestigious universities, etc.

I don’t know…no point. Just interesting.

"She's all, 'silence is golden,' and I'm like, 'Yeah it is,' and she says...

2006-04-18T18:53:00.000-07:00

Hey, remember that part in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life where the people at the dinner party have all died from poisoned mousse, and the Grim Reaper shows up? And he’s yelling at the one fellow, “You Americans, all you do is talk, and talk, and say ‘let me tell you something’ and ‘I just wanna say.’ Well, you're dead now, so shut up.”? Delightful!

Or in Hitchhiker’s Guide to The Galaxy when Ford Prefect, upon analyzing humans theorizes that we believe that if we stop talking our brains will stop working? Then he concludes that it is, in fact, that if we stop talking our brains will start working? Bon mot, Adams!

Or in Hamlet when Queen Gertrude barks at Polonius to quite blathering, saying, “More matter, less art!” Wacky!

I just mention it because I’ve been marveling at people who genuinely seem incapable of not talking for even a few moments at a time. Why is that? Now, a lot of people say that the more people talk the less they say, but I’m not sure about that. They might say as much, it’s just that the twelve minutes of genuine conversation are suffocating under the weight of fifteen hours and forty eight minutes of…Christ, I don’t even know. Gossip? Filler? Sports scores? Maybe the substance there, it’s just there on the “infinite monkeys” principle.

“I like pepperoni okay but not from that one place with the skinny guy with all the piercings; omigod doesn’t that one hurt? You know, that one? That can’t be clean you know he probably smells I don’t like it when people smell. Have you seen that Axe body spray commercial it’s so funny. I wish I was funny but I’m not; maybe I should try to be but then I suppose I will never be happy if I continue to search for what happiness consists of. It’s the great paradox: I will never truly live if I am looking for the meaning of life. The guy in the pizza place was trying to be funny this one time, but he’s too skanky, and…”

That sort of thing. Perhaps not, since there’s no time to conceive of the twelve minutes of meaningful discourse while churning out the rest.

Don’t you ever just stare at people, trying to figure out the circumstances under which they’d be quiet for a moment? Earthquake? During the earthquake, I mean. After the earthquake would actually warrant lots of talking. I don’t trust people who can’t stop talking. Unfair, perhaps, but I just don’t. If no time is devoted to thought, then the words are just, essentially, gas leaked through vocal chords.

I know people talk because they’re nervous. People talk because they’re excited or bored…but you can also think for those reasons. Or perhaps discuss your anxiety and/or bordeom. One can, perhaps, take a moment to think of something meaningful or relevant to say. Didn’t think of anything? Oh, that’s too bad. Shut the fuck up, then, how about?

I wish I knew the solution. I’d tell everybody. All the time.

Look to the future and say, "Fore!"

2006-04-08T09:43:00.000-07:00

Hey, when you’re wrong about someone, you have to admit it, right? Because I’ve pretty frequently thought that this administration was evil. Sometimes horrible. Sometimes deliberately cruel. Sometimes bafflingly stupid. Certainly liars. But it seems important to me to be able to acknowledge when your perception of someone you despise is wrong. After all, isn’t that the hope of the world?

You see, the United States has been losing wetland and marshes every year since we started keeping track in 1954. On Earth Day in 2004, President Bush said that he wanted to not just stop the loss, but actually increase the acreage of wetland in the US. After all, farmers and ranchers – you know, those people in political ads in soft-honey focus smiling in front of waving flags? – depend on it so much, as does the ecosystem, and all humans really rely on it for…um…shoot. That thing we do? With our lungs? Breathing! That’s it.

Anyway, I figured it was more sinister bullshit. Or stupid. Or deliberately horrible. Certainly a lie. But last week, secretary Norton announced that they’d done it! They’d increased domestic wetlands by almost 200,000 acres! This is especially impressive considering that, according to the US Geological Survey, Hurricane Katrina destroyed around 64,250 acres of wetland. Norton’s report shows “a loss of 523,500 acres of swamp and marsh wetlands and a gain of 715,300 acres of shallow-water wetlands.” Wow.

Rightly so, Agriculture Secretary Mike Johanns said, "The President's historic support of voluntary conservation programs has led the nation to this important milestone.”

Warms the heart, doesn’t it? Ahhhhhh.

Hm. We lost over half a million acres, but gained 700,000…that seems a little weird. Well, best not nitpick. Right? Right.

Because if one did, one would discover that the government redefined the criteria for qualifying as a “wetland.” This new definition includes…

Ready? Take a deep breath.

Golf courses.

I’m serious. Fucking golf courses!

You see, in addition to being 'wet' 'land', when bird’s migrate, sometimes a couple of them stop to catch their breath in the water-hazards. Before getting zonked in the head by a Titleist, that is. And that’s how we lost a half-million acres of wetland (the most ever), and gained a lot of…”wetland”.

It’s hard to keep getting upset, especially since this sort of thing is certainly not unprecedented. Reagan did this all the time. He redefined “mentally ill” in order to empty out the asylums, which was, coincidentally, around the time the “crazy homeless guy” first appeared on the American landscape. Then he redefined “homeless” to keep those statistics from going up and redefined "poverty” and “unemployed” to show that poverty was down. Clinton did it too, redefining “job” to show how many new jobs his administration had created. And, my personal fave, Reagan redefined “vegetable” to include Ketchup, so he could show that the dietary needs of people on federal assistance were being met.

Anyway…when you’re wrong about someone, or an administration, you have to admit it. And I was wrong about all those things I at times thought about them. Because, in fact, they are apparently all true simultaneously. They’re horribly evil, deliberately cruel, lying idiots.

It feels good to admit that, you know? Like a breath of fresh, golf course air.

The Proverb Goes: "Revenge is a dish best served cold"

2006-04-02T08:48:00.000-07:00

As I may have talked about before, I was raised to be a fierce advocate of gender equality. I was forbidden from watching shows that were deemed degrading to women, and to be aware from an early age of gender bias in society and the workplace. This, like most parental notions, had it’s plusses and minuses. Often, because we’re all such simpletons, the gender issue gets mired down in the same absurd black & white thinking as the race issue, or the religion issue. Namely, the argument is put forth that “we’re all totally, exactly the same except for ________.” The blank is where you insert ‘skin color’ or ‘genitals’ or ‘kooky religious practices.’ I, at an early age, spewed this silly idea about whenever the opportunity presented itself. That and the idea that of course Superman could beat Batman in a fight and even discussing the issue was absurd.

Now, this idea (The gender one. I still stand by my Superman claim) is stupid for two reasons: one, it’s not true. Two, the precept is inherently bigoted, itself. Now, you say to me, “Byron, that’s crazy talk. Stop talking crazy.” But listen! The idea here is that we (let’s say, white people) shouldn’t be prejudice against them (let’s say, absolutely anyone now, or in history who has not been white, been white but the wrong kind of white, or been white but distantly, genealogically connected to someone who was not white) for the sole reason that they are just like us. If they were not just like us, then it would be understandable to hate them, make them sit in the back of the bus, etc. You see what I’m saying? But the fact is there are differences between genders, races, etc. Huge chasms. But these differences aren’t hierarchical, there just…you know…differences. Most of them are really interesting and fun, and then periodically infuriating.

The reason I’ve been thinking about this is because I got attacked by a dog earlier this week.

There’s a connection. Just hang in there.

I was walking my dog and we came across another dog, and after a moment of sniffing, apparently realized that they had finally, after years of searching, tracked down their sworn enemy (“So, Muffin, we meet again! Do you know the old Russian proverb about revenge?”). They go at it, determined to avenge whatever. I step in to break it up and the dog goes for me. Fine, to be fair, he didn’t go after all of me. Just my neck.

Okay, so, blah blah blah, we’re in the emergency room and many hours later a doctor sees M and me. He’s saying that dog bites are highly prone to infection and so often they don’t stitch them, since that can heighten the infection risk, but since they are highly visible they probably should. But, he tells me, it’s my call. One cut is on my chin, the one in (well, through) my lip didn’t need stitching, and the other one is a two inch gash about half a centimeter below my carotid artery (about an inch of which will likely scar).

Here is where – as a generalization, of course – a certain gender difference comes in. M can not fathom why I am slow to answer. But I’m struggling with the fact that the one on my neck is going to be such a cool scar! I know this is childish, but come on! Right below a major artery, so it involves a near miss with extreme gore and possible death, it’s on the neck so it’s visible and screams out an interesting story (granted, it implies something more interesting than the real one, but still) - I mean, damn! Cool scar at a relatively low price.

I mentioned my very real, very logical, very in-no-way-motivated-by-a-desire-for-an-interesting-scar concern about the risk of infection, but it was transparent bullshit. Fortunately, the doctor was male, and he knew exactly what I really meant (again – a female doctor might – might – have known what I was really saying, but probably not, she would have just thought I was a germaphobe. And if she did know, she probably would have thought something, reasonably so, along the lines of, “Jesus. Men.”). He said that without stitches the scars would be really ugly – like, the first thing people would look at when they meet me – but that there were going to be a couple scars regardless. Fine. Fair enough.

He did an amazing job stitching things up, though. Almost too good. Probably because he was talking about rabies, a disease he is utterly fascinated with (He bumped me up in the triage line so he could have me as a patient, “just in case”), so he was in his groove. He even let me know that he’s worked with twice as many rabies patients as anyone else in the U.S. (Which is two. It’s not a common disease).

I just found the whole male/female approach to this funny and interesting.

So, what’s my point, then? Appreciate ethnic and chromosonal differences? Nah. That’d be a good one, but to be honest, I think my point is that I got attacked by a dog and I really want people to know, but I don’t want to out-and-out brag about it.

Which is tough to do. It’s all about balance. I blew it yesterday, the first time someone asked what happened to my neck, because I didn’t want to brag, so I said, “Dog.” Yawn. Boring!

But I don’t want to go the other extreme either (“’Twas a mid-morning just like this one! A howl like the cries of the damned echoed across the park…!). Because both versions are true, they’re just different (See where I’m going with this? Christ, am I clever or what?). The key to a good brag is not to say that both extremes of the story are the same, but to appreciate that each has validity autonomous unto itself, but in conjunction with each other creates a balanced story that is both interesting, yet humble; subtle, yet complex. Not identical, but extremely complementary.

Vive le difference.

Risen from the grave

2006-03-26T08:52:00.000-08:00

Short version is I really, really, really didn’t want to abandon this blog – I feel a certain attachment – then someone suggested that I really needed to continue it for reasons that are either quite astute or absurdly aggrandizing, but worked for me.

So, there you have it. One indignant, diva-worthy exit. One return. But, man, seriously, it’s tough when the escape from a job gets tainted, however slightly, by the most irritating parts of that job. It’d be like a waiter getting asked to bus a couple tables while he’s out playing pool or something.

Pardon the dull analogy, I’ve just really been craving a game of pool lately.

I figure what I’ll do though (with the blog, that is. I think I know how to handle the pool issue) is just leave the snotty comments up. See I’d been deleting them as a sort of, “I choose for these things not to exist in the Byroniverse” kind of way. Instead? I’ll let the “Yur a fag” type shit speak for itself.

That all being said, thank you to people who wrote in kind comments about not quitting. I hope you come back! Isn’t that just sweet, sweet irony? I’ve probably vacated the few people who read this and like it, but the snarkers will stick around faithfully. We’ll see.

As long as I’m thinking about students – one of my students gave me a story and asked me to read it and make comments. Now, that sort of thing happens all the time. Usually, however, I say no for the following reasons:

1 – Way too busy. Lame, but true.
2 – 99% of all creative writing is awful (especially mine), and the odds when dealing with new writers goes up to about…oh…whatever the statistical likelihood is of the moon getting full again.
3 – When critiquing writing, I don’t respond as a teacher (“Some good ideas here! Work on…”), but as a writer (“Cut this part. And this. Oh God, definitely cut this. Actually, do you have a lighter?”). I can’t help it. Part of the sick, masochistic, weird fun of writing is how really bad most of it is. If you can’t acknowledge that (especially when it’s your own), you lose perspective. But it’s unfair to be, you know, honest with writers just starting out.
4 – It’s a huge commitment that could be focused on one’s own work. Frankly, asking someone to edit your work for free is considered a faux pas among most writers I know. Of course, these are students, and new writers, so they naturally don’t know that, but editing takes, Christ, days if it’s a substantial work.

But I didn’t say no. Hm. Weird. Wasn’t bothered by the request, nothing. It’s a vampire story. Of course. I’ve written a few of those myself. One was pretty cool. Called “The Dying of the Light.” I wonder where that is? Maybe I’ll dig it up (ho ho) and post it on the little story page. I think I haven’t updated that in about a year.

I say ‘of course’ because the vampire fantasy is like standard issue to most adolescents. I had my whole vampire lifestyle pretty well planned out. How I’d feed. Who I’d change to be my concubines. The revenge fantasy on that slope-browed fuck who picked on me all the time was especially delightful. Good stuff. Good stuff.

Anyway, apparently I’m being reborn, vampire-like (or, if you prefer, pastel-wearing-Christian-who-doesn’t-seem-to-blink-often-enough-like). Writing this, critiquing a student’s work and, if this writing is any indication, incapable of maintaining a linear train of thought.

I must feed.

Like a dog to his own vomit...

2006-03-04T07:23:00.000-08:00

...So returneth the fool to his folly. Okay. Fine. Whatever. The thing is some students of mine have started using the blog for petty snipes and grievances again. Unfortunate. That I didn't know it would happen, I mean. That's why I stopped the first time. I enjoy adolescent mud-slinging as much as the next guy, but it really takes away from any...what's the word I'm looking for...fun, joy, positive association with the experience. I really enjoy these, though. Writing is like breathing clean air after being in the city too long for me (not that you'd know it from that clumsy simile), and blogs are a great venue for raw writing.

I'll probably just make a new site under a different name. Drag, though, because, A-I've got some posts I really like on this one and B-I think The Once Wide World is a cool name. Although, it is likely going to still be the title of the radio show that will be starting up in a couple months as a sort of "spin-off" to the site. And we all know how great spin-offs are! Yeah? Yeah? After-MASH? Enos? Joanie Loves Chachie?

So, anyway, thanks to those of you who've read and left comments and so forth.

-Byron

Okay...maybe not "Jesus"

2006-02-06T17:15:00.000-08:00

The other day M and I were in the store and there was a display of video iPods. They sat there, in there unbelievable perfection – perfect lines, perfect white, with the little perfect image on the little two inch screen. I just stared at it the way the natives in old movies stare when the white men show them the “hand held fire-makers” or “talking boxes.” I just kept thinking, ‘but that’s impossible. That much information, on this little thing? It’s impossible.” Trying to figure out how an iPod holds all that information is like trying to figure out how CDs work, or batteries. It makes perfect sense when you just kind of “think about it,” but if you think too long and actually try to imagine how it works, your brain seizes up.

The next sensation – and don’t you judge me- was “I MUST HAVE THIS.” It was weird. I don’t usually crave things that resolutely. Maybe it’s the marketing, maybe it’s the slickness, maybe they’re just that damn cool, I don’t know. But I got it, and I love it. It’s the greatest invention since the wheel, or maybe Jesus. I don’t know what video stuff to put on it because how many movies are there that you want instant access to in tiny picture? I have, like, a share of Apple stock, so I rationalize it to myself that by buying one I’m contributing to my retirement. Until that glorious day when I cash in those $4, though, I’m broke.

I honestly can’t tell if I just really wanted it and love it, or if I was a victim of commercialism. The fact that I suddenly HAD to have it is a bad sign, isn’t it. Hm. Maybe it doesn’t matter. If I could just figure out how to dance in silhouette...

Oh, For a Muse of Fire, Plus 15-20%

2006-01-28T08:20:00.000-08:00

Last night M and I went out for Chinese food for her mom’s birthday as we do every year (followed by the also annual ritual of the Drinking of a Bathtub Full of Water to Fend off Salt-Induced Dehydration), and I thought at one point how long it had been since I’d had a waitress crush. I love waitress crushes because they’re exciting, but also harmless. You never actually expect, or even want, something to come of it, and the lines of propriety are clearly drawn, so it’s all just in fun. It’s a platonic crush, so you can be in a relationship and not feel too badly about the crush, because the lust-level is virtually pre-pubescent – it’s like when you’re little and decide that when you grow up you want to marry your mom or dad – there’s nothing perverse there, it’s just a warm affection couple with an imperialistic desire to possess. These crushes are also somewhat inspirational – like a muse. I’m convinced that the bulk of muses through history are waitresses crushes in a literal, or analogous form.

One of my last ones was some years ago. Still don’t know her name. She worked at this hipster after-hours place. Thin, clothes were clearly thrift-store but still looked cool, wild hair barely contained in a band, horn-rimmed glasses. Disdain or disinterest in all temporal things. One night I went out with some friends to a show. It was loud. Really, really loud. One of my friends decided to stage-dive and asked me to hold her coat, and be a back-up cushion in case no one caught her. So, fine, I can do that. Only she kept hesitating, and so I was standing just over a foot away from the amplifiers for several minutes. So, she goes, she jumps, she’s wild, a good time is had by all. After the show, we all go to the after-hours place. I’d had quite a bit to drink, so had to wait for a while to drive home. My waitress-crush was working that early morn. Now, understand, I’m buzzed and deaf. My left ear is ringing, and might right ear is ringing in the higher and lower registers, disturbingly mute in the mid-range.

Hey, I’d forgotten all about this until just now. When we left the show, one guy we knew but didn’t like all that much, left early in a huff over something, and when we left some time later, he was standing in the parking lot sulking. He couldn’t leave because two people were having sex on the hood of his car, and it was too weird to tell them to move.

Anyway, at the restaurant, first I informed my friends of my joy that my crush was working at an unknown volume, but definitely too loud. Then we’re sitting and talking (I had gotten some alligator jambalaya because it was that kind of place, then, in my logical-thinking state, decided I might as well have glass of wine too while I waited to sober up. It took a bit to realize I had extended my wait-time by a bit that way). So she came over and filled our water glasses. When she was maybe, maybe, six feet away, I blurted, quite loudly, “Haha! She filled my water glass first! She likes me!”

Yes, she heard me. Everyone heard me. Obviously, I could never return. I probably should have killed myself on the spot, for the sake of retaining dingity. Although, she did inspire the central character in a play I wrote, which would be the first play of mine to get produced, so that’s something, I guess. Muse mission accomplished, even if she didn’t know it. Or care.

Maybe the idea of muses is bullshit, an arrogant idea created by artists to imbue their lusts with a higher sense of purpose. This is probably true much of the time, but I think not always. Just as 99% of art is bad, so, I suppose, must much of the inspiration be bogus as well. I wonder what ever happened to that girl?

Quick Aside

2006-01-28T08:16:00.000-08:00

I was going to write this little glib thing about iPods and snow (Oh, there’s a connection. Don’t think there’s not), but then I was checking my email and there were, like, eighteen comment postings to the site. I very nearly deleted them without reading, figuring, they would be eighteen “I read your blog and thought it was cool. Check out mine at blah blah blah” or “Watch me pee for just 2.95 a month. Find out how at blah blah blah” notes. But I read them, and they were all from someone who’d read the entire site, from birth to current. Wow. Of course, that meant I had to go back and read the whole thing to understand the comments, but that was okay. I got to find a few typos (typos are like ants in a field. You don’t see them until you notice one, suddenly you realize they’re everywhere), pat myself on the back occasionally (Oh, Byron! Bon mot, you incorrigible wag, you!), and laugh at my own jokes (which bears a striking sensory and emotional equivalence to masturbation – the self-love, the fleeting guilt, the fun, the glancing around to make sure no one saw).

In any case, I really was impressed and flattered that someone read the whole thing through, leaving such interesting and thoughtful comments (and no, I’m not saying that because they were largely positive comments, or as a disparaging remark toward other comments, this was just in a big batch, and they seemed quite learned). This person seemed very sincere and intelligent. You seemed to want me to take note that you had spent substantial time reading and reacting to my entries – well I very much did. Thanks. Some of your comments were really intriguing and witty as well.

So, I hope this person keeps reading, only you need a moniker – a name. Also, I'm going through and responding to your comments, so...you know...there you go.

Calling AAA on the Road Less Traveled

2006-01-14T10:57:00.000-08:00

My Achilles heel is regret. It can paralyze me. I’ve been working on it the last couple of years because there have been times I’ve thought that I might lose my mind from speculating. There have been many nights I’ve lay awake for hours carefully, thoughtfully, with great attention to detail, plotting how I might do things if I did them over again. What I’d change. What’d stay the same. Of course, it’s a silly thing, because experience and mistakes define us, teach us, so whatever decisions were made, I made to the best of my ability. For better or worse.

I guess what it comes down to for me is this incredible fear of reaching the end of my life and realizing that I did it wrong. I messed up. I wasted it. Nothing unusual there, I suppose. A lot of wondering comes down to a choice of path. There have been times, more than one, when I have been poised to go the path in pursuit of fame, of showiness. The agent in LA. As a touring comedian. So forth. I’ve turned away from that because I wanted to be a good person at my core, and I suspected that I would fall prey to superficiality, lose sight of myself that way. I wanted to do things that were morally right, that made a difference. I wanted to be an artist, not a celebrity. An artist, not a purveyor of panem et circenses. Was some of this fear of failure? Bullshit rationalization? I don’t know. I hope not. But the thing is that, literally, not a week goes by in which someone doesn’t ask why I’m living the life I do. When I explain that I don’t want to be on TV, the response I get, and have always gotten is, “But you could! You could be on TV!” Isn’t that interesting? Even people who claim to hate TV are almost angry at the prospect of a person who could have achieved that American dream and turned away from it.. That it’s idiocy. Lunacy. And I get scared. I get scared that they’re right. I get really scared that the path I’ve chosen isn’t one of service to others and artistic integrity, but one of mediocrity. Of under-achievement. It gets pretty hard to tell the difference between the righteous path and fucking up. I wish I had help, or a sign. Could call for roadside assistance on this winding road.

The Sexy American Patriot.

2006-01-08T12:07:00.000-08:00

So, I was perusing around at other blogs and wondering what made some of them have a lot of faithful readers, what made certain sites seem like the Vanguards of The New Media and other seem just, well, sad. Newspapers seem to regard a criterion for legitimacy – and thus quote-worthiness – as a grandiose name, befitting the nature of print media I suppose. The Herald. The Sun. The Nation. Teen People. So the sites that usually get looked at are AmericaBlog. PatriotWatch. VanguardoftheNewMedia. And so on. Maybe I should change the name of mine. Obscure poetic/historical references don’t seem to have the right sizzle to sell this steak (if you don’t know what refering to with the name of the site, see the first entry). I’m going to reprint this site, verbatim, with a bold, bloatedly patriotic name and a flashy font and see what happens. I’m thinking Guardian of the New American Patriots. How’s that? Any suggestions? No hyperbole is to gag-inducing! Or should I go with something more crazy, party-guyish? The Cyber-Atomic Orgasm. DJ Sexy Beats.

New Year's Eve

2006-01-02T09:15:00.000-08:00

So, New Year’s eve took a radical turn for the mature this year. Or rather, I should say a radical recoil from the immature. A friend of mine, R, who I’ve known since we were eight, told me he was going to be playing drums with a terrible band in a terrible bar, so M and I figured what better way to ring in the New Year. Dig out a muscle-shirt, drink formaldehyde-infused beer and soak in some second-hand smoke and shitty Thin Lizzy covers while screaming, “play Motley Crue, you fags! Blaaaaaaaaarrrrgh! (vomits on friends).”

They were calling their band Tres Largos (‘three fat guys’) – he’s a bit of a big ‘un. Not “guy with the blurred face on a TV news ‘America and Obesity’ special report”-fat, just a bit big. They changed the name, though, to Pete Jesus (Logo: “What would Pete Jesus do? Rock.”). Then they got cancelled. God’s wrath apparently. M and I called the bar a few times posing as exciting Pete Jesus groupies (“pejoopies”) so as to fabricate public interest and maybe get the gig reinstated, but no luck. I had to bite my tongue when the bar manager told me that the band had cancelled on them, not to say, “that’s a damn lie! A damn, damn lie!”

So rather than just give up and ride out the eve blankly we tried to concoct a plan B. This meant driving to R’s – which is over the mountains from us – for a lot less of an event, but I’m a stubborn, stubborn person. The mountains also got a freak storm so we were driving in road-conditions somewhere between “chains required” and “repent for your sins”.

But plan B was in effect, which swiftly and suddenly became a lot more dignified (translation: potentially dull) than plan A. A snifter of port, classical music and Trivial Pursuit: Diversified Financial Planning edition. Okay, not really that dignified, but close. R’s girlfriend has a kid who wound up staying with her and having a couple friends over, so that rooted the evening’s activities there, and scared off dos of the tres largos. There was good food, incredibly good wine, even, yes, a game. So, it lacked the “fuck it all” abandon of plan A, was perilously mature and grounded, but it wound up being a really good time. If it had been plan A, I would have thought it a fine plan. Lots of laughing, sarcasm and political ranting. Lots of trying to find drink recipes on the internet. And a non-stop, relentless onslaught of Green Day music, courtesy of the girls’ current Green Day obsession (and God knows that there is no rock band obsession like a middle-school rock band obsession). Also, R collects rock show bills and he just happened to pull one out from one of the best shows I’d ever been to – it was a concert when I was doing a hard-core show on college radio, and one of the opening bands was Nirvana, and it was the first time I met Kurt Cobain. Another one of the openers was Tad, who if you've ever seen you know why I mention it. So I got to blah blah about past glories, which is always a plus. An excellent time over all, even without the muscle shirt. I’ll save that for Easter, I guess.

Don't let The Man tell you it's Tuesday

2005-12-27T10:40:00.000-08:00

2006 will be one second longer than 2005. Did you know that? It’s a form of leap year that comes every seven years – adding one second to the clock. 12:00 to 12:01 am on January 1st will be 61 seconds long. One extra second to kiss, or fire guns in the air or go “Wooooooooooo!!” or to wonder if Dick Clark is going to die on the air. Who knew making a system of time was so complicated. Leap years, leap seconds, the bizarre and antiquated shifting of the clocks forward and back twice a year, all, I assume, taking into account the gradual slowing of the Earth’s rotation. Not that there’s much to take into account – it’ll be 200 million years before the days on Earth are 25 hours long – but still…I mean one second every seven years? That’s over twenty five thousand years before the clock are an hour off. At which time I don’t think anyone s going to be saying, “What the hell? Why is the sun setting at 7:00? When I was a kid, 23,000 years ago, the sun set at around 6:00 this time of year! Who designed our idiotic chronology system? Squirrels? And why won’t God let me die?”

It does have a certain bureaucratic appropriateness, though. People always complain how you can never get a group of people to agree on anything, but time is a good example of that. Because, of course, most time is a totally artificial construct – days, months, none of them actually mean anything. It’s Tuesday because we say it is, and for no other reason. If everyone got together and said, “Let’s make today Monday instead, so we can watch Arrested Development again”, it would now be Monday. So I guess it’s somewhat fitting that this incredible thing we’ve gotten most everyone to agree to has clauses and sub-clauses and points of contention. But hey, it’s a start right? Today days of the week, tomorrow world peace.

The Demagogue who Stole Christmas

2005-12-24T09:43:00.000-08:00

I usually don’t give people like Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilly much thought because they’re so meaningless. They’re show-business people whose job is to entertain, and getting really upset at them is like getting really bent out of shape over Jessica Simpson’s music, or clothes. It’s pop-culture fluff. It’s always concerning, the propagation and dissemination of hate and ignorance, but, again, that’s entertainment. Pan e circum. Bread and circuses.

So it just feels really sad to me, this attempt to further exploit and betray Christmas that Bill O’Reilly has launched. Everything is political right now in the United States. The ideological battle lines that were drawn after the 2000 election have crept into every facet of our lives. Remember the brief but fervent claim that the Penguins in the documentary March of the Penguins embodied conservative values? Now, in an attempt to boost ratings, and in the process increase sales from his own gift shop, O’Reilly launched his “War on Christmas” campaign. The result being that the phrase “merry Christmas” has become hostile, political. A form of verbal violence. I’ve seen signs on stores, and heard people saying “Merry Christmas. And I mean Merry Christmas.” Subtext being: “Merry Christmas and fuck you if you aren’t one of us.” Subtext also being: “I am right-wing. Are you?” A person can’t say merry Christmas, or not say merry Christmas, without it being a political hate statement.

All this under the guise of saving Christmas. Bill O’Reilly doesn’t give a fuck about Christmas. It’s a tool to sell his show. His job is to entertain and if this works? Great. Bill O’Reilly no more believes in what he says that Jay Leno is heart-felt and passionate in the contents of his monologues. And the fact that he would try to gut the parts of the holiday that are still sincere and good and true – and they’re there, amidst all the commercialism and nonsense – under the guise of protecting it is just so sad. I know it’ll pass in a couple years, so no big deal in the grand scheme, just sad.

Yes, we have inadvertently made Christmas the holiest of holidays to our culture’s true God – Consumption. Yes, you can fixate on this element and practically burst into flame at the irony and hypocrisy and crassness of it all, but it isn’t necessary to do this. There is also something really cool about the amalgam of holidays that have converged into what we now call Christmas. All the various pagan rituals with the vague Christian twists make it such a neat patchwork celebration of our most noble human components: Hope; perseverance; a belief in something better. In darkest part of the year we light lights against the bleakness. We create feasts amid stark fields. We celebrate forgiveness and compassion during the time of year it is easiest and most biologically logical to forget others and survive, and as a traditional time of reflection – the turning of a year - arrives. And, yes, we give gifts to remind ourselves of the value of giving, and to remind ourselves about the people close to us. That’s good stuff.

And the “inclusion” attempts are really more divisive. Hanukkah is a minor holiday, and its insulting and ignorant to play it up, and remember it for your two Jewish friends, but then not even be able to name the season in which Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur takes place. Kwanzaa, was a nice idea, but defeats it’s own purpose. It was invented in 1966 by a college professor as a reaction to the Watts riots as a new holiday that could unite the black community. Which it doesn’t, but even if it did, it’s so manufactured, and so flagrantly a “black” holiday with only murky African connections, that it would only create another cultural divide.

Anyway, O’Reilly will have a great Christmas, I’m sure, because his ratings are up and he probably made a lot of money using his show to sell his stuff, and a lot of people will have a good Christmas because they get their Orwellian Minute of Hate and they get to spread anger while feeling self-righteous. But this will pass, like all the other human weaknesses ebb and flow. Like all the bad things that spring up during this holiday and swirl around our noble truths which remain a constant, like a star guiding us.

The Labyrinth's New Manager

2005-12-22T11:10:00.000-08:00

So, why the long break, you ask? Oh, let’s not get in to it. No, really, I don’t want to talk about it.

I mean it.

Okay, fine, you persistent minx, you! The break was largely because of two things: one, every time I heard or read or saw a reference to “blog” it was in some quasi-creepy/depressing trendy sense and it made me step back a bit, but more so was number two: I messed it up for myself. One of the reasons for starting the site was that it can become exhausting teaching and being in “teacher-mode” and it gradually consumes your identity and you become this morally rigid, secular-evangelist. So, the blog was a way to write in a forum in which I could actually be myself, and remind myself who that is. Also, writing is the thread that guides my personal Theseus back out of the maze.

What do you mean ‘what do I mean’? Theseus? Went in to the labyrinth to slay the minotaur? Found his way out by stringing a cord behind him? It’s all a big metaphor for the way we have to go into our own minds and battle our personal demons. Writing is my cord for finding my way out when my mind has become a labyrinth and I don’t even know myself anymore. Don’t know what I mean? Look at some of the entries from last spring – there’s some depressed, depressed shit there.

Anyway… You see, because I’m a doof who just looooooves attention and approval, I mentioned the site to a couple of my students, which is in and of itself fine and great. But a couple of other students found out and used the site to vent their, apparently, substantial dislike for me. Since I knew who they were, and knew they were students, I had to respond as a teacher, not as a person. When a student says something childish, cruel and horrible to a teacher, he has to recognize that this is a person still developing, who depending on his or her personal biochemistry has varying degrees of understanding of ‘other people’, and who, above all else, you dare not adversely affect the precious precious precious self-esteem. You either ignore the comment or respond constructively. A person, on the other hand, gets to just say “fuck you, too.” This then led to self-censoring in writing, because if students are reading regularly eventually you get concerned about how much you reveal and more importantly, if students who dislike you are reading, you don’t even want to talk about things honestly or sincerely. You don’t dare reveal human weakness or truth (this is why many teachers seem so bland and insincere after a few years). Soon, much of the purpose, and all of the fun, had been sucked out of the process.

This isn’t to say I don’t want to hear any negative feedback (although I have to admit I do more enjoy the feedback of the “Wow, you’re so great and smart and funny, please please have sex with me” variety), I just would prefer it wasn’t of the personal grudge type.

So…

Why start again now? Because I miss the forum. Because it’s fun. Because students who were using it as a staging ground for some silly personal battle have hopefully moved on.

It’s the grand re-opening. If you were here I’d give you a balloon and a hot dog. I’d hang out an “Under New Management” banner, even though it’s not true. Speaking of which, has anyone ever, in the history of everything, ever one gone somewhere because it was under new management? I mean, unless this new manager was your daughter, or something. Because, mostly, who cares? “Hey, Becky! Let’s head us on down to the Dairy Queen and meet the new manager! I’d like to hear her thoughts on Dilly bars!”

Anyway, here we are again.

Ouch.

2005-08-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

My computer has been hit with a virus...a bad one. As in, I need a new computer. So entries will be limited for a while.

Religion, pt.1: Jonathan Edwards catches the #19 to downtown

2005-08-17T08:58:00.000-07:00

Some years ago I used to have to ride the bus periodically to get around. Anyone who has lived in a city will tell you, getting to your destination is the secondary task on the bus - the principle thing to accomplish is to keep people from talking to you. Not people people, of course…but other people. Smelly, tin-foil on the head people. “Try it before you buy it” people (drug-dealers). Using corners, speed-bumps, stop-signs, etc, as an excuse to “lose their balance” and rub their crotch against you people. may sound snobby, but only to those who have not spent much time travelling by city bus. This conversation-evasion is an attempt to avoid mental trauma and preserve a shred of dignity amidst mounting evidence of loserdom (Creepy lunatics ride the bus. I am riding the bus. Therefore, I am a creepy lunatic, not an eco-friendly, pragmatic city-dweller. Crap.).

People try various things to fend off conversationalists. Headphones. Staring intently. Looking crazy themselves. None of these work. One time, though, I saw the ultimate weapon. The perfect device for keeping people away. Someone was reading…a Bible. A Bible! Brilliant! It was like Kryptonite! Shit-encrusted vagrants standing near this woman were staring at the flooring muttering, "Avoid eye-contact. Avoid eye-contact.” I thought about doing this myself, but was really uncomfortable with the idea. What if someone I knew saw me? What would people think of me? I found this fascinating: the idea of carrying a Bible was incredibly awkward, far more awkward than carrying something like, say, a raw cow’s heart. I think this would be the case for most people. Given the choice of spending a day clutching to your chest either a Bible, or a book entitled Syphilis for Dummies, most people would really have some thinking to do.

Our country has to have the most fucked up relationship with religion ever. I mean ever. We are terrified of it, and we cling to it – simultaneously. Right now we’re at a strange time where the pendulum has swung both ways at the same time. We have become frighteningly fundamentalist (a popular Right-wing commentator has called for the execution of all Muslim leaders and the forced conversion of the entire Muslim world, and a leading general of the war in Iraq has publicly stated that it is a war between Christianity and Islam), and a knee-jerk reactionism to even the mention of God (Recently a successful businessman was asked his ‘secrets of success’ and, among probably a dozen things, he mentioned his faith in God. He was slammed by a few critics for inappropriately pushing his religion on others). Now, this pendulum split will ultimately be a positive thing, because only through wading through all the moronic, inflammatory nonsense, can ever arrive at a state of independent – rather than authority induced – clarity. This is a basic premise of our society – through freedom we will create the ideal society, because we’ll have the freedom to do every stupid thing there is, and learn not to do that again. Utopia via process of elimination.

But for now? What a drag.

The funny thing is, of course, that no one knows. It’s faith. If I had to bet on any one bit of the after-life, it wouldn’t be pearly gates or rooms full of virgins, or anything that grand and earthly. I’d bet that God is waiting on the other side laughing, saying, “Wow! You were SO far off! Where’d you come up with some of that crazy shit! Hey, A for effort though, really.” Because the effort’s the thing, right? Christianity and Islam are pretty new, so we’re still squabbling over the details, the way the Chinese did about fifteen hundred years ago and the Indians (east) did about three thousand years ago. Eventually we’ll reach the conclusion they both did (that – to paraphrase – differing religions are individual paths through the woods, ending at the same destination). If we don’t kill everyone on Earth first (the Christians can’t even get along with each other! Baptists, Methodists, Lutherans, Sharks, Jets, et al.).

In the end, I couldn’t take a Bible on the bus. At one point in the Bible God tells people, “As you do unto the least of these [meaning the wretched, the poor, the smelly, tin-foil on the head people], you do unto me.” Using the text that says if you shun the poor and wretched then you shun God to, well, shun the poor and wretched was A) a little too much irony and B) definitely not an A for effort. No I didn’t get the A for effort, though. I got a bike.

Stupid reality.

2005-07-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

I was in California last week in the middle of a brutal heat wave, and was going to write a comical little ditty on that, but then I made the mistake of reading the Guardian, and about Karl Rove, and now I'm stuck thinking about him. They say that when you hate someone, or feel anger at him, he controls you. I agree with this, but Rove, in many ways already does control our lives.

As of yet, I have never once mentioned Karl Rove’s name to someone without the person responding with some sort of “who?” type question. Arguably the most powerful person in the country, and no one knows who he is. Now, as he is being attacked for revealing the name of the undercover CIA agent to the press to punish her husband for speaking out against the war, people only have a vague sense of somebody being attacked for this. And, invariably, the Democrats are going to labeled as zealots.

The thing is, going after Rove over this is about opportunity, rather than gravity of offense. It’s like Elliott Ness arresting Al Capone for income-tax evasion. Of Rove’s many, many terrible crimes and sins, this is not especially notable, but the administration has left him vulnerable. Because he is so behind the scenes and never leaves paper trails, there is never much opportunity to take him down. But now, Bush has said (oddly, since there can be no doubt that he knew everything) that if the person responsible for the act was connected to the White House, this person would be fired, the Democrats see an opportunity to take down the most dangerous man in the country. It’s unfortunate that it has to be a situation where there is no real legal case to make (it’s only a crime to blow an agent’s cover if it’s done with the intention of causing the agent harm – a very difficult thing to prove, and almost certainly not the case here, anyway), only a political one. And Rove has been practically the single-handed molder of the American political landscape for almost twenty years without any official political position – what is really to be accomplished by stripping him of it?

If you are reading this, and don’t know who Rove is, you have obligation to learn. If you believe that Texas is, and always has been, a conservative state, you need to learn who Karl Rove is. If you either think Kerry’s Vietnam War record is questionable, or can’t figure out why that was such a big deal in the election, you need to learn about Karl Rove. If you want to know why gay marriage is a big topic in politics right now...if you want to know why Christian hard-liners align themselves with the Republican Party, a party almost totally at odds with Christian ideals...if you can’t figure out how someone as dumb and unqualified as GW Bush can be president...

There’s an excellent article on him in the Atlantic Monthly a few months back, and a documentary called “Bush’s Brain” which are just two resources to look into.

Two examples from Rove’s career – “how did they turn the election into a question about Kerry’s military history, when Bush not only avoided Vietnam through family connections, but deserted the military, which is a federal crime?” It has long been standard practice to attack your opponent’s weaknesses. Rove teaches to attack their greatest strengths, if it has to be through innuendo and vague assertions, fine. If they’re proven to be untrue? Irrelevant. Once damage is done in the public mind, it’s done. One State Supreme Court race in Alabama that Rove was managing was against a man who had devoted his life to children’s causes. He had been a family court judge for many years, and the things he had seen done to children had prompted him to start several charities and homes. Rove instigated a whisper campaign. How these work is you send some people to college-campuses to spread rumors. College campuses are inhabited with people who A) are forming strong opinions and B) come from all reaches of the area and will take their new opinions home with them to spread there. This campaign was that the opponent was a pedophile. Totally unfounded rumor. It spread quickly, with no official link to Rove and his guy, then was as quickly dismissed as absurd (including by Rove and gang, who publicly decried such a despicable rumor). But now, every time someone saw an ad for this judge, with a child on his lap, or holding hands with kids, the association became slightly disturbing. He lost the race, charities soon distanced themselves from him. He was ruined, and countless needy and abused children were ruined in the wake.

“People say the 2000 election was rigged, but wouldn’t that be an almost impossibly intricate scam to pull?” He’s done it before on smaller scales. Also, I believe, in Alabama, Rove’s candidate lost an election – one of only a couple of elections he’s ever lost. Rove, on seeing that they’d lost, reportedly said, “It’s not over yet. If we can keep this thing alive in the media, I can deliver us the win.” Here’s a couple things they did: during the election, they did similar things as in 2000 - they distributed flyers in predominantly black and liberal neighborhoods reminding them to be sure to get out and vote – but accidentally listing a voting station that didn’t exist, typing the wrong date for voting, or reminding people that if they have any unpaid tickets or outstanding warrants they’ll have to pay those before they can vote (untrue). But then they still lost, so he found ‘outside groups’ to accuse the Democrats of trying to tamper with the results. It was important, though, that it be a slow burn – murmurs of wrongdoing, which grew and grew, tying it up in the supreme court for a while (populated mostly with judges that Rove had gotten in there), so that the public kept hearing and hearing and hearing that the Democrats might have tampered with the votes. When the Democrats came back with accusations against the Republicans, they sounded defensive and desperate. Finally they supreme court decided to hold the election over (there was another one where the court handed the victory to Rove’s guy, like Scalia in 2000, but that’s another story), and – since the Democrats, and by association, the democratic candidate, were now tainted with accusations, they lost.

A while back I was talking politics with some friends. One basically accused me of lying about Rove. Making it up. “If he’s so horrible,” she reasoned, “how come I’ve never heard of him?” Which is exactly what Rove counts on us saying. Which is exactly how he keeps succeeding.

Do humorously ironic curses really happen? You better believe they do.

2005-07-13T16:03:00.000-07:00

M threw me a birthday party on Saturday. A semi-surprise thing. I know, isn’t she cool? She hates parties, I like them , so it was a truly selfless gesture. If it were a Hollywood movie and M had some curse on her it would be lifted, because it seems like in those movies the cure for every curse is doing a selfless act. Remember that if you ever have some humorously ironic curse placed on you.

It was set up as a small get together, but then people just kept arriving (hence, ‘semi-surprise’). There were forty or fifty indications that something bigger was afoot…my friend A called with no interest at all in talking to me. M spent four hours putting together shish-kabobs for a dinner that was supposedly going to be for about six people. One of the people I did know was coming called at one point, and panicked, not knowing if she was one of the “knowns” or “unknowns” and concluded the conversation by saying, “So, have a great day and uh, I’ll, uh, see you, uh, sometime.” And so forth. Did I suspect? Of course I did, at some level (hey, I sound like Robert Evans – “the Kid Stays in the Picture” guy. He always writes like that: Was I excited about my party? You bet I was. Was there cake and excessive booze? Oh my, yes. Come to think of it, Donald Rumsfeld does that too. Shit.).

Anyway.

I did suspect, but fortunately had a horrible birthday some years ago that cured me of believing in such things. My fifteenth birthday I was positive my parents were throwing me a surprise party. None of my friends would do anything with me for whatever reason – too tired, doing something with someone else, etc. – and my parents barely mentioned my birthday. In the interest of fairness I should point out that I told my parents I didn’t want to do anything for my birthday, but people say that all the time and it’s always, one hundred percent of the time, now unto the furthest reaches of time and space, a big fat load of crap and everyone knows it. The capper though, was that at one point my parents asked me to go to the store a pick up, like a little 99-cent carton of ricotta cheese or some nonsense. The store was about four or five mile away and I was just turning fifteen, so I had to ride my bike. This seemed like an obvious excuse to get me out of the house for a little while. It wasn’t. They just, apparently, really really really needed ricotta cheese and since I was just sitting around sighing they figured it’d be fun birthday adventure for me. The point is, that after this, people could be hanging “Happy Birthday, Byron” banners and I’d figure it was probably for something else.

Good party, Saturday, though. I enjoyed it for the most part, but I usually have to make myself mingle because chit chat is tough for me and one thing that sucks about being adult, though, is most adults are so God damn boring. A few people would not shut up about what kind of wood our floors are made out of. It’s my floor and I my interest in the conversation lasted about this long:
Guest: “Nice hardwood floors. What kind of wood is it?”
Me: “I don’t know. Cedar?”
Guest: “No, it doesn’t look like cedar to me. The red streaks kind of look like blah blah blah blah blah…”

I mentally exited at this point, but this conversation went on and on and on and people came back to it several times throughout the evening, and a couple guys were hunkered down, feeling the wood, listening to it, licking it, taking samples back to the lab and so on.

Also, someone did the obligatory freaky-weird flip out. Everyone’s getting along, laughing, and it’s like there’s some biological imperative for someone to go batshit. Remember in Jurassic Park when they fill in the Dinosaur DNA with frog, a type that can change its gender if survival demands it? And even though these are the most advanced minds on Earth it occurs to naught of them that this might happen, and then it does and everyone’s like, “Oh well, of course that happened. Silly us.”? I think that same idea applies here (the changing chemical make up to ensure special balance part, not the other stuff. The party was populated my neither hubristic scientists nor dinosaurs). The species needs someone to get all weird at every party, and if no one does it naturally, some internal switch flips and blam! Crazy time. Oh, the miracle of biology.

Stop the Madness!

2005-07-07T09:32:00.000-07:00

A very sad, but I suppose inevitable, break up awaits me on Saturday. We’ve been together, God, has it really been sixteen years? These things happen, I suppose. It’s for the best, and I actually look forward to my new-found freedom, but there’s always a touch of sadness. Also, it’s hard to be told you’re the most important person in the world, that every interest and want and wish you have is so fascinating, so interesting and important, then – suddenly – be told that you’re as good as dead. That you’re just not as desirable as you once were – past your prime. That you are worthless.

This Saturday is my birthday. My 35th birthday. It’s a big one for many reasons but perhaps the most important, is that on Saturday I leave the coveted, primary advertising 18-34 year-old male target demographic. They don’t make cards for that, one, brothers and sisters.

Oh, Advertising, we had some good times, didn’t we? It’s hard to remember through all the anger, the terrible things I’ve said about you, through the lies and deception. Remember when you tried to convince me that Pepsi One was a manly, Gen-X hipster diet cola? It was kind of fun, but when you made Cuba Gooding jr. the spokesman I knew it was just bullshit – you weren’t even really trying, just going through the motions. Then there was the time you tricked me into buying a faux-vintage T-shirt. That was just mean. But there were the laughs, the times it really felt like you were talking just to me, like making me happy was the one thing you wanted most in the whole world.

But, as we part ways, I have to tell you a couple things. I owe you that much: to be honest. Advertising, you have problems. Serious emotional problems. I worry for you and for the people in your life, which is, well, everybody.
1) You’re obsessively there. You’ve got to give people space! We’re not going anywhere, just back off sometimes! There are whole think-tanks devoted to, what’s referred to as, ‘The Last Thirty Feet’. The average American’s car is thirty feet from his front door and this walk is the only time during the entire waking day that he is not exposed to advertising. And you regard this as a problem! You’re everywhere all the time, doing your little parlor tricks to get our attention! Getting angry if we don’t respond each and every time!

2) You’re too controlling. You’re not trying to make people happy, you’re trying to make them want what you want to give. That’s fucked up.

3)You think we’re stupid. Admit it. You have no real respect for us, it’s all about manipulation and talking down to us. Don’t deny it to try and make me feel better. I realize that it works most of the time, but that’s no excuse. You’ve got young men wearing their pants down below their asses, making them walk around looking and acting like they’re mentally retarded. Does that make you feel big and important?

4)You’re not funny. You think you are, and occasionally you’re good for a chuckle, but, God, once you say something mildly amusing you repeat it and repeat it and repeat it like it’s the holy grail of jokes.

But my biggest concern is one that you’re going to have to grow a little emotionally before you can do anything about, frankly. You’re destroying the people you claim to love. You’re stripping people of their identities, dulling their interests and homogenizing their dreams. You are spiritually killing the ones around you. You are mentally abusive. There, I said it. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. We deserve better. Maybe there’s a better form of advertising, waiting for us, somewhere out there. But we’re never going to find it until we learn to be happy on our own again. Maybe it will be you, if you can truly grow and evolve.

I’m saying this to you for our sake, yes, but also for your own. You don’t want to look back on your life and see only the pain you’ve caused, do you? I’m saying this to you today, not to be hurtful in our final hours together, but because for the next two days you still claim to care about what I think. But then, that’s why we’re splitting up, isn’t it? Because inevitably people get tired of your bullshit, of your lies and your abuse. But there’s always someone younger, more naïve, desperate for an identity to make you feel important and powerful.
You think you’re breaking up with me? Don’t kid yourself, Advertising. You lost me a long time ago; I just hadn't found the words to tell you.

Freedom - let that shit ring

2005-07-05T10:35:00.000-07:00

The fourth of July…is there any holiday more pure in its tradition, sanctified in its meaning, and hallowed in it dignity? Truly the almost unfathomably beautiful meaning of liberty, of freedom and self-rule become clear on this, the celebration of the first modern democracy.

It’s easy to forget what it means to live in freedom, easy to take it for granted. It’s a remarkable gift to have a day to pause, reflect and celebrate this incredible gift that so many have fought, on the battlefield, in the courthouse, from the words of pamphlets and podia, to build and preserve.

I’ve always had to choke back a tear at the unified front we show as a people by the waves of “July 4th, 2005” t-shirts that people buy year after year. Oh sure, they know it’s silly to purchase a shirt for a single day, but they do it, not because it’s cheap consumerism, or because they’re victims of advertising, but to show a renewed commitment to Old Navy. Excuse me, I mean, America. I don’t know why I said Old Navy – a company whose products are made in China. Huh.

Every year I am inspired by the selfless citizens who, in an incredible show of self-sacrifice, injure themselves with explosives – perhaps first having a nip or two from the bottle to steel their nerves – to show empathy and solidarity with those who fought in the revolution. And to the countless throngs who leave their illegal explosives and beer bottles in the street strewn dangerously and carelessly about, as if to remind us what life could be like if we didn’t have laws and a society based on social-contract.

But this year…this year was special. We’ve moved into a new house and a house across the street and decided to dedicate the whole day to celebrating freedom. I was especially impressed to see a young child there to witness this dedication. It was around 2:00pm, while showing this young child how to hold a lit bottle-rocket, that, somehow – in this desert town that is suffering a drought – when one of their rockets landed in the dry brush of the 90 year old woman’s house next door, a fire started! Well, after M and I went over to put the fire out, these selfless citizens joined in with a cereal bowl full of water, by kicking some dirt, and by watching us. They, perhaps a bit discouraged by starting a fire, decided to refrain from explosives for the rest of the day. It saddened me, I must admit, to see their democratic fervor so easily tempered. But I needn’t have worried. The terrorists would be wise to learn that American pride is not so easily squelched! It wasn’t an hour or two later before more people had come to join the celebration and more, bigger, fireworks were being set off! Hurrah!

These brave patriots made sure that everyone around them understood the importance of the day through several acts like shooting bottle-rockets at passing cars shouting timeless phrases from our historical documents, such as, “Fuck you!” and, “Get a new car, asshole!”. It was still daylight, so there was no “rockets’ red glare” but they got the point. Then… I’m sorry, I must pause for moment. The kindness and spirit of the moment was almost too much.

Okay. Then, perhaps concerned that those around them were letting the momentous day slip by without proper reflection sent a wake-up call by – it would turn out – setting fire to four people’s homes and property around them with their bottle-rockets.

Including mine.

After dousing the fire I went over to show my gratitude. In a display of wonderful role-modeling for the young boy, they all showed how the revolutionaries used to evade the British through quick-thinking and subterfuge, by saying that, though they were holding fireworks in their hands (and one guy was hitting a roman candle with a hammer for some reason) that they had not been firing fireworks, but rather the neighbors had been. Going along with the jest, I said that if they happened to see these “neighbors” could they let them know that they had just set my fucking house on fire. At this point, a young woman – who may have been struggling with disability because she stumbled and slurred a bit – offered me advice. If my house was on fire, she said, I should “probably hose that shit down.” Wise counsel, young maiden. Wise counsel. And isn’t that part of what makes America great? That two people from such different backgrounds could come together to share knowledge and arrive at higher truth.

If someone has set fire to your home? Hose that shit down, brother. Hose that shit down.

While I was doing this, several neighbors phoned some of our civil servants – the police and fire departments, specifically – in order to show our gratitude for all they do. They got together with the brave patriots across the street and discussed several things I missed out on. I had to retreat to my deck and think about the ways we show that we have not forgotten how we got here, and what it means to have the things we have. Can we ever do enough? Can we?

"We Are Too Stupid To Survive" alert

2005-07-02T11:19:00.000-07:00

Today I saw one of those big, oversized trucks. You know the ones I mean. Jacked-up, monster tires, hauling nothing. The double cab, nothing in the back. Sticker of "Calvin" pissing on something. Probably another brand of truck, or the word "Terrorists" (take that, Osama!), The Bush ’04 sticker. Etc. Etc. Etc. "So what," you say? On the bottom of the truck, just behind the rear axle, the owner had attached a large, fake, bull-sized scrotum and testicles. I’m serious. Jaw dropping. It defies comment. It out-parodies parody. Where is there left to go? How do you even mock or insult someone like that? How does someone that dumb get a license? Or even remember to breathe consistently?

I wanted to go on and on about these trucks and Humvees and relate it to our declining empire and it would be ever so deep and caustic, but I can't. Seeing this idiotic shit may have given me a stroke or something.

My head hurts. I have to go lie down now.

"But officer, there wasn't anything about murdering kids in my basement in the rental contract!"

2005-06-25T12:54:00.000-07:00

Moving. I’m moving. Tired. Need boxes. Always more boxes. Crack addicts are like social-drinkers compared to the desperate lengths someone who’s moving will go to to get more boxes. The other day M and I snuck into the recycle bin behind the hospital – yes, the medical-waste area recycle Dumpster – to root around for some good, high-quality boxes.

There are parts of moving I really enjoy – purging the excess stuff that just seems to accumulate despite all efforts: the papers, the unworn clothes and so forth; going to a new space, starting a new adventure. Other parts, I don’t so much enjoy. Like discovering that your current residence is a total shit-hole. Smudges and finger prints on the wall. Chips in the paint. Stains – oh, God, such disturbing stains – in the carpet. Windows that look like they’ve been licked clean. And, of course, the boxes. Always more boxes. Boxes.

I’ve always been reluctant to move. I think I approach moving the way some people approach relationships – no matter how awful, no matter how much you know you’ll be happier if you move on, you worry that you’ll never find anything as good again. God, my little studio apartment in Portland had silverfish, rusty rusty rusty pipes, it was fucking freezing, and so on. What prompted me to leave that little Eden? When the ceiling collapsed. Seriously. During the flood in 1996 (‘96? ’94? Whenever. That time Portland flooded) so much water built up on the roof and I was on the top floor, and the water decided my place looked nice and moved in. Quite suddenly in the middle of the night, in fact. I decided to maybe look around then. My moving saga is like a contemporary real-estate version of Candide.

Part of the contract when you rent or purchase a new place is an agreement not to use illegal narcotics in the place. This is a bit silly. If this is the route we want to go, shouldn’t we be including something about no arson, no child abduction, and no fabricating reasons to start war? I mean, if the contract really works. But of course it doesn’t. I guarantee that at no time, ever, has someone refused to move in to a place because of this clause. "Let’s see…lawn maintenance…payment due on the first…okay…Whoa! Hold the fucking phone a second there, Mr. Furley! No drugs? But I wanted to make meth! I already stole a truck full of Sudafed and everything! And though I, apparently, have no problem breaking federal laws, poisoning others and slowly destroying myself, I would NEVER violate a rental contract. Ah, crap. Well, if this is going to be in all housing contracts, I suppose I will quit the drugs, get a job and contribute to society. Good sir, could you point me to an LL Bean store and a Four-Square Church?"

I mean, that’s the idea, right? I love the idea that these little tidbits not only address, but even combat, these problems. The U.S, in the last hundred years has really hit the trifecta of idiotic, unwinnable wars. War on drugs. War on terror. And, my personal favorite, The War on sex the government instigated in the beginning of the twentieth century.

None of those things will ever really be done away with so long as people are still moving into new homes, because someone in need of a good box will offer or threaten the use of any and all three of those things.

The Zipperless Flight

2005-06-19T21:42:00.000-07:00

I love flying. Lots of people complain about how cramped it is, and the food is terrible (if you can get any), and so on. It seems like people tend to forget something about plane travel though: You’re fucking flying!!! That should be the slogan for every airline – "United Airlines. We can fly!" "Virgin Airlines: Holy Shit, We’re Flying!" Good God, you can get from one coast to the other in a few hours, and people say, "Yeah, but it’s mildly uncomfortable." Yeah, that was Lewis & Clark’s chief complaint too – the lack of leg room and stale air.

I especially love take off. The sudden blast of speed, the ground suddenly dropping away beneath you, you get higher and higher, until your brain can no longer comprehend how high up you are and everything just looks interesting. Great stuff. I even love airports, which might make me clinically insane. The energy and raw emotion of separation & reunion, the excitement of going somewhere new and break from routine. So I’m probably a little weird.

Oh, sure, there’s the fiery crash part of flying, but I had this weird moment once some years ago that sort of ended that for me (mostly). I was flying from Ireland to Scotland in the dead of winter. Icy plane, low visibility, and so forth. The stewardesses on this particular Aer Lingus flight – and I’m not trying to be funny because they’re Irish, I’m just reporting the facts – we’re drunk. And if the stewardesses were visibly drunk, we can only assume the pilots were having their stomachs pumped up in the cockpit. So, we’re over the Irish Sea and the plane is bumping and so forth. I was feeling a tad edgy. I was thinking to myself, ‘What if we crash?’ When a very calm voice in my head said, ‘You’d die. But, hey, you really, probably won’t crash.’ And, oddly enough, I felt much better, and have loved flying ever since. The statistics about how you’re more likely to be struck by lightening while scratching your ninth consecutive winning lottery ticket (or whatever they use for those dumb comparisons) than be in a plane crash mean nothing to me. "You really, probably won’t crash" works for me, for some reason. And figuring, if it does crash, I die, and that’s all there is to that, was strangely comforting. Not that I’m claiming not to fear death, it’s just that there were no variables, either it is or it isn’t.

That being said, on the flight back from Philadelphia, the plane sounded like shit. Those were some terrible, horrible sounds. Clanking, grinding and lurching. If your car made the sounds this plane was making, you’d pull over. It sounded like the pilots kept having trouble getting the plane into gear, like the clutch was going out. One of the friends I was travelling with had never flown before, and she turned to me and asked what those sounds were and if we were okay. Of course I felt compelled not to reply, "That, my friend, is the sound of our horrible death. I hope you enjoyed this trip because it is the finale to your time in this mortal coil, and I would suggest we panic now." Instead I embarked on the line of bullshit we reserve for when the person next to us on the plane is worried about the sounds it’s making, since, of course, we never know what the sound is either. "That? That’s the landing gear retracting. And that ker-chunk-crash sound? That’s, um, the luggage compartments securing. Like how some car doors automatically lock after you go a certain speed. Yeah. That hideous grinding? That’s, ah, uh, that’s the regality… modification…cramulator. It’s supposed to do that. Everything’s fine. By the way, apropos of nothing, when’s the last time you told your family that you love them?"

So, see? Flying’s great.

No exaggeration - 600-pounds if he was an ounce

2005-06-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

So...which do I prefer, someone asked me on the drive back from New Jersey: Atlantic City, Las Vegas or Reno. I was the only one in the car who had been to all three. A dubious honor, especially considering that my exposure to each is pretty limited, I have to admit. My total amount gambled is probably something like eight dollars. I can never tell if I'm too broke to gamble, too sensible, too chicken, not enough fun or just too much of a tightwad (I am Scottish, after all). Actually, I kind of think it's something else - I once bet two dollars on a horse at the Del Mar racetrack (Falling Down Rain to win) and won twenty-four dollars, and stopped betting immediately, not because I was poor, sensible, scared or cheap, but because I immediately began envisioning what I would do when I bet bigger and won bigger.

But as to the gambling meccas, the sad fact is my time in all three of those places combined is less eventful than the night I spent in the dreadful town of Winnemucca, Nevada. For those who don't know, it's the place to go gamble if you're not up to the hectic pace and glamour of Reno. Or Chinook Winds Tribal Casino. Or a middle-school band concert. The night in Winnemucca involves my first paid stand-up comedy gig, sitting in a brothel having a beer with a bunch of prostitutes and swapping life stories, nearly getting my ass kicked by a 600-pound silver miner and his buddies, all of whom were completely (clothes, hair, skin, etc.) gray from the dust in the mine, a stripper teaching me to pole dance, and being hit on by a gay Country & Western singer. It's a good story.

But anyways...

Which do I like best? Reno? Sorry. It's out because Reno is dumb. It's like someone wanted to replicate Vegas, got about a third done and thought, "Eh. Close enough." This is appropriate, I suppose since it seems to be designed for people who want to go to Vegas, but get part way there and think, "Eh. Close enough."

Vegas is the most fascinating. Anyone who doesn't understand why the world hates us has never been to Vegas. Vegas is what happens when three hundred million Puritan descendants - with our repressed sexuality, our gluttony, all of our hypocricies, nuances and quirks, and even with our optimism and can-do spirit - designate an area to turn a moral blind eye. To pretend not to see each other. It is the collective repressed Id detonated across a desertscape. But that has plusses as well as minuses. It is the most fascinating. Also it's the funniest and hands-down winner for sheer spectacle. And the Bellagio fountains are purty.

Atlantic City is a little sedate, but it does have the beach, and the boardwalk (an asset and a hindrance), and all those streets from Monopoly which are impossible to see without flipping out like a celebrity sighting ("Omigod, that's THE St. James Place! I had a hotel there once! Get a picture!"). Sticking a big hospital in the middle of the uptown casinos is an interesting choice. Bit of a downer, but perhaps, given the plurality of drunken geriatrics, simple pragmatism. Also there's a Kenneth Cole factory store. But most importantly Atlantic City has some sense of time, of its own, however limited, history. I like that. Vegas exists in an eternal now, not in a Zen spirituality sense, but in a desperate, keeping-the-blinders-on-to-our-own-mortal-existence kid of way. And Reno exist in a perpetual yawn. If I were to spend a night gambling, Atlantic City seems like the place to meet your sin needs, but also has a touch of humanity, and you could show some class without feeling like you're jsut pretending. So there it is, I guess. Congratulations, New Jersey, even with your toll booths.

Oh, and to the restroom attendant at Bally's: I'm sure you thought it was total bullshit, someone being in a casino with no cash, but I really just stopped in to use you parking lot. I wasn't trying to stiff you on the tip. The bathroom was very nice and clean and the towel you handed me really did the trick.

Give Me Liberty or, good God, at least some iced tea and a damp wash cloth

2005-06-13T13:36:00.000-07:00

In Philadelphia for the week. Hot. Really hot. I’m starting to wonder if in the original Declaration of Independence there’s a section about how it’s so God Damn hot and these English are just getting on everyone’s nerves and, Christ, I’m sweating like a pig and it’s somebody’s fault and these Limeys are starting to just piss me off! Which they then, wisely, deleted in favor of the bits taxation without representation and so forth.
One thing that is really hard – Living on the west coast we forget just how bad racial segregation is, not because we’re enlightened, of course, but because we don’t have to deal with it as much (except in regards to Hispanics, and we’ve got all kinds of ways to rationalize marginalizing them). With one or two exceptions, every single business establishment we’ve gone into, the low-level staff is entirely black, and every single manager is white. I’m sure living here it becomes easy to not see it, since it’s simply the way it is, but when place after place you see only black people until someone has a question for the manager and poof! Suddenly there’s a white guy! Man, it’s hard.

Perhaps the hardest thing is that in many ways, there’s nothing we (white people) can do about it. I don’t mean this in a helpless, socially-impotent way, I just mean it would be arrogant and, ultimately, self-defeating to think we’re going to "save" other races from us. This mindset is merely a mutation of the White-Man’s Burden that has done such wonders for the world. The affirmative action debate has been ground into farce through demagoguery and buzz-phrases which is too bad, because it allows us to simply ignore the issue while feeling like we have an informed opinion and are doing something about it.

This is the inherent flaw in affirmative action, but when black communities do galvanize and form organizations, etc…well…we demonize the leaders, and usually kill them. I just wish there would be some event that could bring about the next Dr. King, the next Malcolm X. And I pray that when it happens, many of us are able to support their efforts, even though it will mean erosion of our power. Equalization is an inevitability – either through mutual growth, or by force. People don’t give up power, as a general rule, it must be taken. Liberty can’t be granted, it must be declared. Even if it has to be declared while standing in a pool or, or even bathtub full of cool water to avoid delirium from the heat.

To the graduating class...

2005-06-09T09:05:00.000-07:00

Well, you’re here – graduation. Today you move forward to a new stage, a new level of freedom, responsibility and identity. It is important to mark occasions like this with ceremony – with pomp and circumstance to underscore that this truly is major event in life. The true meaning of what’s happening here will not be clear to you for some time. Some of you days, some months, most will need years until you understand what’s happened here today. But it matters.

So what is happening here today? You’re going to be hearing a lot of words to the effect of this: “We have worked hard to be here and now our hard work pays off. We are the future. Among us lies the cure for AIDS, the end to famine and a renewable energy source. Someday we will be running the country, and its up to us to make the world a better place.”

Inspiring words.

Also, alas, complete bullshit.

Let’s dissemble this eye-rolling nonsense that inevitably spews at every graduation from Anchorage to Pensacola, from College to Middle school ceremonies and find the truth in it. Because there is profound truth in graduation, and profundity is scary. Life is big and scary and graduation marks a sea change, so we hide from it. We hide behind alcohol and platitudes under the guise of celebration and wise counsel. Instead, today of all days, let’s look the moment in the eyes.

“We have worked hard to be here” – No, you haven’t. Some of you have, but, oh, 70, 80 percent of you have not. You have done the minimum asked of you. You have showed up and been herded through an over-crowded system that relies on large numbers of warm bodies for its funding. You have missed the point, you have downloaded papers off the Internet, parroted your friends’ and parents’ opinions and stared into space until you were told it was time to leave. You have whined and lied to get out of work and, in some cases, worn revealing clothing to try and get extensions on due dates and found nothing demeaning in it. This is fine, I only mention it because in all the hoopla you may start to actually believe that you have, in fact, worked hard. That you have earned this diploma. You have not. And if you start to regard this as your template for what qualifies as “hard work” you are going to have a life of sloth and banality, all the while whining and growing resentful and bitter that no one has rewarded you with the fame and fortune to which you believe you are entitled.

Another chunk of you? You did work hard. It’s true. For grades. I regret to inform you that in about one hour no one is ever again going to give a fuck about the grades to which you devoted yourself these last few years. Sorry. Try to see the humor in it, if you can. They may have helped you get into whatever you’re doing next, but they have no intrinsic value. No one at college will care what your grades were in high-school, and no one in life cares what your grades were in college. You might get a “wow”, but that’s about it. Grades are meaningless, and when you apply meaning to the meaningless this only results in bad things – degrees of delusion ranging from superstition to full on hallucination. But it is not too late. There is a good Buddhist like lesson you can learn right now – like the monks who create large, beautiful paintings out of sand, then wipe them away. Let go of grades. You worked hard, not for knowledge, but for letters. Not even real letters, but concepts of letters. They don’t exist. Let them vanish.

The last five percent. Today is for you. You discovered the joy in pursuing knowledge. You worked hard at things you had interest in and discovered that it ceased to be hard work. You realized that school is not an obligation but a gift. For all its flaws, there is much to be found in our schools, but you must look for it. You have found it. You have developed your mind and your soul. Congratulations.

“We are the future” - Okay, what the fuck does this idiotic phrase even mean? This is one of the worst, most vapid phrases ever concocted. Every time I have to sit through a graduation ceremony it’s uttered in the first five or six minutes and then repeated, ad nauseum until you are in your car, trying to get out of the parking lot, this phrase echoing through your cranium, and with each uttering and echo I feel part of my brain die, shrieking. You’re not the future.

Well, you are, as much as everyone else is. You are Right Now, as am I. In the future you will also be Right Now, it’s just that that right now hasn’t happened yet. Someday you will die, at which point you will cease to be Right Now. I think this phrase is supposed to connect in to the “running the country idea” and that you will all cure AIDS and be rock stars and president and so forth. That you will succeed where the rest have failed at ending war and cleaning the environment. Good, great, I’ll look forward to that. But the thing is, you’re not destined for greatness. What lies ahead of you is opportunity and responsibility. What is true is this: you are going to be adults. You are going to get more responsibilities, which you can either embrace or evade. The question is: what are you going to do with this? Most everyone spends a good portion of their lives hiding from this inevitability. We hide from adulthood and responsibility because we are not ready yet. You have not, then, graduated. Not really. That will be your own personal ceremony. Strive for greatness – please, please do. But also know that if you really want to be the future, be the future you want to see as an individual. Be kind, take care of those you love. Be honest and when you make a mistake, admit it. Have the courage and wisdom to discover the difference between pleasure and happiness. Be the person you know you can be. In your small corner of the world, be a great person. Everyone in this room can do this. Everyone. Everyone here can, every day, in every Right Now until the moment you die, continue to learn and be the kind of person we so badly need in this world. You are probably never going to be famous. You are probably never going to be rich. There are great joys, and unimaginable pains that lie ahead for you. You will regret things, you will be proud of things. There are dreams you have that will not come true – you must choose which to pursue. Saving the world is great. But it begins with great individuals. Discover what hard work is – what it is to earn something for its own sake. This is the path to happiness. It isn’t glamorous, but it’s truth. Most of you have pursued pleasure, now it is time to seek happiness.

Da da da

2005-06-01T10:38:00.000-07:00

Dadaism. Let’s talk about Dadaism for a moment, shall we? Oh yes, let’s. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately because it’s really jiving with many elements of the current state of development my own personal search. You know, THE search. search with a capital S.

So, I’m thinking about this concept at the moment. Of course, I realize that becoming something of a Dadaist is pretty much impossible, since the Dadaist movement ended seventy-five years ago, so I can really no more become a Dadaist than join the Whig party or become a phrenologist, but you get my meaning. For those unfamiliar with Dadaism, it’s a pretty simple concept: what does Dada mean?

Nothing. It’s gibberish. It’s the noise a baby might make. So here’s the syllogism of Dadaism – Life is idiotic and absurd. Idiotic and absurd stuff is great. Therefore, life is great. Like the gibberish of babies – it’s weird and crazy, yet it’s just about the best thing there is. Why? The purity? The sheer joy a baby gets in making burbly noises? The fact that there is no meaning in it, yet there is?

Okay, yes, there are conflicting theories on the origin of the name “dada”, but I feel it only fair to point out that the other theories are complete shit, so one must factor that in when judging. German for “yes yes”? What are you, kidding me? Yes, that does in fact make “da da” but come on. You might as well propose that the name means “District Attorney District Attorney” or ‘the first dad’ (dad A), or some other random confluence that makes the proper sound. French from the term ‘hobby-horse’? No. Sorry. It’s nonsensical, so that works, but it has no flair, lacks that certain je ne sais quois.

Of course, strict Dadaists rejected the term entirely because, like most artistic movements, the name was often used as an insult and the nature of the movement itself belied labels. By naming it you reduce it to something nameable and structured, which is impossible – similar in idea to the Taoist Uncarved Block, or Christian Jahweh. That which we call dada is not dada. But it really should be called something because otherwise you wind up in awkward conversations like:
“Hey, you know Greg? Yeah, he’s a (wink).”
“A what? A communist?”
“No, a (wink).”
“Gay?”
“No! (wink) (wink) (wink)”
“Oh God, are you have a seizure?!”

So anyway, at times when you find yourself muttering under your breath that the world is insane, it’s nice to be able to step back and feel like that it’s all okay, that this is part of the majesty. If our culture really is falling apart, how cool to get a front row seat! If it doesn’t collapse, even better! But watching a fire is entrancing. It is Shiva’s dance that destroys the world. Chaos or meaninglessness doesn’t mean a grim fatalism, or even meaninglessness itself, really. Rather the meaning, the profundity, is in the dissembling of convention. I really get the feeling sometimes that God has this amazing sense of humor, and our brains are just too small to get it. Here He is, firing off these hilarious bits, concept jokes, one-liners, and probably getting pretty frustrated that He can’t seem to dumb it down enough for us to get it. The cosmic farce, the joy if in the humor of it all. And that in this, there is an order, just one beyond our reckoning.

In closing, a scene for your theatrical pleasure. Copyright 2005, Byron MacLymont, all rights reserved including merchandising, sequels and remakes.

Frenchie: Aimes-tu mon dada?
Klaus: Da! Da! Das ist gut! Oh, ist jemand hier ein rechtsanwalt?
District Attorney: Yes! Me, me!

Aaaaaaaaand…scene.

Talking 'bout my "generation"

2005-05-26T10:56:00.000-07:00

I think it’s a positive thing that the concept of “generations” on a mass scale is falling apart. It’s a pretty silly notion, if you think about it. You can talk about generations in terms of family, in terms of, maybe, neighborhoods or communities, but anything beyond that…? It’s like the old Athenian idea of a polis, or democratic voice of the people – with one person you don’t have a polis, and with a hundred thousand you no longer have one. You can’t have generations with 300 million people wandering about. It’s not like there are great lulls in which pediatricians and elementary school-teachers sit around, playing cards and dusting, waiting for the next wave to come along. I can’t confirm this with statistics, but I’m pretty sure that there were graduating classes all across the country every year between 1969 (the last of the ‘baby boomers’) and 1980 (the start of ‘generation X’). Should we just cast those people aside? The flotsam of procreation? Essentially “generations” is a marketing tool: a way to lump people as part of something through gross generalization.

You know whose fault it is? This generation idea? Gertrude Stein. When will Gertrude Stein’s reign of marketing tie-in terror end??!! WHEN?! Damn you, Gertrude Stein! Damn you to hell! Yaaarrrgh!

Anyways, she was sitting around some Paris flat talking to Hemingway and a bunch of the ex-pats and they were drinking and blah-blahing about meaninglessness and so forth, and she said, “Yours is a lost generation.” Then everybody went, “Cooooooool, I want to be in a lost generation!” I mean, who wouldn’t? It’s like being admitting to a super-hip club just by being born at a certain time. And generations are usually used to described younger people, and the description usually based around youthful behavior, so it’s rebellious, yet inclusive.

So then, of course, you get the baby-boomers, which is good because it would be more difficult for them to be so utterly self-involved without a catchy name. Then Generation X (seriously, people, naming a whole cultural wave of people after a briefly-existent punk band?), which was when the whole marketing idea really took off. If we say that our product is the choice of this generation, why they’ll have to buy it! Remember in the 80’s, before we had the term generation X, and Pepsi launched the “You’re the Pepsi generation” campaign? Jesus Christ, that’s subtle.

Now there’s all this generation Y (come on, that’s not even trying), and generation E and crap. If this group of teenagers is supposed to be an offshoot of Generation X, shouldn’t they be called Billy Idol? Aaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahaha! Get it?! You don’t? Oh.

But, of course, it doesn’t make any sense, because the people who are being marketed to aren’t the children of generation X, there just other people. As it stands, I’ve heard people from age 46 to 14 claim to be generation X, usually with a furrowed brow, trying to figure out what this means. That’s a big-ass generation. Let’s just drop it. No tidy groups, just a big mess of people.

Quick note

2005-05-25T14:53:00.000-07:00

Just in case anyone's interested - the Reviews page is up and running now.

Empathy is power, but not the cool kind...

2005-05-23T10:34:00.000-07:00

Some years ago I was living in this tiny, studio apartment in Portland. Your standard-issue early-20’s Starving Artist housing unit. View of another building, blood-colored water for the first several seconds when you turn on the tap, etc. I found myself one night, for some reason, watching a trash-TV news show about some serial killer (of course). Lying on my mattress on the floor, staring at the fuzzy reception on my 13” black & white TV. Lonely. Digesting my fourth consecutive dinner of rice avec ketchup. Ah. Good times. Good times.

So anyway, this serial killer had killed a man as one of his victims, and it really freaked me out at the time. I actually had trouble falling asleep – and not for the usual reasons. I mean I knew why, why the idea of a serial killer killing a man bothered me. No room to dissociate. I would have never said I did so, because of course it’s not a conscious move, but it’s human nature to assure ourselves of our own safety when we hear of horrors. We could not have been the victims because…

Because the victim was a woman.
Because the victim was gay.
Because the victim was black.
Whatever.

Or, looking to our horror-film standards: Because the victim was promiscuous. Because the victim was stupid and went to check out the sound upstairs by herself.

Not me, because…
Not me, because…
Not me, because…

If we want to see the extent we’ll go to, look at September 11, 2001. People were so frightened because it was us, it could have been any of us. Within a day or two, Jerry Falwell was saying that we deserved it because we are a nation of sinners: homosexuals, abortionists and masturbators. He said that! That because people masturbate, they deserved it!! But it was calming to a lot of people who could remind themselves that they are not gay, they don’t have abortions, or if they do they don’t admit it to each other, and they always feel really, really guilty when they masturbate, so there. Not me, because…

One of my classes is reading Elie Weisel’s Night, the story of his time in a concentration camp. I’ve been trying to get them to not refer to the victims as Jews, but as people. They are, almost universally, unwilling. They actively dislike the idea. I’ve been trying to break down these dissociative barriers so they can read the story with empathy, and direct understanding. I tried to explain that they weren’t Jews, they were people who were Jewish. I’ve tried reminding them that it wasn’t just Jews in the camps.

Side note: Several students thought that putting homosexuals in concentration camps was a good idea. None of them saw anything disturbing or ironic about agreeing with Nazi concentration camps. A couple did explain to me, though, that this was different, for you see, gays are gross. Ah! Touché! I was barely able to resist laughing at them and telling them to be careful of spiders and dust-bunnies that deep in the closet.

So, they won’t do it. Perhaps it’s just latching onto educational sound bites. “Slavery caused the civil war.” “In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue.” “The Nazis put Jews in concentration camps.” But the active refusal really feels like a sort of fear of empathy. If it is only the scythe of timing and circumstance that separates you from such things, the stakes go way up. Security is lost. You are forced to imagine what these things are like in the past for people who are you, for all intents and purposes… then you have to do it in the present. You are forced to think about the horrors in the world that you do nothing about, or even encourage. And then what do you do?

Empathy very well may be the most dangerous and powerful thing in the world.

Addendum: Apparently - looking at the comments - I need to clarify. When I say empathy is dangerous, I mean to the status quo, to our comfort. This is not a bad thing, this is an amazing thing. A great thing, perhaps the greatest. It's just that it's frightening. Empathy will end wars. It will end terrorism and exploitation. It will end prejudice - if these students would empathize with concentration camp victims, it would never happen again (not these students specifically, of course, just in the general sense). So it is ultimate power, it's just that it's not the cool, Matrix-esque kind. It's power in the way that the pen is mightier than the sword, but no one wants Aragorn to carry a pen ("Orcs! I shall write a treatise enumerating their evils and calling for sanctions!"). It's power in the way that forgiveness is a power, but most people would prefer laser beam eyes.

I was trying to end the posting with a cool one-liner about empathy. Great.

Also, sometimes dogs catch frisbees

2005-05-20T12:38:00.000-07:00

You’re never supposed to punish a dog for something he’s done more than a couple minutes earlier, since his event-memory is only about five-minutes. No matter how mad you are, it’s pointless to flip out, because he’ll just look at you, head cocked to the side, with that big, dopey “can I have a sandwich?” look on his face wondering why you’re all huffy. Unfortunate, but it’s just the way it is.

So, like most states, we got caught up in the whole gay marriage issue during the last election cycle. It was a tough one, because it’s a valid issue, but was also obviously intentional distractions from the real, and more complicated issues.

Don’t worry – they connect. I’m going somewhere with this.

Bush’s dad did something similar, with the whole flag-burning issue – proposing a constitutional amendment banning the burning of the American flag, or wearing it in a disrespectful manner (shirt = patriot!; pants = hippie fag anarchist!; oversized top hat + stilts = delightful parade Uncle Sam!; oversized top hat – stilts = raver; etc.). The rallying cry of the Neo-Con, Protect Marriage crowd was that homosexuals should be allowed to have civil unions, but marriage?! How dare these people try to desecrate the institution founded on the premise of women as property!?! Everyone knows that homosexuals can’t be monogamous. So, two days after the election (literally), on this issue, which for many thousands upon thousands of people was the deciding issue, Bush said, “Oh, by the way, the banning gay marriage thing? Yeah, we’re not going to do that. Really, I’d love to, but you know, that Social Security isn’t going to dismantle itself!”

So now it’s left to the states to decide. The problem is that banning gay-marriage is unconstitutional, because it’s mandating discrimination. Many people didn’t understand that it didn’t have to be legalized, it already was, and it was just that no one had ever pushed the issue. Anyway, so a few months after the electiona Republican in Oregon submits a bill to recognize civil unions. After all, it’s what the Neo-Cons and the Republicans Party (official motto: “Fuck you.”) said they wanted, right?! Hahaha! Sucker!!!

He’s been assaulted with thousands of letters and emails accusing him of everything from treason to buggery. Often with rampant misspellings, I might add with a snobbish wink, and very often with parroted buzz-phrases lifted from talk radio. The essential message is how dare he betray the wishes of the Republican Party, that we can’t grant “special rights” to these people (Apparently all heterosexuals are special. Yay! I’m special!), and that if we do grant them civic unions, instead of visiting each other in hospitals after-hours, inheriting life-partners’ property and having legal rights, this will lead to rampant public sodomy, mandatory “Be Gay” classes and assemblies in school, and maybe even (shudder) men holding hands in public. IN PUBLIC, PEOPLE.

Now, this may seem, at the outset, just a skosh hypocritical. But when psychologists are trying to quantify intelligence, one of the key aspects is the subject’s ability to conceive of “later” or “earlier.” Willfully delaying gratification (“Maybe I’ll save some Halloween candy for later”), or using part events as guides for future behavior (“When I ate all my Halloween candy at once, I went into a sugar-frenzy and killed my neighbor. Also I got an upset tummy. Maybe I won’t do that again.”). Obviously, the mass of this crowd is astonishingly unintelligent and perhaps we should look in to the idea – like dogs – that they are physiologically unable to remember what happened a couple months ago. It would also explain people’s belief that Saddam Hussein attacked us on 9/11 (or, well, ever).

Now – and this is important – I’m not saying neo-cons are dogs. I’m saying they’re dumber than dogs. Yes, even shih-tzus. And those things are dumb. After all, dogs are loyal, often selfless and if they pee all over you, it’s generally on accident. To be fair, Neo-Cons are well known for not shedding excessively, and they never, ever have gas (gas is a sin).

Using a little Aristotelian Syllogism, the next step is obvious. Neo-Cons need, for their own protection, to be leashed, bred for desirable tendencies, and please, for God’s sake, Byron reminds you to spay and neuter your Neo-Cons.

The Paradox of Negativity

2005-05-19T11:18:00.000-07:00

So I was bursting blood veins this morning about how it’s been revealed that between the years of 2000 and 2002 our government was illegally buying oil from Saddam Hussein and paying him kickbacks directly, under the table. Not just a little oil, but more than all other nations in the world combined. What I was writing on, though, was not the horrible, despicable hypocrisy – that is totally consistent behavior for this dynasty – but rather the lack of surprise and attention paid by the general public, indicative of our exhaustion. Our satiation. But then I was looking at comments and on an earlier posting (“Breach of Contract”) someone asked if I am always so negative. Since issues about me are vastly more important than global betrayal, war and the decline of civilization (note to the subtlety-challenged: this is an ironic/satirical statement), I’m switching gears to respond. And pontificate. And so forth.

Am I always so negative? Initially I was going to just going to give a short response (something along the lines of, “No. Psh.”), but then I thought, ‘Hey! Why answer an innocuous, harmless (and, granted, legitimate) question succinctly when I can blow the comment way out of proportion and link it to issues of God, cosmic responsibilities, paradoxes, disease, me, and an overlooked TV series?’

A foundational element of this site – an all social criticism – is recognizing the inherent paradox of crisis and true criticism. Blanket negativity isn’t criticism in the true, analytical sense, it’s just trashing on things. This trashing on things, or dwelling on the negative, can be so draining and exhausting because it is usually incomplete – non-thinking in a sense. Actual darkness cannot exist without light. Cataclysm without growth. Crisis without opportunity (one of my favorite Simpsons quotes – Lisa: You know dad, in Chinese the word for crisis is the same as for opportunity. Homer: Yes! Crisi-tunity!). So overturning the rock to expose the ugliness must, at least in its implication, generate the idea of change, positive growth. Conversely, while optimism and positive thinking are, of course, important, vital to mental health, often it can turn into complacency, and an attempt to find the positive side of things can sometimes result in stasis, or even letting evil reign free.

In the entry in question, the implied conclusion is not one of hopelessness, but obligation for growth. Not that we have opportunity to become individuals in an Emersonian sense – we always have that – but that we absolutely have to! A toxic culture is awful and, yes it is that bleak, but this will force people, out of pure survival, to develop, to reject ascribed beliefs and forge their owns paths. Yes, I do believe that our culture is in a terrible place. Yes, our empire is in decline and our free market has achieved an incredible Pyrrhic victory.

I suppose I should put in a little caveat here. I am a pretty dark person. Always have been. I’ve also been told I use too many big words. This has nothing to do with being dark, but I just figured I’d mention it. Also, it’s probably important to mention that my mental filter is a bit clogged at the moment. On a large scale the state of the world is, of course, jaw-dropping. Nothing new under the sun there, per se. On my own small level, my wife, M, got a pain in her leg three years ago and it gradually spread, engulfing her entire body in tremendous pain 24 hours a day, while doctor after doctor after doctor promises cure then shrugs six months later and suggests we see if there’s someone else we’d like to go to instead, all the while I stand helplessly by. I’m teaching at a high school as part of an attempt to plunge into the train wreck of public education and be part of the solution instead of part of the problem (thus exemplifying the idea of the paradox of criticism: public education is awful [criticism], they need teachers [implication]. Guess I gotta be a teacher for a while [positive action]), and I underestimated what a formidable foe the system would be to my mind, my personal Byroniverse. Plus I think they’re going to cancel Arrested Development. Those are couple examples that are definitely coloring my view.

So, fair is fair: I’m a fairly dark person, in a fairly dark time. Guilty. Stop me before I critique again. Strap a Mickey Mouse shirt on me and send me my subscription to USA Today. But if we’re going to save our culture, our minds, our souls, we better start tearing our mores apart. And laughing. Really laughing, not just pointing fingers. I’m at a point in my life where I strongly believe in the ancient idea of a Prankster God. When things are at there worst, there often at their funniest. Our ability to laugh at our absurdities often saves us. This is an idea for another entry. But out of my darkness (I hope) comes my humor and hope and, maybe ironically, faith in others.

Bush was paying Hussein under the table? Fucking hilarious. I mean, it really, really is. People are following Bush as their moral crusader? Oh my God, the joke was funny, the tag line is even better! It’s horrible. It’s indicative of the corruption of greed and power and dynasty. It’s dark. It’s hilarious. It’s got to be remembered. It’s got to be acted on, if not now, then in the next empire, when they find themselves in this position.

Accidental 'Lighthouse = Writing' metaphor

2005-05-16T10:52:00.000-07:00

So I accidentally-on-purpose mentioned my site to a couple people, so someone would read it, but no one bit. Then I blatantly plugged it to a couple people. Nothing. Finally I resorted to actually writing the address on one of my student’s papers. Sad, yes? Thank God someone seems to have looked at it, though, because the next step might have gotten pretty desperate. T-shirts. Assignments to my students. Walking around town with a sandwich board (“The end is nigh! To learn more, log on to Once Wide World…”). Breaking into people’s houses and forcing them to read. Writing an entry using phrases like “barely legal” “free sex” and so forth, just to get a couple of Google hits.

Which I guess I just did…

Anyways.

What is it about external confirmation that is so important? I mean, why not just write on yellow legal-pads and keep them in a trunk somewhere a la Dickinson (minus the Miss Havisham/crazy aspects)? It’s not enough to write, we need someone else to see it. Yes, yes I know there are oh-so-many exceptions, Dickinson, Keats writing “Ode to a Nightingale” on a scrap and shoving it in the bookcase, and so forth. But you know that Keats was hoping someone was going to grab the poem from the bookcase and say, “Wow, John, this poem is kick-ass!” and Dickinson daydreamed about us revering her poetry exactly the way we do. Is it the inherent idea in art of connecting the human experience to one another? Or is it more basic and primitive than that? Seeking approval. That we just never outgrow wanting a pat on the head or heart chuck-on-the-shoulder from mom/the teacher/God. Maybe the two are inextricably bound.

I was at the coast this weekend, and around dusk got very maudlin and grandiose as I stared at a lighthouse. It was a gray sky, and the lighthouse seemed impossibly lonely, impossibly sad, there in the distance. This basic staple of human history – both literally and figuratively – of trying to announce through the darkness that someone else is there; that you’re not alone. That someone wants you to be safe. Lighthouses just seem to capture so much of that feeling on a very elemental level. When you sit staring at a lighthouse, especially at dusk, you get such a sudden blast of understanding just how God damn big the world is, how vast and impossible it all is. But, of course, everything with which we surround ourselves it designed to hide that fact, isn’t it? Ironically, we isolate ourselves from the world to not have to face how lonely it is. It’s only when we try to connect to others that we must face this. Writing is the attempt to connect. It being read is the connection. Hence, wanting people to read what we write. And like it. A lot. That’s always a plus.

Hm. I wasn’t even shooting for the whole ‘Lighthouse as metaphor for writing’ thing. Kind of cool. Kind of sappy.

Atomic theory

2005-05-13T10:37:00.000-07:00

What if atomic theory is correct? What if everything is comprised of atoms, molecules, etc?

If this is true, and one were able to see these particles, it would be difficult, almost impossible, to differentiate between one object and another, to see where one person ends and another begins. It would mean that we are all, literally, connected. Are all, quite literally, one entity.

If this is the case I'm going to owe some new-agers apologies. Crap.

trying to teach how to think...blind leading the blind

2005-05-11T07:37:00.000-07:00

One of my classes is a creative writing class. We’re doing a short unit right now on expanding the ability to think and create. I suspect people thought this would involve exercises like writing stories from a bowling ball’s point of view and things like that. Instead I’ve been trying to touch on the idea of shattering the way we think, to shake up the hard-wiring a bit. Squeegee the 3rd eye, as Bill Hicks used to say. The lesson is based from the examination of truth, the dissection of our own truths. Rejecting the things we’ve been taught as givens and deciding for ourselves what to think.

They’re bored out of their minds.

One of the complaints is that it doesn’t have anything to do with creative writing. That part was giving be a bit of trouble too. I knew there was a connection, but I couldn’t quite see it. I was just trusting that it was there. But, man there is nothing but nothing like people making you mad to get real clear real fast, is there?

It’s similar to this time in college I was taking a history of western art class and we got to modern art (Picasso, DuChamp, Magritte, Mondrian, Pollock, etc.), and this mouth-breathing, frat-guy vomits up the standard rant about “a six-year-old could draw that” it “doesn’t even look like anything” and “this art reminds me of my limited mental faculties, and my constant fear that others are mocking me without my realizing, therefore I will clobber all things I don’t understand.”

Wouldn’t that be great if he actually had said that last part?

So, I myself was having trouble understanding some of the concepts behind the art, but I really didn’t like this guy, so I launched into a lengthy speech that, seriously, was channeled by God or something because I sure as hell don’t know where it came from. It was a clear, complex and passionate explanation of modern art, it wasn’t just a hateful retort, code for “fuck you, troglodyte.” From that day, I have loved modern art. He’s probably long since forgotten it (and it isn’t like his eyes went wide and he said, ‘I see it now!’ at the time. I suspect he thought something more along the lines of, ‘fag.’), but I totally succeeded in convincing myself. Isn’t that weird? Not just because I love the sound of my own pontification, but because my irritation forced me to verbalize something that was slogging around the backwater slums of my brain.

Same thing in creative writing. I gave a short speech about the artist’s obligation to see life clearly – recognizing which things he sees because he’s been taught to, and to be able to recognize the filter that shapes his own perceptions. To recognize the things we’ve become blind to because they’re so commonplace we’ve come to regard them as simply the way things are. To identify truth, not as we all think it is, but as it is. Writers being the safeguards of human experience, protecting the experience against revision and manipulation. It was good stuff.

They were still bored out of their minds.

Breach of contract

2005-05-07T08:06:00.000-07:00

I was showing Supersize Me to one of my classes yesterday, and something somebody said in it got me thinking. One of the people being interviewed kept bringing up the idea of a "toxic culture" or a "toxic society." While at the outset this seems like an alarmist term, or perhaps a hyperbolic buzz-phrase, it really isn't. And the implications of this are huge.

A society has one obligation: in short, to better the quality of life for those who subscribe to it. The obligation of a society is to its individuals, rather than to itself as an entity. When the society ceases to uphold its obligation - in its structure, its laws, its expectations - the social contract is nullified. As Hobbes says in Leviathan - "You are king only so long as under kingship, my life is secure." This doesn't mean, of course, that if you're unhappy, it's society's fault. This is an unfortunate perversion of this concept. The question is what happens if you behave as society asks you to? By agreeing to uphold the law, to pay taxes, to not build a castle and stockpile it with women, jerky and guns, what happens in exchange?

Our culture right now?

If you eat the food you are expected to eat, you will get sick. You will get diabetes, you will get asthma, you will have heart trouble.

If you entertain yourself the way you are expected to, you will grow petty, dull-witted and illiterate. You will cease to be able to pay attention for more than the fifteen seconds which is the maximum allowed to pass without a "joke" on a sitcom. You will grow to adore barbarism and torture that you inflict, via your games.

If you own the items you are expected to own, you will get terribly, terribly in debt, and you will stay there for the rest of your life. Your home will become a storage facility of gadgets around which you patrol as caretaker.

If you work the jobs you are expected to work, you will never, never in you life, create something that is identifiably yours. You will never contribute anything to society that is unique or new. You will never benefit from the success of you company, only be allowed to remain in stasis. You will service the system, and then when you have fulfilled your part of the bargain, you will be thrown out.

If you admire the people you are expected to admire you will strive to be shallow, self-obsessed, mean, childish, greedy, and self-promoting.

This is the very definition of "toxic." If you ingest it, it will sicken and kill you. If you subscribe to the culture as you are expected to, it will ravage you, not force you to better yourself, to contribute, to do good things. This is a breach of contract, and it renders it null.

The question becomes this, then: If you have no obligation to the society, does this fact mean you should just look out for yourself, or does it increase your obligation to other individuals? Does it mean you shouldn't pay taxes and play spider solitaire all day, or does it mean you have to work harder to reject expectations, while fighting to rebuild a better society? Do we reject the foundations on which our society was built? Or do we try to get them back?

favorite books

2005-05-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

So, I’m filling out the little profile thing and it asks favorite books, movies, etc. Well, I just ramble on and on about my favorite books making little asides and pithy, self-deprecating remarks, and then I hit ‘submit’ and…oh, too many characters. Okay, okay, fine. I delete a bunch and then submit it and it’s this weird cluster of hyperlinks because it doesn’t want pithy remarks or why their your favorites, and so now with the punctuation rules in the profiles, it looks like one of my favorite books is called Dick; (oh.

Grrrrrrr.

I’m sure everyone else in the world knows that how those online profiles work, but sweet flaming Jesus, you don’t just ask someone for a list of their favorite books or movies and expect a concise, qualifier-free list! That’s madness! Madness! But then, I’m the one who can’t be bothered to learn to write code, right? I wanted a nice, tidy, pre-fab blog site. It’s just that I’ve had too many friends, reeking of coffee, BO and junk food, their eyes sunken from lack of sleep, saying, “Check this out! It took over 165 hours of work, but now when you click here? A Wookie shits on Osama bin Laden! Hahahahahaha!” or whatever, and somehow html just dropped on my priorities list.

Plus, I mean, seriously. When you ask for a basic, no-frills list of favorite books or movies or music, you don’t get a no-frills list of favorite books, movies, etc. You get ‘Here’s a list of books that I hope impress you, and they would be my favorites if I were as cool and smart and edgy as I almost am, and wish I were, and will be someday when I quit dorking around and, you know, self-actualize or blossom or find my focus or something. Oh God, I’m pathetic. Please love me.’

This is just the book list, too. I’m going to need a nap and an energy shake or something before I can tackle the movies. Jesus, there goes my weekend. So anyway, here’s my current list of favorite books. Obviously, this list will change frequently due to remembering others, encountering new, etc.

Smarty books: Heart of Darkness – Conrad; Moby Dick – Melville (Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me. I’m serious. I’m not trying to be pretentious. I’m not! See below for an explanation); Great Gatsby – Fitzgerald; The Book of Laughter and Forgetting – Kundera; The Palm-Wine Drinkard – Amos Tutuola (Oh, for the love of God. Do you see what I just did? That's not one of my favorite books. That book is fucked up! Insane weird! It's interesting, but I didn't even particularly like it, to say nothing of it being one of my favorites. Things Fall Apart by Nigerian novelist Chinua Achebe is one of my favorite books, but everybody's read that one, so I had to think of a really obscure African novel to try and up my cool-quotient. Oh, God I'm pathetic. Please love me.).

Books I'm reading while pretending to read those mentioned above: Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series; Lullaby – Palahniuk; America: the Book; Fast Food Nation – Schlosser; Tess Gerritsen mysteries; Sophie’s World – Gaarder; High Fidelity – Hornby. Using Blogs to Start Cults and Scam People out of Their Savings and Into Being Your Sexual Servants – Smithee.

Oh, wait. Disregard that last one.

Comics: Get Fuzzy – Darby Conley, This Modern World – Tom Tomorrow, Pearls Before Swine – Stephen Pastis, Mutts – Patrick McDonnell.

Newspapers: The Guardian; The Nation; The Onion.

Pamphlets: "Trial of the century - is Jesus really God?" (Left on windshield. Very funny stuff. I won’t spoil the verdict for you.)

Cereal boxes: Instant oatmeal packet "Dino-facts." (Disappointing and pedantic. A real step down from the ‘jokes n’ toast’ series)

Okay, the Moby Dick thing. Anyone who’s read it can tell you it’s chapters of intensity, excitement and profound thinking interspersed with stretches of astonishing dullness. Merchant and Ivory dull. Poor man’s anesthesia. But the book captures not just the insanity of vengeance, but the quest for that great, unnamable “It”. The thing we can never understand that defines us. Here is Byron’s guide for reading Moby Dick:

Obviously, an argument can be made for each chapter, like the one about species of whales. That’s the whole chapter. Melville saying, “There’s blue whales…aaaaaannnnd….Grey whales…um…whale sharks. They eat kelp…aaaanndd…”. And it’s awful and boring and, of course, incredibly outdated, but then you stop and say, “Oh the limits of our holy science! How Melville has captured the finiteness of knowledge, and the way no categorization can capture the white whale, and thus life itself! I would sit here and ponder this, except I’m feeling dizzy from beating my head on the table out of boredom!” So, at least on the first reading, read each chapter devoutly, as if the secret of life might jump out at any second, except the following: Skim chapters 23 – 25, 41, 43-47, 51 – 54. Chapters 55 – 92 you should read, but read like you kind of have to go to the bathroom, and maybe the kettle’s about to boil.
I know that’s a lot of skimming. Trust me.

First entry - the "Why"

2005-05-05T10:56:00.000-07:00

So...Why. Why this blog.

I am consistently stunned at how history repeats itself, and the way the United States seems to be mirroring the Roman Empire is amazing to me. Two empires founded on noble ideas, revolutionary in progress, unfathomable in our love of violence. The end result of our current actions and converging beliefs has been laid out before us in history, by our own cultural ancestors, no less, and repeated by us again and again through the ages. Yet here we are.

In the fifth century, Alaric and the Visigoths sacked Rome. Really, really sacked it. This is pretty much considered when the Empire ended. The proverbial doctor took off his gloves, cried “damn it!” to the heavens and called the time, throwing the shock paddles to the floor, so to speak. By the by, am I the only one who could just giggle endlessly at the mental image of an army of Goths? Anyway. Really, the empire had been falling for quite a while, but it’s far too murky for history class to get into that so, 410, Alaric hits Rome. Rome falls. Plop.

But of course, it did fall for some time. And in 380, 405, 299…there must have been those Romans who saw it coming. Not just philosophers and so forth, but just folks. People who saw that some intangible peak had been crested, and that the empire was now dying, even as outward appearances might not say so. The edge of an empire in decline. Enter: me. I guess I want a place to say how things look right now. We are on course with a terrible destiny, and I mourn this, but also am strangely excited to witness it. Obviously I’ll be going on about personal things as well, but the primary idea here is looking at the U.S. through the filter of now. Perhaps writing a letter to the future to say, “some of us see it happening.”

So, after Rome had been stomped, people come drifting back to see the remains of the city. Among them is Rutilius Namatianus. He’s mourning the end of a great city, a great era. Of his beloved Rome he says something like, “Thou has made of alien lands, one fatherland. The lawless find their gain beneath thy sway. Sharing thy laws with them, thou hast subdued them. Thou has made a city of the once wide world.”

Now, I have to insert at this point, that I’m always skeptical of these sorts of quotes. I mean, come on. He just blurted that out and somebody next to him said, “Wow, Rutilius, that was really, incredibly eloquent and poetic. I'm gonna write me that quote down”?

Or maybe the actual quote was more like, “Son of a - ! Look at our town! Motherfuckers! Aw, man Rome was great! Really great! Like, really! It was like...laws n’ shit! The whole big world was, y’know, like a, like a thing. A city. Fuck!” And then some attendant cleaned it up and wrote it down.

Actually it was probably option 3: the attendant said it, and Rutilius claimed credit. You know, like that Queen in ancient China who’s given credit for discovering silk. Right. I'm sure the queen was out there boiling caterpillars, desperate for food and they came apart to form the foundation of a durable, lightweight, sexy fabric. No. Some starving commoner did, presented the new fabric to the queen and she said, “I love it! I shall discover it! Now piss off, commoner, you smell, and your gurgling stomach is bugging me.”

What was that queen’s name? Hm. I’ll have to look that up.

Anyway.

The United States has so much grandeur, glory. Founded by philosophers. Bound by ideology instead of geography. Good stuff. Yet so dearly, utterly fucked up right now. We too, have made a city of the once wide world. The entire world exists in degrees of variation from our cultural influence at this moment. Hence, “the once wide world.” That's the Why. And that’s what I'll be writing about.

That and cracking jokes, publishing and shamelessly promoting my fiction and obsessing over minute personal problems.