Somethin' Else

Breakfast of Champions

2009-03-09T00:06:00.002-06:00

This week's Economist shared some figures on obesity in West Virginia in light of a discussion of health care reform. Among the figures is that in one metro area, 77% of adults are overweight and 46% are clinically obesce.

Personally, I find those figures to be among the most depressing and demoralizing I can find in the news today. Yes, our economic woes are regrettable, and yes, in many cases economic strain goes hand in hand with poor health, but I think we'd do well to start with our bodies and worry about our banks afterword.

I'm no health-nut, and my freezer looks a lot like Tony Hseih's, but I'd feel awfully bad about myself if I didn't feel more fit than most folks around me. Sure, it's all relative and too-easily sated by the plumetting health-standards around me, but at least we're better than most.

When asked why they buy (and eat)such huge amounts of lard, West Virginians simply respond that "we always have", yet West Virginians havn't always been fat. Working in coal mines 12 hours a day doesn't leave time for getting fat (just getting emphazima).

Kurt Vonnegut dogs on West Virginia in Breakfast of Champions, which, coincidently, I just finished. I wasn't remarkably impressed or enthralled. I've read only limited Vonnegut, and none recently, but it struck me as heavy-handed and self-indulgent. It rings of a wildly-liked only because of it's author's existing fame. As a stand-along work...I'm unimpressed, though I won't pretend to have considered it too deeply. It just didn't seem to warrant it.

Code Complete is actually looking quite a lot more promising...and part II of Don Quixote may be on the way.

hard facts, bad resumes

2009-03-02T21:20:00.005-07:00

The story goes that a resume should show results. Words ending with 'ed' are supposed to be good: ...saved, completed, increased, launched...

Figures, too, are to be applied liberally: ...300,000 dollars, 100% of projects, sales by 30%, 6 new products...

Doing so is meant to indicate real value, real productivity, and real accomplishment. Humor me while I share my alternative: the gerunds and sunflowers approach.

Use -ing words only: ...Planning, Teaching, Writing, Managing...

Sprinkle with whatever toppings go with them: ...for expansion, good decision-making, user-stories, during transition...

For example...

Say I were hiring an investment portfolio manager last summer for a bazillion-dollars stuffed under my mattress: Those submitting resume's of the -ed type would show me how much they earned, how their assets were valued, and whether their portfolios had increased during their tenure. And lo and behold, the marketplace would be rife with well-qualified candidates.

And, had I choosen one of them, and let them excercise their proven talents on my previously safe money-bags, I'd have lost a great deal of cash in the time since. What did all their -ed words mean? Doodley-squat.

But what if I had choosen an odd apple from the bunch, the one wall-street whacko who put forcasting, advising, and modeling on a resume?

I'd have kept my money under the matress, and had my own weather forecaster to advise me what to wear each day while wearing alluring outfits!

The point is....

1) Accomplishing stuff means doodly-squat unless you can articulate how you accomplished it.

(If you can't articulate it, how are you going to do it again?)

2) Articulating how you did something requires gerunds.

(I wrote this by writing without properly planning)

Disruptive Technologies

2009-02-01T20:57:00.003-07:00

Today was all about disruptive technologies. Not the Clayton Christensen kind. Rather, literal gadgets and gizmos (technologies) that distracted (disrupted) me from whatever I was "supposed" to be doing today (in this case, watching the Superbowl, which I failed to do). Instead of joining my fellow Yankee's in watching football today, I mussed about and "achieved" the following:

1. I twittered. Or tweeted. Whatever you call it--I'm there.

2. I did some scripting to solve some trivial problems.

3. I read some software development blogs, including this one, which lead me to this post which I trumpet as a defense of my pseudo-coding approach to "software"

4. I futzed with my iphone, most disruptive of all technologies (in every sense).

5. I authored a blog post.

Tomorrow, I may use my favorite browser to suss out how I might use my iphone to compose and post blog entries and auto-tweet the posts. If you know how to do that, twitter me, so I have more than one follower.

Why I can't vote for Obama

2008-03-19T21:04:00.004-06:00

I must confess, Mr. Obama, that you have eroded my already-waning faith in the American political system.

Did I rise to give you a standing ovation after watching your address at the 2004 Democratic national convention? Yes. Did I leap to my feet mid-way through your most recent debate with Senator Clinton to declare game over in your favor? I did. Did I get misty-eyed during more than one episode of your recent address in Philadelphia? Absolutely. But now, with the afterglow gone, do I feel as disenchanted with the politics of my country as at any point in the Bush years? More so.

You see, Mr. Obama, you are much better than they are, and that's why I can't get behind your campaign. You speak with so much more gravitas than our politicians; you inspire so much more empathy than our pundits. Your speeches inspire us to re-consider our perspectives, our prejudices, and our politics. For that reason, you are good for America and good for the world, but you are not good for politics. You've mixing your art with your agenda, and it risks fanning the flames on growing executive liberties and special-interest allegiances (among the criticisms your supporters have made of the Bush administration).

Your defense of America against the defeatists who say is irreparably a nation of racism and unequal opportunity crescendos in your passionate declaration of your own widespread political success as proof that America is slowly overcoming its bigotrous history, and I, with two-million other YouTube viewers felt your energy and your message. We were there with you, we felt your sentiment, we felt the pride that accompanies the acknowledgment of atrocity, and it was great, but you perverted the message and sullied our moment. You cannot deliver that message from that pulpit, Barrack. You cannot evidence the progress of our people with your political success and then ask for our vote! You have put us in an uncomfortable position, and it ruins your too-important message.

You dismiss the those who claim you're capitalizing on white voters who support you to cheaply pay off the weight of their debt to minorities (and I want to dismiss them, too, Barack, I do) but you're handing out the forgiveness notes. You have told them that their support signals the healing of America and in the same breath, asked for more support. Your decision to exploit a parallel between the racial health of America and the health of your own campaign will no doubt prove an effective one, but is no less regrettable than the politics of hate and fear you so often criticize--no matter how much more eloquently delivered.

You, too, are attempting to trick us, Mr. Obama. You are doing so no more than anyone else in politics or in the media, and you are doing a supremely more artful job of it, but you--like them--are soliciting from me my money, my attention, and my vote.

I will read your books, I will listen to your speeches, I will think about and discuss your ideas, and I will let your stories turn my emotions, but if you want that part of me, you cannot have my vote. You can drive my politics, you can drive my philosophy, and you can move my heart, or you can have my vote and execute my own ideas, but you can't have both.

2006-11-06T23:38:00.000-07:00

Is SportsCenter the best-written and most well-executed News program on Television?

Signs point to yes.

Let loose

2006-11-01T22:09:00.000-07:00

Like the arrow from the bow, ideas are things drawn taught against reality and let loose in a single release, and it is this moment--man's letting go of the arrow with such care and grace that the bow's rigidity and arrows trueness are coupled in flight--that is art.

Car trouble

2006-05-22T09:27:00.000-06:00

So.....I meant to write, but I got stuck in Bozeman, Montana when my car broke down. I changed my fuel filter by flashlight in the wall-mart parking lot, but sadly, that did not get it started again. I am currently still in bozeman, at a coffeeshop with a computer. My flight to europe leaves wednesday morning. my car is in the shop. They are "really busy". I gave them my sob story. They said they would do their best. I believe them. The girl who checked me into my hotel room wants me. Lonely, dejected, and covered in gasoline and motor oil, i briefly thought maybe i wanted her....then decided, wisely, against it. I got gasoline all over my cell phone--and now the microphone doesnt work. I can hear the world crystal clear...but to them...I broadcast nothing but silence. I lost my credit card. And then found it in the hands of an autoparts store employee who laughed mockingly at my misfortune. I discovered that if I use my hands-free headset for my cell phone, people can hear me. Unfortunately, I've also discovered that using a hands-free handset for my cell phone while walking around Bozeman Montana is an invitation to have my ass kicked. So, all I'm saying, is that I would have written sooner, if the oldsmobile hadn't had to stop to take a monstroshit. Sweet mother mary, it's time for a fucking newsmobile.

distractions

2006-05-07T11:55:00.000-06:00

And then there was always the remote possibility that she had managed to touch a part of me that I kept hidden from everyone, even myself. It was a part of me that wanted to stop thinking, to stop searching, to stop worrying about what everyone thought of me and just let go and be comfortable and free and in the moment, the way I felt surfing that big wave in Malibu.

The problem is, once you feel that you can’t go back to the way you were before, and when it’s gone there’s a big hole where before, there wasn’t much of anything. At that point, everything else is just you looking for a distraction.

The number one...

2006-04-30T21:14:00.000-06:00

...sign you haven't blogged in a while: not remembering your Blogger.com password or username.
...reason to go out to lunch with your ex: because dining with someone so shockingly pretty and viciously charming rarely permits splitting the tab--today it meant splitting the tab AND snagging all the leftovers. Score.
...pop artist of all time: Stevie Wonder. Duh.
...reason to let ladies go first: because they might reply, "Maybe next time, I'll let you go first."
...reason to spend all of your savings on a two-month travel escapade: because of this quote, which will undoubtedly lose its magic and charm put in this context, but which still merits a good deal of consideration: So with any book on mountain ski-ing, sexual intercourse, wing shooting or any other thing which it is impossible to make come true on paper...it being always an individual experience, there comes a place in the guide book where you must say do not come back until you have ski-ed, had sexual interourse, shot quail or grouse, or been to the bulfight so that you will know what we are talking about (Hemingway, DIA).
...reason to bike to work: the hot bike messenger chick isn't gonna be able to check out your ass when you roll by if it's stuck in a bucket seat.
...tear inducing song of the moment: Album of the Year, by the Good Life--gets me every time.
...reason to clean something: because it smells.
...reason to go to Great Clips: coupons.
...reason not to go to Great Clips: my hair.
...tear inducing song of the moment: Album of the Year, by the Good Life--gets me every time.
...movie waiting in my Netflix cue: The West Wing: Season 1, Disc 3.
...thing lost in the past six months and regained in the past 24 hours: the unbelievably cocky certainty that I am smarter than nearly everyone.

Oprah! and...more James Frey

2006-01-11T21:17:00.000-07:00

So here I am, contemplating writing a new post to go along with the new beer I just opened and lo and behold, I have comments. Good comments too, check em' out. While I don't necessily agree with all of them entirely, I think each is well-put in its own way, and, to be sure, each has a valid point and one that certainly bears more weight than the fruitless cries of "fraud" and "liar."

Moreover, not only do I have comments, but the successblog has hits. O glorious day, a readership cometh upon me and wash over me and it was good. Well, that bit of nonsense should do an adequate job of driving them away, but really, all of this has a point--wait for it.

So I'm sitting here, sorta diggin' the fact that people have read my shit, and have even thought it was stimulating enough to warrent commenting on, and they are coming to my site via means other than those damn image searches (I've given up on images--I'm too lazy), and I think to myself: Self, you might as well go ahead and write yet another damn post about this David Frey character, and be sure to throw in the title of that book of his--A Million Little Pieces--and oh, this is important, put his name in the title, but maybe with something else...something real big, real important, that people will search for! Yea, just do that, and people wll flock, and it will really be a hoot.

I considered this, and I reasoned that yes, this would likely get me more readers than my alternative subject: why the "spiral" mac & cheese sucks. But self, I said, wouldn't that be sort of unauthentic and dishonest? Just doing something to get more readers? I mean, wouldn't that be sort of "cheap"?

(At this point, I run into a couple of problems: one, both of my selve's are, nonsensically, using the same italic font; and two, my aside's clearly cannot be yet a third voice in italics, and thus, again nonsensically must be in parethesis. Post degrading, readers leaving. I retrieve new beer as attempted remedy)

Cheap? No. Cheapness can only be a product of the product--not the marketing scheme. I mean, sure, skeezy marketing can make a product seem cheap, but that doesn't mean it is. So the only thing that can make thesuccessblog cheap is thesuccessblog--not the fact that you may or may not title your posts with the sole purpose of attracting readers.

Huh. Ok.

So I did. I name-dropped James Frey, I name dropped Oprah, and I did it all for the sake of fucking publicity. My question is this: does the quality of this post depend upon that fact? Or does it simply depend on how you react to what I've written, and whether or not it has impact.

I can't answer; I'm not you. And, to be completely honest, I can't say with any confidence that Frey's book is worth defending--I haven't read it. When I do though, I really just couldn't give a flying fuck whether what happens in the book happened in the "real world." The only thing that can make his story real is how he tells it, and the only thing that can make it fake--is the same.

As for Oprah--I can't stand her damn TV program, but the woman has influence. And where she stands on this issue is huge. Just like it is with every issue upon which she takes a stand. As far as I know, the only comments she has made since the fraud nonsense were made over the phone before the Larry King Live show tonight. Here is a report--I think her words are fairly on target. I hope she sticks to her guns.

Offering a refund is stupid and silly.

More on James Frey

2006-01-11T12:36:00.000-07:00

I came across this comment on another site discussing this whole James Frey, JT Leroy business. I side with the author of the site, but thought that the commenter's comment was worth considering:

"American literature -- considered an oxymoron in the rest of the world -- has gone downhill fast since New York surrendered America's storytelling standards to Hollywood, where illusion -- EVEN IN TRUE STORIES -- is exactly the point. Today, the "perfect" story is determined by its film-worthiness more than its literary quality. In the name of creating Californicated literature, New York editors have blurred the line until even they don't know what's true. "It's a good story," they'll say, "so who cares if it's an utter and ballsy lie?"I care. Capote admitted on the bookjacket that "In Cold Blood" was fictionalized in some part. Coleridge's definition of fiction was "the willing suspension of disbelief." What if it's not willing? That's the difference between making love and rape, albeit without either the exhilaration or violence. If you thought you were reading a true story, you were conned. What if we found out next week that the famous Zapruder film was, in fact, a Hollywood dramatization passed off as a hyper-realistic eyewitness home-movie and you shoulda seen the look on your face and, oh, isn't it funny how we fooled you??This is the literary equivalent of Reality TV. They tell you what you're seeing is real, but it's not real at all. It's simulated reality, edited into convenient 30-minute bytes ... and we eat it up.In America today, we live with too much fiction posing as fact. Blogs, books, politics, TV, videogaming, movies -- and some would say, even the news -- thrive on it. But it's not art to swear you're telling the truth and then fib. That's just common lying. The artful trick is to tell me you're lying and make me believe every word is true."

Well Ron, I agree, it's too bad that people have to call good autobiographical fiction a "memoir" in order to sell. But, don't blame Frey for it. In today's world of cutthroat publishing and look-alike movies (and books), the only way to publish is to serve what's being eaten--and right now, that’s memoirs. The lines between literary genres are endlessly fuzzy and eternally shifting--surely there is nary a memoir out there that doesn't skew a few "truths"--even if it unintentionally so. Does this make them no longer memoirs? Do books need “truth” disclaimers? Does the bible? Does it really matter if they are "true" or not?

I say no to all three.

Accusing memoir authors of giving bad facts is somewhat akin to the accusing John Stewart if being a “soft” journalist. Neither is exactly false, but both are horribly tangential. John Stewart is not a journalist, and David Frey is not out to provide a documented account of their lives for some vastly important legal purpose. Their artists--let them paint.

A Million Little Pinheads

2006-01-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

Holy shit, this is big. People are aboslutely going ape over James Frey's book not necessarily being "true." I had no idea it was this big a deal. But it is. My own mother had this to say,

"I heard about the "author" guy on t.v. this morning - what a travesty! Peole are too guillible, just like believeing everything they hear on t.v., the web, from the gov., etc. and people like this disgusting guy are pathetic - he should be made to give all his proceeds from the book to charity!"

Mom, you know I love you, you are wrong. Simple as that. Let me go ahead and rephrase what you (and a shockingly large number of goony readers and journalists) just said, so that we might see exactly how absurd and counterproductive it is:

I heard about that guy who wrote a best-selling book about drug addiction and his journey to overcome it on TV this morning. What a travesty that so many people read and were inspired by his narration! In order for people to have enjoyed his book and to have benefited from it in a healthy way, they must have "believed" it! When actually, as it turns out, it may not have even been true!!! He wrote a book that wasn't completely true, and people read it, and loved it, and were helped by it! The Horror, the horror! People are stupid to "believe" the things they read and learn from them and enjoy them. And people like this guy, who write books that aren't complete factual, disgusting people like Hemingway and Kerouak, and really, all authors of fiction or literature, are pathetic - he should be made to give all his proceeds from the book to charity!"

Please, forgive me my exaggeration of her words. And of course, be aware, don't be mistaken--this last one here, though it is in quotes, because it is my mother saying it, was not actually said by my mother. The one she "actualy" said is up above, not italicized. In my opinion, the latter, however, is far, far, truer.

But, of course, you are right. It's a dirty, cheap, disgusting lie. So fucking shoot me.

To understate myself, I am motherfucking outraged at this. I am trying desperately to become an Oprah member so I can gain access to her site and see what she and her readers are saying about this. There will clearly be a good many who are mad because what they read wasn't "true." I hope to god that there will be some, Oprah included, who can find the words to explain to the masses that literature isn't about facts, it's about feelings. And that authenticity is about actuality, its about honesty. And nothing will ever be more honest than a true fiction.

Of James Frey: Verisimilitude, and the Stupid People Who Care About It

2006-01-10T11:05:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, KM was jabbering on about wanting to read James Frey's A Million Little Pieces, though he would rather avoid the Oprah sticker. Today, I came across this article in the NYT. To summarize both, if you are too lazy to take a gander at them yourself:

A guy wrote a book based on his struggle with drugs, etc. Didn’t know whether to publish it as an novel (in the vien of Hemingway, Henry Miller and Jack Kerouac) or as a memoir (in the vein of every other sucker who has published a book in the last couple of years). The publisher chose the latter. Oprah told people to read it—her pick for “non-fiction.” People read it. Now people have started coming out with stuff demonstrating that it’s not entirely true. Some things exaggerated and such. People are mad. They think he is a liar, and Oprah is a liar too.

I have no particular desire to read the book, at least not right now. Nevertheless, I am upset about two things with regard to this escapade.

a) I am upset that people care whether what they read is true or not. I am reminded when, upon going in to talk to DB about Greek tragedy one day, he made a comment about how frustrated he was when students care about "verisimilitude" in art--as if whether something could have "really" happened mattered a wit to anyone. It clearly did not. Nor, I believe, should whether or not the things in this guys book happened matter to the jillion Oprah lemmings and Memoir gulpers. That said, I am also upset about:

b) The fact that the "memoir" craze is so huge right now that this guy was essentially forced to publish his “autobiographical” novel as a “memoir,” so it would sell. To be fair, it shouldn’t matter what he publishes it as, but, for the sake of avoiding shit like this, it should have been published as a novel, so people’s claims that he is a liar would truly sound as ridiculous as they are.

I am upset at the publisher for doing otherwise, but not as upset as I am at people for needing nonfiction--for somehow thinking that a story is better if it is true. That is just plain stupid. It’s the same stupid nearsightedness that so many people get when they read the Bible. They think the Goddamn Bible needs to be true. The Bible! The most influential work of literature in the world! And they get their panties in a bunch if you stop talking about it’s verisimilitude. If you tell them that no, God did not make the earth in an extended work-week. This is what they get upset over. They cling to the completely nonsensical fantasy that it is somehow “better” if it is “true” when, surely, the whole mother fucking point of storytelling is that the artist’s creation, their invention, is far truer, far better, and purer, and, for many, far closer to god, than anything “real” that might happen. What is “true” in a factual, historical sense is irrelevant. All that matters is whether it is true in an intangible sense—whether it captures true emotion and real beauty.

There is a section of my Hemingway table-weight in which I take issue with a guy who claims that The Old Man and the Sea could not have happened--that it was "physically impossible." He is, without question, the dumbest literary critic in history and he is helping no one’s cause.

Anyhow, I think this is an important article for understanding a huge problem in our literary (and otherwise) society.

Clearly,

2006-01-08T20:07:00.000-07:00

the hardest thing to do, by far, is to do nothing. And I, for one, believe that the situation sucks.

I've changed my mind

2006-01-06T13:38:00.000-07:00

Only yesterday I was singing the high praises of f-er's blog, JiVE. I have now changed my mind. I would like to rescend the following comments:

1. "It really ought not be termed a blog at all--its more like a one-man mcsweeny's but with greater eclecticity."

It is true that some entries are indeed markedly un-blog-like, but others, regretfully at times, are. It is primarily for this reason--the "blogness" of the thing--that I have decided throttle back my praise.

2. "It's just bloody brilliant."

Brillant, yes. Bloody brillant, no.

3. "Possibly the only thing of merit at thesuccessblog is the little link that has lingered for some time on the right-hand side of my page pointing a lucky reader to JiVE."

A simple consultation of my hand site-meter reveals that this is clearly not the case. While it is still of my personal opinion that the link to JiVE is indeed meritable, the facts of my visitorship plainly demonstrate that, by far, the greatest merits of the site are its photo's which, evidently, turn up in google image searches--yielding the vast majority of my hits. This truth would give me greater consolation if the images were at all mine. If I had taken them, for example, or even gotten them from people who had taken them, or, even, simply had them, for whatever reason, on my own computer. But alas, I cannot claim such agency. They are all stolen from the web, primarily found by using google image searches, and simply linked to via blogger, so that I am not even hosting them. This is the reason why so many images are no longer visable in old posts. When the true "hosts" of these images move on to bigger and better things, my dishonest reflection of them dissapears as well. I think I will now go weep myself to sleep.

In the bathroom.

At the office.

Sitting in the handicap stall.

The Life of Pi is still good. No corrections needed.

Some good reading

2006-01-05T15:36:00.000-07:00

After a long dormancy, my latest posts have been rants of increasing length and, arguably, decreasing worth. As such, I will take this opportunity so simply direct you to a couple of things that, I assure you, will legitamately good reading.

1 - The Life of Pi, Yann Martel

I just finished this during my lunch break, and I must say, I wholly enjoyed myself. Not since AHWSG have I so thoroughly enjoyed reading a book. Admittedly, I haven't read a great number of books between the two, but nonetheless, it is quite wonderful, and I reccomend it.

2 - JiVE, f-er

Possibly the only thing of merit at thesuccessblog is the little link that has lingered for some time on the right-hand side of my page pointing a lucky reader to JiVE. I don't read it much myself, but after having read a few posts today, I really have no clue why on earth I haven't been reading religiously. It is by so far the best, most entertaining, most engaging, and best written blog I've gandered at, that it puts all else to shame. It really ought not be termed a blog at all--its more like a one-man mcsweeny's but with greater eclecticity. I can't really describe it. It's just bloody brilliant. I wonder how many readers it has. It seems a likely candidate for a blog that, without fanfare, might have managed to build a somewhat dedicated following of strangers by simply being good. Then again, blog-readers are a finicky bunch, and sometimes, good writing gets people nowhere. In any case, if you read one thing online today--read some stuff from this.

f-er, what you up to, kid? shouldnt you be writing a book or something?

A question...

2006-01-03T17:28:00.000-07:00

A friend of a friend posed the following question:

"where does reading really get you, in the long run? Because I'm on the verge of finishing something like three books in a week, and I don't know if I'm at all a better person for it (true, it's two Stephen King books and the aforementioned Chuck Klosterman book, but they're still books and I still read them, so their questionable literary merit shouldn't be an issue)."

The following is my answer:

This question could be answered in a number of ways.

1. The "Literacy as pantamount to human progress" front
One could easily make the argument--and, in my opinion, be damn correct in making it--that literacy is one of only a few things that have led to homo sapiens ever progressing past caveman-dom. Being able to document knowledge, so it doesnt have to be relearned each time, is crucial to social "progress". Clearly, telling verbal stories is a start, and necessary, but once we could write all the shit we knew down, well, it just made learning whole lot easier. Imagine if everyone who learned how to use the quadratic formula had to figure it out for themselves, or if you had to try keep all of the laws of your community in your head. Certainly, on a small level, its fine. But you wouldnt get the booming civilization we have stumbled upon. Whether our "booming civilization" is better than one without literacy an entirely different question, but does make this justification of literacy a somewhat unconvincing one, depending upon your perspective on "civilization". Nevertheless, if you are pro-literacy, then you should be pro-reading. Man's ability to document information and then unerstand the information from its documented form is crucial to keep the information ball rolling. The problem with this, of course, is that writing may not be the most efficient, and is certainly not the only, way to document things anymore. Back in the day, you either wrote it down, or remembered it, or lost it forever till someone else figured it out. Now, we can take a picture of it, record our narration of it, shit, make a fucking video of it even. Thus, we dont necessarily need to be able to read and write. Communicate, yes. Read and write, no. Thus, this argument has some holes. But one could make it.

2. The "it will make you smarter" front
This is somewhat similar to the above argument, though I think it could also be made on the scale of the individual. Not only does literacy make a community, or even a species smarter, it also can make an individual smarter. We all want our kid to be the first in their class to read, right? Why? Because it means they are smart and will continue to get smarter and then they will beat the pants off the other kids and go to ivy league schools and make bank and we can out pretend lives through them, making them achieve all the goals we never achieved. Right. Anyway, reading prolly does make kids smarter. But, school smarts might be overrated. After all, reading may make kids do better on tests, but arent those tests just measuring how good they are at reading? Does that make them any better at life? Maybe, maybe not.

I would like to suggest that one reason reading is important developmentally is that while the "information" garnered through reading could also, as mentioned above, be obtained via video, audio, etc..., reading text alone develops a slightly different skill set. For one, it promotes a wildly more sophisticated and careful langauge than if we simply talked. Written word becomes much more complicated and nuanced and varied than spoken word. In itself, this might not be so great, but insofar as it broadens our ability to think about abstract ideas, it might. Showing a picture of peace isnt too easy. Of course, neither is writing a sentence about it. And to be sure, one could find a pretty good picture of peace, or a movie of peace, as soon as one could find a good book of peace. Nevertheless, writing gives us a greater vocabulary, particularily for abstract ideas. And it has been demonstrated that vocaublary directly affects and is effected by our thinking. If we lose certain words, words for which we might not easily retain pictures or movies, we might lose not just those words, but those ideas. What if we lost the word repudiate? Maybe it wouldnt make much difference. But it might. Moreover, movies dont leave nearly as much room for visual imagination. Will people continue to come up with creative "new" images if we only communicate via these images? Maybe. Verbal storytelling will help. But, if not, we run the risk of becoming a hollywood society, generating nothing more than imitations of what we already produce.

3 The "anything to help foster the production of good art" front

I'm not sure this would be as common an argument, but I believe it is the best. It rests, however, on a single principal. A presuppositional belief, if you will: Art has intrinsic worth. If you do not believe this, then this argument will be a tough sell. But, if you can jump on board with my claim that art--including literature, painting, theater, movies, pictures, you name it, my definitions are broad--has merit, all on its own, without needing to do anything, then I think that this is why reading is important and where "reading gets you".

For four years, I studied English Literature in college. I read books. We talked about them. I wrote papers on them. I tried to learn how the authors made the books. What made them good. How the authors made the books good. Ideally, I think I want to go to more school, and continue to study the same stuff--eventually doing nothing more than writing more papers about books and authors and the construction of books by authors and teaching all of that nonsense to more students very much like me. One could easily say that the whole enterprise is useless. What possible benefit could come of this. Essentially, it is a self-contained circle. I study only to teach, I will teach students who will eventually simply take my place as teachers. The connection of this process to the creation of art, which I have already simply accepted on faith as intrinsically valuable seems suspect. I do not create art. I have no intention of creating art. I simply read it, comment on it, and pass it along. One could argue that the act of "being exposed to art" is also uniquely and intrinsically valuable--that not only is the art itself important, but the appreciation of the art is important. Thus, by reading and "appreciating" and teaching others to appreciate the art, we are performing another intrinsically "good" task.

I think that is bullshit. I do not think there is any self-contained "goodness" in appreciating a piece of art. Any reader who thinks he is being great by reading a great book is hopelessly delusional. By simply reading and appreciating, he is doing no greater good than stroking his own ego, which, in my opinion, isnt to be regarded as good at all--not that its not sometimes fun.

The point is, looking at a great painting is not something anyone should be proud of. That the painting exists, however, I believe, is a good thing. All on its own. It is a creation of beauty and craft and simply by being, is good. But where does reading fit it? I have defended the artist, but what about the critic? Well, here we must accept another proposition--that the critic is of benefit to the artist. This may be a reach, and there are surely some who disagree, but I am of the opinion that all, or nearly all of the great artists of history have built their art, in part (not in full, in part only, but an important part) on the work of other artists and on the work of critics of those other artists and of themselves. Art theory--on paining, literature, film, whatever--really just boils down to a big manual for artists. Artists certainly dont necessarily use it as such, but it is a body of knowledge, a group of thoughtful viewers who, by carefully viewing and discussing and documenting what they find, reveal much of what is working behind a work of art. They will never reveal it all (if they did it would be a foul thing anyway because someone could simply do the same thing again, and we would end up with hollywood life, again) but they reveal parts, and these parts find their way into other artists' work--somtimes directly, because those other artists read the critics work and try to emulate, or sometimes becuase subconciously, artists simply borrow from other artists. one could argue that this process of artists borrowing from other artists is all that is necessary--that the critics could be done away with. In part, i disagree. Not all writers are the best readers, just as not all readers are the best writers. The critics thus ensure that a better job is done of delving into the artowrk (which is not to say they dont fuck up a lot, royally) and also perform some level of separating the wheat from the chaffe (again, fuck ups galore, but hopefully, fewer fuckups than accuracies). Yes, separating the wheat from the chaffe when it comes to art could be seen as entirely subjective, but having so many critics out their with different tastes may help to smooth those subjectivities out, and, ultimately, I do not believe it is entirely subjective. Certain works of art are simply outrageously beautiful. If we can figure out why that is, even in part, we can produce more of them, and producing such things may be just about the best thing humanity can do. Everything else, it seems to me, is just survival. The very frivolusness of art--the complete unneccessity of it--is what makes it, for me, of the highest importance. And it is where reading will get you, if, you chose to be the critic. Not professionally necessarily, but simply in a way that you think about a work of art and somehow document your thoughts, even if only in words to a friend. Those opinions, the constant evaluation of that art, will, eventually, find its way into an artist, and then to paper, or film, or whatever, and maybe, just maybe it will be great. And if so, though it is of the smallest chance, then the reader who happened to comment intelligently on somthing to their nephew who told his friend who wrote the greatest novel of his generation will have been part of something truly extroidinary, and will have fullfilled a role in the highest endeavor of mankind.

Alternatively, of course, he could take away something from a great work--such as in number 2 above--an idea of world peace, or of social equity, or of environmental activism, or of being great in bed--and, via his own self-improvement at the hand of the book, will have achived something smaller, but still imporant (practically imporant, even, unlike "art").

Either way, it probably does matter what is being read. But no one can say for sure what should and should not be read, or what reading will eventually prove to be beneficial. But ultimately, it's art. If art matters, reading matters. If art doesnt matter, well, what does?

The Analogy of Water

2006-01-03T13:10:00.000-07:00

Tall tree, I like analogies. You, among other people, know this. You, also among other people, think I have, at times, taken analogies too far—so that they become forced, or fake. You, again among others, know that this does not bother me. You, however, unlike the others whom in this knowledge you are among, have an interesting name, and as such, make a lovely beginning my disclosure of an analogy: the analogy of water.

I have decided that we (people, in general I suppose, perhaps living things, but for now, just people) are water. Pieces of water. Molecules, if you prefer, but I like to think in bigger parts, so for me, we are all little globs of water, not unlike the bubbles of water hanging in mid-air you may have seen astronauts gulping down in zero gravity. Like that.

Life, of course, is nothing more than our journey downhill. So, in that, we are unlike the water bubbles the astronauts gulp. We behave more like general old gravity-grabbed water—and go downhill.

Of course, we all start in different places, and surely, some people may start atop higher mountains, frozen in higher snowpack, rained down upon mightier peaks than others, and certainly, each takes his own path downward. That said, our journey is seldom entirely solitary. Tiny drops of water, if left all alone, are terribly fragile. They tend get absorbed, drunk, or evaporated. A tragic death to be sure, evaporation.

Thus, we cluster together. Gravity helps this. We are directed to tiny glacial runoffs, tiny tributaries no larger than a large man’s fingers, or a child’s arms. In these families we thus gather, and as one larger (albeit still small, nuclear) unit we continue our journey downhill. Some may stay like this for quite some time, others will soon find larger streams. By now you can surely gather how my analogy is progressing. There is little reason to enunciate these details further. From runoff to mountain stream, from mountain stream to babbling brook, to thundering rapids and lazy river and into lakes and over dams and through cities and over waterfalls, and finally, to the ocean.

Of this final end—our dumpage into a single massive body made up entirely of our worldwide brethren who have, in the hundreds, thousands, (millions, even!), of years before us have been themselves delivered into that receptacle for lives already lived and waters already flowed—one might be inclined to draw some holy conclusion of global spirituality and worldwide community and unity.

I, for now, only note that for my purposes, our dumpage is little more than that—an end. I will instead concern myself with the route of our journey.

We have already discussed the great variety that it is to be had among the our various watery peers. Though many may at times find themselves flowing in unison, surely no two will follow exactly the same path. And do you remember our favorite onscreen wiseguy? Could it be any other than Malcom? The (amazingly) only one who seemed tantamount concerned by the prospect of visiting an island inhabited by dinosaurs? How could we forget his explanation of “Chaos Theory”? Surely, we could not. And as the water, by no more direction than that of chance, finds its way down Malcom’s hand, so too do we journey from the peak’s of God’s knuckles on earth through the valleys between his fingers and into the sea of his palm.

(Forgive me that spiritual episode—my admiration for Malcom is overdone—he may be a somewhat of a nerd’s pimp, but he is most certainly not a Godly pimp). My point, devoid the overdose of divinity, is simply that our journey’s are, to a great extent, left to chance.

Of course, we must follow the contours of the earth and adhear to the confines of gravity, but along the way we may easily splish and splash to a million different locations and find ourselves suddenly streaming along new routes and between new rocks, floating new boats.

Disturbingly, my analogy has become overly nihilistic. Thus, I will now add agency.

Unlike water (or perhaps like it, who am I to say?) we have agency over our flowing! Not a lot, mind you. There are many things we simply cannot do. But, as the trout swim upstream each spring to nest, so too may we, if only for a moment, and if only at a few points along our journey, flow upstream with them! Perhaps, with great struggle, we can flow ourselves into the mouth of one of these against-the-current swimmers’ mouths and are then whisked away into a different tiny tributary, toward a different dam. Or perhaps during a tumultuous tumble down a waterfall, we flap our watery wings with all our might and float out of the mainstream and into tiny crevice that most will never even see but which will take us places beyond the reach of the general ebb and flow and mighty river.

This mighty leap, however, must come with great risks. Any miscalculation, and chance wind rising from the north, might blow us off course, or worse yet, a warm wind from the south, if dry enough, and if we are small enough, might simply evaporate us right there on the spot, before we hit bottom. And that, of course, would be the end.

More often, these daredevils, these few who refuse to go with the flow, will simply be blown back into the thick of things, to reunite with their slightly more boring brothers and sisters, their slightly more cowardly companions. Or, perhaps they will succeed in establishing themselves in some new drainage, only to be returned, after a mile or so, into the river’s main artery. It is difficult to leave the beaten path, and even when one does, all paths must flow downhill, and at the end of every hill is the ocean.

Except for the dead sea. Which, I believe, is lower than the ocean. I will let someone else elaborate on that.

But all other roads lead to the ocean! All other streams to the sea! Of course, it is possible to not get to the sea. At least, on your first trip. All of the dangers above noted might prohibit our journey. Fortunately, all ends will eventually put us back in position to reach our end. We will be rained down anew upon a new mountain top in a new range and start our journey again.

It is true, I suppose, that the same holds true for those who reach the ocean. The oceanic end, is, of course, no end at all. We learned of the cycle of water in elementary school. I am surprised how many people forget about this. Many claim that we do not teach our children about god. They claim that this is bad. I agree that it is bad for us not to teach our children of god. I protest when they say that we do not already.

fiscally fucked

2005-12-16T16:51:00.000-07:00

Yup, that's me. I decided to pull the trigger on a 171 'Gun, and now I'm pretty solidly ass-broke--just in time for Christmas. I've run the tallies, and if I can make it till next thursday without buying any more food. Or any more anything, really, I will have just shy of 20 dollars to spend on christmas presents. Thus, some financial planning is in order. Here's what I'm thinking for gifts:

GIRLFRIEND -- Booty is a bull market, and demand is high. Irritatingly, no matter how much I buy, I am NEVER the seller, and rising prices are nothing but trouble. As such, an unwarrented portion of my gift-giving capitol will be absorbed by this veritable money pit of love. Fortunately, I have a few tricks:

1. One gift already purchased--on sale--paid for and recieved. CHA-CHING $$$ Cost=FREE!
2. Her Birthday was less than a month ago, which, though a contributing factor to my current economic strain, also lighten's my Christmasy burden, thus, it's like one of the presents I gave her for her BDay was really like an early Christmas present. CHA-CHING $$$ Cost=Free! .....my logic here is right.....right?
3. Ok, so its gonna take more than I've already got. Fortunately, I've got something picked out. Brilliant. Price=$25 Not brilliant. About $20 - About $25 = About broke. except not about. Broke. More than broke, in fact.

Fuck.

Wait! My slack-ass roommante owes me money! Lots of it! Hundreds and Hundreds and hundreds! ....but he's broke too. With some arm-twisting, however, and yelling, I can get $50. More than broke + $50 = about $50(almost).

4. Um, I still need something else for the money-pit, but since I don't know what else to get, and have the emotional gift-giving sensibility of a doorknob, I'll just wait and pretend one materializes out of thin air. Moving on instead to...

MOTHER--why are women so expensive? I mean, seriously. It's outrageous. If I didn't have any women in my life I'd be rich. And lonely. But rich. And maybe I could be like Hugh Grant in about a boy--without the dates. Which would make me more like the kid in about a boy--before he meets the girl--in other words--when he is still a loser. Fuck. Ok, mom, here's what's in store:
1. Her birthday present that I already have but never gave her because i was too cheap to mail it. Cost=Free! CHA-CHING $$$
2. Book. I have to get her this book. I was gonna order it, but the online Amazzholes wouldn't have it ready to ship until bloody january. Now i have to pay more, and tax, at a store. Cost=$15 Money left = about $35
3. Kitschy local purchases for home-living. Comfort purchases that have no real value, but seem like good gifts. You know the kind. From little cute shops with bows on them. Edible delectibles and shit like that. Warm. Cost=$10. (What it's actually going to cost because I live in an overpriced urban center where kitschy warm things are, like booty, in high demand = $20) Money left = about $15
4. Every geek's dream gift--burned CD's. Cheap, easy, perfect. Lots of value, little cost. Cost=price of blank CD's. Already have blank CDs that I took from mother when last home. Cost=Free! CHA-CHING $$$

BROTHER
1. Book. Again, tried to get on Amazzhitty, but it wouldn't get here even close to in time. Cost=$10
2. Are you kidding? I see him like once a year. One gift is all he's getting. Not that he isn't a great guy--he is. He's just not as great as I am broke.

OTHER BROTHER
This one is a last minute suprise. He's not coming to the christmas get-to-gether, which, in my opinion, constitutes forfeiture of his gift. Apparently, however, it does not. Fortunately, he lives a zillion miles away, and I feel that I can reasonably get away with a gift getting to him late. Thus, pre-christmas cost=Free! CHA-CHING $$$ (until later...)

Money left = $5
- Tax, which I forgot to count = roughly 0.
+ spare change lying around the house = roughly $2.

EVERYONE ELSE
So I'm supposed to get something for everyone's stocking. Like, extended family and stuff. 8 people total. Ridiculous. How much kitsch can I really wrestle up? I've got 2 bucks. GF suggested Dollar store. 8 people times 1 dollar a piece = 8 dollars. 2 bucks - 8 bucks = draft overcharge. but, if i can find a bag of stuff at the dollar store. A bag of candy, or baloons, or candles, yes candles! for 2 dollars, then i could give 1 to everyone! yes! yes! A 2 dollar bag of candles! or candy. Cost = $2

Money left = 0

Shopping left to do = NONE!

well, except that really, i need something else for the money pit. and, i could use something for the money pit's parent's. and i could get something for the roommate, but seeing as he owes me so much money, he can wait till i get my fucking money back before i get him a damn present. Oh, and I may need to eat. Or drive. Or drive to Sun Valley, so I can use the 'Gun. Fuck. How much for candles? Fuck. Flowers? 40? Fuck fuck fuck.

Welcome to me--not poor, per say. Certainly not homeless. Certainly not opressed. Basically middle-class, white, privilidged, comfortable, suburban, and yet royally, plentifully, thoroughly, fiscally fucked.

a foot in the water

2005-08-26T20:04:00.000-06:00

I work on floor 27. Floors 17-30 belong to my firm. Floor 4 is the lobby on the east side; the west side lobby is on floor 1, but the elevator doesn't go down that far. Normally, I take the elevator from the west lobby up to floor 27 and walk around the corner, through the kitchen/copy room and to my large corner desk in a small interior corner.

When I cam here to interview--or on my first day--I could only go to floors 19 and 29. The other lighted buttons responded to my mashing with little more than a blink on and a stubborn return to off. Now, with my fancy schmancy badge, the world is mine and the elevator is my chariot. But only so long as the world doesn't include anything between 5 and 16 or 31 and 40.

You can take the stairs, like I did today. But the stairs are locked just like the elevator buttons, and while 17-30 is my palace, everything else is my prison. So today, as I walked briskly down from 17 to 16 it might have felt something like stepping out of the world, into some sort of immensely long, dark, and foreboding tunnel. And when I finally reemerged into the beaming afternoon sunlight it might have felt as though I had safely re-entered reality--though in quite a different place than where I had left it.

It didn’t.

When I did finally reach the 4th floor door, it felt like i had just walked down 23 flights of stairs.

I feel a bit like that now. And while my legs are by now pretty sturdy, its easy to lose balance. And every now and then, when a sign, or a coke can, or any other little thing catches my eye, I remember going down the stairs and passing someone on their way up and then stepping outside and not knowing exactly where I am, but knowing that I sure as hell am not on the floor I started on.

Home

2005-06-10T23:20:00.000-06:00

It’s been a while since I last wrote here. Some things have happened, and now, I’m back in the basement where it all started. I’m not gonna lie, its slow in the basement, and a little lonely. But, maybe I could use a touch of both those shades.

I tried to talk to my parents today. I tried to explain how interesting the stuff I was reading in Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time was—relativity, the big bang, pretty generic stuff really. I was trying to explain how I had been wondering about the Shrivastava theorem; about whether—if the big bang happened in cycles, and there was enough density to the universe to stop the expansion and bring it all back to one point, and then blow up again—things would happen the same way. I hadn’t gotten that far in the book yet, and I was just throwing the idea out there that maybe there is only one way for an infinitesimally small and infinitely dense point to pack—and if there is, then maybe there is only one way for it to unpack. Maybe all of this has happened before, and will continue to happen again—forever. Just a thought.

Anyway, I’m trying to just make small talk, when my mom asks, do you ever talk to that duke kid about this? I thought you said he was pretty religious. Huh? I wasn’t talking about religion mom. I was talking about astrophysics. And to be honest, I’m frustrated by the fact that evidently you saw a tension between what I was saying about the big bang and your own conception of religious faith. It just didn’t make any sense. Why did me getting into the idea of the big bang have to have anything to do with religious faith?

Why do I have to believe that God created the universe to get something out of Christianity? Why do I have to believe that Christ was the son of God to get something out of Jesus? Why do I have to believe anything religion tells me to understand that kindness, compassion, and charity—just like strength, wisdom, and cleverness—are examples are of arête, excellence?

It’s just kind of frustrating, that’s all. I wish people would stop worrying whether things are right or wrong and just start thinking about what’s most useful. Then again, I wish I could sleep well at night, too. Maybe it’s my conscience. I really don’t think it is though—its probably the java chip ice cream cake I eat every night. Yum.

The CC is in LA. Tank is who knows where. The LTLF isn’t anymore, but she’s going to seattle, and sounds like she’s doing well for herself—better than me anyway. D is still in Hawaii, living the life, maybe he’ll come to Seattle, too, with me and the B’s and K. Ryan and Ice and Easy-E and tall tree will be there for a while too, until they go on to bigger and better things.

Sorry to keep changing subjects, but it just happens like that sometimes, you know? And an older man told me a while back about how he still kept in touch with his old friends and they saw each other several times a year and cooked and drank and golfed and shot the shit. It was kinda reassuring. And really, I think that’s worth a lot. Having good people around is important. Probably the most important. A good family is a huge part of it, but I’m not sure that’s enough. I think that was part of why the college life was so nice—so many people, there’s bound to be a couple good one’s around. I think that keeping them around is gonna be important. If not around, at least, around.

Where are we going? And when?

2005-05-07T01:59:00.000-06:00

God, are you listening? Are you reading this, now? ever? Will you comment? Oh, please comment. No one comments anymore and it would mean so much, and I would know that you’ve read, and then I would know that you always read, and I think that would be good.

I have some questions, I’m looking for answers.

Does it matter what I order? What are the chances that someone will fuck up my order? What should I order? Ok, fine, what will I order? How unhealthy, exactly, is that? Let’s say I order one of everything—can I afford that? I can! super! Wait…that’s gonna make me fat huh? Fuck.

I have other questions, but those are the most pressing. I’ll check back in a few days—at which point, a revelation will occur and decisions will be made. Or not.

An older man than me

2005-05-03T03:02:00.000-06:00

told me a story today. He often strikes me as a sad man—constantly under the weight of the things he knows, of himself and of others. He is excited by others—by what they do, what they say, what they write, how they feel, how they make him feel—but it is as if all the while he knows that he has chosen not to do those things. For that decision, perhaps he has never quite forgiven himself.

His story was about a woman who died and the people who gathered to honor her death. I don’t remember now the details of the woman, or the words used to describe the gathering. The tears that almost fell didn’t, and have since run dry. Likewise, the intensity of drive and determination and excitement has similarly faded. But I do remember a few things:

The woman had fought for rivers; specifically, rivers in Montana, and protecting the fish in them. She had lobbied and acted and written in an attempt to preserve what she thought needed preserving, and then suddenly, she had died. When her family and friends gathered, they did so beside a river, in Montana, and as they formed a circle and talked about the things that the woman (dead but not gone) had meant to them and done for them and done for others, a great number of salmon began to surface feed in the river next to gathered crowd. And the fish, and the people, were gathered in the same spot, and were all there because of this woman that had died.

The people were there because they had known her and were now mourning her passing beside the river near her brother-in-law’s cabin; and the fish were there because she, with the help of others, had saved them and their river.

There was more to the story, and there was more to the telling of it that made it good and powerful and true, but I can’t remember the details. All I am left with now is the knowledge that for a while today—it still lingers but fades fast—I knew that there were several paths through life that I did not want to follow, and they were those paths toward which I have recently been most strongly leaning. I desperately wanted to give up money and ease and comfort and success and normalcy to be standing there beside the river, listening to the throngs of salmon feeding at the surface of the water and then, like the 40 others who came and who understood why they were there, I, too, wanted to take a long pull from the bottle of Irish whiskey before adding my stone, from my river and my place, to the humble monument we had constructed.

I don’t know if I will still want this when I wake up tomorrow morning, and more importantly I don’t know if I will want it when I make those decisions which will begin to steer my course either toward or away from that monument-making. It may take another woman and another gathering and another story to bring back what, for a moment, I knew.

I am left with knowing only that the things I feel the most are, for now, at irreconcilable odds with the things I feel the most passionately. Which is the more easily forgivable? Not sure.

a man down.

2005-04-26T23:50:00.000-06:00

There’s something about playing a man down. It quickens the pulse, lifts the chin, and the tightens the veins—today we were down two. The five of us, the seven of them, and a story-book victory in the making.

When you play with a handicap, you can’t lose. It’s like test-taking without studying and dating without showering. With all the odds against, you, everyone wants you to win, and if you don’t win, “at least you had heart.”

And guts. It takes guts to play a man down doesn’t it…or does it? It doesn’t take any guts to play a game you can’t lose. No cajones needed for being the underdog. Some kids float through life, not trying but getting by, and they (dare I say we?) feel pretty good about it. Hey, they’re doing ok—for not really trying very hard, maybe they’re doing great. It takes brains to be adequate with abysmal effort. Thank god I’m not an “adequate” overachiever.

But it doesn’t take guts. Playing a man down, living without trying, trying without really trying—its really all just to get by and play it safe. No one blames you for not having something if you say you don’t really want it. But don’t you want it? Sure, it’s hard to be the favorite. Hard to expect something. Even hard to want something. But that’s where the players are. They are the one’s on the teams that are supposed to win, making the plays they are supposed to make, knowing that if they don’t, no one is going to say “ah, well, at least he had heart” because no one gives a shit how hard you try when you are on top—just so long as you win. Trying, not trying, heart, no heart, doesn’t matter when you’ve got a full team. And in the end, isn’t that what counts? Are you ever going to win anything if you don’t lose the handicap, sack up, and just win with no excuses?

Eh, maybe, who am I to know? Today we played two men down.

…and lost.

Golf shots.

2005-04-25T03:10:00.000-06:00

There’s two kinds of shots in golf—the safe shot, and the not-so-safe shot.

There I am, lining up my third stroke of the par 5 number 8, nothing between me and the green but a surmountable distance…and a tree. I’m not going to lie, it was a big tree, but I was feeling like a big shot, and Christ, a golf ball is pretty damn small, and there is all kinds of open space up in that tree, just begging for a golf ball to weave a path through. Thus, the two choices: safe or not-so-safe.

Oh, unsolvable riddle, who am I to solve thee?

This is bigger than a tree. This is about me, and you, and everyone else, and who I want to be and who I’m going to be and what we are going to do and who you want to become. It’s about law and literature and love and life. It’s about speeding and drinking and wearing a helmet and studying for tests and taking tests without studying and doing drugs and doing laundry and wearing off-color clothes and taking clothes off. Is it the golf ball that will suffer from my poor decision, or is it me? Could it be you?

The golf ball, quite small; the tree, quite big; the golfer, quite bad. Perhaps I am indeed the golfer, carefully deciding the direction in which to drive my life. The ball is then my life, the tree those obstacles in my way: tests and loans and rejection letters and rejections.

Or is it different? Maybe I am not the golfer at all. Maybe I am the ball! And the golfer is fate, or God, or god, or my parents on the phone or the television or the man or maybe the golfer is even you. But what is the tree?

I know. The tree is you. Yes, the tree is most certainly and definitely you. The tree is you and I am both the golfer and the ball and the course would be so interminably obvious and clear if you weren’t there—but would it also be flat, lonely, dull, boring, “safe,” and awful? Maybe, but dammit, it sure would be easier to get to the green.

What is the green? Is the green where I want to go? Is it a great job and a happy family and great wife and dog and a house enough free time to ride my back and maybe play tennis or golf but not so much free time that I get bored, or is the green just where we all wind up? Perhaps the green is old age, the cup—death.

No, I don’t like that version. I’ve changed my mind. The green is now you. You are no longer the tree, you are now the green. The tree is fear and nervousness and a lack of confidence and mumbled words and forgotten facts and everything between me and you. But what am I? Am I the golfer, who has a choice? A choice of going around the tree? Taking an extra shot, but making sure I get there sooner or later, without injury and without fear of losing the ball.

Losing the ball!

Surely losing the ball is death. Surely. Yes, losing the ball is death and if I hurry to get through the tree to you I run the risk of dying a horrible and awful death at the hands of a pond or long weeds or worse yet—a spot of lonely ground that simply gets overlooked.

I don’t much like that scenario, I think that in fact, I would rather not be the golfer, driving my life through all the perils of its fearsome course, aiming for the green, but winding up in the rough.

In my world, I would like to be the ball. The ball makes no choices and cannot be blamed. Yes, it runs a risk, of being lost and never found, and at times, it can take a beating, but it does so with much endurance and rarely, if ever, does the ball break. It gets dirty, and gets lost, and sometimes hits things and sometimes goes the wrong direction, but these are no faults of its own, and it can usually recover…or at least, be dropped back into play. The truth is, I don’t want to decide. I’m afraid of going through the tree, but I’m also afraid of losing strokes and losing time. I’m ready to do either, but I need someone to hit me.

I know it doesn’t work like that. I know that I am the golfer, and no matter how many trees and bunkers and weeds foul things up, I’ll still be the one hitting the ball, though it may be harder at times than at others. At some point, I have to stop thinking about it, have to stop taking practice swings, and hit the ball. In the end, it’s about a being firm but relaxed, graceful but committed. It’s about a good back-swing and a good follow-through. It’s about sacking up, hitting the damn ball, and being prepared to follow it, wherever it happens to go.

Oh, for what it’s worth, on the course today I went for gold, hit the tree, lost sight of the ball, and wandered around aimlessly looking for it until the fellows on the other fairway whistled and pointed to the middle of the fairway—30 yards behind where I started.

Bigness

2005-04-15T04:14:00.000-06:00

I finished Moby Dick, for the first time, moments ago, but in truth I have only just opened its cover. For the first time, now, after having read the final page, have I seen the scope of the thing that lays before me--seen how massive, how deep, and how big it is. I want to reduce it, and learn it, and know it, but one cannot reduce and learn and know life--could one possibly reduce and learn and know this? Or will the attempt, the attempt to know, be the end of both known and knower?

Perhaps. I am tired and full of energy. I finished and opened a big thing. And like a child whose toy comes with many parts and many things to look at and play with and figure out, I failt to start the process for how greatly it intimidates and awes me. Who art thou Ahab? Who art thou Ishmael? Who art though Scribbs? Who art though Moby Dick?

What a night. "What's that he said--Ahab beware of Ahab--there's something there!"

Where does the time go?

2005-04-12T03:41:00.000-06:00

Sometimes you gotta run. There are times when walking just no longer cuts it. Like when you are late, or when you are angry. I am running, but I’m not sure if I’m running towards something or away from something. To be perfectly honest, I think I would like to stop, but I’m not sure if that’s an option. Anyone want to run with me? I don’t know where we’re going, but maybe we can get some fast food or something along the way.

Losing things

2005-04-07T22:29:00.000-06:00

I just wrote an irate post. Not just irate, livid. Not just livid, mad. Where is it? Lost. Lost in gobbledygargon of the internet, lost into a moment in time that already happened but wont happen again. Lost like hat, or even a sandwich, that falls overboard from a boat that doesn’t stop moving, and though its back there all the time, still floating and getting soggy and maybe getting eaten, you can no sooner turn around and get it than you can go back and not drop it in the first place.

I’m not livid anymore. The moment passed—like I said. For a while though, I was going to punch a man—rather, a boy, trying to act like a man because he couldn’t handle the fact that no one cares who he is or what he does or what he has to say about why he is better than you. Fist clenched but fingers relaxed, I was ready. Instead, I wrote a livid post that then disappeared.

Just like that my physical fury melted into rhetorical rage and dissipated into unreachable 1s and 0s without any emotion at all. Maybe it’s better that way. Maybe it would be better if it always happened that way.

This time, however, I’m writing in word; no more lower case “i”s for me—it does it for me (it doesn’t like semicolons and dashes and parentheses all in once sentence though). I guess all I’m trying to say is that if people want to fight the man, I wish they would just do it—rather than just settling for fighting those at hand, whom they think they can beat.

If they don’t owe you anything, then you cant say they aren’t good enough. Good enough for what? They don’t need to be good enough for you. I know that is difficult to stomach, but its true. You’re just going to have to stop berating people for not being you and not being what you want them to be and not wanting to be what you want to be. There, maybe the anger came back, just for a bit. Not all, or even a part, but a smell of its taste, or a feeling its sound.

thefacebook.com

2005-04-07T13:38:00.000-06:00

school got added to thefacebook.com. whoopdifucking doo.

i mean, sure, im signed up already, fervently waiting for others to sign up so i can "poke" them...but whatever, who doenst love wholesome online fun.

Lots to say, not time to say it, pretend i said it and you read it and then comment about it. im out.

ps. all posts will be in e-grammar from now on

or not.

All i want to do is sail...

2005-03-23T15:39:00.000-07:00

i am fine.

Spring Break

2005-03-11T20:22:00.000-07:00

Finished the last day of classes today and what did I do? Head for cancun? tahiti? palm springs? TJ? hell, even home? nope. Two weeks staying at school, writing.

Fortunately, I will be writing brilliance. Far more brilliant than this, and even more brilliant than that last post, which i think, was quite brilliant. But, I'm writing about that all day, so no writing about that now.

I dont really have anything to say. Personal things are a bit too personal and impersonal things are for other people. Blah Blah Blah. ...

The blognazi (remember him?) thinks he's a high roller. Thinks his blog has made it big and everyone thinks its hot shit. Gives his bloody address when he's hobnobbing with the real journalists and whatnot. Outrageous. Slobnobbing some guy who decided he ought to publish some of his old blog posts in a book. Seriously, write something worth publishing, or stick to web. Why would i buy your shitty book when i could jsut read the posts online? Lame. Oh, and about getting a lot of hits and all that jazz, I say, traffic is traffic -- on the web or on the road -- bad.

That doesnt make a whole lot of sense, but then again, neither does your face.

Heminway told a story once. It was about a guy he knew, a great boxer. He asked the great boxer how he did so well in fights against another great boxer, and the guy responded, "that other guy, hes a great boxer, a real smart one. All the time that he's boxing, he's thinking. And all the time that he's thinking, I'm hitting him."

I like it Ernie. The point is, is that people have taken H's admiration for boxers and bullfighters and whatnot all wrong. I mean, sure, he used it as a metaphor for writing when he called himself the "heavyweight champion of American Literature" and he was damn right. The point is, hes not saying that writing is a male-dominated profession with no room for women. I mean christ, didnt anyone see Million Dollar Baby? No, he was saying that writing is about hitting people, and practicing and using your skills and competinging and not about thinking too much, or using too big or too expensive words. That;s why Hemingway hated the critics, and also why he thought he had beat them. All the while that they were thinking about him and his work and his life and all of his private shit, he was writing simple, truthful, powerful, authentic novels and stories and with each one, was hitting them - the critics, the scholars, the readers, and anyone who bothered to read him. Maybe thats why he hates me, too. But he's dead, so im ok.

Spring break may mean more blogging. Hopefully things will improve.

2005-02-10T23:11:00.000-07:00

I saw Billy Collins tonight. Saw him, heard him, whatever. He's a poet, he claims, a reasonably good one, it seems, and a remarkably popular one, im told. He tells sort of conversational, plain, transparent english and reads with a desert-dry sarcasm. Pretty funny, kinda thought provoking.

He reminded me of John Cale, in his plainsong voice. The Andy Warhol of poetry. Fantastic... John Cale reminds me that the trouble with reality is,

it's hard to tell what's real. We can't see reality, cant hear it, smell it, taste it, cant even motherfucking touch the motherfucker. I talk in riddles because if i didnt, i might tell the truth to myself and then i would get "a taste of reality" and that would probably suck. The point is, my mind plays tricks on me, i want it to stop.

Nevermind, i want to write. but not to you. its like im starting all over again. im not sure i want to. When i started this blog, it was fresh, exciting, undiscovered territory, and all the blog could think about was itself, and blogging, and everything was potential and nothing was past. I bloody want that again, but i dont have time.

I dont have the time, now isnt the time, cant make the time, time isnt there, time isnt now, no time, maybe some other time.

sure, some other time.

"You are more dumbly obstinate than the sea"

2005-02-08T20:43:00.000-07:00

- Euripides, "Hippolytus". Trans. David Grene.

Am I still here? Alive?

Yes, I am. Just checking.

Because for a while there, it stopped making sense. Now I'll just go back and wait and see if it ever starts again.

Stuff you're never gonna read

2004-09-27T14:25:00.000-06:00

This is the stuff you're never read. You're never gonna read it because you don't care, and you won't look, and I stopped writing, and if I stop writing, why should you keep reading? Well, you shouldn't, so by all means, don't read this.

Don't read it because you can't answer my questions, and don't read it because I can't answer yours. Don't read about my life, because it's not yours, and you only care about it as much as it is like yours, and my life isn't like yours, because you are confused and don't know what to do, and what you want, and where to go, and I know all of those things. I've got it all figured out. I've got all the answers. If I wanted to, I could write them all in a book, and the book would be called, "How To Do Everything Write and Never Make Mistakes", but I'm not going to, because that's not part of the plan. Writing books about living life isn't the right answer -- one down, eight jillion more to go -- figured it out yet?

So I know all the ansewrs. You don't know all the answers. Maybe you don't know any. But, if you read this, you would know one: "Don't write all the answers down in a book". But, no one reads this, so I was right -- you don't know any of the answers. Where does that leave us? Well, it leaves you with questions, and it's gonna leave me with a sick job, hot wife, a phatty sailboat to sail around the world...or is it? I can't tell you, because then I would be giving away too many answers, and I've already given away one.

I was going to reveal something else at the end of this post. Something big. A big secret, a trick I've learned. It doen't always work, but about 2 out of 3 times it will let you know what to do, and the other third, you will just have to use your judgement, which is what you should be using now. But, when I thought about it, I decided you might be happier without the trick. It will save you time, make you richer, happier, more productive, smarter, better looking, more confident and friendlier, but it's kind of like cheating, and if you do it, you'll have to live with that for the rest of your happy, perfect, successful, fulfilling life. As for me, I'm just going to keep chugging away, waiting and watching, not caring about a thing in the world, because I know all the answers and you don't know shit.

What the shit.

2004-09-25T10:40:00.000-06:00

So, it's 9:42 in the morning on saturday and I;ve aready biked 12 miles. Unfortunately, it was in a 10 mile race. One goddam turn in the whole course and I missed it and rode 2 miles out of my way. Typical. Life's a bitch, and it's too early to deal with this kind of bullshit. Bitch, please.

I don't post much anymore - it's because i just dont care about you.

scribbs is out. way out.

no time for blogging

2004-09-13T01:54:00.000-06:00

My world is spinning. Last night, my head was spinning, but today, my world is spinning. There is too much to do, and too little time, and there isn't enough time to blog, and there isn't enough time to watch tv, or movies, or read silly books. There is only time for reading big books, and smart books, and writing papers, and thinking about hemingway, and there's barely time for that. I hope there is time to think about hemingway, at least there will be that. There's no time for eating, and certainly no time for cooking, and im worried that there wont even be time for tennis. There's no time for apostrophes, or capitalisations, or grammar, or spell-check. i almost feel like there's no time for life. my world is spinning, spinning around and around, up and down. somewhere in the blur is life, and in ways, when i spin really fast, life gets bigger, and longer, and all spread out. the problem is, life really just gets distorted when i spin too fast, and i cant see it clearly and i dont know what life is, and i dont know what living is, and i dont know anything other than that i have no time, and i certainly dont have time to be writing this, at work, right before i lock up, and arm the alarm, and walk back, at midnight, in the moderate cold of a september night in the middle of the wheatfields.

The blog is upside down

2004-08-25T22:11:00.000-06:00

Someone turned my blog upside down, or inside out, or maybe just turned it around, because it doesn't look the same. This blog has been my outlet from the basement. The outlet from where I spent so much time, rarely venturing out, living a pleasant, quiet, thoughtful life. I stayed in the basement, reading, leaving to bike, or eat. Sure, I occasionaly went to the city, or the bar, or the store, or blocksucker, but mainly, I just thought and blogged and read in the basement. Well, I'm not in the basement anymore, and there is no one in the basement to put what comes out of there onto the internet. So now, all you have is me - not exactly scribbs, but more of, what scribbs changed into, or even, what scribbs used to be before he went into the basement. Now I am still in a basement, but its not my basement. Actually, the basement doesn't have internet, not yet, fucking slow ass cable company, so I'm in the maxey lab. No, not maxey pad. Maxey lab. The point is, I don't know what to tell you, too much has happened, too much of nothing, and I can't tell you what it all is, and probably, you don't care. I'm in a new place, that is old, seeing the old people, who all look new. The LTLF isn't here, but she will be soon. All I want to do is jam, but no one here knows my songs... Maybe I'll be back, maybe I won't. Getting internet will help a lot, but that won't happen for a couple weeks. For now, take it easy, and keep reading. I've started The Mill on the Floss, by Georg Eliot. I'm also reading the world, but the words are too big to understand.

Gardening

2004-08-17T01:00:00.000-06:00

People have been bitching about The Success Blog. Well, they are just going to have to keep bitching because this blog is for me, not you, and if you don't like it, then you just must not be smart enough to understand how brilliant it is. Or, you could just go see something more brilliant, like Garden State, which I saw tonight, and made me happy to be in love. Zach Braff is still the man...and I am still the reddleman. Until next time, keep on with your bitching, but don't ride in that goofy motorcycle sidecar.

The Reddleman

2004-08-16T01:18:00.000-06:00

This post is about the reddleman, and it starts out slow; but--as is so with life--hard work and a bit of luck will hopefully churn out a worthwhile ending. The reddleman has come to me from Thomas Hardy, and from him, through me, he comes to you:

When he drew nearer he perceived it to be a spring van, ordinary in shape, but singular in colour, this being a lurid red. The driver walked beside it; and, like his van, he was completely red. One dye of that tincture covered his clothes, the cap upon his head, his boots, his face, and his hands. He was not temporarily overlaid with the colour; it permeated him.
The old man knew the meaning of this. The traveler with the cart was a reddleman--a person whose vocation it was to supply farmers with redding for their sheep. He was one of a class rapidly becoming extinct in Wessex, filling at present in the rural world the place which, during the last century, the dodo occupied in the world of animals. He is a curious, interesting, and nearly perished link between obsolete forms of life and those which generally prevail.

This is the reddleman.

During the course of Return of the Native, the reddleman is in constant motion, yet, he is unquestionably the most constant of the characters in the novel. He is a traveler and a wanderer by trade, homeless by choice. Nevertheless, he is a good man, with good morals, good intentions, good loves, and a good head. He sells reddle because he chooses to, and as soon as he chooses not to, he will cease to sell reddle and put his skills to another trade. He loves a woman, and remains in love with her throughout the novel - as he courts her, as she refuses him, as she marries another, and finally again, as she, once a widow, marries him. His love is not one of lust or greed; his allegiance is to her. His goal - her happiness. His actions - selfless. The reddleman is free. He travels where he wishes, he does what he wishes. He doesn't let other people's ideas and judgments limit his possibilities. He walks his own path, and finds it well. Parents sometimes tell their children that if they do not mind their elders, the reddleman will come to get them while they sleep, but this reddleman, despite his devilish appearance, harbors nothing at all to fear and brings nothing but help to anyone he can. The reddleman is good, admirable, strong, and smart.

Can I be like the reddleman?

But wait. There is more. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle. He becomes, slowly, white, once again. His reddle fades, but does his freedom fade with it? Can he remain the reddleman that I so admire without selling reddle? He has changed greatly, it would seem, he tells me, "You mustn't judge by folks in general...Still I dont know much what feelings are now-a-days. I have got so mixed up with business of one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapor like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money is all my dream." No reddleman, how wicked! But, he teases. Yes, the reddleman has dawned clean white, and fine clothes, and has endeavored to take up an "honorable" profession which yields great income, but has he truly changed? No. He has not. He tell me, "What a man has been he may be again." I think I know what he means.

What does the reddleman mean?

The reddleman tells me this, just as he tells the woman he has loved this, after her times of difficulty, after she has gained a baby and lost a husband, and would now, once more, make a perfect bride for the reddleman. He has made these changes because, while he does not care what society things, he cares for society, and society's thought is not so easy to bend as one's pursuits, which are, and ought to be, flexible, fresh, and changing. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle because it just wouldn't do to be unable to touch his bride on her wedding day for fear of smearing her wedding gown with red ochre. It simply wouldn't do for a child to be reared by a thoroughly red father. And primarily, it just wouldn't do for a family’s house to be made inside of a reddle-van. So, the reddleman takes up another trade. Yes, he has 'devoted himself to making money', but his devotion is not to money, but to love. One can hardly think that he will seek more money than such as his other devotion requires; and, because she is such a woman who, like the reddleman, lives most merrily when living modestly, the requirement is unlikely to be much. The reddleman teaches us that we are our own and do not belong to a profession. Rather, our profession belongs to us, or, at least, is one which we may possess for as long as it suits us.

Can I be a reddleman?

This may all be a bit obtuse, and, to be honest, if it is a bit difficult to follow and extract my meaning, it is because I am not entirely sure what meaning I am meaning to follow. But, something tells me there may be something the reddleman can teach me.

I am the reddleman.

A few days ago, I decided to put aside intentions of mainstream success, financial security, and the promise of something I could quite likely manage at reasonably well for something I am afraid of, both because I worry that I cannot do what it demands and because failure seems so easy and so costly. Today, NW asked me if I was still thinking about law school. I told him no. I told him I didn't want to be the person that would turn me into. But is that fair? Is that true? The reddleman is the reddleman, reddle or no. Can I not be the reddleman too, regardless of the which direction I head? Is this an option I should discount? Or is every option one worth considering? A few days ago, I was ready to put everything into learning English literature and then teaching it, and that is a commitment made without a great deal of confidence at all in my ability to succeed in such a calling. Today, I am reconsidering going to law school. I don't know why. My only comfort is that I think, if I remember him, the reddleman's lesson is that there is no trade that is inescapable, and no professional who cannot put himself above his profession. Does the reddleman deceive me? Am I deceiving myself? I promised a worthwhile ending, and hopefully, I won't disappoint, but, you will have to wait for that ending, because I don't know where it is, nor when it will come. I am without the reddleman's constancy, and I am without his confidence, but I may share a bit of his situation, I imagine that we all do.

Where is the reddleman?

I am lost. I can't very well hide it at this point, all I can do is call for help. So, from Postal Service:

Will someone please call a surgeon,
you can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart,
that you're deserting
for better company.

The "must surely be better than the last post" post

2004-08-10T12:08:00.000-06:00

Yes, the last post sucked. And yes, Villette still sucks. But today, a new, supreme level of suck is awarded to The Denver Post. I hope you agree.

Way back when, before all this presidential nonsense and stealing of Bradbury's titles, our buddy Michael Moore made a movie about a school shooting. But, it wasn't really about the school shooting, it was more about guns. But, it wasn't really about guns either, because it was most about fear. It was about fear and the media. And to that extent, it wasn't so dissimilar from his latest debacles. I don't want to talk politics though, this post is about the Post, so MM's ideas on the media more appropriately fit my bill. His point, more or less, was that the mainstream medias focus on violence and gore and tragedy in the news fosters an atmosphere of fear which plagues America and drives us to handgun ownership, and then, to handgun use, because we are constantly afraid of everyone else in our world. I'll leave you to judge my summary as accurate or not, and frankly, it doesn't matter, this post isn't about MM, it's about the Post.

This morning in the Post, I saw this article on the front page, with the big front page photo. Blah blah, more homicide criminals are getting away, blah blah. Typical fear-inducing shit. I didn't really get upset until I opened up to 6A, where the story continued, and found myself confronted with a massive inset. Taking up more or less the entire page was a two part graphic. On top, there was a street map of the city, with 61 numbered circles scattered about on it. The 61 circles represented the 61 homicides that have occurred in Denver since January 1st. About half the circles were dark, representing "cleared" homicides, whose cases have been closed, while the other half where white, representing homicides which were still under investigation. Then, below the map, and taking about twice as much space, was a very neat and orderly chart. The chart had 4 columns. In the far left was the light or dark numbered circle which corresponded to a similar circle on the map. Following it were columns labeled, "Date", "Weapon", and "Synopsis". For example, circle 1 is followed by:

1.(dark) Jan. 1 Handgun Victim shot after argument.

Or, there is number 10, a special Valentines day homicide.

10.(dark) Feb. 14 Lamp/Hands Victim beaten to death during an altercation.

Then, of course, there are the light circles, like number 27.

27. (light) April 25 Bludgeon/cutting tool Victim beaten and stabbed, then set on fire.

61 of these delightful rows, in beautiful, spread out, roomy, attractively glory occupied page 6A of the August 10th 2004 Denver Post, begging to be read, to be absorbed, to be shocked and wondered at. This, certainly, is journalism at its finest. 61 top stories, all put into one, with a graphic so I can see which numbers happened closest where I live, or where I work. Easy to read, easy to see, easy to understand. The perfect layout, to be sure.

Then, I thought more, and I began to see all of the wonderful things I could do with such an article! With ease I can county which weapons lead to a faster resolution of the case, and which have left police stumped. Which "synopses" are the most difficult for the police to sort out? Where ought I commit my homicide on the map? It is clear that some areas lead to arrests while others lead to mysteries. Surely I would rather be the latter. So many uses.

But so many fears! So many people killed? It is a miracle it has not been me! I should be more safe. Look at all the handguns used! I should have one, what else will prevent me from becoming like number 40?

40. (Light) June 17 Handgun Victim shot for no known reason.

How terrible! There are so many things to fear! According to this alone, there are 31 killers out there running the streets right now! They will surely come to kill me.

It's an imperfect world we live in, and there will always be darkness. I cannot make these homicides go away. We can all try, but they will never completely disappear. I thought for a moment about why this is so offensive, after all, I only just watched a movie about a prostitute serial killer, and recommended it as a great movie, though not a greatly enjoyable one. Is there a difference between that and this? Both are depictions of real events. Both make me feel uneasy, both show me things which probably make me afraid. But, I think, there is a difference. Where both subjects are dark, the film's outlook, presentation, and mood, are similarly dark, sad, and frustrated while the presentation of the Post's article is no different than if they had been listing dates and places for te fair. There was no depth to this chart. No thought. There was no understanding. There were no people. Only numbers, light or dark, dates, weapons, and synopses.

Bronte is a Hussy

2004-08-09T22:32:00.000-06:00

What have I been doing lately? Why have posts been so sparse? What will come of this post? Will it be a frivolous piece about some other odd movie I have seen, a worried, frightened, and uncomfortable post about my own life, or perhaps a new piece of work, a new song, or rhyme, or some other slight frivolty? As to the first, yes, it will likely include some mention of a recently viewed film. To the second, no, for now, my fears are somewhat lessoned, my faith somewhat restored, and my love still constant. And as for the third, perhaps a new bit of rock, I will only do as much as to direct you back here, from whence you can find a new recording if it suits you. Now, if the reader finds that my tone in this post has become unpalatable, perhaps too flitty, too pretentious, or too forced, my only advice is to weather the storm, as I am, until I finish my marathon reading of Villette. There is something in Bronte that strongly disagrees with me, and I would not be at all surprised if it finds similar discord with you. Nevertheless, it must be born, and I will do my best to bear it well.

A few nights past, I finally managed to work up the courage to watch Monster. I was not shocked, nor surprised, but, sadly, only affirmed in my expectation that watching a film in which so beautiful a woman is made to look so ugly could hardly be not both un-enjoyable and unsettling. Nevertheless, if Charlize Theron's performance can be measured by how thoroughly she replaced any glimmer of the self she has shown in other films with the persona of Aileen Wuornos, her performance was clearly one of brilliance. Due in large part to that, but also simply to the power of the true story which the movie follows as well as solid filmmaking, the movie was indeed moving, powerful, and engaging, if not pleasurable. Once all is said and done, I just want Charlize to be hot again.

At the beginning of this post, the reader surely assumed that some explanation or excuse for such sparse posts was on the way, and, as of yet, that thirst remained unquenched. Do not accuse me of misdirection and falsity, however, for the explanation and excuse is on it's way. I made a decision - or, not so much made a decision, but have come to a conclusion - or, not so much came to a conclusion as had a realization - as to what I should like to do with the next several years of the life, if all my wishes were granted. I've done some research, and a bit of thinking, and have set my sights on Graduate study after all. No law school, no work, no tech school, no China - well, maybe China, if my first intentions fail. No, I think I should be most content if I could secure a place as a doctoral student in a well-known and respected English Literature graduate program. The realization that if I can manage to be accepted into a reasonably reputable program, finances are likely, and in some cases, guaranteed to take care of themselves, in addition to the finally clear belief that I truly do want to spend the rest of my life in school, learning and teaching, have been heavy influences in this quest. I suppose, that in hindsight, such a path has been that which I have truly wished to follow since before I even began High School, and perhaps, all the other things I have contemplated have been mere distractions, enticing me with their ease, their wealth, and variety.

The point is, with this newfound direction comes newfound pressure. And reader, let me assure you, shit is hitting the fan. In the coming weeks, I need to read about a thousand pages of Victorian Lit, read a similar amount of 20th century American Lit, read a lesser amount of Medieval Lit, and decide upon, begin to research, and prepare a proposal for a Thesis which will need to be finished by September 20th. On top of that, I will need to find such programs as I want to be in and will possibly accept me as well as some that will want to accept me and I will possibly want to be in. Finally, I will have to switch gears from my very light studying for the LSAT, for which I was both excited and confident, to more vigorous studying for the GRE, but mainly, the GRE subject test in Literature, which seems surprisingly daunting, particularly given my inability to remember names for the life of me. Even more sickening that all of this, however, is that I am blogging about it, and surely, the reader would not give even a shilling for such dry and worthless commentary. Thus, I change direction to focus on a different, and similarly uninteresting aspect of myself.

I am a concept person, not a fact person. I remember ideas, explanations, moods, stories, whatnot, all fine. But names, numbers, dates, facts, titles, words, and any other manner of thing that I can't reason out, escapes me entirely. My mind is one chopstick short of an efficient utensil for retaining such knowledge. If I can stab the thing at hand, and pierce it's surface and thereby obtain a grip of its inner workings, I may manage to pick it up. But if I must rely on scooping and gleaning and thus, remembering, I am quite a failure.

While I am in the neighborhood of failures, I cannot help but mention Villette, which is yet more painful that Jane Eyre, and has had the awful effect of affecting my writing and making it as you have seen it. The entire matter leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and I can think of no suitable alternative than to simply put an end to the silly matter at once by thus concluding the most Victorian, and the most awful post ever. For such writing I will earn naught but a firm reprimand and the loss of what few readers my modest work presently has. Nevertheless, I take my wages to my pillow, will pass the night counting them.

Scribbs Doesn't Know

2004-08-07T03:20:00.000-06:00

So pretty much all I've been doing lately is reading Villette and watching movies. It's an odd way to go through life, and as, for some reason, I get ever tireder and begin to take so many naps that the day and night blend into one Bronte-drenched sleepstate, I feel a bit as though I myself am going through one of those Victorian era fever-stages that, when I finally awake from it, unable to remember the past several months, my life will have changed, and Part the Second will have begun.

Tonight's flick was Eurotrip. I wanted Say Anything, but it wasn't there, and I still can't work up the courage to see Monster. Thus, my night was filled with mediocre writing, mediocre acting, mediocre entertainment, and a lot of boobs. Now, to be fair, it had it's moments, and actually, it had quite a few of them, and they were quite funny, and, on the other side of things, the boobs, while plentiful, weren't that plentiful, and it was certainly no Mulholland Drive, which I still can't make heads or tails, beyond the fact that I'm certain there were two chicks goin' at it during the coarse of the otherwise incredibly confusing plot. Anyway, the point is, the most brilliant performance was that of none other than Matt Damon, whose role, though quite limited, rocked. You go Matt, that second bourne movie wasn't anything to sing and dance about, but you'll find glory again soon enough, im sure.

The truth is, however, that there is more going on in my life than movies and Victorian novels. There is love. And recently, my love has gone on a eurotrip of her own, and, quite frankly, I wish I was eurotriping with her, for a number of reasons. Sure, I would love to see new places, do new things, and meet new people, not to mention how I could stand to make a few of the dollars she is making over there (hers is an all-expenses paid eurotrip, plus wages for work), but really, I wish I was there so I could be with her. Again, there are a million reasons I want to be with her, but I can't deny that among them is a desire fed by jealousy, worry, fear, and anxiety. It's not exactly that I'm worried that Matt Damon will soon be singing about all the things Scribbs doesn't know. I trust her, and I think, and hope, that that trust is well placed. The thing is, when that certain thing that the person you're in love with is gone, it's just not a good feeling - and the farther away they go, the worse the feeling gets. I feel helpless, alone, and vulnerable, sitting here, at my computer, while she is drunk, dancing, meeting people, and flirting. Am I wrong to feel uncomfortable? Am I wrong to be jealous of some European guy who is out to get his kicks by dancing with and buying drinks for my girl? Am I being too possessive? Should I just kick back and relax and not worry?

Well, maybe I should. And, to be honest, I've been doing my best. And when she calls, and tells me things that make the whole world seem a shade brighter, it's easy to do. It's easy to say to myself, self, it's gonna be ok, you are in love with a beautiful girl, and she loves you back, and soon, she will be in your arms, and then, you wll be back in control of your world, and you can make sure nothing happens to her. But then, things go awry. Maybe I'm being too picky, too sensitive, and too overprotective, but there are some things that I don't like to hear, particularly when half of my life, half of me, is a bazillion miles away. Among those things are emails that assure me of her appearing "unavailable" to other guys because she spends all of her time with one - a real nice one, or phone calls of drunken dancing which had to be interrupted by a friend, or being told that I'm still missed, but not as much. Is that enough for me to be hurt? I can tell you, it is. Should it be? Scribbs doesn't know. I read the letter she wrote before she left, after putting the home-made puzzle pieces upon which she wrote it back together, and it melts me. It melts me to tears. But then, I read other things, and seem so cold, and my response is cold, because as quickly as she can melt me, I am frozen again twice as fast. Do I have a right to complain? Do I have a right to respond to cold with cold? Must my response always be to continue with the epic, and seemingly un-winnable battle that is to make her know how much she is to me? I want to be a teacher, but is that piece of knowledge one which I will be forever unable to impart? I know it, for myself. But for whatever, reason, my lecture, though endlessly repeated seems never to be absorbed. Is this my failing? It surely must be, yet again, Scribbs doesn't know.

In the end, I will endure whatever coldness comes, as weather - but, can this weather never be changed? I will endure because to me, it is worth it. A million cold emails could never overpower the warmth of a puzzle-letter. And one smile is worth a thousand frowns. Nevertheless, I wish I didn't have these fears and worries, just as I wish I could impart the seriousness, the sincerity, and indeed, the severity, of my love. But, as for what to do, Scribbs doesn't know.

Rockin' with the Cusacks

2004-08-04T23:28:00.000-06:00

Everyone knows the Cusacks are the shit, and if they don't, they should. From John back in High Fidelity and Pushing Tin all the way up to Joan in School of Rock, the two kids have been throwing down for quite a while. My latest two Cusak moments have been in the recent Grisham flick, Runaway Jury, which proved to be solidly stimulating, if not earthshattering, and a re-aquaintance with Grosse Pointe Blank, which, if I might say so, is simply one of the more brilliant films ever made. John plays hitman, Joan plays hitman's secretary. What more does a movie need?

I've been doing more than just watching Cusack movies lately though. I finally finished Great Expectations, and to be honest, I had expected greater. Well, no, that's not quite accurate. I could expect no greater from the work, Dickens is a genious, it always shows, and the book was great. Nevertheless, the ending, perfect as it may be, left me feeling a bit empty, and a bit down. I was sad, and I don't like being sad. My remedy for that situation brings me back to the Cusacks, which I've already covered. In any case, I've now started Villette, another Victorian barn-burner by none other than the ugliest Bronte sister, Charlotte. All this reading and riding is getting in the way of blogging, which has also taken a back seat to rocking, which is at once envigorating and devastating. I propose that the only solution is to watch more Cusack movies, so I see Say Anything in my near future. The only other solution is for you lazy bums to speak up and holla back. Just because I'm writing to an audience of none doesn't mean I should have to feel that way. For now, in a manner only a bit like John in GPB, I slip back into bed with nought but a lumpy pillow, a baseball bat for any manner of crawling pest, and Charlotte.

What's going on...

2004-07-31T22:20:00.000-06:00

So yesterday, I woke up at 2:15 in the morning to be on the Long's Peak trail by 3:00 with KJ and her dad. We hiked for 12 hours and came back, still without having bagged the summit. Ice on the gaper route and not a living soul or a clue exactly which sketchy trough to go down after getting to the 'loft' between Longs and Meeker made the summit not happen. It's ok though, it was a good climb, with good views, and a good time.

Today, I went to a BBQ for people from my high school IB class. It was kinda sketch. The old cooridinator got drunk, and my old history teacher asked if I was a campus republican. Wha? I really have no idea where that came from. But, this post isn't about politics.

In fact, it's not about much of anything. I've been spending all my energy rocking, and there's nothing left. I pour my heart out, and it just evaporates.

Oh, and the Blog-nazi recently wrote the worst post ever, and if can rip off other people's words, so can I.

I heard a love story

2004-07-29T13:34:00.000-06:00

I heard a love story,
It’s in a song.
It’s about a boy and a girl, but
It doesn’t have to be.
Love’s something you’re born with and their story starts at birth,
Two kids two thousand miles apart.
They don’t know it, but as they grow up, they’re falling in love,
Falling for each other.

It takes a long, long, time before they ever meet,
She knows other boys, he knows other things,
They’ve been waiting, they know not what for,
Just looking for a little bit more.

Coffee shop downtown, sittin’ on a park bench waiting for the bus while I’m waiting for you,
Are you waiting for me too?
I saw you in the lunchroom, you saw me on the third floor, girl, just tell me what you got in store for me. Can’t you see that
This is a love story,
It’s been told before,
But just this once lets pretend that the girl is you,
And the boy is me.

I met you at school, but
It seems like we fell in love in a movie,
Because, girl, you make me believe,
In things I used to think were only make believe.

Some stories end in tears,
Some last for hours and others for many years.
Don’t ask me where we’re going because I don’t know,
But I don’t need a road map to tell me that I’m on the right road.
So girl, it’s time you heard the truth,
That the day I was born, somebody stole something from me and put it in you.
My whole life I’ve been trying to get it back,
And now that I’ve got it there’s no way I’m giving it back.

This story isn’t over yet, we’re just caught in-between,
Love has already begun , but we both know that growing up can change everything.
Sure, we might get married, you might have a baby, we might get a little white house on the street where you lived, and a big backyard,
Love will make us cry, but not all tears are happy, though they all have a story,
And our story is bound to have many tears.
What if I do something mean to you? What if you say something you didn’t mean to?
What if it all falls down?

I could stop it all right now,
We could out before we get in too deep,
We could try to go back to before there was you and me,
Could we just go back and pretend that that would make us free?

But that’s not how this story ends,
You don’t have that much control,
You cant reclaim what you lost, without keeping what you found,
And the girl’s always gonna be around.
You won’t regret the things you said as much as the things you didn’t say,
So say to her what you want to say today.
You can’t wash her away, wash your memory by getting rid of the gifts she gave, because she lingers, her smell lingers.
So you better see it though, through to the end of the story…
…see what end this story holds for you.

Two words: Barrack Obama

2004-07-27T21:41:00.000-06:00

The democratic national convention is going down - two days over, two to come. I haven't watched it all, but I was begining to think I'd seen enough. I saw the news personalities talk about how the democrats would be trying to find a nice, strong, effective, one-sentence statement that could 'sum up' their entire campaign. I saw more politicians than I care to mention talk about how John Kerry is for a "strong America", and none of them told me if John Kerry is strong enough for America. I even saw Howard Dean recieve an inspiringly rousing ovation, only to follow it with an empty, lack-luster speach, that did little to rouse my quickly deflating hopes for American politics. I did see Ralph Nader interviewed briefly by a news channel, but while he brought the facts, the intelligence, the idealism, and even his new book, he can't bring the charm, and he'll never bring in any votes. In his dreary speech, Dean managed to confound the press with raising the issue of being unashamed to be a Democrat? Were the Democrats ashamed? Were they supposed to be? I'm not sure it ever occured to me to be ashamed before, but Howie, now that you mention it... The more I watched, the more they talked. The more they talked, the less they said. The less they said, the more I knew that my vote for the democrats was to be one of desperation. I do not want John Kerry to be President, kind of like I don't want Peter Forsberg to go play hockey in Sweeden, but a re-election in 2004 isn't a matter of preference, it's more along the lines of losing both thumbs, or getting developing a case of interminable, lifelong indegestion. As the convention went down, so did my belief that they had answers, and with that, my hope that we might be able to turn this political gong-show around. To be honest, I was ready to vote for Nader, not because I want him to be the next president, but because I'm just frustrated as hell with my other choices. Then came Barrack Obama.

As he walked to the stage while the news personalities finished their idle banter and the flashy on-screen graphics identified him as a a current state senator in Illinois, candidate for the U.S. Senate from the same state, a black guy with a clearly african name, and the keynote speaker on the second night of the Democratic National Convention, a position held last night by Bill Clinton, things didn't seem to add up. Who is Barrack Obama, why is he the keynote speaker, and how the hell do you say his name. Before he ever got around to mentioning John Kerry, those had been quite definitively answered. If you can find the video (dictatoblog found one, check it out now, before you read any more) of his speech anywhere, watch it, because the transcript really doesn't do him justice.

Toward the end of one of the more powerful, logical, well-written, and well-delivered political speeches I've seen in a long, long time, Obama put into words just the kind of hope for the future I wanted to have, but just couldn't find amoung the coercive language and empty promises made by both parties:

"It's the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs; the hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores; the hope of a young naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta; the hope of a mill worker's son who dares to defy the odds; the hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too."

I won't pretend that the appeal of Obama's speech wasn't primarily emotional. I won't try to tell you he even scratched the surface of an actual discussion of the issues at play in this election, and in the future, he didn't. What he did do, was deliver a damn fine speech - a speech that wouldn't make me wince to know the world was watching. When we elect a president, or political figure, we elect, to a certian extent, just that, a figure. We elect a representitave, that will speak, act, think, and represent us. Based on one speech, given by one man, on one night, I am prepared to say that there must surely be at least one man in Washington (or rather, still aiming for Washington), that I would be both unashamed and glad to have represent me in the senate, the white house, or the world. Even if his ideas and beliefs were not my own, my values not his, and our opinions oposed, we could at least have a, a public speaker who could speak, and leader who could lead, and a representative who could downwrite REPRESENT. Barrack Obama, you got my vote tonight, for whatever you run for.

George, don't tell me to be optomistic, give me something to be optomistic about. Howie, don't tell to be unashamed to be a democrat, give me something to be unashamed about. The rest of you, don't tell me to vote, give me something to vote for. Tonight, a skinny black kid from Illinois moved me. Bloody brilliant, I say.

Bear witness to the illness.

2004-07-25T01:11:00.000-06:00

I be rockin' up in here, and you all are going to be the first to hear it. So buckle your danger-belts and prepare to be rockjucated. But - audblog is retarded, because you have to do it over the phone, and that is just lame and shitty sounding, and you are worth more than that. So, while this is a little more of a pain in the ass, I know, check out what happened when I rocked to the lyrics I wrote back in this post. You can get "MK Gets Smoked" here, and you can also grab the hamburger song, and, in future, maybe more rock.

Listen, and then come back here and rant. This blog needs Q&A. I have answers for everything. My answer for most things, this week anyway, is more rock.

On another note, kaiser de blog pointed me toward this guy, who writes about being a lawyer. Read if you like, but the part I liked best was when he responded to the question, "Q. Would you go go law school and take a job with your firm if you had it to do over?" with, "Knowing what I know now, I'd probably spend more time practicing the guitar". I hear you, usedtoberockerturnedlawyerwhoisslowlywitnessingthedeathofhissoul, I hear you.

Love Stories

2004-07-22T22:07:00.000-06:00

I've heard a lot of love stories lately. I've read them, listened to them, seen them in a movie, and watched them unfold. The soundtrack to all of this has been the three volume set of 69 Love Songs by The Magnetic Fields, an ambitious project in it's own right. Last night, I watched State and Main, a movie about love, purity, and second chances. Today, I got a package from the girl I love. Inside was a present wrapped in Christmas paper. Inside that was a white shirt from the GAP, a picture, a receipt, and wrinkled piece of computer paper written on with green magic marker. I liked the wrapping paper, the shirt, the picture, and even the receipt. But the thing I loved was the way the green writing got bigger as it went, and ended with the same lopsided heart that's makes its way onto whatever she touches. But this post isn't about me. Nor is it about love. It's about love stories.

I talked with MK today, about crying at movies. Maybe not crying, but just, you know, tearing up a bit, as he put it. Weeping like a baby, as I put it. Why do we cry at love stories? Why do we cry at stories at all? Do we cry because we are so sad or happy for the characters we follow on-screen or on the page? We may. But then why is it that we can go years, seeing the most touching emotional movies, not shedding a tear, and then, for some reason, a certain moment, or song, or look, or word, can wet those long-dry cheeks? Do we really cry for the characters' story, or do we cry for ours? Do we want what they have? Do we remember what we had? Do we imagine that someday, in some place, with someone, and some time, we will be there, with that song, and that feeling, and it will be that perfect? Or, do we just imagine that - only to then realize its impossibility. We are not them, their story is not ours; so we cannot have their perfect moment. Is that why we cry? I like to believe that we cry when we see a story that we want to be ours, and it gives us hope, and that makes us happy, and we cry. Not all tears are that kind though, and not all stories have happy endings. Some tears are not happy, but all tears have stories.

I wrote a love story; it's in a song. It's about a boy and a girl - but it doesn't have to be. The story has a beginning, when they are born, a middle, when everything happens, and an ending, when they die. In between, many things happen - there is pain, joy, pleasure, excitement, and anger. I've tried to live the story, but I keep losing my place. I've tried to sing the story, but it doesn't have any words. It only has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Right now is the middle. It is easy to dwell on the ending and wish for a new beginning, but, Margaret says, "true connoisseurs, however, are known to favor the stretch in between, since it's the hardest to do anything with".

Watching movies

2004-07-21T00:49:00.000-06:00

You know what's crap? When people do other things while watching a movie, that's what. Particularily when they are watching a movie they haven't seen before. Even more particularily when I, who have seen the movie before, am NOT doing anything else and am trying to concentrate on the movie, and want them to concentrate on the movie so when it's over, I don't have to explain everything. And finaly, it is especially crap when we could have been watching a different movie, that I hadn't seen before, and the multi-tasker had seen before, and would clearly have been the more logical option since the movie was a clear second priority for said multi-tasker anyway, and the only reason we were watching what we were watching was because said mult-tasker wanted to see it - only to multi-task through it. Crap. All crap.

Nevertheless, even for the second time, The Butterfly Effect is a suprisingly good and interesting flick, and I enjoyed it, despite all of the crap steaming from the direction of said multi-tasker.

Oh, and another thing that is crap is people who, for some reason unbeknownst to me, don't like either About a Boy or Love Actually - both of which are increadible flicks, the former of which is made even better by a soundtrack that can easily be considered a simply outstanding stand-alone album, and the latter of which has one of the most brilliant and beautiful scenes in film, involving one of the most brilliant and beautiful woman in film. The crap only gets crappier when someone doesn't like these films because they don't like movies with brittish accents. I mean, holy crap.Just because a beautiful girl with a brittish accent reaches a level of sexy american girls just can't muster and a smart guy with a brittish accent just sounds smarter, doesn't mean you shouldn't like brilliant movies. In fact, not liking brilliant movies is crap.

I may sound pissed, but I'm not. Despite all of the crap I encountered tonight, I can still rest assured that the three movies I have discussed are NOT crap, which lets me sleep well at night. All this craptalk is just craptastic, but I think if this post went on any longer it would be the biggest crap of all, so until tomorrow when I get up at 7:30 to fix my car and watch the burliest time trial on earth, scribbs...is out.

Blog-nazi strikes again...

2004-07-19T23:50:00.000-06:00

Blog-nazi blitzkrieged, but before he takes over all euroblog, he better read this. The rest of you should to, as it has something to do with some of my recent posts about my blog's complicationing.

I'm not prepared to say whether or not I agree, but to be honest, where does this lady get off calling herself Miss Manners and writing column about how people ought to behave at or with various things? Nevertheless, it seems like most people could use a bit of advice since their common sense seems to be lacking. Whatever, blogging has slowed down to make room for rocking. Recording is the next step. Maybe I should audblog my rough ideas, using the telephone. Curious. Stay tuned for more blog, more rock, and more success.

I Wanna Rock

2004-07-18T00:12:00.000-06:00

I missed Jack Black's flick in the theatres, but I did just watch it in my basement with the speakers lights down and the speakers up, and to be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I've ever seen a better movie. Different movies, yes. Movies just as good, yes. Better movies, no. Jack black, and the whole cast, includig the kick ass 10 year-old musicians who make up the band, were all fantastic. Jack Black deserves an Oscar. I've never seen one be so crucial to a movie as he was. Nor have I ever seen an actor play a part that would be so clearly impossible for anyone but him. Jack rocked. The movie rocked. The kids rocked. Ned, the whipped roommate rocked. The principal rocked. Everything and everyone rocked...except Ned the whipped roomate's uberbitch of a girlfriend, who did the opposite of rock (bp), but, the fact that her "success" and "stability" clearly went hand in hand with her bitchiness and that all of this culminated in her being the grinch who stole rock, rocked. I'm not even going to try to explain all of the things that rocked in this movie, because it would take forever, and result in a blog that most certainly, would NOT rock.

Instead, I am going to talk about how much I rock. Or, rather, how much I WANT to rock, after seeing School of Rock. I dusted off the guitar, unwound the powercord, fired up the fuzzbox, and started rocking. I rocked to old songs, I rocked to new songs, I wrocked to my own songs. I even rocked to the words I wrote here, and that, let me tell you, rocked hard. The movie made me feel alive again. It was like an anthem for The Success Blog, a shining beacon of light that leads the way to the real success - not one of riches and glamour and status, but of expression, feeling, and truth - just like the real rock. Jack Black, just like his character, was born to rock. In a way, I think, or at leats, I hope, that each of us, perhaps less literaly, is also born to rock. Unfortunately, most of us "outgrow" our rocking habbits and dreams and desires and wind up with no hopes and no life. That is truly unrock. I say, pick up a guitar and write a song, pick up a keyboard and write either a song or a blog, and pick up a pen and write a declaration of rock independence (not to be confused with indy-rock dependence), and stick it to the man until he's done good and stuck, and then, find the new man, and stick it to him.

Nothing Is Simple

2004-07-17T00:07:00.000-06:00

Blogspot just did a bit of an update and now it is easier to format your posts without using html, but don't let this "convenience" confuse you - blogging is getting complicated. Secrets have escaped, relationships tested, rivalries fought, and feelings hurt. In my dreams, my blog was never an instrument of harm; but, as is so often the case with the modern wonders of man, even the most peaceful can prove the most potent and destructive. For the demons I have released, and the damage I have done, I apologize - I knew not what I did. However, with time comes experience, and with experience wisdom, and with that, come words. Thus, I'm forced to return to a topic of old that I left not so long ago, and begin to explain my blog, my thoughts, and myself.

First, though I may be the "administrator", or, as I prefer, "orchestrator" of The Success Blog, I am not its creator. It is created by what I read, what I see, where I go, and who I talk to. Nothing here is truly original, and that's the way I like it. The blog is a reflection of my daily influences - often with very little filtering at all. Unfortunately, as the warm waters of my daily influences meet the cold waters of the very blog they influence, the ocean begins to rumble. This, is the problem.

Some have chosen to get around this problem by hiding their blog, trying to separate the influences from their product. This may work, for a while, or even forever - but it may not. I've chosen not to take that route. A blog is open to everyone, so my blog is open to anyone. Come one, come all. If you don't like it, don't stay. In ways, this puts limits on what I can and can't say. I would like to be able to draw an infallible line between my blog and my life, and thus suffer no "life" consequences for "blog" actions. Unfortunately, I've already learned that that is, however ideal, impossible. In ways, this may seem to limit my freedom. Perhaps only a truly hidden, and therefore, truly isolated blog could afford complete honesty and sovereignty. Maybe, but for me, I think I can come very close to absolute freedom without such annonimity. I've said what I've said because, for some reason, it cought my eye. It captured my mind or sparked a tiny little something inside that wanted to explore it and share it with others.

I will admit, that for a while, I probably made assumptions about who would read the blog and who wouldn't. That was a mistake, but as I look back, I don't think I would have changed anything. I have never written anything I wasn't comfortable with anyone reading, and to be honest, that is a relieving feeling. The problem is, I am bound to cause problems. Talking about things that affect the people reading them always causes problems. I don't want to cause problems. I especially don't want to cause problems for other people. At the very least, if I must truly accept the blurring of the lines between blog, its author, and me, then let me, the author of this blog, hear your concerns. In fact, that brings me to another point. There should be more comments to read. A blog without comments is like a singer without backup, and while some people can pull that off, I'm just not that good at singing. All I'm trying to do is just take notice of things, maybe think about them a little bit, and share them. It's just all getting too complicated. I want to blog more, about other things, like the several movies I've seen recently, but now I'm just too stressed out. Tonight I go to sleep, tomorrow I hike, and then, perhaps, I can begin to try to tell you how hard School of Rock rocks.

Oh, and about Avril, I couldn't tell you a damn thing, other than that the name of her album is evidently Complicated just like this nonsensebusybitchingpicturestealingliferuining
painintheasstimeconsumingsleeptakingsoulstealingpissingeveryoneoff BLOG.

The Hair Guy

2004-07-14T20:15:00.000-06:00

I can't lose my hair. Before we get into that though, some background. I don't normally consider myself a very vain person, or someone at all "up" on the latest styles and fashions - hell, throughout high school, kicked white socks under my Tevas and it didn't bother me a bit. Until I met JZ I was an uberdork with uberbad style. Now, I'm an uberdork with uberbad style in a JCrew shirt. The point is, however, that none of that matters. Not to me, because I, am a hair guy.

Mine is blond. It used to be white, like, really white, now, some say it's getting to be "dirty" blonde, or even "light brown". Well, that's crap. It's blonde - beautiful, shiny, brilliant, blonde. If you try to knock it, it clearly means you are jealous and for that, I'm sorry. I'd let you into the club if I could, but then we're back to the problem of letting everyone in and losing the club's coolness, and we just can't have that. So for now, I will be blonde, and if you aren't, you will just be sorry.

The thing is, I have a problem. I mean, sure, I sound confident, perhaps even cocky, up front, but behind this beautiful head of hair is a bald head - and that's just not cool. What if I lose it? I think it's receding. I can't tell for sure. But on the right, just above my right eye, it seems to go way back. Did it go back that far before? Then, I got sunburned on the top of my head the other day, though, I think, that always happens if your hair is short, even when I was a kid. Didn't it? I've been over the whole father's mother or mother's father or monkey's uncle thing before, and they're all bald, so that doesn't seem to bode well. But, do blondes go bald? No, they don't. Do they? When was the last time you saw a blonde bald guy. How can you tell, if he's bald? Shit. Fuck. i don't want to go bald. I don't want to be kicked out of the club, I don't want my shiny white head to be naked for all to see. I want my hair. I need my hair. But what can I do? Rogaine? Surgery? Do I even have a problem? Maybe everything is ok. Maybe my hair will stay, and with it, my swerve, and with that, my confidence, and with that, my success, and with that, my life. But what if the hair goes? No! Won't all the rest go with it? Will it? Yes. It can't. it might. It won't. It will. No. I can't lose my hair. I will just have to keep my hair. Please hair, please?

There's more. It's not all about me. Well, actually, it is all about me, but it's not always about MY hair. It's also about other people's hair - girls' hair. There are two kinds of hair for girls: long hair, and bad hair. Now, I don't mean really long, like those sketch people who never cut it and trip over their own hair, that's nothing but gross. I mean long as opposed to short. Shoulders is fine. Anything less - not fine. I'm not saying women can't cut their hair short. I'm just saying women can't cut their hair short and still be beautiful. With an incredible body, they might be able to eek out "hot", and maybe, with the right look, maybe even squeeze out a weak "cute", but beauty is the whole package, and it takes long hair to get it. JZ's got it, and it's good. Natalie Portman used to have it, and it was good. Now she looks like a prepubescent boy, and is off the list. Short hair, short relationship - it's over. Simple as that. You don't think that's fair? Not my problem; go whine about it over a bucket of ice cream with your girlfriends.

Hair is key. Someone ran across a girl who must have been an old secret admirer. She knew everything about me; I've never heard of her. A year younger, a grade behind. "She's cute, and nice," they said. "Hair?" I said. "Short," they said. Bitch, please. Look, I'm not trying to be some sort of chauvinist, judging girls based on their bodies - in many ways, that's just plain wrong. Hell, I'm not even judging girls on hair color; I know not everyone can have my hair, and that's fine. In fact, I'd like to refrain from passing judgment on anything that is out of someone's control, because that's just not fair. Hair, however, IS within someone's control, and don't tell me your hair is short because you have a naturally low metabolism. I'm not going to think you are a bad person, or think less of you, or anything like that - you just won't be a hottie. If you are ok with that, then so am I.

I realize, at the end of this post, which has become a bit more judgmental and course than I had at first hoped, that you may try to point out that wouldn't it be perfectly fair, by my own rules, to judge me and "downgrade" me if I were to say, lose my hair? Well, yes. It would be perfectly fair, and seeing as my hair is all I've got, I'd be downgraded to the gutter. The Sultan of Suck, the Emperor of Ugly. Thus, as you must surely realize, the point remains, I can't lose my hair.

Lakers' 21 Run

2004-07-14T01:29:00.000-06:00

Tonight was Lakers' b'day. Not the Shaq-less, Phil-less, Coach K-less Lakers, but rather just another girl from L-town whom I'll call Lakers. So really, this is just another post that has nothing to do with the picture. We went to downtown. It was pretty down, but to be honest, that was nice and relaxing compared to my last couple town experiences which were either far too drunk or far to crowded. Anyway, I've recently read about worlds colliding. I can't say where, but I have, and tonight, in a way, I had two worlds collide. Not in the same way, but in a new, odd way, that I'm not sure what to make of.

Tonight, at a place that sounded strangely like the "whore house", the real world met a part of what was, until now, only part of the blog world. It wasn't nearly the same kind of earth-shaking event that's been gracing the blog-nazi's blog, but nevertheless, it was a little strange as I sat there in a group that included what had been, to me, only an acronym. What troubles me, is that in some way, that I don't really like or feel comfortable with, I didn't like it. It was like seeing a movie made from a book you really like - it just never comes out the way you expect. Worse, it sort of takes away from your own freedom to create a character the way you see them. To be honest though, I don't really mind, and actually, it adds a nice personal touch to reading a blog. My biggest issue is that I can't very well call someone an acronym. Particularly one that they don't know (I don't think) they are being called. Which brings me to my next point...

Inside blogtalk? What happens when there are hidden blogs? Anonymous blogs? What happens when those blogs become unhidden, but only to a few? Well, inside blogtalk happens. Like an inside joke, but not really telling a joke. Sometimes, funny, but without a joke. Kind of like Bush - sometimes funny, but because he told a joke. Anyway, tonight, there was inside blogtalk. It's a bit like talking about a story in front of the very characters that are in the story, but they don't know they're in it...if that made any sense. It's all very strange, and it's all still worlds colliding, I like that. I suppose it comes down to the simple childhood fun of being in a club. I would say that everyone should be in the club, but then, the club wouldn’t be any fun, so consider yourself lucky, for you, are in the club.

I've joined another club lately too - a new, trendy, and I believe, good, club The Livestrong Bracelet club. For just a dollar you can get one of these cool and stylish rubber bracelets and then you will be in the club too. There are certain things that line up with other things in life and because of it, they can take on a much greater meaning than they ever would alone. For me, this yellow strip of made-in-china silicon happens to be one of those things, and it's a club I'm glad to be in. I've got JZ to thank for initiating me, and I really do love the girl...even if I can kick her ass at soccer.

The Monday Night Blues

2004-07-13T00:38:00.000-06:00

there is a spider?!
wait, no question mark
there IS A spider
christ
fuck i need to kill the spider
i don't know
but its in a corner
i dont have a good shot
you dont know?
ill be back
i have a mission!?

right
Godspeed
.
.
.
.
.
fuuuuuuck!
i opened up the closet door
to get a weapon!
and thre was another one !!!
egad!
holy shit
im under attack
i killed that one though
but ive still got the one hiding i the corner
im going to try a ski pole
but i dont want it to get away
there is a crack
christ
i think tahts where it might ahve come fomr
ok
here we go
not good
NOT GOOD

close
with the ski pokle
i struke
i thought i hit
Wadobut miss
it moved
but only a bit
i thought it was hurt
i thought i had him
i struck again
a quick, fierce jab
perhaps too firce
fierce?
i missed
it ran

it ran toward me!
fast!
i ran
i lept down the stairs

it was at the top
i cleared 6 steps
turned around
here it came
lightening fast

[The last message was not sent because you are over the rate limit. Please wait until sending is re-enabled and send the message again.]

right
i went over the rate limit. fuck.
anyawy

it ran, but i had only the ski pole!! how could i hit it on the move~!?
it ducked through the banister
dow the wall
to the corner!
with teh saxophone!
behind it~!
behind lots of stuff!
i put on shoes
held a big plastic bat
and started moving the instruments
but no spider
its not there
but its somewhere
where~!>?!!1
ive got to find it
got to keep looking
.
.
.
alright
well
while you're doing that
i'm gonna go to bed
gotta get on a plane tomorrow
so
ah
good luck
with the whole spider thing

Correction

2004-07-12T01:15:00.000-06:00

So I screwed up my last post. MK brought to my attention the fact that the guy in the picture, with the hottie, actually IS the fat, older, Brazilian Ronaldo. The younger, Portuguese one is the guy in this picture above. Well, shit. I thought about changing it, but really, that just didn't seem right, so just pretend that the guy in the armani is actually the younger, smaller, bring-more-funk-ier, Cristiano Ronaldo who plays for Man U. The second picture, by the way, really is the right Ronaldo, wearing his Man U jersey.

In an attempt to make this post slightly more than just a correction, here's some ideas I'm toying with for future posts, just to keep you interested:

1. Lance "I got too popular for my wife, but I am still the most badass and inspiring athlete around today" Armstrong.
2. Pete "Selling beer is like being a senator" Coors
3. Why hockey is better than baseball, football, basketball, and soccer.
4. My hair
5. Me not having a job, then thinking I was going to have a job, then not having a job
6. Halo
7. My thoughts on what to do about starting a blog that may have information which must be kept from certain eyes, and why it shouldn't keep someone from blogging.
8. Fondue restaurants

Let me know what you would like to hear about, and rest assured that your comments will likely have no bearing oncesoever on what I finally write. Peace, y'all.

Scribbs = Footballa'

2004-07-11T16:03:00.000-06:00

Yes, I am a foot-baller, but we will get to that in a minute - after we discuss another footballa'. The guy wearing Armani on the left is Ronaldo - not the overweight Brazilian Ronaldo, but the 19 year-old, Portuguese, teen heart-throb, throwing down mad funk Ronaldo. The girl on his right is some hot model. All of this brings me to my most recent football success - one complete with Ronaldo-like funk.

Now, as I have mentioned before in a mess of introspection, I've recently taken up soccer. It's not entirely fair to say "taken up", as I did play rec soccer as a kid nearly a decade, but seeing as I was unquestionably the worst kid on every team (aside from the mentally handicapped kid on my 5th and 6th grade teams), I think it's fair to say that I'm starting from scratch. My motivation for such a foolish undertaking can seen here, but that aside, I'm really getting into it.

Thus motivated, and getting ever better at juggling, I went to the park with JZ for a little kick-around the other day. She played soccer at her crazy athletic high school, and though skirtedly admits that she played a speed and aggression game, not exactly a skill one, talks the talk pretty big about having played soccer competitively and this and that - all of which was meant to intimidate yours truly. Well, I wanted to see what she had. We kicked it around a bit, tried some juggling, made some passes, pretty rudimentary stuff. Then, I decided it was time for a little one on one. I drive - slow, controlled, alert. Deek left...deek right...back left...he's free! Incredible! "FOUL!" Wha? "You just through me off the ball with your arm! Foul. My turn." Well, yes, there was some contact, but what is this girls' soccer? Anyway, I played the good sport, said it didn't count, and lined up for defense. She comes in, step-over, another step-over, step-back-over. Oh, come on. Finally she makes her move, tries to go between the legs, I read it perfectly, blocked, ball bounces back, hits her leg, back to me, right shin, her, left foot, ball squirts free, she chases, gets there, I'm right on her.."Hahahahaha! I won!" Wha? You won? But I'm still here! And even if you do say you got by, look how messy it was? "I won, haha. See?" (a little dance ensues) Wow. Now it's on. There I was, with the ball, ready to go, the pressure on. My pride, my honor, my very manhood on the line. The pressure was intense. I go. Come in slow, pick up speed, quick jog, right foot steps over, right foot brings it back with the outside, heading hard right, , left foot comes in to bring it harder right, she bites, but no! No wait! Left foot doesn't make contact! It steps in front! Ball is hidden protected by the left leg! Right foot sweeps in finds the ball just behind the left leg, bring it under back to the LEFT! She's committed to the right, I sprint left, and I'm gone! Long gone! No contact, no chance! So clean! Incredible! How does the most reliable sweeper on the team look now? That's what I thought! No one can handle the funk from Scribbs!

A moment of joy, of athletic brilliance, of true artistry. I reveled.

Then, she tried to steal it from me. She said she didn't try. She said she wasn't REALLY playing. She said I had no skills! Bitch please. Don't take this from me. I beat someone, fair and square, and it wasn't even the retarded kid. I mean, look, my moment of brilliance might not qualify me to be Ronaldo, skinny or fat, but can't I at least have the small victory which I deserve? You know I love you JZ, but this time, I'm taking my moment, and I'm going to continue to revel, because there is no other term for what I threw down on that field, on that day, other than mad, mad, funk - brilliant, creative, and beautiful. Best thing in life: JZ. Fine. But the NEXT best thing in life: smokin' JZ with true footballa' skills. Hot damn.

Too long with no blogging...

2004-07-11T00:59:00.000-06:00

JZ left today, and I'm sad to see her go. I miss her already and will now have to wait until September to see her again. So it goes.

Now, as life settles back to its previous slow drone, and I find myself in quite a different situation than that which had burdened me in the earlier weeks of lazy summer. With a week of much action and little blogging, the idea jar is long past full and I simply have far more to blog than either I care to write, or you care to read. Thus, in this edition of the Success Blog, I truly will try to cut myself short.

First of all, I watched In America. Well, actually, I watched it some time ago, but I didn't have anything to say about it then, and I do now, so here it is. At one point, the dad in the movie, tries to win a little stuffed animal for his daughter at the fair. The goal is to get 7 balls through a hole in the wall. You pay your 4 bucks and get your 7 balls and go. The thing, is, no one makes all 7 balls - instead, you have to buy extra balls to finish off your 7. Each extra ball is twice the cost of the last ball - starting at 4 bones. Well, the Popa Irish does pretty well. He gets 5 out of the first 7 in. 4 Dollars. Another ball. Miss. 8 Dollars. Another ball. Miss. 16. Ball. Miss. 32. Ball. Hit! Ok, so you and me both are thinking this guy is nuts, the damn doll isn't worth this much money anyway. Well, there's an incentive to keep going. If you make your 7, you don't just get the ball - you get all your money back too. Shit. So dad-Irish is 64 bucks in the whole, has made 6 out of 7 balls, the next ball costs another 64, and the only money they've got left is the rent money. Just one more tense, gripping moment in a solid flick.

Anyway, the point of all this, is that when I first saw the movie, I thought the Dad was just being dumb. Number one rule at amusement parks: Don't play the money games for prizes. I went here, and played this, and 25 bones later, I had nadda to show for it. But, despite how badly I wanted to pull out every last bit of cash on me (including JZ's) I walked away after 25. It felt like shit. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. I wanted to kill the little punk-ass kid who kept showing me how easy it was. How long did it take you to master it? Oh? Just 4 or 5 times? Super! My 25 bills bought me 11 'almosts' and if you say one more thing kid, it might by you something too. If I had one once, I would have gotten a stuffed "Nemo" the size of me, and if I had managed to win twice, I could have scored an X-box. I realized though, that I didn't care about the prize. Maybe at the beginning. Maybe before I started I thought that surely I could win twice in 8 tries, and when I did, I would have a 20 dollar X-box. But after the first 5 bucks, I knew I wouldn't win twice, I just wanted one, and not for the Nemo-whale. I just wanted to win and show this little shit that he's not really that special after all. I wanted it sooooo bad. But, no dice. And in the end, I just feel like one more schmuck who wasted his money trying to win at dumb, impossible games. But, do I regret it? No. Sometime when I have some money, I'm going to go back and win - no matter the cost. Just to win. Maybe by that time, if I have that much money, I will also have a house big enough to fit that ginormous stuffed fish.

I had a plan when I started the game, and it didn't work - kind of like my plan when I started this post. I had intended to be short and brief, bringing you through the whirlwind week that has only just ended, instead, you got a big long blog about an amusement parks, Irish families, and big fish. Well, that just goes to show that the author is like a shitty fast-food employee. You just never know what you are going to get...

...and you damn well didn't know you were going to get anything quite that dumb to end this blog...or did you?

Blogs, Books, and Bookstores

2004-07-07T16:22:00.000-06:00

It's been a popular trend in literature to follow mankind's steady acceleration. Science fiction traces our technical advances, historical novels remind us of the slower times of long ago, and socially critical novels often point directly to the tragic effects of our newfound speed its resulting isolation, insensitivity, and creativity.

An older, wiser, Fahrenheit-titled critique, for example, paints a ridiculous picture of cars so speedy that roadside signs must be hundreds of yards long with enormously wide letters, so that we can read them as we fly by at speeds which deny any attention to any surroundings not similarly augmented. For Bradbury, the acceleration of travel came hand in hand with the acceleration of life - the result being a world entirely too fast (among other things), for books.

Well, here we are in 2004, and though we still have books, they too, like our cars and our modems, have sped up. We devoured the Dan Brown books, with their 2-page chapters and constant cliffhangers. We make more and more books into movies; condensing, changing, and often castrating. Blogs themselves are a sign of our new speed. They are written without a great deal of time and care, and read much the same way. We want immediacy. I stop writing for a few days to climb mountains with JZ and you all stop reading. I don't blame you; it's a fierce world with fierce competition. If I don't provide that immediate fix, someone else will.

I wonder if even John Grisham will be able to keep up with the rapid-fire output of the blogging community. Will a new book every 6 months be enough? What if other authors just decide to blog their books, for a subscription, or worse yet, for free. That way, we can read it mere minutes after they write it. What an adventure, for both author and reader - neither knowing exactly where the story will go, both waiting with baited breath. Victorians would wait each month for the new chapter in the latest Dickens novel, relishing each word, even though each chapter had what would now be considered an action-to-word ratio entirely too small. Dan Brown writes a page and the main character has traveled hal-way around the world, cracked a code, been shot at, and flirted with a beautiful woman. A page of Great Expectations gets you half-way into the simple fears of a boy named Pip. I'll let you decide which you'd rather read.

With the speed of the books, so increases the speed of our choosing them. Amazon, Borders, Barnes and Noble. Buy books online. No need to sit down and feel it, to read the first chapter, to smell it - we have reviews! And stars! 5 stars. Good review. 76 positive reviews and only 13 negative. It's a buy. Oprah's book club. Buy. People who bought this book also bought that book. Buy. One more book to get free shipping. Buy. Wait, why am I getting all these books that I will have to read. DVDs. Buy. Buy. Buy. Is this good? It's cheaper, certainly. I bought a whole list of books online. Shipped for Free. I needed them, no choice - saved a lot of money. Was that good?

I went to a bookstore today - a real bookstore. It was old, a little messy, and it had a funny smell. Strange people worked in the bookstore, and strange people sat in its chair reading strange books. The people were like the chairs which were like the building which were like the books - old, new, unmatched, individual, quirky, all different, each looking for something or someone different. I was able to pick up a book, sit down for a while, and really read it. Read the cover, the back, the preface, the introduction, the first chapter, the dedication. Then, I picked up a new one and did the same. I could just walk around, waiting for a book to catch me, to call me over, to say pick me up. I didn't need to know what I was looking for - I didn't want to know. I was free - and it was good.

In the end though, I didn't buy a book. I had one. I liked it. I wanted to read it. But I didn't by it. Was it because I have so much else to read already in the coming months? Was it because I could just try to check it out at my local library? Or, was it because I knew that if I wanted, I could go home, hop online, and order the very same book for less money? I don't know exactly why I didn't buy it. I hope it wasn't the last reason. I don't intend to order it online; I would hope that I would be willing to spend a couple extra bucks to thank my local bookstore for the wonderful opportunity it affords me and the chance to find books the way books are meant to be found. I regret not buying the book, but there will be other days, and other bookstores, and other books.

In the end, however, I believe that it's important to remember that often times, the best thing about speeding everything up is being able to slow it back down. Thoreau understood this best, and the things he learned by just slowing down are available to all of us. They are not difficult to see, or to understand, but to the distracted, the busy, and the overly-focused, they are all but invisible. Go to a bookstore, a real one, walk around, take the books off the shelf, sit down and read them, feel them out and let them feel you out, and if you find one that fits, buy it. That amount of money will likely be easy to save, and in doing so, you will probably free up some time for reading or some other healthier activity than whatever it was that would have cost you that money. Now, if I could just follow my own damn advice...

Two kinds of people

2004-07-07T00:11:00.000-06:00

So there's two kinds of people - lyric people, and music people. There may be a third kind - that listens to neither lyrics nor music, and doesn't see "listening to music" as a viable stand-alone activity - but for my purposes, I really just don't care what those people think.

Anyway, back to music lovers, and their listening habits. I, for one, am a music person. Maybe it comes from playing music, maybe I spend so much time thinking about words in writing that I tune out words in waves. Either way, there's no denying it: I don't listen to lyrics. It's not that I don't hear vocals, I do. I sing along. I even know some of the words, from hearing them so many times. But, even if I can sing along to the whole damn song, the fact that those words are conveying a meaning just never really registers with me until someone points it out. Don't ask me why, I don't know. The point is, I listen for the sound, not the message.

There are other people who are quite different. They immediately tune into the words, the story, the statement. They tell me how great a song is - because of such and such a line or a certain idea. And that's great - just not for me. It takes so much effort for me to try to think about the words, I can stay busy for weeks just listening to the sounds on a good album, without touching the lyrics. Nevertheless, there are a lot of lyric people out there, you know who you are.

I'm certainly not saying that each group is exclusive. Certainly, the lyric people dig a good groove, and, when I finally notice them, I greatly appreciate a witty wordsmith. After all, wordsmithing, and mainly, the study of wordsmithing, is what I do. What is really great, however, is when a lyric person really loves a song, or a record, or an artist, and a music person happens up on the same conclusion, from a different perspective. That points to a truly solid piece of work.

What's the point of all this? What have we learned about lyric people and music people? I don't know. I've noticed that many of my posts take a somewhat idyllic and sweepingly broad turn at the end, trying to transpose the subject of the blog to another level, finally commenting on society or life. Well, I've decided that's kinda wack, so this time, all you get is that there's two kinds of people - lyric people, and music people.

To the hills...

2004-07-03T22:01:00.000-06:00

Blogging has been neglected lately every since JZ got into town. Picked her up at the airport Thursday afternoon, came home, at some din din, packed the car, and headed for the hills. It feels good to get away. From people, from the internet, from the phone. From concrete and cars and commercials. I mean, yes, site 42 was stuck right between the bathroom and the pack of screaming 5 year-olds, and was the only site left for a reason, but hey, we made the fucking best of it. We did get to see the guy from across the way carry his 5 gallon bucket of piss and shit from his camper over and dump it out in the bathroom - three times. And yes, it was bloody fucking cold at night, and blood fucking hot in the day, but the air was, at least a little bit, clearner up there. We were going to wake up at the crack of dawn and climb a Colorado 14er before we came home today, but at 6:30 in the morning, still in the ass-cold stage, there was no way I was getting out of the tent, packing everything up, and climbing my ass off. So, we waited for the sun to sweat us out of the tent, and stopped by the City Market before heading home. Foturnately, everyone, their dog, and even their bratty kids were heading the other direction on the raceway to the mountains, and we sailed home without event. At this stage, I ought to comment on our time, on the things I saw, on using the self-checkout line 4 times in the last 3 days, but I really have nothing to say. I saw spiderman 2, and it was good, but Donnie Darko is still the only super-hero movie for me. JZ reads a lot; it's kinda annoying, because her book is clearly more intersting than me, but hey, I'm not going to try to deny that, and this way, I have time to blog. I also had time to read a couple blogs, and I give up. I'm outblogged. Whatever, I'm ok with that. The Success blog doesnt have to be the best to succeed. Maybe that is just my lazy-boy attitude - lowering my expectations to match reality. Fuck it, what if it is? Maybe now's just not my time. I haven't seen the flick, but I heard this big in the Legend of Bagger Vane, or whatever his name is. Anyway, Will Smith tells somebody that they can't go out and make the perfect golf shot, you've got to let it find you. Well, I like that, but I'm worried that it's too easy to say, "I'm waiting to be found." Sometimes, it works. I 'waited to be found' by a girl for 19 years, and then, low and behold, I was found - and it was great. Still is great, in fact. But that's just not going to happen with everything. Some things, you got to go get. So, tomorrow, I'm leaving again. Gonna go climb that mountain. Then maybe just kick it and relax. Who knows, tomorrow's Independence Day, maybe I will turn out more dependable. I hate it when one thing follows another. Life is better when things just happen. Thing, Thing, Thing. No connections. Just one after another. They tell a story, and they have an order, but it's not logical. What IS logical, is Good Times, and those custard spoonbenders. Damn, good shit. Well, I'm going to go make JZ stop reading, because I'm going to stop writing, and I can't possibly write as fast as she reads. When things don't make any sense, keep the chage. One thing after another. Keep on truckin'.

Politics, the Flag, and America

2004-06-30T16:20:00.000-06:00

The Success Blog is becoming too political - not in content, but it form - and to me, at this time, in this country, most things political don't find close kinship with the things I call successful. Lets give fewer answers and ask more questions. What would that lead to?

In this picture, the American flag looks backwards. But what does that really mean? A flag, after all, is two-sided, and unless it is symmetrical along its vertical axis, any flag will look different from one side than from the other. So is this flag backward or are we just seeing it from a new perspective. Is the wind blowing the wrong way? Would this picture be more correct if I simply reversed it, so that the stars and stripes stream out to the right, as they should. Or should they? Do we like the flag-pole on the left because it is how we read our books - anchored on the left and free-wheeling on the right? Our terms for politics and lifestyles seem to be the reverse. In Japan, do they like their pictures of flags like this? So it matches their books? Do they care? The Japanese have a nice symmetrical flag - it's never the wrong direction. Does that reflect something about their culture? Can a flag really tell us something about the people it represents? The Japanese flag is the same from all sides. Are the Japanese people? Is Japan? Did Betsy Ross decide that Americans were pretty damn complicated, and they needed a pretty damn complicated flag? Does the flag look different from all sides because we, as people and as a nation, look different from all sides? Or, was Ms. Ross simply handier with thread and needle than her Asian counterpart? Possible. All possible. But unlikely. The two-sided nature of our flag probably has nothing to do with the two-sided nature of our politics, our lifestyles, and our morals. It probably has nothing to do with why, as Michael Barone writes in the latest US N&WR, "the world's most egalitarian nation allow such a yawning gap between rich and poor". It is probably unrelated to whatever it is that lets a nation of immigrants striving for inclusiveness "square with its history of division and racial strife". The asymmetrical pattern of stars and stripes probably goes no further than its representation of the 13 original colonies and 50 states that we learned in elementary school. Even so, it seems an apt icon for understanding the duality of our nation and how, from one side, we are made to appear just, good, and peaceful, while from the other, we are hopelessly backwards and hypocritical. Are these views really of the same thing? Are we all loking at the same flag? Probably not. Unfortunately, politcs is not as simple as a flag. Even a complex flag such as ours, that looks backward from one side, but frontward from the other, is clean and simple compared with the thick allusions and layers of politics.

The flag in the picture, with the sun shining through it, could easily be a symbol for democracy. Each side looks different, but both have the same 13 stripes and the same 50 stars. While you will always find yourself on one side of the flag or the other, neither side is impenetrable to light, and it is impossible to be one side, looking, without having some idea of what the other side must be seeing. Many people will still view one side of the flag as forwards, and the other as backwards, but no one will be able to get rid of either side without losing their own. The politics, like the flag, would be transparent, or, at least, translucent, and no one could use it to hide. I suppose that in an ideal democracy, the flag wouldn't be merely two-sided. The greens would have a side, and the independents, and the workers, and maybe Nader would like a side all to himself, and that would be ok. There would be as many sides as there were people who wanted one - and they would always be there, and none of them could be removed without it affecting the whole flag. It's hard to picture a flag with that many sides that were all connected mirrored; and sadly, it’s equally as hard to imagine a government of the same kind. Yet our flag, with all of its simple complexity, and it's humble two sides, could be a start. At the very least, it might make someone think - and we could all use more of that.

Look...

2004-06-30T13:31:00.000-06:00

Recently, I've been taking some flak. Who knew, but that Lindsay post got everyone all riled up. Seriously, everyone needs to calm down. Nevertheless, in the 12 hours since the Lindsay post, the following things have happened:

1. The long-term lady-friend almost told me to get long-term lost.
2. The blog-nazi flipped his shit and gave me the blog-bird, twice.
3. My most faithful reader, and, as I will soon explain, the leading contributor of ideas outside of myself, has decided that he likes the blog-nazi's blog better, and thus, will take his patronage elsewhere.

The first issue, thankfully, has been resolved. The second, I don't mind, and find rather funny. The third, well, let's talk about the third, because coolwater, the guy who started a blogspot ID just so he could post comments but has no desire to start a blog, is the reason for this whole mess. He is the one who suggested Lindsay, not you, blog-nazi. He even selected the damn pictures, miss long-term lady-friend and love of my life. If anyone wants to eat strawberries with Lindsay, it's him, not me.

Now, I will admit, that despite his influence, this is my blog, and I ought to be responsible for what goes on here. And, as we have been over before, the blog-nazi blogged - then I blogged. Yes, our layouts are similar. Yes, my blog looks like a black-background version of his blog. And yes, maybe The Success Blog really is the evil twin version of The ***** Blog. But I'll be damned if I stand for having my blog called "the shitty Sham Blog that has stolen everything from my blog and given absolutely nothing back". I mean, really. That's just not true. I clearly haven't stolen everything.

I'm getting tired of this blogwarring. It makes me want to eat cake. All I want is to be able to write what I want, when I want, and not get in trouble for it. I thought that was the whole point of the blog. I don't want everything to be mortally serious. I want to be able to be a character. Maybe that is the problem. I have been so inconsistent in the attitude and point of view from which my blogs come, that the reader has no choice but to see me, the author, as the narrator, when really, each new post has a different narrator, none of which are really me. Is that what you don't like, coolwater? Do I seem dishonest? Am I dishonest? Who knows. Maybe I am. I just don't know anymore. Maybe if I broke up with JZ, the blog would be more entertaining. In fact, it definitely would be. But sorry readers, that's just not going to happen. I've found a source of happiness that not even blogging or hockey can top. And she's pretty damn cool. Nevertheless, in an effort to bare my soul and give my blog more of a storytelling feel, I may start a new "tales from scribb's past series". Plenty of buffoonery and embarassing moments there. For the next week or so, however, blogging may be sparse, JZ's comin' to town and we're headin' to the hills. Scribbs - out.

Michael, Lindsay, or the Real Deal

2004-06-29T19:21:00.000-06:00

So, Michael, I saw the flick. It was ok. I mean, you did good. I'm not going to vote for Bush. Of, course, I wasn't going to before the movie either, but yea, you've reinforced that I guess. As far making a reasonably entertaining documentary that might make some people think and re-evaluate how we look at our politicians, I say, not bad. It had some slow moments, some weak parts, some pretty flimsy arguments, but, it made me think, and it might make some other people think too, and for that. Good. People ought to see it. But really, when it comes right down to it, I'm just not really into talking about your film, Mike. If yo want to know what people think, you can just flip on MTV and watch that goofy MTV News guy go around and talk to people about it in the soda fountain. As for me, I'm just not feeling it.

What I am feeling, however, is Lindsay Lohan. The little kid that did double-duty as those two bratty kids in Parent Trap will soon turn 18 on July second and recently turned hot last year. Freaky Friday, Mean Girls, MTV Movie Awards - the girl got around. My question, as the target for mucho criticism for common masculine behavior toward TV hotties from the long-term lady-friend, is this: what exactly is it that I, and I think I can say, we, feel for Lindsay? For that matter, for any insanely desirable and unceasingly attractive celebrity? Is it love? Lust? Like? Desire? Jealously that we don't have a girl like that? Is it really what they think it is? I mean, do I really sit in a movie theatre and see Lindsay Lohan and say, I wish that rather than being on-screen, Lindsay was sitting next to me instead of my date. No, wait. I wish Lindsay were on screen AND sitting next to me instead of my date. Yea...? Do I think that? Does anyone? Well, maybe. But to be honest, most of the time, and unless the said "date" is a real dud who is already seeing her last of me anyway, ALL the time, no, I don't think that. I don't want Lindsay to replace my date. I like my date, I may even love my date, and these are very different feelings from those which Lindsay inspires. While it may be true that, if given the chance to fulfill some sort of adolescent fantasy involving Lindsay, a bowl of strawberries, a can of whip-cream, and some Ruben, I'd find it hard to pass up, when the strawberry's were eaten the whip-cream was gone to wherever it went, I'd be the one singing Ruben's song and the girl who used to be my date probably wouldn't want to listen.

Here's the thing, I don't expect to ever even see Linsday Lohan, or NP, or EC, or any other celebrity heart-throb, and if I did, it would probably take away from their appeal. Not only would many of the sizzling stars not look nearly as perfect when not all done-up all the silver screen - though Lindsay must surely look even more delightful in real life - but the idea of even considering actually meeting or, even more unrealistic, dating Lindsay or Natalie is both intimidating and terrifying. Intimidating in a sexy way, for sure, but intimidating nonetheless. The point is, there are two different Lindsay Lohans. There is the Lindsay Lohan I see, and think about, and want to eat strawberries with. Then, there's the Lindsay Lohan that actually exists. The almost-18 year-old girl somewhere who, for all I know, is an uberbitch. I mean, she certainly doesn't seem like it, and let me tell you, MY Lindsay is NOT a bitch, in fact, she's perfect. But that is only MY Lindsay, and I will never see, or talk to, or date, MY Lindsay - because she doesn't really exist. The real Lindsay, for me, just isn't that exciting. I mean, I don't know her, and if I did, I would have to deal with all that publicity crap, and there is really no reason to think that she and I would get along. Not to mention the fact that she would be totally creeped out by my wanting to eat strawberries with her. But that's the important thing to remember! No strawberries with REAL Lindsay! Only with the Lindsay on the screen and in my mind. So, when I say I wouldn't trade a girl for any other in the whole world, I mean it; I don't want the real Lindsay, and the other Lindsay isn't really IN the world. See? It all makes perfect sense.

There's a problem though, and the problem is, girls are wack - which means...they will likely be jealous of even imaginary Lindsay. If you've heard of anything more wack than being jealous of an imaginary person, well, that'd be really wack. Nevertheless, that's the way things are, so it's up to me to explain why Lindsay (from now on, all "Lindsay"s will refer to MY Lindsay, the perfect one...) isn't a problem. For this, I'm going to need to borrow the topic of a post a while back from mindovermatter, archetypes. Now, I'm not saying that Lindsay is my archetype for the perfect girl and I'm just spending my youth hunting for a perfect replica. Nor am I recommending that anyone start trying to model their looks and behavior after her. Nor do I intend to measure the girls I date against a Lindsay Lohan ruler. Instead, MY Lindsay is a celebration of love, lust, beauty, and fun. Because she is archetypal, and has the flexibility that only a quasi-made-up person can have, she constantly reflects the beauties and traits of the real people that I search for, and luckily, have found, in life. There is no time when Lindsay is more beautiful than when she reminds me of my date. It may also be true that there is not time when my date is more beautiful than when she reminds me of Lindsay, but that too, only adds to intense feeling I can hold for that real person. Thus, my idea of Lidsay becomes not an archetype for the ideal girl, but for the ideal way to idolize a girl - to feel love, lust, like and desire for her. You see, the best thing about Lindsay, or any pretty face on TV, is that so much of her is what I make her to be. So when I, or any guy, sees Lindsay, he is not attracted so much to Lindsay, herself, as to an internal creation of his own ideal, which just happens to have Lindsay's incredible face. For me, I am lucky. When I see Lindsay, I see a reflection of the girl sitting next to me. Thus, everyone is already in the right place - when I look the screen, I see Lindsay; when I look to the side, I see the real deal; and when I close my eyes, I see both...at the same time. Snap!

Songs about people who will never know

2004-06-28T21:16:00.000-06:00

I read a recent post on another blog about a girl, on a bus, who helped a young kid, and in doing so, without ever knowing it, helped an old kid, and when he wrote it all down, helped anyone who happened to read it. Though she never knew it, this girl on the bus started a whole chain of emotion and response. She made someone's day. Made several someone's day - all while unawares. This reminded me of a song I heard a while back. The song accompaniment is simple guitar that never changes, and the recording is scratchy and low-quality, but Jeffery Lewis' 7 minute "Chelsea Hotel Oral Sex Song" is one of the best and most strangely captivating musical narratives I've ever heard. I won't try to tell the story of the song - that can only be had by listening to it - but it raises the issue of people singing songs about other people without those people knowing it. The same is true of the blogger who blogs about the girl on the bus whilst she is forever unaware. It's kind of sad, really. She will never hear the effect she had, he will never be able to tell her. The admiration, the thanks...the love? Untold, but, not unrecorded. No, not unrecorded. It's put down in words, put down in song, and while perhaps never read nor heard by the one who inspired it all, it's mere existence is cause for celebration. As Lewis says (and everyone should hear the full song),

because the next time you're feeling kind of lonesome and blue,
just think that someone somewhere might be singing about you.

Check it out, off the album, The Last Time I Did Acid I Went Insane - Jeffrey Lewis

Politics

2004-06-28T03:03:00.000-06:00

I'm sick of politics. I'm sick of pictures of Kerry on Bush's web site. I'm sick of black and white grain beside brilliant color. I'm sick of trying to decide if sending US troops into Iraq is right or wrong. I'm sick of having no respect for the leader of my country. I'm sick of not being able to make any decisions based on situations, but instead having to make all my decisions based on evaluations and characterizations. Bush is an idiot. Fine. I will see your movie Michael Moore, and I will believe you. Bush should not, under any circumstances be president of this country. But what if going into Iraq was right? What if it was the right thing for the wrong reasons. What are the real reasons? Are the reasons we are told the real reasons? Is Bush really a religious man? Does he really belive that all that matters is God's judgment? I don't want a president who believes that. What if he doesn’t believe that. What if he talks about God, and the Lord, and all that other bullshit because that is what 51% of Americans want to hear and that will win him an election. Does Kerry give a shit about the Catholic church? Is he really pro-choice? Or is he just a democrat? Is Bush really against abortion, or is he just a republican? Did we go into Iraq because we wanted to hunt down terrorists who came from elsewhere? Did we go to Iraq because we wanted more control of oil? Did we go to Iraq because 43 wanted to finish what 41 started? Maybe. But what if we went because isolationism doesn't fly anymore. What if it just fucking doesn't work to go through life dealing with only your own problems. What if it does? I don't know. I don't have a fucking clue. All I know, is that the issues that I want to know about are not the ones that anyone is talking about. In fact, who gives a shit why we went to Iraq. Who gives a shit if it was a good idea or a bad idea. It's done. We did it. Time to make new decisions. What decisions will you make Mr Bush? This is no time for pessimism. Oh, ok! How about you Mr Kerry, what decisions would you like to make? I am John Kerry and I endorse this message. I'm sick of having to blame myself. Why don't I know more about world affairs? Because I don't read. Why don't I read? Because I don't care. Why don't I care? Because it's all shit. All of it. Buy this, buy that. Do this, do that. Go to school, get a job, get married, have kids. Raise good kids. If you raise bad kids, you are a bad parent. If you are poor, you didn't work hard enough. Sack up. I rebel. I say, it's not so bad being poor. I mean, I don't care about money, just enough to live on will due. You know, just enough for food to eat, hot water, clothes to wear, an apartment, a way to get around, a tv, a computer, internet access, a telephone, a sweet bike, a new computer every 2.8 years, money for school, new soccer cleats, some video games, money for alcohol, money for a plane ticket to fly somewhere far away and pretend to live like a poor person in a poor country but all the while carry 400 dollars in traveler's checks in a hidden money-belt. Pick me! Pick me! I don't mind being poor. I will reject the pressures of consumerist society and live happily 20k a year. What about 20 meals a month? I've never needed anything in my life! Some people have, and then they died, because they didn't get it. I'm sick of thinking that. I'm sick of pretending that I don't care about money while I throw a G into a bike and another G into a computer so I can take my mind of things by escaping into another, pixilated, bloody world. I used to watch Behind the Music and get pissed off because all the rock stars had shitty things happen to them. I used to wish something shitty would happen to me so I could be a rock star. I'm an ass-hole I'd crack. Be thankful for what you've got, I say to myself. I try. I am. I'm sick of the chain of need. I'm sick of getting one thing, and needing another. I want to get rid of my fucking doormat so I don't have to shake it once a week. If I have a dirt floor, I won't need to sweep. But carpet is so soft! I'm sick of MTV. I'm sick of their constantly changing logos and transitions, and animations. I don't need that, just show me that OUTKAST video with the West Side Story flavor. I'm sick of Michael Moore. Wait, no. I'm not sick of Michael Moore. I'm sick of the fact that in order to make a biting commentary on a contemporary issue, all he has to do is use entirely real footage and stories and facts. I want him to have to make something up. I want him to take a little less direct root. I want to be able to think for a moment that he is NOT talking about us, now - but at the same time, know that he is. I'm sick of a lot of things. I want change.

I saw a commercial for the Navy. Not a commercial - a paid advertisement. Late at night, for a full thirty minutes. Join the Navy. Accelerate your life. You know what? It looked damn good. Maybe I should join the Navy. Education, travel, money. They take care of you in the Navy. You work your ass off, and somebody might kill your ass off. But they take care of you. Sort of. JG's in the navy. Props JG. Will I join the Navy? No. Probably not. Why? Because I'm sick of the Navy just like I'm sick of politics and money, and fast food, and TV and shoes. That's right. I'm sick of shoes. I have 12 pairs of shoes. I wear them all. At some point, for some activity, I wear each one of them. That doesn't include 2 pairs of snowboard boots, 1 pair of ski boots, 1 pair of inline skates and 1 pair of hockey skates. I'm sick of having so many shoes, and yet, what would I do without them? I use them all. Need them all. In fact, I need a new pair of shoes. A new pair of shoes would help me to be better at playing soccer. A 6-year-old kid from Sudan would be a better soccer player than me without shoes, except for the fact that he never got to play soccer because he has spent his life running from people trying to kill him. If he had shoes, maybe he could have eaten them. Maybe he could have not died while trying to flee to Chad. I'm sick of taking all of this in, in it's rawest form, and not putting it back out. I'm sick of recycling. I'm sick of live footage being shown over and over again until it is dead. I want something new. Take it, change it, show it. Do something. I want art. I'm not sick of art. I'm not sick of taking something, and making it do something, making it mean something, making it say something, or maybe, say nothing. I eat that stuff up. But it's hard, because I'm so full. I'm so full of all the shit they show us on TV, all the shit they say to us. I'm full of highlights. Short, meaningless, clips of image and sound. It is not art, what I see; and I cannot make what I see art. I don't know any stories. I only know punch-lines. Only endings, but the endings are the easist part. Atwood says that every story ends the same. John and Marry Die. John and Marry Die. John and Marry Die. I want more. I want the meat. It doesn't have to be the real meat, or maybe it is. But either way, I want it from the begining, and I want it to go somewhere and do something. All I want is art. Other people can want other things. But I want more art. I wish people would really try. Really try to be craft with their art. I love it when people are crafty. That guy who wants to build a space elevator is crafty. Is that art? The blitzkrieg was pretty crafty. Was that art? Oh, I don't know. I am sick of war and politics, remember? I just want to read Dickens and sit by a mountain lake and forget it all exists. I will forget it all exists except for the reminders that I need. The things I couldn’t possibly do without, like my car that got me to the trail, my expensive backpack, fancy stove, and down REI sleeping bag. My .com bought Dickens book and my cell phone - just in case. Is there a way to escape? Is there a place in the world to go where I can get away from the pressures and problems of my society? Yes. There is. There are many, in fact. The miles and miles of uninhabitable desert that lies along the Sudan - Chad border that is now being populated by millions, yes, millions of Sudanese people fleeing for there life - that is one. Jay-Z has a new video. You're havin' girl problems I feel bad for you son, I got 99 problems but a bitch ain't one Jay-Z must have it real bad to have 99 problems. That 6-year old, the one with no shoes, he only had 3 problems: no food, no water, no place to live. As for me, I've got complications. I've got complications that 6-year-old who is now burried in a makeshift grave somewhere in the desert could never have even dreamed of. Complications are something I have a lot of. My guess is, Jay-Z has even more. And I bet he's right, a bitch ain't one. But problems? Who am I kidding. I don't have problems. I've got a hundred million solutions and all I have to do is choose one, and put it into action. Do something. I know things, but sometimes, it's just so hard to know them. I'm tired. I'm 21 years old with no problems, and I'm tired. Do something. What do I do?

More Bright Eyes - Fevers and Mirrors

2004-06-27T18:28:00.000-06:00

I have nothing to say. I have just listened to this album for the first time. It is still in me, not yet ready to come out. Nevertheless, here I am, writing about it. One of the first and most basic steps one takes when learning to study literature is to learn to separate author of a work from its narrator. Even when (perhaps especially when) there is no clear character who plays the "narrator" of a work, such as Nick Carraway of The Great Gatsby or Frederic Henry of A Farewell to Arms, it is important to respect the distinction between the author, composing a story, and the narrator, telling the tale. In Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, for example, the narrator, who plays Chaucer himself, is nevertheless, not Chaucer, but yet another character on his way to Canterbury and salvation. Yet another example must surely be a blog. You may or may not know the blog's author, but you most certainly know me. This question of authorship and of narratorship of Bright Eyes' Fevers and Mirrors, the precursor to Lifted or the story is in the soil, keep your ear to the ground, and the subject of my latest listening, could not be more applicable and intriguing. The "interview" with Conor Oberst in track 11 is strange. It is an attempt for Conor, the artist, to stage an interview with Conor, the voice. What we hear is not a 20 year-old kid from Nebraska, it is the persona that a 20 year-old kid from Nebraska has created in order to communicate with the outside world. I haven't listened to the words, I've only heard the sounds, and they beckon me toward them. This is the voice of Conor Oberst. You cannot stop listening.

A bit of introspection

2004-06-27T00:13:00.000-06:00

I used to be a kid. I liked being a kid. But somewhere along the line, the real world found its way into my world, and adulthood has begun its seige on my youth. As I sit here, surrounded by my past, I feel secure, stable, and still; but just as I can sit on a plane and not feel it move - knowing all the while that the plane, like my life, is flying through space and time in search of its destination. I don't know where my plane is headed. Nor am I entirely sure who is flying it.

Behind me, is my sheltered, indestructible youth. In front of me, is the glass house of my future. The permanence of the past makes the future seem a frighteningly fragile object, but at the same time, that very fragility holds all of our excitement, hope, and expectation. Recently, I've tried not to think of the future. Its uncertainty in every area is unnerving, there is no constant, no totem of stability to lean upon. I know not where I'm going, what I will do, who will be with me as I do it, or even who will be there to watch as I struggle ahead. It's easy to try and stop. Right now, I'm doing just that. I realize that now, and while I don't admire myself for so desperately trying to slow the future's coming and inhabit my childhood for a few more moments, I think that now is a good time to stop. To pause. To reflect. And to compose.

I say Maya Angelou speak a while back. I wasn't blown away by the Hallmark-writing poet, but she had some worthwhile things to say. I've forgotten many of her words now, but I do remember that she concluded by encouraging, even commanding, her audience to compose. To compose their life, their future, their family and friends, their education, and their work. To compose themselves. So for now, I will try to compose.

I sit here composing a blog. Later, perhaps, I will compose a song, a beat, or perhaps just a collection of sounds. At night, I compose my own food. Alone, in the dark kitchen, I compose sustenance and in doing so, begin to compose myself. I've never had too much trouble composing myself - or should I say - recomposing myself. I sometimes lose control, lose focus, lose possessions, lose myself; but I like to think that I recover well. Fortunately, my friends and family are composers of the best kind and require no assistance from me, but there are certain things that are mine to compose, and wlll not compose themselves. I'm still playing through past educational compositions for the next year; the next year will begin a new chapter. As for work, I've managed to land a job that requires no hours and pays no money. As I said - trying to slow the world's spinning. The future is, of course, the hardest to compose. It wants to be so many different things in so many different places, but the path from here to there is insecure and indistinct.

When thinking about the future, I see myself trying to repeat my past. Age defines a body, defines a pattern, and sometimes, defines a path. My body is yet undefined and the pattern of my youth points toward a path that leads in all directions at once, and arrives at nowhere in particular. Here's the thing. I like learning new things. Good, fine. I like the incredible feeling of progress that comes when you first start at something. In mere hours, let alone days, newborn skills spring into youthful growth. Incredible. So incredible, in fact, that I am not even remotely interested in continuing to develop those same skills past a proficient stage. After that, it takes twice as much effort for half as much benefit, and being really good at something never really seemed all that much better than being pretty good at it. I learned to play saxophone, piano, clarinet and guitar, but I am not a saxophone, piano, clarinet or guitar player. All I want to do is play trumpet. So far, in 4 weeks this summer, I have started road biking, dabbled in computer building, started intense soccer juggling training, tried to play tennis but no one as bad as me wants to play as much as me, started to learn html, and decided that without a doubt, I need to get into electrical engineering and build my own headphone amp. All the while, what I really need to be doing is coming up with a thesis that will serve as the capstone to 4 years of studying English literature. What I am really into though, is physics. Perhaps acoustical physics. I'm going to MIT to study with Dr. Bose, that's my true calling.

Enough of this. The point here is that there's not an answer, there's only a process. The good news about that is, there's nothing to get wrong. The bad news is, it's kind of like this blog. You never quite know where it's going, nor when it will end. I began afraid of the future, preparing to defend myself from its onslaught, but I will end prepared chase it. If you aren't going somewhere, you're going nowhere, and although there are times in life to stay put, times to hold still, and times to just stop and think, there is no time to be complacent, no time to worry, and no time be scared. There's no destination to life. This plane never lands. And that, is absolutely beautiful. Things that happen are neither good, nor bad, but when things are happening, it's wonderful.

In the truly remarkable movie of his experience in the Peruvian Andes, Joe Simpson said that no matter what happened, he just tried to never stop making decisions. Keep making decisions. Up or down, forward or back, one foot, then the other. If, in life, we keep making decisions and keep moving forward - if not in a straight line - we will live a life, and that life, if we live it according to our feelings, our thoughts, our principles, and our instincts, will be a success. Then, we can blog about it, write a book about it, or make it into a movie. For now, I sit here, at 3:35 in the morning, still. I ruminate, and ponder. And compose. The future will come - a glass house, indeed. But one that hasn't been, and will never be, built.

Bottle o' wine, box o' chocolates, and a long elevator ride.

2004-06-25T19:52:00.000-06:00

There's nothing quite so romantic as an elevator. Particularly one that goes up to the “space” floor. Even at the speedy clip of 124 mph, that leaves a lot of time for nookie. What's more, when you finally get off this lift, you'll have all the privacy and space of...well, space. It seems far-fetched I know, but folks are talking about it for real. Even NASA is looking for room in its 2004 budget to squeeze out $2.4 million for additional research regarding the possibility of building an elevator to space. It's the real deal, and according to Brad Edwards, head of the space elevator project at the Institute for Scientific Research in Fairmont, West Virginia, it could happen by 2019, with a price tag of a mere $10 bills.

Here's how it works, and actually, it makes a lot of sense. Scientists have figured out how to make super-light, super strong, super-small, strands of carbon called "carbon nanotubes". The plan is to make a ribbon out of these nanotubes that is 3 feet wide, as thin as a sheet of paper, and 64,000 miles long. One end will be anchored to a platform in the equatorial pacific, where the weather is fairly constant and calm; the other end will be attached to a counterweight that is flung way out into space. The counterweight orbits the earth in the same direction and at the same speed as the earth is rotating, so it jus hovers over the same spot - in middle of the pacific. The centrifugal force of the earths spinning is enough to keep the cable taught and support plenty of weight - no fear of the whole thing crashing down into the ocean, though that'd be an interesting sight. Then, "climbers" would work there way up the cable carrying, spacecraft, space station parts, satellites, tourists, or anything else we might want to send to space. The climbers would be powered by photovoltaic cells that would run off of the energy provided by high-powered lasers pointing at it from earth.

In the end, the idea is that it's a cheaper, safer, and way more efficient way to send things to space - far superior to sketchy shuttle missions. As far as global implications are concerned, it may be that the first country to build a space elevator will truly be the first country to really claim space for its own. In addition, will there be any environmental problems with this? I mean, I can't really think of any, other than that it is damn weird to have a big ribbon running all the way through the atmosphere. What if planes hit it? Won't it be awfully easy to destroy or sabotage? Will terrorists attack our space-lift? All are viable concerns, but for now, it looks like it's goodbye to the stairway to heaven and hello to the elevator of love. After all, we are Americans, and we don't use stairs.

For more info check out the Space Elevator Conference and this super-cool animation.

Bright Eyes

2004-06-24T19:24:00.000-06:00

About a week ago, I crossed paths with a recommendation to take a look at an album that had been a little short on followers and a little long on words - lifted or the story is in the soil, keep your ear to the ground. Released in August of 2002, it's not the newest record out there, but it is the most recent full-length project to come out of Conor Oberst, the only permanent member among Bright Eyes' revolving door of personnel. After spending the last several days spinning the album, and even noting some lyrics, I'm prepared to say that Conor is the real deal.

While I was at first, and to a lesser extent, still am, turned off by the intentionally low fidelity and "home-made" sound of tracks like "You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will." and "Waste of Paint", the sheer variety of sounds on lifted... provides an adequate excuse for retro-recording a couple tracks in an effort to highlight the independent, underdeveloped, iconoclastic, and intensely personal nature of the album. On the other end of things, the synth, looping, and heavy reverb on "From a Balance Beam", stands out from the disc's less-produced moments and leaves ample stylistic room for the other tracks to fit authentically in-between. Oberst explores not only guitar-based, traditional singer-songwriter style, but dabbles in agitated indy-rock, film-esque waltzes, beat-oriented melodics, and experimental sounds. Musically, the album is neither all dark, nor all sunshiny bouncy-pop. The aural mood of "Method Acting" is pressing and fierce, while "False Advertising" is liltingly impartial and "Bowl of Oranges" is a folk-driven lesson upbeat in its tempo as well as its message.

Conor's lyrics are by no means outdone by his music. Rather, it seems, as it should, that the songs of lifted... are the natural expression of a twenty-something's thoughts on life, love, song-writing, and maybe even a dash of politics. In what almost seems like a mission statement from the album's first cut, Oberst croons,

Is it your fear of being buried that makes you so afraid to speak?
An avalanche of opinions like the one that fell that I'm now underneath
It was my voice that moved the first rock and I would do it all again
I mean, it's cool if you keep quiet but I like singing
So I'll be holding my note and stomping and strumming and feeling so very lucky
And there is nothing I know except a lifetime's one moment and wishing will just leave you empty.

In lyrics that are pointed but not blatant, Oberst often aims his words at a character, rather than directly at the listener - creating a feeling of intimately candid voyeurism for the listener as we are privy to his conversations with friends and lovers. At other times, we are swept up in a detailed and colorful narrative or assailed by a biting commentary on the media, pop culture, war, and dugs. The last lines of the album stand as a final summary of Conor's emphasis on reality and experience over the passive surrender to processed ideas while clinging to love as the both necessary and sufficient ideal of a naively brilliant youth:

I've been staring too long at the screen
But where was it when I first heard that sweet sound of humility
It came to my ears in the goddamn loveliest melody
How grateful I was then to be part of the mystery
To love and to be loved
Let's just hope that is enough

For more info, check out:
www.saddle-creek.com
www.thestoryinthesoil.com

My latest success

2004-06-23T22:14:00.000-06:00

So I built a computer. I know it's nerdy and whatnot, but hey, it was damn fun, and it both better and cheaper than that Dell crap. For anyone interested in the tech side of things, here's what I've got inside the ol' Lian Li PC-6077:

Antec TruePOWER 430
AMD 64 3000+
MSI K8N Neo Patinum
1 GB Mushkin PC3500 DDRAM
PowerColor Radeon 9600 Pro
nuTech DDW-082
Seagate 160 Gig SATA Hard Drive

Opinions?

Anyway, my real purpose here is not to be an uber-dork, but instead to narrate a short experience I had while setting up the machine. So I'm chuggig' along, things going smoothly, I get ready to fire 'er up, and nothing happens. Yada yada, some wires were crossed, fixed that and it roars to life. Unfortunately, no picture. No signal to the moniter. Shitty. I try everthing. Finally, exasperated, I just shoved the graphics card as hard into the motherboard as I could, and low and behold, it clicked. Of course, the card just wasn't in all the way, which I suspected, but anything short of throwing my whole body into it did nothing. The point is, is this one more lesson of life which teaches us that when all else fails just kick it? Well, apparently, yes. Armed with this knowledge, relationship, here I come.

Next time - Bright Eyes: musical genius or misguided youth?

To my critics...

2004-06-23T00:11:00.000-06:00

Recently, as some of you may have noticed, there have been some negative comments regarding The Success Blog. A central element of their critique has been by tendency to blog about blogging. Well, mindlesschatter and coldwater (you've done well enough picking a lame name on your own), now you've really done it.

For this post, I am forced to blog about blogging about blogging.

I hadn't wanted to do this; in fact, I had noticed the growing numbers of blog-related posts and had decided that I needed some fresh material, but I can't stand by and take guff from my readers. Said guff-taking is not a part of blogging. Instead, I would like to take this opportunity to point out several things:

1. As I have said before, most notably in "I'm Pissed Off", this is my blog and I blog for me and me alone. While I do hope that others will be entertained, amused, and enlightened along the way, their tastes are not my trouble. I am not a philanthropic blogger. Besides, as HDT might have said, "I should not talk so much about my blog if there were anything else I knew so well".

2. Blogging is a hot topic lately, and the issues pertaining to it are similarly in high demand. The ups and downs, in's and out's, emotional struggles, social dilemmas and ethical decisions related to blogging are not only of great interest to the blogging public, but are as vital to the future of blogging as self-examination, free speech, and the act of voting are to the future of the United States. I have my doubts as to which future is brighter, but that's a non-blog-related topic and is therefore, for another post.

3. You, whydoesitmatter, should re-direct your blog-saber. Take a look at your own blog of incomprehensible phsyco-philosophy babble before you start accusing me of too much self-study. Nevertheless, I agree about T-mac; stop acting like a baby before you lead the way for the NHL to complete its turn to the dark side in the footsteps of every other major American pro sport.

4. As for coldwater, you've got all the ideas, and opinions, but no place to put 'em down, so set down the bowl, lay off the ketchup, and go play some soccer. At least start your own blog so you can post your reviews and opinions of others' on your own space.

5. All said and done, I'm sick of blogging about blogging. Look for something new in the near future...peace.

Thug Appeal

2004-06-22T18:34:00.000-06:00

So my blog is being out-blinged.

Like so many other aspects of my boring beige life, my blog, the very reflection of my inner essence, is being outdone by the glitter and glam of its MTV-watching, iPod-toting, ice-wearing peers. Bigger, better pictures, more links, fancier layout, more frequent posts, and *gasp* audioblogs are, apparently, the future of blogging. Without interactivity, multimedia, and wicked-cool graphics, a blog cannot hope to grasp the stunted attention of today's fast-paced audience. No longer shall a blog be adjudicated based on its true merits: substance, honesty and vigor. Well I say, the birth of bling spells the death of the blog. When a blog ceases to shine based upon its own inner glow, and instead relies upon the commercial gimmicks that have already take over mainstream media and American pop culture, that blog is no longer a blog. It is something less, something impure, and something foul. I say, reject the superficial sparkle of the Holyblog! Reject the empty allure of shallow sights and spineless sounds! Reject blog bling! Substance, honesty, vigor, forever!

P.S. Check out the song I wrote several years back for a Wendy's competition. I didn't win, what do y'all think?
The Hamburger Song
Flashing lights and dancing models to come soon...

Blogging on Thin Ice

2004-06-21T17:23:00.000-06:00

So Blog-by-the-book blocked me today. I think had to do with me reading his blog. I'm not sure if his problem is with my reading his blog, or with my then talking to him about it. I mean, I don't actually comment on the actual blog - rather I just commented on something that happened to him that I simply learned about in the blog. Either way, it's clearly a problem, and while I don't particularly understand the situation, I do understand that it's time to grant some blogspace where it has been requested. So, from now on, for a while anyway, I will do my best to refrain from visiting said blog.

The thing is, I'm kinda disappointed. I had really started enjoying it, checking it often, hoping for new posts, even getting annoyed when there weren't any new posts. And it wasn't just because I knew who was sitting behind that blog, writing those posts; the blog had an appeal, it had issues, problems, success, failures. It wasn't like this blog. When I stop and really think about how it isn't like this blog, I can begin to see that it wouldn't work if it were. The publicity and privacy of a blog is a feature of a blog that is as unique as the blog itself. When I look at it that way, I realize that when I alter the perceived public format of a blog other than my own, as, unwittingly, I have done, it is really no different than altering the very blog itself - a cardinal sin of blogging. Ah, that's it. He didn't say I had broken the first commandment, it was that I had committed a cardinal sin. I stand by my opinion that, for my own blog, I determine the rules, and I have not committed a foul. But, with regards to someone else's blog, I have indeed acted wrongly. A blog must be given it's autonomy, and a writer, his sovereignty. I'm not sure if he will ever read this, but, I offer my apologies to the Blog-Nazi. Nevertheless, my cider house will make its own rules, and the blogger-of-strong-convictions is still a fascist.

Stories

2004-06-20T21:41:00.000-06:00

Through the course of my life, there have been moments when, through the distractions of everyday life, I suddenly seem to see more clearly that which is, was, and always will be, beautiful. I do not know what makes life at these certain times so much simpler and more easily understood than at all other times when it is so impossibly complex, but these moments are undeniable and incomparable. My experiences, I believe, are slowly leading me toward a conclusion which, with age, becomes steadily more clear. I have no doubt that the conclusion I see now is but a small part of what I will see later in life, but for now, I make due with what I have seen, and what I have learned.

To me, life, and I suppose, success, seems rooted in two elements: that of living, and that of telling. Life ought to be lived, expirienced, tried, fumbled with, inhaled, and felt. Then, those experiences, tries, fumbles, breaths, and feelings ought to be recorded, shared, crafted, rememberd, and told. Then, as our stories feed off the lives we lead and the things we see and they then become the food of others' lives, they are birthed once again from memory into life, completing the perpetual cycle of stories. With each digestion, each transformation, each death, and each new birth, the stories grow - and with the stories, our lives. Art is not just entertainment, it is so much more enjoyable than just that. The 'gifted artist' is an misleading term. The true greatness of an artist is not in his recieving of a gift, but in his the giving of them. The artist creates life and death, happiness and sadness. By assuming - on a tiny scale, for a short while, and only on rare occasions - the role of creator, the artist gives us a glimpse of the divine that we can only rarely make out on our own. We owe no greater debt than that which we owe to the artists, the storytellers, and the muses of our history. Live. And tell.

I'm pissed off.

2004-06-20T17:19:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, CC, whom I have mentioned earlier as the immmediate catalyst to my blogging, and whom I will mention now as the apparent self-appointed dictator of blogging gave me shit for putting my blog address in my AIM profile. I'm not going to go into why I did it, I've given reasons - good or bad - in another post. My goal here is only the expression of my dissatisfaction with being told that I have broken the "first commandment of blogging". First of all, I find the notion of blogging rules, blogging etiquet, and especially blogging commandments, to be both absurd and absolutely contrary to my own approach to The Success Blog. I will blog what I want and when I want. I will whatever I want to whomever I want. And I will certainly, without hesitation, put my own blog address into my own AIM profile any time I damn well feel like it. It is after all, my blog, and my profile. Most importantly (and I think that on this point CC would agree), I blog for myself. To me (and here, CC would certainly disagree), that means that if attracting readers, and indeed, readers that know personally, adds to my blogging pleasure, then I won't let any self-imposed and imaginary rules stand in my way. The risk, of course, of this sort of publicity and expanded readership, is that my blog will soon lose it's loyalty to it's creator and begin to transform in order to accomodate the tastes of its readers. To be sure, this is a fear. Fortunately, while I do (as I have previously expressed) enjoy exposure, I do not need it, and I will not cater to it.

With that in mind, this whole issue has me so riled up that I am reminded of my last absolutely infuriating experience - one I will readily admit had me far more heated than this minor tassle. The Warner Brothers motion picture, "Troy". For a week after seeing the film, I tried in every way I knew to contact Warner Brothers, but was unsuccessful. I searched high and low for an acutal postal address for customer server, or, for anything, to no avail. I ended up using both an online response form and a customer service email address I found buried in a liscence agreement. I tried both several times, finaly politely asking only for a postal address to which I could write. I recieved a wide variety of automated responses which assured me that Warner Brothers cared what I had to say and proceeded to direct me to the Harry Potter help page, or other assorted irrelavent sites, if I had further questions. I was beyond enfuriated about the whole ordeal. With time, however, wounds healed and my rage quieted. Now however, I am reminded of it, and in a final, hopeless gesture of my frustration, I will post recycled material. This is the initial letter I wrote just after seeing the movie; to my knowledge, until now, it's never been read. Warner Brothers = Holywood's holocaust of history, liturature, and myth.

Warner Brothers,

I have given my money and my time to see your movie, “Troy”, I expect you to return the favor by having my comments read. This is not a message I wished to send via e-mail, but despite my efforts I was unable to find any mailing address for anyone at Warner Bothers. My first request is simply a reply with mailing addresses for both WB customer service and a person of authority within the motion picture subdivision of Warner Brothers. That I was unable to find either of these is itself unsettling. As a customer, I would appreciate a serious response.

Today, May 14, 2004, I viewed your film, "Troy" at the Grand Cinemas Theatre in [W3], and I have never before been so furious and frustrated at a film and its makers. My frustration did not stem from a mere lack of enjoyment in a film (after all, we all have different tastes and I willingly accept the risk of not enjoying a film each time I go see one), but rather from its completely irresponsible disregard and disrespect for not only myself, but for: a) the long tradition of poets and storytellers who shaped the stories from which you have scavenged the most irresponsible movie I have ever seen; b) the ideas of the characters your film portrays, and for, most importantly, c) every person who sees your movie and has not been exposed to any of the very common and very accessible information which would allow them to see how completely you have ruined the story, the idea, the art, and the message of the myth of Achilles and the Trojan War. I am fully aware of the fact that when I go to see a movie of a story that I already know—via book or history or any other medium—that I should not expect it to be exactly as I know it. I am prepared for this, and nothing along these lines have ever bothered me in the least before now. However, when you twist the lines of mythological history to the extent that you have—to the extent, even, of placing Achilles within the Trojan Horse and present at the fall of Troy—the result is absolutely inexcusable. Not only is this a perversion of the story beyond the acceptable limits granted to you as filmmakers and distributors, but it is a completely informed deception of enormous numbers of the public who will see this movie and now believe that Achilles was inside the Trojan horse (be it historical or mythological, it is inaccurate either way) and that pagan god-worship was not only ridiculous, but also a fatal error. I would like to point out that I am by no means well-educated in classical mythology and Trojan history, but I have a read a few timeless classics and am informed enough to know that your story aligns with none of them. I won’t attempt to explain to you all the tiny details you have gotten wrong, after all, I don’t blame you for changing details. The creation of art is in fact about the details—the artist interprets the story and presents his interpretation however he sees fit. What you have done, however, is NOT interpretation. You have given the public one more false, idyllic, Christian idea which they now believe has classical roots, but is, in fact, just as much a figment of Hollywood’s small and incapable imagination as anything else it ingests these days. What strikes me as most absurd about your film is its intense hypocrisy. You have failed to even listen to your own message. You stress so heavily that this story is about fame and heroes and the immortality that comes through the written word, but you have turned on that word and radically altered and corrupted the fame of the characters you portray. Yes, Achilles and Hector, Paris and Helen, Priam and Agamemnon, even Briseis and Patroclus, are immortal. They are immortal because the stories that they are a part of have survived thousands of years. These stories have survived these thousands of years because they are the stories of mankind. They touch the same nerves and illicit the same emotions for us as they did for those who first heard Homer and the other great poets sing the praise of Achilles all those years ago. These stories, and the characters in them were immortal before you ever put them on the silver screen. Unfortunately, you have raped them like no artist in three thousand years has done. You have perverted their stories and stolen their messages in a way that no artist before you has even considered. You did not present your interpretation to me tonight, you presented your perversion. And I, and the remainder of the people who have seen this film deserve our time, money, and innocence back. The only way for good to come of this film now is if you can get the story straight, or at least let people know that what they are watching is no more historical than any other Warner Brothers farce. To deceive the public the way you do on a regular basis is wrong. To deceive them like this is inexcusable. I paid $5.50 for myself, $5.50 for my date, and 2 hours and 40 minutes to see your movie. The least you can do is return my money, and spend the 2 minutes it takes to hear my complaints.

P.S. Holy shit. I almost just flipped my lid. I finished this rant, and then, when I went to post, the page wasn't found...when I went back, I was faced with an inane, blank, new post. Near disaster. Fortunately, when I went into my settings with desperate hope, lo and behold, it was there, ready to be edited. I'm sure you are as glad as I am. Hopefully this works this time...

Blockbuster, Coca-Cola, and really big P-words

2004-06-19T22:44:00.000-06:00

Today, while perusing the shelves of my local blockbuster for films that were evidently too artsy and good to be carried by the rental giant, a movieshop lackey offered me a free can of Coca-Cola's new product - C2. I accepted, figuring anything offered freely should be accepted. On my way home, happily sipping on my new beverage, I started reading the can to see what exactly was so new about "C2". Evidently, CT touts itself as a "Lower Sugar Cola" - a coke taste-a-like while having only half the carbohydrates and half the calories of regular coke. To be honest, at first reaction I was decently impressed. It tasted pretty decent and as a rare coke drinker to begin with, I didn't really notice a difference. It certainly didn't have the "diet" taste of diet coke and other nutrasweet products. Anyway, as I curiously perused the list of ingredients wondering how C2 managed its impressive feat, I didn't really see anything out of the ordinary until I noticed, in all caps, "PHENYLKETONURICS: CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE". Hmm...so this large P-word must be the key - the new delightfully sinthetic sugar substitute. But what is a Plenylkentonuric, why is Phenylalaline bad for them, and what if it is bad for me too? Research was in order.

Um, right. So after some research, it turns out that I, once again, am talking out of my ass. Phenylalanine is found in aspartame - the key ingredient to nutrasweet. Thus, phenylalanine is in Diet Coke as well. Phenylketonuria is a genetic disorder that is diagnosed in infants by noticing exceptionaly high levels of phenywhatever in the blood stream. Thus, the disorder have to avoid phenylaline, but also need to avoid all sorts of food. Mainly sweet foods with sugar and whatnot. More info can be found here.

Anyway, the point is, from the looks of it, C2 is just that, 2 cokes (Coke and Diet Coke) mixed together. People have been doing that for years at the fountain; I'm not sure if putting it in a can and marketing it should really make it count as a new product, but whatever, it's bad for you either way, and I plan to avoid it. This turned out to be a pretty lame post, I apologize for that. But I, for one, learned something, and maybe, if you actually read it all, you learned something too. I'll think of something better to blog about later. For now, I'm going to go drink milk.

MK gets smoked

2004-06-19T01:32:00.000-06:00

When I premiered my a mere few days ago, it was a premier to no one. No one knew of my blog, no one found it by accident, and that was just how I wanted it. Still exploring the very first shapes and tones of my blog, I both desired and enjoyed the privacy of unmapped webspace. As my blog and I grew, however, we quickly (more quickly than I had expected) desired the exposure and fame that is so decievingly attractive at this adolescent stage of development.

My first step - and a large first step it was - was to expose myself to my current friends and other aquaintances. While I did, in a way, want them to have a chance to experience the blog, and then either continue to visit, or not, I certainly did not want to force them to patronize the blog. To me, that seemed to take away from the freedom of the blog itself. My solution (be it a good one or not) was to simply post the blog's url in my aim profile - unlabled uncommented upon, but there. Whether anyone would explore it would be up to them.

To my joy, I had an immediate taker. A visitor! Even a commentor! Oh, the glee. Unfortunately, while my one visitor has remained a faithful one, there have been no other followers. About this, I have mixed feelings. I began writing this blog for myself, and I don't want to allow its success to be measured by the numbers of its visitors. Nevertheless, knowing that other people in the world are reading the nonsense words I write provides a kind of strange satisfaction. I have made up my mind, however, to be content with however my readership plays out. I strive to do no further advertising, prefering instead to let nature now take her course. I do, however, want to spit a quick rhyme to the one reader who keeps coming by.

Playing poker at 2 am,
not getin' to say "amen".
SB gets Ace 10,
and she goes all in,
MK's got pocket pair,
and calls that girl's dare,
sometimes you win,
sometimes you lose,
but the Ace 10 filled in,
and that straight calls for some booze.
MK's hurtin' for bad chips,
But bullets are salsa and he's ready to dip,
A King and his girl
have come to play,
but with all hands shown,
it looks like M's day.
Looks, however, can be decieving
and it's the royalty that will soon be recieving.
Flop, turn, river: clubs.
That shit ain't good when you're sittin' on ace-dubs,
The aces are red, but it's the king who turns flush,
MK went down in an awful rush,
so now he's out,
till tomorrow at 12,
nothin' to do,
but continue to delve,
into the site that I continue to write,
despite the fact that it's just for one white,
and the black backgound
can't hide what's profound -
that this is a site
that just can't be found.

Bill's Blog

2004-06-18T21:41:00.000-06:00

So I guess "My Life" isn't exactly Bill's blog, but it's close, and it got me thinking. What if the former player/prez did have a blog? Imagine the excitement of stopping by "Bill's Presidential Blog" or some such thing each day to see what was up with the Big B, Hils, Al Bore, and even M. The same events that were nearly disasterous for BC's marriage and presidency when they were finaly exposed under the hygenic lights of the mainstream media are just the kind of thing that makes a blog truly sparkle. Surely the public would have had an easier time of forgiving the big man if we had only been traveling down that lusty road from the very begining. The intamate relationship between writer and reader that a blog grants is just the thing that Americans needed before we could more willingly grant Bill the kind of intamate relationship between man and woman that Hils just couldn't dish out. What's more, don't start thinking that Bill's sexcapades are the only details I want from inside the oval office. A personal, insider's scoop of the daily white house happenings straight from the boss's mouth would be a far better way to get to know our president than the staged speeches he delivers on national TV. And, when things get rough, there would always plenty of room to post our own comments on Bill's blog - guiding him gently along his way. The more I think about it, the more wonderful it all sounds. Perhaps we could get GW to start a blog!? A brutally truthful, bitingly witty, and intelligently humorous catalogue of Bush 43's presidential adventures and musings!

right...

So I guess we'll have to stick with BC's memoir for the time being. I hate to say it, but I think Dickens is getting put on hold for Clinton. If you're not joining me, I'll try to let y'all know how it is.

Back in the Day...

2004-06-18T19:19:00.000-06:00

I stumbled onto some old-school fun times today. Kdigg and I used to kick this back in the day in the A-301 family room; it clearly beats these new-fangled 3D computer games, and I would always beat Kdigg's high scores right after he got them, which pissed him off. Good times, good times.

While I'm on the brief topic of dumb and addicting online games, me and the stoners got into this last just last year at the potlatch. Yea, it makes you register and shit, but it's worth it becauase you get to play against other people. If you want, you can play for money. Play "word-mojo". I really want to play for some dough, but I feel like loser enough just playing without playing for money. But still, I think we could win.

Minister Bush

2004-06-18T01:31:00.000-06:00

The latest Time magazine totes the words "Faith, God & The Oval Office" on its cover, and while I'm not a big Time reader, it's worth a look. Nancy Gibbs' article "The Faith Factor" is downwright scary. Amoung the striking facts and ideas presented is the amazing polarizing effect of a candidate's religious beliefs on the voters. The battle lines are drawn: those who want to see a man who is strongly influenced by faith want Bush in the White House; those who don't settle for Kerry. As for me, I think the extent to which religious beliefs are begining to influence both the candidates and the voters is unsettlingly terrifying.

79% of the voters who say that, if polled now, they would vote Bush agreed with the statement: "We are a religious nation and religious values should serve as a guide to what our political leaders do in office". 56% of total voters agreed. To me, that is disturbing. What is even more disturbing, however, was the reaction of my own registered democrat, public school teacher, mother, who responded to my suprise and worry about such figures with an equal suprise and worry that I disagreed. She went so far as to say (I belive, partially in jest), that certainly does not want some "heathen" who doesn't belive in God in the White House. I asked if it matter which God this "religious" person believed in. She responded that no, it didn't matter which religion, but upon further questioning, evidently it only didn't matter which religion as long as the candidate was either Christian or Jewish. Any other "weird" religions, were evidently not acceptable.

Now, mother is by no means a radical conservative or religious fanatic. She is, at least, as far as I can tell, a fairly normal, 50-something, democrat. She attends some brand of watered-down christian church semi-regulary and belives in God, but has never been a devotedly religious person. Nevertheless, these were her views, and they too, scared me.

So who am I? So frightened by the figures that my mother took as quite normal and good to hear? Am I some sort of (hush...) atheist? Perish the thought; after all, people who don't belive in God (according to mum) are heathens. Well, no, I don't think I'm an atheist. I rather like to belive in the idea of a God, in fact. To be honest, I'm currently in the market for a religion. I've reached an age, and a time, where I think I could benefit from the guidance and comfort that a religion can provide. I don't yet know what sort of religion I will choose, perhaps I will simply find room to admire and respect the awe of a divine force without the aid of an organized "church". Or, perhaps I will fully embrace a set of rules and customs, finding security in their history and comfort in fellow worshippers. The point is, that is a very personal matter. The Presidency of the United States, on the other hand, is a very, very, public one.

I will say right now, without extended time to think on this, and very late at night, that I do NOT think that the president should allow his personal religious faith to guide him in making decisions as President. The President, just like every other person in America, and across the globe, has two lives: a private one, and a personal one. Those two lives are very closely connected, and one can easily come to the aid of, or be the end of, the other, but in the end, they are indeed, two separate lives. The President's religious beliefs are entirely up to him. And they should be entirely a part of his personal life. I do not care whatsoever what a person's religious beliefs are, as long as they do not have an impact upon his professional and politcal decisions once put into office. If a person has a problem with that separation, between religion and being President of the United States, then that person should not run, and should not be elected.

As I see it, this is the problem: If a candidate's religion is not going to impact his performance or his in-office decisions, then we, as the voting public can judge his abilities on a purely secular scale - as we ought to. If we are to live in a country which separates church and state, then that country's leader should be able to make that same separation in his own life, and we should make that separation when we vote. The problem occurs when our candidates cannot make that separation between their personal religious beliefs and the public interests of the country they have been choosen to lead. This forces the voter to break the rules. If you, the candidate, are going to allow your religion to influence your politics, then I have no choice but to let your religion influence my vote. To me, that is no longer a secular democracy. I DO NOT WANT to vote or not vote for an individual because of his or her relgion. That's discrimination, and, I believe, wrong. But I WILL, no matter what, vote for the individual whom I think will lead our country most effectively. When politions let religion into their politics, I cannot do both. The American public cannot do both.

I'm sick of this situation. I'm sick of religious elitism and unnaceptance. I'm sick of some of the things that are happening legislatively because of relgion. I'm sick of laws prohibitting gay marriage. I'm not sick of Catholics at all. I'm sick of Catholics influencing matters of the state. If a Catholic Priest won't let a homosexual take communion, fine. I'm going to mark his church of my list because I disagree with his decision, but that is his choice and he is free to make it. However, when a two men, or two women, can't get married because that sort of union is offensive to certain religions, I start to get pissed off. Marriage liscences, tax breaks, laws: these are matters of the state, and I don't want the religion of my representative coming into play.

So for now, Kerry's got my vote. Not just because I will absolutely do whatever I can to vote Bush 43 out of the White House, but because at least on one thing, abortion, Kerry isn't letting his religion guide his decisions. He's taking a lot of flack for it, but I respect that. More so than I even agree with his decision, (I think a secular case for illegalizing abortion, if not a strong one, is at least more reasonably made that for illegalizing gay marriage, for instance) I agree with his ability, in at least this one issue, to put personal Catholicism aside and make a decision based on what he feels is best for the future of our country. At the very least, I hope that is what is going on. More than anything, I don't want to pick a President based on faith. Bush, and to some extent, the political beast itself, is making that increasingly difficult for Americans to do. I have a feeling this may be an issue I visit again. Maybe this blog is finally headed somewhere. For now, its 2:30 am, and I'm out.

Some Reccomendations...

2004-06-17T21:11:00.000-06:00

Here's three of the best things I've been up to these days. I strongly encourage you to try one, or all, of them.

1) The Postal Service - Give Up

First heard these guys on a mix cd given to me for the drive home from B-town by B-Moore. The track I heard there that caught my eye was track #4, Nothing Better. I'm not going to try to describe these guys, but it's kicking right now and I'm feeling it. New, original, and solid.

2) Reformat your computer.

Admittedly, this go-around wasn't entirely planned or intentionaly, but that doesn't change the fact that erasing your whole damn hard drive and starting over is a damn good thing to do. Not only is it good for your system because it cleans out all that random shit that accumulates over the months and years - thereby both freeing hard drive space and speeding up general use - but it also just gives you a great feeling. Starting over grants one an enourmous amount of freedom from the past while simultaneously inducing a nervous excitemnt about the future. It's the next best thing to getting a whole new box, and working with a nice, clean, organized system has all the excitement and good feeling of starting a new relationship without any of the concern for how it turns out. After all, if this relationship goes sour, you can just reformat again and start over, no strings attached. Beautiful.

3) Great Expectations

I just started this Dicken's classic, having not read it before, and let me tell you, there's a lot to be said for the classics. I mean, I won't lie, I only read the first chapter, (a mere couple pages) before I fell asleep, but it was remarkably emotionaly engaging and textually beautiful. Seriously, read the first couple pages; it's good shit, and a hell of a lot more entertaining and stimulating than whichever reality TV show is en vogue this week.

That's it for now, give 'em a try.

Blogger's Remorse

2004-06-17T12:34:00.000-06:00

I hate my blog. It's not at all like I had envisioned it. It all seemed so romantic. Blogging...writing with complete freedom - no rules, no guidelines. But now, I hate that freedom, and it hates me. I feel like Red from "The Shawshank Redemption" when he finally leaves prison and his very freedom nearly drives him to suicide. I, too, have contemplated the ending of my own blog. I am frustrated, lost, and tired. For too many years, my writing has been constrained by the structure of academia; now, without that structure, it cannot support itself. My writer's hands are strong from years of stringing together words, but my writer's legs - the legs that guide a writer to new places, leading him to seek new things - are weak: they have been so long without use that they stumble on any foreign ground. This free ground, sadly, is very foreign indeed.

The question then becomes, will I go through with my blogocide? Will I surrender before I have really even begun to fight? No. I will press on. No matter how bad, how ungraceful, and how lost my words may become, this will still be The Success Blog, and if I gave up now, it would send a sad and hopeless message to myself and anyone who manages to accidently (or not) stumble onto my newfound freedom. So, I've decided to press on - masking old errors with new, replacing awkward wordy struggles with even more awkward, more wordy, ones. It will not be a method of perfectionsism, or even corectionism, but simply one of perserverism. I will continue to make up words to fit my sloppy style, and in doing so, the atrophied muscles of my writer's legs will slowly gain strength - now unsupported by the rules of academia - and will soon learn to carry me to new places.

Whether you decide do join me on such a journey is entirely up to you. The wonderful thing, however, is that whether or not I choose to embark upon such a journey is entirely up to me.

A short time ago, I managed to find a friend's blog which he had choosen not to outwardly advertise to his real-world aquaintances. To be honest, I enjoyed reading it, getting to know the author of the blog - a person related to (but not the same as) the friend I already knew. I told him I had found the blog, which in part, I belive, he expected me to find, but soon, he became upset with my reading the blog. I could understand this; after all, there is a difference between writing something for the world to read, and writing something for a neighbor to read. Nevertheless, I continued to read, and continued to be entertained, all the while hiding behind the anonimity of my own blog.

Then, in an appropriately retributive turn of events, my blog was found. My secret revealed. Right when I most hated my blog, when I was most glad of its abscurity, it is suddenly exposed, I have no idea how, within the very blog in which I had first started reading of my own friend's escapades. Now that I, too, am frustrated by the local publicity (be it on an individual scale), of my blog, I must try to remember what I had so confidently said while still in hiding. The beauty of a blog is not only in the freedom it grants its writer, but also, in the freedom it grants its reader. We all know how liberating, (and, for me, at present, difficult and intimidating) the complete freedom of a blog is, but this freedom is no different than a personal journal or diary. What sets the blogmedia apart is that it grants both total freedom to write and total freedom to read. Though, obviously, natural barriers like internet access and language differences stand between my blog and many readers, there are no artificial barriers like locks or subscriptions or passwords that allow only a select few to read whatever it is I write.

Thus, now thrust violently out of local anonimity, I find I must embrace this fate, as it is both the truth, and the success of blogging. Write away, writers; and read away, readers. I refuse to be ashamed of the self that this freedom exposes, and so I will continue to write, and, if you choose, you will continue to read.

Memory...and how mine must suck

2004-06-15T15:21:00.000-06:00

So a little kid challened me to a game of memory. You know the one - with all the pairs of cards that you lay out face down, turning them over and trying to find the matches? Well, I played against a seven year-old girl fresh out of first grade. Did I win? No. Did I lose? Yes, you could call it that. But really, to make use of current events, I got "Pistoned". Like the Lakers, I was the older team, and like the Lakers, I got my ass severely rocked. This little girl who had to be coaxed to eat her green beans with threats of no T.V. flat out kicked my sorry ass at this damn memory game. I wish I could say I let her win. I mean, earlier, I practically hit my ball backwards trying to let her catch up in a little backyard croquet, but I can't lie, once she made her first match, and proceeded to wave the cards gleefully in my face, the competitive fire was lit and there was no turning back, I was in it to win it. But I lost.

What I, and the Lakers, want to know is, what the shit happened? Is she a genius? Am I a joke? Is she just good because she's young? Am just bad because I'm old? Is my mind going bad? Did my knee already go bad? Did I really just make one last run at the big one and lose? Was I somehow cheated out of victory? Didn't everyone expect me to win? If I turn the ball over to one of the W's, does it mean I'm too old to play PG anymore? Am I going to jail?

All I know is, I've been bested. It was a humbling experience, and one from which I'm sure I have learned a great deal. As for the Lakers, I couldn't care less. I'm a dissheartened hockey fan who wanted to see Calgary hoist the cup and wants to see Peter Forsberg stay in the NHL. That, however, is another blog for another day. For now, I accept my defeat.

Inaugural Post

2004-06-15T00:47:00.000-06:00

This is new to me. This.....blogging. And despite the fact that few, if any, will read the words I jot down here, I am still nervous. The first-time butterflies are here -- audible as the jittery sounds of quickly typed words and then quickly deleted ones that signal a writer who doesn't know where he's going and a text that doesn't know where it is. I'm not the first to feel such a sensation. No doubt, there is something about the virginity of a blank page that induces an awkward stutter. I suppose first times are always a bit clumsy.

I considered briefly that this blog was a bit like a car into which I was stepping, but unable to control. I don't think that analogy quite works though -- after all, if I'm not driving this blog, who is? Instead, I think my interaction with the blog might be more akin to that between a lousy rider and an even lousier horse. I don't ride horses, but I can imagine that if sitting uncomfortably atop a horse that was equally uncomfortable under my weight, I would try to control the animal, to drive it in the direction I wished to go, thinking foolishly that it was I who was in charge, choosing to ignore the plain fact that it was the horse's feet only that touched the ground. It is unlikely that the horse, or the blog, will end up where I had first intened for us to go, but hopefully, with time, we will feel each other out, test each other's limits, and eventually come to a grumpy understanding. I doubt I will ever manage to drive the blog, but hopefully, if I learn to use the right words and push and pull in the right places, it will head off in the general direction I'd like. For now though, my feet are far off the ground, and I'm a good deal out of control. I would apologize, but this is the success blog, and there's no reason to apologize for succeeding.