Politics, the Flag, and America

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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...

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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...

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

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...

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

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

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

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.