Hallucinations

I am not schizophrenic. I have been hearing inexplicable noises and seeing things that aren’t there my entire life.

Throughout childhood, I sporadically heard a sound not dissimilar to voices being fast-forwarded by a cassette player. I could never discern what was being heard, but would catch random words, especially my name, within the high-pitched frenetic jumble. As an adult, I’ve heard coherent sentences being said and have been legitimately confused as whether anybody spoke them. For example, I once heard a female voice ask if I had a flashlight. I turned behind me to the only girl in my vicinity and she gave me a “What are you looking at” face. Since there was no reason why she would be asking for a flashlight, I left the comment unacknowledged. I still don’t know if she said it or not. Today, when I turn on a vacuum, I often hear music clearly enough that I can notate it playing in the background that stops when I shut the vacuum off. I have long since stopped sticking my head out of the shower curtain and trying to talk to the audible voices I hear during my shower.

Mouskie was the first imaginary friend I ever saw. I might have been three; four at the oldest. Ironically, he didn’t look at all as I had imagined him; he was about twelve feet tall, was bright sky blue and had big ears that came out of the sides of his head. I continued to see creatures as a kid. Zork mysteriously appeared twice from under the same tree in our front yard. I tried futilely to talk to him. Sergeant appeared on the back deck years after I had thought he had been killed in battle. Even as a kid, I easily understood that these were projections of my overactive imagination. But they were as visible as the witch that floated outside my bedroom window at night. My dad assured me that creatures would stop appearing when I became an adult.

The first time I remember vividly hallucinating while drumming I was uncharacteristically playing along to Steppenwolf. The autumn of 1997, when little people straight out of The Gnome-Mobile appeared hopping along to “Magic Carpet Ride,” was an emotionally tumultuous time for me, and I began regularly seeing auras on people. I attributed it to stress, but did not dismiss the experience outright. The next semester I began exploring with inducing visions while drumming, and I got pretty good at it. They always appeared in rather random and unpredictable ways and forms, but I could turn them on and shut them off quickly. Years later, in California, I conducted recording tests to see if I could perceive an aural difference in my drumming at times hallucinating and not, but never found one, save one occasion where I played an interesting duet of sorts with my own independently moving shadow.

I have never tried a hallucinogenic drug. I would not want to deal with what I’ve seen for eight hours until the drug wears off. You people that do that shit have a crazy idea of fun.

Once, while drumming, a long, blue dragon flew in through my front door and turned towards me, spewing blue flames in my direction. I threw my drumsticks at it and dived under my drumset. It disappeared, but I decided to immortalize that experience in ink. (Sweet Cicely at Cyclops Tattoo in San Francisco did the artwork and tat.)

Parents

Technically, our parents are two random people who neglected to use proper birth control. But their genes as well as the temperaments, values, social class, etc. of those who raised us play a large and confusing role in our lives.

All but the oblivious and tragic are eventually confronted that the epiphany that our parents don’t know anything either. We are stuck with dealing with and sorting through the intentional and unintentional garbage they instilled in us. The self aware do this in an effort to make sense of the interplay between ourselves and the world that surrounds us. The rest just try to cope. Either way, those who get this far inevitably end up trying to figure out, “Who am I?” and, “What do I want to do with my life?” Once you realize you are what you do with your life whether you want to be doing it or not and finding what you want to do is a crap shoot, you are ready for life’s Master Class.

It is impossible to separate or distinguish yourself from those who have and currently surround you. Humans are intensely social creatures, and nothing raised without human contact will ever have anything that resembles humanity. The gestalt of everything that is our being can never truly be broken down into its component parts except at a very superficial level (i.e. you got your mom’s eye color). I do think it is important to recognize our personality habits. While finding things to blame our habits on leads to a comfortable delusion that we’re not responsible for the actions we feel guilty about, I am of the minority that does not value blame over guilt.

The advantage of determining the cause of an error is to decrease the chances of the error being repeated. The problem with blaming others is that we can’t do much about them. My life alone gives me enough to worry about. My parents had their chance to try and make my life turn out right, and now it’s my turn. And since I only have my own life to worry about, I have a far easier job.

Persevere

I was not born with an intuitive sense of rhythm. I was, however, born with a stubborn streak a mile wide. When I decide I want to do something, I attempt it to the degree that luck and forces within my control allow. Like Antonio Salieri in Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, when I see, hear, taste or feel something beautiful or profound, I search for the drawstring to the curtain so that I can pull it back and attempt to understand the mechanism behind the magic.

I am not a passive observer.

When I was a kid, my favorite book was called, My Side of the Mountain. It’s about a kid who runs away from home and lives alone in a cave with a falcon he finds wounded and nurses back to health. He gets discovered by a wandering literature teacher who dubs him “Thoreau.” Upon asking my mom who Thoreau was, she pulled a book called Walden and Other Writings off the bookshelf and handed it to me. Walden was too arcane and tedious for my eight-year-old self to get through, but determined to try, I read and re-read the first couple chapters of it many times. When my mom bought me a set of encyclopedias and dictionaries one at a time every visit to the grocery store, I never divulged that I really just wanted to know what “economy,” the title of Walden’s first chapter, meant. By the time I finally got through the book in junior high, it had already become a seminal influence on me.


Excerpts, in chronological order, from Economy, the first chapter of Walden, by Henry David Thoreau:

I should not talk so much about myself if there were any body else whom I knew as well. Unfortunately, I am confined to this theme by the narrowness of my experience. Moreover, I, on my side, require of every writer, first or last, a simple and sincere account of his own life, and not merely what he has heard of other men’s lives; some such account as he would send to his kindred from a distant land; for if he has lived sincerely, it must have been in a distant land to me.

Most men, even in this comparatively free country, through mere ignorance and mistake, are so occupied with the factitious cares and superfluously coarse labors of life that its finer fruits cannot be plucked by them. Their fingers, from excessive toil, are too clumsy and tremble too much for that. Actually the laboring man has not leisure for a true integrity day by day; he cannot afford to sustain the manliest relations to men; his labor would be depreciated in the market. He has no time to be anything but a machine. How can he remember well his ignorance- which his growth requires- who has so often to use his knowledge?

It is never too late to give up our prejudices. No way of thinking or doing, however ancient, can be trusted without proof. What every body echoes or in silence passes by as true today may turn out to be falsehood tomorrow, mere smoke and opinion, which some had trusted for a cloud that would sprinkle fertilizing rain on their fields. What old people say you cannot do you try and find that you can… Practically, the old have no very important advice to give the young, their own experience has been so partial, and their lives have been such miserable failures, for private reasons, as they must believe; and it may be that they have had faith left which belies that experience, and that they are only less young than they were.

Most of the luxuries, and many of the so-called comforts of life, are not only indispensable, but positive hindrances to the elevation of mankind.

…I am sure that there is greater anxiety, commonly, to have more fashionable, or at least clean and unpatched clothes, than to have a sound conscience.

In the long run men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, though they should fail immediately, they had better aim at something high.

Man was not made so large limbed and robust but that he must seek to narrow his world, and wall in a space such as fitted him.

Most men appear never to have considered what a house is, and are actually though needlessly poor all their lives because they think they must have such a one as their neighbors have.

I had three pieces of limestone on my desk, but I was terrified to find that they required to be dusted daily, when the furniture of my mind was all undusted still, and I threw them out the window in disgust.

It is difficult to begin without borrowing, but perhaps it is the most generous course thus to permit your fellow men to have an interest in your enterprise. The owner of the axe, as he released his hold on it, said that it was the apple of his eye; but I returned it sharper than I received it.

I never in all my walks came across a man engaged in so simple and natural an occupation as building his house. We belong to the community. It is not the tailor alone who is the ninth part of a man; it is as much the preacher, and the merchant, and the farmer. Where is this division of labor to end? And what object does it finally serve? No doubt another may also think for me; but it is not therefore desirable that he should do so to the exclusion of my thinking for myself.

The student who secures his coveted leisure and retirement by systematically shirking any labor necessary to man obtains but an ignoble and unprofitable leisure, defrauding himself of the experience which alone can make leisure fruitful. “But,” says one, “you do not mean that the students should go to work with their hands instead of their heads?” I do not mean that exactly, but I mean something which he might think a good deal like that; I mean that they should not play life, or study it merely, while the community supports them at this expensive game, but earnestly live it from beginning to end. How could youths better learn to live than by at once trying the experiment of living?

Which would have advanced the most at the end of a month,- the boy who had made his own jackknife from the ore which he had dug and smelted, reading as much as would be necessary for this,- or the boy who had attended the lectures on metallurgy at the Institution in the mean while, and had received a Rogers’ penknife from his father? Which would be most likely to cut his fingers? To my astonishment I was informed on leaving college that I had studied navigation!- why, if I had taken one turn down the harbor I should have known more about it.

A simple and independent mind does not toil at the bidding of any prince.

In short, I am convinced, both by faith and experience, that to maintain one’s self on this earth is not a hardship but a pastime, if we will live simply and wisely; as the pursuits of the simpler nations are still the sports of the more artificial.

I would not have any one adopt my mode of living on any account; for, beside that before he had fairly learned it I may have found out another for myself, I desire that there may be as many different persons in the world as possible; but I would have each one be very careful to find out and pursue his own way, and not his father’s or his mother’s or his neighbor’s instead. The youth may build or plant or sail, only let him not be hindered from doing that which he tells me he would like to do. It is by a mathematical point only that we are wise, as the sailor or the fugitive slave keeps the polestar in his eye; but that is sufficient guidance for all our life. We may not arrive at our port within a calculable period, but we would preserve the true course.

The only cooperation which is commonly possible is exceedingly partial and superficial; and what little true cooperation there is, is as if it were not, being a harmony inaudible to men. If a man has faith he will cooperate with equal faith everywhere; if he has not faith, he will continue to live like the rest of the world, whatever company he is joined to. To cooperate, in the highest as well as the lowest sense, means to get our living together…. Above all, as I have implied, the man who goes alone can start today; but he who travels with another must wait til the other is ready, and it may be a long time before they get off.

As for doing good, that is one of the professions which are full. Moreover, I have tried it fairly, and, strange as it may seem, am satisfied that it does not agree with my constitution. Probably I should not consciously and deliberately forsake my particular calling to do the good that society demands of me, to save the universe from annihilation; and I believe that a like but infinitely greater steadfastness elsewhere is all that now preserves it. But I would not stand between any man and his genius; and to him who does this work, which I decline, with his whole heart and soul and life, I would say, Persevere, even if the world call it doing evil, as it is most likely they will.

At doing something,- I will not engage that my neighbors shall pronounce it good,- I do not hesitate to say that I should be a capital fellow to hire; but what that is, it is for my employer to find out. What good I do, in the common sense of the word, must be aside from my main path, and for the most part wholly unintended. Men say, practically, “Begin where you are and such as you are, without aiming mainly to become of more worth, and with kindness aforethought go about doing good.” If I were to preach at all in this strain, I would say rather, “Set about being good.”

If I knew for a certainty that a man was coming to my house with the conscious design of doing me good, I should run for my life, as from that dry and parching wind of the African deserts called the simoom, which fills the mouth and nose and ears and eyes with dust till you are suffocated, for fear that I should get some of his good done to me,- some of its virus mingled into my blood. No,- in this case I would rather suffer evil the natural way.

Be sure that you give the poor the aid that they most need, though it be your example which leaves them far behind. If you give money, spend yourself with it, and do not merely abandon it to them. We make curious mistakes sometimes.

I never knew, and never shall know, a worse man than myself.

Don Quixote

Don Quixote is a satire about a motivated ignoramus who thinks he’s acquired all there is to know about life by reading books. Specifically, Mr. Quixada has been inspired by books venerating the Christian Crusades. He is convinced the actions of the Christian military (the Knights) demonstrate all that is decent, true, right and good, and resolves to demonstrate moral excellence in his own life by unquestioningly and uncompromisingly following their example in every way.

Mr. Quixada retrieves his great-grandfather’s rusty armor and sword. The helmet he finds lacks the face-guard which is always associated with knights, so he crafts one out of papier mache and attaches it. He then swings his sword at it to test its strength and obliterates it. He fashions another one and decides it is superior to the first, although he refrains from testing it. This is our first glimpse of the major theme running throughout the book; Don Quixote lives primarily by faith, and not by works alone. He buys a horse, and, after agonizing for four days over what to name it, decides upon Rozinante; and liking that name so much, he decides to rename himself as well. After eight days of pondering, he settles upon Don Quixote de la Mancha. Finally, he decides he should have a lady for whom his services will be performed, and rather randomly chooses a prostitute from the next village he finds attractive named Aldonsa Lorenzo. They have never met and never do, but regardless he insists on changing her name, in his mind anyway, to Dulcinea del Toboso.

Don Quixote decides to follow the example of his heroes and the commandments of the Bible by traveling the world as a knight and impart upon it goodness, virtue, righteousness, etc. He quickly finds the real world wanting, however. He distresses over its mundanity, which he quickly solves by stubbornly insisting upon viewing his environment with the grandeur and idealism with which it is described in his precious books. It is important to recognize that through all of his subsequent travels, Don Quixote never roams more than a few days journey on horseback from his home, and much of that time is spent avoiding people. He refrains from engaging in the real world as much as possible.

When Don does meddle in the affairs of others, always in an attempt to prove his superior strength and moral code, the results are unwaveringly disastrous. One of the principle things Don Quixote has learned from his books is that evil often disguises itself as good, so he constantly chooses to see one as the other. Denouncing the inhumanity of keeping people in chains, he frees a convoy of criminals, who promptly beat him up, rob him and escape. Even when he prevents a master from beating a servant, it only results in the servant being beaten more after Don withdraws. I was impressed by the similarities of Don Quixote to George W. Bush.

Sancho Panza is Don Quixote’s poor and greedy neighbor who accompanies Don in hopes of getting rich, believing Don’s promise that he will give him an island to rule over at the end of their adventure. Don enjoys the fact that Sansho is so much a coward that he views Don as brave and so much a moron that he deems Don wise. Don frequently shows off to impress Sancho in the same manner that I used to entertain my younger sister as a kid. (One of my favorite childhood games was the one in which I wrestled an invisible monster out from under the bed and through it down the stairs while my sister nervously clutched her blankets.)

Don Quixote is not as virtuous as he pretends to be. When the innkeeper’s daughter trips and falls into his bed, he mistakes this as an advance and justifies that having sex with her would be the right thing to do. This theme that morality is best kept by having no opportunity to be immoral resurfaces later in the form of a story read while Don sleeps. By the halfway point of this long ass novel, even the author has gotten bored with it and begins segueing into several alternate stories. There are literally hundreds of pages in which Don Quixote never appears. The novel is divided into four books, and the second half of book two and almost all of book four are superfluous. Apparently this book was written before the invention of editing. Cervantes overtly assumes his audience is as dense as his main character, and insists upon beating this horse long after it is, if not dead, really, really tired.

I personally think the book should have ended after book three, chapter XII, at the brilliantly ironic moment when Don Quixote, inspired by a man he stumbles across in the mountain who has been driven mad over the betrayal of the woman he has secretly eloped with and his best friend who get publicly married behind his back, decides he will pretend to go crazy. He cites several knights who were driven mad by unrequited love. He sends Sancho to retrieve Dulcinea and brag of Don’s insanity, so that when her arrival cures him she will be overcome with joy and they will be married. Don wants to do some crazy things, especially run around naked, so that Sansho can vividly describe his condition to Dulcinea; but Sansho hilariously insists that he’ll be able to come up with sufficiently convincing stories of Don’s lunacy. At this point, Sansho could have gone home, fucked the hooker and died of AIDS; the end. If you don’t like my ending, try reading the book all the way through; I dare you.

Random

Sorry for the lag in posts. I'm actually being productive. Here's some misc. thoughts that ran through my head last Saturday:

Attempting to find out what you want to do with your life is worthwhile. Expecting to find out what you want to do with your life is futile.

No matter how much you enjoy stouts, red wines and cognacs, never drink all three simultaneously.

The depths of my weaknesses seem directly proportional to the sum of my strengths.

“Our children are our future” is probably the most obvious thing anybody has said as if it were somehow profound.

The only mistake greater than having not learned from it is having not recognized it.

I make more mistakes than most people, which is probably why I get more right.

Shoes Continued

I was always among the shortest and definitely the scrawniest kid in my class while growing up. However, my brother, six years older than me, was probably the tallest kid in his class, and my dad consoled me that he himself had grown several inches his senior year of high school, so I always assumed I’d get taller. This must be why, beginning my freshman year of high school, I started wearing size 10-10.5 shoes. I felt like I needed some room in the toe to grow into.

Unfathomably in retrospect, I was on the basketball team through tenth grade. I was spindly and awkward, and the other kids tormented me with near-daily wedgies (pulling my underwear elastic up over my head), flushies (lifting me upside-down by the ankles and flushing my head in the toilet) and locking me in the tiny lockers. It was a lot of fun, let me tell you. But perhaps the most beguiling part of basketball was that I was the slowest kid on the team except for my closest friend Eric, who ran like a wounded walrus. I could never figure this out, but suspected it had something to do with my shoes.

My family couldn’t afford or weren’t willing to waste money on the fancy Air Jordan’s that the other kids had. While running, I could feel my shoes slipping around. At the time, I blamed it on the traction. I sometimes considered it a blessing that the dry gymnasium air often gave me nosebleeds so that I could lean over a trashcan holding toilet paper to my nose and spitting out clots while the other kids ran.

I have a hard time appreciating or trusting anybody that speaks fondly of high school. When others talk about returning for reunions, my jaw simply drops. The people from my high school are literally the last people I’d ever want to see again in my entire life. I’m the same size as I was back then, and I envision them zipping me into a duffel bag and kicking at me for old time’s sake.

I still can’t afford overpriced shoes. Today, however, I wear size 8-8.5.

Single Malt Scotch

Although I had enjoyed the occasional single malt scotch I had imbibed over the years, my obsession with the “water of life” was triggered by my purchase of a bottle of 12 year Caol Ila. Its deep, smoky aroma; oily mouth-coating consistency; subtle yet confident personality and long, peaceful finish intrigued me immensely. Caol Ila is a single malt scotch from the north side of the somewhat notorious island of Islay in Scotland.

Islay is known for its peaty single malts, although in my experience, the whiskys from the south side of the island are much more intense. Peat is, roughly, combustible dried compost. In Scotland, peat is usually cut from the soil and used to heat the kilns which arrest the germination of barley, creating malted barley. There is an identifiable “peat” taste in some Scotches, and although I’ve never eaten Scottish dirt (the first thing I plan to do should I ever get to Scotland is shove my nose into the ground), the first time I understood what was meant by peat taste I exclaimed, “Oh, it’s the seaweed flavor!” That’s a part of it; but essentially peat is the taste of the bog. It has sweat, grass and campfire tones. Smokiness is a characteristic of peat, but a Scotch can be peaty and not very smoky. I think the berserker enraged 10 year Talisker is a good example of this.

Scotland’s Highland is known for its heathery single malts. (The area within The Highland most known for its Scotch is called Speyside, which became a popular place to distill because its terrain made it impossible for the authorities to get to.) Heather is a native flower whose fragrance, most say, is imparted through the spring water that makes up one of the three ingredients of single malt Scotch whisky. I don’t know what Scottish spring water tastes like, but it must be sweet. One of my current favorite Scotches is 15 year Dalwhinnie, a lively, full-flavored Highlander that is very perfume-y, which the experts all call heathery. It also has sherry in its nose (along with vanilla, honey and cinnamon) and its finish (along with chocolate, nougat and visceral contemplation); although I don’t know whether this specific Scotch is aged in sherry casks (I’ve noticed that the experts’ descriptions often conveniently echo what they know of how and where it was made, which I think is cheating and refuse to do). Like wines, a huge range of familiar flavors can be tasted in Scotch. The origins of some of them can be explained while others can’t. For example, 10 year Abelour’s peat is nicely balanced by a very distinct pear flavor.

Obviously, there’s more to whisky than malted barley, spring water and yeast (unlike in America, Scots do not use sour mash as their yeast). Whisky is made from a “wash” of fermented malted barley that is distilled twice using handmade copper pots. The shape and size of the pots will influence the whisky’s characteristics. The oak barrels in which Scotch is matured for a minimum of three years, but almost always much longer, also impart a lot of the characteristic, including the color (all things are clear after being distilled) of the drink. Unlike most other whiskeys, Scotch has no rules regarding what kind of oak barrel can be used. Bourbon casks must be charred new white oak; Canadian whisky must be used bourbon barrels (gotta love that symbiosis); Irish whiskey barrels must have been previously used from any source (usually Scotch, sherry or bourbon).

The location of each barrel in the warehouse containing the aging whisky will affect the aging process. To compensate for this, the barrels are occasionally rolled around to different parts of the warehouse, and after it has matured (malted barley takes longer to mature than other grains), the barrels from the same batch are vatted (mixed) so that the final product is consistent. American bourbons, on the other hand, revere “small batch” and “single barrels,” which allow for more variance within the product line.

I’ve been enthralled lately by the effect the drinking glass has on the flavor. I splurged for a couple Glencairn whisky glasses which I adore. The nose (smell) and flavor that come out of that glass is drastically more “pure” than the same Scotch out of the other glasses (including brandy snifters, which are traditionally used) I own. Here’s how I drink scotch: first I swish it around in the glass, looking at the color and viscosity, then I give it three sniffs; the first acclimates the nose, the second has the dominant body, the third contains the fruit tones. Upon drinking a small portion, I chew it for five or six seconds, savoring its tingle and how and where it fills my palate. Finally, I pay attention to the development of the drink after it’s been swallowed.

Rushmore

Wes Anderson’s second movie, Rushmore (1998), isn’t for everyone. It is for cynically passionate, unconventionally clever, emotionally immature individuals struggling to understand themselves and find their niche. People who don’t spend their days laughing aloud about the ridiculousness of humans, humanity and the human condition might not get the joke. Needless to say, I really, really like this movie.

Max Fisher (Jason Schwartzman) is an enterprising young man who has won an academic scholarship to attend Rushmore, a prep school that he wouldn’t have been otherwise able to afford to attend, by writing a screenplay. He works and postures hard to prove himself worthy of his enrollment, throwing himself into every extra-curricular activity the school offers. Unfortunately, the fundamental basics of the educational system, especially (and fittingly) math, elude him.

Max cannot allow himself to be distracted by such things as practicality, appropriate behavior and his peer group. At first, his lone friend is Dirk Calloway (Mason Gamble), a boy several years Max’s junior who is an interesting balance of impressionable yet stubborn; although Max not-so-subtly regards the most interesting thing about Dirk to be his gorgeous mom. Then Max befriends Herman Blume (Bill Murray), a Rushmore alum who owns a successful metal working company, after being inspired by a commencement speech Herman gives in which he encourages the less affluent students not to let the spoiled ones, including his own twin sons, have more success than them.

Soon after, Max discovers Rosemary Cross (Olivia Williams), an elementary teacher with an affinity for fish. To impress her, he immediately takes up smoking, prevents Rushmore’s Latin program from being dropped (because Miss Cross wrote her thesis on Latin American economic policy) and begins planning to have a giant aquarium built, borrowing money from Herman to do it. When he chooses the location for the aquarium and starts digging up the baseball field, Max gets kicked out of Rushmore.

Once Max gets an idea into his head he runs with it without ever asking whether the idea is possible to achieve or worth achieving. Max believes in the cinematic idealism whereby the good guy always prevails. Max’s passion is exactly what Herman lacks. Herman hates himself and everything about his life. He has wealth, but nothing he wants to spend it on. He’s pathetic and he knows it. But he can’t keep himself from falling for Rosemary. Max and Herman are initially attracted to Rosemary in part because she seems to have things together, but are stymied by the fact that she is struggling to deal with the death of her husband. We never find out much about Rosemary and Herman’s relationship, but we don’t really have to because we know it’s never going to last. Herman, like Max, wants someone to take care of him. As it turns out, so does Rosemary.

Dirk finds out Max’s coy lie that he got kicked out of Rushmore for getting a handjob from Dirk’s mom and gets his revenge by telling Max about Herman and Rosemary. Now alone in this world without even Rushmore to distract him, Max has to learn to come to terms with his new school, being ashamed of his father (an unassuming, affable barber), the death of his mother, the betrayal of his friends and, most of all, that emotion we call love.

Rushmore is funny, but only if you find humor in the absurd. We knew this about Murray, but young Schwartzman also turns out to be a natural at deadpan comic delivery. Anderson embraces a Shakespearean wit whereby two kids can carry on a perfectly rational and civil conversation that has been instigated by one shooting the other in the side of the head with a BB gun. Anderson’s style, which he has used to create a catalogue of movies with a consistency in quality matched only by a handful of other directors in the history of cinema, seems equally informed by Martin Scorsese’s sense of frame and action and Hal Ashby’s patient, aware, sophisticated humor. In fact, Rushmore makes enough subtle references to Ashby’s Harold and Maude (1971) that halfway through you expect a Cat Stevens song to burst out. And then one does.

Morality

It's best not to be too moral. You cheat yourself out of too much life. Aim above morality. If you apply that to life, then you're bound to live life fully.

- Maude (from Harold and Maude (1971))

When I Write

I only write when I’m angry or sad or something because that’s when I just have to write, and I only will work if I absolutely have to. If I’m having a good time and I’m happy and things are going really well, why would I want to stop what I’m doing to go and write about it at the piano?

-Fiona Apple (Interview on Late, Late Show)

Ann Redux

Ann assumes all humans are important and worthwhile. She enjoys meeting people, and although she doesn’t ultimately like everyone’s company, she is always kind, generous and thoughtful. Perhaps because of Ann’s rather conservative, Midwestern, suburban upbringing, Ann is especially attracted to unconventional, quirky people with outlandish senses of humor.

One of the most rewarding experiences a person can have is making Ann laugh. Her laugh is among the warmest and heartfelt I’ve heard, and some have been compelled to spend years trying to get her to guffaw to the extent that they become quickly concerned and even irritable when she doesn’t. This could become a burden for Ann if she realized it, and perhaps it does contribute to her preference to be surrounded by friendly, laughing people.

Ann herself manages to stay friendly and laughing, which in no small part can be attributed to her strong focus and self-discipline. Ann thrives on routine; not the repetitive, passive doldrums, but rather spirited, Carpe Diem inspired, goal-oriented pursuits. She feels life has a lot of good to offer, and keeps herself mentally and physically fit to be able to recognize and explore its natural beauty. She wakes up early in the mornings to run, and drives long hours on the weekends to walk up mountains. She loves traveling the globe and experiencing various cultures, and even spends her days helping children throughout the world do just that. While some prefer extravagant, modern societies, Ann gravitates toward poorer, more practical countries. Ann wants to make a real difference in this world, and anybody that knows her knows that she does.

Ann refuses to become lazy and indifferent. “I don’t want to like it,” she smiles. Cynics might claim she fears death, to which she’s retorted that cynics fear life. Negative people can use Ann as a barometer for how obnoxious they’re being. When she gives her husband the, “I swear to god one of these days he’s going to make me snap,” glare one knows it is time to back off. Another thing Ann doesn’t realize is that contemptible people depend on her warmth to get them through their own personal battles. Although her relentless optimism might incite them to lash out from time to time, for the most part it gives them hope that there are people in the world like her that make existence, at the very least, bearable.

Oh Yes

there are worse things than
being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it's too late
and there's nothing worse
than
too late.

-charles bukowski

Bill of Rights

After a small but organized gang of extremely wealthy, well-connected, highly educated, and influential subversives, whose organization was called the Continental Congress and sometimes The Confederation, instigated a revolt against the British government and promptly claimed command of its colonies on the New World, they faced several dilemmas. The greatest of these was that the leaders of the rebellion hardly agreed on anything, and yet had to find some compromised system of government by which they could all have influence. Perhaps the next greatest problem was the obvious realization that they had made themselves vulnerable to having the excuses they used in rebelling against Britain used against them.

The official document listing grievances against King George III, called the Declaration of Independence, was written a year after the war with Britain had already begun, and one of its objectives was to convince the colonists that the rebellion was justified. In this regard, it wasn’t nearly as effective or influential as the pathos of Patrick Henry or the writings of Thomas Paine. But perhaps its main objective was to claim sole responsibility for the coup de etat so that when the dust settled they would be considered the winners and not the many other less organized militias and terrorists also fighting the Brits. In retrospect, the Continental Congress would have been given credit anyway, as the arbitrarily chosen leader of their ad hoc army, George Washington, turned out to be one hell of a military general, and their connections with France via Benjamin Franklin proved invaluable.

A committee outlined the themes to be included in the document, then the Declaration was hastily written by Thomas Jefferson. It underwent surprisingly little editing, despite its incredible vagueness, redundancies and the absurdity of some of the reasons (among those being the king’s allowance of Native Americans to inhabit the Americas and defending himself against those challenging his authority), before being agreed upon by the Continental Congress (often known as the founding fathers although I prefer The Man). The document opens by stressing the importance of individual rights and of citizens to be able to overthrow its own government. The Man was desperate enough at the time that they probably didn’t worry too much about how they would deal with the obvious implications of their own words once they took over.

The foremost advertised and most popular reason for the war was to free the citizens of the colonies from tariffs. Of course, the members of The Man put themselves into a lot of debt funding the war, and they wanted to get their money back. When Washington became president, he put Hamilton in charge of this task by appointing him Secretary of the Treasury. While some proposed a lottery for raising money, they settled on Hamilton’s plan of implementing virtually the same tariffs that the British had imposed (in fact that was literally the first thing the newly formed government did after writing the wording for swearing themselves in), hypocritically making it illegal for the states to do the same thing. They hoped nobody would notice. They might have considered an income tax, but their own Constitution had explicitly made that illegal, probably because they didn’t want anyone realizing how much money they were making….

It is ironic but not surprising that when these traitors set up the government by which they’d rule, the one crime they went out of their way to denigrate was treason. It is also not unexpected that, sensing the sham of the takeover, the public demanded a guarantee of their promised liberties, freedoms and inalienable rights. Moreover, they wanted it explained to them what the hell these things were. (The common man did not understand that the inalienable rights Thomas Jefferson alluded to was a very obvious reference to the works of John Locke and Adam Smith. Jefferson was a vocal advocate that individual rights should be included in the Constitution, which is probably why The Man had shipped him to France while they wrote it.) Not until they were backed into a corner with the threat of the Constitution not being signed did The Man agree to placate the masses by giving them their rights- after they got their signatures. That The Man was able to convince all of the states to agree to submit to their previously non-existent authority without using military force is an extremely impressive and perhaps unparalleled feat.

Now The Man had to figure out a way to present an official list of individual rights to those suspicious of their motives without actually relinquishing any of their hard-won authority. In the early days, the biggest opponent of individual rights was Alexander Hamilton. Hamilton, who wanted to bring back the monarchy (and presumably anoint himself king), founded the Federalist Party, which favored a strong centralized power. The Anti-Federalists, a less organized group of citizens in favor of state and individual rights who’s most prominent voice was Patrick Henry, had been vocal in demanding a bill listing individual rights. James Madison, who along with George Washington was the most influential early supporter of Alexander Hamilton, was an outspoken opponent of any bill of rights, and publicly argued with Patrick Henry and privately with Thomas Jefferson regarding them. So when Madison himself introduced the Bill of Rights in 1789, apparently not enough eyebrows were raised (although the same thing happens in politics today all of the time). In fact, The Federalist Papers, the articles most influential in promoting the Constitution while explicating resistance to any bill of rights, were written by Alexander Hamilton, John Jay and James Madison! Even later in life, Madison chastised the amendments as being “useless.” In the Bill of Rights, The Man managed to enumerate individual rights without relinquishing government power or giving individuals means to overthrow it.

In fairness, it should be noted that James Madison would later split from Hamilton and join with Thomas Jefferson to form what is now referred to as the Democratic-Republican Party, which opposed Hamilton’s economic and foreign policies and favored state rights over federal power. In response, Patrick Henry, being such a staunch opponent of Madison, would jump ship and become a Federalist! (After Thomas Jefferson became President, his Vice President, another Federalist turned Democratic-Republican named Aaron Burr shot and killed Alexander Hamilton in a duel instigated by Burr, well aware that Hamilton had a long history of accepting duels but of never actually shooting anybody. Burr’s political career in the United States was ruined, excusing him to live on the land he had already leased in Mexico, on which he began assembling an army with which he intended to conquer Mexico and become its emperor. Jefferson spent the years just prior and forever after the assassination of Hamilton going to such astonishingly extreme measures to distance himself from Burr (while simultaneously acting completely unsurprised and initially doing nothing when he was told of Burr’s plans of conquest), that nobody ever questioned whether Jefferson had any role in his main rival’s death. The cunning of politicians cannot be underestimated, especially when circumstances like these reveal themselves.)

There were originally twelve articles presented by The Man to the states that were intended to become constitutional amendments. The first one has never been ratified. It proposed a system for increasing the number of members in the House of Representatives in an attempt to strengthen that branch, of which Madison was a member. The second proposed amendment was ratified in 1992, and became the twenty-seventh constitutional amendment. It disallows members of congress from giving themselves raises which take effect before the next election. Congress ignores this amendment entirely; they now give themselves “cost of living adjustments” instead of raises.

Looking back, it’s surprising that what we now know as the first amendment wasn’t always leading the pack, because it’s really a crowd pleaser, imposing broad limits on federal power. Even more surprising, Madison had originally made around twenty proposals (that he felt should be added into the body of the Constitution itself) that The Man edited down, and the first one of those, which I’m sure he intended to have immediately shot down and included only as a motivator to encourage The Man to help him weed out anything similar he may have accidentally written, declared that the role of government was to benefit the people, and that the people had the right to change that government. (Nothing else he proposed came even close to this acknowledgment.)

The first amendment keeps the Congress from prohibiting any religious beliefs or creating any laws regarding any religion. Contextually, the reference is in regard to the English Reformation, which had caused an upheaval in Britain two and a half centuries prior and was a major catalyst for American immigration, and the French Revolution, which was a current event. (I’d love to go into more detail here, but I’m writing a blog post, not a novel.) In practice, this amendment has been of most use in allowing for churches not to pay taxes. It has traditionally not been applied to religions other than mainstream Christianity; for instance Native American religions were made illegal, as was the Mormon’s practice of polygamy and many modern-day “cults” (remember Waco?).

The first amendment also prevents government from being able to censor the spoken and written word. Alright, that’s worth the price of admission. Finally, it allows for citizens to peacefully gather and to formally ask the government to correct any wrongs they feel they have been done. For me, here is where things start to get suspicious. Who defines “peaceably?” KKK rallies are generally allowed because they’re peaceful yet Black Panther rallies have consistently been considered violent. I have a problem with that. According to the next phrase, my recourse is to fill out the appropriate paperwork and navigate the red tape in order to mention to the government that I feel there’s something wrong about that. No promises are given that the government will listen or do anything whatsoever, and the individual is NOT given the right to take these matters into his own hands! By its clever wording, the amendment is giving the government MORE power, not less. The bill of rights NEVER grants the citizens of the United States the right to act on their own behalf in any way.

The second amendment is a confusingly constructed sentence fragment. There is no way this amendment should have been ratified without demanding that the wording be fixed. It allows for states to keep “a well regulated” militia. This wording is significant because state militias were notoriously unruly. The Man could have easily disbanded any militia it deemed a threat. The other and more famous part of the amendment is fascinating to me because most people don’t seem to realize what the word “bear” means to carry and hold up, in the same way that we say a truck bears a load. According to this amendment, one should be able to walk down the street holding a gun without any recourse. However, the poorly written fragment allows lawmakers to claim only people in militias can keep and bear arms. In practice, an odd compromise has been reached which generally allows everybody to own weapons but allows each state to dictate who can carry them. It turns out even the highly-influential the NRA has actually relinquished half of its constitutional right in regard to weapons. This amendment does not allow for anybody to have or carry bullets or use their weapons, nor does it specify whether all types of guns can be carried. Although the ninth amendment should (but doesn’t) prevent lawmakers from using this as an argument, the tenth amendment lets the states make laws regarding these things.

The third amendment addresses a specific grievance mentioned in the Declaration of Independence. It disallows soldiers from making themselves at home in a citizen’s house in times of peace. In times of war, a law must be written before a soldier can do so. War is something declared by Congress, so that definition depends entirely on them. All the government needs to do to allow soldiers to take over your house is declare war and then write a law saying they can. History has shown that getting Congress to declare war is enough of a pain that our government usually just wages wars without declaring them, but still the trend of the bill of rights giving the government more power instead of less continues….

The fourth amendment, like the third, protects private property. John Locke had made private property a huge concern with his late seventeenth century writings, which were highly influential on the Congressional Congress gang, especially Hamilton, Jefferson and Madison. My point is not that there’s anything wrong with the amendment, but that it was written because it was a concern of the government and not necessarily the citizens as was advertised at the time and generally believed to this day. The government has always interpreted its laws in ways that protect itself much more than they protect its citizens. Who decides when searches and seizures become reasonable? The government, of course! Getting any government official to reveal any of their papers is much more difficult than it is for them to get us to reveal ours.

The fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth amendments all deal with due process in the judicial branch. These amendments have proven themselves worthwhile, and I truly believe that without them we as citizens would be seriously screwed. Nonetheless, they contain several ambiguities and self-contradictions. The wording always has an “out;” the government cannot buy your land without “just” compensation, for example. And what exactly would an impartial trial held in the district where the crime took place look like? Others will claim it is exactly the ambiguities in the Constitution which make it strong. I find this ridiculous; comparable to claiming the plot holes are what make a movie good. It does, however, give the government the flexibility to interpret the document in whatever way is most convenient for them at the time.

The ninth and tenth amendments admit the limitations of the federal government; arrogantly conceding that individuals and states can do things other than what the government says they can do as long as it hasn’t explicitly stated we can’t. Gee, thanks.

Sticky Note

I apologize for my recent gloominess. I promise my next blog will be less egocentric and loathsome regarding existence. Thank you for your indulgence.

The Bridge

I found The Bridge (2006) to be an inspiring documentary. It explores the lives of those who contemplate, attempt or commit suicide by leaping from the Golden Gate Bridge through interviews with family, friends and those who have survived as well as tons of footage of the bridge itself.

Unlike most, I have little fear of death, although being injured, tortured, maimed, suffocated, burned or sick all make me very nervous. When it gets right down to it, I think life is bullshit and I’d rather not deal with it. Fortunately, I don’t suffer from depression, schizophrenia, drug addiction or any other diagnosable illness that would exacerbate my disillusionment with life. I think about death a lot, but not suicide. I’m the type who gets in a plane and wants it to crash. I get concerned with things like what’ll be in my pockets or what music I’ll be found with when I’m dead. I’m impressed if not jealous of those who actually go through with suicide. Good for them! They have more balls than I ever will.

The movie touches on most of the topics that come to mind regarding suicide. I especially appreciated the empathy shown by friends and relatives who get that being loved doesn’t necessarily make life bearable, although at the same time nobody who killed themselves was in a relationship. There were very few who were outright surprised by the suicide or attempt. These were people pained by existence itself. One guy who had been job hunting in San Francisco for awhile killed himself, and left behind a job interview offer on his answering machine. His roommate at the time emphasized that if he had just waited one more day he could have had a job. Fuck that; he never has to work again, which seems way better to me.

One interesting side-effect of killing yourself by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge is that those you leave behind will never view that bridge the same way again. This made me think of my friend Chris who died of a heroin overdose and whom I always think of whenever the topic of drugs comes up (even before I think of Charlie Parker). I guess you could say he ruined the idea of heroin for me; not that I ever romanticized it, but I’ve encountered those who honestly do, so in a way I am thankful to have that perspective.

The movie emphasized the frequency of which people jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, and I was starting to picture it like lemmings jumping off a cliff. I was disappointed at the end when they admitted in 2004 (the year on which the film is focused) only 24 people died by that method. C’mon people, jump; there is an over-population problem and life really sucks! Since I’m not going to do it, I want to be able to vicariously die through you. Watching someone fall off that bridge is sublimely beautiful.

Commitment/Monogamy

Most people would rather be around someone they can tolerate or even dislike than be alone. Everybody would rather be around someone they like than be alone. Many people can find someone they like when given a very small sample of the population. When you find someone to spend your time with, it’s nice to have some assurance that they’re not going to suddenly abandon you.

There’s a commonly accepted notion that the most convincing way to demonstrate your commitment to another is by having sex with them exclusively. I do agree monogamy is an ultimate sacrifice, and I do notice that sacrifice is an often use tactic to demonstrate commitment, but why must another submit to punishment before you can trust them? I am fully convinced our society’s obsession with monogamy has destroyed far more relationships than it ever has helped. Why should we have to go to such extremes to convince another we are committed to a continued relationship with them?

One obvious answer is that sex is the most intimate thing people can do. What is intimacy except knowing another really well? There is no logical connection why intimacy should be tied to commitment except as it relates to the previously stated idea that knowing another is often enough reason to be with them. But must humans really be that immature? Perhaps; I’m not suggesting I have any answers here. But we should be able to know someone intimately without being compelled to spend the rest of our lives committed to hanging out with them, shouldn’t we? I understand that it’s flawed to try to apply logic to human compulsion.

Another likely explanation for distrusting a committed partner with having sex with another is that sex can be addictive. The assumption is that they’ll want to go and have sex all the time instead of hanging out with you. I honestly can’t say I have a good argument against this line of thought except that there’s something worthwhile in a committed relationship that goes beyond sex. After all, most people stay in committed relationships despite the sex, not because of it. There’s a tired adage that goes something like, “When you have sex with the person you love you won’t want to have sex with anyone else.” Puulleease! How would you know? That’s what I thought.

A consideration that must always be made is the very real threat of STD’s. The worst case scenario is for your partner to be out cavorting around and then bringing home some venereal disease. Modern technology could greatly reduce the fear of STD’s, but the powers in charge seem to want us to be afraid to have sex. Things are far from my way, but if they were every major grocery store would include a free or cheap STD clinic. Among other things, this would bring a whole new dimension to the offer, “Hey baby, want to come over to my place? I’ll cook! I don’t have any food though….” I don’t even mind waiting a few days for the results; it’s not unlike the waiting period when purchasing a hand gun.

I realize these questions are instantly annihilated by the Christian assertion that sex outside of commitment is a sin. Sin is the religious equivalent of “illegal” in social justice. A felony is illegal regardless of whether you question the validity or justness of the law, and if you get caught breaking the law you will be punished regardless of whether you agree with that law unless you can successfully argue that the law is unfair and have it removed. Similarly, sin is the assumption that the universe itself has a system of laws in place that we must either follow or be punished for breaking. And there’s no arguing with the universe! This of course necessitates that the universe has awareness, intention, and the ability to execute its plan. (If the universe does have a plan for us, it’s certainly an ill-conceived one.)

The Abrahamic traditions assert that there is a universal law that sex is a sin until you sign a contract with another whom you intend to “have relations” with saying that you’ll be committed to caring for that person for the remainder of your life. Is this weird to anyone else? What other contracts can we make to void other so-called sins? In the Judaic Old Testament, males could have as many wives as they wanted, but females could only have one husband. The New Testament, influenced by the Roman culture surrounding it, declared you can only sign this bizarre sin-exempting contract with one other person. In the Old Testament, punishment for sin is poverty and enslavement on earth; in the New Testament punishment for sin is eternal torture in hell. According to the Bible, the universe not only knows what it is doing, but it is also fair, just and consistent. You can’t disprove universal consciousness, but you can pretty quickly dismiss the biblical version of it.

Most people are pretty quick to jump down my throat when I start questioning concepts like monogamy that are so ingrained in our culture. But I think we should question assumptions such as these if only because it never even occurs to most to question them. It’s a hell of a lot better than resorting to deception, guilt and surreptitiousness.

Ann

My friend Ann drove to Vancouver this weekend to run a marathon today. That’s pretty much the last thing in the world I would ever want to do; it’s right up there with drinking battery acid as far as I’m concerned. But there’s a lot about Ann that’s dissimilar to me.

Ann likes to stay positive. Being positive bores the ba-jesus out of me. I enjoy finding shit to bitch about. I think cynicism is funny.

Ann is a nice, cute, charming, friendly girl that everybody likes. She mentioned once she didn’t think she had any enemies. I seem to spend most of my time annoying people or pissing them off. I don’t make too many friends but I could have a rolodex full of enemies.

Ann seems to genuinely care. I generally don’t.

Ann once told the story of the one time she got in trouble in grade school, remembering every detail. She hadn’t actually done anything except misunderstand the teacher but twenty years later she was still distraught about it. I can’t even remember all the stupid stuff I got in trouble for growing up. I don’t know why anybody would want to, but I’ll bet if you yelled at Ann you’d make her cry. You could yell at me and make me yawn.

I haven’t seen Ann and Carl very much lately. I’ll admit I thought maybe Ann was mad at me for some reason. It turns out she just got promoted and has been working a new job that’s been keeping her busy, not to mention she’s been training for a marathon in the early mornings and hiking up mountains every weekend. When I did get to see her last week, she asked if I was mad at her for not reading my blog.

Precious Moments

“Why would you put that shit on the internet for the whole world to see? If you want to write shit like that, why don’t you get a journal and write in that and then hide it away like I do? You better take that blog down. You better take that blog down now!”

It’s not a bad question, even though it wasn’t really a question. I had never written anything about her at all, but if I had I would have erased it at her request. I know I’m referencing her now, but I’m going to refrain from discussing her or my thoughts on her further.

I write this shit to try to connect; same reason why I drummed. I keep hoping I’ll find somebody who knows what the hell I’m talking about. So far no luck, but I’ll keep you posted. In trying to connect, I write for an unknown audience imagined as liking what I like. (For example, I really like decapitated Precious Moments figurines.) This is vastly different than writing in a journal, where you literally write only for your own future self. I actually did write in journals relatively prolifically during college, but it was all so predictably naïve I burned it soon after graduating.

I’m interested in writing in the moment; for the moment. Who cares how it turns out tomorrow? I experience my existence one second at a time so that’s how I express it. I try not to over-think life; I’m more interested in living it, even if that means causing some waves that capsize a boat or two. If you can't deal with me, get out of the water or get a bigger boat.

One reason for this blog was to write odes to my friends, and strangely enough most the friends who I’ve written about and gotten feedback from have in fact been to some extend offended or at least confused by what I wrote. What the fuck; I love you, get it? I write about those I think about and miss; I don't dwell on my enemies (One of them tried to bait me here early on but gave up when ignored). As a drummer, I always appreciated getting honest feedback from various perspectives about what I was doing (aka what they were hearing). Frankly, my friends should know me better than to think I’m gonna pump sunshine up their ass, and that’s the projected audience I’m writing for.

The criticism I get about my blog, besides that it’s uninteresting, is that it’s all true but they don’t want to hear it. This is a MAJOR gripe I have with most humans, and exactly why complete and utter deceit like religion, Disney and Oprah Winfrey are so popular. “Tell us lies that we want to hear. YAY!” Also, I agree with the Bukowski sentiment that if you're writing anything your parents will like then it's bullshit.

I’m also writing this blog to learn how to write. I try out different styles, voices and such. If I knew how to write I wouldn’t be working on a blog; I’d be working on getting a publisher. This happens to be the 100th blog that I’ve posted, and I do think my writing has improved.

Reciprocal Compliments

She kind of caught me off-guard when she immediately exclaimed, “You look really nice today,” when we met up for lunch. In the past I’ve been notoriously weirded-out by compliments, but I’m getting over that. Sometimes compliments are sincere even if I find them incorrect or contrived. But because I was aware of what she was going through, my thoughts turned immediately to her.

It should be noted that this girl is as cute as a baby panda. I could have done the obvious and reciprocated her compliment. This is the culturally encouraged thing to do. But I’m not the type who’s motivated by social norms.

Reciprocating compliments can be a convenient way to relegate both statements meaningless. Not only do you distract the focus from the original compliment, you allow the train of thought, “Is he saying that because I said it? Did he think I was just saying it to be polite?” Et cetera. These questions come to mind because we play these games all the time. Perhaps none is worse than someone saying, “I love you,” just to see if you’ll reply in kind. What kind of fucked up manipulation is that? Do you love me or are you just insecure? I learned a few years back the best response to, “I love you,” is, “Thanks!” Then you can say you love them so they’ll know that you mean it and without them having any obligation to absent-mindedly echo you. (Besides, to admit you love them is letting them know how easy it is for them to fuck with your life, although it’s useless to leave them in the dark about it for long because they’ll just start testing to find out it they can.)

I prefer not to be around perpetually insecure people, mostly because I like shooting my mouth, and when I’m around someone who’s going to be easily offended I get really self-conscious and clam up quick. I do understand, however, that we all have vulnerable moments and know that there are times when all we need is support. (In my old age I’m learning the last thing a person being insecure wants is advice.) I want to give solace and encouragement when it’s needed, and sometimes will oblige when others fish for compliments that they need to hear without having to ask.

Back to the catalyst for this train of thought: this girl was about to embark on a journey into a whole new life in a whole other country where she was definitely justified in feeling stressed. Did she need for me to tell her she was looking good? No, it didn’t seem to be an area where her insecurity would manifest. On the contrary, she is surely the type who’s sick of guys telling her how pretty she is all the time.

Hell, maybe I was just looking nice that day. I had shaved the night before, after all. I said, “Thank you,” paused awkwardly for a moment, made a joke about work being good for my complexion and then we ate lunch.

Shoes

Everybody’s heard the phrase, “You can’t really know a man until you walk a mile in his shoes.” When asked what this means, most will say something along the lines of, “You have to consider other people’s perspectives or life experiences.” This is NOT a correct interpretation. If that were the case, the phrase would be, “You can’t really know a man until you look at his shoes and see where he’s been.”

Wearing another’s shoes is proactive, not speculative. What the quote is getting at is that you can’t know another unless you have shared or parallel experiences. It’s impossible to know what it’s like to have been somewhere without having been there. Further, it’s impossible to relate to another’s experience of having been somewhere unless you were there with them or did similar things there at around the same time. You can’t look at someone else’s tattoo and ask, “Did it hurt?” and then think you know what it’s like to get tattooed. Nobody can abstract experience from theory.

Acceptance

People keep asking whether I’m over her. No, I’m not over her. I don’t feel I need to treat her like an obstacle in my path. For me, the chore is in learning to accept her decision. Isn’t that the whole point of loving someone, anyway? You accept their decisions no matter what. You don’t have to agree with them. You don’t have to understand them. You accept them because you love them and people you love can do no wrong.

My dad’s favorite place to eat is probably Taco Bell. Taco Bell is disgusting. It is synthetically processed, nutritionally void and flavorless crap, made up in the morning then left under a heat lamp until served to you by underpaid morons wearing demeaning purple uniforms in a depressingly uncomfortable fluorescent-lit cafeteria bursting with over-sized advertisements. On top of all that, my dad lives in Fresno, California, where he wouldn’t have to travel very far to pay less for authentic Mexican food. I live down the street from a Taco Bell, and deride anybody there nearly every time I pass by. I’m not going to get over my disdain for that place, but I love my dad, so I simply accept that he eats at Taco Bell; which isn’t hard because seriously, who cares?

There are people reading this suddenly ashamed that they like Taco Bell. This demonstrates that it is actually easier to accept the opinions and actions of others than it is to accept oneself. Everybody grows up being told how they’re supposed to be, and are afraid that they won’t be loved unless they are how they’re supposed to be. In the end, they grow up hating themselves for not being who somebody else told them they’re supposed to be. Most try to live in denial; others rebel by trying to become who they’re not supposed to be. Very few ever simply learn to exist.

Unfortunately, the most common reason for not accepting someone is because they don’t believe the same as you, which is profoundly arrogant and excruciatingly shallow. Anyone who unequivocally insists that they’re right is actually highlighting their own insecurities. Most people are bothered by the fact that they are essentially alone in this world and spend their lives hoping others will validate their existence by loving, admiring or agreeing with them. People crave external validation when they can’t accept themselves. Perhaps the most frustrating time to accept others is when they make choices fueled largely by guilt, which is lack of self-acceptance.

Instead of accepting themselves, people instead try to define themselves, and then they desperately or futilely try to live up to that limiting definition. There is little left of life once you decide how it’s supposed to be. Inflexibility inevitably leads to failure, unless you have very narrow expectations. Most want things to be a certain way or insist that they know how things are. Strange then that I’ve yet to find anybody who knows what the hell they are talking about, myself included.

The Afghan Whigs black love

I’ve literally put on this album in the presence of others more than once only to quickly turn it off hoping nobody noticed that it was expressing my innermost private thoughts so exactly. I lifted the following lyrics (written by Greg Dulli) verbatim from the liner notes. On the album, several lines are repeated. Thank you, John Paul, for introducing me to this band so many years ago. I don’t forget shit like that. I don’t forget who my friends are even when I’m being an asshole to them. I don’t try to be an asshole; I really don’t. I just am. I know it's hard to believe how naively inconsiderate I can be. Today I jokingly told someone I think it’s important to force people to try to remember why they like me. Lord knows if and why anybody does.

The thing about never following anybody else’s assumptions is that then you’re forced to blindly improvise life as you go, and when you fuck it up you have nobody but yourself to blame, and there is no absolution. Sorry for my fuck-ups. Oh, and fuck you for blaming me for the shit that wasn’t my fault.


Crime Scene Part One

Tonight, tonight I say goodbye
To everyone who loves me
Stick it to my enemies, tonight
Then I disappear
Bathe my path in shining light
Set the dials to thrill me
Every secret has its price
This one’s set to kill

Too loose, too tight, too dark, too bright
A lie, the truth, which one should I use?
If the lie succeeds
Then you’ll know I was mean
When I tell you I have secrets
To attend

Do you think I’m beautiful?
Or do you think I’m evil?
Will you take me for a ride?
The one that never ends
Too loose, too tight, too dark, too bright
A lie, the truth, which one shall I use?
If the lie succeeds
Then you’ll know I was mean
When I tell you I have secrets
To attend

Tonight, tonight I say goodbye
To everything that thrills me
As I throw the chains
I forged in life
To shatter on the floor

As I dream all the evidence
Is piling against me
As I breathe the essence rare
Is falling off the vine
And if you knew, just how smooth
I could stop it on a dime
You could meet me at the scene of the crime


My Enemy

I hear the whispers, baby
If what they say is true
They say I killed the brother
To fall in love with u

These words I heard them once before
A conversation I believe
How does a man begin 2 fall
When he does practice 2 deceive?
There was a voice behind my back
His face I could not see it clear
The voice was so familiar, though
I knew my enemy was near

The sun iz gone
And the sky iz black
So get your ass out from
Behind my back
I told u once
And I told u all
And I told it like it was (sic)

U can’t
Have me
If u can’t
Catch me
Out of your mind bent on revenge
To think I once called u my friend
U want the dog? I’ll let him out
Come and get some baby


Double Day

It was a Saturday
I came home early drunk with love
And other things
I must confess I love it all
Pretend that I can hardly wait
To wipe the smile off your face
It’s only when
On that you can depend

Later that afternoon
My paranoia got the best of me
I knew it would, it always do
I made the call
Pretend that I can hardly wait
To put that smile back on my face
It’s coming soon
I’m going to the moon

If you pretend, then I imitate
My friend, come crucify my heart
I wanna get it on
I wanna get it on

And in the evening when I sleep
My situation changes nightly
Sometimes it comes, sometimes it goes
Sometimes I feel I’ll never know

Tonight’s the night I take it home
White knuckle happy and alone
With no one in the room but me
I see I finally see


Blame, Etc.

My lust it ties me up
In chains
My skin catches fire at the
Mention of your name
No matter what I tried 2 do
I could not lose it

Now I know my heart
Is being used
But what I’m not allowed to have
I never could refuse
No matter what I tried 2 do
I stood accused

I reply, that I don’t believe
I’m never gonna die, I don’t
Do u?

Blame, deny, betray, divide
A lie, the truth
Which one shall I use?
Whatcha gonna do?
I know
Whatcha gonna do?
I know, I know, I know

Your sanctimony
Is showing my dear
The acrimony
Hangs in the air
Beware of who u trust
In this world
Beware the lies about
2 unfurl

I reply, that I don’t believe
I’m never gonna die, I don’t
Do u?
U were blind
But u are not alone in this
As I, once was
Like u
Blame, etc.


Step Into The Light

Whenever the light shines
And the stillness is shaken
And the drug of your smile has gone
And left me alone
I need it bad, I need it now
Won’t you come and give me some?
I need it sweet, baby please
Won’t you answer the phone?
Step into the light, baby
Just give me the word
And I will begin
Step into the light, baby
And see the trouble I’m in
The light has gone
My love has gone
The good times have gone
Away
I have to ask, I need to know
Was it ever love?
I need it sweet, baby please
Come and give me some


Going To Town

Lover mine
Get your coat and come outside
I wanna take you for a ride
On into town

Lover fair
We’ll be looking sharp, I swear
I want them all to stop and stare
When we take ‘em down

Go to town, burn it down, turn around and get your stroll on, baby
I’ll get the car
You get the match
And gasoline

And as we ride
Away into the countryside
I feel as though I must confide
There is a cost
When you say
Now we got Hell to pay
Don’t worry, baby, that’s okay
I know the boss


Honky’s Ladder

Got u where I want u
Motherfucker
I got 5ive up on your dime
And if u wanna peep on something
Peep what I got stuck between
Your eyes
And since I don’t believe
A word u say
Save it for another, baby brother
Swallow time 2 pay

Up on the ladder they sing
How high?
Does a brother have 2 climb
2 touch the light

But wait ‘til I get done
With u
If u tell me
“Don’t get mixed up with the Devil”
That’s exactly
What I’m gonna do

Caught u while u waited
For your boy 2 come
And fix u up again
Come a little closer, baby
I only wanna try 2
Be your friend
Since I ain’t got nothing
Left 2 lose
Got u where I want u
Motherfucker
Don’t u try 2 move

Up on the ladder they sing
How high?
Does a brother have 2 climb
2 touch the light
Won’t u take me up there
With you? U said u would
No one ever could shake
That ladder like I could

So I wait…


Night by Candlelight

Repeat these words
After me
In all honesty
Repeat these words
After me
If you dare to believe this
Yourself

Am I vain? Have I shame?
Are my thoughts of a man
Who can call himself sane?
Do I blame, all my pain
On the wickedness
I have arranged?
If I do, bring it down

Repeat these words
After me
In all honesty
Repeat these words
After me
If you dare to believe this
Yourself

Am I vain? Have I shame?
Are my thoughts of a man
Who can call himself sane?
Is my fate, all the same
As the man who has
Walked the line straight?
If it is, bring it down

And I, I must rely, my dear
And I, cannot deny, my dear
There will be a reckoning
Which was, is
And is to come

Repeat these words
After me
In all honesty
Repeat these words
After me
If you dare
To believe


Bulletproof

Love
I can’t hide
But it’s been easier
Since I said it now
Love
It don’t end
And I can’t buy
A friend

I waited long
The waiting’s over
So get on down
This time we go a little lower
The sun has broke
I stretch it out
And throw some gas into the fire
To tell the truth
To tell it well
It all depends upon the liar
And if I scream, overboard
I’m in this over my head
Or whisper sweet
Baby please, baby please
Am I ded?

Every time I dream about you, baby
With your hands all over me
I never forget anything
Don’t forget that I’m asleep

Go to sleep
It’s over now
A final prayer for my friend
You tell that fool, to make it good
You have to start at the end
And if I scream, overkill
I’m in this over my head
Or whisper sweet, baby please
I must have meant what I said


Summer’s Kiss

Did you feel the breeze
My love
Summer’s kiss is over, baby
Over
Do you know the words?
Sing along with me
And put on your rose fur coat, baby
It’s 1973

My love, this dream I have each night
I stare into a blinding light
Alone, I stare

Demons, be gone
Away from me
And come on down to the corner
I got something I want you to see
The burning sun
Too hot for shade
Come lay down in the cool grass
With me, baby let’s watch that
Summer’s fade

My love, this dream I have each night
I stare into a blinding light
Alone, I stare
So sweet
This dream is not a dream
A wake with it
Inside of me
Alone, I swear


Faded

you can believe in me, baby
Can I believe in you?
What you don’t know
Can hurt you, child
All the things a mind can
Do to you

If I go bad
From time to time
Love to love but love is not
My only crime
Bathe the path, shine the light
Better get your ass up on
The mountain, baby
I’ll take you up tonight

Faded
This I feel
Behind the blue clouds
I remain concealed
Lord, lift me out of the night
Come on, look down
And see the mess I’m in tonight

You can believe in me, baby
Can I believe in you?
I wish I could remember what
You said, when I said
Enough

You said
Good boy… bad boy… killjoy
Get your ass over here, boy
And since I know
Myself so well
Don’t breathe a word
Don’t you ever tell

You can believe in me, baby
Can I believe in you?
That secret’s gonna kill you
In the end
It’s gonna kill
You

Camping Journal III

Excerpts from a camping trip with friends a few weeks back. I hadn’t realized my camping journal was almost full, so I spent the weekend running around looking for scraps of paper to write on or trying to remember what was said until something was found. Upon review, it seems the funny stuff all got forgotten....


That shirt is too tight around my chest.
Give it to Sandy.
The small boob jokes aren’t going to make sense until Ann gets here.

Oh my god; my ass is numb!
Really? We haven’t even started!

Had that old after the beer shoot the shit.

Those people weren’t enjoying my jokes at all.
Just tell them, “Your life is in my hands. Laugh or die.”

The lady on my boat was a parole officer. Jeremy might know her.

Have there been people born with horns?

The best thing about Carl is his parents.
They might be the best thing about me as well.

Chaco’s are hard on me.

Somebody somewhere knows how many sperm are in a teaspoon.
How many are in your mouth?

It’s a $40 t-shirt.
Is it pee resistant?

It’s pretty; I’d like to eat it.

This river is wet!

They eat some of the kids.
Sloppy Joe’s on the menu every Friday. Do they have to give the last names, though?

Are girls harder?
Boys are harder several times a day.

I love the weenies.

If it’s something they’re saying over and over again about your vagina they’ll get in trouble for it.

She’s a task-ks master

Who’s marionberry? Isn’t he the mayor or something?

Are you aware that you have a pencil in your pants?

I only heard mulberries and ass.

I’m on medication.
It’s not that funny.
It might be in a few hours.

The Missionary position reminded me of this:

I’m having puppies!
Why, did she do a dog?

No one really laughed on the boat today- again.
They thought it was funny eventually.

God loves raspberries. Who doesn’t?
Communists, that’s who.

Size does matter, it turns out.
I took that personally.
I knew you would.

White gas reminds me of my childhood.

Strip poker- I win even if I lose. Show up naked. There’s no place to go but up.
Dress poker?

Everybody panic!
No death’s cool.

Do “your mom” jokes ever make sense?
Sometimes and then it’s a zinger.

What do you want from me? I’ve already had half a bottle of whiskey.
My expectations were already low.

Next time you kill me, would you give me a little more notice?

She has an acupuncturist. I have a polygrapher. That’s what keeps the relationship alive.

Are you writing down the polygamy?

Sticky like the McGregors.
It came from Marshalltown; of course it’s sticky.

I can’t put it in the hole.
That’s what she said.

I am going to go talk to your mom about raping buses.

There’s a pretty healthy, um, didn’t mean to look….

That little fricker fricked me!
Oh, yeah, Carl will help you.

That guy at the campsite next to us reminds me of my dad.
A homosexual?

Thank you I like coconuts. They smell like, when drying in the sun, like tarter sauce.

No Tourret’s for me thank you.

My joy factory hurts.
You shouldn’t do that with your joy factory.
My joy factory’s exploding.

Would it be okay if I said out loud that Carl’s an asshole and Ann’s a bitch?

There’s a lot of good things about Portland but Carl’s not one of them.

I just figured out your husband’s the luckiest man ever! He’s got a four-legged pussy, a three legged pussy and a two-legged pussy.

His name’s Romaine.
Is he a noodle?
He’s lettuce, dipshit, get it right.

All I’d use a camera phone for would be to take pictures of my cats and other pussies in compromising positions.

He’s in alcohol’s hammock right now.

Just let me know when I’m overwhelming.

He can’t even say the word without having sex with it.

Careful, Andrew’s recording your every word.

Okay, now I can officially call you a douche bag.

It was the other seasonal staff; the control side. There was something growing in that crew.

It was a Swiss Army vehicle.
It was invisible.
Wonder Woman drove it.

If you can land it in this donut I’ll give you $1.50 and the donut.

Smile like a donut.
Artistically?
Grrooss

Aww you’re such a snugglepuss. Oh wait, now I’m just being molested.

All roads are a crossroads- sometimes you just don’t see the intersection.

Spaniards are hairy and they stink.

Why save the money when you can buy booze with it?

I like pet parades.

Pitch spork.

What would you like to do ideally?
Murder spree.

One man’s junk is another man’s coffee creamer.

Oh look he’s giving the puppy-dog face.
That gave me the creepy chills.

What do you call, no, who can you do, no, wait, how does it go?

Fucking goat heads.

Smells like up-dog.

Smells like good fooking.

It’s ambiguous day!

It rikas.

Why does the southwest have to be so far away?

I wish you squeezed me like that.
Lay down on the bench, baby.

Show ‘em your metal, dude.

Just think; they could be sitting here doing nothing right now.

Buy a new cheese, dude.

Ain’t much doin’ down here in Maupin.

Want me to tell you a story?
Will it be about a small animal dying?
Probably.

That is a whole lot more math than I am prepared to do right now.

They always fuck our plans up whether they’re jogging or not.

I would be kinda anti-climactical for you maybe.

If you’re heading towards the put-in….

Pardon my use of the word, but this is retarded.
In this case the word is entirely appropriate.

What’s scat?

I forgot about doggy-style.
Someone needs a reminder.

Crapbag Quilters.

A tattoo of a trout jumping at your worm…

I can’t believe you didn’t make a penis joke out of that.

Can you tell me what kind of wood this is?

The Sky Chairs are impressively comfortable.
They must be- they’re expensive and ugly.
No, you’re talking about the girls in the chairs.

Let me try it once. Here, hold my thing here.

Bingo therapy.

Andrew, why do you have one up and one down?

Everybody act synonymous.

Face and nuts; legs and arms- things that enter the body.

Are you deep-throating that flask?

Ahh, snuggle

It’s not as sexy coming from you.

My balls slapping the water don’t make as much noise as Jeremy’s.

Half of what I say is making fun of Carl.

Sprouts are dirty.

You’re the #1 cause of everything awful.

You get HIV from sprouts.

Carl, I’d like you to know that I have Asperger’s.
Ass burgers are gross.

You smell like fried cod. It’s a little Marshalltownesque.

Why are you touching my penis?
It’s wet.

No, don’t whip it out.
It barely whips.
If I trim my pubes it looks a lot longer.

Flask-on-flask action.

You’ve got to slow down, man; get more particular.

I like the forced pacing…
With your mom.

Get more what? Pussy?

What is wrong with you, girl?
Want a list?
Yes.
Your mother, the Pope, capitalism, I keep hanging out with you for some reason….

There’s that guy with the wet crotch area.

You didn’t see that, did you? Stop staring at me!

You need more paper.
I’ll be good; you guys aren’t that funny.

Serviceable, like your mom.

I wrote my mom. Doesn’t work the same. “Oh yeah, so’s my mom, oh wait….”

You’re fucking, girl.

Crying is the only way I can ever get laid.

When I die I want to become a Native American Spirit.
Jeremy always has My Mom withdrawl.

There’s high schoolers checking out my booze.

Hey, want to talk about composting toilets?
Uh, sure.

I don’t mind gelatinous and creamy.

Is that real?
It’s really in my hand about to enter your chest.

Please don’t start making out with your own arm.

Call me buddy once.
Buddyonce

I’m not in the mood, D bag.

A little Dirty Bird will do ya.

I hope that you’re Sandy because if you’re not, she’s right inside.

Don’t tear it; we owe double if you tear it.

This could have been a bereavement meal.
Andrew didn’t die, I’m a little bereaved about that.

This wouldn’t be a problem if we were in Mulligan’s in Cedar Falls.

She’s totally gonna hiccup!

Dustin Hoffman and your mom.

Tastes like rotten chicken.
Bubbly!

He’s already smashed his nuts once but I didn’t do it.

The power of pear.

Prower to the people. Fuck ‘em.

What do you do, upchuck in a womanly way?

Your bag has a boner.
That’s not what I said.
I know but I’m funnier than you.

Are you cheering for your own demise?

We couldn’t tell if it was your ass cheeks or your arms.

Flying Jesus, indeed.

I like to wear herpes.
Oh Sandy, can I smell like you tonight?
Ooh, I get to smell by me tonight too.

Do you guys know where I live?
No.
Good.

I’m an Egyptian Goddess.
That doesn’t seem like something you should have to announce.

Carl, does Maupin make you sick or is it just Abby?

They’re dirty like your mom.

Why buy something for $90 if you don’t love it?
Like a hooker.

Agave Maria

Carl, are you aroused? Oh shit, I’ll be right back….

Something about La Playa.

Everything alright in there?
Uh, yep, he’s aroused.

I don’t have a dick. Well I do, but I’m not that attached to it.

Didn’t you take sex ed.? Yes, but it wasn’t that thorough.

What do you do in that situation?
Well, I usually just play with my own penis.

I though you were a female alien. You eat in that hole? I’m sorry.

Carl’s funny; you’re annoying.

On the plus side, it makes me rub my boobs.
I love heartburn all of a sudden.

Also, you’re missing all of my funny jokes.
No I haven’t, I’m still waiting.

By lantern, I mean your mother.
Wah wah lost.

Andrew’s face is ugh.

I filled it, so now I’m filling random other things.

Nice spatulation.
Let’s spatulate.

Renewing my bowels? Vowels?

Axe- Lady Repellant.

Jesus walked on water- the son of Jesus could read.

The son of Jesus is like the son of Godzilla.

I’M HILARIOUS!

Cotton kills!

How deep is that there?
We can all see it’s pretty deep. It’s a little inappropriate to ask when she’s in that position. You should probably just find out for yourself.

First Abby humped the boat, now it’s Sandy’s turn.

Hey Jeremy, want to do this?
Was she pointing at her crotch when she said that?

I almost got killed by a wooden stake, which is actually the only way you can kill me.

What makes you so growly?
I’m half bear.

Turn around- you look cute in your undies.

Everybody loses except for me- I still win.

Ann shoved me into a tree.
Then stop being an asshole.

You just did it by being hilarious.

How about a hug?
How about a fuck off?

I don’t know whether to shit or smile.
Or start stabbing.

Fun with Funnnies

The daughter of Jesus couldn’t read, she was illiterate.

I saw a beaver over there.
Was it Sandy’s?

Powdered cheese- is there anything better?

That cotton belt might be saving your knife right now but it will be taking your life later.

I need your squishy part to be longer.
Megs said she needs my squishy part to be longer.
No comment.

I was going to hold it above you and drop it into your abdomen. I’m sure it wouldn’t have hit any major organs.
Do you have any major organs?
Not anymore.

He can watch it for a long time because there’s a lot of action in there.
He should see my bedroom.

It’s funny because it’s a lie.

That snake is as big as mine.

I just realized I haven’t done a cartwheel in a skirt today!
Good, I want to stare at your vagina.

Have we really said that many funny things?
No.

My name is not Fisto.

I was going to say I love you, but nevermind.

Don’t worry- I have small appendages.

You make good furniture, but that’s about it.

What are you thinking about?
Your mom.

I forgot to bring my stethoscope. Now I don’t know whether you’re dead or not.

Desperation

When I was first confronted with Thoreau’s declaration that “The vast majority of men lead lives of quiet desperation,” I remember quietly, desperately hoping I wasn’t one of them. But Thoreau didn’t mean this statement as a criticism so much as a self-revelation. He made a point to separate himself from his assumptions and routines in order to discover unexplored ways in which he could find fulfillment, pleasure and contentment.

Not long after reading Walden for the second time, I went through my Kafka phase. Here was a man who lived a life of overt desperation. Realizing that the flaw with living could lie not in the desperation involved but in not voicing that desperation was a real epiphany for me. Reading Kafka might have led to my appreciation of the grunge music surrounding me at the time, although it’d probably be more accurate to credit fellow computer nerds Josh, Damon and Cory for that. Besides, Kafka was far less satirical than grunge. His The Castle is the greatest ode to frustration that I have ever encountered.

Walt Whitman was the one who most successfully relayed to me the possibility of desperately clinging to hope. Completely removed from Kafka’s despair, Whitman had no apprehensions toward self-contradiction, confusion or the unknown. His words: “I too am not a bit tamed. I too am untranslatable. I sound my barbaric yawp over the roofs of the world,” inspired me infinitely. At the same time, his extreme optimism weakens him for my cynical self, because it’s less impressive to think well of things if you assume they’re going to turn out great than to think well of things despite realizing it’s all going to shit.

Douglas Adams seemed to revel in the fact that everything’s going to shit. That was the beauty of it for him. He understood than when all is lost, there is nothing to lose. Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual; not one that’s of much use anyhow. The most you can do is keep a towel nearby and, above all else, don’t panic. And when that plan fails, turn on the Improbability Drive and hope things work themselves out.

I see myself as embracing a combination of Thoreau’s asceticism and curiosity, Kafka’s cynicism and frustration, Whitman’s tenacity and hedonistic ambition and Adam’s indomitable sense of humor. In my experience, all you can do in this life is try. Try desperately, but don’t panic. Typically, Yoda had it backwards: Try or try not, there is no do. Doing has a finality that can only be equated with death. In any other connotation, completion is illusory. Therefore, the idea of fulfillment is dubious. Our pursuits toward that which would seem to fulfill are worthwhile, but we cannot predict our enjoyment of something we have never experienced. Also, fulfillment is fleeting by its very nature. The more you have of something, the more mundane it becomes. Thoreau left Walden after two years, inevitably finding it wanting.