Value

Let's talk about value for a minute.

In all exchanges, social, romantic and financial included, there is at least an implied transaction. You get something you want, and I get something I want. You pay your taxes, maybe we'll come when you dial 911. You rub my feet, I'll scratch your back. You pay your bill, the phone will work when you need it to call 911.

Transaction.

So when I sign up for an online newsletter for a television personality or musician, it's because I aniticipate value in the mailing. Tour dates, television appearance schedules, maybe some sort of "club member" discount, you get the idea.

All I get from any of these dinks is pure commercial advertising. "Buy my latest CD," "buy my clothing line," "spend money now!" Do I get a note when you've updated your much-neglected blog, which I do value? Do I get advance notice, discounted pricing, behind-the-scenes content or interviews that other pedestrian jerks who aren't on your spamletter list don't get? No? Then you're doing it wrong.

Look, I know you've gotta make a buck; hell, so do I. The difference is, when I make a buck, somebody gets something out of it. I earn it. And I also know that signing up for your fan club or newsletter mailing isn't heavy lifting; I don't expect a medal. But it does hold value for you. If I know when you'll be in town, or when you're on the tube next, I'll natter to my friends about it. Hell, I might even go out of my way to see you. That's what you get out of it, but you've got to come across. Don't just flood me with your blatant, commercial propaganda. Remember when big shots pretended to care about their fans, the little people? Make it worth my while and throw me a bone every now and then. Until then, I'm out.

It's the least you can do.

Christopher Hitchens is a genius

... and also, this just in: water is wet.

Christopher Hitchens writes an excellent argument against Turkey joining the European Union. It's no surprise, as Mr. Hitchens has done nothing but make good sense for years.

For the record, my intellectual infatuation turned into a throbbing, rock-hard man-crush the day he flagged the bird not once but twice at the slavering, Pavlovian, "Real Time" audience when he dared to disagree with their collective, knee-jerk, leftist mob mentality. He rocks.

"X-Men Origins: Wolverine" review - Roger Ebert's review is a willfully clueless pile of elitist dung

If you're going to read movie reviews, there is a technique to it: you find a movie reviewer you can live with, and follow him. The reasoning: no one can tell you with certainty whether you'll like a movie; it's a subjective finding unique to the viewer. Therefore, you find an opinion source and get to know it. If you and your reviewer share some appreciations, you can get an idea of where they diverge, and make allowances to determine whether what they enjoy will mean you will enjoy it too.

I find parallels with Roger Ebert, although I haven't really investigated others, and maybe I should. His recent review of "X-Men Origins: Wolverine" was so far off the mark, I have to wonder if he's heavily medicated, the first man to have a menstrual cycle, or he has found a snarky, bitchy ghost-writer. I read his review and had real concerns about seeing the thing. He gives the movie two stars, and launches a more-fervent attack than a good movie can warrant, picking at failures of goals that the movie was never intended to achieve.

Example:

"Their story starts in "1840 -- the Northwest Territories of Canada," a neat trick, since Canada was formed in 1867, and its Northwest Territories in 1870."

Well, shit, Rog, what should they have printed in the subtitle: longitude and latitude? Coordinates aren't visually digestible in an action flick, ya dumb dick!

Further example:

"It is Hugh Jackman's misfortune that when they were handing out superheroes, he got Wolverine, who is for my money low on the charisma list. He never says anything witty, insightful or very intelligent; his utterances are limited to the vocalization of primitive forces: anger, hurt, vengeance, love, hate, determination. There isn't a speck of ambiguity. That Wolverine has been voted the No. 1 comic hero of all time must be the result of a stuffed ballot box."

In other words:
"Lots of people like Wolverine, but I don't, so I'm gonna take my own flimsy, milquetoast claws and slap at this movie like an anemic six-year-old girl."

For readers of the comic book, Wolverine has charisma and backstory by the metric ton. He puts the "bad" in badass, and the character's popularity has spawned storylines more proliferate than a hydra's tie rack. For those who hadn't found the character in comic books, they'll just have to get by on the the raging charisma of Hugh Jackman, a chief (X-)factor that drove the ascendant, runaway success of the preceding three X-Men movies. Yeah, what a spindly, meager example of charisma, hey, Ebert?

"There is little dialogue, except for the snarling of threats, vows and laments, and the recitation of essential plot points. Nothing here about human nature. No personalities beyond those hauled in via typecasting. No lessons to learn. No joy to be experienced. Just mayhem, noise and pretty pictures."

It's an action film, you clueless fruit! The Wolverine character is about rage, a superhero who can be battered but not broken, who has the capacity to be stunned but never stopped. He is a relentless, tireless agent of revenge. This is not "The English Patient," and I thought Ebert would understand that. Complaining that Wolverine doesn't learn lessons is like saying that Braveheart didn't have enough car chases! It completely misses the point.

Ebert finally, petulantly admits: "Oh, the film is well-made," then immediately complains and wonders that its "gifted director" makes an effort to diversify his works by making this a film that dabbles in another genre. Yes, how could a director want to achieve Hollywood success by making a film people will pay to see?! What a narrow, ignorant view.

It is a telling tribute to a very good action film that Roger Ebert sets out to eviscerate it, and this limp-wristed pseudo-savaging is the worst he can do. It's the photo negative of damning with faint praise: commendation by faint condemnation.

Go see this movie, getcha some popcorn, and try not to learn any lessons. It's a great ride.

Stupid Thing of the Week

Last Sunday I got ambitious and threw myself into some yard work. I'd thought we had some white, cotton masks so I didn't grab any at the hardware store. I returned home to find that I was mistaken. "I'll just tough it out," I thought to myself.

Two-and-a-half hours later, I had mowed and weedwhacked my way through quite a bit of fire safety and beautification chores, and settled in for the evening. I had also inhaled my own body weight in powdered grasses and weeds, and my histamine levels quietly climbed through the roof.

That night my sinuses locked up tighter than a frog's butthole, my sample of Nasonex ran out (that shit's magic) and I didn't sleep worth a damn. The next day I realized that not only were my sinuses doomed, but that my upper respiratory didn't like the idea of me snorting a fat line of ragweed, either.

I've spent the last week metabolizing mother nature's insidious fluff, and coughing long, dry and hoarse, like a dog trying to hack up a block of wood. It sounds worse than it is, but it's still pretty f*%&ed up. I'm looking forward to sitting in a movie theater today and gagging and hacking and snorting. In between fits I plan to wheeze and squeal piglike, to summon up unspoken references of swine flu amongst the captive moviegoers who share my air.

Feeling better, though.

Frame of reference

Parents say that they learn from their kids, and I'm experiencing that. An example:

My boy is four. As a four year-old, he is developing the swashbuckling habit of running in one direction, but giggling and looking in another. He's good enough at running that he takes it for granted, watching his feet pound the earth beneath him, or looking back at his pursuer for unadvisably extended periods of time. He'll learn soon enough that he'll be money ahead to monitor the immediate forward, but it's one of those things one doesn't appreciate until one experiences it for oneself.

So, he regularly crashes and burns. And when he does, he sometimes weeps like a murder victim clinging to life. As a father I hate to see him suffer, and I also recognize the human tendency to occasionally milk a mild injury beyond the pain it's likely to have caused without drawing blood.

It occurs to me that even minor spills test his known boundaries for pain. He's only been ambulatory for a couple of years now, and falling down is thankfully the major source of pain in his life. Therefore every time he eats it, as far as he's concerned it could be the worst pain he's ever felt. On his threshold of pain, skinning his knee tops the charts, tripping and smacking his head against drywall is as close to death as his frame of reference allows.

My point is that when I comfort him, I assure him that the pain will pass, and soon. It further occurs to me that it's fair advice for me as well.

I have spent hours, days, (months if you can believe it) dreading a sting that I fear will come. Sometimes it did, and sometimes it didn't. Will my wife reject me? Will my boss fire me? Will I fail to make the rent/mortgage? The time spent in a slow-motion flinch, a tensing, squinting worry that was far worse than the actual, eventual pain. A pain which, I'm happy to say, went away. Broken ankle, broken heart, broken social compact, they suck, but not nearly as bad as I thought they would, and often not as long. The pain will pass, and sooner than you think.

Once you've been kicked in the teeth a time or two, you tend to gain a steadiness from it. It's what I imagine allows boxers to do what they do. You ever been punched in the fucking face? That shit hurts, but these guys make a living getting drilled dozens of times on and about the face by somebody who's good at it. And they manage. Once you've been there and survived it, surmounted it, it still hurts, but you come away realizing it didn't kill you. You can face further blows and realize: "I've been hit harder than this."

I only recently came to understand this resilience, and I think it's a primary reason that happy people appear as buoyant as they do. They've been knocked down, but they realize that it's not likely to be the end of the world. Nobody ever gets more than one death blow, and it makes damned little sense to spend your whole life leaning away from it, especially when it's even money whether you'll see it coming anyway.

Bill Maher is downright hilarious

I'm catching Bill Maher's "Be More Cynical," and it's just one of the funniest, smartest, most insightful pieces of funny business I've seen.

Wow.

Sibling revelry

I got to see my brother yesterday. He's far enough away that we don't visit a lot. I was pleasantly surprised that he's looking better, feeling better. He's lost some of the weight his medication put on him, and was mobile and clear-headed. I worry about him, and it was a happy relief to see some improvement. Good on 'im, as the Australians say.

Also, his kids were impressive in appearance and demeanor. Growing up good-looking and well-behaved. Good on them, too.

If I should (nearly) die...

"Morbid fascination with death" is a term often attributed to people who spend an inordinate amount of time thinking or researching the subject. One who doesn't look close enough might make the mistake of painting me with such a brush. They'd be wrong, but not as far off as you might think.

I was listening to NPR's Fresh Air again today, and an E.R. doctor was on, talking about the many decisions and circumstances involved with impending death. It not only brought to the surface the struggles during my own mother's last days (and years), but considerations about my own. That makes two fantastic, provocative interviews in a row - nice going F.A.!

A degree of intrinsic comfort is afforded to me whenever it comes to thoughts of my own demise. Maybe it's because I'm fat and happy and live a comfortable life, that the specter of Death appears distant, that the idea is not discomforting or threatening. Perhaps it is because the idea of The End represents in part a laying down of life's burdens. I don't welcome it, but for some reason I take a measure of pleasure in recreationally considering its aspects. I've cheerfully blogged about the topic before, focusing on the practical matter of disposing of my bloated, smelly carcass. Today I'll muse on my medical concerns, assuming we get the chance to see death coming, rather than an abrupt end where practical medical arrangements are not a factor.

The consideration of all of the desires, possibilities and circumstances involved in a person's foreseen-but-unavoidable death are more than another mortal should be saddled with. If the slightest care is taken to consider the wants of the decedent-to-be, there are no wrong answers. Do the best you can, more or less - that's plenty.

I certainly have my own worries and desires should something awful happen to my corpus ridiculi, but they wax and wane and slosh around in my head, and what I want now at a chubby and spry 37 may not pan out if I am stricken with a disease or simply the effects of old age. With that in mind, it borders on the narcissistic to demand from family, doctors and/or lawyers that this or that be done to the point of lawsuits and squabbling. *I* don't even know for sure what I want. I'm not comfortable at all with feeding tubes or respirators or transfusions, but since I'm not burdened with an organized faith to tell my how to live (and die), thank god those religious points are moot. Plus, I'm not currently prepared to anticipate the labyrinthine possibilities before they (probably won't) happen, much less write them all out. Call me lazy, but I'm taking the cheap and easy way out; call it my legacy.

My desires are more about practicality than pride, although pride can factor into it. My concerns aren't much different than many people's, including those I heard of my parents' when such discussions were necessary: comfort versus pain, and care versus cost. If I'm in pain, numb me. If I'm drooling, moaning or unresponsive, do what you can stand. Unfortunately, with the state of modern care, the cost of hospital stays dwarf the same stays in luxury hotels, so long term care is just out. I'll be goddamned if my hanging on for another month is worth the cost of a home or massive, crushing debt.

Bullet.

Even if home care is an option, it's not a likely candidate, especially if I'm unable to think, communicate or care for myself in basic ways. I don't doubt that my family loves me enough to wipe my ass and feed me a few times a week, but I've seen households that live that way and it is repulsive to me on the same level as torture. Not only does it trouble me (maybe this is where pride comes in, I don't know), but in that event I would consider my caretakers/loved ones the tortured more than myself.

This whole discussion changes direction on a dime - what if there's hope of a cure or other uptick? What if there's question about who owns the legal right to decide? God save me from being a Terry Schiavo. These are the excruciating twists that madden good people, and I don't want any part of it.

Again: bullet.

Smother me with a pillow, pull my plug or trip over my oxygen hose before I or anyone I care about suffers from any unanswerable questions, impossible ethical knots or horrendous financial responsibility owing to the our collective, hideous inability to assemble a fair method of funding and managing a medical care system.

On the other hand, if I'm rich as a lord or my insurance is top-notch at the time, hey, let's talk about this for a minute. Fluff my pillow, and swab my aft deck, and be quick about it. But otherwise leave me out of it, and let my loved ones lose not a moment of sleep about it.

Fight Night - iss awn!

The UFC is revving up and letting loose tonight with a new Fight Night, free on Spike! After that, it's the season premiere of "The Ultimate Fighter," the only reality show I know of where the players don't just threaten to beat each other up, it's part of the format!

Hoo, I'm gonna enjoy it... Grab me a beer, willya?

John Cougar Melancholy

I was fortunate to catch an interview with John Mellencamp on NPR this morning. I'm still a fan of his, having begun listening to his music in the early 80's or so. I enjoyed his songs about loneliness and areas of society (both the corners and the wide-open spaces) brimming with inequity, as well as lighter, more hopeful fare.

I've heard him on the "Bob and Tom Show" syndicated radio program and found him to be surprisingly funny. The NPR interview and his writing on his website revealed him to be surprisingly articulate as well. With all this surprise, you'd think I expected him to be some dull, grunting moron; certainly not. His sense humor was just so well-developed, his written observations and concerns very deep and clearly-expressed. Maybe it's the format of his music that scrambled my expectations: a three-minute song is a very different from an hour-long interview.

Anyway... I digress, but then, that's what this damned blog is for, isn't it?

The point I'm trying to thrash towards is that I haven't bought a Mellencamp album in years, maybe decades. I want to, and it may be largely because of the history and nostalgia I share with an artist whose music I started enjoying during my adolescence. Maybe that's enough.

However, I stopped buying albums because they stopped being any fun for me. For several albums up to that point, the songs had become drearier and sadder, and fewer of them on each album even tried to have hope or humor. The number for the Suicide Hotline should have been printed on each album cover. Specifically, the last music of his that I bought was a CD single of "Key West Intermezzo/I Saw You First." It was a longing work about a girl he saw but didn't approach, or something - it's been years. So, for one thing, I don't know what the fuck an "intermezzo" is, and for me the song was another masochistic wallow in depression.

I also saw what I thought was a strange rise in a techno-pop beat which really threw me. It just wasn't what I thought of when I thought of John Mellencamp. On the other hand, he's always had a rebellious and independent streak, and so I figured: "If this is what he's putting out, it must be what he wants to do," as opposed to something a corporate goon had forced him to do. I figured the artist was moving and growing away from me as a fan, and so I let it go at that.

Has it gotten any different? Is he still banging out despondent tunes with synthesized percussion that alienates me as a listener? I don't know. Judging a book by its cover, I see that his discography since has been largely black-and-white works of a down-looking John M. The NPR interview proclaims: "...Mellencamp is in the midst of a folksy, pessimistic streak on his new album." It doesn't give me a lot of hope.

Has he forgotten the hopeful half of "It's A Lonely Ol' Night?" where a black hole of desperate loneliness is balanced with the prospect of sharing that lonely ol' night with another forlorn soul in the cold emptiness? What about the tragic pointlessness of "Rumble Seat," and how it turns around and declares:

"Tomorrow is a new day
Gonna make these dreams come true
I'm gonna believe in myself
I'll tell you what Im gonna do
I'm gonna stop puttin myself down
I'm gonna turn my life around"

I haven't heard the kind of gritty optimism and insouciant rebellion John had sung in a helluva long while. I miss it a lot. I'll check out some samples on his website, and see if our tastes have adopted closer parallels. I hope so.

Self-conscious

I have yet to answer that question they asked me in grade school: "What do you want to be when you grow up?" Although I find the question frustrating because of my inability to answer it, I have found a useful website for those solving the same puzzle: the assessment test at Career Zone California.

The result of the form wasn't all that enlightening, but whilst filling it out, it occurred to me: one personality trait I've identified is that I'm "all about being all about it." I am fascinated by New Things. I learn about them quickly and I can summon an uncommon amount of enthusiasm for them. My life and home are littered with evidence of studies about French, stand-up comedy, the outdoors, art, blah blah blah bluh-blah. Some interests persist, but mostly it's like speed dating at a job faire. "Time's up everybody, move on to the next vocational table!"

Unfortunately, I eventually fall out of love with what has now become Old Thing, and am ready to be dazzled by the new New Thing. There is stuff that I will do for free for a New Thing that I wouldn't do for love or money for an Old Thing.

I wish it were different. I've tried to change it, I've tried to adjust it, but I can't help it. Apparently ADHD guides and defines everything in my life, and all I can do at this point is to try to find a vocation or lifestyle that would make a positive out of this bewildering, quasi-amnesiac inability to focus.

I am open to suggestions. Something in the entertainment industry would be nice...

"I've just gotta be me" or "This explains a lot"

I have long noted inwardly the clash of two very different forces in my approach to life. On one hand, there is the outward compulsion to conform, to be 'normal.' It doesn't sound like much to ask.

On the other, there is the inner impulse to be myself. In movies, in school and in conversation, there is always the noble and near-holy moral of a story to "just be yourself." "To thine own self be true." To put it diplomatically, I have always been an individual. I learned French in a state that is flooded with Spanish-speakers. I taught myself to juggle for no reason at all. I not only made balloon animals at my kid's preschool last week, but I taught two of his teachers to do the same. Why? I don't know, other than it is irresistible. To say that I am possesed by the imp is like declaring that water is wet; it is accurate without being sufficiently comprehensive to the subject at hand. I just must be different.

But opportunities to blow my own cover constantly abound, and it is in my very physical nature to take said opportunity and do something memorably unusual with it. I wouldn't say that it's necessarily cost me jobs in the past, but I am certain in my inner depths that it has had such a contributory effect.

To say that I struggle with the two conflicting forces is inaccurate because it assumes that I spend a lot of time dealing with awkward situations in advance of their occurrence, which is not true. I do consider, worry over and deeply regret these instances, but only ever in the wake of their occurrence. I never consider consequences "at the moment," but every break from the herd that draws attention to itself leaves a little psychological scar; many positive events in my life are lost to the dustbin of mental history, but for some reason the wincing, second-glance inducing departures from the norm stick with me for years, maybe forever. The time I sang Karaoke so forcefully badly in the shitbag bar that the DJ all but shut down the vocal channel in his equipment, as my wife and her friend looked on, torn between feigning support for the dare they ushered me into and running away in proper shame. The time early in my technical career when I told an ex-Navy friend of my Dad's in front of several colleagues that the automated web design software DreamWeaver was "for queers." Nearly immediately and for years afterwards I wonder to myself: "Christ, what was I thinking?" I am still uncomfortable thus reminiscing even today, and yet I can't help but chuckle to myself in recalling them to write them down here. Something within me is truly off-center (I firmly resist to say "wrong"), and yet it is within me.

Looking up at the family tree, I see that it is very likely genetic, on my father's side, where there are fruits and nuts hanging clearly from every branch in view. Both my Uncle and Dad buck the system in their own odd (and admirable) way. My Dad, for example, takes great joy in the occasional opportunity to ambitiously fuck with any sort of door-to-door salesperson, be they commercial or spiritual in nature. Woe be unto any vacuum cleaner salesman, Jehovah's Witness or pest control entrepreneur who commits the tragic sin of darkening his doorstep. The man is fairly known for it; maybe it's his years in law enforcement that helped him to craft the proper balance of malevolence vs.liability, to loosen the bowel of a weary ware-hawker with wordless threat of impending harm without being actionably illegal, I don't know. All I know is that anyone within earshot of the exchange is immediately filled with sympathy for the pathetic zombie that trudges defeatedly away from the mean old jutting-jawed man in the doorway. Kids in Africa should get this kind of soul-eyed compassion.

Why does he do it? Why am I the way I am? Even writing this blog; who puts down this viscerally private shit, too personal for friends to read but just fine for people I don't know? These are philosophical questions, asked of a natural event, akin to asking why tornados favor trailer parks. There are no scientific answers, only conjecture, which at best might soothe a trouble soul, yearning for reason in an unreasonable world.

I'm told the Chinese have a proverb, roughly stated thus: "The nail that sticks out gets hammered back in." I sense the harm that "being myself" does in my everyday life. I am certain that I would be higher in the vocational food chain if I were more like the slick-talking, fast-walking schmoozers I've run up against over and over in the world.

But an indignant part of me rails against that course of thinking as soon as I've thunk it, stomping and griping and rebelling against the thought of living someone else's preferred view of my conduct, no matter how convenient and streamlined my life might be (which must be a powerful innate force, as otherwise lazy as I know myself to be).

I do struggle with such questions, even if only after the fact. It is a troubling question to me, whether to toe the line and live everyone's expectation, or to follow my gut, and throw curveballs when presented with the chance. Both sides of the argument have their temptations, but I know one thing:

As my son grows older, I will teach him juggling, and some French.

I can't miss you unless you leave

My wife took my son for a few days' trip to her sister's in SoCal. This morning's last-minute preparations were longer and more intense than I expected, and by the time she left I was profoundly grateful that she had done so. Personalities clashed and pressure pressed as the fear of leaving behind something crucial caused the quiet friction that is as close to discord as we ever get. We do pretty well even under the worst of circumstances, for which I'm both proud and grateful.

Rockin' the boat

Waters are choppy here in the U.S.S. Jobsite. Makes Daddy jumpy. Will attempt to ride it out.

I feel good again

I have felt such a funk for most of the week. Just a wet blanket of negativity and frustration draped heavily across my shoulders, and I couldn't shake it. Couldn't find the positive.

Last night I arrived home from work, and my wife spent the next 13 hours making life right again. If ever a soul was given first aid, it was then. A simple meal, simple pleasures like our calm tradition of catching a regular television show together.

I had a night of the best, deepest, sleep I've had in recent memory. I spent the extra half-hour afforded to me by a late-starting work schedule enjoying French toast and coffee, and watching a talk show with very mellow discussion of theater, acting and poetry with the great John Lithgow.

The simplicity of these acts minimized not a whit the balm effect on my psychic second-degree burns. This morning I once again possess a calm feeling of wellness, so desperately missed of late that I could now weep upon its return. Such rejuvenation. Such bliss.

I thanked my angel for being the good thing in my life.

Splat

What a dork I am. It's nearly unforgivable.

My son wanted to see Momma before she left this morning; my son, wearing only socks yet this day; Momma, who was four seconds from backing her truck out of the driveway to start her workday. I quickly gathered him up in my arms to protect his feet from getting dirty. His feet were two of the few things not about to get screwed.

Moving briskly out the garage door, my feet tangled up in a rug and both son and World's Biggest Dork went flying, both landing on opposing elbows. I tried my best to hold my "Brian side" off the ground, with pitifully meager results. Once he stopped bawling and I calmed down enough not to punch myself in the face for such foolishness, he was able to wiggle his fingers, one good sign. I distracted him with talk of toys later, and got him to highfive me with the offended appendage, so went continued on to preschool instead of the emergency room.

What a lousy start to the day. I'll try to stay upright for its remainder, but obviously such promises are only marginally subject to my control.

It's no Secret

"The Secret" is based on a spiritual theory that espouses visualizing and asking the universe for what you want. I just can't get there, but this week was as good an argument for it as any.

I've been inwardly and fervently longing for a more organized and energized feel from my grassroots political organization, "The Calaveras County Ron Paul 2008 Meetup Group." I submitted several suggestions for improvement and change to the group's leader and the membership in general. Assent was quick and unanimous. The timing must have been ripe.

Also, I have been more and more interested in entry-level entertainment skills and issues. Comedy, theater and the like. Two days ago I got a call from a local do-gooder who is active in this area, and she solicited my interest in a project to be named later, including stand-up comedy and emcee opportunities. I leapt upon it, at least in theory, and I hope it turns into something I can sink my teeth into.

The future is a little more exciting. I'm looking forward to seeing how it turns out.

Sierra Rec

I have revisited my hobby website project, "Sierra Recreation." I am rediscovering the wisdom in doing an imperfect something over nothing at all.

I implemented a nice template, but it is not displaying entirely correctly, and its finer features are lost until the right tweaking is done. Needless to say, I don't know how to apply those tweaks, and it has frustrated me to the point of inaction.

Today, I added some menu items (on a menu I was able to tweak into displaying correctly). These little steps rebuild my confidence not only in myself but in the entire idea of trying at all. Adding the odd, incremental bit of content, and the thing will start to look worthwhile again.

Little steps get you there, or at least move you forward. Often, that is enough for now.

Bookkeeping

I had been trying to get into an online bookkeeping class, but I was too late and the class was too popular. I scrambled onto the waiting list, but didn't make the final cut.

Honestly, I'm not that motivated about it. Numbers have always been a difficult subject for me, and flatly disinteresting. However, I acknowledge that it's a limitation that closes off very real potential for me as well. So, I decided to look into alternative forms of education.

I robbed the subjects listed in the textbook I would have bought (none too cheaply, I might add), and Googled some of them. A hop, click and a jump led me to Intuit's recently-released "QuickBooks Simple Start Free Edition 2009 ." I compared it to a favorably-reviewed free offering from Microsoft, and chose the Intuit version for the following reasons:

• I have experience with and access to Intuit's legit Quickbooks
• The MS version is not reallyreally free, as you apparently must have MS Office installed before it will work

Both options are huge (320+ Megs) to download, but I've got mine up & running. I hope to teach myself something new, and if nothing else organize my own meager money matters as well.

Make mine a double

Jeezis, what a shit morning today. My son was all butt-hurt about something, and life got hectic for just a few minutes there. I ended up skipping breakfast, and the drive to work was a long one.

I decided I needed some comfort food for breakfast. I stopped by Angels Camp Burger King and ordered a double sausage-and-cheese Croissanwich. After this artery-clogging luxury, I felt much better.

Best four bucks I'll spend today, and it's second-best for the week, where first is that I bought new, $4 earbuds for my MP4 player. One earbud of my current pair failed and I had tolerated it, but I drew the line when my one remaining speakerbud started buzzing and crapping out. I found some cheap ones (different brand than the ones that just failed me) on eBay and free shipping sealed the deal.

I think everybody with the means should find an under-$10 web purchase and invest in a minor splurge of retail therapy as often as possible. Cheap books are a good option. Dr. Tom's prescription calls for at least two per month, or as needed.

Smell my finger

I did one useful thing yesterday, and that was to send my brother the Rosemary he was hassling me about. It grows in abundance at my house, and ever since I told him I would, I've done nothing to actually package and mail it. I lag.

The stuff smells great, and I took my fragrant package to the Post Office, where the clerk jammed the package in her face and inhaled deeply. That makes me laugh.

Feelin' frisky

I feel good today. Energetic, looking to make a certain brand of trouble. This feeling usually leads to the innocent, well-meaning provocation of those around me, but I like it anyway.

Such is the pattern of my life, in a nutshell. Feel good, do something whimsical, immediately regret it.

A handful of history

Yeesh - life comes at you from some unexpected, innocuous directions.

I've been cleaning up my 'office,' the third bedroom of this domicile, because it's an unruly dump and I can find fewer and fewer legitimate reasons to blame it on someone else. During my housekeeping, I came to address the dreaded Accordion File.

This file has been with me since Utah (making the sign of the cross as I write - not bad for an Atheist), and it contains some of the oldest artifacts of my life, on paper and otherwise. It's been a catch-all for many of my file-able relics. I figured I'd shake out all the old shit and move all the keepables to a more-modern vessel. Hoo, was I mistaken.

Starting from the front, the very first gaggle of items I pull strike at me like the coiled ghost of a snake. They are the invoices from a washer/dryer I got on credit with an ex. I am as unsentimental about that relationship as any I've ever had - it was nearly as doomed as the one in Utah, but didn't produce children, making it markedly less traumatic. And yet I am hesitant to discard its remnants, largely because of the way my brain works.

I am completely unable to track things in a temporal fashion. I don't track the years well at all, and my memory is not linear. What memories survive the beer are filed in podlike pockets and in no particular order. If something makes the cut, it floats buoyantly in a meaningless mental mucus (ick, I know, how do you think I feel?), without regard for nor identification of time.

Once I started blogging, this was no big deal. However, everything before that seriously risks being completely detached from my mental timeline and I'll avail myself of any system that allows me the means to sort out who did what when. This stuff comes in handy now & then and it's troubling when you can't pin things down.

Back to the point of my already-dull blog post: stabbed not in the heart but in the forehead by documents from days gone by, I tucked them back into their dusty, carboard tomb and shrank back to whatever busywork I busied myself with before. I'm not sure I'm ready to discard these breadcrumbs just yet, and they may be filed as well as they need to be as is.

Ideas

Can I just make a quick point, to acknowledge one simple point of view I've come to learn? And for those who might be wondering, this is not in consideration of any particular person or conversation with which I've been involved. Just something on the tip of my brain's tongue. Or something.

Ideas, like talk, are cheap.

Writers with a block will disagree, searching with desperation in a barren mental wasteland. People who have taken good ideas and seen them through with effort and discipline will also be quick with valid examples disproving my point. To all of you, I say: "You're right, that's great, now shut up, because I'm not talking about you."

I'm talking about people who only have ideas; those who have small, flickering Christmas tree light bulbs go off above their heads about departments, processes and topics about which they have little or no knowledge nor regular participation. In short, people who have no business contributing their stupid, poorly-considered ideas to people who have legitimate abilities to act upon it. People who storm in filled with pride in their pseudo-creation, drop it on the floor like a cat with a mangled, still-kicking bird, and then flitter away as if they've got to get back to Heaven following delivery of their generous gift from the Gods, only to sulk and return after a period of time to wonder indignantly why someone didn't pick up their crusty little contribution and make something out of it, or if someone did, why it was managed so badly.

By the way, I'm dead certain that I've been this person, but I'm sufficiently horrified at my own conduct, and I'm still learning. Perhaps I'm speaking to myself in the recent past, as much as anything else.

Back to my main point: ideas are the easy part. They are a miracle in the same way birth is a miracle - yeah, the process is really exciting, but the product of said miracle had very little to do with its own creation, and was largely due to the efforts of others. The distinction is that it's the shepherding of an idea from its inception through the process by which it is made truly useful is the hard, fascinating part that is really laudable.

I've been lucky enough to benefit from not only the brilliance of others' ambitious ideas, but also the affection of their owners that brought them to share with me. Again, this post is not a rebuke of them.

I'm just saying that if you are a person blessed with an idea and you inflict it upon someone unbidden, if you did nothing to help further that idea, and further that if you feel a pissy contempt for those who did not embrace your idea and take it to the heights of success you envisioned, you've gone seriously wrong somewhere.

I, uh, I guess that's all I had to say about that.

The Expert Swimmer

My wife is a very smart woman, and she made an observation recently that struck me.

I have now amassed at least half a dozen books devoted to outdoor survival and backwoods living because it fascinates me. I've read almost all of them cover-to-cover. My wife noted offhandishly to a telephone chatter what I was reading about, but: "...he doesn't really do all this survival stuff - he just reads about it."

I know she meant absolutely nothing negative by it, although I think I did wince when I overheard it. It did cleave neatly the reality of what I do from the fuzzy, rose-colored jumble that dominates my frontal lobe, and how I use that wonderful rosy jumble to lie to myself. The books make it easy - since I've tried to buy quality resources, most of them have very well-written explanations and clear diagrams, and those help me fool myself into thinking that simply reading them is quite enough. Yes, that's totally sufficient, now crack a beer and turn on "Survivorman," and turn up the heat, for god's sake.

I read all these books about how things work, and they're very procedural. They're about things that someone must do before they can be appreciated, or really even be fully taught. It's like reading about swimming without getting in the water. I read and read and imagine myself doing these things - building a shelter or a figure-four deadfall trap, or even simply camping - but I so-rarely do them.

In my defense, they are things that require a commitment of time and preparation. Maybe you can slip into your backyard and put together a survival shelter from nothing in an hour, but it takes me longer. Me, I haven't got that worked out yet. Although sometimes I'll take a folding knife and build the occasional campfire in the fire pit off the side of my house (which I'm still thrilled to have), it usually doesn't go beyond that.

What I really need to do is spend about five or six hours working out some of the procedures and techniques in these things. I've practiced some of them (camp cooking, deadfall traps), and they really are a lot of fun. It just takes a departure from the norm, a bump out of the comfort zone, and god knows I'm a creature of habit.

Anyway, I guess the point of this post is that I should get off my ass, actively pursue more of the things I want to pursue, and break out of my comfortable routine. And continue to listen to my wife, who is brilliant.

Obama-thon

It's near the end of a workday whose radioplay has been thoroughly dominated by the inauguration of Barack Obama. A black man is president, and it's truly historical. I should be thinking big thoughts, swept away with a national sense of self-congratulation like everyone else.

Instead, I can relate these very human reflections: First, I honestly didn't think that the American people had it in them to vote in a black president (nor did I think a woman had a beggar's chance, either). It doesn't trouble me to tell you that I told my brother during the Democratic primary that the because the Dems were saddled with either a minority or a woman that the Republicans were a shoo-in, even if they had to prop up John McCain's lifeless corpse and operate his acceptance speech through a complicated clockwork of fishing line and pulleys. I just didn't believe the country was there yet. So, it turns out I am pleasantly surprised that my dark cynicism was proven wrong. Good for us.

Unfortunately, although there are reasons to like and vote for Obama, I think the country is settling for a cosmetic (skin-deep, if you will) revolution over the pragmatic resolution it really needs. It sounds like only a narrow portion of Ron Paul's arm-waving, near-frantic advice against striding the globe as a lone superpower will be implemented in the Obama administration,. I am glad we'll be changing course, but it doesn't take a genius or a revolutionary to realize that we were screwing the pooch in Iraq; our recent success with the "surge" only indicates we're screwing it in finer form, not that it's any better a goal. But I am heartened and confident that Obama's will be closer to a correct path than either Bush has or McCain would have provided. As far as Paul's similar admonitions against writing checks on accounts you don't have, it looks like we'll be blowing past ever-increasing limits with the stimulus and job creation being promised.

What do I know? Maybe pouring oceans of money after the problem will make things all right. It does me no good to look over the shoulders of wizards working with alchemies I don't understand. The best I can hope for is to be a well-meaning heckler.

Regarding self-congratulation, one minor note: how can you slap yourself on the back with such gusto, as if you were with him from his very birth, when your airy mind wasn't made up until a mere several days before election day? It's fair-weather fan syndrome, carried to the extreme. Sorry - just thinking of one person I know; I digress.

Much less significantly, anytime something is over-hyped I am overcome with an irresistible desire to flinch away, and it is no different with Archangel Obama, whose wings will surely tatter and fray soon enough, and who will be found to be human just like the rest of us. I'd just as soon have the marching bands vanish, and my radio shows back where they belong.

Paris is burning - a hole in my empty pocket

Expedia reports that I can take wife and son from Frisco to Paris in early February for 8 days for a $791 per person, or $2,371 total.

12 days in February go for $2,582.
...

<sigh>

Angels Camp World Mercantile Open Mike

There's a cafe/art gallery in Angels Camp that hosts a weekly open mike night. I'm thrilled about it - so much so, I'll be shooting a video exposition on it this weekend. I hope to make it the first in a recurring, local-oriented video series, but we'll see how life goes.

I've chosen a title for it, and based on that have almost finished a brief 3-D animation for its opening. I'll post it once it's complete, but where? MySpace, YouTube, Facebook, this blog? If anybody has advice on how they prioritize their blog, video or other postings across various web presences, please leave me a Comment here, or an e-mail. I could use the advice!

"Survive!" book review

I just finished reading Les Stroud's recent book: "Survive!" I am impressed with it, and I'll tell you why:

First, it is humble. Les Stroud makes every effort to reveal that he was not magically born with this knowledge, and often refers to the teachers, experts and others who have contributed to his current level of expertise. Not only does he give ample credit where it's due, he occasionally hands over the reins entirely when a subject appears that can be better explained by a true expert. For example, he defers to a physician when it comes to hypothermia. This sort of self-deprecation isn't just appealingly modest during an age of "Look at me, I invented outdoor adventure" ego. It also gives the reader a confidence that multiple resources have been consulted, resulting in more reliable advice.

Second, it is organized. While it's not unusual for bushcraft and survival books to separate fire-making from shelter-building, but Les shows his priorities when he puts preparation and mindset literally before fires, food and water. Somewhere in the book-making process, it must be tempting to put the fun, active stuff first, but placing these later gives a clear signal of the importance he assigns them.

Finally, while it is complete, it is not a "kitchen sink" approach. There are several points in the book where to deliberately eschews elaborate bushcraft skills that are particularly time-consuming or complex, simply because their knowledge don't really lend themselves to survival, but more to woodsmanship, a long-term approach to outdoors pursuits. Good for him.

I recommend this book!

Checking in

Yeah, I'm still here. I had something useful to say, but it has degraded in the darkness inside my head, and is not worthy of you in its current form. Soon, maybe.

Bone Annie Verse Air

I gave up making New Year's resolutions some time ago, for the same reasons many people give it up: it's cliché and nobody follows through with them anyway. The main problem is that they're a declaration, an absolute vow of action, and we all know that absolutes are brutally difficult things to bargain with. I would twitch nervously if I had to vow that the sun will come up tomorrow.

Rather, this year I will state the changes I would like to witness and the goals I would like to accomplish. Human as I am, I won't be chagrined if these don't come to pass.

• Lose 30 pounds, I look like shit
• Learn me some guitar
• Produce more blog posts, video projects and anything else that keeps me learning and creating
• Manage and embrace the bizarre and mercurial calculus of work/fun/money/happiness

New Year's resolutions are silly because of the reasons above, but it is certainly not silly to ponder one's location on his own map. I should complete such a list once a month, rather than once a year.

This list is too short - I compiled it almost reflexively because I didn't want the calendar to turn without noting something about my perception of the new year and my life's odometer as it quietly whirs. The list is certainly not exhaustive. And yet...

Constantly self-assessing, I can't help but notice what's not on the list. Nothing grand, nothing momentous. Just some humble self-improvement. Does that make me selfish, small-minded, complacent? Realistic? Does it speak to what I already have that I don't feel the need to climb certain mountains? Does it indicate that there are certain internal details that need sorted out? Do I question petty, self-absorbed ideas way too much?

I'd be very surprised if the answers to all these questions wasn't "yes."

Happy New Year to everyone who reads this, whose name I'd know on sight. The rest of you? Um, I dunno - I can't be bothered, work it out amongst yourselves, will you?

Santa's leftovers

I'm thinking of starting a new tradition. Every year, no matter how sharp Santa is, there's always a little something that he could have delivered, but that was missed. Maybe Saint Nick would benefit from a humble clean-up crew.

My wife stopped by to get a CD that she wanted. I picked up a second-hand clock radio for myself; nothing fancy, but the one I have has black LED's that are invisible in the dark. I'm stuck with sitting up and glaring blearily at my wife's. It's inconvenient enough at that, but that chick can pile so much crap on her nightstand that neither of us know what time it is until the sun comes up, so somebody hadda do somethin'. Heh.

Also, I've got my eye on an ultra-cheap microphone to go with some other mid-range equipment I've got, and I wouldn't mind a CD or two as well. Just to round out the Christmas spirit, you understand.

In with the good

I got to see my brother recently. We haven't gotten together in a while, and it was good to see him again. It was generous of him, but I shouldn't have let him pay for lunch - times are tight for both of us. Then again, I didn't want to insult him, and sometimes it feels good to say: "I'll buy." I'll spring next time.

I caught cold on Christmas, so soon after the last one. It irritated me, but I've been lucky - my discomfort has been mild, and I've been able to do a lot of things that want to do.

We were able to get my son a respectable pile of loot for Christmas, which feels good for a parent. More selfishly, I got some wonderful loot myself without it being overdone. Just right, as Goldilocks would say.

I haven't had a lot of practice looking on the sunny side, but I easily admit that there's a lot in my life to be thankful for. One could say I've got it made.

Sierra Re-creation

God help me, I think I'm going to resurrect "SierraRecreation.com," or at least its spirit.

It was months ago that I ceased thrashing about in the dark, struggling against a slowly-diminishing ignorance of Content Management Systems, an equally-slowly diminshing ignorance of the Sierra Nevada itself, and the fact that no one but me ever joined a site that I had hoped would engender at least some enthusiasm from, well, enthusiasts. I ceased thrashing, and I gave up.

After I stopped crying, (I take my perceived defeats entirely too seriously) I realized that I still have an interest in the Sierra Nevada. Although I also still don't get out in the rough enough, I still daydream about it, read about it and care about it. And I do occasionally actually get out and kick rocks, and it's fun to write about it or take photos for display. When you've got an interest in something and it just keeps nagging at you, you can either drink until it goes away, or you can stop resisting and do something about it. Me, I'm doin' both.

I also envision doing some sort of videography project about recreation in the Sierra Nevada; the details are always hazy and require that I chase them (which I am currently doing), but the personality of the thing is clear in my mind: something useful, somewhat intelligent, but also approachable, funny and down-to-earth. I'd like to do some sort of a series, even if it's a series of 10-minute webisodes (although I'd rather do more-standard, 30- or 60-minute productions), and an accompanying website just sounds like such a natural place to host such productions (or clips thereof), that I know I've got to do it someday.

Plus, there are so many good resources of different media and perspectives that I am driven by a natural instinct to collect them and display them, and redistribute some of them in more modern or useful ways than I originally found them.

One hang-up is money. "If it cost a nickel to shit, I'd have to go puke somewhere." Thanks to Jeff S. for that handy and unforgettably digusting saying. But it makes my point; I can't afford even one more hosting plan right now, so I'm currently planning on reviving my little monster as a subfolder of my current hosting account. Luckily, it will be full-featured in all other ways, allowing me to build and play and break things. Besides cost, another plus is that a relatively anonymous subfolder homestead will remove any pressure to make it "be" anything other than what it is: a personal work in progress.

Hopefully, it will end up being something worth "re-launching" someday, and showing to the cold, cruel webosphere for somebody to get some use out of it.

Until then, I'll keep the domain name under my thumb for later use. Until then, I'll tinker.

Fish fried

Oh man. I went to what was supposed to be a small affair, a little get-together over some locally caught fish, and a few friendly refreshments. I had four beers, two fish and an inordinate amount of salt. That's how I like my fish.

I woke up the next day feeling like, as I've heard it said, I'd been "eaten by a coyote and shit over a cliff." Now, four beers is a significant consumption, but not even close to a harmful amount, hangover-wise. If you're not sure, take my word for it - I've done the research.

For my entire Sunday, I trudged through the day as if I'd been poisoned or beaten, and although I was game enough to be intermittently active, my heart was certainly not in it. Muscle aches, headache and sleep deprivation sapped my strength, and I haven't been so glad to retire for the night in quite some time.

I awoke today at 5am, feeling so much better that I couldn't stay in bed. There's nothing like briefly feeling thoroughly like shit to remind you how good normal feels.

Small actions

Rereading my previous post, it's easy to see that I need to take some action toward my stated goal (wish). So, I'm taking whatever steps I can think of.

Sorry if this post is cryptic and nonsensical. It makes sense to me at the moment, and that's enough.

Discord

Today has been quite imperfect. I've forgotten to bring items with me that are a normal part of my everyday routine; infrastructure that I normally take for granted are non-operational; due to a minor back strain, many simple motions that are normally effortless require concentration
and exact a cost of pain - a recent sneeze was spectacularly sharp and bracing, as striking and transient as being dipped in ice water.

These are the types of oddities and variances that give life its texture and flavor; to a driven and purposeful man, they are incidental. Without a unifying goal, they just feel likes slaps in the face, a little more quicksand that sucks at my legs.

I feel weak today. I want to return to a point where I have a sense of control and purpose and a command of the aspects of my life. It's been so long since that's been the case that I can't really point to a date on the calendar when it was so.

These things change - they always do. I do wish I could accelerate that change and maintain a sense of security and control.

I'll show you

I'm grateful there's a cafe with hi-speed Internet nearby, but they're overly cautions with their Webwasher site blocking software, because it frustates me when it (often) prevents me from looking at fairly harmless websites.

So, this morning I brought up some porn on the screen, just to show it that I could. Take that, oppressively technology!

France calling

I have been dreaming again of France. It remains a magical event in my memory.

Google Maps has a balm for this painfully sweet longing: the Street View feature. I can go and revisit our little hotel, the Pantheon I visited on a crisp solo morning, and other locations.

I am consistently susprised at the power of the experience and nostalgia, now a few years later. The architecture, the food, the different-ness of everything. Just intoxicating.

I had secretly hoped to work some things out this year, and make another trip possible. We're absolutely not in such a position, and while I'm completely unsurprised, I'm secretly bitterly disappointed.

But this post is not intended to be about bitterness; it's about what joy I had in visiting, experiencing and remembering another place and culture. To be in another land, surrounded and immersed by another language and another history.

Tradition

Monday, I had sincerely planned to increase my exercise, both in frequency and intensity. I went to bed feeling a mite peaked, and woke up with a cold. I've tried before to soldier on through a cold, working outdoors and exercising, and I've learned through experience that it's a reliable and effective way to punch up the severity of an illness. So, last Monday I made a conscious effort to chill out and take lots of fluids.

That paid off, and my cold was relatively gentle and short-lived. Feeling about 95% yesterday, I made good on the promise I'd made myself last week, and continued my tradition of only the most intermittent exercise. Just often enough to cause significant discomfort, that's my motto. Therefore, I am in the kind of pain that makes me move about and groan like a mummy with a spinal cord injury. I couldn't tuck my head in properly when crouching into my car seat, and bashed my head on the edge of the roof.

I don't think I can take much more of this healthy lifestyle.

Off the grid

What a week. Good, bad and indifferent, all smeared messily across 6 days or so. In that time, I've/we've:

• Finished our meager Christmas shopping
• Partied with some truly great people
• Counseled a troubled, rowdy drinker to hew to a moral (me, can you believe it?) and considerate path (what is it about me that says: "amateur pastor?")
• Spent the next day riding out a doozey of a hangover
• Made a killer deal on some exercise equipment that might actually work for us
• Caught a cold

I've been too busy to spend much time in front of the computer, as much blessing as curse. How have you been?

"Black Ice" review: on the other hand

[This is a second part of a two-part review of AC/DC's "Black Ice" CD. Read the first, angry part.]

Ever since I hit "post" on my review, I immediately felt regret that it was so negative - embarrassment as if I had drunkenly slandered a family member. I'm just not comfortable shitting on AC/DC like that, after their years as icons of Rock, deserving of my admiration and a more circumspect review. Here is that second look.

For the past few album releases, it has often been the case that I was initially disappointed in the music, as it did not stack up to former glories. Later though, the music, although different, grew on me. For example: "Rock Your Heart Out" sounded fluffy, but over time I was able to appreciate it more on its own terms. "Boogey Man" sounded great on their "No Bull" concert DVD (thanks to Steve for the lend). There are plenty of other examples, and the new album is no different.

It's somewhat (not entirely) unfair to compare new music to past performances. A rigid attitude like the one I took leaves little room for growth. With that in mind, songs like "Stormy May Day" and "War Machine" are actually very worthwhile songs, expressive and effective. "Rock N Roll Dream" also has its own sound, slow and dreamy before stomping into a contrastingly forceful chorus.

I must admit, my initial review felt a lot more correct than the drivel I've read elsewhere, like "Black in Blacker!" Please, calm yourself, douchebag. I hope that balancing out it with this more considered reflection gives a more complete review to anyone considering buying the album.

I must say, I wasn't all wrong: "Money Made" still plods along like a Communist ballad or a slave's mantra, and "Rock N Roll Train" still sounds trite. I can almost hear the mechanical background sounds from Queen's "Back to Humans," a very good song in its own right. "She Likes Rock N Roll" hits me like a throwaway. I still wish the lyrics overall were more complex and specific, but that's me - I enjoy tight lyrics. Who knows what will grow on me in time?

I still rock this CD and I do recommend it.

Making it up as I go along

Perhaps my needs for something metaphysical in which to believe would be served well enough by creating such icons and avatars from whole cloth, out of my own imagination and experiences. I certainly find the idea no less valid; if anything, believing in things I dreamed up for myself is more legitimate than that of someone else's mythology, not less. What do they know of life, death and afterlife that I don't? Nothing, that's what.

It's no surprise, coming from a guy (me) who coined his own faith years ago, that of "Solipsistic Pelagianism." The description, whose motivations are self-evident from its name, is a little less attractive to me lately because it still implies an attachment to religious leanings, which I have less and less anymore. But, it's still as accurate as I can be with such few words.

Hmmm. I'll have to ponder this a while longer, but a homemade belief system seems an attractive and useful option.

I need a spiritual Tom-Tom

In the movie "Big Trouble in Little China," there's a secondary hero who early in the film fails to perform some bar trick with a meat cleaver and a liquor bottle (it's a fun film like that, you should see it). He blames his failure on the fact that (I'm paraphrasing - give me a break, it's likely been decades since I've seen it) "my mind and my spirit are going in different directions."

Aside from the fact that I don't prescribe to eastern (or any other) spirituality, this accurately describes how I feel lately. Conflict within and without, wall-to-wall dissonance. All my energies are poorly aligned and allocated, and it literally feels like they're piling up inside me, and not comfortably, either.

I've been here before, and it's presaged the lower points in my sense of well-being. I feel like I'm a few hundred yards into a rutted, gravel road, with a long, shitty, teeth-rattling journey ahead of me. I'm desperately searching a blurry, poorly-marked map for an alternate route.

AC/DC's "Black Ice" review: initial reaction

[This review is my initial, hotheaded reaction to AC/DC's "Black Ice" CD. Read the mellower, more reasoned second half of the review here.]

I got a hold of AC/DC's latest CD, "Black Ice," within days of its release. I've avoided reading reviews about it so that I could form my own opinions, independently of others'. Ever since its release date was announced, I've turned away from the nagging internal voice that worried whether AC/DC's music quality would continue the downward slide propagated by at least their last two albums. Unfortunately, it has done exactly that, taking the band's legacy deeper underwater.

For example: "Rock N Roll Train" starts out with a serviceable guitar riff and beat, but never gets out of first gear. Lyrics are unimaginative, including: "Give it all, give it, give it what you got; come on give it all a lot; pick it up and move it, give it to the spot." That's not sexy, dangerous or clever; it sounds like instructions for installing a washer/dryer. And later: "Runaway train, runnin' right off the traaack... Runaway train, runnin' right off the traaack..." I know it's just the chorus, but shit. Tedious, flat, dull. And what is this damned song about, anyway?!

"Skies on Fire" similarly begins with some foreboding lyrics, but never gets to the point, and the lyrics quickly become repetitive, uninteresting and banal. I'm left with the same confusion as to the point of this one.

The whole CD, nearly without exception, has the feel of a high school homework assignment that a student had eight years to complete, but still waited until the last minute to finish. Brian Johnson's vocals are sincere and energetic; I sadly have to lay the blame on the creative process that cranked out music like my ex-wife fucks: perfunctorily and without any real skill or enthusiasm. Lyrics are simplistic and even disjointed. The music (and this is the part that really hurts) is amateurish. It sounds like a (very good) garage band's demo, that of a group who will really be something, once they find their voice and hit a groove.

But this is AC-fucking-DC, true Gods of rock, we're talking about. These are "the lads" who for decades consistently churned out chords that infested the base of your spine like a sinister disease, giving you literally no choice but to tremble, bow your head and nearly uncontrollably make the word "rock" an active, spasmodic verb. The roiling chaos of "Bedlam in Belgium." The diabolic, baleful foreboding of "Hell's Bells." The cheeky, insouciant triumph of "Back in Black." These are the guys who wrote lyrics that were both clever and approachable, daring and unrepentant like those in "Dirty Deeds" and "'74 Jailbreak." "What's Next to the Moon," for crying out loud!

They know how to do it, and do it better than anyone else. Why, how, could they go to print with such a lackluster release? Is it that the idea mill finally ran out of grist? Is it just about the money now?

One relatively bright spot is "War Machine." This one starts out with the thumping of war drums, providing a slow grind and malevolently mellow framework for the guitar and lyrics to sit upon. The rhythm guitar kicks in carries us into the song. If I could understand the lyrics, I could pass better judgment. I'll have to look them up.

Most of the other songs have good points about them, but they are very much diamonds in the rough, and one has to listen carefully to catch hints of brilliance. "Rock N Roll Dream" has another deceptively calm backdrop which allows the rest of the song to "pop," to leap forth. Sadly, there's not a lot of leaping going on. In "Stormy May Day," I can truly hear the melancholy and angst that this song wanted to express, fighting and failing to come across in the meterological non-sequitirs: "The storm is ragin', The winds are howlin; The water's calling - Rescue You." The music is almost persuasive enough to take you somewhere, but the lyrics dash and drown these hopes like the current a storm-swollen river. Ironically, that's what I think this song wanted to be about.

After listening attentively to the CD several times, I queued up "Nick of Time" and "Bedlam in Belgium," just to refresh my memory of what the boys can (could) really do. I'm so disappointed. Ah well - we'll always have the seventies and eighties to look back on. Jesus, I could almost weep.

Life goes on

You know it's bad when my brother blogs more recently than me. It's never a good sign when my blog goes quiet. It just indicates things are... not entirely well with me.

But, things are not all bad. The immediate family is healthy and happy - my poor brother is still fucked, and I wonder against which gods he has transgressed for such a persistent, brutal curse to befall him- but everybody under my single roof is of reasonably good cheer.

Speaking of which: Ken, my wife's dad who has lived with us for several months now, moved back home to the ranch last week, taking another ragged swipe at matrimony and hoping for sunny days ahead. Our best wishes go with him.

"The best argument against democracy..."

"I'm not against Proposition 8; if gay people want to get married, whatever, but I heard there's a component that calls for it to teach children about gays in the schools. I mean, I'd almost rather have them be taught about God, or something. I mean, why can they learn about gays, but not God...?"

I managed to quip all but the final syllable of the response: "Well, gay people actually exist..." before thinking better of it and clamming up. Luckily, my interlocutor only pays intermittent attention at best, and it was as if I'd never opened my mouth at all.

I'm definitely getting less timid about my own views, but I'm not sure at all whether that's a good thing or not. Adopting a more vocal stance and a less vocal one are both are tempting and extreme.

Machiavelli doesn't live here

We all have our strengths and weaknesses. Some people think I'm a little too quick to note my weaknesses, and they have a point. On the other hand, I find that humility agrees with me, and speaking in muted tones about my gifts and being realistic about my flaws keeps my feet nicely on the ground, where I like them.

One strength I do not have is a circuitous, conniving mind, capable of multilayered, manipulative thinking. Whatever abilities are granted to my little simian brain, they are of a straightforward nature, procedural, for better or worse. I am terrible when it comes to gauging what others are thinking, what their next moves are, and why, and how I should play my cards for my own benefit. Although I know for a fact that I could have gone farther in life much faster if I had these types of cognitive skills, I am largely ambivalent about their lack; I am not bitter or regretful about it, but I do recognize where they are handy.

My pathetic compensation for the absence of these skills is that I abhor when they are used against me. If I find that I have been manipulated in such a fashion, I am bitterly spiteful; for that, I carry a grudge like I carry my last ounce of blood. I am profoundly unforgiving when I find I have been tricked or lied to. It's closing the barn door after the horses are gone, but it's what I've got.

Also, I'm not at all comfortable when I sensed they are employed around me. When I catch a whiff of deception and evil guile, I quickly realize I'm in a place I don't want to be, whether it's personal or professional. I am learning to heed that sense of discomfort, and act upon it in a more timely manner.

I wonder if such craftiness is a skill one can learn. If so, I wonder if I would want to learn it. It's tempting...

Don't tell me it's rainin'

I've been idly ruminating on the usefulness of myths and religion and the positive effects of self-delusion.

It is so comfortable and sustaining to have a belief system whose tenets exist largely outside the tangible or scientific realm. It almost doesn't matter what it is - whether you pray to Jehovah or Zeus or send silent pleas and gratitude to a faceless, nameless cosmos, having the belief that somebody out there/up there looking out for you, planning, scheming, directing events and taking blame for incidents in your everyday life, it really adds a cushion to the harder knocks of each day's trials and triumphs.

Think about it: assigning unseen hands to the otherwise random forces around you is a powerful method of redirection. Lost your job? It's for a higher purpose. Got a tumor? It's all part of the Lord's plan. Atheists and agnostics have no recourse but to sit and ponder the stark and often bland realities, while the more imaginative among us can find pixies and leprechauns in any event or object under the sun. How liberating that is!

What more powerful example than love? It is a truly intoxicating state of being, where the slightest whims and whispers teem with meaning, questions and promise. What an exciting state of affairs (so to speak) when one's mind is completely enveloped and engaged in the thoughts of another! No action or happening can be too miniscule to elicit pain or joy. At least with love, there is often a likelihood that the object of your affections and dreamy calculation does exist.

What more sinister example than the slogan "Arbeit macht frei," or "work will set you free," which according to Wikipedia: 'was placed at the entrances to a number of Nazi concentration camps "as a kind of mystical declaration that self-sacrifice in the form of endless labour does in itself bring a kind of spiritual freedom."'

How many people over the centuries have slaved tirelessly away at grueling labors, motivated by the bizarre and sometimes perverted psychological alchemy where increasing hardship and toil equals some benefit seen only by the slave, like a seat in heaven?

Grim as this account is, the idea is certainly not all bad. How many people struggle through their workdays even now, tolerating tedium and conflict, sustained by thoughts of loved ones or material reward? How many kids sweat through and endless summer of lawnmowing or burger-flipping, thinking about a shiny new bike or their first rusted-out set of wheels and the new opportunities they bring.

I find that having abandoned the mental mirage of being watched over and fated to certain outcomes by larger forces, it is like losing cartilage in a joint - the bumps are bumpier. However, I also find that it's worth that loss of manufactured comfort. If it's not real, I'm better off without it. Still, if I could find a more romantic view of the world that works for me, and doesn't make me feel like such a sucker I'd happily embrace it. I'll have to keep an eye out for one.

...

It occurs to me that I may have answered my own questions. Reading over the above, it strikes me that I should be investing more "money in the love bank," and working harder to please my wife. If I'm looking for a romantic world view, I could do worse than to start there.

My wife can cook

Holy shit, can my wife fry a fish.

Someday, when I'm lying powerless in the aftermath of the inescapable and final stupid action that is my ultimate undoing, I fully expect that as my life flashes before my eyes one of its singular pleasures - and exquisitely regrettable in that it is never again to be - will be that of a meal including cold beer and my wife's fried, salted trout.

Watch your mouth

My irascible streak continues through today. When pressed, I even shared my caustic wit (translation: I mouthed off) a bit with someone in a position of authority over me. It was quite a natural occurrence, and it was out of my mouth before I had a chance to consider it. I guess I'm getting careless in my old age.

I really shouldn't make a habit of it, but it felt so good and right, it can't have been all bad.

Up yours

I've got no sense of humor this morning. I'm cranky. This feeling always passes, and I hope it does soon.

Human wheels

I never really enjoyed the fall season before. It was simply a buffer between two extremes, and for much of my life, I've lived as if the extremes were the only thing worth experiencing. The hottest, the coldest, the most, the least, the highest... you get the idea. Driving home last night, the evening was anything but extreme, unless you consider it "extremely mild." No blazing sun, no numbing cold; and it was an astounding night.

I must confess, I've been reading a book lent to me by one of my customers, called: "The Tracker," by Tom Brown Jr. It's about a New Jersey boy who befriends a young American Indian and is mentored in tracking and outdoor life by his grandfather. It's filled my head with outdoor adventures and Brown Jr.'s pursuit and embrace of a spiritual connection to nature. I wouldn't say I'm converted, but it does divert my state of mind to a more reverent place regarding the Great Outdoors.

Getting back to last night: it was so placidly beautiful, I couldn't have dreamed up a more striking experience. The first storm of the season had just made its way through, and while the air was perfectly still and calm, I could watch the clouds continue their solemn patrol to the east, carrying their gray gloom and atmospheric power with them. Indeed, I had watched them from my car window as I drove, and I could scarcely stay behind the wheel and resist the urge to pull over on a hilltop and watch the show. Once home, I did just that - kissed my wife, grabbed a cold beer, and walked to the end of the largely-deserted street with the closest and best easterly view.

Along the way, the view of the sky delivered on its promise. As I walked, the rolling hills moved and turned around me; the clouds however, remained, with that glacial, implacable majesty that clouds always have about them. At once streaking through the sky at jetliner speeds, while seeming to remain perfectly still. Only comparing them against the crescent moon's gleaming west surface betrayed that they wheeled by on their way to drench the Sierra Nevada mountains.

There was definitely something in the air last night, and the cosmos bombarded me with wordless thoughts. Whispering to me about the flow of time, the flow of life, my own mortality, the enormousness and smallness all around us, my head, my senses, my entire body was on a magnetic swivel, trying to accept all the input.

Magical!

Un beau rêve

I've been dreaming more lately than I have in a long time. I don't know why.

Late this morning, I had the most exquisite reverie, that my wife and I were back in Paris. It was my brain's delicious cocktail of legitimate memories, mixed with the idealized fantasy of things and places I've never experienced, but had every mark of realism for the dreamer.

It's funny in that way: I dreamed of this small, neighborhood bar, and not for the first time. It was on the ground floor of a crowded group of shops and restaurants, lots of brick, and even had a pool table. Since we never went to a bar in Paris, I'm sure we've never been to such a place, and yet I know I've dreamed of it before. This time, it had even changed in the small ways that places change when you haven't visited in some time; ways that the regulars never notice, ways that are given contrast only by periodic absence.

I seated my wife, and stowed our bicycle (bicycle?) in our "usual spot" (again, never happened), and greeted the bartender in French and ordered our drinks. I was taking in the joy of "being there again" and noting my still-lingering newness to the French language when my son cried out in his sleep from the next room. I didn't snap out of my womblike vision right away; rather, I luxuriated in my happy hallucination, and willed myself to remain, to bask, almost baste myself in the false-but-convincing sensory perceptions of the time and place. Slowly and inevitably, I did drift away, but thankful that I had a few brief moments to say goodbye to the second home of my heart.

Deja vu

I'm at a point in my work dynamic that feels familiar. I am over the honeymoon period where everyone is nice, all projects look like opportunities and most efforts I put out bring a positive return. I am into a lurch now, where people have learned not just my abilities but my occasional downfalls, and I have learned theirs. My efforts rarely bring kudos anymore, and new tasks just feel like more work.

The vibrancy is draining out of all the colors in my professional world, leaving a drab, gray canvas that is less-than-inspiring. I've been here before. When I was, I chose to cave in to apathy, tuning out and offering less of myself. For many reasons, it only makes sense: why give and give when you get less and less back? In retrospect, I don't blame myself for these subtle implosions. The law of diminishing returns is a powerful deterrent.

On the other hand, I can now look back on those daily choices to withdraw and objectively wonder to myself: Were they the best way to handle a given situation? Sure, I probably saved myself a significant degree of workload learning to protecting my cubicle's status quo. I got to a point where I could identify at fifty yards anyone who even smelled like they were bringing me additional work; shrugging or scowling at them was occasionally useful in repelling their stack of paperwork, but what did it leave me with? I can look back now and see that I didn't learn much, I didn't grow, and I'm certain I've missed some opportunities because of it.

The key lies in finding and doing projects that align with my own goals of personal growth and learning by doing. I am fortunate in my position that I can select many projects that I take on. I should use that advantage more. Rather than empty days of avoidance, I will have learned new things and picked up the small victories that build up over time.

Maybe I will find the energy to push forward, to resist vocational hibernation in the face of a dull, sepia landscape. And don't kid yourself - it takes a significant amount of energy, and in daily doses, to trudge forward when all signs indicate that you're just throwing your best efforts on the fire to warm an empty house. Honestly, some days I just don't have that energy. But some days, I do. Best to try, I suppose.

Precious few bottles on the shore

Just a minor note of update: I mentioned before that I've sent several e-mails out in new areas of interest, and waited for a response. Only a few replies have been received; while I'm a little disappointed, I'm not deterred.

I met with one person interested in meeting 'talent,' or entertainment-minded people. Without animus, I must say she sounded primarily interested in a something-for-nothing arrangement, which left me fairly cold. The meeting was not so toxic that I would hesitate to work with her, but I felt a heightened need to look after my own self-interests, lest they be shoved aside by hers. Not surprising, not bad, but not ideal.

Another correspondent on a grassroots political front was non-committal. His input was not negative, and I wonder if he's not interested in my ideas, or just too busy to take on new commitments. This is one time (of many) where being excessively polite may be muddying the waters. After a period of time, I'd rather hear "Hell no" than "Maybe..."

On still another front, I sent e-mails to two local newspapers, asking for a free ad to placed, looking for open mike talent. I've been told that both papers will post such a cattle call. I wrote the clearest letter I could muster, and both correspondents still were confused with my request. I'm fully willing to admit that this is my fault, as I am new to this type of endeavor. Hoepfully some good will yet come of it.

Stoopid coons

Last week was more "balance."

The first three-fourths of Sunday was just a mess. It was as if the Three Stooges were playing Fate, and all my orderly little plans were bumping into each other and going "nyuk nyuk nyuk."

The real pleasure of the day was at the end. My son was away for the evening, and I got to skin a raccoon we'd caught earlier. I don't take pleasure in killing them necessarily, but I felt less guilty about it when I recalled the one chicken that was beheaded outright, and the chickens and ducks that suffered shredded necks because of a renegade beastie who couldn't quite seal the deal. Most of the eventually died, and the one survivor won't be the same again.

The last time I skinned one, it was a hurried and mildly drunken affair. Last night, I took my time and ended up pretty swervy by the time I was done, too, but I think I did a good job. (One thing about "Natural Ice" beer - every swallow tastes like cheap regret, but that stuff packs a deceptive punch. I gotta be careful before I "come to" with a skinless cat in my hands. Hmmm...) My point is that I had the time to myself, worked with my hands and enjoyed giving myself over to a consuming task. I'm sure PETA members would prefer I took up model trains, but this is where we find ourselves.

Anyway, besides taking my time, I also did some other things differently: I hung the little weasel up in the air at a convenient height, rather than laying him in the dirt like I did last time, a silly mistake. I listened to my MP3 player and once I got going, the chore turned into a pleasant undertaking and time ceased to register. Before I knew it, I had a naked raccoon and it was dark.

Another thing I did differently: I took the skin all the way off his skull, and kept the cranium as a trophy. I've seen them boiled on TV to remove the meat and er, stuff. I tried it, and it doesn't smell real good, especially the next day.

This week, I've scraped and salted the skin, and I'm not real sure what to do with it now. Even better, we've trapped another raccoon. Anybody want a hat, or something? Sheesh!

It's all ca-ca

I'm feeling really down today, defeated. Yesterday was a lot of effort just to get what used to be the status quo back into sight, just on the horizon. Efforts that should have yielded a sense of accomplishment instead generated only frustration and misery.

Today things aren't much better. These feelings rarely last, but they always return. I'm still searching for an effective and appropriate way to handle them. My last method, throwing furniture and destroying my own property, were less than ideal.

Currently, I simply stew in impotent contempt for the entire planet and everyonethinginonit. And drink beer. It's not the ideal method, but it's what we've got today.

See you tomorrow.

Downside

The balance of life seems to be rigidly enforced lately. No good can be enjoyed without a price, a backlash.

Yesterday was a very good day; I slipped up to the mountains for a hike and some photos, and had a very good time. No beer last night, and I slept well and fully.

After such a pleasant chain of events, I am swept into the undertow of "balance," which asserts itself like cosmic retribution. My brother's illness is hammering him and what shreds of well-being he enjoys. My DSL is down because we're struggling to pay the bill. My son cherished a beach towel on the way to pre-school where he will play in the water on a hot day, and we forgot it in the car when I dropped him off.

When life kicks at me like this, it makes me want to kick back.

Open letter to John Bizarre

John Bizarre is a skilled writer, filmmaker and former comedian. His writings inspire me not only through their humor, but also through their idealism and calls to action. It is with respect that I formulate this reply to his recent notebook/blog entry. I'd write him directly, but I get the sense that he only desires selective and limited feedback, especially to avoid kooks. Maybe I'll send it to him anyway. He recently writes in part:

Look, I don't even know what to write anymore. 98% of Americans who take the time to go out and vote this November will actually feel good about themselves after having voted for a carefully packaged corporate candidate that has been promoted by a whore house disguised as a news channel.

To him, I'd say this:

John, you've written about the state of things as they are, and it's been effective. I have been moved to change my apathetic and lazy ways as a result. But there's more to the task. You want to know what to write? Here's a recommendation:

Write less about how everyone around you is a mooing bovine, and write more about how you have recently acted to change the world and country that you live in. Tell me how you toiled to affect the change for which you see such a desperate need. Describe how you came to settle upon a challenge, why it is important to the cause as you see it. Tell us how you came out of your ideological, West Hollywood ivory tower, got your hands dirty and took the fight to the stuffed shirts having the Big Laugh at our expense.

Communicate how you launched yourself alone against the hordes of the current system, or how you banded together with people exactly like yourself and/or wildly diverse; how you stood shoulder-to-shoulder with a tie-wearing Republican and a paunchy, unconvincing Elvis impersonator, trying to make a difference.

Tell us how the waves of your struggle crashed against the shores of indifference and the hideously entrenched status quo, and won the day like a White Knight with a big dick. Even better, tell us how they failed laughably, and how you found the guts and fire to press on, even when it seemed beyond hopeless.

It's not enough to document your perceptions from the outside, looking in. Actively join the fight. And if you have, tell us about that. That's what I'm waiting for you to write. Because the shit you've been writing has been done well, but done nearly to death. It's time for the next chapter.

Respectfully,

Tom Bickle

I think I will send it...

Vic Mackey is coming

The seventh and final season of The Shield begins this Tuesday, 9/2/08. I eagerly anticipate it.

Pushing my luck

I find that I'm less and less inclined to forcefully stated religious musings as time goes by. Couple that with blue-haired old ladies sending forwarded e-mails that I'm not interested in (and that I am mildly offended by) pisses me off, and you get what we had this morning.

Someone sent me an e-mail describing how people who have scorned God, including John Lennon and Bonn Scott, have been struck down by His mighty hand, or whatever. Plus, they did it by listing all recipients in the Cc: field of the e-mail. My reply is below. Since the environment from which the sender knows me is a professional one, I redacted a few of the sassier comments (in red below). What remains is still plenty cheeky:

Correspondent,

You're a wonderful person and I want to be respectful of your beliefs. Let me share some items with you, however:

First, when sending out an e-mail to a list of recipients, be sure to list their addresses in the "Bcc:" field (not the "Cc:" field); "Bcc:" stands for Blind Carbon Copy, and it will protect their (our) privacy by making it impossible for other recipients (including spammers) to see or abuse this information, while still sending the information to all on your list. There are dozens of addresses below, and they'll all get more spam because of e-mails like this.

Second, I would be more comfortable on the list below in black and red than the e-mail recipient list above. Please feel free to leave me off any "forwarded" e-mail you might send out in the future. I am happy to hear from you personally, but I hope to avoid recycled, fear-based, religious, hoogey-boogey propaganda.

Finally, Bon Scott's vocals weren't Satanic but were an allusion to crossing a dangerous stretch of highway to get to a bar. Further, the lyrics were co-written by Angus and Malcolm Young, who are alive and well today, and still rocking with a brand-new album out, called Black Ice. Highway to Hell launched their careers to a new high, solidifying their rank in the annals of music history. If this is God's punishment, then truly he is a merciful Lord. Check out http://www.ACDC.com for details.

I hope you understand. Have a great day, and I look forward to seeing you again soon.

I took the liberty of copying said e-mail to all the recipients in the list next to my name. I hope somebody benefits from an alternative point of view. Writing this e-mail sounded wrong, but felt right. Today, I'm going with what feels right.

Last night sucked

I got home to find out:

• Somebody left the propane barbecue "on" last time we used it, blowing dollars and a tonight's barbecue dinner out our ass
• The dog yakked on the carpet at some point during the day
• Somebody left the freezer open, thawing our food and overtaxing the freezer motor

Kid got on my nerves and I just wanted to go camping. Immediately.

Let's hope today is better. Otherwise, forward my calls to Spicer Meadow Reservoir.

Social butterfly

I am making an effort to reach out to the world around me. I have made contacts lately with political, artistic and commercial entities, and have generally made a pest of myself. I am trying to drum up interest, both my own and others', in events in my area.

I have sent messages in bottles out to the horizon. Some will come back, some won't, but I am working to open myself up to opportunities and change in ways that are new to me. I am coming out of my cave, if only a little bit, blinking and grunting in the harsh sunlight. It is an awkward effort, but I am learning to embrace these discomforts, as they are a key to a more interesting life.

Social butterfly - hmph. More like social pterodactyl - like a butterfly, but older, louder, out of place and hideously anachronistic. This is how you humans put down roots, isn't it? Make connections? Feels so odd...