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.