Goodbye Michael Jackson. Close the door on your way out, willya?

Michael Jackson died this week, and in my sphere of awareness there were yawns all around. Was this guy relevant anymore? Was he ever? The answer is yes, but not in my world. Not at all.

And what of some of my favorite (some former) comedians? Nothing from their collective websites. How will I know what to think, if they don't tell me? The answer: see previous paragraph.

I've heard a few overwrought tributes about how people will listen to his music forever, and that his effect on music will be nigh-eternal. There's a whisper in my ear that a guilt-ridden public are over-eulogizing a very creative artist that they cheered, and cheered for different reasons even as his fame rose like a wave to wash him farther and farther from normalcy and the human experience. Now that he's gone, they realize he'll never regain his former glory, and they'll never be able to apologize for the sickening tabloid muck pit that they herded him into.

Yeah - maybe saying nice things now that he's dead will level the scales of inequity regarding the rise and fall of public figures. That way, we can hurry on to the next celebrity flame-out with what passes for a clear conscience.

Four A.M., really?

What the Hell is it with waking up at 4am lately? What am I, in the Army, I gotta wake up at four? Shit. Have I got crops in the field that need tending, is that it?

I slowed down on the beer so I could get some decent sleep, and now I'm surfacing from the depths of slumber at four in the goddamned morning. I'm with Marc Maron on this one: "What the fuck?? This is bullshit!!"

"Sucks to your ass-mar!"

I just finished reading "Lord of the Flies" by William Golding. The title of this blog is Ralph's mispronounced and reflexive rebuke of Piggy's asthma, an excuse for not being more involved in physical endeavors of survival on the island. It cracks me up, and I immediately adopted it into my own lexicon as a general reproof.

I like that the book has so many allegories and ironies in such a short book. Some are approachable and easily picked out, some not. I can see why it is popular as required reading.

I am... Superman

I just realized something about myself, and it's taken some getting used to. I'm Superman.

I know; I didn't believe it either at first, but I've proven it. For example: I'm looking for my shoes this morning, and I look where they belong, right next to the bed. Nothing. I go to look in the living room, fail, come back, and there they are, right next to the bed! Another example: the sugar bowl is running low, and I know we have a bag in the refrigerator, from which I can fill it. I looked on every shelf of the fridge three times, moved things around, and fully explored the 18 cubic feet of this unit, top to bottom. I ask my wife, she tells me where it is, and >poof< there it is.

Clearly, I have X-ray vision. In the space of two days, I have looked completely through two solid objects! Now, if I can just control it, I'll really have something.

Look! Up in the sky! It's a dork! It's a dipshit! No, it's Clueless Man!!

An excellent problem

Exactly a week from now, I am faced with the slightly embarassing luxury of an entire day devoted to my own enjoyment. After performing the minor miracle of arranging weekend days off for this major event in a minor life, I have before me the pleasant task of devising an itinerary, its only purpose to maximize my own gratification and the celebration of my birth.

My feeble imagination has only cranked out two desires so far: French food early, and stand up comedy late. The French food we've got covered, with A Taste of Brittany's website advertising an early opening for breakfasts and lunch, and yesterday's e-mail Newsletter, in an intriguing coincidence, advertising a new chef and menu starting on the very day I'll be there. It's like they knew, and are celebrating my birthday with me! Okay, maybe it's not, but life is more fun with your own, willing hallucinations. Ask the religious, they'll tell you.

Stand up comedy is providing its own challenge. There's an attractive show at Modesto's Fat Cat on Saturday, but Friday night is really the preferred night. Pepperbellys in Fairfield has a show, but distance and a cool regard for that night's show disqualify it from the running. Regular shows by Laugh Track Live at Stockton's The Matinee "are on summer vacation." Nothing going on at "The Grand" (not that night, nor damned little besides) in Tracy, which is troublingly distant and traffic-choked anyway, especially anticipating a Friday night. Nothing at the Aqua. Damn!

I don't imagine I'll have a birthday party, I am a little sad to say. I have yet to figure out the alchemy of a) distance of attendees, b) cost, c) effort, d) certainty of a good time and e) my own random mood. The essence of this decision is that I'll be much happier bird-dogging my own good time. I'm odd, and sometimes can't just sit without worrying that others aren't enjoying themselves. Very odd.

I am pessimistically searching for other options, both for comedy (comedy clubs in the area but not mentioned above would be great) and for fun-loving in general. Creative ideas for spending the day are eagerly solicited.

Beer is an inferior intoxicant

It's been too long since I've written anything. Pardon me while yank some malformed, misshapen thoughts out of my head:

I'm so bored with beer. It's just lost all its promise and mystery for me. To examine the reasons, I start with the mystery:

I must acknowledge the zero-sum game inherent in its intoxicating effects. Every evening (or early afternoon, as it happens) the decision to imbibe is necessarily accompanied in a mature person by another decision, that of sacrificing the following morning's sense of wellness for the revelry of today. While that has a certain fatalist, write-a-bad-check appeal to it, I am sick of the bargain. I am coming to realize that the sensation of waking up with internal organs that are well-rested and pumping out essential juices and chemicals in their appropriate amounts is a valuable thing indeed. I don't wanna get all "ABC After School Special" on you, but it's almost a "high" in itself. The loss of that near-euphoria is deceptively undetectable, like a slow erosion, but it's real. Maybe it's just my age and my historical affinity for the "research" on this subject that have taken their toll, but the more I comprehend that value, the more I am overcome with buyer's remorse.

On to the promise: that implication that I might have more fun with a few belts in me. Certainly, I'm a jolly ass for a while, but the loss of the senses and logical thought robs me of something whose use I miss more and more lately. Some people can drink and enjoy reading, playing music or other mentally proactive pursuits, but I don't find myself among them. Since I rarely get outright sloshed anymore, I find that there are few tasks I cannot perform after having my fill of lager, but do I enjoy those activities? I really don't.

Add to that the fact that I tend to get cranky and impatient between drying out and hitting the sack, and as you may imagine, the balance of the day is much less fun.

So, scratch fun, as well as my own experiences in the matter. I'm not swearing off beer altogether, but clearly, I've turned my own little corner. But is beer inferior?

A little objective thought will reveal that anything you can cook up in your bathtub or a prison toilet is suspect, whether it's gin, brandy or beer. In my mind, it compels comparisons to methamphetamine and other homemade drugs, and it's not a flattering comparison. Granted, Heineken and the Glenlivet warrant some form of exemption in this analysis, if only because they bring a lot more to the "enjoyment" side of the equation. They are quality products, and deserve to be set apart from the cheap shit with which I've been poisoning myself in for years. Unfortunately, the downside effects are equally deleterious, if not worse.

All this begs to lead to comparisons to other choices of intoxicants, alternative versions of mental bubble gum. Certainly, it's not an exercise to leapfrog past that and wonder why not just abstain, and leave your poor brain alone? Surely it has enough to contend with absent all these chemical disruptions and distractions.

That's a worthwhile question, too.

Monday morning

This morning is an albatross, wobbling and honking during a laughably ungainly takeoff.

I haven't had my usual, good night's sleep since last week, and it's very odd for me. I usually sleep like a baby on Ambien and whisky, and I have to wonder if I've stripped some sort of gear.

I'm trying a "Java Chip Frappucino" at Starbucks, in order to prime the chemical pump. So far, it's cold enough to hurt that one tooth that always gives me trouble (the chink in my dental armor), and the little chocolate chips are an annoyance, like oral debris, making the whole drink feel dirty, and not in a good way.

Shit.

Gift ideas

Comedy CD - Final Engagement, Marc Maron $14

I only feel a little crappy today

What I thought was a hangover turned out to be something worse. With my hypochondria, I was convinced I shut down vital organs (I picture liver, kidney failure) due to Heineken overdose.

In any event, my body aches, fever, sweats and lethargic malaise have largely subsided, leaving me only with the sore throat, swelling in glands in my neck like an irradiated bullfrog, and the same aches I normally get from lifting weights in my own useless, sporadic fashion.

My energy level is starting to come back, and it's about damned time. I get impatient when I don't feel well. I don't know how my brother manages.

Must... stop... the pain!

I went and lifted some weights yesterday, and then I've somehow contracted the Brown Bottle Flu. It's not as bad as swine flu in that it's more fun to catch, but I imagine it no less painful.

Both have left me moaning and torpid this morning, and I want very little so much as I want a good night's sleep. That's one argument for legalizing marijuana you don't hear often enough: hangovers are less-severe or even non-existent. So I've heard, anyway, being clean and all.

Ow.

Gift ideas 2 - Celtic theme

Continuing with affordably-priced gift ideas for those who are in the market for such things (God love ya):

Cullan's Hounds - Year of the Dog - $13


Flogging Molly - Float CD - $13

Glenlivet Scotch - $24

Gift ideas 1 - Circus theme

My birthday is now less than a month away, I can't think of jack to ask for. Two months ago - full of ideas. Now - blank. My wife would like to know, so she can get me a little somethin'. Part of the problem is that I'm very fortunate to have plenty of good things in my life, tangible and intangible. Great problem to have. But if I had to try:

Throwing knives
Anything under $5 is fine. I love cheap shit.
Arm Bandits Throwing Knives SD9015
3-pc. Teardrop Point Throwing Knives

Juggling pins
Juggling pins? What's wrong with me?? I wrote this out, then thought about taking it down. Screw that, I want what I want. Judge me if you must.
Duncan Juggling Pins at Target $25

Avenir Deluxe Unicycle (20-Inch Wheel) - $60

New project, busy day

I am starting a new project using technology I got fairly deep with months ago. I am remembering how much I've forgotten. It'll come back to me...

I'm looking forward to about 3pm today, when the bulk and pressure of the day will be behind me, and I plan to unclench certain muscles and breathe a sigh of relief. I may use the time to further the above goals, or I may just noodle about. I'll decide then.

Until then, I'll struggle on and try to look like a responsible adult. It's not my strong suit.

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.