A Bureaucracy of One

Celebrating Dirty Jobs

Mike Rowe of Discovery's Dirty Jobs fame gives a TED talk on the revelations he has had while doing his show.

On Pain - Part the First

 A good friend of mine and I were chatting online this evening, and he told me about how his youngest had gotten her fingers caught in a door, and how heart-breaking it was for him to try and comfort her and help her deal with the pain.  I then related to him the story of how I ended up with seventeen (or was it twelve?  Maybe seven?) stitches in my forehead at the tender age of One, and how the trauma from that still lingers with me today (hint, do not ever try to hold me down, or get pointy objects near my eyes).  He then countered with getting his fingers set without the use of painkillers due to his extreme fear of needles, and how he nearly forwent a tetanus shot once because of that fear.  It was only because his wife brought his son in to see "how brave his father was" that made him get the shot.

Shortly after that chat, I was perusing the Facebook updates of my friends and realized that the reason I needed to cover for one of my friends at work tomorrow is because he has to fly home for the funeral of an old friend.  That made me think about how much it hurts to have to say goodbye to people we love, even when a part of us expects the end to come.

And that brings me to Pain.  Emotional. Physical. Psychological.  It surrounds us, and is a part of us.  It is can be Nature's Way of saying Something is Wrong, or of letting us gently know that we are still alive.  Some pain can be worked through, but other pain strikes so hard that it makes the world go white.  Other times, the physical pain of one is enough to engender emotional pain in others.  This sympathetic pain can be just as debilitating as the real thing, but allowing ourselves that empathy can prevent us from doing or saying this that will hurt others.

At least that's how it is supposed to work.  A well developed sense of empathy allows us to mentally walk in another's shoes, and lets us see things from their perspective.  It is what allows us to think before speaking, and (hypothetically) keeps us from telling our sister that she looks like a pickle barrel in her new prom dress (even if she does).  For emotional pain can be just as debilitating as physical pain, if not more so.  At least with physical pain there are drugs and medications that can dull or block the sensation and allow one to function, with little to know social stigma attached to the use of those drugs.  Not so much with emotional pain.

For some reason, despite the over-prescription of such medications, society still seems to look down it's nose at those who actually need Prozac, or Zoloft, or Paxil.  Take it from someone who's been there, those with severe depression do not need to just "cheer up".  The pain of depression is a deep, unsettled ache that permeates the body and robs the mind of any will.  There is no point to getting up in the morning, and the only reasons to get out of bed are to go to the bathroom, and maybe eat something.  The belief that you are letting family and friends down creates a sympathetic feedback with the depression that causes both to grow stronger until you can't bear to be around anyone, lest they see your failure.

Then there is the pain of a broken heart.  Did you know that it is real?  It seems there is a genetic link between social rejection and physical pain, and that certain individuals with a rare variation of the gene feel greater pain form socially awkward situations than those with a more normal genetic make-up.  This increased sensitivity causes those individuals to avoid nearly any social situation where rejection might occur.

That's my excuse, anyway, and I'm sticking to it!

Terrible Beauty & Making It Up as I Go Along

Waiting until the last minute.  It's worked for the last three days, why change now?

 Unlike the previous three days, I didn't actually have an idea, or theme, for today's post before I started it.  There were two completely different topics I wanted to post about early today (and actually get something up before everyone went to bed), but I ran afoul of a very rare problem on the internet.  You see, I could not find what I was looking for. 

I know, seems strange right?  And the truth is, i could find what I wanted, but it was not in the format I needed.  The first topic that had my attention was a series of photographs of Pakistani women that had been badly disfigured by acid attacks.  Most of the women are attacked either by male family members, spurned suitors, or those seeking revenge against their families.  I didn't really have much to say on the topic; merely wanted to let the pictures speak for themselves.  The post was going to be a subversion of my One Moment of Perfect Beauty feature, and be title "One Moment of Terrible Beauty".

And that isn't even the worst one I saw.  Still, all the women in the series of photographs I saw, held themselves with a quiet dignity that was both beautiful and humbling.  I urge you to look up articles about these women on your own.

The second topic I wanted to write about was also going to be a "One Moment of Perfect Beauty" blog post.  And it was one inspired by something as completely different from the Pakistani women as night is from day.  Party-rocker Andrew W.K. recently performed a Tiny Desk Concert for NPR's All Songs Considered.  Now, while his amazing performance can be seen at that previous link, I really wanted to be able to embed the video from NPR's Youtube Channel.  Alas, the video is not up at the time of this blog post.  Perhaps it will be up later; perhaps not.   Regardless, click that link to watch as the man who famously broke his own nose for the cover of his first album does two improvisational piano pieces, one of his own songs, and then really puts himself out there with a beautiful cover of "The Moon is Harsh Mistress".  In his own words, "I have no idea what I'm doing, and that's the state I would like to be in..."

Now, please enjoy this fan video of one of his songs.  It features Mario going apeshit on Bowser and his gang after the Princess has been kidnapped one too many times.

And look at that.  A post - and a semi-informative one, too.  Will wonders never cease?

Youtube is Eating My Brain - Cross-Cultural Pollination

Culture, like everything Humans have developed, is in constant flux.  While we may decry the effect that globalization is having on cultures world wide, we have to understand that the institutions of individual countries were never carved in stone.  Has the U.S. has an undue influence on the development of other countries?  Yes.  Has the U.S. done much to try and mold other countries into being mini-me's?  Undoubtedly.

However, to date no other country is the U.S..  In fact, no other country will ever be the U.S.; and while our culture has infiltrated and modified that of just about every country in the world, each of those places still has, and will continue to have, their own culture.

This is because one cannot simply supplant the established culture of another country wholesale.  At best, one can simply hope to massively influence it.  And at worst, and this is what most cultures do, they take what one gives them and modify to fit their culture.

To be sure, the effect of the U.S. on the cultures of the world is profound.  However, I hold that it is not so much due to any sort of innate superiority of the U.S., but more because of the technologies that are a result of it.

Looking back at history, the same effect can be seen when the British were masters of the seas; the Dutch were trading up a storm; or even when the Romans were were trying to make all roads lead to Rome.  Nearly every country and culture touched by those empires still stands today, and still has its own distinct cultural identity.

And believe it or not, the influence goes both ways.  All the while the U.S. has been peddling it's fast food, fast cars, anorexic supermodels to the world, it has also been taking in things and making them its own.

Now, all that preamble was leading up to this week's YiEMB. 

This week there are four videos that demonstrate this cross-pollination with some truly beautiful music.  The first video is the one that germinated (heh) the idea for this YiEMB in my head; Mei Han's Red Chamber with The Jaybirds performing bluegrass standard Katy Hill.  The traditional Chinese instruments provide a sound that really complements the banjo and mandolin.  

Second video is Persistence of Memory from the Afro-Celt Soundsystem.  As the name of the band implies, they are a fusion of traditional African rhythms with Celtic melodies.  Beautiful stuff.

Third is a performance of the Carmen Fantasie featuring George Gao on the Chinese violin.

Finally, the piece du resistance: Polish group Masala Soundsystem performing Od Tarnobrzegu po Bangladesz. This song is in a style called ragga-bhandra; a mishmash of reggae, Sihk folk, tuvan throat singing, and Polish rap.  It is 100% AWESOME!

I Just Keep Telling Myself That It Will All Be Over Tomorrow

Valentine's Day.  What crock of shit.

But let's not dwell on that right now.  Instead, let us talk of the wild party that is going on even now at my house!  There is music!  There is drinking!  There are people talking very, very loudly!  Most of them are people I don't know.  Maybe they are people worth knowing, but I find that once the ambient level of noise gets above a certain point I lose all interest in trying to hold a conversation with strangers.  

Alright, so I don't generally cotton to talking to strangers anyway; it's just loud parties have me scurrying for shelter like a cat in a rainstorm.

Speaking of cats, I was thinking about my two lost girls tonight as I was driving home from Barnes & Noble.  Actually, I was thinking about the five volumes of the graphic novel Flight I had just read, and how the whimsy of the stories made me want to collaborate with an artist to tell my own little stories. This led to me coming up with a story on how I got my car via the loss of my cats (and apartment), which made me think about how I would willingly trade my new car to get my kitties back.

Yeah, I still think about them - far, far too much to really be healthy for me after a year and a half.  I even find myself almost calling my new cat by the name of one of my missing girls.  And that isn't fair to either Dirty Cat or Pia.

But the point of this of this isn't to be maudlin, the point is to say that I finally decide on a name for my White Rabbit: Two Black Cats.  Pity I can't get a vanity plate that reads "2BLKCATS".  Curse you UDOT and your seven character limit!

Articulating Frustration

The greatest source of disquiet in my life stems from times when I know I must face down something, but yet refuse to acknowledge that a problem exists.  In early times these moments came from homework yet unfinished and tests not studied for (mangling grammar though has never left me sleepless); things, of course, that made me fear causing disappoint in my parents.

These days the frustration builds for other reasons.  Unpaid parking tickets.  Late bills.  A very messy room.  The disquiet though builds from other, less immediately definable, sources as well.  What am I doing now?  What should I be doing tomorrow?  Is there more I can be doing now to make tomorrow a better place?  Is it worth doing, even if I am doing it well, as Humanity seems hell-bent on boning themselves?

I want to move.  I feel the need to move.  But at the same time I feel trap by my self; stuck within my own body and flailing uselessly against the hollow that exists between Me and Myself.  Is it ADHD?  Is it laziness?  Is the fear of failure that keeps me idle a result of a crippled sense of self-esteem, stunted by years of watching my sister strive for success and recognition, only to be met with the confused indifference of our father?

Or is it chemical?  Alcohol doesn't really help me.  Too much beer and I want to puke.  To much whiskey and I get heartburn, and then puke.  Screwdrivers in moderation make me feel happy, but muddled. Pot just makes me feel muddled.  Caffeine is fine, but drinking a Red Bull, in addition to tasting like crap, gives me heart palpitations.  Heart palpitations, and I don't feel any more focused, just that I feel all the greater the need to get up and move!  Adderall was a blast, but again I didn't feel more focused, just more energized.

Really, I need to go to a doctor and get tested for ADHD, and then perhaps try several different types of medications to find one that helps.  But for that I need health insurance, and for health insurance I need money.  Well, more money than I have now.  Which brings me back to what I should be doing with my life.  Because let's face it, the life I have now -while satisfying- isn't exactly fulfilling my ...call them "emotional" needs.  Spiritually, it is above and beyond anything I've had before.  Living at the foot of the Wasatch Mountains and getting to work there every day is a real treat!  I can walk outside in the middle of the day and be surrounded by the solid majesty of the mountains.  At night I can look up and, for a wonder, actually see the stars!

But I need more.  I need to feel that I am accomplishing something with my life.  I need to be able to look at what I have wrought with my own two hands and find a sense of satisfaction and pride.  I need to know that I am adding to society, not merely coexisting with it.

But, I ... can't.  I cannot bring myself to step out of my comfortable little hollow and face down the truths I know are there.  I need to go back to school to acquire skills to make and do the things I seek, but I don't.  I need to stretch out my legs and let them carry me to places I've seen but only in pictures.  I need focus.  I need direction.

I need...

I need...

Do I need?

I don't know what I need, I only know what I want.  And that to me says that all my needs are met.  But then, if that is so, what do I do next?

Dreaming Through the Noise

I've had three dreams in the last three weeks.  This is not unusual as I dream all the time, and quite often remember my dreams.  Rather, what made these three dreams important was the content therein.

The first dream happened about five days after the fire.  I was back at my apartment, climbing up into the gutted remainder to survey the damage.  As I got into the ruins, I was amazed to see all my cd's, undamaged and waiting for me.  Just as I began to feel elated that I could salvage something, I noticed a fire still burning in the kitchen and realized that I might not be able to save anything after all.

The second dream was about five days after the first.  In this one, my apartment was once more whole, and upon entering it I found new carpet on the floor, and fresh paint on the walls.  Looking around I saw all my stuff still there, and while slightly charred, still salvageable.  I remember being amazed that my apartment complex had bothered to rebuild the building, but my amazement turned to disappointment when I realized that with all my stuff still intact, I would no longer be able to claim it on my insurance forms.

The final dream happened about four days ago.  I was staying in a hotel room while I tried to get my life back together after the fire.  My family was staying with me in neighboring rooms, and I could hear them through the walls.  At one point while filling out insurance forms, I heard my sister crying.  Setting down my pen, I realized that it was because my youngest nephew had died in the fire and a shock ran through me as I realized that I would never see his smiling little face again.  Something so precious and so pure had been taken from me, and I began to cry.

Taken separately, my dreams are simply my subconscious mind dealing with recent events; but taken together they show a nice little arc of how I cope.  The first dream is grief and denial.  I wanted so badly to be able to save something from the fire, and I could not.  The second dream is of acceptance.  What's gone is gone, and all I have is what is in front of me.  The final dream is concern for what is really important.

Losing my cats was hard enough, but if I were to lose one of my nephews?  I really don't know what I'd do.

Gravity is a Bitch

I should be sleeping right now, but as is often the case my mind won't let me.   The thoughts that keep me from sleeping this evening are on the nature of gravity, and the ridiculousness of science fantasy conventions.

You know, I may even try to do a series of articles like this...we shall have to see.

What got me thinking about gravity was when I started to spin myself a fantasy about being a shuttle plot on an interstellar space ship.   Leaving aside the impossibility of FTL travel, I began to ponder what it would mean to actually be a shuttle pilot who landed on multiple worlds, and I came up with the following.

1) Each planet has a different atmosphere, with different atmospheric make-ups and conditions, and
2) Each planet has a completely different gravity well, and
3) Either one of these would require a pilot to have years of training in order to be able to quickly adapt to changing conditions, so there for
4) It would preclude a single pilot being skilled enough to land on multiple planets.

Instead, the varying conditions from planet-to-planet would require a high degree of specialization, creating career pilots who specialize in a particular planet, much like modern harbor pilots specialize in specific waterways.  For example, a pilot who is used to the 1g atmosphere of Earth would be hard-pressed to be able to land of planet with 1.2g's.  Not only would the stronger gravity affect the approach, but the heavier atmosphere would cause the pilot to over-correct, leading to disastrous consequences..  Similarly, a planet with a gravity of less than 1g would have a thinner atmosphere that would cause the pilot to under-correct.

Of course as I am typing all this as a stream-of-consciousness, I realize that there is another answer that presents itself.  I posited the following as being an extension of how things are right now.  As FTL travel could be a post-Singularity achievement, then it would also follow that Humanity would be able to improve itself to the point where a pilot could become capable enough to handle the strain of landing a shuttle on a completely foreign planet.  Whether this improvement is through genetics, A.I., or some form of nanite-based cybernetics is really unimportant, simply that it could be done.

However, like all solutions, it does produce a least one new question for every one it answers - would post-Singularity Humanity divide itself into new castes based on different variations of improvement?  Would the harbor pilots of the future become an elite caste through their control of trade? 

Hmm, I may need to ponder that one some more, but for now let me return to my original point.  Without massive improvements to either ourselves, or our computers, no Human pilot would ever be able to safely land on more than one planet.  It's a ridiculous fantasy that we create for ourselves, and has no business in science fiction.  In science fantasy though, it is a-okay.

I Saw Such a Thing of Beauty Yesterday

I should have had my camera with me.  I had been in the habit of carrying it with me every time I left the canyon, just in case I saw something that demanded I capture a record of it so that I could show my friends who could be there.

Yesterday evening was one such moment.

After two hard months of drought, we have finally moved into a monsoon-like season of rain in the canyon, and every evening around five pm it starts raining.  Such were the conditions as I found myself driving back up Highway 210 to Alta.  The sun was just starting to lower itself behind the Oquirrhs, and the sunlight slanting up the mouth of the canyon highlighted the rain-dampened leaves of the trees, giving them a breath-taking green that contrasts so beautifully with the dark clouds that hang above them.

The sun was also at the perfect angle to create a most beautiful rainbow, one that stretched from one side of the canyon to the other.  As I rounded the end to the mouth of the canyon, I started driving towards this Technicolor fantasia, only to have it race me all the way up past Snowbird.

Looking left, I could see the rainbow seemingly leaping straight out of the side of the mountain.  Looking to the right, I could see it disappear into the trees that lined the floor below.  Straight ahead lay the arc, always remaining just out of reach no matter how fast my car went.

I wish I could have taken a picture of it so that I could show you all, but I could not.  I will, though, never forget the laughter I felt inside as I chased that shining arc.

What Does it Take?

Despite being an author on  I'm Just Waiting for the Robot Invasion back before its hiatus, I am not really one for politics.  In fact, I have a deep-seated distrust of all politicians, and feel that any who might actually mean what they say are doomed to forever fail. 

Why?  Because the American public has a black and white view of the world.  For the Neocons, it "we're right, your wrong", and for the Limousine Liberals, it is "no!  we're right, and you're wrong!".  Sadly, this means that those of us who see more shades of grey than anything else are excluded from both camps.

Good, bugger 'em all.

Also,

Bad, 'cause we're gettin' right buggered by all.

This also means that Democratic front runners Clinton and Obama do absolutely nothing for me.  Senator Clinton has none of her husband's charm or wit, even if she has all of his political savvy.   If Sen. Clinton were a man, I'd say he was fox whom I wouldn't trust to guard the hen house.  As she is a woman, I won't say that because of the lesbian subtext it suddenly implies, and I don't buy the right-wing bullshite that Senator Clinton is a lesbian.  A ball-breaker, yes.  Hell, to get as far as she's gotten, she has to be and more the power to her for it.  I still don't want her for president, though.

As for Obama...well, talk to me again in eight years after he's gotten a little more experience under his belt.  I do think Obama has the potential to be a great president, I just don't think he's ready for it.

Which finally leads me to the third Democratic front runner, John Edwards.  Some of what I know about Edwards I have learned from CNN, and that is laughable.  However, there are two things I do know about Edwards that make me respect the man:

1) He listens to his wife,

Elizabeth Edwards played a key role in convincing her husband to continue his campaign, a source close to both John and Elizabeth Edwards told CNN's Candy Crowley.

"Elizabeth is not going to let him get out," the friend told Crowley before the Edwards news conference.

And 2) His wife is a very classy lady.

And here is something else I just learned tonight;  John Edwards is the only presidential candidate with the ... nah, not going to make that joke.  Edwards rode twelve miles with Lance Armstrong, making him the only candidate, Republican or Democrat, to do so.

Variations on a Theme

So my 7th Annual Birthday Party for Myself was a rather subdued affair this year; no big deal as I rather expected it would be.  That is what I get for not telling some people about it until three days before hand, and others a mere day in advance.  I will make up for it next year, of this I am certain.  I'll not say that I am going to start making plans now, but I shall start the ball rolling at least a month in advance the way I used to when I was in Atlanta.

Speaking of advanced planning, I was just thinking as I brushed my teeth, about future iterations of my Annual Celebration of Awesomeness, and it occurred to me that when I have my 13th Annual Birthday Party for Myself I should make it a theme party of Triskaidekaphobia.  Then I realized that my 13th ABfM would be on my 39th birthday, and that it would be in the year 2013.

So save the date, as that birthday, my friends, will be one to remember.

Nearly 1/3 of the Way There

In a couple hours I will kick-off my 7th Annual Birthday Party for Myself, and I will find out if I have more than four friends here in Salt Lake City.  Regardless of whether or not I do, I have still nearly made it one-third of the way to my ultimate goal of 101 years of life. 

I figure I have a much better than even chance of making it; all of my grandparents, even the guy who tried to drink himself to death, beat the National Average of 77 by several years.  The drunk died at about 79, but the other three all made it deep into the 80's before recycling their souls back into the dark soil of the Universe.  In fact, my maternal grandmother would have seen 90 if she hadn't elected to have open heart by-pass surgery a month or so before her birthday.   

So, considering my low-stress job; my lack of marital stress; the complete lack of smoking in my life, coupled with the minimal drinking; and my regular hiking exercise; I feel like I can reasonable expect to make it into my 90's.  The couple of factors that might hold me back are my complete lack of regular sexing, and a tendency towards driving slightly faster than conditions might warrant.  Oh, and a genetic pre-disposition towards melanoma.

Curse my red-headed paleness!

The Artist and the Fanboy: Part 2

I've see Angie Aparo perform three times.  The first time was at an outdoor arts festival in Atlanta; there was a stage set up near the back of the festival, and my friend Fletch and I stood next to the sound tent and watched him play.  I had been a fan of his since moving to Atlanta four years before and hearing his song Spaceship on the radio.  It was a hot afternoon, but watching Angie and his drummer play through his set was a treat that made the heat worthwhile.

The second time I got to see Angie play was also in Atlanta, and it was the last show I saw there before I moved out West.  In fact, I believe I went to his show a week before I moved.  Opening for him was Heather Luttrell (give her songs a listen, esp. Anything But Me, and Sweet Girl), another Atlanta native who is just coming into her own as a musician and performer.  As good as her performance was, I was there to see Angie play, and he did not disappoint.  I have never before, and not since, seen a band/performer play who was as funny, profane, and enjoyable, as that show that night.  Of all the ways to leave a city you have called home for five years, seeing one of its native sons put on a stellar performance is surely one of the better ways to go.

The third time I got to see him was also the time I got to meet him. 

He was playing a small club here in Salt Lake, and I was beside myself with excitement.  You see, when I left Atlanta, i honestly never thought I would get to see him perform ever again.  Atlanta is way the fuck on the other side of the country, and Salt Lake, well, as much as I love it here, Salt Lake isn't exactly a mecca for touring musicians.  Or so I thought.

That night at the Urban Lounge I got to me Angie Aparo.    After the show I got to shake his hand and tell him how happy I was to get to see him play here in Utah.  I told him how I had thought I would never get to see him play a live show again, and that I hoped he would come back again.  He thanked me, and said that he hoped to be back in town in the fall.  I then took my freshly autographed cd and walked out the door of the club, and drove home.  In the space of four minutes I had done and said everything I wanted to say and do upon meeting someone I liked and respected.  It felt good, and it capped off a very enjoyable show.

I suppose I could have said more.  I could have asked him about the story behind Cry (yes he wrote it), but I didn't.  I could have told him about how his was the last show I saw in Atlanta before I moved to Utah, and how it was the funniest and most profane performance I have ever seen.  But I didn't bring it up.  I maybe even could have fawned and gushed like a school girl meeting her teen idol - my enthusiasm for Angie's work is certainly strong enough - but instead I restrained myself.

And at the time I was glad I did.  For I really didn't want to make an impression on him.  I didn't want him to remember me.  I didn't want to be that one fan that comes to mind when he thinks of Salt Lake City, at least, I didn't want him to remember me in a bad way.

Now though, I wish I had done things a bit differently.  For as I was thinking about what I wanted to say in this post (and I've been thinking a long time; the first draft was saved back on May 23rd) I remembered more about the show that night.  I remembered going to the bar to get a beer, and seeing Angie sitting there as he waited for the opening act to finish up.  I remember thinking that it was a good opportunity to say 'Hello', and to shake his hand, but I held back.

I wish I hadn't.  I wish I had gone up and spoken with him.  Told him about my move, and how excited I was that he was in Salt Lake; talked to him about this and that, and maybe a few other things.  I wish this now because I remember how isolated he looked just sitting at the bar.  It was just him on stage that night; no drummer and no keyboardist.  Just him and his guitar.  And seeing him sitting alone at the bar, surrounded by a crowd of people there to see him play, it made me think that he didn't have a friend in all of Salt Lake City.

Maybe he has friends here in Salt Lake, but maybe if I had approached him at the bar, he'd have one more. 

Then again, maybe not.

The Artist and The Fanboy - Part 1

This past Monday I was reading an article on Techdirt about how more and more musicians are bypassing the labels, and utilizing the Internet to their advantage.  What struck me about the article, though, was this sentence:

"...as the musicians become more famous, being accessible becomes much more difficult. There are so many fans who want such a piece of your time (and time is a scarce resource) that it seems to push nearly all of these musicians to a breaking point. Eventually, this is likely to lead to more exclusive "access" to the more famous musicians -"

This quote put me in mind of an article I tried to write two weeks ago, after seeing Vienna Teng perform live.  Now, as some of you many know, I consider Vienna Teng to be a member of my Holy Trinity (along with Stan Rogers and Heather Nova), and the evening when I scored two hugs from her still stands as the highlight of a rather interesting 2006.  After that show, I posted on my Myspace blog that about what an awesome show it was, and how awesome it was to meet her, and how she is such an awesome person.  In short, I gushed like the fanboy I am.

After her May 4th this year, I sat down once more to post about what a great show it was, and how wonderful it is to get to see her play live.  However, nothing came.  I sat with my laptop for a couple hours, surfing over here, poking around over there, but nothing ever came of it so I abandoned the effort.  At the time I felt it was because I had already posted once about what an incredible artist she is, and I had no desire to rehash the same thing all over again.  Two weeks later, and I think what was percolating in the back of my head has finally crept to the front: I was trying to reign in my inner fanboy stalker.

During one of her shows, Vienna comes across as a very warm, very funny, very grounded person who simply cannot believe her luck.  The stories she tells about her songs give the audience insight into her creative process, and in doing so, in telling those stories and in getting the audience to sing along with her, she makes each of us feel as though we are a part of her life.

And so we are, until we are not.  We get her for 60-120 minutes per show, with maybe another five to ten afterward as she chats with fans while signing autographs.  Then we have to go back to our own lives.  For the average person, this isn't an issue; but for those of us with self-esteem issues it can be depressing.

Let me move away from the editorial "we" and move into the egotistical "I".  For the duration of one of her shows I can feel like I am a part of something special, and really, I am.  I get to share in the experience with hundreds of other people, but I want more.  I want to sit and chat with her and her band over coffee and crumpets, and help compose new songs.  I want to discuss politics, and finance, and 80's Saturday morning cartoons.  In short, I want to be her friend.

"Why?", I ask myself.  "Well, because!" I answer.

Indeed, simply "because".

Because from her music, I feel like I know her.  From the stories she tells, I feel like I know her.  From getting to meet her in person, I feel like I know her. 

Of course, I really don't, and knowledge of that fact is what keeps me from sliding from  "fanboy" to "stalker".

The Things I Want

Well, taxes are done and sent off, bills are paid current, and the petty cash is still sitting undisturbed in the petty cash locker.  That all said, I am having a really hard time not hopping out of my chair and running off to Best Buy to purchase much-desired Nintendo DS Lite and a copy of Super Princess Peach*.

However, I will not ... mostly because I'd rather buy them from somewhere other than Best Buy.

I also want 145 Piece Super Rotary Accessory Kit for my Dremel Cordless MiniMite.  Why?  Why do you even need to ask?  Hmm...it is only $20 at Lowes, so maybe I'll pick up a set tomorrow; I need to pick up some bolts for a couple beds at work, so it wouldn't be out of my way.

I also have a veritable laundry list of games I want to play; one that includes games for systems I own, and for systems I do not.  By the by, I have seen one - ONE - game for the PS3 that I want to play, and it is a game that has yet to be released.  And while the Ratchet & Clank franchise is enough to make me happy in my gaming pants* (and to almost want a PSP), it still isn't enough to get me to plunk down $600 I don't have for an overpriced shiny black box.

Even if I did have the scratch to put into purchasing those systems, and all that games I want for them, I still would not as I already have a long list of games I need to play before I can get some more.  A portion of that list can now be found on the left side of the blog, under "Escapism 301".

Time to mosey.  I beat Wild Arms Alter Code: F last night, and I need to work on my review of it.

*Don't judge me.
**I said, don't *@#ing judge me!

Historical Accuracy

I'll be honest, I really don't give two shits about the new live action Transformers movie being made. Whether the movie ends up raping my childhood memories of Optimus Prime, or ends up performing erotic acts straight out of the Robot Kama Sutra, it is one and the same with me.

That said, I do have one teeny, tiny little issue with the teaser trailer. Not with the sounds they used, not with the shadowy outline of what is presumably a Decepticon having its violent yet passionate way with the Beagle 2 probe. No, it is with the Beagle 2 probe itself.

You see, the Beagle 2 probe did not have wheels.

What is shown in the teaser is some bastard child of the Beagle 2 probe and the far more successful Mars Exploration Robots (Opportunity and Spirit still going strong some 2 1/2 years later!). This upsets me far more than changing how Optimus Prime looks, or making Bumblebee a post-op robo-transvestite, because a little thing like this is so goddamn easy to research. Hell, dramatic license isn't even an excuse because the footage would have been just as dramatic (if not more so) had the Beagle 2's cameras simply shown a gigantic shadow looming closer and closer, with no way for the intrepid little European explorerbot to get out of the way!

Damn you, Hollywood!

**Update**

Okay, while in the midst of surfing around I came across the actual trailer for Transformers and all I have to say is... aww, FUCK YEAH!!!  It looks like this movie is gonna make sweet, sweet robotic loving to my childhood memories.

Long Road Travelled

Twenty-seven days and six thousand, five hundred and fifty-nine miles.  The distance is about equivalent to driving coast-to-coast, and back again, which is almost what I did.  Starting from my undisclosed location, I drove East towards the rising sun for three days until once more I beached my car on the humidity-smothered shores of the Parking Lot of the South, Atlanta, GA.

Gods, I detest that city.

In Atlanta, I Walked far and long for a Great Cause, visited with old friends, and made news ones.  Riding my trusty steed, I made a brief foray into the wilds of the Savannah to greet a warrior bold who had long served his country, and now seeks to serve his family. 

Returning once more to the safe harbor of Atlanta, I languished for the another week before setting forth for the distant archipelago of Naples, Fl., and the current point of residence of my paterfamilias (pro tem).  There I tasted honeyed wines and supped on roasted pig and chicken as I renewed the bonds of family, until the passing of three risings of the sun told me that is was once more time to move on. 

Striding back up the peninsula of the Sunshine State, I reflected on how what I missed about the state of my youth was so overwhelmed by that which I did not miss.  The rising tide of wealth and entitlement that has flooded the southern part of the state has left my former home full of dicks.  No surprise really - after all, you can't spell "peninsula" without "peni_s".

Pausing overnight once more in Atlanta, I witnessed an epic struggle between Atlanta's beaked and taloned champions of the net, and New York's savage short-pant wearing warriors.  The outcome of which I really couldn't have cared less about, but the feast laid out before us was such that I managed to feign interest.  It helped when they came out.

From Atlanta I launched myself with eager fervor towards the political battleground that has become the Buckeye State.  It was there that I had hoped to meet up with the grand dame of my family - a woman of such beauty and wit that not even six and eighty years of battling muscular dystrophy has been able to dim her flame.

After regaling my grandmother with tales of my exploits over the prior year, I cantered over to the mighty capital of Ohio, to pay my respects to man fighting to change the course of our great country!  Of course, being the coarse, beer-swilling, scotch-whiskey pounding, lecherous ex-rugger that he is, he wisely does this from the shadows so as to let other, more respectable-seeming people take the credit.  Should your curiosity be great enough so as to overwhelm your good sense, you may find some of his political dribblings here.

Having bore witness to the eldritch mysteries that run behind political campaigns, I departed from my dear friend a little wiser, and a little stronger ... and also a little sicker (bloody damned head cold came from behind and donkey-punched my ass), and at long last struck out for to retire once more to the West, and remain The Bureaucrat.

Have you seen the High Plains?  Have you born witness to the wide open spaces that stretch from the windy steppes of Nebraska to the oil fields of Wyoming?  Have you felt the draw of earthbound infinity as you gaze across plain that knows nothing of Man?

I have.  I have felt the urge to leave my car and hike across that gorgeous prairie and all the way up into the encompassing sky.  I have stood in the wind, lifting my arms out and wishing the quiet rush would bear me away.  I have stared eternity in the face, and what I saw made me laugh with delight.  At long last though, I ended my dance with the alpha and omega and crossed back over into my own  paradise.

And thus, my journeying is done.  Until the next one begins.

 

Could I But Wish Upon a Star, I Would Have it Wish Upon Me

I envy Iceland.  It is difficult to be jealous of an entire nation, but Iceland is small, and that makes it a bit easier.  This little article from a Norwegian website makes my daily struggle with the green-eyed monster even more difficult.  You see, last Thursday the Icelandic people turned off their lights, all their lights, so that they could look at the night sky.  Those who could not get outside could listen to an astronomer describe it over the radio.

It once more brought to mind a rhetorical question I posed to myself many years ago, when I was in working at a summer resort in Maine.  The late nights working wedding receptions gave me ample opportunity to walk home in the utter darkness that 2 a.m. allows, and also provided for spectacular views of the Milky Way Galaxy.  It was during one such trek that I remember stopping to stare at that ribbon of stars spilled across the deep black of forever, and thinking, "How much have we lost as a culture because we can no longer see the stars?".

Thinking on it now, that is really more of a koan than a rhetorical question, as there is definitely an answer, and what that answer is depends as much on who is answering as who is asking.  In asking it of myself, I wanted to know how many would think themselves important when reckoning with infinity; who among us would claim supremacy when faced with forever; who would could stare into the Abyss with no fear as it stared back?

When I looked at that sky, my own answer was that, in the scale of the universe, there was nothing I could do that would be of any importance; that nothing that anyone on this planet did would be remembered in a geological age, let alone a cosmic one.  Whatever we do on this planet, whatever we accomplish, will be forgotten when our star has grown old, and our planet has died.

But that's okay, because I, and everyone else, operate on the Human scale where everything we do does matter.  What we say and what we do; who we love and who we hate; what we think and what we believe, are important to someone, even if it is only to ourselves.  Because the Universe does not care, I, that is, we, have to.

So, here is your question - now, what is your answer?

Perchance to Dream

Some days my mind is like a steel trap, i.e. rusted shut and more of a danger to the owner than to anyone else.  Other days, my mind more resembles a squishy, organic pinball game, with thoughts ricocheting hither and yon.  Right now, however, my mind is "a raging torrent, flooded with rivulets of thought cascading into a waterfall of creative alternatives".  In other words, it is 1:00 am, and I can't friggin' sleep.

I want to sleep.  Oh God, I need to sleep!  I have an 18 mile training walk to do tomor- well, later today, and it will go so much better if I could get some rest.  However, that does not seem to be in the cards I have been dealt, and folding is not an option.

This is not a new thing with me, though I am fortunate that insomnia graces me only infrequently.  Previously, when the sandman has refused to come, I have lain in bed staring at the insides of my eyelids, while waiting for the dreaded beep-beep-beep of my alarm to rouse me to a new day of justifying 25% medical insurance increases to small business owners.

Other times, I have obeyed the sleep-defying impulses and channeled the raging cataract in my head into words on paper, thus allowing me to finally drift off in the wee hours 'o' the morn.  This, while satisfying, still left me with precious little dream time with which to recharge my mental batteries for another soul-dragging day of renewal underwriting.

Times, how they have changed.  Or not, really.  These days though, when insomnia strikes I am better situated to respond to its demands.  Writing until four in the morning no longer leaves me with three hours to sleep; and reading the archives of a newly discovered webcomic no longer finds me watching the sun rise while wondering how I am going to stay awake for the day's team meeting.  No, these days I can stay up as late as I need, and then be able to sleep as much as I need.  Though, having an income while doing that would certainly be nice.

Ah, what do you know...it seems that all I needed was to unwind a bit from my rather stimulating evening.  I feel my eyelids getting heavier, and my breathing is beginning to slow.  Yes, I think I shall turn in now, and sleep the sleep of The Righteous, or at least that of the Really Tired.

Oh, and if you know the movie that I quoted above, then +10 geek points to you.

Late Night Inspiration

I've spent the better part of the last five hours contemplating how to effectively write about something as ephemeral and intimate as a dream, and find that I keep coming up short.

There is just no way that I can craft sentences that will accurately portray that singular moment early this morning when something streamed from the depths of my subconcious, and washed through my dreaming mind leaving nothing but a sense of frustration and longing.

The moment was one of those rare ones when you are asleep, yet aware on a deeper level of what is going on in your head. During this moment I heard a song being sung from deep inside my mind, a song I had never heard before. And as the honeyed words slid through the darkling trades of my dream, my eyes teared up and I began to cry. I strained to memorize the lyrics to this song as at the same time I tried to rouse my torpid body into motion, to reach vainly for the notebook I usually keep at my bedside.

With grief, I remembered that the notebook was sitting on my desk in another room, while at the same time acceptance came that like the words of a scrolling marquee, the song was slipping from my waking memory as quickly as it had come. And as I lay there still deep in my early morning sleep, my heart grew heavy as the last strains of the song faded back into the swirling depths from whence it had come; back to the guarded currents that run deep beneath what I project to the waking world, down beneath even that which I know of myself.

I wish that I could have written that song down, so that I might be able to share it with you all (those few who actually read this, anyway), as poetry is a skill at which I have little enough talent. You see, to me songs are the finest kinds of poetry - the greatest songs combine the art of the written word with that of music and of motion. To be able to write a song that would be able to move others is a dream of mine, though one that seems to be greatly out of reach.

I now know, however, that that song is indeed inside me. It is the song that my soul sings to bring me comfort; to remind me of the beauty of the rain; to remind me of the light in the darkness.

Maybe - maybe one day I will be able to share that song with you all.

Talking With Myself

I remember once hearing that talking to one's self was a sign of insecurity, and a good fifteen years later, I can definitely say that is true.  Of course, I was not ever really talking to myself, so much as voicing the dialog to my inner fantasies.  Still, I was talking to myself, and I was insecure.

Years have gone by, my confidence in myself has grown, and the conversations have moved to the inside.  As everyone does, I hold an ongoing inner dialog with myself - one that, despite the onward march of years, and slight progression of maturity, remains much the same today as it was ten, fifteen, and twenty years ago.  In fact, it will probably remain much the same up to the day I die.

The structure of the dialog is the same whatever the topic of the dialog is about.  Maybe some of you will recognize it.

Me:  Maybe I should do this...
Myself: No, don't do that.
I: I want to do it.
Me: It looks fun/interesting/like she could suck start a Harley...
Myself: It's too hard/It's too dangerous/She'd never give you the time of day, loser.
I: Dude...suck start a Harley...that would be so hot.
Me: Yeah, it does look kinda dangerous/painful/like she's way out of my league
Myself: Yeah, and look at the huge guy over there, I bet he's her boyfriend, and he could so kick your ass, loser.
I: She just dropped something and she's bending down to pick...it...up...uhhhh...
Me: ...uhhhhh...cleavage...uhhhh...
Myself: They aren't real, loser.
I: I don't care if they aren't real!  I wanna play with them!!!
Me/I:  Shut up, loser!
I: And quit staring, arsrewipe.  Your getting drool all over the place.

What is slightly misleading about the conversation as written, though, is that there is but one voice speaking at all times, not three.  It is the same voice for all that is said, but that one voice presents all arguments.  It is really a fractal sort of arrangement, where in the whole is made up of multiple facets, but within each facet can be seen the whole.  Though, as you might be able to tell, Insecurity is the dominate facet within my mind.

So, these sorts of conversations have been going on with in (and with out) my head for the last twenty-five years, but over the years I have learned to listen to the less and less, and learned to listen to the conversations going on outside my head more and more.  I listen to my friends, and I listen to my family, and I weigh what they have to say against that what my inner voice is telling me.  Doing this I have realized that my inner voice doesn't like me much.  Which is too bad, because according to my friends and family, I am a pretty good guy.

Unfortunately, I no longer have the outer dialog to give symmetry to my inner dialog.  Since moving a couple thousand miles away from my friends, and becoming a work-at-home employee, I now spend much of my time alone with my thoughts.  Before I had the social interaction of coworkers, and meeting friends at Taco Mac to help mediate the inner conflict.  Now, I do not, and though my family is certainly much closer than they were before, having spent twenty years convinced they were just saying nice things because they were family, I find still find it difficult to lend the proper weight to their words. 

Thus, my inner voice that does not like me very much is getting louder and louder, I find myself seeking new ways of either justifying my low opinion of myself, or ways to ignore it and drown it out.  I have two standbys for both those, and at thirty-two, I must admit that they really do not work very well.  I am sick of screwing up simply so I can point to it and say, "See, I'm a screw-up", and no matter how many books I read, or video games I play, I always come back to me.

So perhaps that is the a reason for starting this blog, and certainly a good reason for continuing it - to talk to myself out loud, and in such a way that others may join it, so that I may tell my inner voice to stuff it.