Buddha Died Laughing

Organic Jelly Monkeys

2005-12-07T18:40:00.000-08:00

It seems every guy wants to be in a Rock-n-Roll band at some stage of his life. I know I did.

Fame, fortune, groupies.

Yeah, well, it isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.

Our freshman year of High School me, Origami “Ori” Hammer, Dom “DD” DeMarco and Corrine “Trixie” Slavick started our own band.

I played guitar, sang and wrote lyrics, DD was on drums, Trixie played bass. The music was a collaborative endeavor. Collectively we were Organic Jelly Monkeys.

Not “THE Organic Jelly Monkeys”, just “Organic Jelly Monkeys”. People always made the mistake of saying “the” first, like they do with the perennial German hard rock band Scorpions or the cross-over alternative darlings Smashing Pumpkins. That really pisses me off, especially when DJ’s do it. At least get the name right, people.

Anyway, I played a $100 department store electric guitar through a tinny 10 watt practice amp. DD had a starter drum kit he got for Christmas one year and Trixie, who was actually in the High School orchestra, played an upright acoustic bass.

We were so cool, so tragically hip.

We were artsy, misfit kids who hung out together on the periphery of the usual High School cliques. Calling ourselves a band was just a way to be a part of something in a world that shunned us as individuals. We were our own little gang with musical instruments.

We practiced obsessively in DD’s basement and actually got pretty good. We worked on covers of songs from The Ramones, The Police, David Bowie and even tackled a couple of the simpler Rush songs.

I learned tons of chords, could transpose scales and modes between keys with my eyes closed and inverted triads ran through my calloused fingers like water. DD knew his strokes, rolls, flams, paradiddles and drags like no body’s business. Trixie understood harmony, melody and composition and brought a little budding sex appeal to the whole operation.

Each of us had to work part-time jobs and beg our parents for money to afford instrument upgrades. We had to fight at every turn for a place to practice after DD’s grandmother moved into his basement. The kids at school mocked us as fashion dorks and glam want-to-be’s at the annual talent shows.

Still, we kept at it. Three years later, by the time I had gotten a used Gibson SG and a pair of used Marshall Bluesbreaker 30 watt amps at a garage sale, DD had a respectable drum kit with a Zildjian crash, hihat and ride, and Trixie had a Fender electric bass.

And we rocked.

Our senior year we were known at every High School and Junior College in town. We were booked Friday and Saturday’s for parties, dances and even did Trixie’s cousin’s wedding reception.

It was at a fraternity gig that a college dude hooked us up with a guy who ran a local recording studio and promoted local bands. He thought enough of us to donate some studio time and we recorded a 4-song demo tape of original material called “Marshmallows Amore”.

Well, the demo tape flopped and soon after we all graduated.

As much as we dreamed about the recording contract, hit record and world tour, it wasn’t happening fast enough. We tried that summer to get booked at local clubs but there wasn’t much money in it and the late nights were killer when we each worked full time day jobs. “Real” jobs as my parents would call them. We were under pressure to go to college and make something respectable of ourselves. There just wasn’t much serious support from family or friends that we could actually make it in the music business.

It seemed to us that all along we had been nothing more than an entertaining joke to everyone. When we most needed people’s moral and financial support, it wasn’t there.

Trixie left the band first when her parents threatened to cut her off if she didn’t get her act together and focus on college.

DD was in line to inherit his Dad’s auto repair shop. Once Trixie left he stopped coming around for practice.

I was the last remaining member of Organic Jelly Monkeys.

I spent the following year trying to recruit new members, but it was never the same. I was always broke, my old car always needed some repair or another, I hated my job, and I was really sick of living at home. My parents eventually convinced me to head off to college.

Maybe I moved on, but I never left the band.

Sometimes when I’m feeling a little nostalgic I pick up that old Gibson SG, play a cassette of our demo, and fumble along.

Dom DeMarco owns his Dad’s auto repair shop now. I hear Corrine Slavick got married and has two kids.

I wonder what we could have been.

With fame, fortune and groupies.

Obscene Jester

2005-12-05T15:08:00.000-08:00

Digitus Impudicus

Wow, even in Latin it sounds dirty. Translation: impudent finger.

In the common vernacular: The Finger, The Bird, The One-Finger Salute.

Yeah, but it means Fuck You, Fuck Off or Up Yours. It is often followed by several implied, but invisible exclamation marks, the screaming of assorted epithets, assault and battery.

So tell me, why exactly is this gesture so offensive?

Yes, yes, I know all about the The Finger’s disputed origins. How ancient Roman and Greek writings mention a form of the sign as an insult or phallic talisman to ward off evil (evil just hates a good stiffy). How Welsh or English archers still in possession of their bow fingers used them to taunt the French (I sometimes wag my finger at girls in French maid outfits, but I guess that’s different, huh?). How farmers use the finger to check hens for eggs (okay, is that really necessary?).

It still doesn’t explain to me why the practice stuck around or how it earned such a lofty position as the single most rude, obscene and vulgar gesture in much of Western culture.

Chickens included.

I mean, look, as a mere representative symbol it seems to me the Vulcan “Live Long and Prosper” hand sign is pretty suggestive, too. Am I wrong? It makes my tongue hard just seeing it. Or maybe it’s the pointy ears. I dunno. Anyway, The Finger and the Vulcan “V” should hook up and make little baby hand signs.

Or maybe they already did. We have hand signs and gestures for all sorts of stuff without even including the “official “ sign languages for the deaf. It’s a regular game of charades out there.

Maybe it was inevitable. Given our vast need and capacity for conveying meaning symbolically, one gesture or another was bound to step up and play the role of “bad boy”. Besides, The Finger is simple, easy to execute and can even be mastered by small children.

You have to respect The Finger. It’s powerful joo joo guaranteed to stir up emotions, draw gasps of shock, incite a riot or get your ass shot off. Use it wisely, grasshopper.

What’s that? You didn’t like this blog post? It was lame, was it?

Uh, huh.

Well, say hello to my little friend:

Digitus impudicus.

Glorious Mess

2005-12-03T08:33:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I feel like Jackson Pollack with words instead of paint. I sling a lot of vocabulary across the page, but does it really mean anything?

Does it have to?

Like life.

In the end, does it have to mean anything?

Can’t we just stand back and admire the glorious mess we leave behind?

Because there are times like now when what I want to communicate is less a cohesive thought and more an impression. That’s not good for someone like me who paints with words. People expect words to mean something. They may not like the words or agree with what they seem to mean, but they expect to understand them inasmuch as they can form an opinion about them.

Like Art.

Abstraction frustrates a lot of folks. It appears to mock them by defying their efforts to understand, describe or explain it. They cannot comprehend how something can be valued for its existence when it doesn’t bend to any preconceived notion of meaning or purpose.

They miss the point entirely.

Art has never been about duplicating the world as we know it. Art is not a mirror of things as we see them with our eyes.

Art is a mirror that reflects only impressions. Recognizing a person or an object is secondary, if not coincidental.

Art is not a representation of cohesive thought; it is a resonance of the ineffable impressions of the human spirit.

Still, that doesn’t help me much, does it? Were I to henceforth type gibberish you would leave angry and disappointed. Unlike painting or drawing or photography or sculpture or dance, words cannot be entirely abstract, can they? Meaning is built into words; they are little boxes of meaning to begin with, so one can hardly escape arranging them in some meaningful way without digressing into utter absurdity.

Words fail me sometimes.

But if I were to try really, really hard to put my impression into words, I might say something about the meaning of Life, Art and Words.

I’m just afraid you would mistake it for a cohesive thought that means something.

And fail to appreciate the glorious mess I left behind.

The Poem that Murdered the World (Annotated)

2005-11-30T17:44:00.000-08:00

With these words I kill every living thing
And reduce the planet to a charred desert wasteland
I alone

As a copious American consumer my entire existence is based on stuff dug out of the Earth.

Somewhere a power plant uses coal or radioactive material to generate electricity. That electricity powers the lights over my head, the computer in front of me and every other modern convenience in my home. The coal is gouged from the ground and leaves gaping pits. The radioactive material remains deadly pretty much forever. The computer is made mostly of plastic, one of many petroleum by-products, as well as sundry circuit boards and integrated chips composed of various metals. The computer monitor is glass. My clothes are mostly cotton, other natural fibers or synthetic materials also derived from petroleum. To produce these things took vast amounts of energy, monstrous industrial machines and incomprehensible amounts of natural resources.

Yes, I feel some personal responsibility for the slow but relentless exhaustion of our planet.

Would you have me live in a cave
As some mute, naked hermit?

Honestly, what can I do? However much or little I use is multiplied hundreds of millions of times over by an ever-increasing population. Those not as fortunate as I am still strive mightily to achieve my privileged lifestyle. Anyone who fancies them self some new age counterculture hippy achieves little more than living out a quaint protest gesture. Besides, it just isn’t practical for me to ride a bicycle to work or raise food in my small suburban backyard.

Now you laugh and think me a fool
Even as you wipe your cheek
Of my ironic spit

It’s ironic to me because I have this rather humorous mental image of the last survivors of the human race living just like our earliest ancestors – naked and in caves.

This is the poem that murdered the world

For me to be able to write this required ships, trains, and tractor trailers to haul food, gas and assorted goods from factories around the globe to my local stores. It required the labor of millions of people, some of which may have been poor children in sweatshops. It required miles of roads and copper cable and probably more bullets than I care to know about.

Another page of Satan's long Bible
Still it is part of me and I a part of it
I raped the Earth on an unimaginable scale
To bring you such exquisite shit

After all that, too bad it isn’t a much better poem, you know? Could I not have put more intellect and creativity into writing it considering how much it cost the world? Whether or not there is a grand plan for humanity, right now our fate doesn’t look too good to me. Somehow I doubt we can blame anything but ourselves. Collectively, we are the anti-Christ. He is plural.

With these words I cause the oceans to boil
And release the atmosphere into the cold of space
I alone

Do you expect me to eat nuts
Use stone tools, make fire with sticks?
Again laugh and mock my wry jest
You are a myopic ass
And a damned hypocrite

This is the poem that murdered the world

I weep in the flames of what I write
As each letter becomes a pale, cold cadaver
Because it seems something must die
To fuel the engines of all human endeavor

So, how many species went extinct for me to compose this cryptic, amateurish rubbish? How many innocent people died so that my country could secure its economic interests and allow me the intellectual leisure to suppose myself a poet?

My little poem is guilty of genocide and crimes against humanity and nature.

You, dear reader, have been my accomplice.

Adventures in La La Land

2005-11-28T11:03:00.000-08:00

Dr. Frederick Chilton: We've tried to study him, of course, but he's much too sophisticated for the standard tests.
- The Silence of the Lambs (The Movie), 1991

Alright, so nobody is in immediate danger of me eating their liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

I don’t like fava beans.

That doesn’t mean I’m not bonkers, you know.

Look, I’ve suspected for years that I’m a salad fork short of a proper place setting.

Now I have irrefutable, objective proof that I’m a misanthropic psycho-sociopath nutcase person.

I recently took the Myers Briggs personality preference test at work. It’s a psychological assessment test. Warm, fuzzy business consultants use such tests to give an air of scientific plausibility to their indecipherable psychobabble. While it doesn’t say so specifically and my employer insists I won’t be fired over it, I’m quite certain that between the lines the results indicate I’m a stark raving lunatic.

I am now scientifically classified as an “INTJ”. Before I even tell you what that means, let me say it’s bad. Very bad.

I’m an Introverted, Intuitive, Thinker, Judger. And they let me walk freely in public – imagine!

I generally take such things as psychology, psychiatry, hypnosis and the various forms of therapy with a big grain of salt. It all seems rather intellectually “squishy” to me. As an “INTJ” it would – duh! Yes, I’ll grant you that statistics seem to show it can help some people. At least, it can help them mimic the rather narrow standards of behavior we loosely agree to be “normal”.

We train monkeys, too.

Sure, screaming endlessly for the inner voices to shut up or killing and eating people can really put a damper on one’s social life. But honestly, why is that weird? I mean, if “normalcy” is defined by some pool of averages, it says almost nothing about the true nature of our species. We are just points along a continuum, plots on a bell curve.

There’s no universal “normal” anymore than there is a group of people we can point to as more representatively “human” than others.

Social conditioning, culture, laws, and a bevy of chemical proteins and flashing neurons all herd our fractured Id’s, Ego’s, Superego’s and Libido’s like cats down the dark alley of human nature. But what are we really, deep down inside, under it all?

Besides a bunch of cells and stuff, I mean.

Yeah, I don’t know, either. Life is just a series of adventures in La La land and we all play fairies, goblins and satyrs in each other’s wacky story.

And being an “INTJ” explains my compulsive need to write the story. I have an excuse for being interested in things no one else seems interested in. There’s justification for why I have such a hard time striking up a conversation with anyone and why I feel perpetually misunderstood. I have genetic cause for my inner conflict reconciling my indisputably vast intellect with my insatiably vast libido.

Now really, it didn’t take a fancy test to know all that did it? I would have told them all along.

I’m a geek.

But just in case I’m on the verge of a crazed rampage incited by the demented voices in my head, you better go now.

You’re making me hungry.

Discover your own Myers Briggs categories here:
http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes1.htm

Then go here for a good, brief explanation of them:
http://www.teamtechnology.co.uk/tt/t-articl/mb-simpl.htm

What’s In a Name?

2005-11-26T19:44:00.000-08:00

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other word would smell as sweet."

William Shakespeare
--From Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

Shakespeare’s famous quote reminds us that language is pure abstraction. The names we give things are arbitrary labels of sound and symbol with no connection to the intrinsic properties of the thusly named.

But in Juliet’s voice Shakespeare hints at something else in the lines that precede this better known passage. She says:

“'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What's Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!”

Here is acknowledged that a personal name encapsulates a lengthy, complicated story which colors and sometimes heavily burdens bearer and associates alike. A name adds depth and dimension to something and bestows upon it a life related to, yet independent of, itself. Once given, a name cannot be easily discarded or taken away.

Everything should have a name such as this.

Not a generic label of anonymous classification, like “dog”, “human being” or “rose”. I am instead referring to the personalized and individual label given a specific person, place or thing. Personal names such as “Lassie” for one particular dog, “Romeo” for one particular human being or “Juliet” for one particular rose.

Naming something is a magical event in which we bestow life and personality upon what is otherwise a featureless, empty noun indistinguishable from its kind.

But naming things is an art almost lost to our modern disposable society. By neglecting to name things we absolve ourselves of ownership, responsibility and intimacy with the objects we interact with, use or admire. It is a tragic legacy of monotheism and commercialism that we deny the spirit and uniqueness of things.

I’ll wager you haven’t given a name to the computer you are using right now to read this. The idea of doing so may sound silly at first, but just consider how it would change your perception of it. Instead of an inanimate box of lifeless circuits, your PC would be “Hal” or “Linus” and immediately acquire a personal relationship with you. By personifying something you suddenly feel obligated to give it respect and courtesy, to care for it and equalize it in your mind as an entity valued as a friend and not a mere tool.

A near perfect example of this concept of pervasive naming is within the pages of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Tolkien imbues his imaginary world of myth and magic with a richness of pagan existence by giving its people, places and things individual names and long, detailed histories. Swords, horses, rings and even trees are not anonymous objects; they are alive with genealogy, distinct qualities and roles to play as vital to the story as the characters. Indeed, objects in Tolkien’s world become virtual characters by virtue of embodying the spirits, hopes and ideals of their living counterparts. It is an amazing irony considering Tolkien’s own deeply felt Catholicism, yet he understood very well the power and magic of names.

When you name something you grant it a soul.

Knowing something’s name gives you insight into the spirit of the thing.

This concept is echoed in many non-Christian religious and occult traditions as well as in the fairy tale Rumplestiltskin. To learn a demon or troublesome fairy’s name gives one some power over it and is a prerequisite to understanding and controlling the supernatural world.

But, alas, we no longer believe that spirits inhabit inanimate objects, not even the spirit of our own affinity.

The roses you so admire are but homogenous wraiths; neither alive nor dead, but trapped in a purgatory of anonymity.

By the way, my computer’s name is “Dell”. My name is Origami Hammer.

The Whipped Cream Incident

2005-11-25T04:45:00.000-08:00

Rated “R” for suggestive language and themes.

I worked in the mailroom at a law firm to pay my way through college. A couple Saturdays a month I also moonlighted as an Erotic Performance Artist formally known as Male Entertainer.

That’s the nouveau euphemism for stripper.

Yeah, I was one of those abnormally buff guys who shows up at bachelorette parties and girl’s night out events dressed like a cop or a fireman. Not that I stayed in costume very long. For seventy-five bucks (my take) and tips I jiggled in a pair of spandex thongs for an hour. You get a room full of progressively tipsy women to giggle and blush with embarrassment while humping the package as close as possible without actually touching them.

Well, those were the official rules where I was located. In case a real cop showed up.

What really happened is some lady, usually the hostess, offered you a sweet bonus to take off the thong and go Full Monty on overtime. If you accepted, I personally guarantee you that every time some plastered girl eventually walked in holding up a can of whipped cream.

Now we’re talking serious money for that.

Incidentally, the whipped cream girl was usually hot, chronically single and completely psychotic.

Now, I expect some of you reading this already know what the whipped cream was for. The rest will figure it out in a second. Trust me.

Look, you don’t have to be an expert in male anatomy to understand that a guy isn’t dancing for hours in a hot room with a woody. In fact, getting a major boner was considered a little unprofessional by the management. Which goes a short way in explaining why so many male strippers, er, Erotic Performance Artists, were gay. Maybe they still are, I don’t know. Anyway, that being said, it happened; especially on “overtime”. When you’re grinding your hips straddling some woman with cleavage as deep as the Grand Canyon you can loose focus, you know?

Oh, and it doesn’t help when she also happens to be inhaling whipped cream off your pecker.

That’s a real professional challenge for a heterosexual male, to say the least.

Which brings me to the least professional moment of my brief career as an Erotic Performance Artist. Let me phrase this as delicately as I possibly can.

One whipped cream girl swallowed more than whipped cream.

I knew it when it happened. I felt terrible about it despite the afterglow. I braced myself to be slapped, punched and run out of the place naked and slinging whipped cream while pursued by an angry mob of drunken women.

The thing is, whipped cream girl didn’t seem to notice.

Maybe she was too drunk, maybe there was too much whipped cream to tell the difference, or maybe she didn’t care. All I know is the music kept playing, the women kept laughing, and whipped cream girl kept slurping at the fountain of Ori.

Yeah, well, I wrapped things up pretty fast after that. I dressed, collected my money and was just outside the door when whipped cream girl ran after me.

Turns out she didn’t care. Actually, she liked it. A lot. We dated for six months. Yeah, duh! But, I had to dump her. She was hot, sure, but completely psychotic.

I miss her sometimes.

Superhero

2005-11-23T15:40:00.000-08:00

Ka-pow!

The human body cannot be instantly accelerated from zero to a velocity of several thousand meters per second without catastrophic results.

Thus when struck by the equivalent force of a one hundred megaton nuclear detonation Principle Larry Gillbert was immediately vaporized.

His gaseous remains were propelled like a meteor of hot plasma through every wall spanning the width of the MacGregor State School. It seared through everything and everyone in its path as it bore a smoldering tunnel through the building’s interior.

The tortured glob of organic molecules expanded with a hellish explosion when it burst into the open air. The concussion ripped away a quarter of the school in a deadly spray of razor shards and heavy chunks of debris. Several hundred students and fourteen teachers were shredded beyond identification. Hundreds of others were left disfigured or trapped beneath the rubble. Many simply shook with eyes that could not blink, covered in blood, unable to scream.

Eleven year old Ben Haywood remained in the Principle’s office unharmed. He stared down the tunnel of splintered wood and crumbled stone to where daylight shown in upon the devastation. Ben had just experienced a rather violent epiphany. It forever changed not only his life, but every other life on planet Earth.

Ben Haywood of Queensland, Australia had realized his latent super power; the ability to project a repulsive energy field. While its cause was never fully understood, scientific consensus blamed a rare genetic mutation induced by prolonged exposure to cosmic rays known to penetrate a depleted ozone layer. At rest, this energy surrounded Ben with an impervious, invisible shield that radiated just beyond his skin. But at will, he could direct a discreet beam of immense force in any direction and toward any target he chose.

Over time Ben learned to use his power to fly. Although physically immune to the inertial recoil such expelled force should have upon a mass of his size and weight, Ben could allow sufficient feedback to lift into the air. By pushing against the ground or other structures atop a column of shimmering energy, he could then propel himself in flight to a height of several thousand meters.

By early adulthood Ben had mastered his mysterious ability, if not himself. He could simultaneously radiate multiple beams of force of different intensities and dispersal patterns to affect different results. No one was proud of him or much impressed by the havoc he caused and the cowering, whimpering masses only fueled his confused rage. Entire cities were blasted off the face of the Earth and gargantuan tsunamis were pushed out of the ocean basins onto land ahead of him. Ben brushed aside military aircraft, precision missiles, artillery and atomic warheads like harmless gnats.

Nine million people were killed while Ben struggled to find his identity and a purpose for his amazing gift for destruction. The world lived in terror of this new breed of man it could neither explain nor long endure and shunned him to live in lonely isolation.

Then the force of nature named Ben Haywood mysteriously disappeared.

Of course we all know he resurfaced years later under a secret identity to inconspicuously battle the forces of evil and repay his debt to society.

Or maybe it was all just a childhood fantasy.

You decide.

Ben now writes software and changes printer ribbons for a living. As a hobby, he writes a comical web log about a superhero named Henry The Adequate.

You can find it here: http://henrytheadequate.blogspot.com/

Artwork from www.theartofsiku.com

Zeno's Demons

2005-11-19T11:48:00.000-08:00

Consider for a few minutes the paradoxes of Zeno of Elea (490-425 BC). For almost 2,500 years these conundrums have boggled people’s minds. They cast doubt on common sense and call into question everything we think we know about, to quote Douglas Adams, “Life, the Universe and Everything”.

Although you might not think so when you first hear them.

The ancient Greek philosophers can be divided into sects or “schools”. Each school championed a particular premise regarding the fundamental nature of things. Our trouble maker Zeno was from the city of Elea in what is now southern Italy. He was a student in the Eleatic School and a disciple of the school’s founder, the philosopher Parmenides (pär-'me-n&-"dEz).

Parmenides based his school on a concept called “monism”. Monism defines only one “thing”, one “reality”, and all else is appearance and illusion of perception. The monists believed everything is part of a single, pervasive, unchanging mass which Parmenides called “Being”.

In opposing corners were the “Pluralists” who believed in many distinct events, conditions or objects in the universe and the “Dualists” who divided everything between mental and physical phenomena.

You could call Zeno the attack dog of the Eleatic School. He used paradoxes to defend the ideas of Parmenides and the concepts of monism against detractors. The original intent of the paradoxes is somewhat lost today, but they continue to challenge us in ways Zeno certainly never imagined.

In fact, many of the paradoxes are so frustratingly difficult to reconcile, entirely new concepts of philosophy, mathematics and physics had to be concocted in an effort to make sense of them.

Don’t take them lightly. They are supreme in their simplicity and subtlety. They have sent geniuses away crying like babies and they can warp space and time inside your head like a raw pretzel.

Three of the more famous paradoxes are the Dichotomy, the Achilles and the Arrow. Collectively they are Zeno’s demons of infinite division. In general terms they support a premise that motion cannot exist and must, therefore, be an illusion.

• The Dichotomy: Before something in motion can reach its destination, it must first reach the midpoint between where it started and where it will end. But before it can reach that middle, it must first go a quarter of the way. But before it gets a quarter of the way, it must first reach an eighth of the way, and so on ad infinitum. Hence, motion can never begin. To go anywhere you would have to cross infinity, and that is impossible.
• The Achilles: The running Achilles can never catch up to a tortoise crawling ahead of him. Achilles must first reach the point where the tortoise started. However, when Achilles gets there, the tortoise has moved ahead. Achilles must now run further. But, by the time Achilles gets there, the tortoise has moved ahead again. The tortoise is always moving forward some infinitesimal distance. Hence Achilles can never catch up to the tortoise.
• The Arrow: If time is made up of instants that are indivisible, then an arrow shot from a bow can never reach its target. In any given instant in time the arrow is motionless. Because an instant is indivisible, the arrow cannot be in one position at the start of the instant and in other position at the end of the instant. Hence, the arrow can never leave the bow.

Common sense and experience tells us that none of these arguments are true, however proving them wrong is far more difficult than you might expect. Virtually every philosopher and mathematician of note has attempted to prove why the paradoxes are wrong, but every explanation becomes more complicated than the last and none seem quite satisfactory.

Zeno’s paradoxes taken together reveal a single, greater paradox. The universe can be neither infinitely divisible (continuous) nor indivisible (discontinuous, discrete or made up of finite parts).

Of course, a truck load of differential calculus and Einstein’s theory of Relativity go a long way in showing why Zeno was wrong. Or do they?

Why do we perceive that things move? Because they change position in relation to something else.

So, what if there is nothing else? Place a single object suspended in the colorless void of infinite space. Should it supposedly “move” in any direction whatsoever, what difference does it make? Nothing changes and the whole argument of whether it actually moves or not becomes moot.

As if it is part of a single, pervasive, and unchanging mass which Parmenides called “Being”.

Shtick To It Baby

2005-11-15T17:22:00.000-08:00

"They don't make 'em too big for this business."
- Tempest Storm

Based on a true story.

Ethel Helen Walker was a survivor, no doubt about it. Maybe it was the red hair, or maybe the fire of an indomitable spirit made it red. Either way, the broad demanded respect.

And one way or another, she got it.

You might know her today as Bubbles Le Rouge, Queen of Burlesque. You might think she was only respected for her 41DD knockers. Yeah, she packed in crowds of fedora hats and cigarettes during the 1950’s and 60’s with her revealing routine.

That was her shtick.

But make no mistake, Bubbles Le Rouge danced all the way to the bank wearing only a smile and a feather boa. And let me tell you, she held her head high the whole damn way.

No body could keep Ethel Helen Walker down, least of all her Daddy.

The Walkers were sharecroppers in Louisiana when Ethel was born at the start of the Depression. Momma skipped town early on and left three kids to fend for themselves. Yeah, it was unforgivable, but not without cause.

Daddy was a violent drunk who could hardly put food on the table. He tried to tame Ethel with the sting of moonshine on his lips and a strap in his hand, but to no avail. She kicked and clawed like a wild cat under the incestuous bastard until she was big enough to fight him off. By then she would just as soon spit in his face as see him dead.

But Ethel wasn’t able to fight off every inebriated man who cast a chipped, sluggish grin her direction. At least, not when there was more than one. At thirteen, Ethel Helen Walker was gang raped by bumpkins in the twilight woods of a rural backwater.

It wasn’t long after when Ethel went the way of her Momma and left Louisiana forever. It was a small price to pay to marry the first man she could tempt to drive her across the state line.

Two marriages and at least one abortion later, Ethel was 20 and dancing in a chorus line in Los Angeles. That’s when a promoter first offered her a job stripping in a local burlesque show. It paid a hell of a lot more and she didn’t have to share the stage. You’d be right to call Ethel a tramp, but she was never a whore. She did whatever it took to get by and used every asset in her possession to do it. And those assets consisted primarily of that fiery red hair and a figure that could get a man to sin by just walking by.

Ethel was an instant smash and created such a commotion among the male patrons it was like she blew in a storm. Ethel was now Bubbles Le Rouge, “The Bayou Bust”, “Knock ‘em Dead Red” or just “The Queen”.

Well, for the next forty years she danced her way across the country in seedy, smoked-filled clubs. Along the way she officially changed her name to Bubbles Le Rouge, married twice more and had a daughter, organized the first union of burlesque strippers and spearheaded a retirement fund for the less fortunate girls. She even opened the first unionized strip club in the world. Bubbles Le Rouge became the matron of an entire underground industry and its loudest supporter.

Even well into her sixties and semi-retired, she’d do the occasional show in Vegas. Of course, by then, men and women alike went to see a legend dance the dying art of the burlesque strip.

The thing is, she’d quietly donate the money to her stripper’s charity.

So, whatever else you might think of Bubbles Le Rouge, you have to respect her for that.

It was her shtick.

Seeds

2005-11-12T13:40:00.000-08:00

The Mars Vanguard spacecraft experienced catastrophic failure at 09:12 hours Houston time.

With that sentence from an interagency communiqué a 93 billion dollar space mission ended. In its place began Congressional hearings, numerous investigations, and political and social repercussions that would affect the nation for years to come.

A tank explosion had blown out a sidewall of the Vanguard’s main module. Two members of the four man crew had been instantly ejected into open space. A third crew member suffocated while tethered inside the module. He now hovered lifelessly inside the dark breech like a grim balloon. Only the junior pilot, Captain Josh Wilson, had time to close an air lock and enter the Emergency Escape Vehicle unharmed.

It was no blessing.

Only minutes later as Captain Wilson still scrambled to orient himself a secondary explosion rocked the hull of the Vanguard. Twisted metal clamped the EEV air lock like teeth, forever clasping the EEV in the embrace of its dead mother.

30 million miles from Earth, without communication or navigational control, and moving at near 20,000 miles per hour on a trajectory to nowhere, Captain Wilson was supremely alone.

An assessment of power reserves, life support and rations was as encouraging as a death row inmate losing his last appeal. Captain Wilson knew it was only a matter of time. It was wildly improbable a rescue mission from Earth would, or could, be launched.

In his cramped, solitary cell, Captain Wilson endured meager rations, boredom, darkness, decreasing oxygen and increasing cold for 403 days. As the vast speckled night had drawn his pensive gaze, so too it drew his soul. In the failing power of the EEV, made to last far beyond its design specification, Captain Wilson quietly froze to death.

His was a lonely, unceremonious burial upon an infinite winter sea.

But not everything died that day inside the derelict Vanguard’s EEV as the two rushed conjoined into an abyss of stars.

A bacterial colony survived the extreme cold and vicious cosmic radiation. It stubbornly clung to life in the microscopic worlds on and inside the corpse of Captain Josh Wilson.

So it came to be that the first Earthlings to journey into interstellar space were its meekest children.

Life is not so easily relinquished. Sometimes it is necessary that the excess husk of existence be shed to lighten the tiny seeds inside. Then Life waits with patience as infinite as the universe itself for Providence, like a breeze, to carry it aloft. Upon what new Earth such seeds may one day come to rest is incomprehensibly distant and unimaginably alien. Their chance of taking root is incalculably small.

We can only speculate upon what sort of eyes may look up into the night a million years hence and wonder if they are alone. We can only speculate upon the answer.

Coffolocism

2005-11-10T16:57:00.000-08:00

“No one can understand the truth until he drinks of coffee's frothy goodness.“
- Sheik Abd-al-Kadir

Coffolocism

Here’s a revelation for you. Coffolics drink a lot of coffee.

Trust me, I have first hand experience.

You see, for Coffolics, java isn’t just the blood of Christ at Communion; it’s also a tasty, satisfying, anytime beverage.

And let me tell you; for a while, I was pretty devout.

I went with a friend to a local Coffolic church, The Church of the Immaculate Conniption. Also called Starbucks.

At first it was all a little bizarre to me. I mean, seeing people shaking uncontrollably and speaking in tongues really, really fast, was a pretty novel experience. It was a cacophony of “Caffe Latte Grande” this and “Espresso Macchiato Venti” that. Is that Latin, or what? I thought they all had Parkinson’s disease or were epileptics or something. The priest could hardly stand still behind the counter, uh, pulpit. I thought he had to go to the bathroom.

WTF?

Then my friend enlightened me that they were filled with the Holy Spirit. Was I embarrassed!

Well, maybe I needed something in my life at the time, maybe I was impressionable or maybe I was just thirsty, but that convinced me of the Almighty right there.

Like them, I wanted to feel the pure, giddy delight of the Holy Spirit. I wanted to be close to God and experience the warmth of His divine presence in my heart.

So, I bought in. That meant expensive Arabica beans, a $4,000 Espresso machine, filtered water, and hours of study to learn the sacred technique of a perfect milk swirl. All that for tithing a mere ten percent.

Sure, sure, there was the usual Christian dogma, but I really thought they were onto something. Man, they even had a live band! This denomination wasn’t just about uptight moral self-righteousness oblivious to the affects of global consumerism; I mean, they really seemed to have a wobbly hand on a level of spiritual fulfillment I had never experienced before.

Besides, it was damn good coffee.

Well, I did eventually feel the Holy Spirit. Yeah, it went through me like a bad burrito. I was jittery, I couldn’t sleep, and I spent more time praying on the toilet than anywhere else. Then one night during a particularly runny prayer, it occurred to me that this religion thing just wasn’t for me. I’d been duped. It was the caffeine I was feeling, after all, and not the presence of the Lord.

Yeah, I know it probably seems absurd to you. It does to me now, too. How can people actually believe they can find God in a ritual of brewing and consuming coffee?

Everybody knows it takes tequila to get really spiritual.

Create Something

2005-11-08T18:14:00.000-08:00

“To avoid criticism do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.“
- Elbert Hubbard (1856 - 1915)

Create something.

So, you create something. You stick it in some relatively conspicuous and easily accessible location. You then solicit family, friends and strangers to look it over, critique it, and comment.

That takes some nerve.

I mean, who are you? What sort of game are you playing here?

Freak.

What could you possibly create that could entice people to freely surrender a few minutes of their hard-earned lives like loose coins into your beggar’s cup?

Do you have some psychological need to fill, or what?

It’s sad, really. I suppose you’re an “artist”, huh? Is that it?

I suppose you think you have something new to say about life and the human condition and all that pompous crap. I suppose you have a “unique vision” of the world; a vision that stands in stark contrast to the 6 billion other unique visions of humanity.

Oh, and even worse, I suppose you think you’re funny. Well, in a wry, intellectual sort of way, am I right?

Get a life. Obviously, you have way too much time on your hands.

Because the alternative is saying nothing that others may overhear.

The alternative is attempting nothing because it has all been done before and far better than you could ever achieve.

The alternative is making no effort whatsoever to proclaim your individuality out of the din of writhing human flesh.

The alternative is accepting that you have nothing compelling or even marginally interesting to contribute to the world.

And whatever you do - do not bring ridicule or embarrassment upon yourself. Do not dishonor your family.

Shut up, blend in, exist. Do whatever gets you by, just do it quietly and leave the rest of us out of it. No body wants to hear about your stupid ideas, pointless stories, quixotic aspirations or perverted eroticism. And no body, but no body, wants to read another of your lame poems.

I’m sorry, you suck. Deal with it, then die.

So, go ahead, create something. I dare you.

Johnny Velvet and The Martinis

2005-11-06T07:20:00.000-08:00

The following article is fictional parody. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is entirely intentional.

Johnny Velvet and The Martinis

Here’s the scene. Johnny Velvet was a young lounge crooner and fledgling movie star. A real hip cat. He won a Grammy early on along with his backup band, The Martinis. That led to Johnny’s first movie role which won him rave reviews, from adoring women if not skeptical critics.

Then Johnny’s rocketing career hit turbulence when he was charged with the murder of a female fan. Appears the dame stayed a little too late one night backstage at a club in Jersey after Johnny’s last set. She wound up dead in the alley out back with her panties stuffed in her mouth. The flashbulbs went off for over a year.

Now, it was common knowledge that Johnny had ties to the mob. The question was how tight. Johnny insisted he was just an entertainer who didn’t question the professions of his admirers. Of course, the prosecutor was out to get him. Dropping a high-profile celebrity was the prosecutor’s pawn in an expected, albeit unannounced, gambit for Governor.

Turned out the dead girl was the niece of a local Teamster official rumored to be a high-ranking mafia don. Conjecture over family rivalry and pay back between gangs swirled in the rags and sold papers as fast as the presses could spit them out.

Johnny kept his trademark cool throughout the trial. Dashing and dressed to the nines, no body looked as slick as Johnny in grainy monochrome photos under bold headlines. The prosecutor, on the other hand, looked like a real square. He was a bald dumpling of a man, a dull lawyer with an opportunistic flair who stank of starch and ambition.

Dull lawyers win few cases and fewer elections. Johnny beat the rap and walked out of the court house a household name. The prosecutor eventually disappeared into the obscurity of an uneventful retirement.

Johnny Velvet went on to record music and act in movies. Along the way he became a living legend and one of the most famous entertainers of all time. He was nominated for an Oscar. He married glamorous celebrity women three times, the last half his age. He ruled the strip in Vegas for nearly two decades with his “wolf pack” of cigarette smoking, boozy pals.

Of course, talk of his mob connections continued throughout the years. There were other mysterious deaths of young women with passing connections to Johnny or the band. There were rumors of a hot temper fueled by cold gin, rumors of drugs and sex and the excesses of fame and fortune people claim to loathe but secretly admire.

But the secret of Johnny Velvet wasn’t his suave appearance or golden voice.

Johnny Velvet was an occult adept.

Sometimes sacrifices must be made to appease the cosmic forces that hold influence over our fate.

Johnny Velvet made many sacrifices.

It's All About the "O"

2005-11-04T18:58:00.000-08:00

"Writing is like making love. Don't worry about the orgasm, just concentrate on the process."
- Isabel Allende

It’s All About the “O”

Of course it’s all about the “O”, don’t be silly.

Look, I once gave some credibility to the proposition that women were exploited for their sex appeal.

The culture remains male dominated and men are notoriously obsessed with sex. I know I am. So, it just seemed to follow that the barrage of naked and half-naked women in the media only proved that is was, indeed, “good to be the man”.

Then a simple observation made me realize how over-simplified such an accusation of exploitation really is.

Don’t get me wrong, many women are certainly exploited. Poverty, drugs or abuse can all strong arm people into doing things they would otherwise never do. Truly horrific things are happening right now to someone somewhere in the world and my heart goes out to them.

But exploitation alone is woefully inadequate to explain the thousands upon thousands of women daily who pose naked or mostly so for public viewing. Whether in magazines, television commercials, the Internet, pornographic movies, web cams or simply flashing at a party, most women expose themselves quite willingly.

Bless them all.

Even money doesn’t provide a complete explanation. Do you have any idea how many playful girls have their tits posted on the Internet for no other incentive than the attention it brings? Well, I do. And at the end of the day, it isn’t about exploitation, adulation or money.

No, it’s all about the “O”

That's right, the Ori-gasm.

To prove my point, the Buddha Died Laughing Blog is having its first ever call for submissions. That’s right, ladies, if you’re over 21 now’s your chance to submit you best T&A photos to the Big Bad Buddha himself, Origami. In return, you’ll receive your very own personalized Ori-gasm!

But wait, there’s more! Act now and you may even qualify for your very own blog entry!

So, calm down, stop shaking, and get out the camera. You’re just a click away from anonymous obscurity among countless other body parts seen on the Internet.

But, hay, this time, it’s all about the “U”!

Send submissions to my publisher: jriedl@sunflower.com

The Day the World Broke Down

2005-11-01T17:46:00.000-08:00

“Ours is the age that is proud of machines that think and suspicious of men who try to.”
- H. Mumford Jones (1892 - 1980)

The Day the World Broke Down

It’s a fact of history virtually forgotten today. Little reflection is wasted upon the by-gone calamity by anyone outside an ostracized cadre of scholars and academics.

Of course, I’m referring to the global breakdown of August 3, 2008 – “Overload Sunday”, they call it. That was the day the world became so complicated no one knew how to run it anymore.

My father was a boy at the time and he tells me that it began in the morning sometime around 10:30. A woman was shopping for wireless networking equipment at her local Best Mart superstore in suburban Chicago. A sales clerk asked her what wireless specification she wanted.

Was she looking for 802.11a at 55 Megabits per second (Mbps) in the 5 Gigahertz (GHz) band, 802.11b at 11Mbps in the 2.4GHz band or 802.11g at 55Mbps in the 2.4GHz band? And did she want the wireless Access Point as a stand alone device or with an integrated Router, an integrated Router-Switch or perhaps even an integrated Router-Switch-Firewall-Intrusion Detection System (IDS)-Cable and/or Digital Subscriber Line (DSL)-Modem combination?

She just stared at the clerk with glassy, unblinking eyes while mindlessly drooling on her self.

That’s how it started.

Simultaneously, somewhere in Japan, a guy given a corporate video assignment was researching video formats, coder-decoders (codices) and storage media at an Internet cafe.

Should he use VHS or Beta? Super VHS, D-VHS, DVC, Video 8, Hi-8 or DVD (which is actually MPEG2 named VOB with a special header) in 8 centimeter or 13 centimeter media size? Or maybe MPEG 1, 2 or 4, AVI, DivX, DirectX, Windows Media (WVM), Quicktime (MOV), or RealMedia (RV) on DVD-R, DVD+R, DVD+RW, DVD+R-DL, DVD-R DL, DVD-RAM, DVD-ROM, VCD, CD or CD-RW?

The poor guy’s head exploded, splattering brains all over the horrified patrons around him.

At that exact same instant another man in London was shopping for a High Definition television.

Did he want his new HDTV to be HD-Compatible or HD-Ready? Did he want Liquid Crystal Display (LCD), Plasma, Cathode Ray Tube (CRT), Digital Light Processing (DLP) or Liquid Crystal on Silicon (LCoS)? Did he want a resolution of 720p (Progressive), 1080i (Interlaced) or 1080p (Progressive) in 4:3 or 16:9 aspect ratio with 3:2 Pulldown or 3:3 Pulldown? Is that NTSC or PAL? Did he want features such as Color Temperature Correction, Comb Filter, DCR, DVI, DVI with HDCP, iDCR, with PIP, Composite, Component, Interlaced component, Progressive component, S-Video, RGB, Firewire or HDMI? And did he want a stand with that?

Tragically, the man dropped dead right there in the crowded store.

Thus began a chain-reaction that spread like a virus around the world. Millions of people were made instantly traumatized, befuddled, comatose or brain dead by the sheer, incomprehensible complexity of electronic consumer goods.

An angry crowd carrying torches, lead by a preacher from the local church, came that night and took my father’s iPod away. He’s been bitter ever since and hums long forgotten Indie songs to himself while he’s behind the old mare tilling the fields. Don’t tell anyone.

But, that’s all ancient history now. I’m just glad my generation doesn’t have to deal with such ridiculous machines. Although I really have to admit, this new-fangled abacus thing really helps speed up my ciphering in the farm journal.

Too bad it’s a tool of Satan banned by the Church.

Don’t tell anyone.

All Hallow's Noir

2005-10-27T19:01:00.000-07:00

“Never raise your hand to your children; it leaves your midsection unprotected. “

Robert Orben

All Hallow’s Noir

Hello, new neighbor! My name is Timmy “Animal” Kowowski. I live next door.

It’s nice to meet you, too, Mister. I just stopped by to introduce myself. Like I said, my name is Timmy, but most folks call me “Animal”. I’m seven years old. I like toy cars, my bicycle, this neat cartoon on TV called Dragon Ball Z and candy. I really like candy - a lot.

And don’t you forget it, Mister. I own this neighborhood, and if you don’t hand over the candy specified on this list here come Halloween, I’ll own you, too.

That ain’t a threat, Mister. Honest.

Look, let me tell you something; the death of little Charlie Mortomer a while back was tragic. It broke my heart, really, but I’ve moved on. He was a cute boy who showed some promise. But some kids just can’t resist playing under buses, you know? I consider it a natural thinning of the herd.

Besides, it should be clear by now that bad things happen to people who think they can muscle in on my territory. The same goes for new neighbors with young children who think they can buck the system. Your daughter’s a real looker. What is she, four, five?

You look a little slow, so let me spell it out for you. For my protection you give me some candy at Halloween and a nice card with cash stuffed inside at Christmas and my birthday on April 11. Is that clear enough for you, Mister?

Yeah, I suppose it is quite a “racket” I got here. I’ve worked all my life to establish myself in this part of the city, but things didn’t really take off until I started walking, you know? Then by the time I hit kindergarten the associates in my organization were sufficient to lock down the day cares and put the fear of God into all the local babysitters. After that it was just a matter of consolidating my control, squeezing out the competition and expanding my territory.

Uh, oh, that’s the domestic help calling me for dinner. Here, take this list, come, come on! And remember – we never had this conversation. I’ll deny everything, you nasty pedophile. I know exactly where to point on the doll, if you get my drift. I’ll be back on Halloween. I’ll be the kid wearing the T-shirt that says “I wacked Tony Soprano”.

(he he, Happy Halloween! - Ori)

Guest Contributors

2005-10-25T17:02:00.000-07:00

By O'Shawn - friend of a friend

Whoah, this is, like, totally awesome, dude.

Howzit, brah? This is O’Shawn, like you couldn’t tell, just hangin’. Duh!

Oh, and UH-LOw-HAH to all tha bodacious babes, gidgets and beach bunnies havin’ an ancillary stroke scopin’ out de-Blog!

Righteous!

I am sooo amped to be here, man. This whole Blog thing is just bitchin’ bananas and frickin’ irie. It’s pure sex, bro. After a day at my bogus job at Long John’s I’m, like, wiggin’ out, so it’s rad to catch some spray with my crewbies before I flop in the sand, park off and totally chillax a spell with a bottle of suds and Mary Jane.

Ex-ceeee-lent!

Hay, aikona, dude, get your own stash. Let me dial you in, bro. If you weren’t such a kook stroppy you too could have the fame, adulation and ripped six of yours truly. Ooo, yeah.

Hah, hah, okay, okay, I’m charfing you, dude. Chill. Now, have a puff and get an eyeful of da nectars in the surf! Ooo, la, la, baby!

Well, it’s time I chuck this taco stand and go mack on them feme Blog groupies of yours. I’m dunzo. Hang ten, dude!

Kowabunga!
_____________________________________________________

By O-Dawg - A guy who likes cruising my neighborhood in his Cadillac

What tha dilly yo, mah homies?

Bruthahs 'n' sistahs, tha O-DAWG be IN DA HOUSE, keepin' it real and kickin’ it hardcore on Ori’s BDL Blog. Fu*k yeah.

Come on, holla it wit me – FU*K YEAH! Tha’s right.

Know what I'm sayin'? Let it chill, y'all.

Now, I know what all y'all be thinkin':

Damn, that O-Dawg, he a straight-up big-willie highrolla SUPASTAR, an' if there ever wuz a person that don't need no 'mo FLAVA, he it.

No diggity, bruthahs an' sistahs. It ain't all bling and malt liquor in da Blog-O-Sphere. Hell no it ain’t. You gotta write new sh*t everyday. It ain't easy stayin' a Blogga Gangbanga Gangsta like my best customer, ol’ Ori . You gotta stay lowdown funky-fresh, know what I'm sayin'? Stoopid fresh, man, wit dat fly Blog sh*t. Gotta stay current to be DA BOMB else yo reader-ship leave yo dumb fuc*king ass like a used ‘ho. Uh, huh. You knows what I’m sayin’, dontcha, Ori?

So, peep this, y'all. Stay cool. Peace. Word.

O-Dawg out.
_______________________________________________________
By Ophelia - A “woman” who lives a few houses down the street

Awww, Ori, you are such a darling asking me to write for your blog. Of all people, me – Ophelia! But do you know how freaking hard it is typing with false nails? No, baby, I didn’t think so. Tisk, tisk, you always were so oblivious, you breeder boy slut, you.

What? Oh, pleeese, don’t cop an attitude with me, honey. You ain’t that cute when you pout. I’m just wanking your chain, bitch. Besides, today is NOT THUH DAY to rile the Queen, let me yell ya. These panties are riding my ass like a bear in heat, my nipples are sore and I feel as bloated as a hippo with a gland problem, sugar. You have absolutely no fu*king clue what I go through to look this fabulous. Ah, ah, ah… before you say a word, just remember - I fooled you! Oh, the look on your face! Priceless!

Okay, that’s enough for now, darling. I’m sure all your timid little bunny buddies will get a sick kick out of this. Well, they all can kiss my flaming faggot ass!

Aww, Ori, I’m so sorry, but you KNOW how I get, honey. Now be a darling and write your own damn Blog.

Tah tah!

Tips of Icebergs

2005-10-23T15:12:00.000-07:00

“They say dreams are the windows of the soul--take a peek and you can see the inner workings, the nuts and bolts.”

-Henry Bromel, Northern Exposure, The Big Kiss, 1991

Tips of Icebergs

Like tips of icebergs held above the water, their cold faces chiseled by the wind, weeping in the sun.

So are we.

The bulk of us, the flesh and the idea of us, dwell below the surface in the murky, shimmering depths of the speechless soul.

Yet it is here in the deep that we stoke a fire whose light we cannot stop escaping up and out our eyes.

We feed the flame with an endless supply of secret dreams, secret desire and secret pain.

Then sometimes the fire flares hot and chaotic with a dream more plump and rich than all the others. Far above, in the open air, our eyes burn and our faces crack in fissures so deep the harsh wind cannot smooth them away.

Such are the crowfeet at our eyes, the smile lines at our lips and the graying of our hair.

You see, we melt from within…

Sometimes, I’d like to haul the heavy Victorian furnace of my heart out of the water and onto shore. I’d like to stoke the fire in its brass belly until it glows hot like some alien, riveted engine from a Jules Verne future. I’d like the pistons to blur and the steam to scream and all the ornate gauges to twitch violently in the red.

I’d like to speak my mind on behalf of my shuttered soul.

Every cheesy whispered endearment, every silly, improbable idea, every curse and expletive, every embarrassing, awkward compliment of the beauty in others that I see.

Look, look, don’t you realize what’s got the fire burning in that quirky little machine? It is my own lost breath, my own sighs, my own solemn, wistful admiration.

It is my ghost on fire within me, reflected in the waves. A wanting engine I.

It isn’t much to look at, I’ll grant you that, but before I drown it again beneath the cold waves at least tell me it wasn’t for nothing.

And if I suddenly explode, just pick up the naked pieces of me like wet sheets of poetry lying in the froth of the tide and dispose of them with the other anonymous rubbish that collects on the beach each day.

So, yeah, that’s what I think about here in the secret basement of my private iceberg as it slowly melts from within.

I think about what burns in another heart far away. Then my face cracks into a smile.

Oh how the tips of icebergs distract me!

Looky-Loo

2005-10-22T14:03:00.000-07:00

"The beauty that addresses itself to the eyes is only the spell of the moment; the eye of the body is not always that of the soul. "

-George Sand, Handsome Lawrence, Ch. 1

Looky-Loo

“Must… make… eye contact. Must… look…. up!”

Cut me some slack, would you ladies? I mean, really, come on now. You got me all flustered and nervous.

If you are going to wear low-cut blouses a size too small and so tight they are stretched nearly transparent over the minutest topography of your push-up bra, I’m going to look. Okay?

I can’t help it.

Stop feigning offense and disgust. Did you really not expect this to happen?

I mean, when you first squeezed, tugged and wiggled into that plunging neckline at the store then looked at your ample bosom popping out in the mirror; did you really think it enhanced the chaste and innocent image I appear to have insulted with my mere gaze?

I’m sorry, honey, a nun’s habit it is not. It is, on the other hand, a hypnotic induction whose solitary purpose is to transform heterosexual men into ogling, lobotomized, drooling slaves. So stop acting so surprised that it works so exquisitely well, huh? Besides, I’m not actually drooling on you or anything. Not yet, at least.

“Command me, oh Goddess!”

So, maybe showing the lace detail of whatever Victoria’s Secret bra you’re sporting under that flimsy excuse for a shirt is all the latest fashion rage, and as far as I’m concerned cleavage and tender, heaving girl-parts never go out of style, but stop frowning at me when I actually look, would ya?

“I can see your belly button, too. *giggle*”

Why am I the one feeling embarrassed, ashamed and perverted here? I’m not the one with my nipples poking out of my shirt. Yet.

Look, I’ll grant you, I’m a graying middle-aged dude who was bottle-fed as a baby and looked so dorky growing up I didn’t a see a real boob until I was a senior in high school, but this just isn’t fair to me at all!

And yeah, maybe I’m a lecherous, immature sex fiend. I’m a guy, for goodness sake! Biologically speaking, being a perv is, like – my job! I’m a NICE perv, however, you know, in a liberal, post-modernist, equal rights, I brought my own condom, I’ll get a towel sort of way.

So stop with the nasty looks already.

If you were really that self-conscious and easily offended, you wouldn’t be wearing that outfit and showing off that much soft, silky smooth, beautifully bulbous, tantalizingly jiggly flesh.

You know what I think? I think you really don’t mind me looking. You wore that on purpose knowing full well the sort of reaction it would illicit from the male population. You secretly thank God I’m looking because it validates the insecurity you feel over your perky cuteness.

I’m on to you. Well, not literally.

Yet.

That Spring Fresh Feeling

2005-10-10T14:59:00.000-07:00

"Happiness is a perfume which you cannot pour on someone without getting some on yourself."

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)

That Spring Fresh Feeling

I don’t mean to burst anyone’s bubble. I really hate to break it to you this way.

Being human is fundamentally a messy, dirty business.

Some body has to do it, though, right? And it might as well be us.

I mean, being what we are is rather stinky, sticky, icky, oozy, gooey and odorous.

What, with all the secretions, seepages, emissions and excretions that characterize our physical existence as biological organisms.

Spend just a short time in a nursery or nursing home and I think you will come away with a whiff of what I mean. Then again, to be honest, you don’t even have to go that far. Just stop bathing for a day or two and I think my point will become obnoxiously, pungently clear - if not to yourself then certainly to everyone else around you.

The thing is, most of us do a pretty decent job of covering up our natural grossness. We wash our hairless monkey selves with all manner of frothy soaps; we slather on perfumes, deodorants and scented lotions, we shave off the last remnants of our furry little ancestors still cowering timid in those tender cavities where the sun least shines.

We do such a good job that I’m not really sure anymore what a human being is supposed to smell like.

And maybe that’s the real problem.

It isn’t that we are so intrinsically repulsive. Well, most of us. Rather, we are so completely conditioned by our modern world to perceive that anything runny or squishy that doesn’t smell like lilacs expelled from our bodies is bad, disgusting or shameful.

That’s pretty much everything.

I suspect as much, at least, because in other cultures, common human scents we find nauseating are no big deal. Yep, it’s us. Our noses and our sensibilities have been co-opted by the perfume lobby. I am so gosh-darn spring fresh I can’t smell anything else.

Our bodies are so concealed under clothing and talc that intellectually we don’t even think of our secretions as human, let alone parts of ourselves, anymore. Heck no, they are like nasty, alien nuisances, bizarre, antiquated inconveniences and shocking, barbaric causes for humiliating embarrassment while in public. We spend billions on ways to erase our stink and whiten our teeth, but in the end we can never escape the pursuit of our own toots.

Then again, I guess it isn’t always so bad. I don’t know about you, but a little excretion now and then is awful relaxing and does wonders for my attitude.

Gee, you smell nice. New perfume?

So, maybe being human IS a fundamentally messy, dirty business.

But, somebody has to do it.

It might as well be us.

Now, get your spring fresh feeling over here, darlin’ and let the secretions begin! Yee haw!

Voodoo Doll

2005-10-08T18:07:00.000-07:00

“Sometimes it is harder to deprive oneself of a pain than of a pleasure “
F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896 - 1940), Tender is the Night

Voodoo Doll

Hear Ye! Hear Ye! Your attention, please! Achtung, baby!

I hereby solemnly and sincerely apologize to any and every one I have ever in the slightest manner wronged.

Wronged, offended, slighted, rebuffed, rebuked, dismissed, ridiculed, took for granted or otherwise irritated in any way whatsoever.

Just, would you please pull the needles out of that Voodoo Doll of me you have?

Pretty please? With a cherry and whipped cream on top?

I suspect, from the insistent poking, jabbing and aggravated gouging, I must have done something horribly wrong to you although I honestly do not recall what or when.

You hate me with supreme virulence, I can tell, because the searing pain has progressed from being merely an uncomfortable annoyance to almost unbearable torture.

So, whatever I did, I apologize. Really, I am so very sorry.

Sure, sure, the doctors keep telling me it has something to do with my kidney. They insist I suffer from some lingering affect of the operation I had nearly twenty years ago.

Still, I can’t help but consider it may be punishment for something I have done. I have a karmic debt to pay off and my mysterious benefactor will only be satisfied after extracting a pound of my flesh. If not all of it.

Until then, in lieu of my complete and utter demise, my phantom tormentor relishes inflicting pain upon me with pins and needles, pitch forks, samurai swords, scissors, dull letter openers and darts stolen from a bar across the railroad tracks on the far side of Hell.

Enough already, okay?

What do I have to do to make it up you? Because, honestly, if you want my ghost you can have it providing it gets me out of the aching shell of a man I’ve become.

And if my mere existence has somehow offended the vast powers that be, then stop screwing around with my innards and get on with snuffing me out like a candle flame between the callous fingers of God.

Just give me time to say good-bye.

Ghost Rider in the Sky

2005-10-04T17:04:00.000-07:00

“Anything I've ever done that ultimately was worthwhile... initially scared me to death.”
Betty Bender

Ghost Rider in the Sky

It is a fact of nature that cannot be defied without grave, if somewhat ambiguous, consequences:

Children are not allowed, under severe penalty of law, to do anything really, really cool.

No, all the cool stuff is reserved solely for individuals who have “crossed over” into the enlightened and enchanted parallel universe called “Adulthood”.

And when I was young, “cool stuff” meant smoking cigarettes, drinking alcohol, driving a car, having my own apartment and the ultimate paragon of pure, divine maturity – sex. Or at least catching a glimpse of the lingerie section of the Sear’s catalog. I didn’t have a clue what sex was, but if adults were doing it, by golly, it must be so, so incredibly cool.

Ah, Mom, riding a skateboard off the retaining wall isn’t, like, gonna kill me. I mean, come on, Tommy only broke his wrist ‘cause he fell off. Jeeze, you never let me do anything.

As in “anything cool”.

As a child, my list of taboo activities seemed cruelly long and any real chance of their first occurrence appeared impossibly far off in the future.

So, I’m supposed to grow hair where? Uh, huh. Then can I get a motorcycle?

Of course, time went by like the mute juggernaut it is, carrying me along with varying degrees of firm dispassion. One by one, eventually every activity once taboo and mysterious was checked off my list. The hair did grow there. Still, no motorcycle.

Now here I am decades later; a mature man. Grey hair and all. Tah dah!

I don’t know when I crossed over into “Adulthood”, if not precisely at the nanosecond I turned the legal milestone of twenty-one, but now that I’ve been here a while I’ve found this privileged realm to be far less enlightened and enchanted than I imagined as a child.

Actually, being an Adult is a lot of work; a lot of repetitive, mundane, overly complicated, boring work. It’s full of really large bills, deadly serious responsibilities and entirely unnecessary stress the world seems to pile on for the sheer delight in seeing me quiver. To be honest, oftentimes, being all grown up isn’t much fun at all.

Then when I find I need an intellectual or emotional pick me up, I discover that smoking has lost its flavor, drinking alcohol gives me a tummy ache, driving a car is scary, frustrating and expensive, having an apartment, well, a house now, requires constant upkeep and as for sex… well, okay, that is still so, so incredibly cool, but I can’t do that all the time, now can I? Trust me, I’ve tried.

You see, I find myself searching around for “it”; longing for that one thing, desperately wanting to fill a void of giggling anticipation in my heart and my mind with something that is really, really cool. I can’t seem to find it anymore. You know, that feeling of wondrous suspense and nervous butterflies you get before experiencing a significant life event for the very first time. The world just doesn’t thrill me like it used to. I’m callous and numb. When did this happen?

Yeah, been there, done that. Ho hum. Yawn. What’s next?

Is this the “mid-life crisis” I hear so much about? Because if it is I think I understand what it’s about now.

It’s not about affairs, sports cars and bad toupees.

It’s about fear, death, the sheer boredom of one’s own mediocrity and the horrifying realization how one can actually become even more unattractive with age.

Dear God, look where hair is growing now!

It is a fact of nature that cannot be defied without grave, if somewhat ambiguous, consequences.

What now? I don’t need a bigger house or a faster car. I honestly couldn’t handle young women fawning over me. Really, I’m serious. What now?

So, Honey, about that affair. It isn’t like it’s gonna kill me. I mean, come on, Tom only got the clap because he wasn’t safe about it. Jeeze, you never let me do anything! How about a motorcycle? Can I get a motorcycle? Okay, okay, I’ll shave the hair there, sheesh.

If I die, then can I get a motorcycle? Because, you know, that would be really, really cool.

Epiphany with Mariachis

2004-12-16T17:02:00.000-08:00

“Whoaah, Dude!”

Crush, Finding Nemo

Epiphany with Mariachis

I refute my own existence.

I deny the manifestation of form and the seeming singularity of ego that together are the illusion of my Self. For what am I but a reflection of light off a small pattern of congregated matter, the minutest fraction of Universal Will temporarily embodied in the frailest of vessels?

For what am I? A single wave momentarily up lifted from the undulating ocean landscape. I gaze out to the horizon or up to the stars before closing my eyes and descending again into the vast body of sleeping consciousness that is the dreaming cosmos. For what am I? A fleeting thought in the mind of omnipresence awakened unto itself, alone. I am briefly, oh so briefly aware of my transient separation from the perfect, ineffable Whole.

I am this: a mere illusion - a spark, a molten droplet fallen into shadow, cooled and hardened yet still glowing with a lingering heat within the great glittering glassworks of perception. And so hardened, all that I might contemplate becomes hard, until the rhythmic flux of the energy dances appear forever immutable and born out of a forge. Until Reality itself appears hard and unchangeable even as it flows like showers of electric rain and currents of sunlit static, so easily plied and formed if only one knew how to grab hold. Not with the hands, not with the very stuff of all transient forms, but with the Mind and the grip of pure Thought. Therein resides what is perceived and therein it may be changed. In the Mind, that briefly awakened cognizance that need not be bounded by the laws of forms and the destiny of material things. That need not be bounded by the laws of others, for they, too, are illusions of light and temporal matter.

I refute my own existence and the existence of everyone, but I do not deny that we are One. I deny you are you, because the form I perceive is a mere passing manifestation and the consciousness I love and converse with is the voice of my own undiscovered soul. And yet I am drawn to your energy, your heat and your light. I do not deny that in a dimension of forms we, as energy dances, interact and seek Union. We are each the spark, the molten droplet fallen into shadow yet still glowing with a lingering heat within the great glittering glassworks of perception, and as such we seek to return to the Whole. It drives us and it drives us mad for our efforts are in vain. Vain, but not without benefit, for we combine our energies and sense, if only briefly, into the tiniest semblance of the mighty, supreme power of the vast dreaming cosmos from whence we come. We are drawn together in heat, to melt again and flow into each other and return to the natural order of the universal furnace. Refute all else, seek only this – to be One with the perfect, ineffable Whole. Everything else is illusion, a lie of values and morality with no meaning to the infinite and eternal Dream of which we are made.

Or not.

Ugh, I should NOT have had that last Margarita. Or the third Burrito. Where’s the Pepto?
Just tell me I didn’t hit on that waitress with two heads!

Silly Creatures

2004-12-15T15:20:00.000-08:00

“While hunting in Africa, I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How an elephant got in my pajamas I'll never know.”

Groucho Marx

Silly Creatures

There’s a lion in the laundry, a bull in the bath and a gorilla in the garage.

No one else can see them but me. Only I know they are there.

They are harmless, really, almost tame, albeit obstinate and uncooperative. With great effort, I have to push them aside like hairy, muscular refrigerators to get any work done. I hardly notice them anymore they have become such a part of my domestic routine. In fact, long ago I stopped thinking of them as obstacles or even as animals. They have become my own heavy, unenthused heart that I must lift whenever there are chores to do.

They forage in the kitchen, rummage through the closets and otherwise amuse themselves in the various and sundry endeavors of wild beasts. I moderate their feral instincts as best I can to achieve some civility, but my sole purpose in life is to tidy up after them, I think.

The lion in the laundry leers after the lamb in the living room, the bull in the bath bedevils the butterflies in the bedroom and the gorilla in the garage, well, he’s hopelessly devoted to the dove in the dishwasher.

It’s one thing to have a menagerie at home, but they follow me to work, too! They try to hide in the back seat of my car, like I won’t notice them – yeah, right! Silly creatures! Oh, I’ve tried before to pry them out, coax them out, beg and plead them out, but it’s useless. They snort and growl, bleat and flutter, jostling for a spot by the windows, the entire way to work. Somehow, I manage to keep each one hidden under my desk all day until I herd them out the door, stuff them back in the car and head home.

You might wonder why I put up with them. The answer is quite simple – we’re inseparable. Literally. Sometimes I bare my teeth at strangers, sometimes I grunt over complicated human considerations and sometimes I lick my chops inappropriately at… formal dinners.

Sometimes the bull gets in the bedroom, chases the butterflies out and the place is a mess for days.

Better Things to Think About

2004-12-14T14:51:00.000-08:00

”The only reason some people get lost in thought is because it's unfamiliar territory. “

Paul Fix

Better Things to Think About

I have better things to think about than taxes, insurance, medical coverage, politics and the mind-numbing assortment of bills that show up in the mailbox every month.

While I’m at it, let me add cleaning the house, changing the oil in my car, getting my hair cut, foreign trade policy and fretting over my pathetically miniscule 401K contribution.

At least, I think I have better things to think about. I should, right?

Oh, I can hear you now: “Join the club, buddy; we all have better things to think about!”

Oh, really? Fine, then. Carry on with whatever you were doing. I can see I won’t get any sympathy here.

Dum de dum, la la la…

Ooo, I can’t stand it anymore! Okay, what better things do you think about? I need ideas. Fast! I’m turning into a droll bureaucrat for my own affairs. I try to talk to myself but I have to take a number and wait in line! Ahead of me are telemarketers, family members, coworkers, a wife, a couple of dogs, newscasters, girl scouts selling cookies and a bunch of other people I don’t even know loitering about in the lobby of my brain.

Alright, that’s enough. Out, out with you all! The office is closing now. Come back tomorrow. Let me get back to you on that, okay? Move along, move along, please. Yes, yes I’ll call you tomorrow. Uh, huh, bye, bye!

Ah, that’s better. Now I’m alone with my thoughts.

Dum de dum, la la la…

Hellooo? Can I get a thought here? One lousy thought that isn’t about work or the war in Iraq, please?

Ooo, yes, yes, I have one now. Oh, yeah, I like this one. Oh, yeah…

Oops, you still here? Okay, before you go jumping to conclusions – I was thinking about you.

Ow! What was that for?

Uh, huh, well, I wasn’t going there, but I guess I know now what you were thinking.

And, yeah, it was better.

The Man with No Name

2004-12-13T14:51:00.000-08:00

Tuco (Eli Wallach): God is on our side because he hates the Yanks.
Man With No Name (Clint Eastwood): God is not on our side because he hates idiots also.

Il Buono, il brutto, il cattivo (The Good, The Bad, The Ugly), 1966

The Man with No Name

Sometimes I think I’m Clint Eastwood in a Spaghetti Western. Or maybe just “High Plains Drifter”, I don’t remember. All his old movies blur together after a while.

A mysterious, nameless stranger without either a past or a future, I amble into town carrying a saddle over my shoulder like a corpse, squinting under the brim of a dusty hat and chomping a cigar.

Is it just me, or is that setup pure metaphysical mind candy? I mean, it just screams avenging angel in leather and spurs dolling out divine justice in the old west with the hot lead of a smoking six gun. He’s Gabriel disguised in boots, faded denim and a worn duster materializing out of a prairie dust devil to battle the minions of evil on Earth.

Okay, it’s just me. Stick with me here.

He’s also the embodiment of the American cultural myth of rugged individualism and moral righteousness. As the Sword of God, he isn’t bound by the ethics of mere mortals. He is above human law and can cut through red tape with his gunslinger scowl and a fist to the jaw; he’s the ultimate vigilante. In our world he transcends good or bad. We cannot comprehend the mystery of his agenda, so we are in no position to judge him. His means are always justified by his end and we should simply have faith that his cold brutality will ultimately achieve a greater good for the timid people of Tombstone or Deadwood.

Sound familiar?

He’s an old-fashioned Superhero in sepia-toned Technicolor, Batman’s Dark Knight in a cowboy hat alone with a whistling wind and sagebrush cherubs. Cue lonesome, haunting music.

Yes, it’s intellectually appealing in an adolescent, Saturday matinee sort of way. Then I realize it’s just a myth and that such a man could not possibly exist.

Outside of Washington, D.C., that is.

Still, I channel him sometimes. I reserve words and emotion behind week-old stubble and chilly eyes. I squint and bite down hard on my cigar as I aim a searing bullet of divine retribution toward the sweaty, fearful faces of the wicked as they grovel for their lives, their knees in the dirt and their hands clasped in prayer.

Bang!

Better call the undertaker, Mister, before it starts drawing flies.

Man, I just hate it when someone at work pours the last of the coffee without making a fresh pot!

Pawnshop for Puzzles

2004-12-10T15:26:00.000-08:00

"A poem is never finished, only abandoned."

Paul Valery (1871 - 1945)

Pawnshop for Puzzles

Laughing Buddhas made
of irony and jade
Shelves of weeping virgins
aligned in orderly rows
Shiny enigmas wrapped
in mystery velvet black
There are jars of dark matter
and disembodied souls

In the pawnshop for puzzles
they buy and sell
the diversions for our slow
descents into Hell

Someone will buy
the conundrum of your life
solve it in a minute
then cast it aside

Tossed among devices
of old clockwork vices
The Riemann Hypothesis
still looks as good as new
A Rubik’s cube unopened
seal on the box unbroken
The Hodge Conjecture marred
by a fingerprint or two

In the pawnshop for puzzles
the parlor games
of the terminally bored
and fatally insane

Someone will buy
the conundrum of your life
solve it in a minute
then cast it aside

Life on the Edging

2004-12-09T18:00:00.000-08:00

“Life is something that happens when you can't get to sleep.”

Fran Lebowitz (1950 - )

Life on the Edging

My “party animal, take-no-prisoners, rock-n-roll” lifestyle is starting to take a toll on me.

Look, I’ll confess that I’ve frittered away my youth on cigarettes, poetry and mugs of hot, black tea, but I’m older and wiser now. I’m really not the hedonistic “bad boy” my reputation might lead you to believe.

Okay, so maybe I still try to get a full eight hours of sleep a night. Maybe I generally work over 40 hours a week at the office and few more from home. Maybe I cook and clean, mow the lawn and take out the trash.

That doesn’t make me an insensitive, caddish gadabout, does it?

Whatever you may have heard about me, I’m really not some suburban Don Juan in a polo shirt looking for another good time trimming the grass. Honest! Let me tell you, I’ve never once mowed a lawn that didn’t want to be mowed and, by golly, they all enjoyed it! Not to brag, but I have a pretty good sized mower. So, yeah, maybe I’ve stared too long at the greener, taller grass over the proverbial fence a few times, is that a crime?

Still, I’m unfulfilled. Oh, sure, I could mow a lawn everywhere I go, but even I have standards, you know? Some lawns are so overgrown even I won’t touch them. And some lawns are another guy’s job to mow. I respect that. I just sometimes feel there’s more to life than manicured lawns with perfectly trimmed edges.

…Something more than the frivolous orgy of my job, the mindless circus of commuting, and the intoxicating carnal pleasure of doing the dishes. Day in and day out. All this perpetual fun dodging the Home and Garden paparazzi is wearing me out. Yeah, now you think I’m selfish and greedy. Maybe I am.

It’s a perfect life compared to most and a lot of people would kill for the privilege of sweeping out the two car garage of my three bedroom mansion. But, I have to tell you, man, I gotta slow down. I’m living on the edge, you know? I’m flirting with death burning my candle at both ends. I just don’t have the stamina I once did back when I was young and starry-eyed for rebel homeowners on their bad ass riding mowers.

But, just when I consider slowing down, taking it easy and being responsible by staying out all night, getting drunk, having wonton sex, doing illegal drugs and mooning the cops just before they arrest me…I see it:

another gorgeous lawn that needs a good, vigorous mowing. Where’s my trimmer? And I’ll need protection… got any gloves?

Bridging the Gap

2004-12-08T15:07:00.000-08:00

“Every improvement in communication makes the bore more terrible.”

Frank Moore Colby, 1865-1925

Bridging the Gap

I’m considering learning either sign language or semaphore. Then again, I don’t suppose it takes fancy hand gestures to slap you to attention but it may indeed require a flag in each hand to bridge the gap between us.

Or not.

In the least I have to conclude that we either don’t speak the same language or my ability to communicate is atrociously bad.

Tell you what; I’ll split the blame with you fifty-fifty. That’s the best I can muster, really, because to accept the blame entirely would destroy me.

It would give credibility to the suspicions I have suppressed for years and explain in one elegantly simple, unified theory my entire history of failed human interaction.

Yes, I speak jabberwocky. Dull, boring jabberwocky, at that!

Or not.

Just now I considered, with my metaphorical throat virtually sore from yelling analogies, that you may very well be deaf. It may not be my fault whatsoever. I am absolved!

Yeah, right. I don’t believe it, either.

Anyway, don’t get testy if I poke you with one of my flags. It will be a white flag, after all.

I’ll be waving it as hard and as fast as I can.

Just don’t look through me as if you were blind.

My humility has its limits, you know.

And you’re not so far away I can’t tickle you.

Driven to Distraction

2004-12-07T15:08:00.000-08:00

“Sometimes when you look in his eyes you get the feeling that someone else is driving.”

David Letterman

Driven to Distraction

I’ve been to the moon and back several times, at least. I’ve also been around the globe more often than I can count. Oddly enough, the scenery was the same.

Of course, I went all that way in cars. You know – automobiles: cars, trucks and the like.

While rarely leaving the same metropolitan area, I’ve traveled an impressive distance going nowhere in the vehicles I have had.

To and fro, back and forth, a few miles at a time between a woefully short list of here and there added up over the years. Oh, the landscape is beautiful, don’t get me wrong, I’ve just driven through it so many times I could reach my destination blindfolded!

In general, the cars have been reliable enough, although I have driven a few clunkers that regularly broke down when I needed them most. Reliable or not, I have an expensive habit of trading them in every few years. There’s just something tantalizing and irresistibly tempting about a new car all bright and shiny, full of that new car smell, with exciting and mysterious new features to discover.

But every time I get a new car, once I’ve played with all the buttons, made the tires squeal and waxed it good a few times, it occurs to me I’m driving it to the same old places I did the last one.

Maybe I don’t need a new car as much as I need a new destination.

That would mean driving off the edge of the faded, wrinkled old map my parents gave me to places I can’t even imagine. I don’t know if my car will even make it over the roads, if any, I might find or if either the car or me will have enough gas for the trip.

And if the car breaks down and I end up stranded and alone, what then?

I’ll be the haggard old fellow along a midnight highway hitchhiking for a ride with a sign that reads:

“To the moon or bust.”

Call me spoiled, but I absolutely refuse to take the bus.

Having Talk

2004-12-06T17:20:00.000-08:00

“Talking with you is sort of the conversational equivalent of an out of body experience.“
Bill Watterson, Calvin & Hobbes

Having Talk

Let’s be honest – everybody likes having talk.

I mean, each of us is here because our parents made conversation to each other (although dwelling on that thought is a little creepy). And with over six billion people on planet Earth, it’s a simple fact that two people are communicating somewhere together every moment of every day. We want and need talk so much we will even make conversation to ourselves.

The secret’s out, so stop blushing. Call it what you will – chatting, gab, dialog – it’s all talk. Whether alone, with just one other person, or in groups, whether slow and romantic or fast and passionate – not to be crude, but we like to yak.

Of course, some people are more reserved about it than others. That’s understandable. Talk is the single most intimate activity we can have with other people. We’re vulnerable during talk and expose ourselves to rejection and ridicule. Talk is very personal, so we keep our talk lives private. We seldom even discuss talk and when we do, it’s concealed behind humor and innuendo. Talk has gotten a bad rap, I think. It’s only dirty if you want it to be.

Still, despite all the risks, talk is magnetic. Talk draws people together with an invisible force that eventually overpowers any resistance. Talk sells, as they say, but is it really the ultimate tyranny of biology that enslaves us? Is our need for intimate conversation simply a conspiracy of hormones and attractive faces? I don’t think so.

I think we need talk because we don’t like feeling alone. Talk connects us to other people like nothing else can; it reassures us we are interesting and valued; it helps us to resolve conflicts and work together. Yes, some people have talk just for the pleasure of it. Some people don’t have much to say while others talk too much. Some people just like watching other people have talk. The truth is, we all have our favorite topics and positions in the conversation-making department and we all have talk fantasies of one sort or another.

So, be honest. When was the last time you had really good talk?

Go ahead, I’m listening.