Seasons Change

on the cusp of another break in seasons, i feel a tension everywhere. it's like electricity, sizzling all around as currents fork and shoot to make an infinity of connections with all of the other charged objects that surge and whir in this seasonal transience. it's the energy that comes from forcing opposing poles into close proximity and then keeping them there. the power in a Contradiction's stubbornness to avoid looking at itself in the mirror, i guess. it comes with every footfall on the concrete sidewalk, baked warm by the daylight and cooked cool in the evenings. your body starts to sweat at illogical moments because the hot and cold air mixes together to create a burning sensation that can't be justified. it's in the flowers and the trees and the vines whose blossoms are coaxed outside by a mischievous and deceitful sun only to be stung by nightfall and rendered cowering and frightened beneath the moonlight.

this pushing and pulling so close to one another infuses the air with such a reaction potential that it seeps out, supersaturates. it touches us all. the effect isn't immediately palpable, no. but, it's there. it's there in the smiles and the laughter and the hellos that come calling through the breezes. you hear it between all the honking and over the sewer steam, hissing from the manhole covers. it's the time of year when you start to notice people living. and that seems to drown everything else out.

this is the last gasp of a season that doesn't want to die.

and, perhaps it is that our very living eggs it on. so, we walk livelier and farther in the face of the long frost, in spite of it, in the hopes that we may in fact scare it away with laughter--with life.



...or, maybe it's just Denial, manifesting itself because everyone knows that we can't stop the seasons from changing. we can only hope to.

you be the judge.

Woof Woof

i think it's funny to see owners who look just like their dogs. i think they take cues from one another, and their behaviors become amalgums of each others', whether they know it or not. ultimately, i can't separate dog from master or vice versa. i end up seeing them as one and the same.

In One Place

i've bought things. i've worked at stuff.

i own a television. i have a modest dvd collection. i like my stereo. my bike is nice. i've filled my time and my life with small goals and seemingly smaller, emptier possessions. i went to college. that was indulgent. i have a job. i've had two. and a few internships at cool places. the cumulative effect of all of those things has led me to fill my relatively small apartment with a relatively unnecessary amount of useless things, the worth of which i find hard to pinpoint. better yet, the worth of which i find it impossible to derive satisfaction from. sure, they might satisfy an urge or an impulse. a wish to be instantly distracted. a need to be immediately pleased. but the half-lives of these things are uncannily volatile; their purpose expires quickly, and their existence is soul-less.

nonetheless i trudge forward. although, i'll stop myself and admit that 'forward' might be an audacious claim. there isn't a direction to the movement. no momentum, no intertia. let's say that i'm walking in place rather well, at a hearty pace ...knees high, good form. it's curious that only rarely do i take the care to notice where i've gone. and even then the observations are superficial at best. their notation in the great Book of my self-logging is simply an act. as if my remarking of them would be anything more than just that.

well, secretly i hope they are more, but i know better. what's the harm in a little self-deceit?

normally, during a journey, one would expect the scenery to whisk by. maybe a bug might hit the windshield or something. a speeding ticket perhaps. yet not only have i managed to neglect these passings (or rather a lack thereof), i've downright ignored their absence. and, instead of leaving things behind, i've collected things, piled them high to fill the void. and, among them i continue marching in place. maybe it's because of them that i can't go forward.

i wonder if i'll actually ever take the odd step out and look at the heap i've created: the mausoleum to a lack of achievement. maybe that will scare the shit out of me enough to make me get going somehwere.

because really, what prompted all of this was the simple, self-posed question of "what have i done?"

all i could come up with was that i haven't done a whole lot, but i've got a ton of stuff.

Industry

i've long had a bit of an obsession with the products of industry that sit as skeletons across our countrysides and cityscapes. something about these rotting places with iron and glass and stone all withering slowly make for a beautiful sight ...oddly.

anyway, i'd been thinking about it a lot. and then i went to the MET today to see a presentation of modernists and abstract expressionists. that's when i read this:

every age manifests itself by some external evidence. in a period such as ours when only a comparatively few individuals seem to be given to religion, some form other than the Gothic cathedral must be found. industry concerns the greatest numbers--it may be true, as has been said, that our factories are our substitute for religious expression.

it's from an artist, charles sheeler, who's passion was precionist paintings of factories and the like.

now he may have painted them in their glory, but i still find something epic in their abandonment and degredation. that's just my way of saying that i think even in the death of these factories, his statement still holds true.

some of his paintings are on the left.

oh happy flashback (part II)

in the gentle drizzle, i wandered and soaked. i had never really dried off from the shower, so the rain just extended my sogginess. i rather liked it though; it kept me cool in the dusk on the roof. the pitter patter of the rain on the tar-top sounded like soft fingertips gently worrying themselves across the kitchen table. it was a comforting din that worked its way through the thick july air. it acted like insulation for the rest of the rooftop goings-on. for a while, that tap-tap-tapping was all i heard. but then, subtle sounds started to sneak their way in.

the clicks and snaps of a loosely rigged tarp in the wind poked through like thumbtacks; shelter from the raindrops. i was near the makeshift stairway when i became aware of these new sounds. hearing them, my ears perked up a bit. i was curious to see what or who else might be up here with me. and, as i listened harder, i crept up closer--through the awkward passageway between exhaust vents and steampipes, over the moldy planks. i heard the baritone of a man's voice, the soft soprano of his companion, and then suddenly the sharp alto of Elayna.

her voice was familiar to me for, as is usually the case, the walls of our stacked apartments are quite thin. and, in the mornings as i worked through my *régime*, i would wind up moving to the soundtrack of Elayna's laughter ...or her tears. brushing my teeth, i was privvy to her good days and her bad ones. and, a parent's frustration of not being able to predict which day it would be this morning or the next. it's a difficult way to become acquainted since you never really meet but nevertheless remain an observer to what are thought to be intimate moments.

it's like sound or light. humans are limited in their ability to appreciate the full spectrum of things that exist in the world. to wit: a dog can hear more frequencies of sound than both you or i. still other animals are able to register frequencies of light that are elseways imperceptible to us. normally, we operate within the most basic range of frequencies. and these are the parts of ourselves we put forth: the average of all frequencies, satisfactorily harmonious. however, in private, we can become beasts of lust or anger or sorrow. in these throes, we become something else. and so, we employ frequencies otherwise reserved for more primal creatures. these are sides of ourselves we never intend to let out of their cages; we keep them locked up for good reason. when they do escape, it's not for others' enjoyment. to witness these moments--be it first hand or through a paper thin wall--is an uncomfortable experience. you'd simply rather not have been around for it.

however it is the silent witness who is burdened most. for not only must he know the beast, he must also come to know the imposter, the deceiver, the Charlatan. this character is ignorant to another's knowledge of his darker side and so behaves as if there was no awareness to begin with. meeting on the street, the Charlatan greets you warmly, with a kind voice and a generous smile. but, as you become familiar with his more sinister side--creeping through the walls during countless evenings and quiet, early dawns--you begin to notice the canines in his grin, the shrill tone in his,"hello." you come to understand that the average of all frequencies is nothing more than a façade. a harmony whose parts are rough and mottled, designed with the intent to cover up the most unpleasant tones rather than reveal a beautifully complex agreement. no matter. in the end, the worst notes ring truest, and you get a glimpse of the full spectrum whether you wanted it or not.

and then, you start to think about yourself.

oh happy flashback (Part I)

for the most part, it wasn't much different than any other hot, muggy day in new york. the trash on the sidewalk wasn't any less putrid. my clothes still greedily lapped up the sweat that made me sticky all over. and, everyone was still moving slowly through the air's thickness. always in the summer you begin to get a great appreciation for the physical fluidity of air. it seems ridiculous, i understand. however, air is technically a fluid. and in the summer, you learn it.

the *météo* is certainly comparable in other parts of this country, i understand that too. washington d.c. is particularly painful in the summer months. it used to be a swamp with water in it. then it got drained. now it's a swamp with hot air floating about. frankly, i find this situation to be worse than if the swamp water was still around. where one could have pointed at the object of his ire, now the soppiness taunts him as the invisible, yet somehow ever-palpable Spectre. st. louis is pretty damp as well. and let's not forget new orleans.

well, to make matters worse on this particular day, i hadn't showered ...yet. it all really started the night before. impromptu plans led to new introductions, which led to new friends, which led to new adventures. it was one of those nights where everything just kept falling into place. i met a dog named Tiger. I saw stag-horn ferns. I played on a playground at four in the morning (highly recommended). next thing i know, i'm emerging from the murky L-train stairway on 14th street at around 3pm, a bit beaten down from a long night.

dressed in yesterday's clothes, i'm having trouble climbing the stairs because my jeans are clinging so tightly to my sweaty legs that mobility is becoming an issue. my t-shirt isn't doing me any favors either. i run my fingers through my hair at the end of a half-hearted "everything-still-there?" full-body pat-down. my coif remains standing. it would be kind to say that i was mildly disheveled. but then to say that, you'd have to be blind. and even then, you'd be a pretty dumb blind person because i smelled like shit.

these details all augmented awkwardly when met with the saturated air. it was like one of those little sponge dinosaurs that they cram into a plastic pill case. and, when you see it, you're thinking to yourself, "There can't be a dinosaur in there! Nuh uh!" but, then, you drop it into the bathroom sink after you plugged the drain; and, low-and-behold, five minutes later: a proper sponge dinosaur. and, he's purple no less! ...of course, you're six years old at this point.

at any rate, i was a mess. time to stumble home. and stumble i did, through the heat and steam of the new york city summer. and now, thunder clouds began to mingle and gather like lumpish lambs in the skies overhead. this was july fourth, 2007.

i emerged from the shower... cleaner ...but, still sweating. the heat and the humidity were pretty much inescapable. however, those storm clouds promised to bring some release to our supersaturated situation. in the grey duldrums that were forming, i managed to climb the stairs of my new apartment in my new neighborhood to the roof. i was told the fireworks would begin soon and that i was in a prime spot to see them. i'd been living in new york for four years, and, to be honest, had never actually seen those bright lights in the sky.

there is, however, the great sensation of hearing the ballistics. the city's so incredibly dense and built-up that it has the tendency to act as an echo chamber. and, as the ordnances blast and bellow, they send waves of cacauphony rumbling through the streets, down the avenues, bouncing off glass and steel and stone as if they were trampolines. this, i've heard ...but never seen.

so, i had climbed to the roof. and sat--waiting. apparently i had arrived a bit early. no matter. this afforded me some time to observe my new surroundings from a heightened vantage point. i started to wander somewhat scatterbraindedly about my roof, examing the intricacies and odd craftsmanship that, over the decades, had amassed in the form of mismatched brick, tar-to-mortar-and-back-again patches, jury-rigged butresses, the odd seedling, and all the countless abandoned buckets and lumber left rotting and withering in far corners and nooks. there were passageways and walkthroughs. steam pipes and sky lights. and, there were makeshift stairs to the adjacent roof. all of these details were eerily exagerated by the dim grey smoke-light slowly pouring through the clouds this particular evening. everything was made darker.

and then all was made wetter. the clouds gently gave way, breaking under the weight of their burden, and sprinkling a cool, consistent haze upon us all that night.

hmmmm

with some sort of predictability, i get touched by a distant anxiousness that rises and bubbles until, with the inevitable passage of time, it manifests itself as a bilious dyspepsia that causes me numerous palpitations and a general feeling of physical uneasiness. it happens as words and pictures and anecdotes pile upon one another so carelessly that, in their self-involved, wonderfully oblivious way, they manage to form the foci of profound events in the imaginary life i would like to lead.

this happens every so often, after an in-law climbs mt. everest and dines with sherpas, after a sister's friend single-handedly saves an indonesian village from illogically carnivorous gerbils (said village is now named after said friend), and after i manage to drop my toothbrush in the toilet, left with a measly digit to scrape and scrub my maw.

it is while manually retrieving (tried: flushing, baiting, hooking) aforementioned toothbrush from its infamously unhygienic reflecting pool that i realize i would rather not be elbow deep in toilet water for the lottery of the remainder of my years there is to be. rather, i would most undoubtedly be desiring to rescue a small bolivian town from a plague of bole weevils, while aiding the president (post 2008; this, after all, occurs in the future) in his quest to transplant mt. rushmore onto the moon, an admittedly larger canvas.

and, although rants and mental meanderings such as these really provide no solace or catharsis, they at least allow me to punctuate what would otherwise be a rather moribund habitation of this planet with the musings of the happenings of a life i may one day lead. Now, after that toothbrush once more.....

what the fuck?!

Greetings, dirtling, originally uploaded by valleywagprime.

yup, i'm a dirtling.
but i'm not from san fran.

my pic popped up on valleywag.com the other day after my arrival from Virgin America flight VX001; the very first flight flown by the airline.

this is my arrival in the blogosphere. mark it. learn it. forget it just as quickly.

sincerely,
"the dirty hippie"

Fate

i was digging for inspiration, looking for something to push me forward and make me spit out some more words.

in my digging, i opened up an old file on my computer and found some fragments and musings that i figured would be interesting to share. here is the first:

...the trick then isn't to remain changeless and rigid, to let the things around you change with your awareness but without your reaction. let us also not confuse this amateurish stoicism for the ignorance of denial, for one is a pity and one is a plague. the idea would be to apply some temperance to the fate of man, for fate alone moves without conscience; but, the fate of man, That imbues itself with a sense of his own unknown capability and thust isn't without some humanity; it cannot be stopped, but it can be moved.

more to come...

Dull and Boring

it may be that a constant shroud of grey dew and mist has parked itself conveniently above our island. or, it could be that the windows from which i must always peer are in a constant state of never-clean; limescale, grit, and other unknown sludge compounds -- whose origins are from the city's maw and the foul rear-ends of its cars no doubt -- tirelessly fling themselves at even the faintest hint of clarity.

it might have only just struck me last night, as i rode the clickety clacking subway car home from a long sunday's worth of work. and, there, across from me and about 20 paces to my right stood a man, sucking and puckering and feeling for the memory of his teeth with his chapped lips and sallow cheeks. cheekbones like isosceles triangles and wide-set, pinhole eyes that glinted in the sterile lamplight. he was talking. above the din and growl of the six train he shouted in lisps and light whistles at his reflection in the dark glass. it was murky, like the rest of the bespeckled panels throughout our town.

at least he could see what he was shouting at, despite its distortion.

around me there seems to be a general 'dull and boring' permeating my surroundings, with only low points as accents to the otherwise sloth-like monotony. each one trying to creep lower than the previous--toothless men plagued by dementia, blind beggers, disfigured families...

and i just keep wandering through it. so do most of us, i think. it comes out best in the mornings, when the zombies march to their train stations and sit or stand in silence, complacently -- vacantly -- staring. i always wonder if they're looking for something, even a murky reflection.

i'm looking for something, just can't figure out what it is. and, while i keep looking, i keep wandering. and the filth and the mire and the sludge keeps piling up. i get the feeling that if i wait too long i'll find myself in quicksand.

maybe i'll just go eat some thai food. that usually makes things better.

Can We Still Rally?

the other night, over dinner with a friend, i believe an important question reared its head:
where has our fervor gone?

why does it appear that the american public is only mildly concerned with the current state of affairs in this country? why is this mild concern meagerly supported by a dearth of examples, further hindering our awareness and leaving efforts hamstrung? and why do these efforts seem sporadic at best?

initially, my friend and i, we gravitated toward the 'media.' between its fragmentation and various vehicles, we simply concluded that its coverage of this war is equally fragmented and varied. and, well, it fills the gaps with things that amount to news-journalism "rubbernecking." we hear about porn revenues, people getting beat up, tv hosts dropping the F Bomb, spats amongst celebrities. and, as interesting and pleasing as these things are to read--they satisfy some cerebral sweet tooth--they take up space in our newspapers, websites, radio shows, magazines, and newscasts. they fill up time that might be better spent examining more necessary issues. moreover, they distract us.

for instance:
there were over 100 people killed in iraq on tuesday. yet, the only thing i really heard about was how hot brangelina looked at the golden globes.

now, i understand that if i really wanted to find some coverage on this disturbing wartime fact, i could dig around for a few minutes and find it. but my worry isn't about a situation like this. there are people who care deeply, and they find the facts; and they do talk about them. but, on the whole, these folks appear (at least to me) to be a vast minority. the issues they try to bring to the forefront can be given cursory coverage in major news sources and compete for ratings on tv newscasts where people naturally gravitate towards less taxing issues, like red carpet fashions.

even still, i think many might agree that there is sufficient coverage of some of the more pressing matters concerning our involvement in this war, and that one need only take a step in any direction to land on it. i admit that it would be difficult for me to argue against this position for an extended period of time.

and so, this situation, this 'mild concern' that i'm discussing, is a cause for even greater perplexity (again, perhaps just for me)...

...if i acquiesce and concede that there may in fact be satisfactory coverage of our involvement in this war and the issues involved in it, how is it that americans still appear to be, on the whole, rather apathetic about the whole thing?

my friend and i, we continued our debate on this point of contention, trying to lay blame. in doing so, we found our focus tightening. it no longer settled on 'media' as a whole. our aim now trained on what i'll call the 'curators'--the newscasters, editors, producers. for if, out there in the media ether, there exists sufficient wartime analysis to counter my previous assertion, and yet we still remain lethargic in response to the facts, then it must be concluded that one cannot necessarily depend on the american people to actively seek out the truth and debate it. therefore, it takes someone to direct us, to literally make us look at what is most important. this job lies in the hands of these 'curators,' as they control the distribution, the lineup, the commentary; they are the sources of dissemination.

there was a time when curators dealt the truth whether we wanted to hear it or not. and because those views rang true, we had no choice but to hear. they forced us to pay attention. during his coverage of the vietnam war, walter cronkite was brave enough to make us stop and listen. during his newscast on february 19, 1968 he opined that the war had become a "stalemate" that had to be ended, and so we must "negotiate."

ultimately, his comments helped lead our country out of that war, perhaps contributing to president johnson's decision to end our commitment in vietnam.

meanwhile, today, we have nbc newscasters labeling the situation in iraq as "civil war."

i find this to be a sad, stark contrast. and, unfortunately, most people are suffering for it--iraqis and americans alike. it's a "civil war" mentality that allows the importance of our wartime status to sneak past the american conscience and become a demoted, second-tier issue, effecting everything related to it.

in the end, however, i think it's difficult to place onus on any one group or person or thing. but then, this isn't the sort of issue that is bettered as result of allocating blame. rather than try to figure out where the problem started, it's better for us to decide how to fix it.

and so, i want to test the waters. i'm posting this article on digg.com. i urge you to help make this post stand out from the rest. i want to use it as a starting point. if enough support can be rallied, i hope to use it as a means of organizing a march in washington d.c.. something large enough to get everyone's attention. i've never done anything like this before, that's why i hope you'll take me seriously and help show that people still do care.

let's see what happens.

You Pay For What You (Don't) Get

it would appear that many of my musings are inspired or occur whilst in coffee shops.

this deep thought is brought to you by starbucks.

let us walk through a scenario which i believe we can all relate to.

step 1: enter starbucks
step 2: queue in line
step 3: approach 'barista'
step 4: order
step 5: pay
step 6: get coffee

in a perfect world, this scenario unfolds from step 1 in a rather prompt and sequential manner. after all, it make sense that after step 1 comes step 2 and then step 3 and so on. until, in a reasonable amount of time, you're holding the multi-syllabic caffeinated beverage of your choice.

however, in a perfect world, we live not.

and so, our scenario's impenetrable logic suddenly begins to breakdown. everything still unfolds from step 1, but the fluidity and promptness of the process begins to deteriorate at step 5. here, there is a sort of barista brain fart, a hiccup.

the bone of contention for me is trying to understand what in god's name happens between steps 5 and 6. and, more importantly, why this mystery event--let's call it step 5.5--is acceptable.

after the barista has taken my money at step 5 thus ensues The Long Wait (aka step 5.5). it is at this particular juncture that i have taken value i own--i.e. cash--and transferred that value to the barista with the expectation of receiving a perishable good of commensurate value to the cash i just dispensed.

however, in return, i receive nothing. in fact, not only do i receive nothing, but worse, i am made to wait whilst still receiving nothing for an undetermined, protracted period of time ...the duration of which i have no control over.

this when i find myself asking:
"what did i just pay for?"

to anticipate a critique of this rationale:
yes, inevitably and ultimately i do receive my caffeine fix for the day. but my gripe is not with the end--i paid for that; i expect my coffee. my gripe is with the means--i didn't pay for that; why am i paying a price just to stand there?

so, in this limbo where i have paid for something and not yet received it, i'm waiting in a space where i've in fact paid for nothing.

the next question is:
"why are these 15 other people standing here? and why is this an acceptable paradigm for them?"

other holes people might try to punch in this conundrum involve examples.

for instance: plane tickets.
we buy those in advance. why don't you make the same claim about waiting for a flight to board when there's a delay or bad weather?

my answer:
i'm complaining about coffee. COFFEE.
it requires a process of grinding beans and then pouring hot water through them to produce a drink.

the counter-example involves airplanes.
airplanes are highly sophisticated machines with innumerable pieces, parts, nuances etc. furthermore, to fly one requires coordination on an advanced level. there's the FAA, flight control, other planes, radar, flight paths, etc. finally, weather can't be controlled, nor can it be well-predicted. simply put, flying on an airplane contains a sufficient amount of variables as to require a passenger to not only be un-phased by delays but to actually expect/anticipate them.

coffee on the other hand does not satisfy this 'numerous variable' requirement.

what do you think?

2 + 1 + 2 Things You Don't Know About Me

got a tag from Jack Cheng to participate in a nice little project: five things you don't know about me. here comes the weirdness...

1. i'm incredibly OCD. i'm obsessed with the number thirteen. i view it as an auspicious sign when i look at a digital clock and it reads X hour and 13 minutes. if i want something good to happen, i will ask myself if it is going to happen and then look at the clock. if it is at the 13th minute, i will then count to thirteen in my head; and, if the minute doesn't change then i'm somewhat more hopeful of the prospect of this wish being fulfilled. likewise, i won't turn off the shower until i count backwards from 10 to -3.

2. conversely, i hate the number 14. i believe it to be the unluckiest of all numbers. if, when going through the above exercise of asking for a wish to fulfilled, i see the 14th minute on the clock, i'm pretty much certain that whatever it is i hoped for is now marked for death.

3. i love legos. i still build them with my nephews whenever i visit them. when i was little, i built an entire lego world based around the then magical monorail. it filled my whole room, and regular sized adults would have to sort of bob and weave to make their way through it.

4. i speak french

5. i have a 125mph serve. (i used to play a lot of tennis)

sadly, i know not who else to tag as all of my blogosphere contacts have been used up between my friends Jack and Ryan. they would've been Concha, Piers, Bryan, and then Ryan and Jack.

alas, i know no other bloggers. maybe i'll try aziz. he doesn't know me, but i bet his list would be interesting.

(early) New Year's Resolution

not that anyone is actually reading...
but, my first ever New Year's Resolution will be to post something, anything, one single thing...

at least once per week.

(fingers crossed)

Human Assist

this really happened

some guy: "oh, and we have this great feature called 'human assist.'"
me: "okay?"
some guy: "yeah, we get real people do some of the work and act as filters."

it's like a we're living in the prelude to a movie, and it's called the terminator. with the utterance of that single term, 'human assist,' pictures of anthropomorphic cyborgs

and human batteries







quickly flashed through my mind. it wasn't a hard leap to envision the apocolypse unfolding right after this guy finished talking to me.

it's just that if we accept something like 'human assist' then we've suddenly begun subjugating ourselves to something else, constantly deferring to whatever we're 'assisting.' what's even more bothersome is how casually this concept is passed off and how readily this man accepted it as the next best thing since sliced bread. that sort of complacencey is dangerous.

it also mindlessly demeans everything we do. now, we don't actually do anything, we just assist. shit, i can hook a light bulb up to a hamster wheel and let a gerbil 'assist' me. do we really want to start thinking of ourselves as rodents? it's a slippery slope, i know. but this guy is committing us to a very scary first step.

A Haiku for Speakerphone

oh lady in the
cafe why do you talk on
speakerphone near me?

maybe you are old
and cannot hear things very well
is that why you yell?

who cares because we
all don't need to know about
your spreading rash and bad breath

The Moden Man's Guide to Survival

we've lost sight...

"pray tell, what have we lost sight of?" you ask.

it's hard to say outright, so i'll detail a few observations.
oh, and minor caveat, i'm as guilty as anyone else regarding this blindness. come to think of it, i'm just guilty.

on to the good stuff. here is a list of two things:
1. lighter
2. matches

if i want to fire up the grill, i reach for one of those two items. i can suck down smoke because i have matches in my pocket. when i feel like burning stuff, it flames from the molded plastic butane torch that i picked up in the bodega.

back in the day, our cro-magnon forefathers rubbed some twigs around. before that they banged rocks together. before that, they froze their asses off and everything they ate would qualify for what we now call a 'raw bar.'

i've watched my fair share of cable tv, which is to say that i've seen countless re-runs of 'castaway' on tbs. and, i think it's safe to say that tom hanks has single handedly provided us with the modern man's guide to survival.

if i were marooned on an island... no. something even more minor: if i was lost in a field 5 minutes from my house, i'd be fucked. i don't hunt, i don't tie knots, and i can't tell time via the sun. i can, however, cook up a mean pot of mac and cheese using my patent-pending 'sublimation' technique. even then, i need a stove.

it is a sad fact to say that the only reason i'd even be able to keep myself warm on those lonely nights a stone's throw away from my favorite modern amenities is because of the drama that unfolded between one stranded tom hanks, two pieces of drift wood, and a volleyball named wilson. it just leads me to think that we've drifted a long way ourselves ...from some of the essential elements the make us who are.

sure, we innovate. we create technology. we find ways to insulate ourselves and make things more convenient, more accessible. but, by pursuing a particular path of intellectual achievement, i think some of our better parts atrophy at the expense of a greater good whose goal isn't quite clear.

do we really need to make another, faster computer? what does this get us? faster youtube downloads. better porn. server farms and petaflops. energy crises. i'm not sure that these are really essential to anything innately 'human.' nonetheless, i exploit all of these luxuries just as much (or more) than anyone else.

perhaps it's that these innovations no longer enhance our survival; it's that they allow us to forget survival's necessity. maybe that's what bothers me. because i'm certainly not suggesting we all go out in the woods for a few days, hunt bobcats, eat some raw meat, and make thicket houses to get in touch with our roots.

i just think there's something to be said for the type of innovation requisite to survival. there's a spirit to it and a necessity that speaks to an efficiency, a purity ignorant of excess.

i wonder if anyone pauses to think how important that flame is in their hand when they strike a match or spark a lighter. i doubt they do.

maybe we just need to readjust our bearings.

Smelly

my computer is smelly.

i have an old computer. it's a laptop. sometimes i lug it with me places like the coffee shop or the deli or maybe somehwere else too. the outside of my smellbox is festooned with stickers ...but not flowery stickers, as "festoon" might have suggested to some. nope. they're just random stickers.

they were stuck there with the intention of infecting the smellbox with some character. we do that with our cars. when they get old, these automobiles (not 'cars'; cars are new) get little additions. they start to grow fuzzy dice or hula girls or furry steering wheels. and, you see bumper stickers that say "how's my driving?" or "my other car's a mazerati." and, then the car is named "steve-o" or "betty" or "kiki." somehow, the total sum of these attributes meets the minimum threshold of what we consider a personality because, as the clock winds down, we start to say things like, "kiki sure is fiesty, but she's been good to me" or "steve-o, he hangs in tough. he's a scrapper; that's why i like him." and so it goes.

i thought i could manage the same fate for my sharp-cornered laptop by stickering it. but, as its name is smellbox, it's pretty clear that the stickers didn't really do much for its character. they've been far outshined by smelliness. my laptop is that ugly, smelly kid that always grossed you out in gym class ...but, now, with the stickers, he's got an extreme case of acne.

icing on the cake.

my funky laptop is a people-repellant. it's the funk that does it; i'm pretty sure. i go somewhere with my smellbox, and i open it up and turn it on. it takes one to two minutes for the armpit-smell to waft up from beneath the keyboard. if you could see it, i think it would look like that stink-ribbon that always trailed skunks in old cartoons.




it's only a matter of time before that ribbon winds its way beneath elmer fudd's nose.










we all know what happens next:










can't shoot my smellbox though. i need it. to write this.

is it bad that i'm talking about it right now? i wonder if it can tell. maybe it will get back at me. like when that crazy computer started to eat richard pryor in superman 3. that would suck.

anyway.

it's just me and my smellbox. everytime i sit down with it, people start to leave. i think the girl sitting next to me is talking about it right now. she's speaking russian, but sometimes she'll turn her head to look at me during her phone conversation and say some words in english, like "smelly" and "hairy" and "guy" and "computer."

poor smellbox. he's good, but no one likes to be near him.

Tacos!

first, some background:
microsoft has released a new little gizmo to compete with the ipod. it's called "the zune." you can't buy it yet, but a lot of people are talking about it. by a lot of people, i mean gadget freaks and techies who sit up all night scouring the interwebs for pr0n. not...say...housewives who sit in the audience of the ellen degeneres show and shop at kmart.

speaking of dancing lesbians, ms. degeneres decided to give a whole bunch of these little guys away to her audience. following her announcement, mayhem ensues. the good stuff jumps off at around 1:12 in the clip below.

basically, we get some good looks of 30- to 40- something women jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, hugging each other; it's a fucking frenzy. i think i even saw one girl start crying. take a look...

here's my gripe (i'm about to get all 'marketing-speak-y' for a minute): these women, this particular demographic--the audience that watches daytime soaps, oprah, and 'the view'--their ken revolves around things like new 'scrubbing bubbles,' febreze, playtex 24-hour bras, and manwich meals. i bet if you stopped one of them on the street and asked her to give you a zune, she'd track down the nearest police officer and tell him that you asked her to do something involving drugs or sexual favors; she's not sure which, but she's positive it had something to do with one or the other. and yet, when ellen mentions that they're all getting one of these things, they flip out like a bunch of 14 year-olds at an aaron carter concert.

this got me thinking: if they really have no idea what this doo-hickey is that they're being given, ellen could have probably said anything--ANYTHING--and they would've all still gone schizo. it's as if they came to the show just waiting for an excuse to go apeshit and jump up and down and hug each other. they were primed, they just needed an excuse. to that end, our nation's favorite daytime talkshow host could've said, "and hey! guess what! you're all getting tacos!"

Cue 'madness.'

or maybe they were just desperate for free shit. this paints an even bleaker picture.

1. it portrays our countrymen/women as a people ravenous for a handout, no matter how relevant or useful said handout happens to be.

2. the broadcast is transformed from an object of mere entertainment to that of psychological conditioning. this show and its audience's reaction cleverly becomes a model, exemplary of how all citizens of the free world should act when given something by someone of a higher caste. we must be grateful for their generosity; we must celebrate these crumbs for without them, we would only have CD players. and, god, would that suck.

imagine what would've happened if ellen offered to give them free sour cream, too; there would've been riots of celebration pouring from the studio into the street.

Donut Holes

a long day's afternoon is upon me, and i need a quick fix to keep my wits. i stroll over to the local coffee shop to pick up a double espresso (yeah, i know). it's been pretty busy at work, so i'm hoping that the line will move quickly.

let me digress for a moment. i have been cursed. specifically, a dark, pestilent plague has been cast upon me when it comes to waiting in lines. its modus operandi is to make me wait in line as long as possible for no reason. and, for the most part, when i am waiting in said lines, i am in a desperate hurry. i'm not sure why i'm always in such a hurry, but i think the act of waiting in line in and of itself has something to do with it. and so, i will say this: i fucking hate waiting in line.

the nature of a line is like that of a reservoir, and a reservoir is the illusion of the polite management of pressure. millions and millions of gallons of water have been corralled and bottled-up, exerting unheard of amounts of newton-meters of force on whatever has been engineered to contain it. usually, this containment comes in the form of a dam. so, there sits a tranquil midwestern town, over which looms the tall shadow of the great dam. behind this barrier is our gigantic volume of water dying to release its energy and rush freely over what is currently an impoverished, dry river bed; this water yearns to replenish and restore what was once a fecund valley, now occupied by...say...a coffee shop.

people in line are no different. as more gather, the pressure rises. however, we're not as passive as our liquid counterparts. so, as the line augments, its members become raucous, perturbed. they too feel the need to embark upon their intended paths, but something is holding them back: the dam. this time, though, the dam is equally unique.

it talks.

not only does it talk, but it has a cash register, an apron, and lingo. it has its very own fucking lexicon. and, it slings this ridiculous polysyllabic nonsense from its oral orifice at freakishly high volume, right in your face. this dam is running interference, trying to stuff its reservoir to maximum capacity.

meanwhile, this plague of mine, it festers and gurgles in the confines of my inner monologue and ultimately manifests as a throbbing neck vein. hitting something is usually the desired recourse and release. yet, as is the case, there isn't anything acceptable to hit. so i just stew, while the dam keeps spouting crap--the bottled up muck that results from stagnation.

finally, there's just one person--let's call him "Mongo"--in front of me. enter stage left, The Curse.

m: "yeah, uh, what are those there?" Mongo says, looking and pointing at round objects with holes in them, lying just beneath the glass counter top.

mind you, Mongo has no accent; he isn't from a far away place, untouched by man, dams, and coffee shops. all things considered, it in fact appears that Mongo is fairly accustomed to this procedure of ordering an object of which he is desirous.

d: "hi sir, how may help you?" as if the dam didn't just hear what Mongo had so astutely asked.
m: "yeah, those there," still pointing, "what are those?"
d: "those are donuts, sir," the dam replies.

then it enters into a long-winded exegesis, using the untranslatable lexicon to describe the history of said donuts and their romanticised journey. they started as sacred wheat in a remote african province and were blessed and harvested by anointed shamans (can you pluralize that?). from there they underwent an ancient, secret process by which they were combined with the rendered animal fat of sacrificial goats. bob's you uncle and, a dozen steps later, you got fucking donuts.

they're fucking donuts, not the holy sacrament.

m: "hmm, what was that you said about this one here," pointing at a donut that looks like this:







the explanation continues and, after another two or three wasted minutes, we get another gem:

d: "...and so that there is our luxurious glazed donut."

A glazed donut. Christ.

m: "okay, i think i'll have this one here. this one with the...uh...the stuff on it, right here. this one on your..."

Mongo turns around so that his right and left are synchronized with those of the dam. Mongo thinks for another minute, making sure the "right" he's about to refer to is in fact the same "right" of the dam. long pause--

m: "...the one on your right."
d: "the one here?" dam is pointing to his other right.
m: "no, that one, there on your other side."
d: "this one, here?"
m: "yes. yes, that one. that's the donut i'd like to order." Now all attention is focused on a donut that looks about like this:







m: "what's on that, anyway?"
d: "oh, i have no idea. it looks like..."
m: "yeah, gimme that one."

and here is my problem: who takes fifteen minutes to order something, let alone a goddamn donut, when he doesn't even know what it is? what if what he's just ordered isn't actually food at all? what if it was a mistake, and it's actually a mouldy cow patty that's found it's way from africa all the way to this counter? and, due to the intricate aging processes of mould, it just happens to resemble a donut?

what if Mongo is deathly allergic to not one, but ALL of the ingredients in this age-ripened-mouldy-cow-patty-donut?

what the fuck?!

i hope he chokes on that thing, has an allergic reaction, turns bright purple for ten days, then, a month later, his penis falls off.

i finally get to the counter.

a: "i'll have a double espresso, please." Gritting teeth.
d: "let me tell you about our exotic blends of beans..."

something has gone terribly wrong.