I do NOT believe that people in this world are motivated by selfishness.
No.
Instead, I believe that they are motivated by lonliness.
In this world, there are two kinds of people: those who want something from you, and those who don't want something from you.
I find that people want things from me all the time, but the biggest and most common thing they want is for me to just be there.
I don't mean being there like the Jackson 5 singing "I'll Be There" or like Chance the Gardener in Jerzy Kosinski's Being There. I'm talking about being in the same geographical location as someone else.
The number one thing people want from me is to not leave them alone. I am more than happy to accomodate this, so long as I have nothing else going on at the moment.
Unfortunately, lots of people want me to be around, and so I have to make my rounds. Some people outbid the others for my free time, but I always have to make up for the appointments I postponed later on.
The people who want me to be around make me feel welcome on a good day, but they trap me on the bad days.
Then there's the ones who don't want anything from me. I want something from them. What do I want from them? I just want them to be around, to be in the same room as me, to just stand there. We don't have to do anything-- all they need to do is be there. And they don't want to be there, for whatever reasons. They don't see themselves the way I see myself in regards to those who want my time-- they cannot understand why I want them to just stand there and do nothing.
They don't understand the security in prescence.
I'm not someone who can't be left alone, but there are certain people in my life whom I simply want to surround myself with, and they don't get it. They never will get it.
So from now on, I go where I'm wanted. I go where someone just wants me to sit on a chair and say nothing, in comfortable silence. If it gives them peace of mind to have me like an ornament in their lives, so be it.
After all, there are worse fates to suffer.
Monday, May 30, 2005
Thursday, May 26, 2005
So STAR WARS sucked
You went and saw the movie and it wasn't what you expected.
If you're like me, you don't care-- another movie, another dark night in the theater half-snoozing, but this time sober as all daylight.
If you're a diehard, it must truly feel like the Empire has won.
But fear not-- there is a New Hope.
The Clone Wars animated series...
My buddy Bro Man turned me onto it sometime last year. In fact, the first season/volume that I saw is now on DVD, so if you haven't seen this brilliant cartoon companion to the Star Wars prequels, rush out and rent it. Or better yet, watch it on the Cartoon Network.
It delivers where the prequels have not. There is more action, more visual imagery, better drama-- the ridiculous dialogue sounds better coming from two-dimensional versions of the cast and puppets from the movies.
Like The Animatrix did with The Matrix, these cartoons (all very short episodes, maybe three minutes long on the average) function to supplement the main plot of the movies. A lot of missing action is realized, such as General Grievous kidnapping Senator Palpatine prior to the beginning of Revenge Of The Sith. In that movie, the whole kidnapping is referred to in the famous opening scroll, but in the Clone Wars series it gets its full due. It also paints Grievous as more of a bad-ass: in the movie, he has this whooping cough that makes him seem like an inefficient wheezebag.
The animation is first-rate, and it is far more entertaining than the movies have been lately. If you currently have the "Star Wars Blues", I highly recommend this as a potent remedy.
Now, back to my hermitage. I just had to geek out there for a short second.
If you're like me, you don't care-- another movie, another dark night in the theater half-snoozing, but this time sober as all daylight.
If you're a diehard, it must truly feel like the Empire has won.
But fear not-- there is a New Hope.
The Clone Wars animated series...
My buddy Bro Man turned me onto it sometime last year. In fact, the first season/volume that I saw is now on DVD, so if you haven't seen this brilliant cartoon companion to the Star Wars prequels, rush out and rent it. Or better yet, watch it on the Cartoon Network.
It delivers where the prequels have not. There is more action, more visual imagery, better drama-- the ridiculous dialogue sounds better coming from two-dimensional versions of the cast and puppets from the movies.
Like The Animatrix did with The Matrix, these cartoons (all very short episodes, maybe three minutes long on the average) function to supplement the main plot of the movies. A lot of missing action is realized, such as General Grievous kidnapping Senator Palpatine prior to the beginning of Revenge Of The Sith. In that movie, the whole kidnapping is referred to in the famous opening scroll, but in the Clone Wars series it gets its full due. It also paints Grievous as more of a bad-ass: in the movie, he has this whooping cough that makes him seem like an inefficient wheezebag.
The animation is first-rate, and it is far more entertaining than the movies have been lately. If you currently have the "Star Wars Blues", I highly recommend this as a potent remedy.
Now, back to my hermitage. I just had to geek out there for a short second.
the five senses
I see in front of me my word magic: symbols appear, then fade away and re-appear again further down the electric page.
I hear the low hum of machinery, a fan blowing to keep the room temperature cool, the faint babble of Spanish AM radio, random loudspeaker pages... and suddenly, as I write this (literally), the TiVo has kicked in and started recording a sports show, making me nearly shit myself in brief terror.
(Funny how I was writing about the things I can hear when it happened-- the TV monitor is off but the audio feed is potted up!)
Anyway...
I don't smell anything in particular. My sense of smell is my weakest sense, because of my smoking habit. I smoked a cigarette this morning as I drove to work, and even though I washed my hands before entering the office, the faint aroma of nicotine is wafting through my moustache hairs. Otherwise, there are no foul odors to report, nor any pleasantries for my olfactory benefit.
I feel the passive secession of each key as I press my fingers down upon them. I feel the chill of the air conditioner. I feel the coffee in my gut and the churning of my bowels, giving me a countdown to my next bathroom break. I feel the remnants of sleep still lodged in my eyelashes. I feel the high dissipating as I come down and accept my surroundings.
I taste nothing except for the residue of caffeine and sugar.
I hear the low hum of machinery, a fan blowing to keep the room temperature cool, the faint babble of Spanish AM radio, random loudspeaker pages... and suddenly, as I write this (literally), the TiVo has kicked in and started recording a sports show, making me nearly shit myself in brief terror.
(Funny how I was writing about the things I can hear when it happened-- the TV monitor is off but the audio feed is potted up!)
Anyway...
I don't smell anything in particular. My sense of smell is my weakest sense, because of my smoking habit. I smoked a cigarette this morning as I drove to work, and even though I washed my hands before entering the office, the faint aroma of nicotine is wafting through my moustache hairs. Otherwise, there are no foul odors to report, nor any pleasantries for my olfactory benefit.
I feel the passive secession of each key as I press my fingers down upon them. I feel the chill of the air conditioner. I feel the coffee in my gut and the churning of my bowels, giving me a countdown to my next bathroom break. I feel the remnants of sleep still lodged in my eyelashes. I feel the high dissipating as I come down and accept my surroundings.
I taste nothing except for the residue of caffeine and sugar.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
THE WEEKEND
Friday night I was over at the Garage. Paulie is now trying to get a screenplay going and he needs my help. Of course, all I ever do is write, so first the story must be hashed out. I can write the whole story out by myself, but it's funny how much non-writers seem to know about plotting and things like that-- the kinds of things that non-writers never concern themselves with until they are sitting with a writer, the kinds of things they think they know best concerning...
I stayed up late on the telephone Friday night. I got to sleep around 4:30 AM.
Saturday morning, I ran errands and had breakfast w/ Down Low, who informed me of his plans to ride in a limo headed to the KROQ Weenie Roast... accompanied by Dave Grohl and his wife. Yes, that Dave Grohl-- Low's mom is Grohl's real estate agent.
Feeling envious, I tried to get him to let me tag along, but since I already had plans for that evening, it didn't seem right for me to try and impose.
I drove out to Canyon Country and rocked out with the hair metal cover band in temperatures past the 100s. It was fun, it was steady, it was glam. Then I drove back to the Garage to meet with the potential investors of this movie-- and suffice it to say, they wasted my time and have NO idea of what they want... typical movie-making bullshit.
That's why I'm not a big movie fan.
And speaking of movies, I saw Revenge Of The Sith Saturday night. I slept through most of the movie, being as tired as I was. It was okay, but I noticed that diehard fans were disgruntled. I guess the magic of the whole Star Wars mythos is wearing thin. I call it the "Happy Days Syndrome": the discovery that the things you liked as a kid seem (upon sober adult reflection) to be horrible pieces of dookie compared to what floats your boat nowadays. I first realized this in relation to the TV show Happy Days, hence the name of the syndrome.
I saw the movie with my new friend, "Dotty" (names changed to protect the innocent AND the guilty). I met Dotty online recently, but it turns out that I met her at least five years ago.
I was working at the other radio network, and two of my friends in the Network Operations Center took me out to a bar called The Red Chariot in Van Nuys. It is gone now-- a Starbucks took its place. There was some karaoke going on at the time, and I met with Dotty and her friend "Marcy" through to a mutual friend. But that was it.
Over the years I would see Dotty in various bars, especially when I was in the band with Holly Golightly. Dotty always stood out from everyone else because of her diminutive height and her powerful singing voice. But she and I never became friends until a few weeks ago. And Saturday night was the first time she and I got together in person.
Dotty was the reason for my sleepiness during the movie-- she and I have been talking on the phone in the past week, late into the evenings. I like talking to her.
Afterwards we went to get some food at a 24-hour diner called Frank's... yet the menus said Harry's... a restaurant with an identity complex? Say it ain't so.
I went to sleep around 5 AM.
Sunday morning, I had to be up to help my friend Belle move her belongings out of her old apartment. I woke up late, and made it just in time to help put her things in storage. I was running on fumes, with barely any energy left.
I went home and took a nap, then went out to rehearsal with ICON around 8PM. When it was done, around 10PM, I drove over to Paulie's house for some dinner and some more screenwriting. That lasted about an hour or so.
I drove out to meet Dotty and her friends at The Foxfire Room, aka the bar P.T. Anderson used in the movie Magnolia, or so I'm told. The Foxfire Room is located on the corner of Whitsett and... Magnolia!
The first person I saw upon entering the bar was Dotty. Then, I saw Mikey, the guitarist from Holly's band. It was good to see him. We chatted and caught up with each other-- he is now singing in a System Of A Down-type group, and they just finished recording a demo. Very cool.
And he wasn't the only person in the Foxfire that I knew...
Eerie Coincidence Time: Earlier, before my rehearsal, Dotty and Marcy went to Chin Chin's in Studio City to get some food. I informed her that Dick, Eve's stalking former boyfriend, works there-- Eve told me about this a week ago, warning me in case I ever decided to eat there. Dotty had never met Dick but I asked her if she saw a tall, lanky guy with a hook nose serving her at the restaurant. She said she wasn't sure.
Anyway, when I showed up at the Foxfire, everything was cool. Then, I saw Dick walk in with his new flame. And he saw me. And he kept looking over at me, and I kept smiling and staring at him. I asked Dotty if that was the guy at Chin Chin's, and after some examination she concluded that, yes, he was there when she had been there earlier in the day.
I have no beef with Dick (except for the fact that he beat Eve up when they parted ways) and I always hear that he'd kill me if given the chance... and then he has a chance, and doesn't do shit. I don't have time for people with such deep-seated insecurities. I pretty much ignored him and had a good time, because the best revenge is living well, right?
If someone doesn't like me, I guess I don't like them back in return. But I have no respect for idiots who talk big to their scared ex-girlfriends, only to act like a soft punk when they see me in person.
Dick probably saw me with Dotty and Marcy and figured I had them following him or something. He didn't look happy to see me. But I let it slide. The funny thing is, Dotty was actually more upset about it than I was, because she didn't like how he kept looking over at us.
Nothing happened between Dick and I, and after last call Dotty and her friends and I went out for some Thai food. It was a nice end to an unintentionally eventful evening.
I finally got to sleep around 4:30 AM, and was late to work the next morning. Dotty was pretty tired herself, so we chatted for a short time last night and both of us retired early.
I tend to spread myself thin regarding my friends and hobbies and obligations, but I'm really glad to have made Dotty's acquaintance. She and I have a lot in common, and she's a hoot to be around.
And then there's that voice. All I have to say is: she sang Ike & Tina Turner's version of "Proud Mary" at the Foxfire and it stood my neck hairs on end. Note perfect. She even had her friends doing their best impersonations of the Ikettes!
That's all for today. I left out A LOT of details because I need a little something for myself. I need a few factoids for my own edification, things that I would normally share but have decided to keep hidden.
Don't know when I'll blog again, but I'm enjoying the time off. It feels better when done in moderation.
I stayed up late on the telephone Friday night. I got to sleep around 4:30 AM.
Saturday morning, I ran errands and had breakfast w/ Down Low, who informed me of his plans to ride in a limo headed to the KROQ Weenie Roast... accompanied by Dave Grohl and his wife. Yes, that Dave Grohl-- Low's mom is Grohl's real estate agent.
Feeling envious, I tried to get him to let me tag along, but since I already had plans for that evening, it didn't seem right for me to try and impose.
I drove out to Canyon Country and rocked out with the hair metal cover band in temperatures past the 100s. It was fun, it was steady, it was glam. Then I drove back to the Garage to meet with the potential investors of this movie-- and suffice it to say, they wasted my time and have NO idea of what they want... typical movie-making bullshit.
That's why I'm not a big movie fan.
And speaking of movies, I saw Revenge Of The Sith Saturday night. I slept through most of the movie, being as tired as I was. It was okay, but I noticed that diehard fans were disgruntled. I guess the magic of the whole Star Wars mythos is wearing thin. I call it the "Happy Days Syndrome": the discovery that the things you liked as a kid seem (upon sober adult reflection) to be horrible pieces of dookie compared to what floats your boat nowadays. I first realized this in relation to the TV show Happy Days, hence the name of the syndrome.
I saw the movie with my new friend, "Dotty" (names changed to protect the innocent AND the guilty). I met Dotty online recently, but it turns out that I met her at least five years ago.
I was working at the other radio network, and two of my friends in the Network Operations Center took me out to a bar called The Red Chariot in Van Nuys. It is gone now-- a Starbucks took its place. There was some karaoke going on at the time, and I met with Dotty and her friend "Marcy" through to a mutual friend. But that was it.
Over the years I would see Dotty in various bars, especially when I was in the band with Holly Golightly. Dotty always stood out from everyone else because of her diminutive height and her powerful singing voice. But she and I never became friends until a few weeks ago. And Saturday night was the first time she and I got together in person.
Dotty was the reason for my sleepiness during the movie-- she and I have been talking on the phone in the past week, late into the evenings. I like talking to her.
Afterwards we went to get some food at a 24-hour diner called Frank's... yet the menus said Harry's... a restaurant with an identity complex? Say it ain't so.
I went to sleep around 5 AM.
Sunday morning, I had to be up to help my friend Belle move her belongings out of her old apartment. I woke up late, and made it just in time to help put her things in storage. I was running on fumes, with barely any energy left.
I went home and took a nap, then went out to rehearsal with ICON around 8PM. When it was done, around 10PM, I drove over to Paulie's house for some dinner and some more screenwriting. That lasted about an hour or so.
I drove out to meet Dotty and her friends at The Foxfire Room, aka the bar P.T. Anderson used in the movie Magnolia, or so I'm told. The Foxfire Room is located on the corner of Whitsett and... Magnolia!
The first person I saw upon entering the bar was Dotty. Then, I saw Mikey, the guitarist from Holly's band. It was good to see him. We chatted and caught up with each other-- he is now singing in a System Of A Down-type group, and they just finished recording a demo. Very cool.
And he wasn't the only person in the Foxfire that I knew...
Eerie Coincidence Time: Earlier, before my rehearsal, Dotty and Marcy went to Chin Chin's in Studio City to get some food. I informed her that Dick, Eve's stalking former boyfriend, works there-- Eve told me about this a week ago, warning me in case I ever decided to eat there. Dotty had never met Dick but I asked her if she saw a tall, lanky guy with a hook nose serving her at the restaurant. She said she wasn't sure.
Anyway, when I showed up at the Foxfire, everything was cool. Then, I saw Dick walk in with his new flame. And he saw me. And he kept looking over at me, and I kept smiling and staring at him. I asked Dotty if that was the guy at Chin Chin's, and after some examination she concluded that, yes, he was there when she had been there earlier in the day.
I have no beef with Dick (except for the fact that he beat Eve up when they parted ways) and I always hear that he'd kill me if given the chance... and then he has a chance, and doesn't do shit. I don't have time for people with such deep-seated insecurities. I pretty much ignored him and had a good time, because the best revenge is living well, right?
If someone doesn't like me, I guess I don't like them back in return. But I have no respect for idiots who talk big to their scared ex-girlfriends, only to act like a soft punk when they see me in person.
Dick probably saw me with Dotty and Marcy and figured I had them following him or something. He didn't look happy to see me. But I let it slide. The funny thing is, Dotty was actually more upset about it than I was, because she didn't like how he kept looking over at us.
Nothing happened between Dick and I, and after last call Dotty and her friends and I went out for some Thai food. It was a nice end to an unintentionally eventful evening.
I finally got to sleep around 4:30 AM, and was late to work the next morning. Dotty was pretty tired herself, so we chatted for a short time last night and both of us retired early.
I tend to spread myself thin regarding my friends and hobbies and obligations, but I'm really glad to have made Dotty's acquaintance. She and I have a lot in common, and she's a hoot to be around.
And then there's that voice. All I have to say is: she sang Ike & Tina Turner's version of "Proud Mary" at the Foxfire and it stood my neck hairs on end. Note perfect. She even had her friends doing their best impersonations of the Ikettes!
That's all for today. I left out A LOT of details because I need a little something for myself. I need a few factoids for my own edification, things that I would normally share but have decided to keep hidden.
Don't know when I'll blog again, but I'm enjoying the time off. It feels better when done in moderation.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
JUST TO CLEAR UP ANY LINGERING CONFUSION...
...George Lucas didn't write the entire Star Wars sextet in one sitting.
He worked on the script for "Episode IV: A New Hope" over a long period of time, even as he was directing THX-1138 and American Graffiti, but all he had were some ideas and a backstory.
Yes, he titled the first one "Episode IV" and not "Episode I"... as a tribute to the adventure/sci-fi-episodic-cliffhanger-serials of his youth.
The myth of Lucas is about to enter a new phase, and I just wanted to set the record straight: he pulled it out of his ass, and he had the smarts to pitch it as an ongoing saga.
And we all swallowed it whole, because deep down we need our myths to be writ larger-than-life, larger than the galaxy...
Here is a link to a site run by some devoted Star Nerds, containing the original scripts from the franchise. You'll note that the original Star Wars plot synopsis is "light years" (ahem) away from the first movie. Also note the dates for the first-draft scripts to the sequels.
May the Force be with you.
He worked on the script for "Episode IV: A New Hope" over a long period of time, even as he was directing THX-1138 and American Graffiti, but all he had were some ideas and a backstory.
Yes, he titled the first one "Episode IV" and not "Episode I"... as a tribute to the adventure/sci-fi-episodic-cliffhanger-serials of his youth.
The myth of Lucas is about to enter a new phase, and I just wanted to set the record straight: he pulled it out of his ass, and he had the smarts to pitch it as an ongoing saga.
And we all swallowed it whole, because deep down we need our myths to be writ larger-than-life, larger than the galaxy...
Here is a link to a site run by some devoted Star Nerds, containing the original scripts from the franchise. You'll note that the original Star Wars plot synopsis is "light years" (ahem) away from the first movie. Also note the dates for the first-draft scripts to the sequels.
May the Force be with you.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
INSPIRATION
I've been running myself ragged.
The animation, after months of haggling over its final form, is pretty much close to being put onto a DVD and shopped. The haggling came in the form of Purple Paulie and Peter wanting it to be shorter. Ten minutes long, to be exact.
It ended up being eighteen minutes, which is only ten minutes shorter than it was originally.
I love Paulie and Peter to death, but they listen to too many outside influences. I am pigheaded and stubborn: if you give me a suggestion, I will nod my head, say "yes", and then proceed to completely ignore what you just told me to do. I do this because I know that people sometimes talk out of their asses and have no idea what they are suggesting to me.
I may be an insecure mess, but when it comes to what looks and sounds good, I trust my instincts, and I also trust the instincts of the people I work with... however, they don't always trust their own instincts, and they end up trying to please everyone-- and as we all know, if you try to please everybody, you end up pleasing nobody.
Anyway, once this is done-- and I'm putting my foot down if it's not done right --we can officially start a production company and begin the entertaining task of trying to get money from people to finance this venture. I have been contemplating whether I should pull a Producers and start whoring myself out to lonely old ladies with big bank accounts.
Maybe I should just let the animation speak for itself. In the meantime, I need to get Internet access at home so I can start doing some updates on the website. I can no longer work on it from the office, so I must start updating it at home.
It has been a year this month since we first started working on it. I realize that, in the world of entertainment, that amount of time is a mere drop in the bucket. I think we're doing okay with this.
*/*
I get asked this one question a lot:
"James, if you are such a dedicated writer, why don't you try and get published?"
My immediate answer is "because I'm lazy", but really it has to do with one thing: I have no interest in being famous for writing.
I'd rather be influential, and there's a huge difference.
You don't have to be famous to be influential. However, if someone you influenced becomes famous, then your profile rises a bit.
Anyone know who Neal Cassady is? If you do, then you are a diehard Beat fan. If not, I don't blame you for not knowing who he is-- Neal Cassady never wrote anything of any worth, but he is still important to the development of 20th Century literature because he was the inspiration for Beat writers like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, as well as Sixties writers like Ken Kesey.
Ever read On The Road? I'm sure you have. I was bored by it overall, but the moments in the novel that were the most exciting revolved around the character of Dean Moriarty.
Dean Moriarty is based on Neal Cassady.
You all know that Socrates never wrote anything. Neither did Jesus Christ. But I believe that they did write things down-- they just didn't care whether anyone would read them or not. It was more important for those types of men to influence and teach others.
I know for a fact that I have influenced people. My ex-girlfriend, "Vera", was an aspiring poet when I met her. The poems were amateurish, but rather than tell her they were a crock of shit, I suggested that she increase her writing time. I led by example, almost daring her to keep up with my unstoppable pace. In due time, she became better and better, until finally she was writing on a daily basis.
I looked her up online a few years ago. She still writes. Her stuff is awfully good. And when I contacted her to congratulate her on her modest success in publishing, she thanked me and called me a "big influence".
That meant more to me than any book deal I could ever broker for myself.
Recently, an old high school friend and I got back in touch with each other. Last time we talked was two years ago. We had lunch and discussed writing. She was also an aspiring writer. But back in the day, she hated her poems, and despite my encouragement she never picked up on the vibe.
Anyway, two years ago she asked me why I never wrote a book about the good old days of high school. I told her that in fact I had written a novel and two short stories concerning the high school years. She asked me why I didn't hustle to get them published and I told her that I just didn't care, and that blogging was meeting my emotional needs in terms of recognition for my work.
She told me she had an idea for a novel. She told me she was sick of all the stuff that passes for literature nowadays, and she felt she could write something better than half of the published hacks out there. I was surprised to hear this from her, because I distinctly remembered her attitude towards her own work in our school days together.
I told her to start writing the novel immediately. Then, we lost touch, due to my getting laid off from my job and all sorts of tomfoolery on my part.
Two years later, she has e-mailed me to inform me that the novel is finished, and that she is working on another, and that she is determined to get the finished novel published.
You don't know how proud it made me to hear her say that.
If these women ever get to be gigantic authors who command hefty advances for their work, I will be satisfied knowing that I helped them get on their way, in a small but significant manner. They don't even have to acknowledge me in interviews or in their works-- I'll know the truth, and deep down those girls know the truth also.
It feels good to know that I may have inspired someone to take a certain path. I don't care for the accolades-- those sentiments embarrass me and make me feel stupid. No, I'd rather be the one in the background, who helped launch the ideas that changed the world, rather than the one who must bear the brunt of all that cultural transformation.
I'd rather be Neal Cassady than Jack Kerouac. And so far, I think I'm on my way.
*/*
The high school friend who wrote the novel (I will refer to her as "Rose") also expressed her interest in singing. This totally shocked me, and so I suggested that we work together on some stuff.
I don't know if it will pan out. She may not be able to deal with my working methods. But it's worth a shot.
I don't think I'm going to give up on music, but I do know that I'm going to give it a much-needed rest for a spell. I mean, I will still work on studio songs, but playing live will be limited to paying gigs.
Instead, I will concentrate on more writing, but not on this blog. I blog too much. Everyone else that I know who blogs post every now and then; I post once, sometimes twice a day.
What a waste of my time.
I have a half-finished screenplay sitting in my computer at home. I have a collection of short stories waiting to be transcribed to the hard drive, along with two-thirds of a novel.
What am I doing squandering my energy on blogging? I should be completing these above-mentioned tasks because I started them with the intention of completing them.
Blogging is great, but one side effect is that I haven't written ANYTHING for myself in a long, long time. I don't write in my notebook anymore. I don't write poems by hand. I don't hole myself up in the apartment and scribble madly anymore.
All my writing is done on this blog. And although it has helped me to hone my style in a different direction, I am starting to miss the insularity of my old writings.
It took me six months to complete the first draft of my novel. Why did it go by so quickly? Because all of my friends were traveling abroad and I had a load of free time on my hands. That's why I titled it Free Time. I literally sat down at my electric typewriter every night, smoked pot, drank whiskey, smoked a cigarette, and proceeded to write and write and write (at the rate of 56 wpm) until I had hundreds of single-spaced typed pages.
I need to get back to that.
So, I'm not quitting on blogging, but then again this may be the last post that I put up for some time. I owe it to myself to step back and reclaim my writing impetus, because I'm taking this blogging shit way too seriously.
I repeat for posterity: I've been running myself ragged.
I will most likely post whenever I have a new installment to add to my online novel.
PEACE
The animation, after months of haggling over its final form, is pretty much close to being put onto a DVD and shopped. The haggling came in the form of Purple Paulie and Peter wanting it to be shorter. Ten minutes long, to be exact.
It ended up being eighteen minutes, which is only ten minutes shorter than it was originally.
I love Paulie and Peter to death, but they listen to too many outside influences. I am pigheaded and stubborn: if you give me a suggestion, I will nod my head, say "yes", and then proceed to completely ignore what you just told me to do. I do this because I know that people sometimes talk out of their asses and have no idea what they are suggesting to me.
I may be an insecure mess, but when it comes to what looks and sounds good, I trust my instincts, and I also trust the instincts of the people I work with... however, they don't always trust their own instincts, and they end up trying to please everyone-- and as we all know, if you try to please everybody, you end up pleasing nobody.
Anyway, once this is done-- and I'm putting my foot down if it's not done right --we can officially start a production company and begin the entertaining task of trying to get money from people to finance this venture. I have been contemplating whether I should pull a Producers and start whoring myself out to lonely old ladies with big bank accounts.
Maybe I should just let the animation speak for itself. In the meantime, I need to get Internet access at home so I can start doing some updates on the website. I can no longer work on it from the office, so I must start updating it at home.
It has been a year this month since we first started working on it. I realize that, in the world of entertainment, that amount of time is a mere drop in the bucket. I think we're doing okay with this.
*/*
I get asked this one question a lot:
"James, if you are such a dedicated writer, why don't you try and get published?"
My immediate answer is "because I'm lazy", but really it has to do with one thing: I have no interest in being famous for writing.
I'd rather be influential, and there's a huge difference.
You don't have to be famous to be influential. However, if someone you influenced becomes famous, then your profile rises a bit.
Anyone know who Neal Cassady is? If you do, then you are a diehard Beat fan. If not, I don't blame you for not knowing who he is-- Neal Cassady never wrote anything of any worth, but he is still important to the development of 20th Century literature because he was the inspiration for Beat writers like Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg, as well as Sixties writers like Ken Kesey.
Ever read On The Road? I'm sure you have. I was bored by it overall, but the moments in the novel that were the most exciting revolved around the character of Dean Moriarty.
Dean Moriarty is based on Neal Cassady.
You all know that Socrates never wrote anything. Neither did Jesus Christ. But I believe that they did write things down-- they just didn't care whether anyone would read them or not. It was more important for those types of men to influence and teach others.
I know for a fact that I have influenced people. My ex-girlfriend, "Vera", was an aspiring poet when I met her. The poems were amateurish, but rather than tell her they were a crock of shit, I suggested that she increase her writing time. I led by example, almost daring her to keep up with my unstoppable pace. In due time, she became better and better, until finally she was writing on a daily basis.
I looked her up online a few years ago. She still writes. Her stuff is awfully good. And when I contacted her to congratulate her on her modest success in publishing, she thanked me and called me a "big influence".
That meant more to me than any book deal I could ever broker for myself.
Recently, an old high school friend and I got back in touch with each other. Last time we talked was two years ago. We had lunch and discussed writing. She was also an aspiring writer. But back in the day, she hated her poems, and despite my encouragement she never picked up on the vibe.
Anyway, two years ago she asked me why I never wrote a book about the good old days of high school. I told her that in fact I had written a novel and two short stories concerning the high school years. She asked me why I didn't hustle to get them published and I told her that I just didn't care, and that blogging was meeting my emotional needs in terms of recognition for my work.
She told me she had an idea for a novel. She told me she was sick of all the stuff that passes for literature nowadays, and she felt she could write something better than half of the published hacks out there. I was surprised to hear this from her, because I distinctly remembered her attitude towards her own work in our school days together.
I told her to start writing the novel immediately. Then, we lost touch, due to my getting laid off from my job and all sorts of tomfoolery on my part.
Two years later, she has e-mailed me to inform me that the novel is finished, and that she is working on another, and that she is determined to get the finished novel published.
You don't know how proud it made me to hear her say that.
If these women ever get to be gigantic authors who command hefty advances for their work, I will be satisfied knowing that I helped them get on their way, in a small but significant manner. They don't even have to acknowledge me in interviews or in their works-- I'll know the truth, and deep down those girls know the truth also.
It feels good to know that I may have inspired someone to take a certain path. I don't care for the accolades-- those sentiments embarrass me and make me feel stupid. No, I'd rather be the one in the background, who helped launch the ideas that changed the world, rather than the one who must bear the brunt of all that cultural transformation.
I'd rather be Neal Cassady than Jack Kerouac. And so far, I think I'm on my way.
*/*
The high school friend who wrote the novel (I will refer to her as "Rose") also expressed her interest in singing. This totally shocked me, and so I suggested that we work together on some stuff.
I don't know if it will pan out. She may not be able to deal with my working methods. But it's worth a shot.
I don't think I'm going to give up on music, but I do know that I'm going to give it a much-needed rest for a spell. I mean, I will still work on studio songs, but playing live will be limited to paying gigs.
Instead, I will concentrate on more writing, but not on this blog. I blog too much. Everyone else that I know who blogs post every now and then; I post once, sometimes twice a day.
What a waste of my time.
I have a half-finished screenplay sitting in my computer at home. I have a collection of short stories waiting to be transcribed to the hard drive, along with two-thirds of a novel.
What am I doing squandering my energy on blogging? I should be completing these above-mentioned tasks because I started them with the intention of completing them.
Blogging is great, but one side effect is that I haven't written ANYTHING for myself in a long, long time. I don't write in my notebook anymore. I don't write poems by hand. I don't hole myself up in the apartment and scribble madly anymore.
All my writing is done on this blog. And although it has helped me to hone my style in a different direction, I am starting to miss the insularity of my old writings.
It took me six months to complete the first draft of my novel. Why did it go by so quickly? Because all of my friends were traveling abroad and I had a load of free time on my hands. That's why I titled it Free Time. I literally sat down at my electric typewriter every night, smoked pot, drank whiskey, smoked a cigarette, and proceeded to write and write and write (at the rate of 56 wpm) until I had hundreds of single-spaced typed pages.
I need to get back to that.
So, I'm not quitting on blogging, but then again this may be the last post that I put up for some time. I owe it to myself to step back and reclaim my writing impetus, because I'm taking this blogging shit way too seriously.
I repeat for posterity: I've been running myself ragged.
I will most likely post whenever I have a new installment to add to my online novel.
PEACE
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
THE CRAFTMAN'S EGO
WARNING: The following post is quite possibly the most self-indulgent post I've ever written... and that's saying A LOT! If you're not in the mood to contemplate the vast watseland that is my psyche, please skip this. Thank you.
I watched one of my favorite movies last night-- Rushmore with Bill Murray. I'm a big fan of Wes Anderson-- Bottle Rocket was great, The Royal Tenenbaums was cool, and I have yet to go see The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou or whatever it's called...
Rushmore is great because the lead character, Max Fischer (played by Jason Schwartzmann) is almost exactly how I pictured my favorite original character, Fabian Rourke, to look and act: bespectacled, egocentric, delusional, arrogant...
...narcissistic.
Max stages plays for the kids at Rushmore (a prestigious private school) that are extravagant, over-the-top productions; he has a crush on one of his schoolteachers and honestly thinks that he stands a chance with her; Max thinks very highly of himself but glosses over the "flaws" in his background, such as the fact that his father is a barber; and it turns out that Max doesn't even really go to Rushmore.
I instantly liked Rushmore because I could relate to Max. There but for the grace of God go I, I thought to myself when I first saw it. I was like that as a kid. I remember being told I was precocious, thinking myself on the same level as the adults in my life. In many ways, I was on their level, but it didn't take away from the fact that I lacked life experience.
Before I ever saw Wes Anderson's movie, I constructed the character of Fabian Rourke from the ashes of my adolescence. I used him in my short stories and had him fall prey to the naivete that befell so many kids like myself who think themselves a legend in their own mind as a defense against cruel reality (Max never seems to catch on to his own dorkiness, and it gets explained eventually that he lost his mother to cancer at an early age)...
Fabian Rourke was based on myself at age 16: matted long hair, thick glasses, surly attitude, projecting intensity, armed with a quick wit and a need to shock and infuriate everyone around me. I defied expectations on purpose, because it was so easy. For example, my peers thought I was a stoner because of my long hair, but I didn't even try drugs until I was 17 going on 18. I was seen as a ticking time bomb, but upon reflection I don't think I could've hurt a fly back then...
The first short story I wrote with Fabian Rourke as a main character was called "The Good Life", which also introduced other characters that I had crafted in my mind, characters I still use today: Robert River, Kelly Paper, Rachel Edison, and Tom Fargo are a few. Robert was the main character, and the story revolved around his relationship with his father, James River, and his girlfriend at the time, Rachel. Fabian was the comic relief, designed to steal the scenes when the humor was lacking. After a while, I started to like Fabian, and decided to delve into his background a bit.
I wrote my next short story, entitled "Little Girls", but it never got past the second draft. This story focused on Kelly, Rachel and Fabian's early high school years, and their respective coming-of-age sexual dilemmas. It was supposed to be a satire that poked holes in America's prudish view of sex, especially among teens. Rachel has an affair with an English teacher; Kelly discovers that her good looks make her "popular"; and Fabian gets picked up and seduced by an older woman, but finds that none of his friends believe him when he tells them of his encounter.
Once again, I found myself pouring the majority of my emotions into Fabian, and so I decided to start the third story in what was supposed to be a "trilogy"-- do you see the comparisons to Max Fischer already? Such lofty aspirations for a bunch of short stories that I never even bothered to shop around to publishers or agents.
The third story would be told strictly from Fabian's POV, in the first-person. But as I started writing this story, in my mid-twenties, I realized that I had a lot more to say. The story evolved into my first full-length novel, "Free Time", the first third of which I have had linked to this blog for the past two years or so.
The story ran away from me. It got bigger than I ever intended. The third story in the trilogy ended up being a trilogy within itself, and changed from a first-person to a third-person narrative about halfway through. The story is Fabian's story, written as he begins a transformation into one of his own fictional characters, whom he named Jimmy Drawers...
Confused yet?
Anyway, I bring all of this up because, as I watched Rushmore last night, I thought about how I was relating to what is possibly the narcissistic reflections of Wes Anderson himself, mixed in with Owen Wilson's contributions to the script. Let's face it-- very few fictional characters are born of their creators independently. Obviously, not every character ever created is necessarily an autobiographical extension of the author, but at the same time everyone who writes knows that there are autobiographical elements in every character, no matter how much of a distance is placed between the creator and his/her creation.
Take Thomas Harris as an example: he is not a cannibal or a serial killer or an FBI profiler in real life, but he infused his characters with his own personality. As a result, Hannibal Lecter is one of the most memorable fictional characters in recent literary history. When Silence Of The Lambs was made into an excellent movie, Anthony Hopkins' performance seared Lecter into the collective consciousness of the cinema world, but it's the character of Lecter that people like. It can be argued that Lecter is simply a wish-fulfillment on behalf of Harris, a uniquely amoral personality that defies description. Lecter is not a villain nor a hero in the traditional sense. He is not a mere psychopath or sociopath-- this is made clear all throughout Harris' Lecter novels. Lecter is noble and savage at the same time, an anti-hero who commits horrible atrocities and elicits no pity.
It's clear that Harris likes Lecter just as much as his fans do, because Lambs was the second book that featured the good doctor. The third book, Hannibal, was written with an eventual screen treatment in mind.
Like Anne Rice's Lestat, Hannibal Lecter has a mass appeal that even the authors themselves cannot deny. If the authors didn't admire their creations in a narcissistic fashion, they would feel no compunction to revive them for subsequent stories. Only hacks and authors who are "only in it for the money" ever do things that like, whoring out their popular creations for the filthy lucre: Mickey Spillaine's Mike Hammer and Ian Fleming's James Bond come to mind in this respect.
But then again, I suspect that Spillaine and Fleming also saw their popular creations as extensions of their own narcissistic tendencies. Indeed, the late great Terry Southern wrote a great piece of gonzo journalism entitled "I Am Mike Hammer!" back in the '60's, which centered on a film adaptation of one of Spillaine's detective novels... with the proposition of Spillaine playing the hard-boiled Mike Hammer himself!
This led Southern to humorously ruminate over other authors who might do the same. Indeed, the character of Guy Grand from Southern's classic novel The Magic Christian could be seen as a stand-in for the mischievious author, and perhaps Southern knew this implicitly.
So last night I found myself pondering my own reflection in the mirror that is Max Fischer, whom (I suspect) was designed as a mirror for either Wes Anderson, Owen Wilson... or both of them.
And that's the power of art in our popular culture, people. We find ourselves gazing lovingly into mirrors that were crafted not only for our entertainment but for the edification of the craftman's ego.
And then I thought about this passage, culled from the introduction of my novel, written many years ago:
"...I can't seem to tell a decent story because they all lead back to me. They say write what you know, but I doubt if I really know myself. So why am I constantly writing about myself? Because I'm a narcissist, that's why. I want to propagandize more than entertain. I want to see the lovers in the balcony of the theater of life swoon as I dictate passages and cast the audience in the part of passive listeners who are also narcissists. I want to turn the mirror that I gaze at myself with onto everybody else within eyeshot, so that they may also feel as guilty as I do about loving themselves for no reason that the world can give."
I think that sums it all up for me. I am self-indulgent not only for my own navel-gazing purposes, but also because I want to tap into that intersection of thought where your thoughts are aligned with mine. Yes, you may not have anything in common with me as a human being, but somewhere in the mix there is a tangential point where we all agree upon at least one thing, and my stories are attempts to map out those points so that others can relate and touch something that is both alien and familiar to them.
The challenge of an author or writer is to create as many of these points as possible, provided that they all come together at one all-encompassing point. I try writing different characters from all walks of life, but in the end they all come out sounding like me. The trick is to make them seem like I wrote them to sound like you.
I don't know if I've ever done that. I don't know if I've ever been able to make a reader think about their own self instead of me.
But I guess I don't have to worry about it, as long as I keep writing and enjoying it. And believe me, I do enjoy it. Writing gives me immense pleasure. It functions as therapy, yes, but really-- I like telling stories. And if it seems like all I ever do is tell stories about myself, keep in mind that the stories and scenarios I have to tell have happened to others who were here long before me, and will continue to happen to others who come around long after I'm dead and gone.
Until my time is done, please do me a favor and take a look into this mirror that I have created. Hopefully, you won't just see me-- you might see yourself as well... at least, that is one of my fondest hopes.
I watched one of my favorite movies last night-- Rushmore with Bill Murray. I'm a big fan of Wes Anderson-- Bottle Rocket was great, The Royal Tenenbaums was cool, and I have yet to go see The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou or whatever it's called...
Rushmore is great because the lead character, Max Fischer (played by Jason Schwartzmann) is almost exactly how I pictured my favorite original character, Fabian Rourke, to look and act: bespectacled, egocentric, delusional, arrogant...
...narcissistic.
Max stages plays for the kids at Rushmore (a prestigious private school) that are extravagant, over-the-top productions; he has a crush on one of his schoolteachers and honestly thinks that he stands a chance with her; Max thinks very highly of himself but glosses over the "flaws" in his background, such as the fact that his father is a barber; and it turns out that Max doesn't even really go to Rushmore.
I instantly liked Rushmore because I could relate to Max. There but for the grace of God go I, I thought to myself when I first saw it. I was like that as a kid. I remember being told I was precocious, thinking myself on the same level as the adults in my life. In many ways, I was on their level, but it didn't take away from the fact that I lacked life experience.
Before I ever saw Wes Anderson's movie, I constructed the character of Fabian Rourke from the ashes of my adolescence. I used him in my short stories and had him fall prey to the naivete that befell so many kids like myself who think themselves a legend in their own mind as a defense against cruel reality (Max never seems to catch on to his own dorkiness, and it gets explained eventually that he lost his mother to cancer at an early age)...
Fabian Rourke was based on myself at age 16: matted long hair, thick glasses, surly attitude, projecting intensity, armed with a quick wit and a need to shock and infuriate everyone around me. I defied expectations on purpose, because it was so easy. For example, my peers thought I was a stoner because of my long hair, but I didn't even try drugs until I was 17 going on 18. I was seen as a ticking time bomb, but upon reflection I don't think I could've hurt a fly back then...
The first short story I wrote with Fabian Rourke as a main character was called "The Good Life", which also introduced other characters that I had crafted in my mind, characters I still use today: Robert River, Kelly Paper, Rachel Edison, and Tom Fargo are a few. Robert was the main character, and the story revolved around his relationship with his father, James River, and his girlfriend at the time, Rachel. Fabian was the comic relief, designed to steal the scenes when the humor was lacking. After a while, I started to like Fabian, and decided to delve into his background a bit.
I wrote my next short story, entitled "Little Girls", but it never got past the second draft. This story focused on Kelly, Rachel and Fabian's early high school years, and their respective coming-of-age sexual dilemmas. It was supposed to be a satire that poked holes in America's prudish view of sex, especially among teens. Rachel has an affair with an English teacher; Kelly discovers that her good looks make her "popular"; and Fabian gets picked up and seduced by an older woman, but finds that none of his friends believe him when he tells them of his encounter.
Once again, I found myself pouring the majority of my emotions into Fabian, and so I decided to start the third story in what was supposed to be a "trilogy"-- do you see the comparisons to Max Fischer already? Such lofty aspirations for a bunch of short stories that I never even bothered to shop around to publishers or agents.
The third story would be told strictly from Fabian's POV, in the first-person. But as I started writing this story, in my mid-twenties, I realized that I had a lot more to say. The story evolved into my first full-length novel, "Free Time", the first third of which I have had linked to this blog for the past two years or so.
The story ran away from me. It got bigger than I ever intended. The third story in the trilogy ended up being a trilogy within itself, and changed from a first-person to a third-person narrative about halfway through. The story is Fabian's story, written as he begins a transformation into one of his own fictional characters, whom he named Jimmy Drawers...
Confused yet?
Anyway, I bring all of this up because, as I watched Rushmore last night, I thought about how I was relating to what is possibly the narcissistic reflections of Wes Anderson himself, mixed in with Owen Wilson's contributions to the script. Let's face it-- very few fictional characters are born of their creators independently. Obviously, not every character ever created is necessarily an autobiographical extension of the author, but at the same time everyone who writes knows that there are autobiographical elements in every character, no matter how much of a distance is placed between the creator and his/her creation.
Take Thomas Harris as an example: he is not a cannibal or a serial killer or an FBI profiler in real life, but he infused his characters with his own personality. As a result, Hannibal Lecter is one of the most memorable fictional characters in recent literary history. When Silence Of The Lambs was made into an excellent movie, Anthony Hopkins' performance seared Lecter into the collective consciousness of the cinema world, but it's the character of Lecter that people like. It can be argued that Lecter is simply a wish-fulfillment on behalf of Harris, a uniquely amoral personality that defies description. Lecter is not a villain nor a hero in the traditional sense. He is not a mere psychopath or sociopath-- this is made clear all throughout Harris' Lecter novels. Lecter is noble and savage at the same time, an anti-hero who commits horrible atrocities and elicits no pity.
It's clear that Harris likes Lecter just as much as his fans do, because Lambs was the second book that featured the good doctor. The third book, Hannibal, was written with an eventual screen treatment in mind.
Like Anne Rice's Lestat, Hannibal Lecter has a mass appeal that even the authors themselves cannot deny. If the authors didn't admire their creations in a narcissistic fashion, they would feel no compunction to revive them for subsequent stories. Only hacks and authors who are "only in it for the money" ever do things that like, whoring out their popular creations for the filthy lucre: Mickey Spillaine's Mike Hammer and Ian Fleming's James Bond come to mind in this respect.
But then again, I suspect that Spillaine and Fleming also saw their popular creations as extensions of their own narcissistic tendencies. Indeed, the late great Terry Southern wrote a great piece of gonzo journalism entitled "I Am Mike Hammer!" back in the '60's, which centered on a film adaptation of one of Spillaine's detective novels... with the proposition of Spillaine playing the hard-boiled Mike Hammer himself!
This led Southern to humorously ruminate over other authors who might do the same. Indeed, the character of Guy Grand from Southern's classic novel The Magic Christian could be seen as a stand-in for the mischievious author, and perhaps Southern knew this implicitly.
So last night I found myself pondering my own reflection in the mirror that is Max Fischer, whom (I suspect) was designed as a mirror for either Wes Anderson, Owen Wilson... or both of them.
And that's the power of art in our popular culture, people. We find ourselves gazing lovingly into mirrors that were crafted not only for our entertainment but for the edification of the craftman's ego.
And then I thought about this passage, culled from the introduction of my novel, written many years ago:
"...I can't seem to tell a decent story because they all lead back to me. They say write what you know, but I doubt if I really know myself. So why am I constantly writing about myself? Because I'm a narcissist, that's why. I want to propagandize more than entertain. I want to see the lovers in the balcony of the theater of life swoon as I dictate passages and cast the audience in the part of passive listeners who are also narcissists. I want to turn the mirror that I gaze at myself with onto everybody else within eyeshot, so that they may also feel as guilty as I do about loving themselves for no reason that the world can give."
I think that sums it all up for me. I am self-indulgent not only for my own navel-gazing purposes, but also because I want to tap into that intersection of thought where your thoughts are aligned with mine. Yes, you may not have anything in common with me as a human being, but somewhere in the mix there is a tangential point where we all agree upon at least one thing, and my stories are attempts to map out those points so that others can relate and touch something that is both alien and familiar to them.
The challenge of an author or writer is to create as many of these points as possible, provided that they all come together at one all-encompassing point. I try writing different characters from all walks of life, but in the end they all come out sounding like me. The trick is to make them seem like I wrote them to sound like you.
I don't know if I've ever done that. I don't know if I've ever been able to make a reader think about their own self instead of me.
But I guess I don't have to worry about it, as long as I keep writing and enjoying it. And believe me, I do enjoy it. Writing gives me immense pleasure. It functions as therapy, yes, but really-- I like telling stories. And if it seems like all I ever do is tell stories about myself, keep in mind that the stories and scenarios I have to tell have happened to others who were here long before me, and will continue to happen to others who come around long after I'm dead and gone.
Until my time is done, please do me a favor and take a look into this mirror that I have created. Hopefully, you won't just see me-- you might see yourself as well... at least, that is one of my fondest hopes.
CHAPTER SIX (work in progress)
THE STORY SO FAR: Fabian Rourke and Robert River, old high school buddies, have reunited because Fabian wants Robert to work for him at Council Corps, a mysterious company that has a hand in world and national affairs.
"Let me show you your office," Fabian said to Robert, as they walked the halls of Council Corps' main headquarters.
Robert's office was bare, except for a desk and a computer set-up. Robert had a view of the mountains, which was something he never expected to ever have in his entire life. He was always resigned to have the kinds of jobs that sheltered his eyes from viewing the outside world.
"Now, let me show you what you'll be doing," Fabian said.
They entered a huge room filled with all sorts of electronic equipment, in various states of undress: abundant wires strewn about; metallic casings pried open; circuit boards askew; stacks upon stacks of VCRs, DVD players, amplifiers, receivers, radio tuners, speaker cabinets, cathode ray tubes, TV monitors, and any manner of electrical doo-dads...
Robert's eyes almost glossed over. "Holy fuck!" he exclaimed. "What's all of this?"
"This is the Tech Room, and this is where you'll be most of the time," Fabian said, smiling somewhat.
"But... but... what is it exactly that I'lll be doing?"
Fabian sat down on a chair. "You'll be getting paid to play with all of this stuff."
"Play with it? What do you mean, 'play with it'?"
"I mean, whatever your imagination comes up with. You can rummage through all of these devices, and if you can come up with a cool application for something... well, we might use it."
"Use it for what? And what kind of applications do you have in mind?"
"Have you ever heard of a theremin, Robert?"
Robert paused. He'd heard the term before. "I think my dad had one. It's an instrument, right?'
"Yes," Fabian said, lighting a cigarette.
"We can smoke in here?"
"You can do whatever you want in here."
"Cool!" Robert opened up his own pack of cigarettes and lit one up.
"Anyway," Fabian continued, "you're right-- the theremin is an instrument. Primarily used in old sci-fi UFO flicks and horror movies... that eerie sound you always hear, that high-pitched alien squeal? That's the theremin. The Beach Boys used it on "Good Vibrations". Lots of bands have used it, in fact. It sounds like a saw or a piece of sheet metal being tapped."
"Okay, then, yeah, I've heard of it."
"Do you know who invented the theremin?"
"Uh, some guy named Theremin?"
"As a matter of fact, it was invented by a guy named Theremin! Did you know that, or did you just guess?"
Robert laughed. "I just guessed."
Fabian smiled. "I knew you'd be the right man for this position, Robert. You have amazing intuitiveness. But anyway, so yeah, Leon Theremin was a Russian engineer. Big thinker, way ahead of his time. He came up with the theremin, but it wasn't intended to be used as a musical instrument. He was working with radio tubes and shit like that. The theremin worked off of vibrations that fluctuated capacitance-- you don't need to touch the instrument to generate or transmit sound. This made him valuable to the Russian intelligence community, who were originally going to kill him for being a defector. They got smart and realized that they were killing off too many of their finest minds, so they put him to work for the spy agencies. Theremin figured out how to make bugs for the KGB that required no traditional battery power sources. He figured out how to use the vibrations from glass to eavesdrop on U.S. agents. After a while, these developments led to innovative means of spying on the Cold War enemy, at a fraction of the cost the U.S. was paying to upgrade their technology. They made bricks of concrete into bugs. Can you imagine an entire skyscraper constructed to function as a gigantic microphone?"
"Fuckin' crazy," Robert said, dragging on his cigarette.
"Nowadays, the intelligence community has graduated to using laser beams to transmit and receive sound. But here at Council Corps, we are taking our cues from the KGB spy book: instead of spending vast amounts of money on the latest technology, we're sticking with cost-effective, old-fashioned methods, deeply rooted in applied science. You know, when the Berlin Wall came down, the United States was shocked to learn, among other things, that while we were way ahead of the Russians in terms of advanced technology, they had expanded their limiuted field to such an extent that they were almost equal to us. In other words, while we were going digital with microchips and looking down upon radio tubes as quaint, the Russians-- out of necessity --had explored realms of traditional radio tubes that we neither had the time nor inclination to bother with..."
"The Russians worked with what they had to work with," Robert said.
"Exactly. A fine mind can do wonders. Of course, money helps, but if you're low on funds, as the Russians evidently were, you improvise. You find other ways around the problem." Fabian exhaled, and stopped speaking, in order to calculate Robert's reaction.
Robert paused and then he finally spoke. "So, what are you telling me, Fabian? That you're a spy? Council Corps is just a spy agency?"
Fabian laughed. "Not exactly. The Cold War has been over for some time. We have no real enemies out there anymore. But we still have to keep our eyes open for the next threat. Council Corps is a private entity, so we don't work directly for the government. But we have federal status anyway, because our work is so important. And we do a lot of stuff for the military and the U.S. intelligence community, so we are sort of involved with that. But we don't take orders from the President. We are our own corporation. We're for hire, really, but we don't go looking aggressively for other clients."
"So, what is the next threat, Fabian?"
"Well, there's two threats, really. You'll be working on one of them-- the Arabs."
"The Arabs? What's the threat there? We took care of Iraq in the Gulf War. No one else out there is going to try us. Iran? Libya? I may not be a political analyst, but I know that we've got the Middle East under control."
"Terrorism, Robert. The guys hijacking planes, taking hostages, shit like that. We need to worry about that. We need to infiltrate their ranks more effectively."
"But they're more of a nuisance than a real threat," Robert said. "Look at that attempt to blow up the World Trade Center. They couldn't even get that one right! If you ask me, we have more to fear from domestic terrorism than foreigners."
"Well, that's the second threat, Robert. We're spying on our own people as well."
"What?" Robert couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Yes. We're spying on Americans. It's been going on for decades. But it started to accelerate after Oklahoma and Timothy McVeigh. The militias, things like that... it's got Uncle Sam scared. The nation's biggest worry is that there is some collusion between the McVeighs of this country and the Osama bin Ladens of the world..."
Robert got up and began to walk around the room.
"Fuck, Fabian," Robert said. "What the hell have you been doing all these years? You're into some deep shit here!"
"Oh, another thing, Robert. Never ever refer to me around here by my real name, okay? Everyone here thinks my name is Sexton Seamus McGinty. Just call me Mr. McGinty and we'll be fine."
"Sex McGinty?" Robert laughed. He got the joke. It was an old one, that dated back to their years as high school delinquents in Wholesome, California. "Sex McGinty" was a fictional name they devised to fool their classmates into thinking there was some presence in the neighborhood who was responsible for their juvenile pranks. Much like the character Keyser Soze in the movie The Usual Suspects, it was a made-up cipher designed to mislead and redirect people's attention from the two of them.
"You promise not to fuck up on that one? It's real important that you never call me Fabian Rourke. If you ever do, on accident, you'd better have some type of explanation in your head, on the ready, because otherwise... well, I'd have to let you go. And I don't want to do that, Robert. One, you're my friend-- always have been, always will be. Two, I think you have what it takes to work here."
"What do you mean, man? I'm just a board-op for a cheesy talk radio station! What do I know about all this sophisticated spy shit?"
"It's not spy shit. And it's not sophisticated, Robert. And I said it before-- your instincts are right on. You have intuition. All my life, I've noticed that you had a predilection for electronics. You, of course, are an underachiever as well, but luckily the last few years have seen you amass some critical knowledge of sound and audio."
"Fa--uh, I mean, McGinty..."
"Please, call me Mac."
Robert shook his head incredulously. "Okay, Mac... we haven't spoken in years. Are you telling me that you've been spying on me all this time?"
"Let me put it this way, Robert: in my office, I have a surveillance tape collection of every radio show you ever boarded, from the time they had you as an assistant to recently, when Daniel Lazarus was filling in for Mark Rayburn. And not only do I have the on-air audio, but I also have the off-air feeds, the ones that no one outside of the station ever gets to hear... Would you like to hear it sometime?"
"Shit," Robert said. "And I suppose that whole studio is just one big microphone as well, eh?"
"Do you remember when they overhauled Studio G?"
"How did you know about that?"
"Council Corps supplied the contractors for that job, per my request."
"No fuckin' way!"
"Way."
"Dude, you're blowing my fucking mind! I-- I need to sit down or something."
Robert crushed his cigarette butt and sat down in the chair that moments earlier Fabian Rourke had been occupying. He was having a hrad time breathing.
Fabian patted Robert onthe shoulder and said, "There there, old buddy. Don't freak out. You haven't even met your crew yet. They're some mighty fine guys, Robert. They know their shit. I handpicked them myself."
CHAPTER SEVEN comes whenever I get inspired to work on it...
"Let me show you your office," Fabian said to Robert, as they walked the halls of Council Corps' main headquarters.
Robert's office was bare, except for a desk and a computer set-up. Robert had a view of the mountains, which was something he never expected to ever have in his entire life. He was always resigned to have the kinds of jobs that sheltered his eyes from viewing the outside world.
"Now, let me show you what you'll be doing," Fabian said.
They entered a huge room filled with all sorts of electronic equipment, in various states of undress: abundant wires strewn about; metallic casings pried open; circuit boards askew; stacks upon stacks of VCRs, DVD players, amplifiers, receivers, radio tuners, speaker cabinets, cathode ray tubes, TV monitors, and any manner of electrical doo-dads...
Robert's eyes almost glossed over. "Holy fuck!" he exclaimed. "What's all of this?"
"This is the Tech Room, and this is where you'll be most of the time," Fabian said, smiling somewhat.
"But... but... what is it exactly that I'lll be doing?"
Fabian sat down on a chair. "You'll be getting paid to play with all of this stuff."
"Play with it? What do you mean, 'play with it'?"
"I mean, whatever your imagination comes up with. You can rummage through all of these devices, and if you can come up with a cool application for something... well, we might use it."
"Use it for what? And what kind of applications do you have in mind?"
"Have you ever heard of a theremin, Robert?"
Robert paused. He'd heard the term before. "I think my dad had one. It's an instrument, right?'
"Yes," Fabian said, lighting a cigarette.
"We can smoke in here?"
"You can do whatever you want in here."
"Cool!" Robert opened up his own pack of cigarettes and lit one up.
"Anyway," Fabian continued, "you're right-- the theremin is an instrument. Primarily used in old sci-fi UFO flicks and horror movies... that eerie sound you always hear, that high-pitched alien squeal? That's the theremin. The Beach Boys used it on "Good Vibrations". Lots of bands have used it, in fact. It sounds like a saw or a piece of sheet metal being tapped."
"Okay, then, yeah, I've heard of it."
"Do you know who invented the theremin?"
"Uh, some guy named Theremin?"
"As a matter of fact, it was invented by a guy named Theremin! Did you know that, or did you just guess?"
Robert laughed. "I just guessed."
Fabian smiled. "I knew you'd be the right man for this position, Robert. You have amazing intuitiveness. But anyway, so yeah, Leon Theremin was a Russian engineer. Big thinker, way ahead of his time. He came up with the theremin, but it wasn't intended to be used as a musical instrument. He was working with radio tubes and shit like that. The theremin worked off of vibrations that fluctuated capacitance-- you don't need to touch the instrument to generate or transmit sound. This made him valuable to the Russian intelligence community, who were originally going to kill him for being a defector. They got smart and realized that they were killing off too many of their finest minds, so they put him to work for the spy agencies. Theremin figured out how to make bugs for the KGB that required no traditional battery power sources. He figured out how to use the vibrations from glass to eavesdrop on U.S. agents. After a while, these developments led to innovative means of spying on the Cold War enemy, at a fraction of the cost the U.S. was paying to upgrade their technology. They made bricks of concrete into bugs. Can you imagine an entire skyscraper constructed to function as a gigantic microphone?"
"Fuckin' crazy," Robert said, dragging on his cigarette.
"Nowadays, the intelligence community has graduated to using laser beams to transmit and receive sound. But here at Council Corps, we are taking our cues from the KGB spy book: instead of spending vast amounts of money on the latest technology, we're sticking with cost-effective, old-fashioned methods, deeply rooted in applied science. You know, when the Berlin Wall came down, the United States was shocked to learn, among other things, that while we were way ahead of the Russians in terms of advanced technology, they had expanded their limiuted field to such an extent that they were almost equal to us. In other words, while we were going digital with microchips and looking down upon radio tubes as quaint, the Russians-- out of necessity --had explored realms of traditional radio tubes that we neither had the time nor inclination to bother with..."
"The Russians worked with what they had to work with," Robert said.
"Exactly. A fine mind can do wonders. Of course, money helps, but if you're low on funds, as the Russians evidently were, you improvise. You find other ways around the problem." Fabian exhaled, and stopped speaking, in order to calculate Robert's reaction.
Robert paused and then he finally spoke. "So, what are you telling me, Fabian? That you're a spy? Council Corps is just a spy agency?"
Fabian laughed. "Not exactly. The Cold War has been over for some time. We have no real enemies out there anymore. But we still have to keep our eyes open for the next threat. Council Corps is a private entity, so we don't work directly for the government. But we have federal status anyway, because our work is so important. And we do a lot of stuff for the military and the U.S. intelligence community, so we are sort of involved with that. But we don't take orders from the President. We are our own corporation. We're for hire, really, but we don't go looking aggressively for other clients."
"So, what is the next threat, Fabian?"
"Well, there's two threats, really. You'll be working on one of them-- the Arabs."
"The Arabs? What's the threat there? We took care of Iraq in the Gulf War. No one else out there is going to try us. Iran? Libya? I may not be a political analyst, but I know that we've got the Middle East under control."
"Terrorism, Robert. The guys hijacking planes, taking hostages, shit like that. We need to worry about that. We need to infiltrate their ranks more effectively."
"But they're more of a nuisance than a real threat," Robert said. "Look at that attempt to blow up the World Trade Center. They couldn't even get that one right! If you ask me, we have more to fear from domestic terrorism than foreigners."
"Well, that's the second threat, Robert. We're spying on our own people as well."
"What?" Robert couldn't believe what he was hearing.
"Yes. We're spying on Americans. It's been going on for decades. But it started to accelerate after Oklahoma and Timothy McVeigh. The militias, things like that... it's got Uncle Sam scared. The nation's biggest worry is that there is some collusion between the McVeighs of this country and the Osama bin Ladens of the world..."
Robert got up and began to walk around the room.
"Fuck, Fabian," Robert said. "What the hell have you been doing all these years? You're into some deep shit here!"
"Oh, another thing, Robert. Never ever refer to me around here by my real name, okay? Everyone here thinks my name is Sexton Seamus McGinty. Just call me Mr. McGinty and we'll be fine."
"Sex McGinty?" Robert laughed. He got the joke. It was an old one, that dated back to their years as high school delinquents in Wholesome, California. "Sex McGinty" was a fictional name they devised to fool their classmates into thinking there was some presence in the neighborhood who was responsible for their juvenile pranks. Much like the character Keyser Soze in the movie The Usual Suspects, it was a made-up cipher designed to mislead and redirect people's attention from the two of them.
"You promise not to fuck up on that one? It's real important that you never call me Fabian Rourke. If you ever do, on accident, you'd better have some type of explanation in your head, on the ready, because otherwise... well, I'd have to let you go. And I don't want to do that, Robert. One, you're my friend-- always have been, always will be. Two, I think you have what it takes to work here."
"What do you mean, man? I'm just a board-op for a cheesy talk radio station! What do I know about all this sophisticated spy shit?"
"It's not spy shit. And it's not sophisticated, Robert. And I said it before-- your instincts are right on. You have intuition. All my life, I've noticed that you had a predilection for electronics. You, of course, are an underachiever as well, but luckily the last few years have seen you amass some critical knowledge of sound and audio."
"Fa--uh, I mean, McGinty..."
"Please, call me Mac."
Robert shook his head incredulously. "Okay, Mac... we haven't spoken in years. Are you telling me that you've been spying on me all this time?"
"Let me put it this way, Robert: in my office, I have a surveillance tape collection of every radio show you ever boarded, from the time they had you as an assistant to recently, when Daniel Lazarus was filling in for Mark Rayburn. And not only do I have the on-air audio, but I also have the off-air feeds, the ones that no one outside of the station ever gets to hear... Would you like to hear it sometime?"
"Shit," Robert said. "And I suppose that whole studio is just one big microphone as well, eh?"
"Do you remember when they overhauled Studio G?"
"How did you know about that?"
"Council Corps supplied the contractors for that job, per my request."
"No fuckin' way!"
"Way."
"Dude, you're blowing my fucking mind! I-- I need to sit down or something."
Robert crushed his cigarette butt and sat down in the chair that moments earlier Fabian Rourke had been occupying. He was having a hrad time breathing.
Fabian patted Robert onthe shoulder and said, "There there, old buddy. Don't freak out. You haven't even met your crew yet. They're some mighty fine guys, Robert. They know their shit. I handpicked them myself."
CHAPTER SEVEN comes whenever I get inspired to work on it...
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
FINDING THE DIAMETER
As is often the case with my Internet searches, I find something that is the complete opposite of whatever it was that sparked my initial search.
I call this "finding the diameter."
As you all might or might not know, I've been on this Narcissism kick. From the fiction of Thomas Pynchon to online self-help jargon, I've been kicking this notion around ever since my misadventures concerning a certain online personality with whom I was engaged in mortal cyber-combat.
I found a site put up by a person who had bad experiences with the website that first brought Narcissistic Personality Disorder to my attention. In particular, he/she attacks Dr. Sam Vaknin, as well as other NPD authorities.
Here's the link...
Anyway, what is compelling is that this one article starts off with the author recounting his/her own encounter with an "online psychopath". Then, it devolves into a bitter retelling of disechantment with self-proclaimed narcissism experts.
And I felt like I found the serpent that ate its own tail.
For you see, this person's arguments against people like Vaknin are as follows: since Vaknin and others of his ilk are admitted narcissists themselves, after a while they reveal their own narcissistic tendencies through abuse, specifically by abusing the person who wrote these critical essays against people such as Vaknin.
The ironic thing is: the author of these critical essays exhibits narcissistic tendencies as well. No wonder they found conflict in relation to Vaknin and others.
This begs the question: Whose word do you trust? Someone like Vaknin, who has a doctorate but doesn't conduct himself as a professional? Or the abused author, who has a gripe against everyone elses' methods of thinking or treating NPD?
It was mind-boggling to read the amount of self-reflexive argumentation. Even in my own self-referential whirlwinds, I have only scratched the surface of my own identity.
You see, I have no problem being a narcissist, because if I don't look out for myself then who will? The thing that bugs me is my seeming indifference and apathy to other people's plights... but this may also be my saving grace, since everyone around me is, to some degree, a narcissist as well.
This is not a case of misery craving company. It is a case of my seeking out like-minded egotists and finding that, with very few exceptions, I seem to outmatch everyone else in terms of sheer ego.
My online stalker was an example of someone whose demand for N-supply matched my own. It wasn't until I found out who I was dealing with that my own sense of ego was satiated. Knowing that my enemy was a person who (1) had a better occupation than me yet still managed to waste his time online battling total strangers, and (2) looked like the bastard son of Ron Howard and the guy from "Napoleon Dynamite", my ego was stroked immensely.
I feel like I won. I'm sure that my stalker feels like he won the battle as well. However, he did stop taunting me, because he probably felt that same sickening feeling deep in the well of his gut that I did.
I am finding, in my daily relations with other narcissists, that my own narcissism is monstrous and distorted. For example: If I meet a woman whom I feel has some sort of manipulative hold on me merely because she is beautiful, I find other ways to make her feel small: belittling her intelligence, questioning her virtue/morality, or maybe even ignoring her completely-- cutting off her N-supply.
What's telling is that afterwards I reflect upon my actions and appraise myself accordingly. I hold a mirror up to myself to assess my "performance". Did I let her get my goat? Did I say or do anything that got her goat? Have I placed the ball in her court or is the next move mine to make?
Who is the winner, in this sitaution? Am I the winner? Not when I have lost out on an opportunity to be friends with a beautiful woman, as opposed to torturing her.
Likewise, I console myself by telling myself that she lost out on me, because she underestimated me, or doesn't see me as a real person. In the case of another narcissist, I guess I would be correct.
So once again, the question is: Whose word do you trust?
*/*
As a child, I often took jokes and ideas to their wildest extremes. In casual conversation with my peers, I developed a reputation for piling outrageous add-ons to any humorous topic. I always managed to make it sicker, funnier, grosser, more bizarre than anyone else. It was my attempt to outdo the others, and it led to some very funny in-jokes between myself and my friends. It was friendly competition, the only rule being that it had to somehow transcend whatever we were talking about.
I still do that. I still know how to take the topic and stretch it beyond belief. I reach for the absurd because it is the only logical direction to take anything.
Over time, the competition part of it still remains. The only difference is that I am less aggressive in my competitiveness. In fact, I am passive-aggressive about it. I am sometimes quite oblivious to the fact that I am raising the stakes or upping the ante. I see it as good, clean fun.
However, the minute someone gets aggressive on me, I get upset. But I don't pout-- instead, I rise to the imaginary occasion and try to outdo my "opponent". But I cheat-- I use whatever tricks are at my disposal.
For example: if I am being upstaged by a bully, I use my wits; if I am being made to look ridiculous, I turn the joke on myself by using self-deprecation; if someone is merely trying to irritate me, I hint at violence; if someone seems to be more knowledgeable than me, I make them look foolish for being such a "nerd"... even though I would gladly accept the tag "nerd" from someone looking to make me feel bad about being smart...
In my mind's reality, life is an endless competition. I guess that's why, when bad things happen to me (such as getting my car towed) I tend to want to pack up my toys and leave the proverbial sandbox. How can I one-up the towing company? A better question to ask would be: Why would I want to one-up the towing company? It was my fault to begin with, parking in that spot with the sign that stated "NO PARKING" quite clearly.
Why can't I just let it go? Why must I push to the next extreme?
I seriously entertained going back to the towing company offices and throwing a brick through the window. It was just a thought, but what kept me from acting upon it? Was it fear of getting caught? Fear of reprisal? Fear of bad karma returning to me in the future?
Or was it an acknowledgment that it wasn't worth all the trouble to do something that violent, that extreme, in response to the actions of a man who makes his living towing cars away from illegal parking spots?
I was disgusted by the tow-truck man. He looked like a redneck hillbilly straight out of Deliverance. He took his sweet time processing my driver's license and registration. He seemed to not have a care in the world. He idly chatted with his assistant, a pretty Latina girl who did all the paperwork.
I looked around his office and noticed he had posters of The Godfather and Scarface on his walls. I like those movies too. A part of me made the connection, thinking something along the lines of, "Anyone who likes Al Pacino as Tony Montana can't be that bad..."
In other words, I finally learned to humanize him... by making him into a mirror image of myself. My empathy, my sympathy-- perhaps all instances of placing oneself in another's shoes, throughout all of history --revolves around our individual capacity to imagine how we would behave through another person's experiences...
The Golden Rule states that we should do unto others as we would have them do unto ourselves.
This tripped me out. And I kept thinking about it, even as I felt so down about my status as a loser who couldn't even pay to get his own car out of the impound.
My feeling down stemmed from not being able to stand proud on my own two feet. Having to grovel, having to ask someone else for help... that's what really hurt the most. That's what made me want to stop playing music this morning.
I am afraid that, now that I have want I wanted-- my car out of the impound --will I go back to my impudent car-parling habits? Will I learn anything from this hard lesson? Or will I simply gloss it over and continue to make the same mistakes over and over?
I vowed to stop playing music-- did I mean it? Yes and no. Only time will tell if I really took it all to heart or not.
So I find myself engaging in the ultimate narcissistic activity: questioning my own motives.
Whose words do I trust-- the words of the Angry Me, or the words of the Reflective Me?
I don't have an easy answer for that one. This is one moment where I cannot one-up myself, lest I paint myself into a philosophical corner.
I'll just have to wait and see...
I call this "finding the diameter."
As you all might or might not know, I've been on this Narcissism kick. From the fiction of Thomas Pynchon to online self-help jargon, I've been kicking this notion around ever since my misadventures concerning a certain online personality with whom I was engaged in mortal cyber-combat.
I found a site put up by a person who had bad experiences with the website that first brought Narcissistic Personality Disorder to my attention. In particular, he/she attacks Dr. Sam Vaknin, as well as other NPD authorities.
Here's the link...
Anyway, what is compelling is that this one article starts off with the author recounting his/her own encounter with an "online psychopath". Then, it devolves into a bitter retelling of disechantment with self-proclaimed narcissism experts.
And I felt like I found the serpent that ate its own tail.
For you see, this person's arguments against people like Vaknin are as follows: since Vaknin and others of his ilk are admitted narcissists themselves, after a while they reveal their own narcissistic tendencies through abuse, specifically by abusing the person who wrote these critical essays against people such as Vaknin.
The ironic thing is: the author of these critical essays exhibits narcissistic tendencies as well. No wonder they found conflict in relation to Vaknin and others.
This begs the question: Whose word do you trust? Someone like Vaknin, who has a doctorate but doesn't conduct himself as a professional? Or the abused author, who has a gripe against everyone elses' methods of thinking or treating NPD?
It was mind-boggling to read the amount of self-reflexive argumentation. Even in my own self-referential whirlwinds, I have only scratched the surface of my own identity.
You see, I have no problem being a narcissist, because if I don't look out for myself then who will? The thing that bugs me is my seeming indifference and apathy to other people's plights... but this may also be my saving grace, since everyone around me is, to some degree, a narcissist as well.
This is not a case of misery craving company. It is a case of my seeking out like-minded egotists and finding that, with very few exceptions, I seem to outmatch everyone else in terms of sheer ego.
My online stalker was an example of someone whose demand for N-supply matched my own. It wasn't until I found out who I was dealing with that my own sense of ego was satiated. Knowing that my enemy was a person who (1) had a better occupation than me yet still managed to waste his time online battling total strangers, and (2) looked like the bastard son of Ron Howard and the guy from "Napoleon Dynamite", my ego was stroked immensely.
I feel like I won. I'm sure that my stalker feels like he won the battle as well. However, he did stop taunting me, because he probably felt that same sickening feeling deep in the well of his gut that I did.
I am finding, in my daily relations with other narcissists, that my own narcissism is monstrous and distorted. For example: If I meet a woman whom I feel has some sort of manipulative hold on me merely because she is beautiful, I find other ways to make her feel small: belittling her intelligence, questioning her virtue/morality, or maybe even ignoring her completely-- cutting off her N-supply.
What's telling is that afterwards I reflect upon my actions and appraise myself accordingly. I hold a mirror up to myself to assess my "performance". Did I let her get my goat? Did I say or do anything that got her goat? Have I placed the ball in her court or is the next move mine to make?
Who is the winner, in this sitaution? Am I the winner? Not when I have lost out on an opportunity to be friends with a beautiful woman, as opposed to torturing her.
Likewise, I console myself by telling myself that she lost out on me, because she underestimated me, or doesn't see me as a real person. In the case of another narcissist, I guess I would be correct.
So once again, the question is: Whose word do you trust?
*/*
As a child, I often took jokes and ideas to their wildest extremes. In casual conversation with my peers, I developed a reputation for piling outrageous add-ons to any humorous topic. I always managed to make it sicker, funnier, grosser, more bizarre than anyone else. It was my attempt to outdo the others, and it led to some very funny in-jokes between myself and my friends. It was friendly competition, the only rule being that it had to somehow transcend whatever we were talking about.
I still do that. I still know how to take the topic and stretch it beyond belief. I reach for the absurd because it is the only logical direction to take anything.
Over time, the competition part of it still remains. The only difference is that I am less aggressive in my competitiveness. In fact, I am passive-aggressive about it. I am sometimes quite oblivious to the fact that I am raising the stakes or upping the ante. I see it as good, clean fun.
However, the minute someone gets aggressive on me, I get upset. But I don't pout-- instead, I rise to the imaginary occasion and try to outdo my "opponent". But I cheat-- I use whatever tricks are at my disposal.
For example: if I am being upstaged by a bully, I use my wits; if I am being made to look ridiculous, I turn the joke on myself by using self-deprecation; if someone is merely trying to irritate me, I hint at violence; if someone seems to be more knowledgeable than me, I make them look foolish for being such a "nerd"... even though I would gladly accept the tag "nerd" from someone looking to make me feel bad about being smart...
In my mind's reality, life is an endless competition. I guess that's why, when bad things happen to me (such as getting my car towed) I tend to want to pack up my toys and leave the proverbial sandbox. How can I one-up the towing company? A better question to ask would be: Why would I want to one-up the towing company? It was my fault to begin with, parking in that spot with the sign that stated "NO PARKING" quite clearly.
Why can't I just let it go? Why must I push to the next extreme?
I seriously entertained going back to the towing company offices and throwing a brick through the window. It was just a thought, but what kept me from acting upon it? Was it fear of getting caught? Fear of reprisal? Fear of bad karma returning to me in the future?
Or was it an acknowledgment that it wasn't worth all the trouble to do something that violent, that extreme, in response to the actions of a man who makes his living towing cars away from illegal parking spots?
I was disgusted by the tow-truck man. He looked like a redneck hillbilly straight out of Deliverance. He took his sweet time processing my driver's license and registration. He seemed to not have a care in the world. He idly chatted with his assistant, a pretty Latina girl who did all the paperwork.
I looked around his office and noticed he had posters of The Godfather and Scarface on his walls. I like those movies too. A part of me made the connection, thinking something along the lines of, "Anyone who likes Al Pacino as Tony Montana can't be that bad..."
In other words, I finally learned to humanize him... by making him into a mirror image of myself. My empathy, my sympathy-- perhaps all instances of placing oneself in another's shoes, throughout all of history --revolves around our individual capacity to imagine how we would behave through another person's experiences...
The Golden Rule states that we should do unto others as we would have them do unto ourselves.
This tripped me out. And I kept thinking about it, even as I felt so down about my status as a loser who couldn't even pay to get his own car out of the impound.
My feeling down stemmed from not being able to stand proud on my own two feet. Having to grovel, having to ask someone else for help... that's what really hurt the most. That's what made me want to stop playing music this morning.
I am afraid that, now that I have want I wanted-- my car out of the impound --will I go back to my impudent car-parling habits? Will I learn anything from this hard lesson? Or will I simply gloss it over and continue to make the same mistakes over and over?
I vowed to stop playing music-- did I mean it? Yes and no. Only time will tell if I really took it all to heart or not.
So I find myself engaging in the ultimate narcissistic activity: questioning my own motives.
Whose words do I trust-- the words of the Angry Me, or the words of the Reflective Me?
I don't have an easy answer for that one. This is one moment where I cannot one-up myself, lest I paint myself into a philosophical corner.
I'll just have to wait and see...
I'M GIVING UP
Last night, when I got out of rehearsal, I found that my car had been towed. I parked in a private parking lot across from the rehearsal studio and they jacked me hardcore.
Buddha, the drummer, gave me a ride home, but on the way back I kept thinking about my rotten luck lately.
I didn't have the money to get my car out-- $215 cash. I called Purple Paulie, who always has money, and he offered to let me borrow until payday. I thank him for that.
But it doesn't change my feelings. I'm giving up on music.
I'm not going to play in any bands anymore. I might still work on my own stuff, but really-- what's the point? I'm never going to be happy playing music, so long as I have to play with people who can't sing, can't write decent fucking song to save their life, and have bigger egos than I can handle.
It's not worth it to me to play my heart out just so I can get my car towed and be broke all the time. I might keep playing with the hair metal band, only because they want to make money. It's only worth it to make money, even if it's music that I hate.
What's the use of playing music if no one gives a damn? What's the use in playing music when I can't even pay to get my car out of the impound? What's the use in playing music if everyone around me is more concerned with being famous than being good at what they do?
I'm giving up, for the first time in my life. I'm throwing in the towel. You won, world. Hope you're happy.
I'd give up writing, if I could, but I'm too addicted to it. I feel like giving up on everything right now, because none of it is worth the heartache and the pain.
There's nothing motivating me beyond my own love for playing, and it just doesn't pay off. I'm going nowhere with stupid rock fantasies that will never come true. I'm just going to have to face the fact that I suck, because if I were any good, people would be telling me so.
I don't want pity, I don't want sympathy. I'm disabling the comments for this post, because I don't care what anyone has to say. No one gives a goddamn, so why should I?
I think I'm just going to call it quits on all of my dreams: art, music, writing... I'm just going to buckle down right now and settle on living a comfortable, boring life with no surprises and no drama.
Last night was the kind of hard reality lesson that I'm been in denial of for what seems like ages. What ever made me think that I had what it takes to be a musician? I've been so foolish, squandering my time, wasting it on people like Holly, who caved in immediately; people like Katie and Elle, who have no qualms about stepping over people to get what they want; people like the guys in ICON, who are so fucking insecure that they can't leave well enough alone.
From now on, my personal projects stay with me and me only. That way, I can hear this rap later on down the line: "Wow, man, I didn't know you could play. You should get a band going..."
Then I can tell them my war stories, about not being taken seriously, about being taken for granted, and how it all fell apart one night when my car got towed.
I don't know why it affected me so, but it did. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.
I don't even want to live vicariously through other people's dreams anymore. I just want to live my life, regardless of what anyone else says. I'm through with art. It hasn't given anything back to me. I'm alone because I choose art over human beings, and look what it has done for me: nothing.
I'm angry right now, but I'm not bitter. I can keep going on this route forever and ever. I have the energy to keep going, but I guess what I'm disappointed about is that no one shares my vision, and it's killing me to have to deal with the fevered egos of people around me.
It just doesn't make any sense.
Anyway, I need a break from it all, and maybe I will just disappear, as I always do, and reassess my situation. I'm sick of not being happy, I'm sick of doing things for other people who don't have the same intensity that I feel inside of me.
I'm not obligated to anyone, so it's my call. Do I say "Fuck it" or do I go on with the show?
I'll just have to figure it out myself.
Buddha, the drummer, gave me a ride home, but on the way back I kept thinking about my rotten luck lately.
I didn't have the money to get my car out-- $215 cash. I called Purple Paulie, who always has money, and he offered to let me borrow until payday. I thank him for that.
But it doesn't change my feelings. I'm giving up on music.
I'm not going to play in any bands anymore. I might still work on my own stuff, but really-- what's the point? I'm never going to be happy playing music, so long as I have to play with people who can't sing, can't write decent fucking song to save their life, and have bigger egos than I can handle.
It's not worth it to me to play my heart out just so I can get my car towed and be broke all the time. I might keep playing with the hair metal band, only because they want to make money. It's only worth it to make money, even if it's music that I hate.
What's the use of playing music if no one gives a damn? What's the use in playing music when I can't even pay to get my car out of the impound? What's the use in playing music if everyone around me is more concerned with being famous than being good at what they do?
I'm giving up, for the first time in my life. I'm throwing in the towel. You won, world. Hope you're happy.
I'd give up writing, if I could, but I'm too addicted to it. I feel like giving up on everything right now, because none of it is worth the heartache and the pain.
There's nothing motivating me beyond my own love for playing, and it just doesn't pay off. I'm going nowhere with stupid rock fantasies that will never come true. I'm just going to have to face the fact that I suck, because if I were any good, people would be telling me so.
I don't want pity, I don't want sympathy. I'm disabling the comments for this post, because I don't care what anyone has to say. No one gives a goddamn, so why should I?
I think I'm just going to call it quits on all of my dreams: art, music, writing... I'm just going to buckle down right now and settle on living a comfortable, boring life with no surprises and no drama.
Last night was the kind of hard reality lesson that I'm been in denial of for what seems like ages. What ever made me think that I had what it takes to be a musician? I've been so foolish, squandering my time, wasting it on people like Holly, who caved in immediately; people like Katie and Elle, who have no qualms about stepping over people to get what they want; people like the guys in ICON, who are so fucking insecure that they can't leave well enough alone.
From now on, my personal projects stay with me and me only. That way, I can hear this rap later on down the line: "Wow, man, I didn't know you could play. You should get a band going..."
Then I can tell them my war stories, about not being taken seriously, about being taken for granted, and how it all fell apart one night when my car got towed.
I don't know why it affected me so, but it did. It was the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back.
I don't even want to live vicariously through other people's dreams anymore. I just want to live my life, regardless of what anyone else says. I'm through with art. It hasn't given anything back to me. I'm alone because I choose art over human beings, and look what it has done for me: nothing.
I'm angry right now, but I'm not bitter. I can keep going on this route forever and ever. I have the energy to keep going, but I guess what I'm disappointed about is that no one shares my vision, and it's killing me to have to deal with the fevered egos of people around me.
It just doesn't make any sense.
Anyway, I need a break from it all, and maybe I will just disappear, as I always do, and reassess my situation. I'm sick of not being happy, I'm sick of doing things for other people who don't have the same intensity that I feel inside of me.
I'm not obligated to anyone, so it's my call. Do I say "Fuck it" or do I go on with the show?
I'll just have to figure it out myself.
Monday, May 09, 2005
MOTHER'S DAY
This past weekend, it occurred to me that the worst thing that could ever happen to me in my life would be to lose my mother.
The mere thought of it causes me to cry uncontrollably.
I saw her this weekend, for Mother's Day, and I let her know what she means to me. She loved my portrait of her, even though I know I could do better.
I fear nothing else in this world. My own death? What is there to fear, other than a slow, painful death?
If my stepfather passed away, I would be crushed, but I would be able to go on. Same with my real father, except I would be consoled slightly by the sense of relief that would accompany it. If my real father died, part of me would be glad that he is finally out of his own misery.
But if my mother were to pass away, I don't think I could find a single reason to go on living.
I thought about all the people whose mothers are gone, and I salute them, for braving the world and continuing to move forward. They have more courage than I ever could possess.
My mother's mother died in 1991, from uterine cancer. And she went on with her life, parentless (my mother's father died when she was 12).
I've survived a lot of things, but now that I know what my biggest, darkest fear is, I hope that I can find the resources to not give up, come the inevitable day when she is no more.
What a weird way to celebrate Mother's Day, eh?
The mere thought of it causes me to cry uncontrollably.
I saw her this weekend, for Mother's Day, and I let her know what she means to me. She loved my portrait of her, even though I know I could do better.
I fear nothing else in this world. My own death? What is there to fear, other than a slow, painful death?
If my stepfather passed away, I would be crushed, but I would be able to go on. Same with my real father, except I would be consoled slightly by the sense of relief that would accompany it. If my real father died, part of me would be glad that he is finally out of his own misery.
But if my mother were to pass away, I don't think I could find a single reason to go on living.
I thought about all the people whose mothers are gone, and I salute them, for braving the world and continuing to move forward. They have more courage than I ever could possess.
My mother's mother died in 1991, from uterine cancer. And she went on with her life, parentless (my mother's father died when she was 12).
I've survived a lot of things, but now that I know what my biggest, darkest fear is, I hope that I can find the resources to not give up, come the inevitable day when she is no more.
What a weird way to celebrate Mother's Day, eh?
I WILL POST MORE LATER ON, BUT FOR NOW...
...here comes one of them addictive Internet "quizzes"!
You Will Die at Age 58 |
58 Not bad, considering your super wild lifestyle Want to live longer? Try losing a few bad habits. |
Friday, May 06, 2005
THE "N" DECADE and THE NEW CHRISTIANITY
I have this theory about decades.
It's the 30 year theory, that every 30 years we go through the same phases over and over.
Phase One is a happy-go-lucky, everything-will-be-okay era. Things look prosperous and wonderful on the surface but there is trouble brewing beneath. The '20's were like this, as were the '50's and the '80's.
Phase Two is mired in turbulence, social change, and cultural revolution. These are exciting times to live through. The '30's, '60's and '90's fall into this range.
Phase Three is the aftermath of all the change and preparation for the return of Phase One. These are lethargic, narcissistic times to endure. The '40's, '70's and our current decade (the '00's, perhaps?) fit the bill.
My theory is just a theory. There's no science to it. And it can be argued that these phases don't exactly correspond to the decades numerically. A lot of people feel, for example, that the '50's ended in 1963, when JFK was killed, right before The Beatles became big, and ended when Vietnam and Watergate hit our national consciousness. This would mean that the '70's didn't officially start until midway through (around the time of the Bicentennial, maybe?) and ended sometime in early 1983. The advent of the '80's, logically, would've been the Summer of 1984, when Top 40 pop music hit a certain peak and the Ruskies were boycotting the Olympics...
...and so on.
Right now, we're in the third phase, but it feels like we're in the first phase, because of the overwhelming conservatism and nationalism that has blanketed the nation in the wake of 9/11. I would say that 9/11 officially marked the end of the '90's, although more eager observers wanted to attribute the WTC attacks as the Death of Irony as well.
But you can't kill off an abstract like Irony... or Terrorism, for that matter.
No, things are gonna get worse, I fear, in terms of how stupid people can be and how fearful they are. Right now self-absorption is at an all-time high. As a passive narcissist myself, I can see that people are catching up to my mentality very quickly. Meanwhile, I am stressing selflessness, because my gut instinct has always been about going against the grain. When people become more liberal, I become more conservative... out of pure spite.
And vice versa: when everybody has their heads buried in the sand like a bunch of ostriches, I become the one who prefers to keep his head above the fray. Chalk it up to my pathological need to be different from anyone else.
The '40's was the post-WWII generation, "The Greatest Generation", the parents of the Baby Boomers. In the '70's, those Baby Boomers were dropping back into society after having dropped out, and that was the advent of the Me Decade.
So I christen the '00's as The "N" Decade. The "N" stands for "narcissism", in case you didn't already know that.
*/*
I see (on the cultural horizon) the rise of The New Christianity.
The New Christians are cynical, small-minded, and hateful. They are bringing down the name of Christianity by virtue of their petty vindictiveness against anyone who doesn't toe their party line. Their tongues spit deadly venom in the direction of anything that has the potential to enlighten humanity and bring it into the next phase of human evolution. Just mentioning the word 'evolution' will cause them to clamp their hands against their ears, even if it isn't in reference to Drawin and his studies.
The New Christianity has nothing to do with the points that Jesus Christ made in his infamous Sermon On The Mount, aka "The Beatitudes":
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted"? The New Christians have no interest in comforting those who mourn. They would rather scream at them and tell them that their loved ones are in Hell because they didn't believe. And they only want to comfort the mourning of a select few, namely anyone who can help these New Christians further their heartless agendas. From the families of the victims of 9/11 to the Terry Schiavos of the world, the New Christians are there, acting as sanctimonious as they can... never mind the wailing cries emanating from the women and children of Iraq.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied"? Unfortunately, the New Christians think this applies to them. But they hunger not for righteousness-- instead they pursue self-righteousness, and they are NEVER satisfied. I mean, we have a predominantly right-wing government in effect, with a media that caters to its whims... and yet there's still all of this talk about the Liberal Media. Can't have it both ways, people. Be happy that your man was (unofficially) elected, okay? Leave the rest of us alone.
"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven"... and who would the persecuted be? The New Christians would have you believe that they are the persecuted ones, with all this crap talk about "The Culture Of Life" and whatnot. But the way I see it, the New Christians are doing an awful lot of persecuting themselves: gays, pro-choice activists, left-wingers and various religious denominations are constantly under attack from the likes of assholes like Randall Terry, Jerry Falwell, and President Bundy. And if you ask me, at the rate they keep attacking, the Kingdom of Heaven is going to be closed to them when their time comes.
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth"... but we Americans don't really believe that. If we did, we wouldn't be so quick to start wars and bully the rest of the world around like kids in a schoolyard. We would have more compassion for the homeless and the poor, instead of passing anti-bankruptcy bills that promise to widen the gap between the Haves and the Have-nots. We Americans piss on people who seem weak in our minds, because collectively as a nation we are incredibly insecure.
"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy"... another concept lost on this new breed of Christian. Where was the mercy when President Bundy sentenced a woman to death in Texas, followed by a cruel mocking imitation of her last words? Where is the mercy for the women and children of Iraq and Afghanistan? Where is the mercy for the mentally ill and the drug-addicted masses in our cities? The answer: The New Christians have no mercy, because mercy would require a conscience, whereas these monsters are ready to demonstrate time and time again that they have no conscience.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God". I guess we know where The New Christians stand on this front: they lust for war, they lust for blood-- even the blood of their own Savior, which they drooled over in Mel Gibson's movie The Passion Of The Christ. They are ready to wipe out all of the "towelheads" and "godless heathens" and only think turning the cheek is good for their enemies, the better to smite them with swords and crucifixes.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven"... but is it really? What does 'poor in spirit' mean? Does it mean gloating over President Bundy's win in 2004? Does it mean yelling "America #1" at the top of their lungs and beating their chests as the war drums beat on? Does it mean forcing the downtrodden and disillusioned of this country to accept a dogma that doesn't speak directly to them?
"Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God"... In light of this particular Beatitude, I fear that the New Christians are as blind as can be. Their hearts are black and wrapped in wickedness, and their demeanors betray a viciousness that, once again, doesn't resemble the message of Christ in any way, shape or form.
Finally, I'd like to ask all of you-- any of you-- out there who read this to do me a favor: if you agree that Christianity is being hijacked by an unprecedented wave of hatred and bigotry; if you feel that the label of "Christian" has been tainted by ignorant yahoos; if it breaks your heart to see men and women who profess to love God treating their fellow men as if they were objects to be villified and effigied, then please copy and paste this post and send it to anyone out there who will read it and pass it on. You can give them the link to this blog if you want.
I'm sick of the New Christians trying to take the reins. I am sick of their lies and distortions. I am sick of hearing otherwise good people espouse bad logic when it comes to the welfare of other human beings.
Spread this message, and remind those who belong to this new breed that their time is limited. They shall not prosper, they shall not advance beyond their shallow wells of faux-spirituality, because they have no intention of seeking out Truth. They remain closed-minded and hard-hearted, like millions of mini-Pharoahs denying the Moses' of this world from embarking on a true Exodus of the mind, body and soul.
Unless they change their ways soon, the upcoming decades will be unkind to them. They may be on top now, but wait until their power wanes and their influence deflates. See how desperate and murderous they will become. It won't be pretty.
They hold us back, The New Christians. They suck our life essence with their tireless attempts to control our minds. They want to break us, because they are already broken... and we all know how misery loves company.
We need to make progress. We need to recognize the False Prophets and expose the nude Emperors who want to convince us that they stand in regal robes, unblemished by sin.
I am in no position to judge, but then again can you call this post a judgement? I think of it more as a wake-up call, a challenge, perhaps even a warning... but far from a threat.
We need to act. Now.
Have a great weekend, people.
It's the 30 year theory, that every 30 years we go through the same phases over and over.
Phase One is a happy-go-lucky, everything-will-be-okay era. Things look prosperous and wonderful on the surface but there is trouble brewing beneath. The '20's were like this, as were the '50's and the '80's.
Phase Two is mired in turbulence, social change, and cultural revolution. These are exciting times to live through. The '30's, '60's and '90's fall into this range.
Phase Three is the aftermath of all the change and preparation for the return of Phase One. These are lethargic, narcissistic times to endure. The '40's, '70's and our current decade (the '00's, perhaps?) fit the bill.
My theory is just a theory. There's no science to it. And it can be argued that these phases don't exactly correspond to the decades numerically. A lot of people feel, for example, that the '50's ended in 1963, when JFK was killed, right before The Beatles became big, and ended when Vietnam and Watergate hit our national consciousness. This would mean that the '70's didn't officially start until midway through (around the time of the Bicentennial, maybe?) and ended sometime in early 1983. The advent of the '80's, logically, would've been the Summer of 1984, when Top 40 pop music hit a certain peak and the Ruskies were boycotting the Olympics...
...and so on.
Right now, we're in the third phase, but it feels like we're in the first phase, because of the overwhelming conservatism and nationalism that has blanketed the nation in the wake of 9/11. I would say that 9/11 officially marked the end of the '90's, although more eager observers wanted to attribute the WTC attacks as the Death of Irony as well.
But you can't kill off an abstract like Irony... or Terrorism, for that matter.
No, things are gonna get worse, I fear, in terms of how stupid people can be and how fearful they are. Right now self-absorption is at an all-time high. As a passive narcissist myself, I can see that people are catching up to my mentality very quickly. Meanwhile, I am stressing selflessness, because my gut instinct has always been about going against the grain. When people become more liberal, I become more conservative... out of pure spite.
And vice versa: when everybody has their heads buried in the sand like a bunch of ostriches, I become the one who prefers to keep his head above the fray. Chalk it up to my pathological need to be different from anyone else.
The '40's was the post-WWII generation, "The Greatest Generation", the parents of the Baby Boomers. In the '70's, those Baby Boomers were dropping back into society after having dropped out, and that was the advent of the Me Decade.
So I christen the '00's as The "N" Decade. The "N" stands for "narcissism", in case you didn't already know that.
*/*
I see (on the cultural horizon) the rise of The New Christianity.
The New Christians are cynical, small-minded, and hateful. They are bringing down the name of Christianity by virtue of their petty vindictiveness against anyone who doesn't toe their party line. Their tongues spit deadly venom in the direction of anything that has the potential to enlighten humanity and bring it into the next phase of human evolution. Just mentioning the word 'evolution' will cause them to clamp their hands against their ears, even if it isn't in reference to Drawin and his studies.
The New Christianity has nothing to do with the points that Jesus Christ made in his infamous Sermon On The Mount, aka "The Beatitudes":
"Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted"? The New Christians have no interest in comforting those who mourn. They would rather scream at them and tell them that their loved ones are in Hell because they didn't believe. And they only want to comfort the mourning of a select few, namely anyone who can help these New Christians further their heartless agendas. From the families of the victims of 9/11 to the Terry Schiavos of the world, the New Christians are there, acting as sanctimonious as they can... never mind the wailing cries emanating from the women and children of Iraq.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied"? Unfortunately, the New Christians think this applies to them. But they hunger not for righteousness-- instead they pursue self-righteousness, and they are NEVER satisfied. I mean, we have a predominantly right-wing government in effect, with a media that caters to its whims... and yet there's still all of this talk about the Liberal Media. Can't have it both ways, people. Be happy that your man was (unofficially) elected, okay? Leave the rest of us alone.
"Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven"... and who would the persecuted be? The New Christians would have you believe that they are the persecuted ones, with all this crap talk about "The Culture Of Life" and whatnot. But the way I see it, the New Christians are doing an awful lot of persecuting themselves: gays, pro-choice activists, left-wingers and various religious denominations are constantly under attack from the likes of assholes like Randall Terry, Jerry Falwell, and President Bundy. And if you ask me, at the rate they keep attacking, the Kingdom of Heaven is going to be closed to them when their time comes.
"Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth"... but we Americans don't really believe that. If we did, we wouldn't be so quick to start wars and bully the rest of the world around like kids in a schoolyard. We would have more compassion for the homeless and the poor, instead of passing anti-bankruptcy bills that promise to widen the gap between the Haves and the Have-nots. We Americans piss on people who seem weak in our minds, because collectively as a nation we are incredibly insecure.
"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy"... another concept lost on this new breed of Christian. Where was the mercy when President Bundy sentenced a woman to death in Texas, followed by a cruel mocking imitation of her last words? Where is the mercy for the women and children of Iraq and Afghanistan? Where is the mercy for the mentally ill and the drug-addicted masses in our cities? The answer: The New Christians have no mercy, because mercy would require a conscience, whereas these monsters are ready to demonstrate time and time again that they have no conscience.
"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God". I guess we know where The New Christians stand on this front: they lust for war, they lust for blood-- even the blood of their own Savior, which they drooled over in Mel Gibson's movie The Passion Of The Christ. They are ready to wipe out all of the "towelheads" and "godless heathens" and only think turning the cheek is good for their enemies, the better to smite them with swords and crucifixes.
"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven"... but is it really? What does 'poor in spirit' mean? Does it mean gloating over President Bundy's win in 2004? Does it mean yelling "America #1" at the top of their lungs and beating their chests as the war drums beat on? Does it mean forcing the downtrodden and disillusioned of this country to accept a dogma that doesn't speak directly to them?
"Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God"... In light of this particular Beatitude, I fear that the New Christians are as blind as can be. Their hearts are black and wrapped in wickedness, and their demeanors betray a viciousness that, once again, doesn't resemble the message of Christ in any way, shape or form.
Finally, I'd like to ask all of you-- any of you-- out there who read this to do me a favor: if you agree that Christianity is being hijacked by an unprecedented wave of hatred and bigotry; if you feel that the label of "Christian" has been tainted by ignorant yahoos; if it breaks your heart to see men and women who profess to love God treating their fellow men as if they were objects to be villified and effigied, then please copy and paste this post and send it to anyone out there who will read it and pass it on. You can give them the link to this blog if you want.
I'm sick of the New Christians trying to take the reins. I am sick of their lies and distortions. I am sick of hearing otherwise good people espouse bad logic when it comes to the welfare of other human beings.
Spread this message, and remind those who belong to this new breed that their time is limited. They shall not prosper, they shall not advance beyond their shallow wells of faux-spirituality, because they have no intention of seeking out Truth. They remain closed-minded and hard-hearted, like millions of mini-Pharoahs denying the Moses' of this world from embarking on a true Exodus of the mind, body and soul.
Unless they change their ways soon, the upcoming decades will be unkind to them. They may be on top now, but wait until their power wanes and their influence deflates. See how desperate and murderous they will become. It won't be pretty.
They hold us back, The New Christians. They suck our life essence with their tireless attempts to control our minds. They want to break us, because they are already broken... and we all know how misery loves company.
We need to make progress. We need to recognize the False Prophets and expose the nude Emperors who want to convince us that they stand in regal robes, unblemished by sin.
I am in no position to judge, but then again can you call this post a judgement? I think of it more as a wake-up call, a challenge, perhaps even a warning... but far from a threat.
We need to act. Now.
Have a great weekend, people.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
ALL THE KING'S HORSES AND ALL THE KINGSMEN
I've had all I can stand and I can't stands no more...
I can tolerate this country's complete abandonment of reason and logic; I can take the idiocy of TV during a Sweeps month; I can even rationalize the cowardice of the media towards our criminally-reckless government...
BUT...
...LEAVE "LOUIE LOUIE" ALONE!!
The lyrics are NOT obscene-- never have been, never will be.
The Feds tried investigating it decades ago. Their conclusion: they couldn't tell what the lyrics were because the definitive recording (by The Kingsmen) is so unintelligible.
Here are the real lyrics to "Louie Louie":
Louie Louie, oh baby, me gotta go.
Louie Louie, oh baby, me gotta go.
A fine little girl, she waits for me.
Me catch the ship across the sea.
I sailed the ship all alone.
I never think I'll make it home.
Louie Louie, me gotta go.
Three nights and days we sailed the sea.
Me think of girl constantly.
On the ship, I dream she there.
I smell the rose in her hair.
Louie Louie, me gotta go.
Me see Jamaican moon above.
It won't be long me see me love.
Me take her in my arms and then
I tell her I never leave again.
Louie Louie, oh baby, I said we gotta go
I know this because my mother owns one of those early '60s anthology LPs, with Richard Berry's version on it.
Richard Berry wrote "Louie Louie", in case you didn't know.
I'm so sick of people who know nothing pointing their crooked fingers at things they have no knowledge of... there's only so much ignorance my brain can fathom, but when a Michigan school bans the marching band from playing the song-- in the 21st century, no less --all I can think is that the collective IQ of this once-great country is now at Gumpian levels.
I mean, the marching band was going to play it. Where's the vocalist in a marching band? Answer: THERE ISN'T A VOCALIST! Therefore, even if the lyrics were proven to be dirty, how can a marching band's rendition of "Louie Louie" be obscene IN ANY SENSE?
I've heard versions that later artists have recorded, where they make up their own lyrics... but they are not the actual lyrics to "Louie Louie".
My favorite set of lyrics is by pre-Henry Rollins punk legends Black Flag. In their version, Dez Cadena sings:
You know the pain that's in my heart
It just shows I'm not very smart
Who needs love when you got a gun?
Who needs love to have a little fun?
That's just being funny and irreverent. But I find nothing humorous about stupid people (who should know better) basing their administrative decisions on OUTDATED DATA. That's like rocket scientists conducting experiments about "the ether"...
Fuck this shit-- Louie Louie, oh baby, I gotta go... to Europe... until 2008, but possibly until later.
I can tolerate this country's complete abandonment of reason and logic; I can take the idiocy of TV during a Sweeps month; I can even rationalize the cowardice of the media towards our criminally-reckless government...
BUT...
...LEAVE "LOUIE LOUIE" ALONE!!
The lyrics are NOT obscene-- never have been, never will be.
The Feds tried investigating it decades ago. Their conclusion: they couldn't tell what the lyrics were because the definitive recording (by The Kingsmen) is so unintelligible.
Here are the real lyrics to "Louie Louie":
Louie Louie, oh baby, me gotta go.
Louie Louie, oh baby, me gotta go.
A fine little girl, she waits for me.
Me catch the ship across the sea.
I sailed the ship all alone.
I never think I'll make it home.
Louie Louie, me gotta go.
Three nights and days we sailed the sea.
Me think of girl constantly.
On the ship, I dream she there.
I smell the rose in her hair.
Louie Louie, me gotta go.
Me see Jamaican moon above.
It won't be long me see me love.
Me take her in my arms and then
I tell her I never leave again.
Louie Louie, oh baby, I said we gotta go
I know this because my mother owns one of those early '60s anthology LPs, with Richard Berry's version on it.
Richard Berry wrote "Louie Louie", in case you didn't know.
I'm so sick of people who know nothing pointing their crooked fingers at things they have no knowledge of... there's only so much ignorance my brain can fathom, but when a Michigan school bans the marching band from playing the song-- in the 21st century, no less --all I can think is that the collective IQ of this once-great country is now at Gumpian levels.
I mean, the marching band was going to play it. Where's the vocalist in a marching band? Answer: THERE ISN'T A VOCALIST! Therefore, even if the lyrics were proven to be dirty, how can a marching band's rendition of "Louie Louie" be obscene IN ANY SENSE?
I've heard versions that later artists have recorded, where they make up their own lyrics... but they are not the actual lyrics to "Louie Louie".
My favorite set of lyrics is by pre-Henry Rollins punk legends Black Flag. In their version, Dez Cadena sings:
You know the pain that's in my heart
It just shows I'm not very smart
Who needs love when you got a gun?
Who needs love to have a little fun?
That's just being funny and irreverent. But I find nothing humorous about stupid people (who should know better) basing their administrative decisions on OUTDATED DATA. That's like rocket scientists conducting experiments about "the ether"...
Fuck this shit-- Louie Louie, oh baby, I gotta go... to Europe... until 2008, but possibly until later.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
RANDOM THOUGHT SWIRL CONQUERS THE WORLD
I've been receiving much N-supply for my painting. I spread the word as much as I could: at work, where we deal with Hispanic/Latino talk radio programming; online, where I belong to various groups and forums; and with my inner circle of friends, who are encouraging me to continue to pursue visual arts.
I'm feeling good, but I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I am not shamelessly peddling my own product. I am helping to promote awareness of something other than myself. What's going on in Juarez has been a concern of mine ever since I first heard about it.
To be able to be a part of something bigger than me is an honor and a privelege. If it were just something I was doing for myself, I think I'd be less inclined to tell others about it.
Someone gave me the idea to paint a picture for my mother as a Mother's Day gift. I'll give it a try. If it doesn't work out, I'll paint over it and buy her a gift.
*/*
Eve told me on Sunday that my painting reminded her of two cards from her Tarot deck. Both of them had women blindfolded, wielding swords... I can't remember which ones they were.
I just wanted to mention that.
*/*
Three or four bands worth mentioning: Kaiser Chiefs, Kings Of Leon, Louis XIV, and The Mars Volta.
Mars Volta used to be known as At The Drive-in. Kings Of Leon have a song on a commercial-- I forget what the ad is for but the song is cool; first time I ever bought an album based off of an ad...
Louis XIV are very T.Rex, while Kaiser Chiefs have this great song on KCRW called "Oh My God".
I am starting to find the new bands that I can have faith in. They are not the coolest, or the edgiest, but their sounds are music to my ears.
*/*
Watched my Who DVD last night. They did a version of their Tommy precursor, "A Quick One (While He's Away)" that was positively glorious.
It started off gently, with the band singing a three-part harmony (drummer Keith Moon, he of the notoriously atonal voice, merely lip-synched as the others sang) to open the piece. Then, as they started playing, you could see Pete Townshend trying to play and tune his guitar at the same time. Having been there at many a time in my life, I can attest to the distracting burden it can be to start playing a song and realize one string is slightly out-of-tune.
They seemed to be losing it a bit when they got to the third section, which is faster in tempo and a bit old-fashioned. But Pete was able to catch his breath for the fourth part, the Cowboy section, and he tuned-up off-camera.
Then, when it was time for the last section, the famous "You Are Forgiven" finale that was used to maximum effect in the movie Rushmore, they were spot-on, singing "Cello, cello, cello, cello" and ripping through the three chords as if their drawers were on fire. John Entwistle's falsetto cried out in the background as Pete looked into the camera and smiled, singing the words with passion, words about a woman whose lover has returned from a year's worth of travels, a woman who admits that she had been unfaithful when he was away, and a man who is so glad to see her again that he waives it off, singing a song of forgiveness...
Amazing. Tears in my eyes. Goose pimples all up and down my spine and arms...
They looked like they were having so much fun being in a band together. The cock rock moves and windmill turns seem ridiculous now, but there was a time when those same moves enervated a whole generation of kids, who wanted to smash their instruments after the set and create absolute mayhem with their racket.
I love what Pete said about The Beatles, how their backing tracks on their records revealed them to be "lousy" players... and he meant this as a compliment!
Rehearsal with the hair-metal band was cancelled tonight. Oh well, there's always next week.
I am going to listen to some music and finish my work. Talk to y'all tomorrow.
I'm feeling good, but I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I am not shamelessly peddling my own product. I am helping to promote awareness of something other than myself. What's going on in Juarez has been a concern of mine ever since I first heard about it.
To be able to be a part of something bigger than me is an honor and a privelege. If it were just something I was doing for myself, I think I'd be less inclined to tell others about it.
Someone gave me the idea to paint a picture for my mother as a Mother's Day gift. I'll give it a try. If it doesn't work out, I'll paint over it and buy her a gift.
*/*
Eve told me on Sunday that my painting reminded her of two cards from her Tarot deck. Both of them had women blindfolded, wielding swords... I can't remember which ones they were.
I just wanted to mention that.
*/*
Three or four bands worth mentioning: Kaiser Chiefs, Kings Of Leon, Louis XIV, and The Mars Volta.
Mars Volta used to be known as At The Drive-in. Kings Of Leon have a song on a commercial-- I forget what the ad is for but the song is cool; first time I ever bought an album based off of an ad...
Louis XIV are very T.Rex, while Kaiser Chiefs have this great song on KCRW called "Oh My God".
I am starting to find the new bands that I can have faith in. They are not the coolest, or the edgiest, but their sounds are music to my ears.
*/*
Watched my Who DVD last night. They did a version of their Tommy precursor, "A Quick One (While He's Away)" that was positively glorious.
It started off gently, with the band singing a three-part harmony (drummer Keith Moon, he of the notoriously atonal voice, merely lip-synched as the others sang) to open the piece. Then, as they started playing, you could see Pete Townshend trying to play and tune his guitar at the same time. Having been there at many a time in my life, I can attest to the distracting burden it can be to start playing a song and realize one string is slightly out-of-tune.
They seemed to be losing it a bit when they got to the third section, which is faster in tempo and a bit old-fashioned. But Pete was able to catch his breath for the fourth part, the Cowboy section, and he tuned-up off-camera.
Then, when it was time for the last section, the famous "You Are Forgiven" finale that was used to maximum effect in the movie Rushmore, they were spot-on, singing "Cello, cello, cello, cello" and ripping through the three chords as if their drawers were on fire. John Entwistle's falsetto cried out in the background as Pete looked into the camera and smiled, singing the words with passion, words about a woman whose lover has returned from a year's worth of travels, a woman who admits that she had been unfaithful when he was away, and a man who is so glad to see her again that he waives it off, singing a song of forgiveness...
Amazing. Tears in my eyes. Goose pimples all up and down my spine and arms...
They looked like they were having so much fun being in a band together. The cock rock moves and windmill turns seem ridiculous now, but there was a time when those same moves enervated a whole generation of kids, who wanted to smash their instruments after the set and create absolute mayhem with their racket.
I love what Pete said about The Beatles, how their backing tracks on their records revealed them to be "lousy" players... and he meant this as a compliment!
Rehearsal with the hair-metal band was cancelled tonight. Oh well, there's always next week.
I am going to listen to some music and finish my work. Talk to y'all tomorrow.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
DAMN, IT'S BARELY TUESDAY...
Times are changing. And not for the good.
Browsing through the blogs, Hip Hop Music.com brought to my attention the existence of this news article about some guy who used to listen to rap music... until he actually sat down and listened to the lyrics of his favorite rappers.
Now he is convinced that Jay-Z, Kanye West, KRS-ONE and others are making "devil music" and he wants nothing to do with it. And, he's urging others to do the same.
One of the reasons why I have been lagging with my online novel is that my ideas are being superceded, at an alarming rate, by reality. Last night I was talking about rap lyrics to my bandmates, dropping slang and telling them what it meant, in case they ever wanted to say "Fuck the police" without being obvious or something along those lines.*
Driving home, I had the idea to use rap lyrics in an on-the-side storyline that had a woman leaving her fiancee at the altar thanks to a Lil' Jon song playing on the radio. Yes, I was trying to incorporate the Runaway Bride case into it as well.
And now I'm reading about a guy who took the time to decipher rap lyrics and was shocked to learn what the MCs were saying.
He is more concerned, however, with the Five Percent Nation of Islam imagery that swims through most conscious rap lyrics. Why isn't he concerned with the materialism and misogyny in rap? Maybe he is, but I guess the notion of the black man as God is more terrifying. (I believe that the man, James Fields, is black himself)
Finally, one of the commenters on Hip Hop Music.com gave up a link to this site, put up by angry atheists as an answer to Fundamentalist Christians who take the Bible way too literally.
This was another idea I'd had for the novel. I feel like I am touch with the world right now.
However, I know deep down that I am not.
*/*
I won't call it an epiphany, because I do that every time and it gets boring. Plus, it's not like I haven't known this simple truth about myself for years-- this is just the first time I have decided to do something about it, through actions and not just words.
I'm talking about my short-sightedness and narrow-mindedness when it comes to the opposite sex.
Yes, I believe in equality and respect and admiration for the female, but in reality I place them in unrealistic boxes inside my head. I have labels for all the women in my life so that I can safely deal with them on superficial levels. It is my attempt to control what I see as the uncontrollable nature of a woman: she has the power to make a man feel good or bad.
So, even as I preach tolerance and appreciation for women, I do not practice what I preach. Instead, I patronize women with my attitudes. I condescend to them, as if they need my approval or blessing to do whatever it is that their heart feels.
The Jennifer Wilbanks case has gotten me thinking about my overall perception of the women in my life. If I were John Mason, the man who wanted to marry her, I don't think I could keep going on with the wedding. But then again, I'm not in love with Jennifer Wilbanks, and there's no telling what a man will do when he loves a woman.
He can't keep his mind on nothin' else. He'd trade the world for the good thing he's found. If she is bad, he can't see it-- she can do no wrong. He'd turn his back on his best friend if he puts her down.
If she is playing him for a fool, he's the last one to know... for loving eyes can never see...
You get the gist.
Anyway, I think I see a lot of myself in John Mason. On the surface, I take him for a fool, but that's to show off in front of the guys. Deep inside, I know that I would be just as foolish as he is-- I'd probably stick by the bitch because I'm a sucker for love.
However, the "love" that I am a sucker to is an invention of my own mind. Just as all of my labels for women are just creations that emanate from my troubled soul, so is the concept of love that I have fashioned for myself.
I treat some girls like they have the plague, because they have jealous boyfriends whom I am trying not to offend; some girls I treat like hookers, because they have done things that wouldn't bat an eye if a man had done them; some girls I place on pedestals when they don't really deserve it; and others I completely ignore, thinking that I am doing them favors by not paying them any mind...
In short, I am not honest with women. I fabricate all sorts of rationalizations, but I can never give them a straight answer based upon my desires. I am constantly second-guessiing their words, their actions. I underestimate them just as much as I overestimate them.
Hanging with Eve on Sunday, I kept my mouth shut whenever I didn't need to be saying anything. This kept me from putting my foot in my mouth. When Paulie called me, I knew she was thinking that I was going to say, "Hey, let's go over to Paul's!"
Instead I took her for a drive to the record store, forcing the attention to focus on us.
I have been so wrong about her. I used to think that Eve was a strong, independent woman. And she is, on many levels. But after a while, the "strong, independent" label became my only way of dealing with her. It became a stereotype. If she ever showed vulnerability or weakness, it baffled me. It never occurred to me that she can be human too.
Eve is not the only one who suffers this brunt. I have done this to ALL of my female friends, lovers and peers. I am really the worst kind of male chauvinist, in that I never investigate what it really means to be a woman. I make assumptions, based on things that I've read and the limited amount of experiences I've had.
I can crow all day long about feeling like a woman, or being in touch with my feminine side... but the fact is, I am a man. I can be pigheaded and stubborn; I can be didactic and self-centered; I can be aggressive and obnoxious... men don't have the market cornered on that kind of behavior, but it does go hand-in-hand with being a male.
From now on, I will be as honest about my emotions as I can be. I will make an effort to not treat women as second-class citizens. I will not treat them like children who need help, or retarded kids who need guidance. If they show me affection, I will return the favor. If they ask me a question, I will actually answer it, instead of pontificating about everything but the answer.
Let's see if I can stick to it.
*= "Father U C King the police"
Browsing through the blogs, Hip Hop Music.com brought to my attention the existence of this news article about some guy who used to listen to rap music... until he actually sat down and listened to the lyrics of his favorite rappers.
Now he is convinced that Jay-Z, Kanye West, KRS-ONE and others are making "devil music" and he wants nothing to do with it. And, he's urging others to do the same.
One of the reasons why I have been lagging with my online novel is that my ideas are being superceded, at an alarming rate, by reality. Last night I was talking about rap lyrics to my bandmates, dropping slang and telling them what it meant, in case they ever wanted to say "Fuck the police" without being obvious or something along those lines.*
Driving home, I had the idea to use rap lyrics in an on-the-side storyline that had a woman leaving her fiancee at the altar thanks to a Lil' Jon song playing on the radio. Yes, I was trying to incorporate the Runaway Bride case into it as well.
And now I'm reading about a guy who took the time to decipher rap lyrics and was shocked to learn what the MCs were saying.
He is more concerned, however, with the Five Percent Nation of Islam imagery that swims through most conscious rap lyrics. Why isn't he concerned with the materialism and misogyny in rap? Maybe he is, but I guess the notion of the black man as God is more terrifying. (I believe that the man, James Fields, is black himself)
Finally, one of the commenters on Hip Hop Music.com gave up a link to this site, put up by angry atheists as an answer to Fundamentalist Christians who take the Bible way too literally.
This was another idea I'd had for the novel. I feel like I am touch with the world right now.
However, I know deep down that I am not.
*/*
I won't call it an epiphany, because I do that every time and it gets boring. Plus, it's not like I haven't known this simple truth about myself for years-- this is just the first time I have decided to do something about it, through actions and not just words.
I'm talking about my short-sightedness and narrow-mindedness when it comes to the opposite sex.
Yes, I believe in equality and respect and admiration for the female, but in reality I place them in unrealistic boxes inside my head. I have labels for all the women in my life so that I can safely deal with them on superficial levels. It is my attempt to control what I see as the uncontrollable nature of a woman: she has the power to make a man feel good or bad.
So, even as I preach tolerance and appreciation for women, I do not practice what I preach. Instead, I patronize women with my attitudes. I condescend to them, as if they need my approval or blessing to do whatever it is that their heart feels.
The Jennifer Wilbanks case has gotten me thinking about my overall perception of the women in my life. If I were John Mason, the man who wanted to marry her, I don't think I could keep going on with the wedding. But then again, I'm not in love with Jennifer Wilbanks, and there's no telling what a man will do when he loves a woman.
He can't keep his mind on nothin' else. He'd trade the world for the good thing he's found. If she is bad, he can't see it-- she can do no wrong. He'd turn his back on his best friend if he puts her down.
If she is playing him for a fool, he's the last one to know... for loving eyes can never see...
You get the gist.
Anyway, I think I see a lot of myself in John Mason. On the surface, I take him for a fool, but that's to show off in front of the guys. Deep inside, I know that I would be just as foolish as he is-- I'd probably stick by the bitch because I'm a sucker for love.
However, the "love" that I am a sucker to is an invention of my own mind. Just as all of my labels for women are just creations that emanate from my troubled soul, so is the concept of love that I have fashioned for myself.
I treat some girls like they have the plague, because they have jealous boyfriends whom I am trying not to offend; some girls I treat like hookers, because they have done things that wouldn't bat an eye if a man had done them; some girls I place on pedestals when they don't really deserve it; and others I completely ignore, thinking that I am doing them favors by not paying them any mind...
In short, I am not honest with women. I fabricate all sorts of rationalizations, but I can never give them a straight answer based upon my desires. I am constantly second-guessiing their words, their actions. I underestimate them just as much as I overestimate them.
Hanging with Eve on Sunday, I kept my mouth shut whenever I didn't need to be saying anything. This kept me from putting my foot in my mouth. When Paulie called me, I knew she was thinking that I was going to say, "Hey, let's go over to Paul's!"
Instead I took her for a drive to the record store, forcing the attention to focus on us.
I have been so wrong about her. I used to think that Eve was a strong, independent woman. And she is, on many levels. But after a while, the "strong, independent" label became my only way of dealing with her. It became a stereotype. If she ever showed vulnerability or weakness, it baffled me. It never occurred to me that she can be human too.
Eve is not the only one who suffers this brunt. I have done this to ALL of my female friends, lovers and peers. I am really the worst kind of male chauvinist, in that I never investigate what it really means to be a woman. I make assumptions, based on things that I've read and the limited amount of experiences I've had.
I can crow all day long about feeling like a woman, or being in touch with my feminine side... but the fact is, I am a man. I can be pigheaded and stubborn; I can be didactic and self-centered; I can be aggressive and obnoxious... men don't have the market cornered on that kind of behavior, but it does go hand-in-hand with being a male.
From now on, I will be as honest about my emotions as I can be. I will make an effort to not treat women as second-class citizens. I will not treat them like children who need help, or retarded kids who need guidance. If they show me affection, I will return the favor. If they ask me a question, I will actually answer it, instead of pontificating about everything but the answer.
Let's see if I can stick to it.
*= "Father U C King the police"
Monday, May 02, 2005
THE LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN
The Little Boy
I drove out to Canyon Country, a suburb north of The Valley, located in the sleepy hick paradise of Valencia. Over a decade ago I lived up in Canyon Country with my mother and my stepdad. I made some friends up there but I have since lost touch with them.
The reason I drove up there was to play bass for my friend Angel's cover band. Angel is the guitarist for ICON, one of the bands I'm in. He likes heavy metal, specifically hair metal bands. I know how to play these absurdly simple songs, and so I have been asked to help out.
The '80's never died in Canyon Country, just like they never died in Newhall or Saugus or Simi Valley. In fact, it can be argued that the '80's didn't die at all-- it just retired to Valencia.
I met the band: Andy, the singer, a dead ringer for Randy Quaid in Kingpin, right down to the hair... but Andy is not going for Amish chic-- he's a rocker to the end.
Then there was Joe, the drummer, a real barroom bruiser, who pounds the skins like his life depends on it. These guys were cracker hellraisers in their youth and now they only want to rock and drink beer.
I'm cool with it.
We played Motley Crue, Andy's favorite band. We played Poison. We dabbled in Alice In Chains and have plans to maybe cover Twisted Sister.
Afterwards, Andy brought out his 8 year-old son, fresh from a talent show at his school across the street. The little dude played "Rock And Roll All Nite" by KISS as we jammed along. The kid hit all the right parts. In ten years, he'll be a killer on the drums.
The Old Man
During a smoke break, we sat around and talked about what we wanted out of this band. One simple reason unites all of us: money. Andy made no bones about it, he wants to make cash, because the bars up in Canyon Country all want cover bands who play these types of tunes.
I know the demand of hair metal. Even though I hated the music when I was growing up, as I got older I realized that knowing how to play "Heaven Isn't Too Far Away" by Warrant could get me laid. It was my "trashy-blonde-whore" phase, and all it took was knowing how to play the chorus of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" to get the panties moist...
However, Andy might be using the money thing as a mask for his true feelings. This guy has a hell of a metal voice, and around his home I saw evidence of rabid fandom: rubber duckies in the bathroom with the faces of KISS on them; posters of Guns 'N' Roses in the garage where we rehearsed; his son's crayon drawing of Motley Crue, in full make-up...
But the most telling moment was when a friend of Andy's son complimented us on our run-through of "Girl Don't Go Away Mad (Just Go Away)".
Andy looked at the kid with a dead serious eye and asked, "Did we sound like the Crue?"
The kid nodded. Andy smiled and gave him a thumbs up.
That made me grin for some reason. Andy's in his 40s, and is a really nice person with a sincere love for music. Even though it's not my style or genre, I can dig on his vibe. I sometimes feel the same way about my beloved rock heroes.
The Little Boy
Driving back to the freeway after the rehearsal, I passed a street that I once used to walk down. On this street lived a girl named Wendy whom I was friends with, and I was startled to find that I remembered where her house was after a decade.
I drove by, knowing in my heart that she wouldn't be there... or would she?
I passed by and saw a group of people on the front lawn, congregating as if ready to go out somehwere. I saw, in the dim light, a girl with blazing blue eyes, just like Wendy's eyes. When I circled around, I found that they were all loading into someone's truck. They were probably going to go to a bar.
I passed by once more, to see that they had left.
Next time I'm up there rehearsing, I think I will stop by Wendy's house. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that she still lived with her parents. She was a great girl.
I started thinking about my friends over the years, and how I should've spent more time with people like Wendy instead of some of the people I stuck with, the ones who betrayed me and broke my heart.
I realized that I was still hurt by the whole Sharky/Eve thing. But this time, I knew it was because I was holding my emotions in, stuck in the Old Man mode where tears are for wusses, and real men don't cry...
A torrent erupted from my eyes when I got home. I made myself dwell upon the pain and the hurt until, finally, after all these years, I let it all out.
I fell asleep around 4 AM.
The Old Man
I woke up with an urge to call Eve and invite her to breakfast.
Two weeks earlier, she had stopped by and I got the vibe that she wanted to spend some time with me. It didn't feel right to me, though. But when I woke up I just had this urge to call her. She picked up the phone and sounded happy to see me.
She came over and we went to Andre's. She pulled out a Tarot deck and proceeded to read my fortune. Her reading was pretty reflective of my current state of mind.
She joked about how her mother still thinks she is a witch. I told her that I imagined she had perceptive powers that were beyond the ordinary, but I didn't tell her why I felt that way.
We chatted. I informed her that, according to her request, she will be the Associate Producer on the animation, when a budget comes through. This made her happy.
I told her I saw Dick a few times as I was driving from work last week. She told me that he has been bothering her lately, and that she hears he is a full-blown alcoholic now. She beat herself up for not being able to help him but I reminded her that she spent many years of her life trying to get him to change. I told her not to lose her compassion but also not to let it eat her up.
We watched Miami play New Jersey when we got back to my place. After a while, I realized that she wanted to spend the whole day with me, or at least until she had to go home to get some sleep.
The game was boring, livened up only by our sharp banter over Shaq's value as a player. Then, I proposed that we take a drive out to Amoeba Records. She looked at me and said, "As long as we're not there for four hours..."
The Little Boy
The weather was beautiful on Sunday. If my car was a convertible, the top would've surely been down, and the California sun would've massaged its way into our hearts and minds with little effort.
Hollywood was alive and jumping as we found parking a block away. I gave a bum a dollar. Eve told me about her Friday night, holding up the wall at a dance club. We traded small glimpses into our respective lovelives, to test the waters, to see if the other was heavy into a relationship or something.
I resisted the temptation to run amok. I found what I was looking for-- the new Kings Of Leon disc --plus I scored on a marked-down version of The Kids Are Alright, the legendary documentary about The Who. Eve bought Beck's new album, Guero.
We chatted with the clerks as they rang up our orders.
Female Clerk: (to Eve) I like your shirt.
Eve: Thanks.
Male Clerk: Oh, it says 'Flintstones'... I thought it was a Ramones shirt!
Me: So did I! It looks like the Ramones seal...
Female Clerk: We women notice these things. Men aren't as attentive.
Male Clerk: (putting his arms around the female clerk) You don't really mean that, do ya?
Eve: Yes, she did. (laughs)
Me: (to the female clerk as she took off her jacket) I noticed your shirt-- '100% Sugar Free'... see? We're not that inattentive!
Female Clerk: Yeah, I guess you're okay...
(Laughter all around)
We made a stop at Eve's place to grab some DVDs and some weed. Then, I stopped at the liquor store and bought rolling papers and a six-pack of Newcastle. We laughed at how ready we were to resume our hang-out rituals.
We watched The Incredibles on DVD and then we ordered pizza. We watched The Simpsons' 350th episode, as well as some of the other shows that followed.
It was really nice and comfortable.
The Old Man
We did not have sex. It's too soon for any of that. I'm still trying to get used to everything.
I've written here in the past that Eve is like a drug to me. I cannot go cold turkey with it. But, I also can't relapse. Thus, our Sunday was like a fix of Methadone, trying to wean ourselves off of the hard stuff.
We spent a lot of time not talking. This might scare other people, but for me it was a relief. I think a lot of the things that drive us apart stem from nervous chatter, our respective need to fill the empty spaces of conversation.
I think Sunday was just two people who are ridiculously attracted to each other, checking in and making sure the other is okay. I could tell she was fishing for some kind of sign that I was involved with someone else. She hinted to me that she'd been on blind dates, and that they were not her cup of tea. I admitted to her that a certain girl we both know probably does like me as more than friend. Eve smiled and said, "See? I told you. She gave me that mean look. I could tell she was jealous of me." She felt cocksure, not just because she called it, but because she knows that I have no interest in this certain girl, and she can rest a bit easier...
One day at a time, John Lennon once sang, is all we do.
One day at a time is good for you.
When she left, I drove out to Paulie's place. I was supposed to be there eariler, but I staved it off because I wanted to spend time with Eve. Too many times, I put her on hold or forced her to go along with me, when she'd rather just be with me and no one else. I held my tongue when Paulie called me, hoping he would understand that I just needed this time with her, just for now. He has my attention every other moment of the week, but just this one time I needed to focus only on her.
I handled it well. I think I'm getting better at dealing with the needs of others.
And I think I'm learning to balance the two sides of my soul, the Little Boy and the Old Man. No one ever said it was easy.
Right now, I'm still the Old Man, but by the end of the evening I will be the Little Boy again. We'll see how the rest of the day goes.
No, I didn't want to write another online novel chapter, but it doesn't mean it's over. Tomorrow, perhaps... not that any of you (besides Butterscotch) read that thing to begin with...
I might post later.
I drove out to Canyon Country, a suburb north of The Valley, located in the sleepy hick paradise of Valencia. Over a decade ago I lived up in Canyon Country with my mother and my stepdad. I made some friends up there but I have since lost touch with them.
The reason I drove up there was to play bass for my friend Angel's cover band. Angel is the guitarist for ICON, one of the bands I'm in. He likes heavy metal, specifically hair metal bands. I know how to play these absurdly simple songs, and so I have been asked to help out.
The '80's never died in Canyon Country, just like they never died in Newhall or Saugus or Simi Valley. In fact, it can be argued that the '80's didn't die at all-- it just retired to Valencia.
I met the band: Andy, the singer, a dead ringer for Randy Quaid in Kingpin, right down to the hair... but Andy is not going for Amish chic-- he's a rocker to the end.
Then there was Joe, the drummer, a real barroom bruiser, who pounds the skins like his life depends on it. These guys were cracker hellraisers in their youth and now they only want to rock and drink beer.
I'm cool with it.
We played Motley Crue, Andy's favorite band. We played Poison. We dabbled in Alice In Chains and have plans to maybe cover Twisted Sister.
Afterwards, Andy brought out his 8 year-old son, fresh from a talent show at his school across the street. The little dude played "Rock And Roll All Nite" by KISS as we jammed along. The kid hit all the right parts. In ten years, he'll be a killer on the drums.
The Old Man
During a smoke break, we sat around and talked about what we wanted out of this band. One simple reason unites all of us: money. Andy made no bones about it, he wants to make cash, because the bars up in Canyon Country all want cover bands who play these types of tunes.
I know the demand of hair metal. Even though I hated the music when I was growing up, as I got older I realized that knowing how to play "Heaven Isn't Too Far Away" by Warrant could get me laid. It was my "trashy-blonde-whore" phase, and all it took was knowing how to play the chorus of "Every Rose Has Its Thorn" to get the panties moist...
However, Andy might be using the money thing as a mask for his true feelings. This guy has a hell of a metal voice, and around his home I saw evidence of rabid fandom: rubber duckies in the bathroom with the faces of KISS on them; posters of Guns 'N' Roses in the garage where we rehearsed; his son's crayon drawing of Motley Crue, in full make-up...
But the most telling moment was when a friend of Andy's son complimented us on our run-through of "Girl Don't Go Away Mad (Just Go Away)".
Andy looked at the kid with a dead serious eye and asked, "Did we sound like the Crue?"
The kid nodded. Andy smiled and gave him a thumbs up.
That made me grin for some reason. Andy's in his 40s, and is a really nice person with a sincere love for music. Even though it's not my style or genre, I can dig on his vibe. I sometimes feel the same way about my beloved rock heroes.
The Little Boy
Driving back to the freeway after the rehearsal, I passed a street that I once used to walk down. On this street lived a girl named Wendy whom I was friends with, and I was startled to find that I remembered where her house was after a decade.
I drove by, knowing in my heart that she wouldn't be there... or would she?
I passed by and saw a group of people on the front lawn, congregating as if ready to go out somehwere. I saw, in the dim light, a girl with blazing blue eyes, just like Wendy's eyes. When I circled around, I found that they were all loading into someone's truck. They were probably going to go to a bar.
I passed by once more, to see that they had left.
Next time I'm up there rehearsing, I think I will stop by Wendy's house. It wouldn't surprise me to find out that she still lived with her parents. She was a great girl.
I started thinking about my friends over the years, and how I should've spent more time with people like Wendy instead of some of the people I stuck with, the ones who betrayed me and broke my heart.
I realized that I was still hurt by the whole Sharky/Eve thing. But this time, I knew it was because I was holding my emotions in, stuck in the Old Man mode where tears are for wusses, and real men don't cry...
A torrent erupted from my eyes when I got home. I made myself dwell upon the pain and the hurt until, finally, after all these years, I let it all out.
I fell asleep around 4 AM.
The Old Man
I woke up with an urge to call Eve and invite her to breakfast.
Two weeks earlier, she had stopped by and I got the vibe that she wanted to spend some time with me. It didn't feel right to me, though. But when I woke up I just had this urge to call her. She picked up the phone and sounded happy to see me.
She came over and we went to Andre's. She pulled out a Tarot deck and proceeded to read my fortune. Her reading was pretty reflective of my current state of mind.
She joked about how her mother still thinks she is a witch. I told her that I imagined she had perceptive powers that were beyond the ordinary, but I didn't tell her why I felt that way.
We chatted. I informed her that, according to her request, she will be the Associate Producer on the animation, when a budget comes through. This made her happy.
I told her I saw Dick a few times as I was driving from work last week. She told me that he has been bothering her lately, and that she hears he is a full-blown alcoholic now. She beat herself up for not being able to help him but I reminded her that she spent many years of her life trying to get him to change. I told her not to lose her compassion but also not to let it eat her up.
We watched Miami play New Jersey when we got back to my place. After a while, I realized that she wanted to spend the whole day with me, or at least until she had to go home to get some sleep.
The game was boring, livened up only by our sharp banter over Shaq's value as a player. Then, I proposed that we take a drive out to Amoeba Records. She looked at me and said, "As long as we're not there for four hours..."
The Little Boy
The weather was beautiful on Sunday. If my car was a convertible, the top would've surely been down, and the California sun would've massaged its way into our hearts and minds with little effort.
Hollywood was alive and jumping as we found parking a block away. I gave a bum a dollar. Eve told me about her Friday night, holding up the wall at a dance club. We traded small glimpses into our respective lovelives, to test the waters, to see if the other was heavy into a relationship or something.
I resisted the temptation to run amok. I found what I was looking for-- the new Kings Of Leon disc --plus I scored on a marked-down version of The Kids Are Alright, the legendary documentary about The Who. Eve bought Beck's new album, Guero.
We chatted with the clerks as they rang up our orders.
Female Clerk: (to Eve) I like your shirt.
Eve: Thanks.
Male Clerk: Oh, it says 'Flintstones'... I thought it was a Ramones shirt!
Me: So did I! It looks like the Ramones seal...
Female Clerk: We women notice these things. Men aren't as attentive.
Male Clerk: (putting his arms around the female clerk) You don't really mean that, do ya?
Eve: Yes, she did. (laughs)
Me: (to the female clerk as she took off her jacket) I noticed your shirt-- '100% Sugar Free'... see? We're not that inattentive!
Female Clerk: Yeah, I guess you're okay...
(Laughter all around)
We made a stop at Eve's place to grab some DVDs and some weed. Then, I stopped at the liquor store and bought rolling papers and a six-pack of Newcastle. We laughed at how ready we were to resume our hang-out rituals.
We watched The Incredibles on DVD and then we ordered pizza. We watched The Simpsons' 350th episode, as well as some of the other shows that followed.
It was really nice and comfortable.
The Old Man
We did not have sex. It's too soon for any of that. I'm still trying to get used to everything.
I've written here in the past that Eve is like a drug to me. I cannot go cold turkey with it. But, I also can't relapse. Thus, our Sunday was like a fix of Methadone, trying to wean ourselves off of the hard stuff.
We spent a lot of time not talking. This might scare other people, but for me it was a relief. I think a lot of the things that drive us apart stem from nervous chatter, our respective need to fill the empty spaces of conversation.
I think Sunday was just two people who are ridiculously attracted to each other, checking in and making sure the other is okay. I could tell she was fishing for some kind of sign that I was involved with someone else. She hinted to me that she'd been on blind dates, and that they were not her cup of tea. I admitted to her that a certain girl we both know probably does like me as more than friend. Eve smiled and said, "See? I told you. She gave me that mean look. I could tell she was jealous of me." She felt cocksure, not just because she called it, but because she knows that I have no interest in this certain girl, and she can rest a bit easier...
One day at a time, John Lennon once sang, is all we do.
One day at a time is good for you.
When she left, I drove out to Paulie's place. I was supposed to be there eariler, but I staved it off because I wanted to spend time with Eve. Too many times, I put her on hold or forced her to go along with me, when she'd rather just be with me and no one else. I held my tongue when Paulie called me, hoping he would understand that I just needed this time with her, just for now. He has my attention every other moment of the week, but just this one time I needed to focus only on her.
I handled it well. I think I'm getting better at dealing with the needs of others.
And I think I'm learning to balance the two sides of my soul, the Little Boy and the Old Man. No one ever said it was easy.
Right now, I'm still the Old Man, but by the end of the evening I will be the Little Boy again. We'll see how the rest of the day goes.
No, I didn't want to write another online novel chapter, but it doesn't mean it's over. Tomorrow, perhaps... not that any of you (besides Butterscotch) read that thing to begin with...
I might post later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)