My Christmas Conundrum

Sometimes a worm ain't the only thing at the bottom of a tequila bottle.  What do you figure the over/under would be on how many drinks you'd have to get into Joseph of Nazareth before he admitted that he was pretty pissed about being God's cuckold?  I mean, as far as being a cuckold goes ... being one to God is pretty much as good as it gets, but he couldn't have been 100% thrilled about the situation, right?  Yeah, the Bible talks about him balking and deciding to divorce her quietly; that is, until he is strong-armed into staying with her by an Angel of the Lord.  I know he gets a lot of credit for being a stand-up guy and all, but it kinda makes me wonder if the Angel said "Don't be afraid to marry her," or if he really said, "Be afraid not to marry her."

Maybe this is all heresy and I'm going to Hell for it ... but these are the things I think about now when I listen to Christmas carols ...

Space Out

Dissociation is augustly defined by Wikipedia as "an altered state of consciousness characterized by partial or complete disruption of the normal integration of a person’s normal conscious or psychological functioning." While that might not sound like a ton of fun to you at first blush, and in a clinical context can indicate significant trauma, an altered state of consciousness is the place from which most great art is born. Not necessarily chemically induced, in a state of what I like to call 'constructive dissociation,' artists are able to tap into the depths of their own psyche and retrieve material that connects to a wide audience on a deep emotional level. I heard an interview with the guy who plays lead for Springsteen one time, talking about what its like to engage in a dissociative experience playing in front of tens of thousands of people. Paraphrasing, Lofgren said that during a concert he had the experience of looking down at his hands playing a riff and struggled to convince himself that he had to keep playing the guitar because he felt like if he stopped his hands would continue to play all on their own. He was completely clean and sober, and entirely lost in the music in an altered state of consciousness. The host of the interview rightly elaborated that people chase a similar experience taking drugs, having sex, playing sports or any other myriad pursuits; we are looking for the chance to loose ourselves in an experience, to stop thinking and start being.

For me, one of the most important revelations of the past year has been a change in my Myers-Briggs personality type from ESTP to ENTP, meaning I have moved from weighing data and observables to trusting my 'gut feelings.' This is likely somewhat the result of me practicing psychotherapy for the past several years, but is also at least somewhat associated with me re-discovering who I am and moving past what other people have told me I am.¹ One of the ways that I really enjoy getting lost in my intuitive nature and 'constructively dissociating' is fighting. Boxing doesn't leave time for evaluation or weighing alternatives, for me it is a visceral and thoroughly enjoyable dissociative experience in which I am not thinking about anything at all and am simply present. Very Zen. I encourage you to find that thing for you, and do it as often as possible. Hopefully for you, it doesn't involve pugilism.

¹ I realize that's a somewhat loaded statement, just not one I want to unpack in this blog post. Maybe next week ....

The Ugly Truth

Sometimes I get weird ideas, and Saturday was one of those times. Washing dishes, a truth which has been self evident for most of my life revealed itself to me. In the words of Smee ... "I think I just had an apostrophe." As a child of the 80's I've grown up hook-line-and-sinker accepting the Disney story lines. This Saturday, though, while listening to my 'Show Tunes' Pandora station, I realized that maybe there was more to the story or Beauty and the Beast than met the eye.

Belle's own collection of quirks aside (scroll to #4), her two legitimate suitors in the movie are 1: A megalomaniac who excels at myriad pursuits and is universally revered in town and 2: A ... well ... an illiterate reclusive megalomaniac surrounded by traumatized servants quaking in fear of him and who was cursed because of said megalomania into what can best be described as a bipedal feral lhasa apso. With horns.

Now I'm not saying that Gaston wasn't a douche; he clearly was. All I'm saying is, The Beast clearly was as well. When stuck with two terrible choices, why are we being asked by Disney to applaud Belle for choosing either of them? The more I think about it the more the story seems to promulgate the mephitic belief that if you love your abusive significant other long enough and well enough they will eventually melt into a gooey tub of love and you'll live happily ever after. Seriously, wouldn't Le Fou be a better choice for Belle at this juncture? Or a convent? Or literally anything else?

Just saying ...

Back in the Saddle

Probably the worst thing about trying to start writing again is the part where I try to come up with a justification for 1: starting again and 2: quitting in the first place. Over the past couple of months I'd found myself repeating the mantra: "I must return to writing," only to find myself several weeks later reciting the same thing without any movement and now that I'm actually sitting down at the computer to compose a masterpiece I find myself chasing my rhetorical tail trying to come up with a clever and profound way to say, "I got real busy for a while and stopped doing something I really like doing for the sake of watching tv and playing Angry Birds." I even spent about 20 minutes massaging awkward attempts to cram psychosocial theory into an introspective piece about the fear of failure and the difficulty of change, etc etc. Below are some excerpts from those attempts.¹

The reality is, though, that I just kinda stopped writing once I got done with grad school and started working. I got out of the habit, like working out and eating healthy. The only excuse I need to get back into it is: I like it. The only excuse I can think of for why I quit in the first place is: I didn't quit (which to me sounds like an active choice) so much as I just kinda ... stopped? And started doing something else. Writing for me is like one of your favorite recipes that you forget about because you've been too busy to cook for a while and you've just been eating Ramen and pb&j. I don't really need much of an excuse to starting eating the good stuff again, other than "It's good!" I just sometimes forget that it's good because I get all stacked up with other stuff, which is the best excuse I can come up with for why I stopped in the first place. There may indeed be deep-seated and menacing psychological reasons for me stopping (and, conversely, starting again) to write, but seriously. Who wants to read about that on someone's blog?

So if you made it through all of this, the cliff's notes version of the post is this: I'm going to write at least one post/week. Not because I have to but because I like to I just forgot that I like to for a while. So ... GET READY WORLD, IMMA WRITE AGAIN!!!!!

¹Writing (and by writing I just mean communicating) has been one of those things that I've always been doing. Coming back to things is hard; it can be so difficult, in fact, that it can often prevent a return at all. Few things in life are as frustrating than returning to an activity that used to come effortlessly only to find that the skill is not there anymore.Classically, Not just hard because That's why the story of the prodigal son strikes a chord, and that's why the 12 step program makes people do it. It is That's probably not the most profound statement ever made, but cliche as it might be I've found it to be one of the most true statements.

What Dat?

Excerpts from J.F. Masterson's The Search for the Real Self: Unmasking the Personality Disorders of our Age

It is relatively easy to spot narcissistic personalities in politics, business, and social movements. The limelight that goes with leadership is a strong magnet for narcissists, and even though success requires long hours and grueling work schedules, the payoff is worth the effort to them. Frequently, their staffs are overworked and are expected to produce perfect or near perfect results. The narcissistic leader or boss elicits martyrlike devotion from followers by manipulating their desire to be part of his achievements. With rhetoric and ritual, the narcissistic leader creates a sense of excitement and purpose and draws on his workers’ sense of mission. He is often fulsome in his praise of their devotion. In the end, however, the shrewd observer can see through the empty praise and the façade of concern for his supporters, for ultimately the narcissistic leader is only concerned about praise for his own achievements, and values others only in so far as they fulfill their role in promoting his own glory.

And . . .

One of the principal benefits of the activism of the sixties was the change in standards in all these areas – a change from authoritarianism to a greater emphasis on individuation and entitlements. These changes ostensibly created a better environment for the flowering and expression of the real self – in other words, healthy narcissism. Buy to what extent, then, does the sense of individual entitlement, now woven all the more tightly into the fabric of our society, also open the door for pathologic narcissism? Or to put it another way, does the resultant narcissism contribute to a unique and American character, or is it a pathological national flaw?

Ours Is Not

Excerpts from J. G. Stoessenger’s eerily prophetic book Why Nations Go to War, 3^rd Ed., c. 1982.

There is a remarkable consistency in the self-images of most national leaders on the brink of war. Each confidently expects victory after a brief and triumphant campaign.

Doubt about the outcome is the voice of the enemy and therefore inconceivable. This recurring optimism is not to be dismissed lightly by the historian as an ironic example of human folly. It assumes a powerful emotional momentum of its own and thus itself becomes one of the causes of war. Anything that fuels such optimism about a quick and decisive victory makes war more likely, and anything that dampens it becomes a cause for peace.

This common belief in a short, decisive war is usually the overflow from a reservoir of self-delusions held by the leadership about both itself and the nation.

The Kaiser’s appearance in shining amour in August 1914 and his promise to the German nation that its sons would be back home ‘before the leaves had fallen from the trees’ was matched by similar expressions of overconfident and military splendor in Austria, Russia and other nations on the brink of war. … Thus leaders on all sides typically harbor self-delusions on the eve of war. Only the war itself then provides the stinging ice of reality and ultimately helps to restore a measure of perspective in the leadership. The price for this recapture of reality is high indeed. It is unlikely that there ever was a war that fulfilled the initial hopes and expectations of both sides.

And again later . . .

… As these wars resolved less and less, they tended to cost more and more in blood and treasure. The number of dead on all sides bore mute testimony to the fact that America had to fight two of the most terribly and divisive wars in her entire history (Korea and Vietnam) before she gained respect for the realities of power on the other side.

As the Dawn Breaks

The autonomic responses which had served Liam so well to date seemed to hiccup momentarily as he stood frozen in place, gun smoke still creating an indistinct halo as it drifted lazily out of the leveled barrel of his Beretta. The Eye Brothers, still incapacitated by his furious onslaught, were beginning to regain their collective wits as their writhing on the floor became less agonized and more purposeful. As his brain slipped back into gear, Liam simultaneously lurched forward and examined his options. With no time for tactical analysis, Liam followed the elusive wisp of implicit memory which had carried him through the night so far. His gut was telling him that the Eye Brothers were more trouble than they were worth and that if he was going to get anywhere at all it would be through Cwik; Liam dutifully followed his gastronomical cognition out the door.

Not bothering to disarm the prone figures on the floor, Liam bolted the handful of steps through the mauled door frame and felt his breath threaten to pack up and go to Florida on vacation as the early morning air hit the film of sweat on his exposed skin. “I’m gonna have to find some clothes here eventually,” Liam thought to himself as he scanned the balcony, standing in the crepuscular gloom of blues and the first small hints of yellow and orange worming their way over the horizon. He was brought back to the task at hand by the muted metallic clank of Cwik stumbling against the railing of the balcony to his right as he continued his dogged, if not somewhat haphazard, escape. Hands still fastened in front of his body with the electrical cord, duct tape still encircling his head and hanging from his clothes, gangly frame skittering down the concrete and wrought iron balcony, Liam reminded himself to laugh at the memory when he wasn’t being pursued by two homicidal thugs and pursuing his only link. Rick seemed to be attempting to untie the cord while running and gaining his bearings all at once, and hadn’t made it more than 15 feet down the balcony. Somewhere a dog began barking an unenthusiastic monologue, and Liam could hear the Brothers begin sniping at each other through the wrecked door still swaying drunkenly on its hinges. Time to go.

His bare feet thumping on the concrete, Liam overtook Cwik in a space of a few strides. With another deft movement which left him surprised, he stepped past him, pivoting with his left foot and planting with his right as he swung Cwik into a fireman’s carry and finished his pirouette to continue running pell-mell down the balcony. Cwik’s frame was surprisingly light on his shoulder, either from his scrawniness or from adrenaline Liam was unsure. He offered no resistance to his new mode of locomotion either, though whether due to surprise or some other reason Liam was again unsure.

Pounding down the stairs with the potato sack Cwik over his shoulder, Liam quickly spotted the black town car parked haphazardly over three parking stalls at the base of the stairs, lights on and engine idling. Apparently the Eye Brothers had been in a hurry to make it up the stairs. Wrenching open the back door, Liam deposited Rick in the back seat and slammed the door after him. Clawing open the front door, Liam swung into the seat. Above him, he heard Charles’ voice shout unintelligibly, answered by Hard Eyes. As he slapped the shifter into reverse and resurfaced a generous portion of La Concha’s parking lot in Goodyear rubber, the pop of pistols just barely inserted themselves over the squeal of tires. Three hailstones hit the roof of Liam’s borrowed ride, echoing with the hollow clunk of a tin can being shot. As he fishtailed out of the parking lot onto the deserted early morning street, he stole a look to the backseat over his shoulder. Ricky was clutching his right thigh with both thin talons and grimacing.

“Those peckers shot me!” he managed to growl, as Liam returned his attention to the road. “This ain’t good, Liam,” he continued, barely audible through his grunts and pants. “I think they nicked a vessel or somethin’. Imma need a Hospital . . .”

Liam should . . .

A) Pump Cwik for information in his wounded state
B) Take Cwik directly to the Hospital
C) Let Cwik bleed and the chips fall where they may
D) Attempt first aid on Ricky

All in the Family

I rattled into the South Fresno parking lot in the extensively long cargo van. Pressed against the screen leading to the cavernously empty hold, just behind the driver’s seat, I had already collected 5 lbs of specialty Italian Sausage and one bottle of super cool wine in a Exodusian trek back and forth across the wastes of the greater Fresno area to assemble a custom basket on order at the Sierra Nut House. Christmas was only three weeks away, and already the fevered pitch of the operation had crescendoed into a cacophony of insanity, resulting in me spending $50 in gas and three hours of driving time assembling a rush-order by piece meal. Logistics were not JoAnne’s forte.

Flipping open my steno pad to the page I had scrawled the address and rough map onto, I confirmed that I had arrived at the right location. Shoe-horning my square elephant into the only open small, round parking space about 25 yards from the store front, I slipped down from the driver’s seat and pocketed my keys, slapping the door locks and slamming the door in one smooth motion. As I headed towards the entrance of my destination, the now-flattening rays of the December sun lit with deceptive warmth the shop’s sign. Squinting against the glare and approaching the fairly non-descript store front, I noticed two figures standing a few paces from the door to my destination. A small, swarthy, balding man was standing next to a tall, thick, cruel looking man: Leo and Guido, respectively, I imagined.

Leo was, and had been, screaming Italian into the cell phone in his hand, only taking breaks to similarly castigate Guido. When it was the cell phone’s turn, Guido stood silently, hands clasped at his front, staring slightly up and to the left. When it was his turn, he slightly inclined his ham of a head down towards Leo and slowly nodded and occasionally muttered something unintelligible while continuing to stare at nothing in particular. My steps faltered as I entered their social range and came to a complete stop about 15 feet from the pair. Leo rolled his eyes and muttered scathing Italian into the phone. As he looked up and clasped his hand over the mouthpiece on the cell, sun glinted off the large gold medallion hanging on a bed of chest hair framed by the open collar of his black silk, short sleeve, button down shirt with a white tiger embossed on it. “What?” he spat, glaring at me as his eyebrows impossibly raised another ¾”. The word was a curse word. I kept my eyes trained on his woven leather loafers and the cuffs of his immaculately pressed white slacks.

“Is . . . um. Is, uh, I’m supposed to pick up an order from Sargento’s.’ After a beat and another 1/8” on the eyebrows, I finished, “It’s some cheese . . . I’m, uh . . . from the Nut House?”

Leo jerked his thumb towards the tinted glass door, sneering. Guido stared slightly up and to the left. The Italian diatribe continued and I hustled towards the door. Retrieving my order, I swiftly walked back through the front door and towards my van with my eyes unwaveringly fixed on the ground, Leo’s emphatic tones echoing in my nearly empty cargo hold all the way back to North Fresno.

Long Live the King

The Kings of the Marmots roused himself from his royal slumber when the sun had already began its indefatigable climb into the azul expanse, shielded occasionally by shreds of cloud left over from the previous day’s storms. He was glad that he had decided today would be temperate. He stretched himself luxuriously on his throne of impregnable stone and reveled in the warmth the sun offered for his pleasure. While the previous day’s storms had been perfectly crafted by his will, drenching his domain in fecund blessings and peals of thunder which sent the picas and chipmunks scurrying for cover, today would be different: Party cloudy throughout the day with scattered showers across the Denver area. High of 78, low of 47. The King of the Marmots had decreed it would be so.

As he finished his stretching and leisurely grooming routine, he looked around to see that the first of his supplicants had arrived. Red-faced and puffing, these strange bipedal serfs made a steady stream in pilgrimage to his throne, strewing it with offerings of Doritos and granola crumbs and taking pictures of himself and his domain to bring back to their abodes far below among the mire of the world. The King of the Marmots cared not what these peasants did with their photos, but he often imagined his portrait hung above their mantles. Perhaps with candles surrounding it, or a wreath of pungent summer wildflowers. Perhaps they kissed it as they went to sleep in their hovels in the dregs of the world.

Perched at the very pinnacle of his high mountain throne, bestowing his haughty gaze upon the throng of serfs congregated to celebrate his greatness, the King of the Marmots spent his later morning and afternoon fulfilling the highest hopes of those who had come to give their worship. As the sun reached it’s zenith in the sky above him, a tallish skinny worshiper approached his ensconced presence and said to the couple to his left, ‘Hey, look at that guy. He thinks he’s the on top of the world, huh?’ The King of the Marmots flicked his lavish eye lashes and turned his head to another angle in response. After appropriately bowing and scraping, the lad made his way back down the mountain, his soul sustained by his encounter with the Marmot-Deity.

About the 10^th hour of the day, when the sun had begun to near the Western horizon, the King of the Marmots saw the last of his subjects make their treacherous way back down to the flats, leaving the appropriate gifts of food and homage. ‘What loyal subjects I have,’ he thought to himself, ‘to risk their life and limb to come and ply me with supplication in my high and unassailable fortress.’ His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a quick flash across the late afternoon’s flattening rays. He peered towards the heaven to see what might have caused it, straining his majestic neck into the cooling afternoon air to better see. Without ceremony, the Golden Eagle which eyried nearby grasped him in its talons and neatly severed his head. Hauling the King of the Marmots’ lifeless form back to his nest, the King of the Eagles thought, ‘What loyal subjects I have, for that marmot to present himself so selflessly on that high and unprotected spot just for my evening meal.’

Words of Wisdom

If you know me at all, you know that I deeply lament this country's treatment of the Native Americans. Here are some sage words from of of their most famous leaders.

I am a red man. If the Great Spirit had desired me to be a white man, he would have made me so in the first place. He put in your heart certain wishes and plans, in my heart he put other and different desires. Each man is good in His sight. It is not necessary for eagles to be crows.

- Sitting Bull

What If?

Last night, while washing dishes, I had a thought. Not a very bright thought, not a very courageous one, but a thought none the less. And it was this:

What if, in the year 12 000 B.C, by the light of a guttering fire in a sooty and ramshackle cave, a Neanderthal man conceptualized the theory of relativity. "Ah ha!" he would have shouted in the guttural equivalent of his still nascent speech mechanisms. "Eureka! Energy equals mass times the speed of light squared!"

Lacking a durable method of communicating such concepts, however, and the theory of relativity having very little practical impact on skinning a woolly mammoth, it was simply lost to the mists of time for another 13 945 years. What if.

A Song For Mish

A farewell ballad.

Too True

The sad thing: this isn't even a hyperbole. Perhaps more sad: I miss it.

----------------
Now playing: Bob Marley - No Woman No Cry (Live at The Lyceum)

The Loss of a Friend

I was about 13 when we brought Ruby home. My sister and I had wheedled and pled, promised and pledged; We said things like, ‘Nothing for either of us for the next three Christmases!’ ‘Walks every day, we swear!’ and ‘Food every night, we promise! We’ll never ask for anything ever again!’

Today at about 9am I drove with my parents to a small veterinary clinic off of Palm and Herdon to have Ruby’s vet of 13 years give her one last injection and say things like ‘Today’s the day, huh?,’ and, ‘Let us know when you’re ready to take her body home.’

My dad and I dug her grave together through the unyielding valley hardpan, mixing our sweat with tears to soften the ground as we chipped away and said things like, ‘She was a good dog,’ ‘Remember the way she used to eat horse crap?’ and ‘Is digging a grave supposed to be this hard?!’

I carried my dog of 13 years from the back of the car to her grave, held her frail body covered in matted fur to my chest one last time, and placed her on her favorite blanket facing Northwest. Towards Alaska. My father and mother and I stood next to the mound of dirt with a circlet of Star Jasmine on it and said things like ‘That is that.’ and ‘I’m glad that you are here for this.’

Goodbye, Ruby Tuesday. We’re surely gonna miss you.

Times, They Are a' Changing

My mother gave me one of my childhood journals this Easter she had found while cleaning out a storage closet. I am currently in the process of writing my Senior paper, and it was a refreshing and entertaining break to see the progression in such a short time from near-unintelligible scribbles to fairly coherent thoughts in three short years. Behold!


Transcript: This is space. Space has no air so astronauts have to keep air packs on their backs so they can breath and so they won't die. - Summer '87


Transcript: Today is October 15, 1987. I like the bike ride because I like going across country on the road and I like the park, too and riding home was just as much fun as riding there and school was fun because we listened to the legend of the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow and a black cat and tomorrow I will make a pumpkin patch picture and a paper bag and I ran five times. I played monster with Michael today. - Fall of '87


Transcript: August 9th, 1989. When it is hot I like to go swimming. Katie taught me how to do somersaults, backward rows, hand stands and straddles. One time Katie and I swam 100 laps. I can do three somersaults in a row. The end. - Summer '89


This one is pretty legible and readable. - Fall of '90


Today's entry.

Sometimes it's encouraging to know where you come from.

*Muffled Sob*

I just finished a 34-page draft this afternoon . . . now I'm listening to Metallica. I'm planning on writing out the rest of the Liam adventure after I graduate, for those of you who may still be interested; stay tuned!

Freakin' Weekend, Baby!

and for a change of pace . . .

About Time . . .

I was really hoping that we'd come up with a new and better way to kill each other. Enter: Blackwater! Nothing like a shotgun that can deliver nearly 300 rounds a minute to slake your blood lust. The host of the show gets even more creepy at about 4:30 when he starts describing specialty rounds.

Touché, M!

Daniel Gross on Slate had a fine point about the economic stimulus package passed through Congress today and, baring any major setbacks, in our mailboxes in May sometime. I thought it was worth sharing.

Of course, there's no guarantee that American will turn their 2008 rebates into consumer activity instantaneously, or in six months. The only way to do that would be to make the rebate something more like a reimbursement. Require taxpayers to collect $300 worth of receipts from the Cheesecake Factory, Target, and Dick's Sporting Goods, and then mail them to the IRS order to receive a rebate. That would certainly be a backward way of boosting the economy. But it would be perfectly in keeping with Washington's general approach to managing the nation's fiscal affairs.

Confused, I'll Admit

If you can adequately explain to me how this is any funnier than the class clown in Jr. High riffing before gym class, I'll give you a nice crisp $2 bill.