Tired Beyond Reasoning...Almost...

Day 4: Back home again finally, for a full day even. It was exhausting. Working at a restaurant is for the young, and yet we all find ourselves mid 30's to early 40's and going after it day after day. There ought to be a point, maybe with each new decade, where you are automatically placed into a job that will reflect your physical capabilities and strengths. I have a feeling, though, that I will never experience such a selection. I will be lucky if I find anything more rewarding or less taxing before I turn 40 (less than five years from now). I suppose the writing is an attempt to wax idealistic that at one point in the future, hopefully before necessity requires it, I will be able to retire from exhaustive physical work and settle into something much more cerebral and inert. These are dreams, but dreaming is something I still do occasionally. Not nearly as often as I once did, mind you. I am glad that life is going quickly by, but not so quickly that I do not feel reasonable acceptance if not reluctant acquiescence is continuously in order. I mean, the keg has to get tapped out at some point, doesn't it?

This has been brought to you under the influence of Southern Tier Double IPA and a rather disproportionate amount of introspection.

Things Are Looking Slightly Less Bleek...

Day 3: Spirits have improved a bit since the last time I commented. Such spirits as Smithwick's, Goose Island IPA and Hoptical Illusion, to name a few. Also, my own. MasterofNone NutbrownAle. I still don't think I would want to live here again, but time changes things. Back, forth, and eventually back again, it seems. Truth is, I follow my gut, and my gut has me in Atlanta right now. I still entertain thoughts of the West coast, the Colorado mountains, Boston and the Pacific Northwest. About the only place I can't possibly see myself considering would be the Midwest or plains states. So, that means you should probably be looking for the year of blogging Oklahomically before too long. Irony is like the wind. You don't know where it comes from or where it's going, can't see it, can't stop it, but you know it's there.
I have to say, though, it has been a relaxing vacation. I am half way through Endurance, a book which took none when compared to the book I read for the club last month, which I am still only just halfway through, and hope to be finished with by the time the dogwoods bloom (Marchish).

This has been brought to you under the influence of Ess-a-Bagel coffee. 'What's that? Ess-a-Bagel.'

Old and Tired...

Day 2: I have to say, this trip has taught me something that I was not expecting to learn--New York City holds absolutely no fascination for me any longer. Now granted, it is winter, a nasty one, complete with near zero temperatures, record snow falls and continuous flurries. Also, I have gone out two days in a row without the sufficient wrappings to protect myself from the worst of it. Still, even when fed and warm, such as I was earlier under the surehanded draughting of Liam at the Perfect Pint, I'm still over it all.
When I lived here, and for years after, I regarded NYC as this sort of idyllic place, a mecca of creativity, freedom and wanderlust. For many, it remains just such a place. I'm sure of it. You can see it on the faces of the people hoofing it up and down the avenues. Their young faces. NYC is a great city for young people. As you get older, the exhaustive pace a brutal conditions (hot, cold, windy or just plain gross, depending on location and time of year) wear you down until very little is left but the raw animal instincts of self-preservation and hunting/gathering. This, I suppose, is why so many people here are jerks. At least initially. Once you establish yourself with them, it's like you are another part of the scenery, and they generally respect you.
Anyway, I've been cancelling plans to see people throughout the day, and am growing more and more antisocial, to the point where I don't even want to hear myself think. I've started reading 'Endurance' which is the tail of Shackleton's failed crossing of the Antarctic in the early 20th century. It makes my crosstown voyage seem like a trip to the spa. The fact that I still am fed up with the city and the weather is an even more compelling argument to me that I am well past my phase of big city living. Give me a warm climate, cold beer and my cats. The rest I can check out in books and movies, where all things extreme and uncontrollable belong.

This has been brought to you, thankfully, by the best draught of Guinness in the city (according to Liam).

Living It Up At the Hotel Kimberly...

Day 1. Although there is still some feeling in my extremities, it is mostly the mild pain of succoming to frostbite. I chose not to wear my rubbers on this first trek, and it was probably a mistake. My fleece I also left in the hotel room, although the cardigan I have with me does a surprising job of keeping the heat trapped against my body. I wonder if I could actually go diving with this thing on.
To make it clear, I and my fellow coworkers have been taken to NYC for a belated holiday gift by our boss. NYC is recovering nicely, but slowly, from a recent record setting downfall of snow, their 3rd in this still early stage of winter. It is clear from the defiant looks of the locals that they intend for this one not to interfere with their commuting in the slightest. They do mostly all, however, have the gear necessary to survive should something like a freak steady stream of traffic keep them coralled on an icy corner longer than they had planned. I need to prepare better next time.
Even now I can feel my fingers slowly awakening to the warmth of the hotel lobby. I have brought my scarf with me, as another adventure awaits. I am told that there is a beer seller somewhere near. I have business there. A most pressing business. And nothing, not the cold nor the lack of proper garmenting, nor even the dread stowaway of logic which at odd times interrupts my baser forays shall prevent this business from being transacted.

Hopefully, next time, this will be brought to you under the influence of something.

The Big Snowy Apple...

Yesterday, New York City suffered under what was to become a record snowfall. It is a record in the sense that since they have started keeping records (1925) there has never been this much snowfall in January. Tomorrow, we fly there 10:20am. I am told the flight is scheduled to be on time. We shall see.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Budweiser and far too many news briefs...

No News Is Good News...

I attended a rehearsal tonight for my restaurants' annual Valentine's Day cabaret. Tonight we went over a version of Stomp that I created, as well as choreographed some movements to Beatles songs which I mocked up for our purposes. Don't tell Paul or Ringo (or even worse, Yoko Ono) that we are making money off of their material. Everything went smoothly, and therefore, I end the evening completely devoid of angst. It helps that we are flying to NYC in a couple days for a weekend of relaxing decadence compliments of the big boss. Sometimes, no news is good news. That was the philosophy my mother raised me by.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Harpoon's Leviathon IPA. Big as its name...

Trivial Matters...

I have examined the headlines. I have read notes on the state of the union address by President Obama. I have even watched a clip or two of The Daily Show. Nothing is interesting to me. Nothing strikes a chord, makes we want to espouse, emote or egregiously attack. Strange. Perhaps I am in a happy, secure place. Perhaps it is because my trivia team won tonight, rocking a near perfect score. Perhaps it was the 4 beers I had. Or perhaps it is because of the fact that, thought wreaking of alcohol, dropping down a glass of cabernet sauvignon which my wife had opened in my absence, my cats still want to snuggle with me.

The truth is, it is probably none of these things. But, if I pretend hard enough, being a raging alcoholic who is one among the beasts may just be enough for me, ironic or otherwise engaging dialogue be damned. After all, it worked for Nebuchadnezzar.

Our Justice System Needs to be Euthanized...

It seems that Jarod Loughner has plead 'not guilty' to the shooting of many, the murder of several, and the assassination/attempted assassinations of a couple. You see, this is my problem with the American judicial system. Well, I have many problems with it. I have served on a jury in a murder trial. I have seen the impossible standard the police are held to in proving certain things transpired. I have seen the dissolution of a case because of the incredible amount of time it took to simply get a hearing. It does not serve justice. It is actually rather sad. Granted, it is sad because, at some point, people started doing incredibly stupid things and other people decided that there ought to be some sort of justice for victims and perps. Perps like Jarod. You know, I don't care if he was or is insane. I don't care if he has an angle in pleading 'not guilty'. The credentials of his attorney (who managed to avoid death sentences for other mass murderers) do not impress me. This is a chance, like any other, for us to decide once and for all that this world is too small, and our lives and relations are too important, for us to stand aside and watch a long drawn out court battle where the 'rights' of Loughner are examined under the microscope. He does not have human rights. When a human takes the life of another human, and there is no possible way it was done for defense or self-preservation (as in this case), that person trades in their 'human' card. They do not get it back. Essentially, we are dealing with a young, strong, able-bodied beast which has no rights nor regard for those rights of others. I am not an advocate of the death penalty. It takes too long, it is a ridiculous waste of money, and we people make mistakes. What I am a fan of is forced labor, a lifetime of it, under the harshest conditions, wherein the state and those who exist by the grace of the state, are able to profit and prosper, however slightly, from the efforts of the laborer. Loughner is a 22 year old pack mule, and it is a crime to house, feed and clothe him while he sits and waits for a broken record to spin. I say put that horse to work. If he lames, you don't hold a conference on it; you take him out back and put him down. I would happily accept the same if I were guilty of a fraction of what this young man is.

Movie Dreams...

I just woke my wife up and she informed me that she was slow to wake because she was still somewhat in a dream that she had been having. She proceeded to tell me the story of her 'movie dream', and I thought it was entertaining, so I shall attempt to retell it here.

The action takes place in a small town, probably something Medieval. My wife is a warrior who is very passionate about protecting her hamlet and the people who live there. Early in the story, a great rain happens, which stresses our hero, because, presumably, people's things will get wet, perhaps an animal or two will escape, and since there probably aren't paved roads, we're looking at a lot of mud. Well, apparently there is a monster in this town. There must be a lake or an ocean nearby, as the monster begins in the water and then ends up on land. Throughout the story, we see the monster swim, run, climb and jump. The only thing it may be incapable of is flight. That might have happened as well, but as I said, I woke her up from it.

The monster was described as a 'dinosaur-camel-shark', which certainly sounds frightening to behold. As it rose from the waters onto the shore, it could be heard muttering things like 'nobody appreciates me' and 'they keep doing things to me--that last thing they did kind of hurt'. Well, instead of an epic battle ensuing between our hero and the Dinocamark (as I like to think it would be known as), she decided to help the creature, and just maybe, her town as well.

'I can help you be better appreciated here' she said to it.

'How' the creature replied, perhaps anticipating a trap.

The warrior began running away. As monsters do, without a thought, it gave chase. After they had run to the base of a nearby tower, the hero stopped and turned to the creature and said 'now see--that was scary. How can anyone appreciate you or like you if you do something like that?'

Immediately the hero turned and ran up the steps of the tower. The creature, again caught up in the moment, jumped ahead of the hero and affected a very frightening pose.

'Again, that was scary' said the hero, stopping. 'What you should have done was to climb slowly as I ran and allowed to me get further up. Climbing is much less intimidating'. The beast seemed to nod in understanding. With that, the hero descended the stairs of the tower and the beast jumped back down to the muddy earth below.

'That's better', said the hero, apparently not wanting to take issue with the monsters' thunderous jump after they had so recently reached a point of understanding.

Later in the story, a child runs up to the warrior and mentions how much he wishes he could ride on the back of the Dinocamark. Realizing the opportunity to help both the child and monster, the hero quickly took the boy to the tower where the monster was still, we assume, contemplating his lessons. Without being noticed, the hero and boy climbed the stairs and leaped onto the back of the monster. Before it could react, the hero began to speak into its ear.

'Now, if you do not hurt me and do not hurt this child or anyone else in this town, but let us ride you right now a bit, I promise I will not attempt to hurt you. Also, I guarantee that people in this town will begin to appreciate you, or at least not be completely terrified. You might even make a friend or two here.'

This is where the story ends, but I think by the peaceful way that my wife entered consciousness, the creature had chosen to follow the hero's suggestion and that they were currently enjoying a bounding, jumping, slippery, muddy monster ride.

This has not been brought to you under the influence of anything. I cannot speak for the source of the dream, however.

Here Goes Nothing...

Question: How do you take the fun out of 'trying to make a baby?'.

Answer: You start by waiting until your mid-30's, at the end of a long week where you have worked almost every day doing exhaustive restaurant work. Then you add in nearly 18 months of frustrated unsuccessful attempts weighing on your mind. Finish by fighting off an alcohol coma brought on by both red wine and high content West Coast IPA beers. Awesome.

If this were to last a bit longer, this would be brought to you under the influence of Listerine and a host of good intentions...

No One Writes In Beer Heaven...

Missed another day. I suppose it should become commonplace enough that I don't even mention it, but it's such a young project to have such glaring holes. Last night I dreamt that my wife had been pregnant for several months and had been keeping it a secret from me. She wanted to surprise me, I think. It worked. Truth is, we have been trying to get pregnant for going on two years now. All things in time.

Had I written something last night, it would have been brought to you under the influence of Dogfish Head's Palo Santo, Rogue's Hazelnut Brown Nectar and a thick and malty brew I only remember as being nicknamed Ten Fiddy. Perhaps herein is the reason I forgot to write.

Never Send a Cat To Do a Plants Job...

Sal Esposito, crime drama fan, Boston resident, and full-blooded, short-haired domestic feline has been summoned to court for jury duty. Unlike justice, this juror sleeps often. Mostly during daylight hours. Tell me there is nothing wrong with a system that summons a pet for jury duty. Tell me that, further, once the owners of the pet write a letter explaining the pet has no ability to understand English, and thus testimony, plus includes a letter notarized by their vet that there is still nothing wrong with the judicial system in our country. Now I am all for animal rights. In our house, they are people, too. In fact, our boy cat often neglects to give me the first sip of a bottled brew that I have just opened. Who can blame him, though? His name is barley and he was born on St. Patrick's Day. Aside from that, though, I would be loathe to give him a voice in a criminal trial. His genius is better demonstrated in house with situations such as 'who just came in the front door?' and 'I know that isn't a real mouse because you throw it at me every night and then it just lays there but damn, this thing is exciting!'.

I am rather a big fan of the city of Boston, but I must confess, were I to move there, I would have to seriously consider putting my pets down as residents. Apparently, there aren't enough folks there to staff their burgeoning civil caseload. Who would have thought, considering they are in the top 3 of United States' capitol cities' populations. I suppose it's a good thing the Esposito's do not live in Vermont--their cat could potentially have been nominated as a state representative.

This has been brought to you under the influence of Sweetwaters' Happy Ending and extreme exhaustion.

The All New Quick Step...

I have started running again. So far I've done 5 miles on my new and improved post-surgery body. I would like to boast that I now have powers like the bionic man or an adamantium endoskeleton, but I really just have a weird looking scar and roughly half the ability to control my bowels that I once did. Now that I think about it, this could create new and interesting problems as I attempt to do my first half marathon later this year. I won't think about that right now. Right now, it is one foot after the other, on and on until finally I decide to stop. The thing I had forgotten about the process of getting back in shape and running again is how exhausted it makes you feel, at least at first. At some point, the exercise becomes energizing. Right now I just want to go to bed. And so I shall.

Content of Character...

Today is Martin Luther King Jr. day. A great holiday for our country. Not a black holiday. Not a religious holiday. Not just another excuse for the banks to close and the mail trucks to sit in their garages (although Lord knows, it could have been anything). It is a day to remember justice, equality and understanding, and a to give truly colorblind and uneconomic appraisal to the words which were laid down in the formative documents of our nation. Do I think the schools should be closed? Absolutely not. Bring the kids in and let them study out the I have a Dream speech. Let them teach themselves something relevant instead of isolating them through tests and letting mob rule win out in every other corner of their lives.

I read the speech today. I've read it before, but never remembered it so well that it isn't always new and important to me. 37 years old, and it still sings out a challenge to our deepest untruths: all men are not created equal, not everyone deserves the same consideration, never will the time come when prejudice based on what we see dissolves into acceptance of what is. I was born in mid-Michigan almost a decade after King gave this speech. In my 20's, I moved to New York City. Not long after, I moved to Atlanta. I feel like I have witnessed both the struggle he lamented and the success he wished so desperately for. It's a process, but things seem to be moving in the right direction. Dreams can be infectious. If only we could all come suddenly down with a severe case of his...

My Axe To Grind...

Today I was pulled out my guitar to learn a song that my wife would like me to accompany her on at an upcoming cabaret. I haven't played the guitar in months, maybe even over a year. This is the longest I have gone since high school with not playing music. The odd thing is, I am not particularly driven to do it anymore. Even massaging the nice mahogany top of my Martin and pulling some notes from its dreadnought shaped body did not bring back the rush of enthusiasm I had thought it might. I don't suppose I will be over music forever. Right now I simply would rather read or write. Or run. Or watch football. Or do the laundry. I just don't want to bother with the guitar.

An article I read recently made me think this variance of fancy was not just part of the adorable and eccentric collection of whimsy that is myself (as I would normally think--don't we all?). The article concerned a stereotypical 'Chinese mother' who had raised her daughters without the benefit of TV, video games, sleepovers, play dates, parties or even friends, or so it read. Her thinking was that any child can achieve success and excellence at anything they choose, so long as they are forced to dedicate massive amounts of time to it. Her daughters, in addition to making straight A's in all their grade school classes, played the piano and violin, one for each. I assume they were quite good at them, although from the black and white snapshot in the newspaper, one couldn't tell that they weren't being subtly threatened off camera, perhaps smiling through near tears. The mother gave advice to parents whose children are generally underachievers (or at least, fall below what she would consider the acceptable mark for childhood accomplishment). She said that nothing is fun until you are really good at it. This was her justification for putting her children through the gauntlet of their endless studies.

The truth is, her children probably did learn to really enjoy their instruments and the phenomenal disparity between themselves and all other children not raised my stereotypical Chinese mothers in their neighborhood. The point I took, though, was that sometimes I can let my own lack of practice, and hence excellence, turn me off of certain pursuits. The guitar is a prime example. I have never been terribly comfortable with my performance style, it being a bit muddy and stiff. However, I really don't put in much effort to improve it. Thus, I play less and less frequently until the initial awe of have a moderate skill under my belt fades to the contentment of a few pleasant memories. Acting is another pursuit of mine that has fallen, perhaps even more decisively, by the wayside. In fact, with the exception of writing (hence this endeavor), most of the activities I once defined myself by are no longer a part of my life. Perhaps I will find the spark to go after them with renewed vigor by and by. Perhaps the cycle of interests will continue endlessly to spin, leaving me chasing satisfaction for the rest of my days. I do cling to the Master of None identity--no reason it shouldn't be a self-fulfilling prophecy. Or, just maybe, I will be visited for a time by a stern Asian taskmaster/benefactor who will help elevate my skills to the robotic preteen levels they always should have been at. And on that day I will say xie xie, and I will sleep soundly.

Gambling Rambling...

I have recently rediscovered a fondness for football. Specifically, for watching the NFL. I used to play, but that is over. The things I used to do to my body would more than likely cripple me today. I do not enjoy college football either. To me, it is like watching the minor leagues, or kids play. It's only interesting when they commit and go professional. So, here I am, suddenly involved in NFL fantasy football leagues and watching multiple games at one time every Sunday.

Tonight was a rough night for Atlantans. The Falcons, rated tops in their division during the regular season, just had their collective arses handed to them by the Green Bay Packers. I feared this happening, as the Packers have been hot lately, and they have a quarterback who throws a football more quickly and consistently than the sun throws a shadow off a skyscraper. Still, you want to believe that the dream will continue. At some point we all have to wake up and go to work, though. For the Falcons, that awakening happens tomorrow morning, off season be damned, if they are smart.

I don't know that I have a point in all this, but if I did, it would be that I am a terrible gambler. You see, I play money leagues in fantasy football, and I almost always get hot too late to claim any of the winnings. Gambling in general, though appealing, doesn't seem to work for me. I even buy a lottery ticket each week on behalf of my co-workers at the restaurant, and every week, we each throw another dollar down the drain. I do not know why, but like everyone else, I believe that at some point, there is the possibility that I might reel in a couple hundred thousand. It's entirely possible. Just not likely. The gulf between likely and possible is wide enough that I find a myriad of rationalizations as to why I should or shouldn't continue trying, depending on my mood. In the end, I suppose you do what you enjoy. With football, I like to watch, to play, to drop some cash into my interest. If I win something back, great. If not, I still enjoyed it. That is probably the best place to stop analyzing. At least it beats feeding nickels into a slot machine.

McPeterson's...

Today there was an article about a woman (a mother of three, to be exact) being fired for letting Adrian Peterson, an exceptionally well known running back in the National Football League, in to use the restroom after hours. Normally I would just shrug this off and suggest that there was some nefarious reason for AP to be in the parking lot of a McD's at 3am anyway, but I have worked for McDonald's, and instead I feel a severe indictment is in order. Not to mention the fact that AP has nothing to do since his team blew the regular season, so some late night Big Macs are probably all he has to look forward to for the next 7 months or so.

So, my first job was at McDonald's. I was in high school, my senior year. It lasted about a year and half until I had started my second term of college. First off, I worked at a fairly reputable branch in the Northern Midwest. We were known for a certain standard of service, and as such received a lot of first considerations from corporate. That said, the experience in general was one of indentured servitude to a bunch of female managers who felt they had a whole lot more power and prestige than they honestly did. I think the fact that McDonald's is the first job for so many young people out there has helped to create a culture of condescension and inflated discipline. For example, they were so off put by my 5 o'clock shadow one day that they made me dry shave in the back before I started my shift. Apparently it looked better to have me flipping burgers with blood-soaked toilet tissue wrapped around my neck than it would have for me to sport some ginger whiskers on my cheeks. (Incidentally, the policy on facial hair changed shortly after I was fired--details to follow; now you are likely to be handed your nuggets by a seventeen year old with a pitiful goatee. At least my beard rocked at 17).

As I mentioned above, I was fired. I had called in sick for a shift and later was discovered to have been lying about the sick part, as the manager spoke to my mother who was uninvolved and thus had no idea she was supposed to cover for me. I completely understood the situation, and took full responsibility for my actions (they gave me a chance to keep my job if I just said I would do things differently if I had a chance--oddly enough, in that moment I decided to become principled about honesty and I just couldn't tell them that). It was only later that I realized what they did was not technically legal. Either way, I was grateful to get out. I had friends who were not so lucky. It could have been me, father of three, who had to decide if it was worth letting Adrian Peterson relieve himself against policy on my watch.

In the end, I found McDonald's to run a counter intuitive, micromanaging shop. I can't speak for who heads it up now, but Ray Kroc was a total dick, and his legacy lives on. Not to mention the fact that they serve up the worst fare you could ever ingest for up to 24 hours a day in over 119 countries and two lesser moons universe wide. You can put a silk cap on a pig, Ray, but it's still a pig. Or rather, a 'pig', being comprised of white and dark meat, toes, eyes, giblets, skin, ground snouts and other. If I had to offer any advice to my boy AP, it would be to next time not trouble one of the employees, whose jobs hand in a precarious balance by micromanaging sticklers. Just pee on the sign. Get someone to take a picture. There's no such thing as bad press (as is evidenced by the fact that they gave the woman in question her job back after this leaked out to the AP). A corporate underling will probably try to contract you to pee on the signs in the Asian stores on camera. It seems like that would work over there.

A Great Friend is Worth a Million Traffic Jams...

Today traffic was abysmal. It took 2 hours to drive the 8 miles home from work. This is because Atlanta has been under siege from an ice storm all week. You would think that the city could scrape a few cents together to get some salt out on the major roads, maybe throw some gravel around big intersections. Instead, we have black ice (from two days of sunmelt and refreeze) under drivers who are desperate to get away from their children and pets.

Normally, should you ask, I would assert that my idea of Hell would be to have a 2 hour long commute to and from a job that I really couldn't remember much about. Each day, 2 hours each way, with the destinations being kind of a blur. Hell. However, tonight, towards the end of my trip, I realized that I had been listening to Traffic, quite enjoying it really, and it brought a smile to my face. If music isn't the most transcendent thing we have down here, I don't know what is. Thanks, Glen.

The View From Underfoot...

Insubordination. You might say I suffer from it. Or with it. Or it. I have a hard time with authority. Daddy issues, I suppose. Regardless of what they stemmed from, they are, and they must be dealt with. Now, I also happen to be a spiritual minded person, one who believes firmly that servant leadership is the only proper kind. When I see it, I do my best to respect it and affirm it. When I do not, I tend to be very outspoken about my disappointment. Needless to say, I am not offered many managerial positions (in fact, I was just passed up for one in the past couple of weeks--another story, one with which I do not have nearly enough details to ramble and rant yet).

The truth is, I constantly have to bite my tongue around authority. It is difficult, but a worthy endeavor. You see, I am old enough to understand that not all is as it appears to be, and like it or not, other minds besides our own exist, and they sometimes contain things, things important and worthy of consideration, that our own do not. It leaves one in a bind. Fortunately, I am passive to a fault, so it rarely becomes an issue.

Dictionary.com defines 'insubordination' firstly as 'not submitting to authority' and 'disobedient'. I admit, there is something to that. Whereas I attempt to submit to authority and do the work that is expected to me, I also have a stubborn side which will always give priority to work which is expected by me. Given that I have a very good work ethic and a strong distaste for confrontation, there is rarely a discrepancy. I admit, though, that there are times when I quite pointedly do not do what is expected of me, and when questioned, have complete confidence that what I did was far more important and the rest is negligible in such a case. Perception. Insubordination. Guilty.

The second definition which the above site offers is 'not lower'. This one intrigues me. Although I never would have said it (or even thought it, really), I suppose I do feel 'not lower' than any one I've ever encountered in authority. As a spiritual minded person, this convicts me a little bit. I obviously have to be 'lower' than my creator. There must be a code of morality that I strive for, but as perfection is always out of reach, I must be lower than it as well. Why, then, should I not submit to earthy authority, making myself lower than, subordinate, obliging? That one I will have to give some thought to. In the meantime, I will probably continue sticking to the man in my passive fashion, taking what I can get and then griping about it to anonymous online audiences.

This has been brought to you under the influence of water. Water: Want to pee? Water.

Beware the Dangerous Loughner...

Jared Lee Loughner--troubled young man, high school and college dropout, casual drug user and now mass murderer. I'm not here to tell you how awful such a thing is. We already know that. I'm not here to tell you that these tragedies happen despite our best efforts, but that because of it, efforts will increase. That's the standard response by the authorities. I thought it best to propose some ways in which this type of thing could be prevented in the future.
First off, gun control. It's no secret, I'm not a fan of the whole 'right to bare arms' thing. But I realize there are many who would cling to the Constitutional right until it were pried from their cold, dead hands, right Charleton? How about not having guns like a Glock 9mm available to 22 year olds who have had rather aggressive disciplinary action taken against them by several educational institutions for the cost of a summers worth of lawn mowing jobs? How about we start requiring not only a cursory background legal check, but also a complete psychiatric profile done before handing over deadly weapons to complete strangers. I realize this would probably render 1/2 of the guntoters in the South unable to procure their precious weapons, but think of the lives that could be saved. Seriously, it's 2011. We don't need to hunt--it's going bad at the grocers. Go buy some. If you are that desperate to get your hunt on, use the bow. It's safer, more challenging, and a lot harder to take out 6 people outside of a supermarket with than a Glock.
Next, perhaps the government could try keeping tabs on the folks that they reject from military service. I won't make a sweeping statement like 'everyone who joins or tries to join the military is completely nuts'. That wouldn't be fair. However, since the draft has been done away with, I would have to say there are not too many level-headed, intelligent, peaceable and well-adjusted people drawn to the military. This is just my experience. Maybe it isn't just the ex-military who are bigoted, homophobic, gun-worshippers with anger management issues. Perhaps they come from all walks of life. I am in the South. Digression aside, you may want to know what these armed forces rejects are doing with their time and money, Uncle Sam.
Here is the one everyone is thinking, so I will just come out and say it. The kid kept using marijuana. We all know how dangerous a gateway drug that is, how it riles people up, gets them bloodthirsty, makes them want to commit atrocious acts of violence. Have I employed enough sarcasm yet? Leave the pot alone, Mr. Media. Loughner is deranged. Pot played no more a part of it than the color of shirt he was wearing that day. If it did, and everyone who currently engages in pot smoking in this country went on a similar killing spree, there probably wouldn't be anyone left to read or write your articles.
Finally, everyone saw it coming. He was into goth before he left high school. I say put back into effect the laws which allowed us to round up the Japanese after Pearl Harbor. Just get some cops in some trucks and hunt them down, behind pharmacies, under football bleachers, inside drainage pipes, in their rich parents' pads, wherever they cluster. Lock them up and throw away the key. At least until the the psychiatric profiles come in.

Enjoying the Whether...

I tend to not be sentimental about too many things, but one thing that gets me into that nostalgic, romantic place is a night of heavy snowfall. Last night in Atlanta was just such a night. Growing up in Michigan, it was very common to have many nights like this, starting anywhere in October and ending sometimes as late as March or Early April. But the really good ones would always occur around New Years and into January. It was by the light of these night skies that I would annually select my goals for the new year, sitting near a Christmas tree (we left them up until February in MI). You see, when the sky completely blanketed by falling snow, it lights up quite stunningly, almost as if the low-lying clouds are taking all the lights from houses and street lamps and assimilating it into their glow.
Today my wife and I wandered about our neighborhood, stomping through the thin icy exterior of soft powdery drifts, enjoying a rare snow day in the deep South. Children around us played in the snow, making animal shapes from pieces of broken iceplate, gathering memories that might have to suffice for the next several years' worth of winters. Considering that we both work at a restaurant, closings are rare indeed, and to be highly prized. Tomorrow promises to be more of the same, which could mean another 24 hours of pajamas, hot cocoa and embellishing our 'snow Caesar' which is currently lording over the rear end of my wife's Saturn. Seriously, it even has the laurels. Only when you're bored...
As I said, the romantic bug has hit me. I made sure to do all the best stuff, including playing a board game, reading by firelight, throwing a snowball and preparing the taxes. I realize that last one seems out of place, but if you knew me, you would realize that it is pure Don Juan. I've basically melted like almostbutter on Ezekiel bread. My cat is even nesting on me, which only happens when I manage to feel softer than the fleece throws which drape over our all of our living room furniture. They except no imitations, and they are wise beyond their lives. Would that we all were...

This has been brought to you under the influence of Frontera Cabernet Sauvignon, a fine Chilean vintage.

What Would You Call It...?

So, you've just had your abortion--Now What!

It seems like just moments ago you were saddled with an unwanted burden, but with the miracle of modern medicine, you can safely and singly breathe the free air again. You've made a big move towards asserting yourself as the dominant decision maker for You. You may not have even had to run this by your spouse or parent, depending on the state you live in. It is an exciting time in your life, but there are a few things you may want to be prepared for:

After such a big decision has been made, there can be a natural let down. This is completely normal, and you should not confuse the decreased flow of endorphins with feelings of guilt or remorse. Your body will regulate itself in time. Until then, try listening to music that you enjoy, or taking walks outdoors.

A strong desire to engage in celebratory behavior is also very common. One note of caution here--drugs and alcohol, though technically back on the menu after your procedure, are not an ideal avenue toward merrymaking. The residual effects of such substances on the body can be most deleterious, not to mention the illegality of much of it. No, we suggest the old school approach of casual sexual activity. As long as your partner knows you are simply indulging when and where you choose, there can be virtually no ill effects*. You've certainly found a way to deal with the most blatant former risk already, you clever girl.
(Keep in mind, pre-screening for STDs is advisable; not everyone is as selective as you)

Activism is one thing you may decide to give some serious thought to. It is not uncommon for a person to feel so emboldened by their abortion that they begin to want to fight for the right of others to do the same. There is a massive political arena which has been erected for just this issue, forged through the decisions of our best judicial minds, filled with the pleading of impassioned partisans, and framed by our insistence that we know what is best for ourselves. You can be one of those voices. When you see someone walking down the street with a shirt or a poster that says 'if you gave the baby a choice, it would have chose to live', you just look them in the eye and say 'if I as the mother am able to speak for the child once it is born until it comes of age, why on earth am I not able to speak for it before it is born. In fact my baby didn't even have a tongue yet, so who are you to suggest it would speak for itself at all', or something to that effect.

Finally, you will no doubt encounter a great deal of criticism as you sail the high seas of self-sufficiency. Many a rogue vessel will attempt to argue your position, try to blind you with "facts" about the high percentage of women who suffer regret after terminating their pregnancies, about how there are millions of infertile couples in the US alone who are desperate to adopt a child on their own native soil, or who try to twist the facts about when life really begins in order to paint you as selfish and cold-blooded if not outright murderous. Stand strong and tall against these barbarous complaints. You have opened a rich but tumultuous new chapter in your life, but remember these words from Poet and 3 time abortion recipient Mercy Post:

No path to glory
ever failed to contain
in the course of its story
some tricky terrain

Finally, if you do come to the conclusion that you have made a terrible mistake, we have included this suicide kit including a pill, pen and stationery for your convenience. Now, go get 'em!

Roe, Roe, Roe Your Boat...

Every morning I drive past an abortion clinic on my way to work. I would have had no idea of its existence if not for the protesters. It is in a small office park, probably in one of the rear buildings, all of which look rather pleasant in a colonial type of way. Every morning, rain or shine, there is at least protester, often several, ranging in age from 10 to 50s or 60s. They hold posters of the famous photograph of a discarded fetus pieced together again. They hold affirmations that it is in fact a child. They offer phone numbers one can call if one has issues of regret or depression. They huddle together, bundled when it is cold. Occasionally they are shouted at. Occasionally, I suppose, they shout. The right to choice versus the right to life is one of the biggest, if not the biggest, of issues circling around in the political arena today.
I did some fact checking online. Apparently the CDC holds statistics of how many abortions are performed annually in the United States. It seems as though 2005 is the most recent year with reliable stats, and in 2005, roughly 1.21 million abortions were performed. This excludes 3 states which are not required to post their totals, California being one of them. California is also the state which performs the most annual abortions, according to one anti-abortion site I read (although since they are under no obligation to report them, I wonder on what authority the site makes this supposition). I also checked another statistic. I looked up how many couples in the US are deemed infertile. Oddly enough, these statistics are also maintained by the CDC. In 2009, roughly 7 million couples were deemed infertile. Per year, about 200,000 children are adopted in the United States (this includes adoption by relatives). This means that roughly 6.8 million couples are left childless year in and year out. Of those, let's say that only 5 million actually go forward with adoption (they must all want children, otherwise they would not have had their fertility tested and thus ended up on the CDCs list). Just suppose if every one of the 1.21 million abortions were instead carried to term, sponsored by American couples, and adopted. This would effectively end the abortion issue, plus it would still leave nearly 4 million couples open to the possibility of adopting overseas.
The above is purely a speculation, based on numbers and certain realities. Other realities exist, such as the fact that women want to be able to decide what to do with their bodies. Not just their bodies, but the bodies of those that grow within them, it seems. Messy exceptions litter the argument: rape, unwanted pregnancy, ill-fit and/or underage parental concerns. There is virtually no solution. But in the end it is all par for the course. No one really wants to adopt American children anyway. Everybody knows that Asian children are much smarter and more likely to achieve the means to take care of their parents when they are old anyway. Right?

Hydration...

Well, I made it through 5 days of posting. I suppose it was inevitable I would forget one. Truth is, I did do a little writing yesterday.*
I've been watching my cat lately. He drinks a lot of water. This could be because his smaller, sleeker and more energetic sister wears him out in play, and he becomes parched. This could also, I suppose, be an indication that he has some type of kidney problem, although he isn't yet one year old, so that is probably not the case. Regardless of why, I constantly see him drinking water, and it challenges me. As a human (and a runner, no less), it is generally recommended by doctors that I drink 8 to 9 cups of water a day. I probably come in at 2 or 3, maybe 5 or 6 if I exercise a good deal. I decided to look it up online, just to verify that I was correct in thinking this. Interestingly enough, the amounts of water vary depending on the person, which makes sense. What I found even more interesting, though, was that really any fluid (as most you are likely to drink contain water) can count towards the daily requirement. This was especially encouraging to me, as I drink often of many fine libations. Here is a sampling of what I drink on a day off:
7-10am = Coffee or black tea (lately, after losing the gall bladder, I find black tea less evasive)
11am = Beer o'clock begins
2ish = I usually begin feeling gross and have a glass of water
Late afternoon/early evening = Beer o'clock continues
9-11pm = A glass or two of red wine (in the winter months, predominantly)
Before bed = a glass of water
And that is about the extent of it. Add in a protein shake made with almond milk on days where I do a lengthy run.
As you can see, I am clearly taking in a good deal of liquid, largely made up of water, so one would think sufficient hydration would be reached. One might also surmise that unchecked alcoholism is being reached, tackled and hogtied. What I didn't mention is that my boy cat enjoys beer as well. It's a guy bonding thing.
Ultimately, wrapping it back around here, if I had to guess why the cat drinks so much, I would think it has to do with the water coming continuously out of this fancy fountain we got for them. Cats like running water. It's clean, it's attractive, it's a challenge. Perhaps I should just get myself a fountain, all mythical protrusions and straight-nosed undersea babes. Early Greek Hellenic. Something I would enjoy wandering up to all day long and sipping from, or at least just batting at with my paw. Yes, there is much to learn from our animal friends. I may discuss hygiene one of these days, but currently the wife is away, and I'm just not up for an honest appraisal right now.

*Yesterday's writing consisted of mocking up a version of The Long and Winding Road by the Beatles for a work hosted cabaret. Probably not 'dangerous' material unless you consider copyright infringement dangerous. Right! No one ever got in trouble for that...

Fresh Sawdust Was Found On the Snow...

In the news today, a venerable old 'shoe' tree was cut down on a lonely stretch of Nevada highway. The tree, which for years had been adorned with the shoes of hundreds of passersby, Elvis having been rumored to be among them, was a 70' tall cottonwood, and as far as anyone could tell, never hurt anybody. Commentators of the article suggested many possible culprits: wild youths, Mexicans, Dick Cheney, the ghost of Elvis. All of these are speculative, of course. If I were assigned this case, I would begin by questioning the locals as to whether they had recently seen a large band of barefoot miscreants, possibly wielding axes or chainsaws, maybe breathing subtle threats like 'it goes down tonight' or 'aim for the highway side of the trunk'.
I think the thing I found most fascinating was that the article did not mention whether the tree had been removed, or the shoes, or if everything was just lying there in a horizontal shambles. If they found sawdust on the snow, couldn't they have found footprints, maybe bare coming up and booted or shoed walking away? If the tree was missing, wouldn't there have been a drag trench? Doggone it, people, couldn't the Lorax be summoned for a statement? He will probably be there on February 13th for the memorial service. Check with him then. A million to one he blames the Onceler.
The article mentioned that another 'shoe' tree had been burned down in Idaho last year. This is clearly a pattern. FBI profilers need to get on this. Sure, it's just shoe trees on Federal grounds now, but soon the thrill of remote accessorized landmarks will cease to be enough. The Onceler, in his bloodlust, will begin hunting closer to the fold, taking down topiaries, adorned mailboxes, and yes, even coat trees. I have a coat tree, a very old and sentimental one, a tree I am not eager to see felled. So, Uncle Sam, what is the next move--wait until there is so much sawdust on the snow that winter looks orange? Or do we go after the Onceler where he lives, in a caustic little factory near the last of the Truffala Tufts? I think you already know the answer.

This was brought to you while Hops, my girlcat, used my chair and torso as elliptical machines.

On the Brighter Side, I Hear Wal-Mart is Hiring...

An article surfaced recently which indicated that an inordinate amount of two separate species of animals were suddenly dying en masse in Arkansas. Around 100, 000 drum fish, they mentioned, surfaced along a 20 mile stretch of a river. Over 100 miles away, almost 5,000 red-winged blackbirds fell dead or dying from the sky, littering the communities below. These phenomena are interesting enough, but I would have to note that nothing real or speculative regarding why these things happen can compete with the comments that people make below the articles. Apparently, this is a sign of the Apocalypse. Mayan shamen saw this coming. That's why they went ahead and failed as a society, so they wouldn't live to see the death and destruction. All they left us was this calendar that doesn't really go past next year. Which must mean that they knew something. Or, they just got bored trying to predict where the sun would be that far in advance. An old Mayan fellow probably decided that his son should probably take over the calendaring business, but as luck would have it, Junior wanted to design shrines instead, so, you know, it just sort of fizzled out. But I digress.
Arkansas always struck me as one of those states that people would naturally be dying to get out of. I suppose it stands to reason that the wildlife could experience similar small town, middle of nowhere cabin-feveritis and collectively, or at least in large yet isolated migratory packs, all decide to drink the Kool-Aid. I don't think it is so preposterous. The line between animal intelligence and human stupidity has always been a thin one, but these days...
Two points of interest regarding the above mentioned species: 1) red-winged blackbirds primarily stick to a diet of seeds and insects, however, they will mate just about anywhere, and 2) drum fish will eat just about anything, however, they only mate when it is hot and dry (which I imagine could be a bit infrequent, considering the fish lives in water). Interesting.

This has been brought to you while under the influence of Sweetwater IPA.

Truce or Dare...

As I was logging in to check my email today, I glanced at one of the Yahoo featured articles they pull from AP. "Mexican cartel announces 1-month truce". Is the one I happened upon. Apparently, sources say that La Familia, which has been terrorizing the Western state of Michoacan, is apparently taking some time off. Perhaps they want to give some of their more active members a vacation. Where do people who live on the Mexican coasts go for vacation? All inclusive beach resorts in Ecuador? Iowa is chilly this time of year, but pretty.
According to the article, they intend to 'halt all crime activity' in order to prove that they are '"not responsible for the criminal acts federal authorities are reporting to the media'". There have been rashes of extortions, kidnappings, murders, decapitations, etc. going on for some time, all linked to this particular cartel. This cartel that just released a statement to the public that it does in fact engage in 'crime activity'. I guess what they are saying is that, yes, we are criminals, but we don't commit those crimes. You'll see, when heads continue to roll in January while we are off catching up on our reading. Then it is YOU who will look silly, President Calderon.
This doesn't bode well. Anyone who reads comic books knows that when a powerful crime syndicate unites and calls a cease-fire, it is only so that they can slither away to some underground lair and plot the destruction of the free world. Well played, Familia, we are on to you. The good news in the short term is that Acapulco is back on the map as a vacation destination, at least for a few more weeks. Go, enjoy, bask in the moderately warm temperatures and drink your fill of anything you brought with you from the United States. The best news is, your chances of being mugged, kidnapped or decapitated all just decreased substantially. Probably. Assuming the group doing this can be trusted when they say they will stop for a month. Bon Voyage!

This entry has been brought to you while sipping Typhoo Tea. There's only 1 't' in Typhoo...

No Dog in That Fight...

I often hear people complain of the recent success of Michael Vick, former Atlanta Falcons quarterback, current Philadelphia Eagles quarterback, former 'dogman', former inmate and current front runner for MVP of the National Football League. Michael Vick was busted for running a dogfighting syndicate out of his Georgia estate a few years back and was sentenced to do some prison time. Although he was squirrely and dishonest at first about the activities, once all the proof was there, he hung his head and did his time. Since, he has been released, picked up by another football franchise, and has risen quickly to the top of a league that, let's face it, decidedly lacked superstars this year. Granted, I live in Atlanta, so most of the people here dealt up close and personal with the details of his grisly side project, so it doesn't surprise me that his sudden redemption is largely overlooked down here. It's not like he is taking our team to the playoffs. For myself, I looked at the process as a chance to learn something about a topic I knew almost nothing of: dogfighting.
Much has been written about dogfighting, largely in condemnation of it, but you can't deny how deep the cultural roots go. I won't bore us with an historical treatise, but there are a few notes I found interesting. First off, I have never in general considered myself an animal rights activist. I am not a vegetarian. I do not like to see a species hunted to extinction, but I am not likely to do much to prevent it either. I don't think that all dogs go to Heaven, or that animals have souls to speak of. However, I would never intentionally treat an animal badly or endanger it (directly; again, I wouldn't take a bullet for a buffalo), and I certainly would not cheer ringside as two dogs tore each other to unrecognizable bits. There are reasons why that is 17 levels of sick, and not just because 'animals are people, too'.
I read the defense position that the dog fighters commonly use, as was stated in an academic paper on the subject available online through a simple search. One thought is that dogfighting is a cultural fixture, not something you can simply do away with by litigation or increased awareness. This is true. I'm sure they fought dogs in the Coliseum. Mankind has always had a bizarre yet creative bloodlust. Just like the 'if you can think of it, there is porn of it' adage, if it can be used as a weapon, it has been. I used to work with a Southern gentleman who would often use the phrase 'I don't have a dog in that fight'. I never gave much thought to the derivation of the quip, but I am certain it isn't just an accidental metaphor. Dogfighting is like college football and Krispy Kreme down here.
One defense that was quoted really stood out to me. The [dog fighter, presumably] had indicated that the dogs love to fight, and are evenly matched, and therefore dogfighting is no more or less inhumane than boxing. I like that point because I have always been disgusted by boxing as well. Standing around the watching two people beat each other senseless always seemed like such a base, brutal interest. So what if it's an animal that couldn't choose another life for itself. Do you think half the boxers out there really had a lot of other options? Have you seen Mike Tyson fight? Is it so different than watching a highly trained animal at the top of it's craft?
People love violence. We go to war to settle conflict. The conflict is often war already. I would wager some of the most disgusting violence ever to happen in war is happening when there is no actual battle being fought. Train soldiers to kill and then stick them somewhere isolated with nothing to do. Raise dogs to fight, then leave them unattended in the yard. Violence is accessible, granted, but it is learned. Perhaps the most relevant point I came across in the article I read was the effects upon children that the fighting had. In gang culture, children are brought in to see the dogs go at it. In rural areas, families surround the pits as an outing. This is where the 'cultural' aspect is preserved. Desensitize people at a young age and watch the practice unfold over the generations.
Over time, the greatest religious teachers have continuously advocated pacifism, non-violent protest, turning the other cheek. Meanwhile, those to whom they were preaching have continued gashing, stabbing, warring, killing and thirsting for new and exciting ways to bloodlet. Something about this whole situation concerns me deeply, and it isn't the welfare of the dogs. That, of course, is relevant, but there is a larger travesty materializing through this and countless other vile practices--the wreckage of the human soul.

Unfortunately, I am almost certain that animals were harmed somewhere during the writing of this blog.

Resolution...

Today is the first day of the rest of my life. It also happens to be the first day of the new year. Questions and expectations flood me. What will my goals be this year? What great things could possibly be in store? What resolutions will frame my actions in the moving picture of this coming annum?
As is my habit, I forge a list of aims for myself, one I will inevitably come back to with a critical eye in roughly 365 days (assuming I make it another 365 days--one never knows). Year after year I attempt to realize these goals which cover such aspects of my life as spiritual, physical, financial, career and general. Year after year, I tend to nail the physical and general, yet fail all the others. Rather than be honest with myself about what I truly want and where my focus truly is, I have decided this year to remove the categories. No specific order, no specific designation other than being something I feel like I should accomplish. We shall see if this works.
I read on a web site that at best 17% of people succeed in their New Year's resolutions. Although I have no idea how or why this should be a trustworthy percentage, it sounds roughly correct, if not just a bit generous to me. You see, I have lived long enough to stare into the endless gulf between intentions and actions. If I had a nickel for every one I knew who really wanted to stop smoking or lose that stomach or reconcile that relationship, my only financial goals would be to research an organization before I write it a monstrous check. We all have goals, desires and intentions. January 1st is just a convenient date to put off going after them until. Once it passes, most people promptly forget the build-up and settle back to the path that got them to the place they had been resolving to vacate. Not to mention the fact that, a few months down the road, there is another January 1st.
It comes down to discipline and desire. Both are essential. From what I have seen, most people have no shortage of desire. It is discipline that eludes them, frustrates their efforts. I read a brief treatise called 212, the Extra Degree recently. The image is that water is hot at 211 degrees, but at 212, it boils. Such is the case with us. The steam of boiling can move even the most stubborn of trains. At 211, though certainly a solid and well-intentioned heat, you have motionlessness.
Myself, I have discipline. It's odd that I never went into the military, for such is my dedication to routine and principle. What I lack is desire. Many times I have begun a project I felt rather excited about, and many times I have failed to complete it, not because I couldn't set aside the time or the resources, but because I just quit caring. Perhaps I spent all the interest and was ready to invest in something else. It really doesn't' matter. This project which I am currently undertaking will necessitate both discipline and desire to complete. 'Dangerously' is not just a reference to the inevitable onslaught of opinions I will espouse herein. Completion is dangerous. Success is dangerous. Happiness is dangerous. Nothing, however, is more dangerous than failing to try. History doesn't number the creative casualties of unproductive lives. If it did, it would outweigh a million 20th centuries worth of war dead. On that pleasant note, here goes nothing!

Today's post has been brought to you under the influence of Southern Tier's 2XIPA.