One year
Tuesday, November 9, 2004
Q: Jay, it's been a year, what the hell have you been doing?
A: It's been a while, huh? I've been elsewhere, mind on other things, either involved with other people or other things. It's been an exhausting and exhilirating year.
Q: Will you be returning to blogging? The world really misses your wit and charm, your inexhaustable love of adjectives, and your coverage of underappreciated and obscure sports.
A: Riiight. Maybe. *shrug*
An anagnorisis, if you will...
Sunday, November 9, 2003
So I've begun reading philosophy again, at the behest of a new friend who has re-awakened this long dormant area of thought. I had consciously decided to stay away from the works of many of the philosophers I have studied, lest the ramifications of their themes and ideas lead me down a path away from my current state of mind, away from the growth I've struggled to create and maintain. [see previous entry].
Today I went to City Lights with my friend Meatwad and picked up a random book of philosophical thought by E. M. Cioran, a Romanian fireball who lived in the mid/early part of the past century. I read the first page and was struck by a sense of kismet. I felt with feverish certainty that this essay was placed in my hands by some cosmic force to put beautiful words to the ideas that I've been aching to express for the past year, here and elsewhere. Cioran was able to put some of my most heartfelt and honest thoughts down in a way that I never could.
Most of you know that this past year has been incredibly trying and crucially important, a period filled with great destruction and stagnation, creation and growth. This collective experience began in a blast of ashes and suffering that has given way to a great and active spiritual fervor, an insatiable lust for experience, sharing, perspective, and inquisitive exploration. This state is described by Cioran as the Lyrical State, and I think it is an apt descriptor for what this really feels like. There is a sense of being nearly insane with the need to express, to share. I've discovered a meshing of creativity and spontaneous mental combustion, an awakening of every part of the mind, body, soul, and heart.
Though I've tried to illustrate this to others, I feel on each occassion that I have failed to fully explain the inner works of this personal phenomenon. Instead, I'll let Cioran detail it for you. He has his pen on the pulse of suffering and rebirth and has quite certainly walked a similar path of jagged edges and smooth stones. He is much more lucid and lyrical than I could ever dare to attempt:
ON BEING LYRICAL
Why can’t we stay closed up inside ourselves? Why do we chase after expression and form, trying to deliver ourselves of our precious contents or “meanings,” desperately attempting to organize what is after all a rebellious and chaotic process? Wouldn’t it be more creative simply to surrender to our inner fluidity without any intention of objectifying it, intimately and voluptuously soaking in our own inner turmoil and struggle? There we would feel with much richer intensity the whole inner growth of spiritual experience. All kinds of insights would blend and flourish in a fertile effervescence. A sensation of actuality and spiritual content would be born, like the rise of a wave or a musical phrase. To be full of one’s self, not in the sense of pride, but of enrichment, to be tormented by a sense of inner infinity, means to live so intensely that you feel you are about to die of life. Such a feeling is so rare and strange that we would live it out with shouts. I feel I could die of life, and I ask myself if it makes any sense to look for an explanation. When your entire spiritual past vibrates inside you with a supreme tension, when a sense of total presence resurrects buried experiences and you lose your normal rhythm, then, from the heights of life, you are caught by death without the fear which normally accompanies it. It is a feeling similar to that experienced by lovers on the heights of happiness, when they have a passing but intense intimation of death or when a premonition of betrayal haunts their budding love.
Only a few can endure such experiences to the end. There is always a serious danger in repressing something which requires objectification, in locking up explosive energy, because there comes a moment when one cannot restrain such overwhelming power. And then the fall is from too much plenitude. There are experiences and obsessions one cannot live with. Salvation lies in confessing them. The terrifying experience of death, when preserved in consciousness, becomes ruinous. If you talk about death, you save part of your self. But at the same time, something of your real self dies, because objectified meanings lose the actuality they have in consciousness. This is why lyricism represents a dispersion of subjectivity; it is a certain quantity of an individual’s spiritual effervescence which cannot be contained and needs constant expression. To be lyrical means you cannot stay closed up inside yourself. The need to externalize is the more intense, the more the lyricism is interiorized, profound, and concentrated. Why is the suffering or loving man lyrical? Because such states, although different in nature and orientation, spring up from the deepest and most intimate part of our being, from the substantial center of subjectivity, as from a radiation zone. One becomes lyrical when one’s life beats to an essential rhythm and the experience is so intense that it synthesizes the entire meaning of one’s personality. What is unique and specific in us is then realized in a form so expressive that the individual rises onto a universal plane. The deepest subjective experiences are also the most universal, because through them one reaches the original source of life. True interiorization leads to a universality inaccessible to those who remain on the periphery. The vulgar interpretation of universality calls it a phenomenon of quantitative expansion rather than a qualitatively rich containment. Such an interpretation sees lyricism as a peripheral and inferior phenomenon, the product of spiritual inconsistency, failing to notice that the lyrical resources of subjectivity show remarkable freshness and depth.
There are people who become lyrical only at crucial moments of their life; some only in the throes of death, when their entire past suddenly appears before them and hits them with the force of a waterfall. Many become lyrical after some decisively critical experience, when the turmoil of their inner being reaches paroxysm. Thus people who are normally inclined toward objectivity and impersonality, strangers both to themselves and to reality, once they become prisoners of love, experience feelings which actualize all their personal resources. The fact that almost everybody writes poetry when in love proves that the resources of conceptual thinking are too poor to express their inner infinity; inner lyricism finds adequate objectification only through fluid, irrational material. The experience of suffering is a similar case. You never suspected what lay hidden in yourself and in the world; you were living contentedly at the periphery of things, when suddenly those feelings of suffering which are second only to death itself take hold of you and transport you into a region of infinite complexity, where your subjectivity tosses about in a maelstrom. To be lyrical from suffering means to achieve that inner purification in which wounds cease to be mere outer manifestations without deep complications and begin to participate in the essence of your being. The lyricism of suffering is a song of the blood, the flesh, and the nerves. True suffering begins in illness. Almost all illnesses have lyrical virtues. Only those who vegetate in a scandalous insensitivity remain impersonal when ill, and thus miss that deepening of the personality brought about by illness.
One does not become lyrical except after a total organic affliction. Accidental lyricism has its source in external factors; once they have disappeared, their inner correspondent also disappears. There is no authentic lyricism without a grain of interior madness. It is significant that the beginnings of all mental psychoses are marked by a lyrical phase during which all the usual barriers and limits disappear, giving way to an inner drunkenness of the most fertile, creative kind. This explains the poetic productivity characteristic of the first phases of psychoses. Consequently, madness could be seen as a sort of paroxysm of lyricism. For this reason, we should rather write in praise of lyricism than in praise of folly. The lyrical state is a state beyond forms and systems. A sudden fluidity melts all the elements of our inner life in one fell swoop, and creates a full and intense rhythm, an ideal convergence. Compared to the refined culture of sclerotic forms and frames, which mask everything, the lyrical mode is utterly barbarian in its expression. Its value resides precisely in its savage quality: it is only blood, sincerity, and fire.
E.M. Cioran
On Being Lyrical
Taken from the collection "On the Heights of Despair"
Back Again to Myself
Friday, May 30, 2003
Woe be to you, forgotten web journal – you've been neglected too long.
Today in the working world: At the Comical this week we are doing self-appraisals, which is a new procedure around here. I've never done one of these before and I find it quite interesting. It is part memory-test (what did you do last October?), part self-aggrandizing pat-me-on-the-back auto-testimonials of greatness, and yet another part proving your worth and defending your professional existence. I produced, as is my style, a mammoth text full of extraneous descriptors and adjectives, a long-winded list of expositions on every little detail of my days.
The first question dealt with the accomplishments of the past twelve months. I must say that I am surprised at the amount of work the training team has accomplished in what seems like a short period of time. The list of projects is long and each entry reminds me of how time consuming and arduous those tasks seemed at the time, but how ordinary each of them were. Some of them, like the New Hire Binder, are anchors that continue to weigh on me. The big binder (284 pages) in particular is Project Hangover – it felt good to write it, I look back on the experience fondly, but now when I look at all the corrections and updates that need to be done, I get all achy and tired and swear I'll never do it again.
Which I have, of course, at least 8 times.
Today in the real world: Whilst penning this grandstanding masterpiece {Atlas Trained? Ads and Peace?) I naturally began to consider all that has happened to me personally this past year. Consulting the off-line daily journal I keep at home, I discovered just how crazy my life has been/become. It has been a wild ride (please no roller coaster comparisons, my readers groan – oh, wait a minute – what readers?!?!) full of amazing peaks and thunderous descents (and one of those cool wooden tunnels where everybody SCREAMS!). I'm exhausted but full of energy, winded but drunk on the rush of it all.
Things were completely awful a year ago when a horrendous divorce-ish break up changed my world. Life stopped. Everything was altered by this experience: perspective, philosophy, energy level, relationships, interaction, activity, etc. For several months the world was a dreary place; a sluggish, empty space spent watching baseball, hiding from the world; indifferent and struggling, angry and alone. But life started to change, thankfully. My emotional intensity ebbed and I started to care about things again. Things began to improve around December and have been consistently good ever since.
I've gone hang gliding and sang karaoke, traveled to DC and Key West. I awoke Christmas morning glowing and more alive than ever before. I've volunteered at dozens of events, read great books, discovered new music and forms of expression, re-established long lost connections with creativity, inspired and been inspired. Life has presented me with amazing people and experiences both glorious and flawed. I have fallen hard on occasion but regained my step, run away from beauty and towards nebulous possibilities. I have seized control of my life and discovered so much about myself that it hurts to think of the person I was just a single year ago.
Some days I consider this last year a blessing, some days I curse fate for not letting this collective experience happen sooner. And some days a nostalgic wave of bitterness appears, and I clench my scarred fists, shuddering in silence before stepping forward in refusal.
But now I peek into the next year and dream a realist's dream, wondering what wonders will unfold before me. Will I plan the soundtrack of this movie-life, or will it be orchestrated for me? I consider all that lays behind and beyond. I beckon the future with great hope but cautious pragmatism. There is still no plan, no inspired design. Instead, I lay back and contemplate; what do these rose petals and howling winds portend?
Day 2
Tuesday, April 15, 2003
Day 2
This day has started better in training, though he was late and we had lots of technical problems before we could get started. I get the general feeling that others are learning this system and I feel comfortable with what we learned so far. But this competency isn't the result of any brilliant training or exercises, it is more of a slow dawning brought on by practice and experimentation.
What really bothers me about this trainer is his indifference and his off-putting reactions to peoples questions. At various times today he's laughed at a person who made a simple yet honest mistake, he's ignored a kvetching trainee and walked away, and actually said the words trainers should NEVER SAY: "you just did it wrong." I'm in this class with Liz, who does the same thing I do at the Chron, and we've spent our time in quiet dissatisfaction and have fought our way through the curriculum. In unison we roll our eyes and scribble notes to each other about how bad this is going.
Twiddling Thumbs
Monday, April 14, 2003
I'm in training this week, which is always an interesting process. I'm a trainer by profession, it is my job to help people learn the skills they need to do their job. Watching others try to lead a class is always fun, sometimes I can find something to steal or learn, sometimes I learn, instead, what NOT to do. I'm a fairly critical person and I have specific ideas about how a training session should be handled. Training isn't about showing people all of the cool things you know, it should not be an ego exercise. It is basically about assisting people and sharing knowledge, but if the knowledge isn't relayed properly, then the process is essentially pointless.
This guy is having trouble, I am getting the impression that he isn't a trainer, just an expert on the system (and there is a HUGE difference). I've only been here for one hour and the confusion is building. This computer system is fairly easy to understand, intuitive in nature. The delivery counts as much as the content. The people in this training are all intelligent professionals and computer proficient individuals. They should get this system fairly easily if it were demonstrated properly.
I'll be in this training class all week, so I expect to be frustrated completely for the next four days.
(SIGH)
"Beware the Toasting Fork"
Tuesday, April 1, 2003
Every day a few selections of humorous content cross my path. Some of them are lame or derivative, or just plain boring. Others, like this, really cream my twinkie. Somebody finally found a use for these nightmarish confections.
Life's Rich Tapestry
Tuesday, March 11, 2003
It has been a strange week indeed at Chateau D'rhino... much hectic activity and endless amounts of chores reduced me to a quivering slug yesterday and i was forced to use a sick day to recover from many weeks of relentless motion... it really has been a whirlwind, with familial visitors, sightseeing in this beautiful metropolis, long distance jet setting vacations to paradise, jetlag, unforgivable drunken catastrophes, volunteering, long movies, new friends, lost friendships (that most horrible of events), friendships regained (perhaps?), mourning the loss of a good friend's father, and plenty of time spent thinking, talking and laughing... nary a moment to stop, really, which is what i needed....
isolation found me sunday, as i think i spoke to no one but my dog, the best of listeners and the most loyal of companions... restless, i rebuilt the artwork on my CDs and re-touched the audio on my newest effort, Life is Sweet... i had to resist the urge to re-work my earlier CDs as i hear many opportunities for improvement... creative energy is best utilized and released instead of wasted, so though my body wanted nothing but time to rest and regroup, my mind forced me to work on the computer all day, playing with images and sounds... my efforts were productive, and that is all i strive for these days...
this week, however, looks packed from start to finish... [SIGH]...
Tuesday, March 4, 2003
an update on the fantasy hockey situation: with two teams in a five team division, I sit 3rd and 4th, ahead of only my brother. My roommate, who I must admit has hockey knowledge, has stuck a proverbial pole in my ass and is mopping the floor with me as we speak. I make a good mop, I have "Ultra-Shine Chest Hair Action" and I smell like elderberries, but it's starting to lose it's charm... just wait for fantasy baseball.
He Ain't White, He's My Brother!
Monday, February 10, 2003
This really stupid monkey-man told me that people are actually looking at my site and following one of my links to his site. How he knows this is beyond me, no doubt some web based thingamajig that tracks site traffic or something.
Anyway, i guess if people are visiting the shop, they may want to see something new in the window, so here goes:
My Brother The Jerk
That's right, my brother RJ isn't my favorite human being right now. Oh, he's an OK guy, he's pretty funny and cool and all that, and he's got some great parents, but right now, he's fairly low on my list of people. I know he's reading this right now and grinning ear to ear, looking idiculous but loving it, revelling in the knowledge of what he's done to me these past few months.
You see, he's a big NASCAR and NFL fan, perhaps he dabbles in baseball and basketball. But his knowledge of the Game of the Gods, ice hockey, is limited to the tiny amount of coverage this sweet sport gets on Sportscenter (always after basketball highlights and pictures of elephants winning tug of war). He wouldn't know a strong wrist shot if i gave him a training manual with diagrams and photos. Plus/minus is as foreign a concept to him as English is at the DMV.
So when he joined the fantasy hockey league i was in, i laughed. Surely this would be easy, right? Victory was certainly assured, i already had the celebratory champagne on ice and the t-shirts made. Even with a few weeks left, with him actually LEADING the division by a handful of points, my knowledge of the game and its players would pay off. All those hours spent reading box scores and studying scoring trends was bound to translate into sweet tasting victory.
You can see where this is heading.
So then the shit started flying. With a few weeks left, i got emails of "better luck next season" and "gee, this is really easy." GRRRRRR....
Anyway, the boy who couldn't did and the guy who should''ve didn't. So now the second season has started, but i'm less optimistic. This game is obviously tilted in favor of the unknowing and lucky, yeah, that's it. Blind luck wins out over knowledge.
My Brother, My Buddy
On the other side of the same coin, my brother is my hero. Not because he can burn holes in steel walls with his gaze or because he spends his weekends bathing sick puppies. No, it's because he's gone and got himself engaged. Yep, one of the Kilian boys is finally getting hitched. And on top of that he's got himself a great woman who loves him to pieces. Can't ask for much more than that.
So why is this extra special news? Because it takes a lot of pressure off of me to do the same, to get married and pop out a few littl'uns. Now maybe the grandparents won't be so stressed, Ry-guy and me being the only men remaining in the kilian line, the last of the mohicans so to speak. Thanks for taking just a touch of pressure off my shoulders, bro!
Monday, January 20, 2003
What is it about these blog things that make them so hard to write with any sense of regularity? I've often wondered this, especially when I send people to my site and there is nothing new there. It really is difficult to fill up this space with something interesting, and therein lies the rub. See, interesting is a term that is hard to define. I could show you all about flies painted on Dutch urinals , which I find fascinating and just a bit humorous. But does that make a great post? Will it keep you coming back for more? What would my mother think? (Hi Mom!). So instead of throwing just anything at all up there solely for the sake of posting, I default to a position of general silence. Shrug.
Others have web logs that are updated with alarming frequency and length (lileks ,dumbmonkey , etc). Some people write down notes several times a day!! (Maxpower). Most of these people have a stunning ability to say something important or relevant or just witty on a daily basis.
Me? I update once a month at best, when the mood strikes me or something eventful happens that I desperately need or want to share. Many of my loyal readers (2 of them to date) have asked me to update more often, which in many ways discourages me away from doing so. All that pressure. All the expectations. What if my musings aren't entertaining enough? What if I open that tiny door to my brain, and the world can see that all I'm packing is tumbleweed and cacti growing in sandblasted desolation?
When I started this thing, it was set to be a daily journal and a collection of my random musings, but honestly, I messed that up right out of the gate. Shouldn't have made that promise to myself or my legions of subscribers. It is amusing how convicted people get about an idea until they realize just how difficult it is to keep that commitment and conviction going. It isn't amusing when you realize that you are guilty of the same behavior. Been to the gym lately? Me either.
Anyway, this is a lame way to get something out there into the nether. Blasting my commitment and the whole blog realm isn't really great post material, but if it loosens the glue that keeps the good ideas and great posts stuck to the inside of my head, then it is worth it. There is plenty to talk about: new people I've met, new experiences I've, um, experienced, new observations, new directions, etc. But I've lost some of that overwhelming desire to share it all with the world. Shrug.
Consider it selfish or contradictory (you have a website, where you share it all for everybody in the world to see, and here you are reversing course, preferring to keep it to yourself and remain tight lipped?) and/or whatever you will, but some things are just better kept inside. Some of the more intriguing events of late would make several dozen great posts, but discretion is always the high road.
Besides, I think my parole officer reads this.
Where's Your Head At?
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
A Halloween-Themed Bronzerhino
Not for the weak of heart...
To the victor go the spoils, to the loser go the toils...
I could tell you that it is all about the exercise, a frenetic release of energy. I could even tell you that the camaraderie is what draws me out, the need to be social, to find others with whom I can relate on some basic level. I’m sure you wouldn’t believe me, but I could tell you it is the head bands and knee high, red-striped socks and decal laden polyester jackets that attract me to this event. But none of those reasons would be even remotely valid.
It’s the blood. It’s all about the blood.
That’s why I take the field every other Saturday - to test the potential that by the divine grace of some accurate Holy power, I’ll pick up a coarse, round, and thoroughly evil green ball and smash it into the exposed, unsuspecting face of some unlucky twerp with enough force to send him sprawling backwards, appendages flailing and pin wheeling in desperation. And if blood gushes from his mouth and his lungs exhale a scream of pure agony, all the better. It’s that moment of triumph, a dramatic moment spent staring down at the beaten and the broken, that draws me and many others with a similar insatiable bloodlust to the field of battle.
To some, it’s a kid’s game; to others a passing fancy, a clever yet mindless way to spend a weekend afternoon, something to talk about or to impress the ladies with later over lagers. To others it’s a grand joke; or an homage to the days of recess and jungle gyms, a giggling reenactment of happier days spent frolicking and laughing.
But to some, including this proud Warrior, dodgeball is a form of savage therapy. These are sessions where hurlers of rubbery thunder, with primal ferocity and cathartic glee, can assuage years of inner pain, rejection, and unexpressed anger by expelling it out upon some poor stranger standing timidly just beyond the line in No Man’s Land. Here the victors are the strongest, the fiercest, or just the smartest and here the weak are vanquished and humiliated for their incompetence, scuttling away whimpering and dejected. It is a place where even the smallest man or woman can stand before their foes, cock back their arm, and wreak unholy vengeance down upon the unfortunate with sadistic enthusiasm.
In a testament to Darwinism, the fallen hide themselves in a safe refuge to heal their bruised bodies and broken pride, a brief respite from heaved projectiles and shouted epitaphs of venom and spite. The victors, chests heaving with the vigor of battle, stand before the defeated and know, for at least one moment, that they are at the pinnacle of their existence, that none before and none after could accomplish greater feats of accuracy or raw power.
In the annals of human history, warriors are judged not by their acts of altruism or the social ills they cured with their force of strength, nor by their cunning decisions or sense of strategy. Instead, they are fondly remembered for the twisted evidence of might and wrath left in their wake. A legendary warrior’s battle hymn is the hideous wails and pained moans of the recently conquered and slowly dying s/he has left behind, those left grasping at the last fleeting moments of their existence in hopelessness and writhing pain.
Dodgeball warriors seek a similar glory. When the collected Blood Warriors leave the field of battle, it is the vicious head shots and breath-stealing groin strikes that are replayed most vividly in their minds. These are the moments that will be chiseled into the walls of Valhalla in a mural capturing the fury of the moment, the seemingly insurmountable odds, the fading souls of the slain and forgotten. We may arrive strangers, but we leave the field as brothers-in-arms, our souls merged by the destruction caused by our very hands. As soldiers we come and conquer, and as heroes we depart, ready to face the world both triumphant and defiant.
True, the rest of the week is spent coddling to the power of those with assumed positions of advantage. We toil at work or school under the oversight of the meek, we smile and make friends, read poetry and laugh like fools. We sleep the restful sleep of those at peace with the world, safe in our homes underneath warm blankets with those we love. We take great joy watching puppies run untethered in fields of lavender, swaddled babies grasping our finger reluctantly but with great purpose, and in a supportive, loving phone call from Mom.
But come Saturdays at 29th and Geary, we display our fiercest visage, summon our most horrible rage, and prepare ourselves for the battle that lay ahead. And when that first angry missile is launched, dozens of Warriors charge the field, screaming with fearless abandon, ready to rain destruction down upon those unlucky enough to stand in their paths. The horrors of this War are impossible to capture properly here, but it should be known that the field on which we “play” is left covered with scraps of clothing, broken glass, and the shattered dignity of those destroyed. Blood, spit, and sweat flow in tiny torrents away from the bodies of the fallen, collecting in vast puddles of gore by the feet of those left standing.
On that broken field, under the unforgiving sky, with all the world as a witness, we become Blood Warriors, in title and in deed.
Oh, and if you’re still reading – we were written up in the SF WEEKLY, made the nationally syndicated NEWS OF THE WEIRD (read the second entry), and were on the tiny scrollbar at the bottom of the CNN NEWSTICKER! (it read “dodgeball clubs all the rage in San Francisco”).
All after less than 5 battles.
(There goes my 15 minutes of fame).
Sometimes I act so stupid, but you never seem to mind...
Thursday, July 11, 2002
Over the past week I've had the intense pleasure of travelling throughout the Least Coast with friends and family. Some of you know that times they are a changin and that some of the change winds are biting and harsh. It's funny how emotional duress makes one more attentive to simple experiences. Things seem more dramatic, words flow easier, events seem more important, each song seems prophetic.
This vacay has been full of those moments.
1) Watching fireworks with the parents while listening to Pennywise sing about brotherhood and loyalty and DJ Shadow spin about Midnight in a Perfect World. We were sitting not more than 100 feet from the launcher, nearly getting sizzled by falling ashes. Each sonic blast gave me a Grade II concussion (which will prevent my triumphant return to the San Jose Sharks. Doctor's Orders). It wasn't just the colors and the noise and the patriotic cheer, though they were all nice. It wasn't nostalgia from spending the days in my childhood wilderness haunts. It wasn't the love of mom and pops. Those all contributed, but I think it is the fact that when emotionally worn out, you simply enjoy/experience things on a different level. It all seemed so serene, though blasted ash may fall and rockets roar. Maybe its that I so desperately needed something pure, innocent and fun right then. Or maybe it was that now I have the freedom to experience it all without consideration of anyone else's perspective, issues, or needs. Hmmm.
2) sippy drinks It's not Caaahniak. It's Cohniak. Or for the spellchecker, Cognac. We tried to get brandy, so the three of us (Vase, Wadro, Moi), proud bachelors all, could sit on the waterfront like a liquor ad, dressed in fine clothes with fine scenery, holding a snifter of something classy, looking like we are having the time of our lives. Then gorgeous women in wonderful attire would laugh at nothing so they could be seen with us. Instead, we took one sip each of Remy on the rocks, sat at a rickety table, and sweated while we lamented our misfortunes (and thought of the future). A waste of money, true, but a poignant lesson about expectations. Not just the magazine pose, but about sharing a drink with your boys, how that was supposed to be somehow more cleansing and bonding than say, drinking a 40 and listening to Dre - which in the end would have been better.
3) Driving alone I love it, though it allows the mind to wander aimlessly. The topics of self introspection raised by recent events are heavy, and not to be shared here, but I found myself lost in many different perspectives, something I've struggled with lately. I used to drive everywhere in blissful non-attention, noticing only remarkable sights. Now I notice every tree, smile at every slower driver, pound the dashboard to Catherine Wheel and sing without shame to Rush's Distant Early Warning. Emotions come just as often when driving, but they come softer and fade easier. More driving is required.
The VACAY!
DAY 1-3
The first three days of my vacay were spent in DC with my best bro's Grossio and Wadro. These two guys took me in under their condor sized wings and showed me a fabulous gut busting time. Sushi, malasian whore fish, fixins and ribs, greek deli glop, and even a homemade summer sausage and cheese omelet. Good time. My insides were roiling and the intestines refused to let go of the tasty morsels that they'd had the incredible fortune to process.
But really, besides the edible fun, these guys are great counsel in difficult times. On top of the comic relief and general concern is a healthy marinade of tell-it-like-it-is honesty and bon homie. They are really great guys, as evidenced by the company they keep in D3: Beng, Flats, YJ, Fara-cha-cha, Roy the bartender, Sass...good peeps all of them. I had a chance to chat with most of them and they all seem like wonderful people. I was brimming with envy at the social coterie that they have assembled.
DC was inferno hot and wet-blanket humid. When home by myself whilst they toiled at work, I cranked the AC up and sat in icicle cold wind. But when I stepped outside, my hair turned to afro and my shirts shrunk to fit me like a baby tee. I really hated this part, it made me a bitchy whiner, and prevented me from thoroughly wandering a great city. I stumbled into the Smithsonian only for the AC.
We stayed inside for a bit and crafted a masterful birthday gift for another great guy, that huge tub of butter we call Pulley. What laughs we had putting together the Add-A-Pulley calendar that will grace his wall for the next year.
Favorite moment of this stage: temporarily dousing my sorrows in spirits at the Lucky Bar
Worst moment: Falling down the stairs comedy drunk style at the aforementioned drinking establisment. I lost my shoes in dramatic fashion. I swear the music stopped for a second for some cheesy cartoon falling noises: BOOM! SPLAT! ZOINK! Some nice not-yet-blitzed lady handed me my sandals while I was busy trying to locate my dignity (if you've seen it, drop me a line).
A night with Luna
Sunday, June 9, 2002
Last night I spent 2 hours with the band that does it ALL for me. This is it, I’m done, I’ve found That Band. The one that plays the songs I know by heart, the music that reaches into me like some mystical shaman and massages my insides, putting me into a blissful trance. The songs give me chills, make me smile at their wryness, and generally make me forget anything and everything. Even their albums put me somewhere else when I listen to them at home.
They play this jingly jangly mix of indie groove pop. Some songs are breathlessly sparse and perfect, others sultry and a bit dirty-sexy, and the best ones shimmer in between luxurious trance and catchy pop tunes. They make it look so very easy, so unbelievably creative and relaxed and mind-blowingly beautiful. I looked around the crowd last night at Bimbo’s and saw some newcomers totally entranced, some old fans lost in a familiar and much needed daze, and not a single person that wasn’t fixated on the glowing melodies floating their way.
It’s the guitars that get me. I close my eyes when Mr. Eden takes over. The chords hang there so lightly, like perfectly placed ethereal clouds on a summer day. The melodies are so subtle, so playful, so absolutely refined that you’d swear an angel was singing a hymn right there in your head, just for you. Sean Eden plays with the kind of lazy purity that you have after waking from an afternoon nap on a hillside with the girl of your dreams. I can’t tell what he is thinking when he plays, but he always plays with his eyes closed so you know he’s not really there in front of you, he’s some place ridiculously beautiful and remote.
The singer, Dean Wareham, crafts such imaginatively sly lyrics that you are forced to listen to him or you’ll miss everything. In between beautifully crafted poetics, he drops lines that make creative people tingle. And that’s the point. He doesn’t sing with much brio, mind you, more like he deadpans his lines, staring out at the audience with eyes both emotive and distant. Think of Steven Wright, deadpan comic, and you wouldn’t be far off. His lines sneak up on you, lines like: “you can never give the finger to the blind, sometimes I act so stupid but you never seem to mind” and “Words you don’t understand, are all making sense tonight” and “Lately it’s been happy hour, all day long.”
Together with Britta Phillips (who’s a foxy model, actress, and used to be the voice of Jem! Fox) and some guy on drums, they play the kind of music the Velvet Underground could have, should have played, had they given off more than a glimpse of potential.
Of course, Luna is one of those bands you’ve never heard of. One of those great indie almost-famous bands that are beloved by their fans but who never grace the covers of Rolling Stone or Spin. One of those bands that you hear about sometimes from college radio DJs, or when you see their tee shirt on the guy at the record store counter. And they are definitely one of those bands that no matter how hard I try to get you to listen, you’ll resist until you have to experience it for yourself to shut me up.
Don’t tune out on this piece and think I’m just a gushing fanboy going on and on about his favorite band of the moment. Or that I am some over-informed audiophile looking to impart my knowledge on the uninformed masses of non-believers. Before you totally disregard this entire monologue because you love the Velvet Underground and think none could do better, go and listen to a few of their songs. Not just a passing listen while doing the laundry or paying your bills. Really hear it. Listen to it alone. And then you’ll see what I see.
My suggestion: California All the Way off of Bewitched or Moon Palace off of Penthouse. They have a link to the left where you can pick up their CDs. Or you can write to me and I’ll burn you a primer.Mail Me Address
Remember the mix tape? It’s what people used to do to spread their favorite songs or make a statement. It’s so 1990s, but I still love making them.
Welts, Abrasions, and Other Afflictions
Monday, May 20, 2002
The welt on my left shin still throbs a bit. The scrapes and bruises located all over my frame scream for attention now and then. I have various aches and pains and an abrasion on my right palm.
But it was worth it.
After years of gentle prodding and pushing and, dare i say it (yes i dare!), Nagging, I finally took the Sidekick's advice and started playing hockey. I joined a group of guys for some pickup street hockey on Treasure Island this past Saturday.
This is noteworthy only because of the enormity of my love for the game. For the longest time I've studied the box scores, analyzed the teams, watched every second of action I could catch, etc. I'm a regular hockey fanatic (not a flag waving body painting scream-yourself-hoarse fanatic, just an obsessed spectator). But to actually play the game seemed so foreign, an alien concept. Why, if I was playing, I couldn't be watching and where would the fun be in that?
So up comes a posting on craigslist (CL). For some reason I bit on this one. There have been other possibly maybe almost joined leagues and groups that I've flirted with, but this one, for some reason, grabbed my attention. It must have been that part about all the guys being out of shape.
They didn't have a right handed stick, so I got stuck with a lefty. Couldn't complain, because I don't have a stick of my own, but it did make things more... interesting. We played on an abandoned tennis court with makeshift goals (a piece of wood balancing on two water bottles). It took a bit to get going, but after a few minutes spent getting familiar with the speed and the style, I got comfortable. Tenacious, even. I had a great time being a pest, forechecking and poke checking and basically getting in everyone's face. Most of you know i'm not the most imposing physical specimen. Most of you also know how annoying I can be (especially when I try to be).
The weather was perfect, the guys were cool (one from my hometown, in fact) and the ball bounced my way. I'll be back next time for sure, with my own stick and more confidence.
Two words to end this ramble and apply the icing on this sweetness:
Hat Trick
Wednesday, May 8, 2002
Last night we were driving around looking for parking, which is an obsessive Hobby for San Franciscans, when we saw an enterprising gentleman sitting on the street selling flowers. Nothing too out of the ordinary there, but he was selling them outside of the Good Vibrations on Valencia (for the bewildered: Good Vibrations is a store that specializes in happiness and good cheer)(re: sex toys, videos, etc... but in a tasteful way).
Anyway, I figure that this guy has two angles: Selling flowers to couples preparing for a night of coupling, or GIVING flowers to the lovely single creatures who are heading inside for the latest in Self Help (re: a piece of vibrating plastic called Bryce or Dirk). It struck me as interesting because here is an individual down on his luck (he was probably homeless or close to it), using his ingenuity and some common sense to give himself the best chance at turning a buck or getting a date. He had marketing sense. He had expanded his chances by identifying a key demographic and exploiting location based marketing techniques to ensure his visibility and increasing his profit margin at the point of sale. Marketing hogwash, all of it, but the guy had the good sense to put himself in the right place.
Compare his ingenuity to the Common Homeless Entrepreneur. Most of the homeless in this city are resigned to simple pleading and begging. Some of them have effective Passerby Guilt Traps; emotional sob stories that snag sympathetic tourists who may be looking to assuage some of their moderately successful white middle class guilt by helping a person who is down on his luck. Other CHE's have gimmicks. Who can forget the hilarity that ensued when they first saw the "Forget eating, I need a beer" sign. My sides still hurt. Except of course that I've seen the sign many times since, in many different incarnations ("Will smile for pot").
End Rambling post here.
Spewcumbers and other delectable treats
Monday, March 25, 2002
I'm not a vegetarian, but my stomach thinks I am.
Since the Lovely Sidekick is a vegematarian, I eat lots and lots of meatless meals. Which is fine by me, of course, as the way of the meat-free is by its very nature healthy. And since Cooking With Meat would require me to make two separate dinners, or at least a bunch of extra dishes, I tend to stick with one main course. (Tonight: Pasta with cream/tomato sauce, sauteed asparagus and olives, and some triscuits with sundried tomato mustard for a snack) Veggie dinners can, if made properly, make the taste buds dance.
So you would think that Food Producing Companies would take the Veggie lifestyle by the horns and produce some fantastic Veggie dinners. Food that tastes good, and more importantly tastes like veggies. A cursory search at the local all-veggie grocery store turned up dozens of food products that "Taste like real meat!" or "Authentic Meat Flavor." They have names like Chik'n, Slawsage, and my favorite: Tofurkey.
Is it safe to assume that vegetarians love the taste of meat, but just can't bring themselves to gorge on a Tasty Burger? Must they kick themselves every time they eat a Chik'n Nugget ("Damn, if it weren't for my political anti-animal killing viewpoints, I could enjoy the real thing all the time!") Are they dying for the taste of charred animal flesh? Or do the Marketeers at these companies think that everybody grew up chowing on meat, and have only recently switched teams, and that they miss the Meat-like taste and consistency of a Hot Dawg?
It wouldn't surprise me if it was the Meat Producing Farmers of America that produced these almost-meat products. I'm a fan of Tofu, really i am, but does it have to be colored, seasoned, and made to look like a pepperoni log?
Talking about this the other night, the natural tangent came up. Organic. The need to eat natural foods that have gone untouched by the pesticides and scientists who look to change our food. They have orange trees that have been genetically improved by splicing in genes from fish, which means the oranges don't freeze in winter. Thus, more wintertime orange production. Thus, the theory goes, year round orangey goodness. So what if it flops around on the counter until you cut it's rind off?
I'm not really an organic type of guy. I trust the food that comes to my supermarket, to my plate. If it were bad for me the government wouldn't let it hit the shelves, right?
Right?
A friend mentioned it would be strange to see a meat product growing on a tree... what a conundrum to meat eaters the world over! Its meat, but it grows on a tree! Is it meat, or is it veggie?
Tree, the other white meat
Enjoy this link, it is semi-related and quite humorous. Quorn
Space Sex?
Tuesday, March 19, 2002
Stumbled across this amusing tidbit today: INTERSTELLAR SPACE SEX Not only is the subject matter interesting, detailing our capabilities for interstellar transportation, but also in an effort to make people actually read a story from NASA, they created a banal headline about society, and slipped in the SEX word. Giggles. The story actually has little mention of how sex will actually change for humankind, and has only a cursory tidbit about leaving all men behind “to save weight” and that frozen sperm would re-populate the species after landing on some distant planet. I can see the Space.Com Editor now (if they have one): “this is pretty amazing stuff, especially the part about how it is our manifest destiny and divine right to conquer the entire solar system, but it needs something splashy or only the guys down at the comic book store will read it...hmmm, lets see...well that SEX thing is popular with teens nowadays...Tariq, put something in it about SEX ...it works for Cosmo!”
Sunday, February 17, 2002
I’ve found myself clenching things lately, most of the time in my sleep. Hands, teeth, and feet, (sometimes curling my toes, sometimes stretching my ankle as if I were pointing with my toes) and occasionally my stomach, neck, and back. Inevitably, I wake to cramps and discomfort. Sometimes the symptoms are minor and a little stretch and grimace will loosen the muscles and allow me to function.
But sometimes, these clenched muscles refuse to release and I spend the next half hour in horrible pain, hobbling to the refuge of the restroom to curse and massage my malfunctioning appendage. Like a toothache or a kick in the groin, it’s the kind of pain you can’t ignore. No amount of coercion or begging will force my system to relax its agitated component. Nope, nothing to do but wait it out quietly, listening to the leaky shower drip and reading, editing, and re-reading the warning labels on all the medication in my medicine cabinet (its kinda become a hobby.)
This is a new phenomena for me. Until recently, Charley Horse and I didn’t have the chance to get acquainted. But now that we’re intimate, I have to say I don’t like the cut of his jib. He shows up unannounced, unplanned for, like an overbearing neighbor stopping by to say “hi.” “Oh thanks for showing up and making an hour of my life painful! Come back tomorrow, and bring some pictures of your kids! How lovely, I can hardly wait!”
I’ve been trying to figure out how and why these clench fests came about. Stress is the obvious answer, and it’s there in abundance. Job stress, landlord stress, time stress, MONEY STRESS, taking the landlord to court stress, packing up the house and moving stress, wondering about the future stress (to name but a few). It’s fairly safe to say I’m frazzled and a bit edgy. Stress is most definitely the prime factor in this situation.
But what I really can’t figure out is: why does it have to be such a mundane reaction to stress? Stress sends some people to the bottle, or to food, or to anger and rage. Me? Do I get anything juicy or noteworthy like a nervous breakdown or a week long money-spending beer-swilling bender in Vegas? Nope. I get muscle cramps. How lame and boring is that? (and through a leap of logic, what does that say about me? Am I lame and boring? Wouldn’t an interesting person develop an interesting stress reaction?)
But as an optimist (and a recovering pessimist) I’m looking on the bright side of this. I’m looking at the time spent dancing around in quiet pain (so as not to wake the slumbering partner) as an opportunity cost. That’s right, good ol’ economics 101. You have to give to get. Hopefully you get more than you give. I give the pain now, but the result of that pain is bliss.
Here’s how I’m hoping to get through these stresses: At work, the pain of being reassigned could lead to an even better position (or at least job security ((a good thing these days)). We’re moving in a few weeks, so the stress of packing will wane quickly. The landlord stress, well that could be solved by taking the rat bastards to small claims court. Winning there would make me up to K richer, which would in turn solve my money stresses (at least some of it). Time stress is something everyone suffers from and nobody can alleviate. So that one I’ll deal with, but only after I say that the only thing I don’t have time enough to do is write. As you can see here I still find time to do that periodically.
We’ll see in a few weeks if the pain in my calves subsides and I can make it through the night without waking. Maybe then I’ll get my reward for several months of quiet suffering.
Saturday, October 13, 2001
Went to a show last night, and the performer, Jonah, sang this as the last song of an emotional set. It's by a guy named Bob Dylan, and it was written a long time ago, but boy is it relevant. You can visit jonah at www.onelinedrawing.com. He's just about the nicest guy in the world, so drop him a line.
Oh my name it is nothin'
My age it means less
The country I come from
Is called the Midwest
I's taught and brought up there
The laws to abide
And that land that I live in
Has God on its side.
Oh the history books tell it
They tell it so well
The cavalries charged
The Indians fell
The cavalries charged
The Indians died
Oh the country was young
With God on its side.
Oh the Spanish-American
War had its day
And the Civil War too
Was soon laid away
And the names of the heroes
I's made to memorize
With guns in their hands
And God on their side.
Oh the First World War, boys
It closed out its fate
The reason for fighting
I never got straight
But I learned to accept it
Accept it with pride
For you don't count the dead
When God's on your side.
When the Second World War
Came to an end
We forgave the Germans
And then we were friends
Though they murdered six million
In the ovens they fried
The Germans now too
Have God on their side.
I've learned to hate Russians
All through my whole life
If another war starts
It's them we must fight
To hate them and fear them
To run and to hide
And accept it all bravely
With God on my side.
But now we got weapons
Of the chemical dust
If fire them we're forced to
Then fire them we must
One push of the button
And a shot the world wide
And you never ask questions
When God's on your side.
In a many dark hour
I've been thinkin' about this
That Jesus Christ
Was betrayed by a kiss
But I can't think for you
You'll have to decide
Whether Judas Iscariot
Had God on his side.
So now as I'm leavin'
I'm weary as Hell
The confusion I'm feelin'
Ain't no tongue can tell
The words fill my head
And fall to the floor
If God's on our side
He'll stop the next war.
--- Bob Dylan
other rhino site
Tuesday, September 18, 2001
A quick chat with a friend gets me all fired up and makes me realize that, WHOA, i haven't been this emotionally involved in anything for so long that it actually feels, god help me, good. It took people dying and buildings falling to teach me something about myself.
These remarkable circumstances in America have awakened something in me.
We're not just talking standard personal motivation items: I'll be kinder, more hard working, more loving. Those traits have been pulled from their dustbin and blown off, ready to be assimilated. I'm talking about something closer to my core.
I'm talking about emotion.
See, my friends in high school, and one in particular, will tell you that i was seriously emotional in HS. I was philosophical, concerned, involved. I thought, wept, felt fear. The Exorcist made me shiver, and hell, made me reconsider my entire religious standpoint. I was over extended much of the time, my heart full of sadness, grief, despair. I wrestled a kid for stepping on a cricket because i thought, hell, crickets had feelings and didn't deserve to die so that some adolescent prick could point out the color of their blood to the disgusted but fascinated girls nearby.
I was a great friend. A close personal confidant. I cared for everybody, listened, comforted, cried with them.
A friend went away to a camp she hated, so i wrote her a letter EVERYDAY for 2 months.
But something happened in college. Perhaps I spent myself. Perhaps I associated too much with friends who were similarly emotional and therefore exceptionally draining. Perhaps I exhausted my supply of heart. I got cold, cynical, sarcastic. This lack of character filled my college days.
I said awful things to good people. I thought only of myself. I was selfish, immature, and down right mean at times.
Why? Some have told me that the human psyche has these cycles. That we need to be selfish now and then. But that may or may not be total bullshit. I tend to think it is.
This tragedy has shaken my very spiritual, emotional, and physical core. I'm 3000 miles or more from the specific sites of tragedy, but i FEEL it as if it happened down the street. I don't sleep well. I think of little else. My job performance is affected.
So what will change? This isn't lip service. I'm gonna let my emotion out, instead of keeping it in. I've gone too long without sharing my feelings. In fact, for a while, feelings just didn't exist. They were sublimated, dissipated, and stored up until they became a big nasty thumping ball in the back of my mind. They need out.
I was the stereo-typical suburban apathetic middle of the road student middle of the class system everything handed to me never had to suffer never had anything serious to deal with kind of guy.
But i plan to be the a-typical good friend good partner caring responsive INVOLVED person that i haven't been in so long.
So bear with me. When my innards stop shaking and my mind lets me rest, you'll see the difference.
Promise.
I like Lileks
Friday, August 31, 2001
Lileks is good. It's a weblog, much like this one, only written better and more consistently. Check it out.
Much like mister Lilek, I'm in Self-Improvement (TM) mode. I've been a sloth lately, letting projects slide. I need to work on the following:
- Intelligence: I need to get smarter. Magazines would help. Books, movies too. Carefully selected, media can expand your mind. Course, there is lots of crap to avoid, but I have one of the most critical minds in the world at home, so i'll just ask her.
- Creativity: This muscle hasn't been stretched in a long time. It's about to atrophy. Hence: this site. Need to work on more sites, some writing, more gaming, some dialogue with fellow creative types.
- Love: The relationship, like all relationships, needs further development. My partner is with me on this, progression is the key.
- Body: This part of my life has gone to shitz. Need to work on it, do some hiking, some serious work to be done before i look like a hippo.
So that's it. My list is out there. Now if i can just muster the dedication to stick to it.
Ponder.Flame.Consider
Tuesday, August 21, 2001
Soooo with All apologies for my absence, I return. No story there, just months of sloth. Lethargy. Complacency.
I changed the look of the site a touch, to make it more GD friendly. GD=Graphic Designer. See, most of my friends are Artists or GDs or HTML people, so I'm always embarrased to send them to this site because it looked, well, bad. So I tried something new. Hope all 1 of my regular visitors likes it!
I'll post more soon, promise.
Ponder
Tuesday, March 20, 2001
Today, as in every day, life seems to be one rich tapestry of colors and designs. Some bright and inviting, some bland and unremarkable. Ok, enough allegory. Life has become a mix of unbearable tedium (work), regular life (eh), and some of the exciting stuff thrown in now and then (hiking, laughing with friends)... i guess it's the same all the time, i'm just noticing the seperate parts right now. Most of the day at work: "ok, monotony, bring it on"...
Maybe this is why older people seem so broken sometimes (no offense older people!!), they work their whole lives and put up with all the crap, usually to pay for a few ill advised moments of excitement. Hmmm. Ponder. What would you do if you had no bills, and food/shelter/clothes were free? What would I do? If you can't answer that (and i certainly can't), it's something to think about over a burrito some day.
byxbee.pitas.com
Monday, March 12, 2001
As i said before, change was in the air: I've been promoted to the Training dept at work! yay! this is truly a joyous development, as I felt less than challenged at work. Now I'll be so busy, I won't know where I am most of the time. I'll be learning the new front end system (new software, complex) over the next few weeks, and from there who knows...
It was time for a change. More later, promise.
CHA-CHA-CHA-CHANGES
Tuesday, March 6, 2001
major life changes are on the way. The kind you can feel coming like some people can sense weather changes. My lucky left leg is twitching, so to speak. Will it be something at work? In love? Money? something Spiritual? Stay tuned, you know I will be.