s n a p p e r h e a d

eARTh

2012-01-27T06:43:00.000-08:00

Confused by homosexual confusion

2012-01-23T14:18:00.000-08:00

          I generally find my religion pretty close to human nature, it looks very logical, quite practical but there is one thing that confuses me, totally stumps me: its stand on homosexuality. Not only my religion but all religions strongly condemn it, on the other hand homosexuals claim that it is the most natural thing for them.

          Now I am not taking any sides, I am sharing just my confusion,

          1. Apart from humans, homosexuality is a common occurrence in many animals. So is nature trying to say that it is only for animals to follow such instincts or is it trying to say that it is but natural to have something different from normal?

          2. If according to religion it is but unnatural then why do people claim to be so helpless against it? If it is like any other sin then why do homosexuals bear so many discriminations just to publicly state their sexual identity? From where do they get the courage of bearing all the bullying? In short, why would anyone deliberately choose a hard path if it is something unnatural?

          3. When an octogenarian gay couple get married after 50 years of living together, doesn’t it show companionship more than any other emotion?

          I do not want to judge anyone and least of all in the light of religion but I do want to know what exactly is religious logic behind it? Is it religious politics of many centuries, is it holy scriptures understood the wrong way or is it people not understanding the laws of nature?

The preceding is the unaltered 16 January post written by Beenish Kahn, a Pakistani woman living in Toronto, Canada.

Routinely, I read things which expand my knowledge. Other times I may contemplate and ponder over something I've read (but not retain the information). And, occasionally, my conversations are fueled by the ideas of others. Once in a blue moon I'm driven to respond with an entire post of my own. This is one of the latter.

Not all religions condemn homosexuality as is initially posited by Ms Kahn, (Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism don't address it or are neutral) but she is correct in regard to the big three (Christianity, Judaism, and Islam).

Then she poses a few statements followed by seven questions outlining 'her confusion'.

The first declarative statement she makes is factually bass-ackwards. It should read: Although male-on-male and female-on-female sexual acts have been documented in a large number of species in the animal kingdom, it's routinely interpreted as acts of dominance or sexual play. The exception are humans, who form long-lasting, intimate, emotional bonds with members of the same sex.

Her next seven sentences are all questions. Each different. But there is a similar tone in the confusion of each. As I see it, the crux of her problem is she is either unable to—or can't—see the situation logically, from a shoe-on-the-other-foot perspective.

          Since puberty, humans of the female persuasion have caused my nervous system to react with an "attraction impulse." When I look at a man my brain registers the same response as when looking at an ostrich or a chair. Neutral. Non-erotic. This is not a conscious choice I make or have ever made and (most importantly) I'm incapable of making a different one. I don't choose.

          However, there are millions of people on the planet who's nervous systems provide an attraction impulse for both genders, and some of these polysexual people—because of a desire to conform or not be shunned by their community—choose to have a sexual relationship only with members of the opposite sex (many of these people use religion to aid their choice by touting "sin dogma").

Also, there are hundreds of millions of people on the planet who's nervous systems provide an attraction impulse for only members of the same sex. They don't choose...no more than the billions who are only attracted to the opposite sex.

          Until the last few centuries 'church' was synonymous with 'government' (in many countries, it still is) and, most of the time, government is run by wealthy dominant males. The leaders of all governments make and enforce rules in order to maintain their status quo. This could explain why religions support(ed), condone(ed) and didn't/don't consider a sin: owning chattel, burning witches, gender apartheid, racial segregation, etc.

Ms Kahn...is your only confusion, really, the church's disapproval of buggery?

Also:

Sometimes it is all ahead of you

~~paper~~ digital drafts
Prophet of the blog-as-art aesthetic
How Many Chicken-Little Wridiots Crying Wolf Does It Take?

Epitaph to Live by

2012-01-22T00:06:00.000-08:00

G. P. Spencer of Lyndonville, Vermont, died in 1908 at age 83. He was a stone-cutter by trade. This is a portion of his epitaph which he inscribed on his vainglorious tomb located in Lyndon Center, Vt:

Beyond the universe there is nothing and within the universe the supernatural does not and cannot exist. Of all deceivers who have plagued mankind, none are so deeply ruinous to human happiness as those impostors who pretend to lead by a light above nature. Science has never killed or persecuted a single person for doubting or denying its teachings, and most of these teachings have been true; but religion has murdered millions for doubting or denying her dogmas, and most of these dogmas have been false.

I thank Davecat for stumbling upon Futility Closet, recognizing how 'far up my alley' the site was and steering me in its direction, and Greg Ross (at Futility Closet) for collecting ephemera for everyone's perusal.

New Exquisite Corpse

2012-01-21T09:05:00.000-08:00

The Exquisite Corpse game was developed by the artists and writers associated with André Breton's surrealist group which included Max Ernst, Man Ray, Joan Miró, and Yves Tanguy. The original game consisted of folded paper with a drawing (or a sentence) composed by several people, each ignorant of the previous creation(s); as an example: "the exquisite / corpse / will drink / the new / wine" — excerpt from the 1939 Abridged Dictionary of Surrealism, as copied off the wall at the Art Institute of Chicago.

The New Exquisite Corpse functions in much the same way as it's predecessor did almost ninety years ago...four players create a 'slice' 450 pixels wide by 200 pixels high (with the second, third, and fourth players receiving only the bottom 15 pixels of the one above theirs). The New Exquisite Corpse has been dormant for a few years. This week I received 15 pixels and created the bottom 200 pixels of this:


Plastic man \| Challenges and Adventures \| Fire and Ice \| brie factual lie fractal \| sky wookie \| madwise \| veach

Anyone interested in joining should sign up and send a message to The Mortician informing him/her that you want to become a corpser.

Also:

March 2009 Corpse

Protest SOPA and PIPA - On Strike

2012-01-17T20:35:00.000-08:00

First Snow - Portland Winter 2011-2012

2012-01-15T09:20:00.000-08:00

Make A Flake

Measuring My Mettle

2012-01-07T23:36:00.000-08:00

My first car accident doesn't really qualify as anything more than foreshadowing for this tale. Licensed less than six months, I attempted to carefully back the family's pristine white Ford Grenada into the garage so I could unload the trunk. Unconfident with the mirrors, I opened the driver's door, twisted my body around and looked behind me as I slowly eased the car in reverse...so slowly that when the top point of the driver's door came to rest on the side of the house I didn't immediately notice.

The result was a few gouged inches in the house's siding and a very small dent on the edge of the car-door near the lower hinge. My sixteen year old self decided not to mention my mistake(s) to my mother or ²dad. For years, my eyes immediately focused on the scratch in the siding whenever I found myself in it's vicinity. Nobody ever commented on it or the door-dent (which I, also, could never stop staring at, whenever I was near the exterior of that car).

Three years later, as a college sophomore, I bought my deceased father²s car. Actually, "gave my mother² a small fraction of what the off-white VW bug was worth in exchange for the title" is more accurate than "bought". I painted it a coppery brown (only later, after hearing it referred to as The Turd did I regret my choice). Backing out of a diagonal parking spot one night-school-night, I cut my turn too sharp and rubbed the driver's side rear fender along the fender of an adjacent car. I got out, noticed no dent on the other car (just shit-colored paint transfer) and left. Without leaving a note. Clearly, I was once "that fucker".

My third accident occurred six years later as I approached a stop sign at a T-intersection on a gravel, residential street. I was distracted (by a child running toward my piss-yellow VW rabbit) and failed to come to a complete stop. A pick-up truck with monster tires (taller than the child) appeared out of nowhere, clipped my front quarter panel/bumper, and spun me around a little in the gravel. Since he was going too fast and I'd failed to stop, we decided to fix our own damages (his was a scuffed sidewall).

Twenty years and well over a million accident-free miles later—after driving a relatively large number of military vehicles (Gama Goat, APC, Jeep, HMMWV, et.al.) as well as several different civilian cars and motorcycles—I had my first serious accident. The phrase: torrential hail will forevermore cause me to remember crashing into the earth in a bruise-blue Ford Explorer after it flipped end over end. In 2004, I began this s n a p p e r h e a d blog with an article about that accident in a post titled: Driving Anozira-style.

Almost exactly seven years later (a few months ago) I backed my silver 2008 Dodge Avenger into a travel trailer parked on the side of a street at 3am. It dented my trunk pretty bad (it still closes). I immediately rang their doorbell, woke them up, gave them a photo of my driver's license, name, address, phone number, and told them if they got an estimate I'd either pay it or turn it over to my insurance.

They still have yet to contact me. I drive past that trailer every night and always glance at the little wrinkle I caused in the metal.

(And, since 3/5 of my accidents have one thing in common...I've decided not to drive in reverse anymore.)

Also:

Papa's Auto Opinion
All About My Mother² and Parenting Skills
Life-Mission: Possible

Bunraku - (☆☆☆☆) film review

2012-01-03T20:20:00.000-08:00

This film was (and still is) loathed by almost EVERYONE. One reviewer claimed watching it didn't just make him uncomfortable but caused him 'excruciating and deep in the balls type pain'. For over a year I figured that they all couldn't be wrong. But. Of course. They were. *surprise*

Bunraku is a smirking homage kaleidoscope. Colorful bits and shiny slices of spaghetti western's and campy kung fu's are mixed with big-screen graphic novels, actual bunraku (large paper puppet theater) and - beat - Hollywood musicals. The result is a humorous and unique treat.

This is definitely not a forgettable film. Although it has some obvious flaws I didn't let them ruin the overloaded thrill ride.

Kill _ill 1; A Fistf_l of Dollars; Si_ City; He_o; Zombiel_nd; _ill Bill 2; and The Seven Sama_ri.

If you choose to disregard all the other reviewers—you'll thank me.

Also:

Sizing Up the Art of Criticizing

The Forgettable ☆☆☆+/- Defined
Film Code: Thru My Eyes First

whatever makes you happy—now's the time to do more of it

2011-12-30T20:24:00.000-08:00

To who we have/will become,

2011-12-29T17:46:00.000-08:00

4 the rest of us

2011-12-23T17:49:00.000-08:00

This is my first Festivus season working as a service provider and, therefore, the first time I've had to choose whether to request gratuities or not.

My rationale for choosing to be blatant (by giving each customer a signed, home-made, holiday card bearing my name and business address) was that although many people provide a small regular electronic tip when they pay their e-bill, a significant portion of newspaper readers are older, don't use the internet, pay with a check, and prefer tangible gifts over money.

The results have been positive. Dozens of gifts...cookies, cash, checks, and gift cards on porches, taped inside tubes, and in the mail.

This is about one gift. Not the most expensive (by more than half) and not the most elaborate (hard to beat a huge spot-lit crinkle wrapped can of ginger snaps for that)...an unsigned gift card without a return address; only marked from "a customer".

An altruistic ~~Santa~~ Festivus Friend.

Anticipated reads - 2012

2011-12-20T17:28:00.000-08:00

I read in 2011:

2011-12-16T14:29:00.000-08:00

The dearth (down almost 50% from last year) is not just because of less free time or that many of the tomes I did read were mega-massive, but mostly because my favored authors didn't publish this year.

2011 Charted

2011-12-10T01:40:00.000-08:00

Compared to last year my new job has cut into sleeping, creating, reading, watching films and drinking at bars. I disc golfed as much as I club golfed. The move to a smaller place (house to apartment) took two months. Vacationing was limited to camping only. The hot tub was sold (as was my 5th wheel camper). Gaming increased thanks especially to Bethesda and Rockstar games.

Fish by aBowman

2011-11-30T22:29:00.000-08:00

It's been a long time since I've posted any good hypertext effluvium.
Thanks to: Sky at The Kaleidoscope Report (for this find); to Adam Bowman (for creating it) and to you (for clicking to feed the fish).

POGO

2011-11-23T00:21:00.000-08:00

Also:

Wishery (Disney Remix)

gameboard - Pogo Possum

Portland Nights - Lance Page

2011-11-22T00:12:00.000-08:00

Prototype #1 by YVWUWUVY

2011-11-21T07:19:00.000-08:00

So You Want to Deliver Newspapers

2011-11-19T23:53:00.000-08:00

          Imagine a kid, pedaling down a sunny sidewalk, slinging tri-folded newspapers from a shoulder-slung canvas pouch—before cheerily running to catch the school bus every morning (if it weren't for reruns of Leave It to Beaver you probably couldn't). It's not just because current labor laws prohibit employing our youth (under certain ages and before specific hours...especially on school days). It's also not just because the daily pulp-based news industry is a recently wet wicked witch (...melttiiig...) desperately trying to postpone the inevitable eulogies.

          Although I can only address specifics of Portland's The Oregonian (where I've worked for many months) these practices and routines are clearly indicative of all the nation's print-news companies:

"Contractors". Like thousands of other companies trying to cut corners, all delivery personnel are considered self-employed contractors. Accordingly...no taxes, social security, or medicare/medicaid are deducted; there are also no unemployment, workers compensation, or health-care benefits; and no expenses are reimbursed (which especially includes no vehicle, gasoline, or mileage expenses). The 'contract employee' label is a legal loophole which has become newspaper industry standard regardless of the IRS definition.

No Days Off.   7 days a week, 365 days a year, no overtime, no holidays (in fact, holidays = extra work). If, for any reason, a delivery person fails to come to work and does not arrange for, or hire, an alternate delivery person, that person is terminated.

Pre-delivery Routine. Between 88-92% of the time (on average: 90 out of 100 days) there are one, two, or even three extra advertisements or additional sections (called inserts) which must be placed inside the newspaper at the station. Most papers then need to be folded/rolled and placed into a plastic bag (exceptions are papers going into tubes). Obviously, the amount of time it takes to accomplish these pre-delivery tasks varies greatly, and depends on the following variables:

Number of route changes (called "stops and starts"—more on this later)
Number of hands stuffing, folding, bagging, and loading the car (one assistant = 1/2 the time).
Number of papers being delivered.
Number of inserts to be inserted.
Thickness/weight of the final paper with its inserts in respect to the size of the bag.
Interior size of the car papers are going to being loaded into and delivered from.
Wild card: Occasionally a free product sample must also be included.

Hours. All papers must be delivered before 5:30am (Mon-Sat) and 7:00am (Sun). These times have been pre-chiseled in the wicked witch's headstone. Contracted truck drivers are expensive (don't forget:..mellltttiing...The Oregonian has very few actual employees) so the truck bringing the pallets of bundled newspapers will arrive sometime between 1:00am and 4:00am because, now, one truck driver makes several trips. Over the past few years, the average time the truck arrives has eroded from "normally around 1:30am" to "normally around 3:00am".

Zombie Jigsaw Puzzle Routes. Every route is laid out (more or less) with specific instructions for every customer.   For example:

          Turn left on SE Custers Last Circle

           5          tube          19430
           9          porch        19904
           17                         20566
           26       dbl bag!     21218

           U-turn at SE 451st Avenue

           1          tube&bag 23619
           13                          21217
                         20411
Pass Grocery Store
7 porch ONLY! 19601

            Because every current delivery route has been fitted together from the shrinking corpses of yesteryear's large plump routes, the address instructions are patchy and filled with errors. The first weeks are spent fixing these errors and memorizing the route. And re-memorizing.

Stops and Starts. Every day the route changes. First, a daily list is provided which reflects the routes "stops" (customers who are going on vacation / moving out / died of old age / learned to use the internet) and "starts" (customers who are returning from vacation / moved in / are feeling much better / forgot how to use the internet). These changes must be made in pencil every night during the pre-delivery hours because they will be changing again very soon (some customers stop and re-start their paper every week or so). The second way the routes change is based on the different possible subscriptions and the different products which the paper publishes in order to market itself (...meeellttttiiiinng...).

Daily/Sunday = every day.
Weekenders = Friday, Saturday & Sunday only.
      Sunday+Tuesday = the two days when the paper is mostly coupons.
Weekday = for businesses closed on weekends.
          Bulk = vending boxes.
          Community News = placed on selected porches on Saturday evenings or Sunday mornings in an attempt to lure these people to subscribe.
          Food Day = a free product with coupons thrown every Monday night / Tuesday morning at every non-subscribing household on the route (unless they call and complain).
          MIX Magazine = a monthly subscription-type magazine filled with articles about local locations and events (at least as many free ones are provided as are sold...the witch is always marketing itself).
TV Guides = additional subscription-only inserted on Saturdays.
          Other Newspapers = Also want the bi-weekly newspaper from a nearby city? For a fee, it can be delivered to your door with The Oregonian. (...meeelting...)

What all this means. Although there isn't one, a "typical" route might look like:

Mon, Wed, Thr    Tue       Fri and Sat      Sun and holidays      MIX days

Number of papers:            200                  225                 250                  275                 +50 mags
Number of Cmty News:                                                                           75
Number of Food Days:                              300
Number of hours a day: 3          7½    3½           10               3
Number of "starts":              2                       3                     1                     2
Number of "stops":            3                       2    2                     1
Number of complaints:     2                       0                      1                     3
Number of tips:      1                   1                      0 2
Number of miles driven: 20/day    40 20/day     25/day               20
Number of hours driving:     2/day                  5                   2½                3/day

Payment is NOT per paper. Instead, it is determined by averaging the number of papers delivered (Daily and Sunday are separate) and multiplying by one's contracted amount of pay. In the above example—with a daily payment rate of $2.20, a Sunday payment rate of $0.45, and a standard rate for the other products:

Monthly hours:         about 120 hours
Monthly pay:            about $850.00
Monthly tips:            about $40 (during the holidays this could/will be larger)
Monthly fees/fines:    about $40 (works out nicely...that the company gets almost all your tips)
Monthly mileage: about 700 miles (a car that gets 30 miles/gal will see this reduced because of slow driving and idle-engine use = 30 gal of gas @ $4.00/gal = $120.00 month.

Hidden Fees:   Oh yes. Of course there are hidden fees. Everyone is required to pay for their portion of the rental space, where the station is located and where they are required to work during the pre-delivery hours. Also, it is a requirement for everyone to purchase those flimsy bags which the news papers and other products are delivered in. And, even though you may have fantastic insurance of your own, there is a mandatory supplemental insurance.

Fines. Every time you deliver a paper to the wrong address, or someone steals it after you put it at the end of their driveway, or the wind blows it into the next yard . . . you are fined. If a customer complains about getting their paper late more than once? You are fined. If a person complains about getting a free paper they previously asked not to receive? Fined. If a customer fails to get his TV Guide on Saturday or her free Food Day on Tuesday? Yup, fined again. All of these costs are deducted from your paycheck.

Why? Would anyone deal with this incredibly bad and obviously unfair working environment?

    Who would agree to continue to work for a place where—when the company provides the papers over an hour later than necessary and it's too foggy and the paper is larger than a phone book (so huge they won't all fit in your car and you have to take two trips) which causes some customers to get their papers late and a few of them call and complain—YOU are held accountable...and fined?

This is a complaint-based job. When someone makes a late complaint, deliver their paper first...from that day forward; if someone complains of a wet paper, tie the ends of a double bag on their paper...from that day forward. No extra compensation for the extra work—just extra fines if they complain again in the future.

         Who would work here? This is a break-down of the people who work for the wicked witch:

25% - Dorothy's: People supplementing their income (like those on social security or with unexpected court-ordered child support payments). Every Dorothy—including myself—claims they are working here only until things get better. One "short termer" has been doing this for a decade. (...no place like home...no place like...)
20% - Toto's: Illegal immigrants (no one checks documents or social security numbers—even if they speak/understand no English). (...and your mangy little dog too...)
20% - Tin Men: People with a blot on their work history (not just parolees...but anyone who's been fired from a previous job or two; no one asks for a résumé or references—even if they're covered in prison tattoos). (...the tinsmith forgot to give me a heart...all hollow...)
15% - Munchkins: Younger adults attending college and/or needing an income which will never intrude on their 9-5 (many of these housewife's and househusband's days are devoted to childcare). (...follow the yellow brick road...)
10% - Flying Monkeys: These old timers have been delivering papers their entire life. They are wicked-fast, eerily complaint proof and receive amazing tips. They are the frogs who never jump out of the cook-pot because the temperature has been ever-so-slowly increased. (Every one of these monkeys who didn't start a 401k decades ago or payed into social security...can, obviously, never quit.) (...take care of those ruby slippers, I want those most of all...fly!..fly!..)
10—20% - Cowardly Lions: People with mild to severe OCD. Where else can one get paid to count and NEATLY fold, stack, and bag and count? Can't stop counting? It may be debilitating in any other job, it's an asset here! (...come to think of it, forty winks wouldn't be bad...)
10—20% - Scarecrows: Kids with no experience and very little ethics or values who come to work high and stay high (many of these 'kids' are biologically middle-aged...less tweekers, more stoners...which might only be because this is Portland). (...I could think of things I've never thought before...then I'd sit, and think some more...)
5% - Wizards: Those who stuck, carved out a niche, and eventually became salaried supervisors or station foremen. (...pay no attention to that man behind the curtain...)

Abstruse Building - Hillsboro, OR

2011-11-14T16:30:00.000-08:00

Transit Center?... that sounds sooo invisible two-thousand four. We are talking about a building which is to be built in the future; we need to inform those fellow Oregonians who'll eventually drive, ride, or pedal past in the flesh this is not just a parking garage near a bus stop. It'll have charging stations for electric cars, public restrooms with showers and lockers, places to secure bicycles. It'll be near a train stop. For the love of everything international toll free—it'll have a bus stop inside!

No, no, no...is your interaural transfer function not working properly?...the research, conducted by the Integrated Testing Forum, indicates that for individuals to fully understand what it's to function as, it needs an integrated-title-facade with an appropriate name in an impressively titled font.

What? Yes, I've tried fedora's. Yes, I also have ironically tattooed forearms. Well...I text fast, and I think, friend, that's waaay better than typing full sentences.

What's this have to do with selecting a name for the parking lot with a bus stop?

Nevermind. I've tentatively figured it out.

Lose Lose - a Metaphor?

2011-11-03T16:27:00.000-07:00

          This is a spoiler-laden plot critique of Thomas McCarthy's 2011 film Win Win (☆☆☆-)*. This is not a film review. If I were reviewing it, I'd do so quickly because I saw it two days ago and almost all the dialogue and images have already yellow-browned and fallen. Soon they'll all be gone—overwritten by stronger memories—like yesterday's lunch (turkey/swiss/onion/spinach/miracle whip on warmed buttermilk, with dill pickles & sourcream-n-onion chips on the side, and a glass of cold Pepsi). Yum.

The plot centers around the main character. A schlub in every way save one. You should imagine Jimmy Stewart as the schlub (because the HUGE flaw in this story wouldn't exist if this were a 1949 black and white film). Jimmy is an incompetent lawyer who's going broke. He works in a small neighborhood office building, which he owns. It's falling into disrepair (in large part, due to his maintenance failures). He also owns a huge suburban home and is the father of two young children (the only thing he isn't bad at). His wife doesn't work (more befitting a 1949 setting) and Jimmy hides his financial situation from his wife (also an action from a bygone era).

          NOTE: Jimmy is a metaphor for the United States. Not just the US government, but a distillation of every American. Of us all. The blame for the poor economy is borne by all of our inner Jimmies.

          Jimmy's passion is wrestling. No, that's inaccurate...Jimmy has no passion. Decades ago, schlub-in-training-Jimmy wrestled in high school and didn't suck too much; now he's a terrible coach for a losing high school wrestling team.

NOTE: War metaphor. America likes its wars. Once upon a time it was better at them.

    Jimmy has a receptionist. Red hair? check. Tight sweater? check. Snapping chewing gum? check. Smarmy? check. Files nails while talking? check. Constantly complains? check. Collects a paycheck (which is definitely more than $1,500.00/month...which is important) for doing little work? check. Delivers an important line of dialogue: "He's LOADED, just read his file."

          Jimmy has a buddy. He's everything Jimmy is not. Buddy is rich, single, childless, and in good physical condition. Buddy's only failure is being a good husband. Jimmy never asks Buddy to lend him money (nor does Buddy offer anything more than vague ways to make money by investing).

          NOTE: A banking and credit company metaphor, as well as a "don't tax the rich" metaphor.

Jimmy reads the file. An elderly client, with no locatable relatives and dementia, wants to continue to live in his own home. The old guy receives a monthly payment of $1,500.00 (in 1949 that might have been plenty to live on).

The state plans to move the old guy into an assisted-living home. Jimmy convinces the court to personally award him guardianship in order to "keep him in his home" and then, Jimmy lies to the old guy and moves him into an assisted-living home anyway. (All the additional fraud Jimmy would have had to commit is never hinted at...he'd have had to 'spend-down' and hide the old guy's assets, including the home and the monthly income, before medicare would pay for the assisted-living).

The first month's "stolen" $1,500.00 is used, by Jimmy, to pay his own family's late medical insurance.

NOTE: Health insurance crisis metaphor.

          The second act introduces the run-away, high school aged, grandson of the old guy, who happens to be a great wrestler. Jimmy provides him room and board. The kid starts to wrestle and to turn around the entire wrestling team. They begin to win a few matches. Then the old guy's addict-daughter (wrestling-kid's mom) arrives and tries to get guardianship so she can have the much sought after $1,500.

          In the third act (with his lies exposed and to prevent the court from learning about his fraud) Jimmy strikes a bargain with the greedy addict to send her the $1,500 every month, moves old guy back into his own home, and volunteers to continue to provide room and board for the kid until he graduates.

          The story ends with Jimmy coming home from the office and then heading out to a second job. He is happy paying penance for the lies/fraud. He's now paying the living expenses of the old guy, taking on the kid, and sending 18K a year to the addict.

NOTE: Hammering home the metaphor. America is choc-full of addicts, elderly, and youth. Our collective past greed (and many other of the deadly seven sins) has turned the entire world into a less nice place. But, it's OK to forget about those improprieties...as long as we take care of those who can't take care of themselves (anymore or yet). And don't lay off the over-paid sloths. And don't ask for money from the wealthy. Just work more. Yuck.

PencilHead (feat. Fatboy Slim)

2011-10-23T18:29:00.000-07:00

Optical Illusion Dragon

2011-10-17T00:52:00.000-07:00

          Download. Print. Cut out. Fold. Tape.

          Close one eye. Stare at the dragon's eyes. Its head seems to bend and follow as you move left and right, up and down.

          Watch the video to see it in action (as well as see how it works).

When someone else says exactly...

2011-10-15T18:36:00.000-07:00

...what I'm thinking (only, their je ne sais quality, emphasis, and phrasing could never be improved upon) I embed it:

(It's really a rant worth listening to.)

Dear Neighbor,

2011-10-05T21:08:00.000-07:00

          I am writing to you today because of the phone call you made to my employer last week. According to my supervisor, you are adamant about not receiving anymore of the weekly free coupons wrapped inside a page of recipes and poorly-written articles about consuming, which I've been throwing in the general direction of your half-million dollar house, at the foot of your driveway, behind your fleet of massive urban vehicles and sleek-shiny sports cars, around the time your lawn sprinklers come on (even though it's been raining for the last two weeks).

          My boss said you want me to stop delivering the free "shopper" because:

          [ ] You never read—always recycle—it, and want to reduce the waste of natural resources.
[ ] Are tired of having to walk to the end of your driveway to pick up "trash".
[ ] Get tongue-tied trying to pronounce, "deseche el comprador periódico" to your maid or gardener.
          [ ] Hate hearing the grind-graction of tires/engine at wrong-side-of-the-road-speeds (and/or the thwack-sliizz of plastic wrapped paper on pavement at zero-dark-thirty).
          [ ] Think what I'm doing is the equivalent of intentionally littering on your property.
[ ] All of the above and a bag of condescension.

Please permit me to rebut thusly:

I am a 20-year retired Army veteran (Yuup....the patriot card comes off the top of the deck). Two months ago my fiancee lost her job at almost the same moment as her investment income disappeared; in one month my household wages were reduced by half...she's looking, but hasn't found a new job. So. I got a job delivering newspapers and "shoppers". I have too much pride to be:

          And not just because it is impossible for me to be hypocritical (and pre-bless the charitable with the allure of sky cake) or that I refuserefuserefuse to hang a misspelled sign around my neck asking for charity. Mostly—it's because I'm physically able to work. They (advertisers) pay me approximately $1,500 a month to deliver about 450 papers a day as long as I work every day. Which is enough. For me. To pay all my fucking bills.

          At this point I need an all-seriousness-aside bit, because this is getting too. Way too.

          (1) The combo-'refuserefuserefuse' makes me think about the first time I read the word 'orangered' and I thought, "Oranger-ed...as in a past tense state of more orange? Why have I never heard that word before?"

(2) When I wrote the word physically in the paragraph above, I wanted to spell it fisically...but that's not right. Right? But it's not far off.

   Stop—dear neighbor. Just stop. Illuminating your façade with concern-colored spotlights draws attention to your garishly gargantuan footprint. This is the point where the world that's off the hook on the other side of your television screen/computer monitor intrudes on your real day-to-day.

Because I need that 8¢.

Please. Just take pride in the charity and throw away the evil plastic-wrapped (but still sopping wet) bundle of consumeconsumeconsumecoupons I'm paid to throw at the bottom of your driveway every week (or you could, maybe, learn to ask the help to do it).

Thnx,

—newspaperdudeveach (which, when you say fast, kinda sounds like nudebeach).

PS - If your 'stop delivery' rationale is natural resource based, please take a moment to pause and look at your residence from my vantage point. Is stopping delivery of the "shopper" at the foot of your driveway the first place to start saving the planet?

PSS - I don't mind thoughtless condescension, I'm only asking that you don't stop the grocery/clothing/drug stores from paying me $3.84 a year to litter once a week on your property.

How to Train Your Cat to Come When You Call Its Name

2011-10-01T01:30:00.000-07:00

          This new information is not new. But—if your brain does not already possess this possibly-useful knowledge—you'll immediately grasp its common sense basis, as you palm-slap your forehead and say, "Where's this simple information been all my life?"

Dogs come when they are called because their brains easily translate human-speak (no matter the language we use); I posit that German is the best human-language dogs can translate. I say this, not because I lived in Germany for four years and witnessed it, but because many of the best dog training schools teach humans to speak to their dogs using German-language commands.

The reason is simple once you know it. All dogs bark in a staccato manner; their brains are conditioned to hear other-dog communication this way: noise. silence. noise. silence. Since German words are barked (even by the most smooth-voiced German orators) teaching non-German speaking humans to use German words when communicating with their dog insures the animal hears sharp, distinct, clipped commands. There's not much difference between "stop" and "halt"; "come" and "komm"; or "stay" and "bleiben"; but training with German words prevents the human from slipping from "Skipper— pause —come!" to "cummereSkipperboyURschagoodboyThatzrightcummere".

Cats meow in a tonally escalating-to-descending manner; their brains are conditioned to hear other-cat communication this way: NoooOoiiiIisennNoiseee. So when you want your cat to come when you call...you need to sing his or her name. It doesn't matter what words you use in the song as long as it includes the cat's name. Just yowl in as plaintive a manner as possible. If your cat knows its name, it'll come to you. Probably not the first time you sing it, but if you practice sing-calling every day, several times a day, and stroking and praising it when it comes, "My cat never comes when it is called." will soon become, "My cat comes when I call some of the time." and eventually will become, "My cat comes almost all the time."

          Why almost all the time...why not all the time, like dogs? Because dogs are like Germans. Punctual. Practical. Reliable. Cats are like you and me (and—if you're German—this is a metaphor. Stop. Taking. Things. So. Literally. Good boy). When our phones ring we check caller ID, decide if we're in the mood, too busy, too tired...and maybe-sometimes we even turn off our phones because we don't want to be bothered. When you sing-call for your cat in the middle of its nap on the laundry you took out of the dryer but haven't gotten around to folding yet, don't be surprised if it "hits ignore" and goes back to sleep.

          This truth is buried in everything we innately know about dogs and cats. The best names for dogs are short and roll of the tongue in a punchy, almost monosyllabic manner (Rex, Fido, Jack) while the best names for cats are long and drawn out (Cecil O. Zonkey). Sure, you may use its short nickname but you realize that's for your own benefit. Not his. All he hears is dog-speak.

          When my cat is off doing his own thing and I sing, "whereismyCECILBoy-o-boy-o-ZooOooNKeEeYBoOy..i-sure-missMyCECILloO-ZOoooonKeeey." He comes. 90% of the time. I understand it'll be done at cat pace and not dog pace. Cats need to stretch. Focus. Think about their next inactive action. Smell and listen to check if danger is present. Then mozy. It may take a few sung phrases. He may not arrive for a few minutes.

I think it's fantastic he only blows me off once in a while since I ignore phone calls from family and friends at least that often.

Autumn Peeked at Me Today

2011-09-23T19:47:00.000-07:00

          For a brief half-minute he walked about 200 meters ahead. When he turned, looked over his shoulder (saw me) and casually marched into the forest, I could see his very bushy brownish-gray tail. I immediately knew it wasn't a domestic dog. I thought it wasn't low enough to the ground or as small as (I believed) a gray fox should be (but that outdated glossy magazine and zoo-based belief was in need of an internet refresher—now, I'm not so sure). It definitely wasn't tall or gangly or large or light-gray enough to be a wolf. My best guess: male coyote.

When I got to the spot I thought he entered the woods...I paused. He was observing me from behind a fallen log. For one long, slow, breath, we stared at each other. Then, he turned, and I watched the tops of twigs shiver and the leaves of underbrush vibrate marking his path as he moved away into his forest.

A male coyote with toxoplasmosis.

Toxoplasmosis is an infection in mammals caused by a protozoa. (As you recall from Biology 101, protozoa are extremely tiny organisms which are easy to see under a microscope and are more fun to identify than other things found in a drop of pond water because most of them are motile.) Almost every mammal on earth can be infected by it. You might be infected right now—might have been infected your entire life—there are very few symptoms after the initial infection which is normally misidentified as the flu.

The toxoplasmosis protozoan thrives on the inside of felines and insures its life-cycle continues in a very unique way [more on that soon]. (It's safe to assume the protozoan is/was incapable of differentiating between the guts of saber-tooth tigers and those of your housecat.)

The protozoan infects the tissue of its feline host as well as passes cysts (eggs) into the feline's feces. Those cysts are passed to new hosts both when the feline is eaten as well as when a cyst is transferred from the feline's feces to the paw of another mammal who later ingests the cyst when grooming (or when your pet uses the litter box and happens to get a cyst on his paw, which transfers to the carpet where your baby crawls and...baby's first "cold").

Very unique way: when mice get toxoplasmosis, they tend to exhibit behavior which can best be described as "risky". They are less scared of open spaces than their uninfected brethren; and, strangely, they don't avoid the odor of cat urine (as do all uninfected mice) but, instead, they are either incapable of noticing the odor or are attracted to it.

It's safe to assume the protozoan can't differentiate which warm blooded animal has consumed it, therefore, the obvious question: Is the behavior of all animals, including humans, affected just like that of the mice?

          Within the last few decades a small number of studies have been done on how toxoplasmosis affects humans. The indication is that toxoplasmosis acts in concert with hormones in humans to exaggerate behaviors. Infected men tend to be risk takers; they exhibit jealousy more often than uninfected men, and are more willing to disobey laws (one study showed infected men were 2.5 times more likely to have automobile accidents than uninfected men). Infected women tend to be more compassionate, warm, and more conscientious than uninfected women.

I couldn't find a study to determine if the kind little old lady who always has something nice to say and who keeps 23 cats in her house on the corner, can't smell them or is actually attracted to the smell...but there's little doubt about the fact that she's infected with toxoplasmosis.

Just like the male risk-taking coyote who paused to get a closer look at the noisy man on the first day of autumn.

Post Script - - - I've cared for and been friends with the full gamut of cats my entire life (indoor only, outdoor only, and indoor-outdoor). It seems improbable to me—with all the cat puke I've cleaned, scratches I received, and scat I've dumped with bare hands since the invention of clumping cat litter—that one cyst hasn't found its way inside of me. However. I'm a pretty strict law abider; I never understood what getting jealous accomplished; and I've very rarely intentionally risked harming myself (Avoid Pain At All Costs - a good subtitle for my life story).
   Clearly, I don't have any of the male behavioral symptoms of toxoplasmosis. On the other hand, although I don't think the term "warm" has ever been used in reference to me (a term which I think applies to extraverts not introverts) I would agree I'm more compassionate and conscientious than the average bear. Which means (operating upon the assumption of being infected) that I have less testosterone and more estrogen inside me for the protozoa to amplify.
But, I hate the smell of cat piss and can detect the tiniest whiff from several meters away...so maybe I'm just one of those guys who's immune to the brain control of the catbug aliens.

Thievery Corporation Concert

2011-09-17T16:07:00.000-07:00

Two pictures containing me in one week! The first marking the endpoint in the goody bygone days of yore when I intentionally cropped myself out of everything (including bare legs) to impose a facade of pseudo-zorroloneranger-esque anonymity, while this pic is just some vaingloriously ridiculous Where's ~~Wald~~Veacho foolishness.

I'm wearing an orange shirt.

How to Improve the Entire World

2011-09-10T19:56:00.000-07:00

Since all card-carrying members of the narcissistic personality disorder club refuse to carry membership cards almost as vehemently as they deny their own membership, this bumper sticker won't cause your car (or your ass) to get kicked like zombies definitely would if you had a bumper sticker that said: 'first ... kill all the ZOMBIES'.

Unlike zombies, identifying narcissists is not always easy. Along with seven myths about narcissism, there are many signs to look for in others. Of course—only in others, as I already pointed out, it's impossible for a narcissist to recognize their own traits:

Believe they are better than others
Fantasize about power, success, and attractiveness
Exaggerate their achievements or talents
Expect constant praise and admiration
Believe they are special (and act accordingly)
Lack empathy; fail to recognize emotions or feelings of others
Expect others to always go along with their ideas and plans
Take advantage of others
Express disdain for those they think are inferior
Express jealousy of others as well as believe others are jealous of them
Incapable of maintaining healthy relationships (especially long-term)
Set unrealistic goals
Thin-skinned; feel easily hurt and rejected
Possess a fragile self-esteem
Display a tough-minded or unemotional appearance

Just like you can't convince a zombie to stop trying to eat anyone's and everyone's brains, you can't convince a narcissist to stop ruining the world with their constant manipulative yet disdainful blathering-on-and-on about themselves. The best way to stop them both is with a headshot.

One problem...a world without narcissists is a world without celebutantes, celebutards, and most other reality television participants who not only stoke the coals but fan the flames of our schadenfreude.

This Is How We Do It

2011-09-09T22:31:00.000-07:00

Five mile hike and we feel alright
Both feeling hearty up on the mountain
Take my kleen kanteen and sip it up
Cecil O. Zonk jump along the path
Parading together and we're hummin'
Birds 'n the breeze cry, "Zonkey's coming!"
It feels so good in my woods today
With chitterin' squirrels and butterfly play
Flash-glimpsing thru the leaves and needles
Kitt ya oughtta pad on up to th' shade
So lift your nose and throw up your tail
Me all I meow'z my trekkin' partner says:
          Kinda jazzed and it's all because (this is how we do it)
          State forest does it like nowhere else (this is how we do it)
          We—my hikin' feline and I—will beeline (this is how we do it)
          Venture back to this woodland track 'cause (this is how we do it)

REPLAY by Ken Grimwood - Book Review (☆☆☆☆☆)

2011-09-04T16:27:00.000-07:00

This speculative fiction novel combines the perfect blend of what-if from Groundhog ~~Day~~ quarter century, with the clean pacing and suspense of The Time Traveler's Wife (book not film). Soft science fiction fans will not be disappointed because Ken Grimwood deftly dangles the bet-you-know-what'll-happen-next bait followed by several successful surprises.

I enjoyed the story enough to give it my highest rating because I recall almost all of the key American events which happened between 1963 and 1988. However, the downfall of a story which leans as heavily on a specific country's historical events as REPLAY does, is that it gradually loses its audience. Consequently, I don't recommend it to anyone born after 1970 (unless they are history/SF buffs or love period-pieces)...readers born between 1970 and 1980 will rate it four-stars, between 1980-1990, three stars, et cetera.

I suspect this novel will become a shitty movie someday soon (I'm a bit surprised it hasn't already). Just like many books of this type, the success of the plot is based on the empathy we slowly gain watching the world go by through the main character(s) eyes. Films rarely succeed in relating "over a long period of time" to their audiences. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (the film, not Fitzgerald's short story) attempted to accomplish this feat...and bored most of its audience while doing so. There are exceptions. Robert Zemeckis's Forrest Gump (a bad book turned into a great screenplay) is the first example I can think of. If someone had the patience and skill to Gumpize REPLAY and could find the perfect 28 year-old everyman-character actor who is not a comedian (who must capture the two-and-a-half decades between college freshman and middle age; make us love him, feel sorry for him, hate him, and eventually love him again)...I picture ....ahhh.... nobody comes to mind. Which is why this hypothetical film will be made out of pure suckage.

Dear fuzzy-headed faces from prestigious places,

2011-09-03T02:39:00.000-07:00

          Please stop dumbing-down your [specific area of scientific expertise] to coloring book level. I'm really sorry [name of college or university] doesn't pay enough for you to disregard all those enticing offers from [television channel] but every time you recite from a script written to be understood by [target audience] you inflict excruciating pain in my brain.
   I know. Brains don't actually have pain receptors. But, when watching [video of gravity tests in a testosterone-laden common-sense-free environment] I experience (real-to-me) empathetic groin pain and I feel a similar pain inside my skull when I watch you transmogrify [complex theorem or formula] to the level of SeeDickAndJaneRun.

Because specifics are better than vague analogies:

• Tweedle Dee, aka Brian Richmond, The George Washington University (NOVA, Becoming Human minutes 2:28 thru 3:00) - his explanation of a few theories why quadrupedal protohumans became bipedal: "...they stood up to be able to see over tall grass...they stood to be able to pick fruits off of the low branches of trees...(or)...to cool more efficiently so that we don't have as much sun beating on so much of our body."
          • Tweedle Dum, aka Daniel Leiberman, Harvard University (NOVA, Becoming Human minutes 3:00 thru 4:40) - his favorite opinion why quadrupedal protohumans became bipedal: "...the most compelling hypothesis is that it saved us energy."

These two idiots bruised my frontal lobes. Their few seconds of Discovery Channel fame only proved one thing: neither of them actually understands natural selection.

In a muddled attempt at simplicity, this NOVA episode completely fails to explain natural selection and offers information as true, which is the exact opposite of the truth. The show paints a picture that six million years ago, in the middle of protoAfrica (with the environment in flux and jungles becoming savannahs)...for reasons we can only guess at...a protochimpanzee stood on its hind legs and, subsequently, passed that ability to constantly walk upright to its progeny.

The fiction—like that of so many television shows based on psudo- and/or fuzzy-science—is relating that the reason/desire to walk upright preceded our distant ancestor's ability to do so. But when somebody from [prestigious place of higher learning] says, "they stood up in order to..." how can we interpret it otherwise?

What actually happened? How did a few of the little ancient monkeys who walked on four legs many millions of years ago eventually walk on only their two hind legs? The same way every gradual evolutionary change occurred in every living entity since the beginning of life. It happened by mistake. Zillions upon Trillions of miniscule beneficial mistakes. The same number (or more) of non-beneficial mistakes also (must've-probably) occurred, but any of those mistakes (those which don't improve their possessor's chance of procreation) are useless in evolutionary terms and lead to extinction.

One quadrupedal protohuman gave birth to a malformed baby with a slightly misshaped pelvis (I'll call her Miss Takè). Her pelvis was a bit too flat, too horizontal...and all the quadrupedal kids at school teased little Takè because she wasn't very good at reindeer games. But she was able to survive long enough to procreate and pass along that genetic error because she was [reason for not dying...including being lucky]. She had a fifteenth cousin twice removed with a slightly bent thumb which made swinging from branches a little harder than normal, but she always won at thumb-war; and her imperceptibly encephalitic and slightly taller great-great-great grandson (who could never peek over a log without his forehead being seen when playing hide-n-seek) became a great hunter because of his above-average eyesight...and his eighteenth son from his fifteenth mate (who happened to be distantly related to thumb-war cousin) was taller-still but he happened to have less body hair, hated the winter, and walked a long distance in order to live in a warmer place...ad infinitum...modern man.

          South Park's (Mrs Garrison's) grasp of the theory of evolution is more accurate. The fact that Trey Parker and Matt Stone are more capable than NOVA at explaining natural selection makes me giggle-cringe (but inflicts no pain in my gulliver).

Not the Best Way to Start a Day at the Beach

2011-08-30T07:35:00.000-07:00

Low tide. About a half-mile from the beach access road—the closest people are more than 200 meters off—I swing a U-turn a bit too high off the wet-packed sand, intending to park facing the ocean. Somewhere in that sentence there should have been a descriptive adverb...a 'stupidly' or at the very least a 'thoughtlessly'.

I knew I was farged the moment I lost forward momentum, but we took a few minutes to insure it was so before calling a tow truck. Twenty minutes later the guy hooked up, pulled me forward ten feet, and gave us the bill. It cost slightly more than a dollar an inch.

Is there an combo-adverb for extremely stupid and very costly?

Mandatory Annual Cat Picture

2011-08-29T17:15:00.000-07:00

Previous Zonkey Posts:

Older Not Smarter - 2010

Autumn Hikes - 2009

New Cat - 2009

Make Self-Service Gas Illegal

2011-08-27T20:11:00.001-07:00

          I have an unemployed friend. Keeping a constant paycheck was a challenge for him even before the economy married the weather. (Remember when Miss Weather was only occasionally crazy in public and Mister Economy appeared strong and confident? In case you just awoke from a three-year hibernation, Mr. and Mrs. Weather-Economy are an extremely toxic couple.) Every time my friend and I talk he says, "Believe me, I'm always out there looking, but there just aren't any jobs available."

There are jobs. Plenty of them. It's just that there are none in the field he has experience in. That's the full-time-with-great-benefits field where one got paid a 40+K salary to accomplish 8-hours of actual work every 40-hour "work week".

Today, politicians don't dare open their mouths unless they can find a way to jam the words 'job creation' into every one of their paragraphs. Do they understand the difference between rhetoric and action?

My two cents: If the other 48 states (or the US congress) passed full-service gas station laws, like those in Oregon and New Jersey...with the stroke of a (governor's or president's) pen they would create tens of thousands...hundreds of thousands...over a million jobs.

     That's right, over a million jobs.

           There are approximately 240,000* self-service gas stations in the 48 US states that don't have full-service laws. A conservative estimate: five additional full-time minimum wage employees, per gas station, would be required to be hired if every state (or the US government) passed mandatory full-service gas station laws. 1.2 million new jobs.

   PROS:   Gas station attendant jobs can't be lost to oversea workers.
                        Required training and licenses prevent illegal aliens from filling these jobs.
                        Fuel spills and accidents at the station's pump are drastically eliminated.

   CONS: Price increase at the pump (about 10 cents a gallon).

   Disagree with my recommendation? Feel free to tell me why.

* 2007 census: 118,756 gas stations + 97,508 gas stations with convenience stores + 21,248 other gas stations + 10,131 stations without employees = 247,643. Oregon / New Jersey stations: 1,061 / 2,545 gas stations + 618 / 749 gas stations with convenience stores + 443 / 1,796 other gas stations = 7,212.

Can't Stop The Serenity

2011-08-22T14:05:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I was a volunteer for CSTS at the Hollywood Theater. It's run annually by the PDX Browncoats and all profits are donated to charity.

There were over 400 fantastic theater goers watching Dr Horrible's Sing Along Blog and Serenity on the big screen, with an intermission Q&A with artist Patric Reynolds (of Dark Horse Comics fame). The after-party was relaxing-interesting, except when I verbally stumble-said brownshirts after I'd imbibed the exact-right amount of libation to make that faux pas possible (corrected immediately by every Browncoat within earshot).

Forest Camping (one more week)

2011-08-19T12:53:00.000-07:00

Golf Trivia Challenge

2011-08-18T21:52:00.000-07:00

Take The Golf Trivia Challenge

launch monitor - swing statistics (golf)

2011-08-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

          I used a radar to determine my current average golf club distances. As one ages and loses muscle, one's "numbers" change. Hopefully, this will help. Too often, I'm missing the club's sweet-spot...which is lowering my carry distance.

Club (degree) Speed (mph) Loft (angle) Carry Yardage Total Yardage

Driver (10.5)        96                13.5                    222                      245
3 Wd (15)            91                11.5                    187                      207   (should be 210-carry 225-total)
5 Wd (19)            92                15                       190                      208
3 I (21)                88                17                       175                    188
4 I (23)                84                17.5                    164                      176
5 I (27)                83                18                       150                      157
6 I (30)                84                21.5                    144                      152
7 I (34)                84                23                       133                      140
8 I (37)                83                25                       122                      126
9 I (41)                78                28                       110                      113
PW (45)               73                30                         90                    91

Hypocrisy — An Invaluable Discriminator

2011-08-09T15:17:00.000-07:00

          I recall riding in cars in the 1970's with my step-dad behind the wheel. In traffic, he would holler and gesture and 'talk a blue streak' (mom-speak) about other drivers and pedestrians. At home, he would occasionally shout at TV newscasters. In person, however, he was always polite...to a fault.

          Who was my step-dad?

          A reactionary, idiotic, rude, old man; intelligent enough to know when to filter himself? Or was he a courteous, open-minded, thoughtful person who—when safely ensconced on the other-side of a protective barrier—ranted at the occasional egregiously-behaved fool or jester? I don't know if the answer is important. I suspect it's not. But the question is.

          Immediate family were the only witnesses to his bursts of vitriol. I seriously doubt he would ever have defined himself using negative verbiage of any stripe (even the concept of defining himself would have been foreign to him). I think of all the co-workers, fellow congregants, neighbors and extended family members who thought they knew him but who never witnessed him shout, "Pick a fuckin lane you miserable cunt!" or "They otta throw all those longhair-draft-dodgein-fags in the slammer!"

          If you subscribe to the belief that people 'reveal their true nature' in times when their guard is down...my step-dad was Archie Bunker wearing a Jimmy Carter mask. When I consider his behavior in the context of how it affected who I grew up to be, I focus on the hypocrisy. His lifelong struggle to keep internal-Archie mute and fabricate the external-Jimmy persona must have been immensely difficult; as difficult as a homosexual who (in 1966 America) decided at the age of thirty-nine to forevermore deny his innate attraction and marry an aging divorcée with two grade-school children before moving his ready-made family half-way across the country (this unrelated suspicion I have about my step-dad is based on very few facts; I merely include it here to suggest there were possible other hidden layers to "who he really was").

          Back to hypocrisy. I suspect it's a much more valuable discriminator than many people realize. How often do you attempt to measure someone's normally hidden hypocrisy? It's one of, if not THE primary tool I use to decide if someone is a trusted friend or merely an acquaintance.

          If I'd been friends with OJ Simpson... (This is a quote from one of the most un-hypocritical people I've ever known; I hope he remains my very good friend for a long time to come) ...and, back in 1994, I went to talk to him and he said to me, "Dude, I just snapped when I saw 'em together." Then I'd have just said, "That's cool, let's go play golf." But if he was all, "Hey, I hope they catch who really did it." Then I wouldn't have been able to stay friends with him.

          Chris's blog post Don't call me a "liberal" begins with this excerpt (to the right) of commenters on a Weather.com article about the current drought in Texas. As is often the case, give a hypocrite a protective barrier (the epitome of web-commenting) and they let their inner Archie Bunker out.

I learned from my step-dad what I didn't want to be. Who you read here is who you talk to on the phone is who you meet in person. Liberal?..ok. Hypocrite?..never.

LIMBO - game review - ☆☆☆☆☆

2011-08-06T16:26:00.000-07:00

I enjoy puzzles. I get a wonderful micro-instant brain fizz when, after extensive trial and error (or in the case of this game—trial, death, and re-spawn) 'I can't figure this one out' crystallizes, the solution clicks in my gulliver, and...'oh yea! Gotcha.'

If Edward Gorey designed a side-scroller like The Humans, it would be Limbo; a game with good value for average invested entertainment time ($15 for ≈15 hours). A few of its 39 chapters are time-sensitive, which seem more a test of hand-eye coordination than mental dexterity; others rely on pure deduction (path + tools = looks impossible but it's not); a few are sequence oriented; many are a combination of all of the above. Add the occasional anti-gravity device, electro-magnet, huge insect, and...well...you get a great puzzle game.

Forest Camping

2011-08-05T19:48:00.000-07:00

summer-goings-on

2011-07-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

          The summer is half-gone. The weather outside is delightful (with nary a day above 90 this year). I'm not rubbing it in, I empathize with the rest of the sweltering US, but in a glad-it's-not-me kind of way. I've kept busy golfing (although I only broke 90 once), disc golfing, hiking with my cat, preparing my 5th wheel trailer and selling it, as well as playing the video game Fallout New Vegas.

     I played the first Fallout for a brief time in 1997 and hated it. This one, the fourth in the series, was much more of a "puzzle solver and strategy game" than a "first-person shooter" and, therefore, very enjoyable for me.

electron microscope jimmies - Caren Alpert

2011-07-26T01:59:00.000-07:00

Visit Caren Alpert Fine Art

skydiving dancing music video

2011-07-19T14:46:00.000-07:00

RUBBER - Film Review - ☆☆☆☆☆

2011-07-14T00:57:00.000-07:00

This quirkaholic of quirky independent films is very worth going out of your way to see if you're a fan of un-pigeonhole-able esoteric comedies.

Why quirky? Well, let's see. Although it looks like it was filmed in the high-desert of California, it was actually filmed by French filmmakers, in Angola, (where Portuguese is the national language) with an all English-speaking cast. Except for the tire. It doesn't talk. It kills people; but it does so mutely. The name of the film's production company is Elle Driver; that's pretty quirky...Daryl Hannah's character in Kill Bill. The capper for the label king-o-the-quirk is the film's preface-prologue-dialogue:

          In the Stephen Spielberg film ET, why is the alien brown? No reason. In Love Story, why do the two characters fall madly in love with each other? No reason. In Oliver Stone's JFK, why is the president suddenly assassinated by some stranger? No reason. In the excellent Chain Saw Massacre by Tobe Hooper why don’t we ever see the characters go to the bathroom or wash their hands like people do in real life? Absolutely no reason. Worse, in The Pianist by Polanski, how come this guy has to hide and live like a bum when he plays the piano so well? Once again, the answer is: no reason!
          I could go on for hours with more examples. The list in endless. You probably never gave it a thought; but all great films—without exception—contain an important element of: 'no reason'. And you know why? Because life itself is filled with no reason.
          Why can't we see the air all around us? No reason. Why are we always thinking? No reason. Why do some people love sausages and other people hate sausages? No fucking reason!

Did you enjoy laughing at This is Spinal Tap and Grindhouse? The litmus test is not if you laughed, but whether (when you reflect on those film-watching experiences) you think to yourself, 'I remember enjoying the humor'. Then you'll enjoy Rubber.

I enjoyed it immensely.

Rogers St. by xkcd

2011-07-09T14:23:00.000-07:00

visit xkcd

before their time

2011-06-30T13:35:00.000-07:00

visit a softer world

GRAB BAG

2011-06-17T23:23:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Pin-The-Tale on You. Every mature person you will ever pass on the street has more-than-probably done things which could qualify them to be labeled 'bad' or 'good'. It just depends on who tells your story; and, of course, how the game show audience reacts to it. Our grab bag spinner will stop when your tale is finished. Will it land on B, for bad? G for Good? Maybe you're a combination of equal parts bad and good; if so, the spinner could stop on A for Average. And—of course—the audience may choose to reject you from the game (spinner on R); this normally only happens when someone competes who's mentally incapable of understanding the difference between good and bad.

          I recall grab bags from childhood fairs. A game of chance. After money was paid (I recall it being ten cents) I reached into a large basket and removed (grabbed) a wrapped unknown paper-wrapped item (bag). It was usually something worthless; and, by that, I don't mean it had zero value, just that the items were worth less than a dime. Worth less.

When we were children my mother told us this nursery rhyme (which, today, Squire attributes to the poet Longfellow): There was a little girl, who had a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead; when she was good, she was very very good, but when she was bad she was horrid.

          For too-many-to-count I was (and am still) plagued by bad people. I've had my fill.

For seventeen of my twenty military years I worked in law enforcement, where (obviously) it was my job to prevent people from doing bad things, catch those who had already done bad things, and (once I became a supervisor) train my subordinates to do the preventing/catching while (most important) insure there were no subordinates who were bad.

Lately, I've been (unsuccessfully) trying to help the two spawn of my fiancée grow up. They, too, are worth less than the time and money I have invested. Although one is nearly a legal adult (17 biological years old; mentally 14; emotionally 12) and the other is legally an adult (23 biological years old; mentally 15; emotionally ?...he has none) neither has the capacity, wherewithal, ability, or desire to be good. Actually, the opposite seems to be true.

Over the last eight months the 17 year old has spent 4 months in jail, (theft, drugs, various probation violations) the other 4 months he repeatedly ran away and lived on friends couches and the street. There are no rules he is willing to obey. He says jail means nothing. It's just "hitting the pause button with free food and TV". We've rarely seen him in 2011 except in various different courtrooms.

My years as a cop tells me he is going to continue to commit more serious felonies and will spend the majority of his life in prison.

The 23 year old has never had a drivers license, never held a job long enough to put on a résumé, and has also spent a few months in jail (drugs, resisting arrest). His increasingly erratic behavior could be disorganized schizophrenia. He refuses to discuss or ever admit he acts abnormally. In his mind his actions (hording, inability to focus, substance abuse, lack of hygiene, obsessive-compulsive actions, and an inability to handle any property without damaging it) are normal. He claims he doesn't need anything but to eat my food, waste my hot water, live in my guest room, and use my electricity. We evicted him this week (and—don't get the wrong idea—he only visited for three weeks...which turned out to be 19 days too long).

My years as a member of civilized society tells me he is going to be a petty criminal who spends his life in dozens of different homeless shelters and on the street begging for spare change.

The studio audience has voted.

          The spinner for the 17 year old lands on B...and it's leaning towards HORRID.

          The spinner for the 23 year old stopped on R.

One For My Love (14myLV)

2011-06-12T22:38:00.000-07:00

The Tree of Life - Review (☆☆☆☆)

2011-06-11T23:28:00.000-07:00

This is not a film for the masses. It doesn't matter that Pitt and Penn are in it. It also doesn't matter that almost every critic loves it (including unpaid ones like me). It matters slightly that it was written and directed by Terrence Malick, because he directed The Thin Red Line and The New World; if you remember those films, and liked them, there's a slight chance you'll like this one too. And, it doesn't matter that Malick won the Palme D'Or for it either.

The reason it doesn't matter that Pitt and Penn are in it is because dialogue is slim to nonexistent and they share a very crowded stage with trees, supernovas, rivers, dinosaurs, flames, volcanoes, oceans, births, deaths and dozens of other fractured-kaleidoscope images compiled with whispered suggestions for the viewer to interpret as they will.

Were we seeing the narrator's today-thoughts? His or her memories? Dreams? Could these images (set to pipe organ religious and classical music) be interpreted as answers to the various narrator's muttered prayers? Was this just a 50's era retelling of the Oedipus myth? If you like/need your films to provide closure and answers...this one intentionally does the opposite. It provides nothing but fodder for thought and discussion. I suspect very few people will take away the same message. (Leaving the theater, I overheard a woman ask, "Who was Sean Penn supposed to be?")

I question if it would ever be necessary to include the words 'spoiler alert' when talking about this film. I don't think so. Just like it's impossible to spoil an abstract expressionist's painting by explaining what you think someone else should look for in it, The Tree of Life is an existential expressionist film and telling about the images shown and scenes depicted is no way similar to saying "Keven Spacey is Keyser Söze" because...in more ways than one...there is no plot. There are events that unfold. Personalities are revealed. Characters interact. But everything important to understanding the film goes on in the viewer's mind. The various beliefs and multitude of experiences you bring to the theater—impacts what the film means. To you.

Riddles and panoramic images of the massively huge and the insanely tiny (some of the CGI = low Discovery-Channel quality) are interspersed with day-in-the-life scenes from middle America, half a century ago. The target audience for this film are those who can relate, personally, with white, middle-class, small town life before the era of The Beatles/Vietnam/Woodstock et. al. (viewers who are not Caucasian, or never lived in a small town, or were not middle class, or are not—currently—older than 40...will probably dislike/not understand this film).

I've read a few reviews of this film; there are some common threads.

Many critics focus on the father's (Pitt's) stern attitude and behavior. Some use the term abusive; others soften their label and write: borderline abusive. No matter. What's important is they're all unable to keep their personal beliefs out of their reviews. It is that kind of film. It forces you to focus on and evaluate your personal beliefs. (If I were to allow personal beliefs to enter mine, I'd write: the little deviant, back-talking, miscreants deserved more punishment than they got and their mindless moronic mother needed something to force her head out of the clouds.)

Also, the vast majority of those who dislike/don't understand this film use the word pretentious in their reviews (seems to be the go-to word of the proudly and willfully ignorant). If you're not a fan of art-house films as well as recent Palm D'Or winners (e.g. The White Ribbon, 2009; 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days, 2007; Dancer in the Dark, 2000) don't let slick marketing (Pitt and Penn!) convince you to see this one. In the future, ask someone you trust to be your film umpire. If you do see a film you don't understand, don't be petulant...just admit it was beyond your grasp.

I haven't seen many abstract fiction films (Ingmar Bergman's come to mind; I don't understand them at all) but I give this one four stars because it's unique and, even though I can't say I understood all of it, I liked/like thinking about what it caused me to contemplate.

Those avid filmophiles who see hundreds of films a year will be entertained by its originality. Every year there are so many films which are almost immediately forgettable; this film is anything but.

Why?

2011-06-07T20:43:00.000-07:00

I rarely look at my blog's statistics. My reason for writing these pages is more about the act of creating than who my audience might be. I occasionally enjoy looking back at my thoughts from yestermonth; and in a decade or three I'll have a massive record of who I was. (Hey...stranger things have happened! Just because my male ancestors on both sides all died before reaching social-security-age...doesn't mean the grim reaper has already penciled-in my reservation. *he says, mentally knocking on wood*) If I do survive until then, I intend to re-read and peruse this s n a p p e r h e a d web blog in order to combat or stimulate my senility.

Today, I learned from my blog's statistics that the post I wrote on 20 November 2009, Life-Mission: Possible, has been read (or at least visited) 512 unique times. I crafted that hopefully-funny, quasi-autobiographical post to show how, from childhood to retirement, I selfishly and constantly consumed things, furnishings, appliances, pets, and women. In the article, I reflected on films and TV shows (like Mission Impossible) as my life's mileage markers.

I can understand why some of my other posts have been (and will continue to be) so-often visited; they contain adult oriented, often searched, keywords.

When a page contains more than a couple anatomically explicit words, which your average cock in hand mouth-breather thinks are somehow connotative of sex, it might blow your mind the bucket load of ass-hats who flock to that page. You get the idea...I don't need to include words like cum, cunt, or fuck to pull in page views...hell...this post (now that it contains all these naughty bits) may surpass 512 visits in less than a month. The icing on the cake (albeit the word fetish would help it become a shoe in) to guarantee that it becomes the post-with-the-most is a lurid image (or threesome). Not even a good or explicit pornographic picture, just a light to attract the porn moth's attention. Maybe just a black and white snapshot which looks like something it isn't.

I THINK YOU KNOW WHY

Disc Golf Stability Chart, overstable/understable

2011-06-06T14:29:00.000-07:00

          While perusing SQUIRE for disc-golf information, I failed to find a succinctly written explanation which might assist novice discgolfers in disc selection; so, here are a few simple suggestions:

You can play disc golf with only one disc. Start with a very stable multi-purpose one (like a Vibram Ascent). I recommend bright colors; why take a chance on losing it?

          Three discs are sufficient to attain good scores: a long-range driver that turns slightly at the end of its flight; a mid-range disc that turns slightly in the opposite direction of your driver; and a putter.

Putters are soft and designed to absorb forward momentum and bend/drop on impact (with the target chains, hopefully). Drivers and mid-range discs are hard and bounce/ricochet upon impact.

Disc weights only become important once you refine your throw. Heavy discs (more than 170 grams) fly longer and are less affected by cross-winds; light discs (less than 150 grams) are better for children. Begin with medium driving and mid-range discs (150 to 170 grams). The weight of your putting-disc is unimportant.

          Depending upon which hand you use and whether you throw sidearm or backhand, (some throw both) either a clockwise or counterclockwise spin is imparted on the disc. Almost all discs 'fade slightly' or 'turn greatly' one way or the other, as they slow down at the end of their flight. This chart should help you understand disc stability:

Those discs which turn or fade in the same direction as their spin are referred to as under-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in negative numbers: -0.5 = slightly under-stable, -4.0 = very under-stable. Discs which turn or fade in the opposite direction from their spin are referred to as over-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in positive numbers: +0.5 = slightly over-stable, +4.0 = very over-stable. (I use this key to remember these terms: O = Opposite, Over-stable, pOsitive numbers).

The driver and mid-range discs of beginners should be between .5 and 1.5 (If your first driver is over-stable your first mid-range disc should be under-stable and vice versa.)

LOCAL PDX DISC GOLF COURSE: If you're a discgolfer in the Portland area, the best place to play is Horning's Hideout. They have three 18 hole courses. All 54 holes have professional tee boxes, signage, and targets. Their Meadow Ridge Course is ranked in the top ten nationally (and it'll kick your ass and send it home crying to momma if you're a bogey discgolfer...like me). Their Canyon Course is my favorite and their Highland Course is fun and challenging. The $3.00 day-fee and the 30-45 minute drive cuts down on lark-in-the-park-nutjobs. Interested in a game?—veachglines@gmail.com—and I'll meet you there (as long as it isn't raining).

Disc Golf Station - Review (☆☆☆☆)

2011-06-05T21:49:00.000-07:00

    Another first.

Last month, the fantastic folks at Disc Golf Station offered me a free disc in exchange for my review. I explained to them that I was in the market for an under-stable heavy disc and they selected/sent me a DISCRAFT ESP Meteor mid-range (pictured). It is heavy (175 grams) has a great feel on release, and is minutely under-stable.

A brief explanation (for those elderly readers thinking 'backyard Frisbee'). A discgolf disc is referred to as stable when it remains on a straight path no matter how it is spun-thrown (which would be indicated by the number 0.0 in its description). Depending upon which hand you throw with and how you throw, you impart a clockwise or a counterclockwise spin on the disc; almost all discs 'fade slightly' or 'turn greatly' one way or the other, as their spin slows at the end of their flight.

Those discs which turn or fade in the same direction as their spin are referred to as under-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in negative numbers: -0.5 = slightly under-stable, -4.0 = very under-stable.

Discs which turn or fade in the opposite direction from their spin are referred to as over-stable. The amount they fade is indicated in positive numbers: +0.5 = slightly over-stable, +4.0 = very over-stable. (a key I use to remember these terms: O = Opposite, Over-stable, pOsitive numbers).

PROS: Discgolfstation.com has a continually-evolving and wonderful selection of discs. They are aware of the importance of clearly identifying the available weight, stability, and color of each disc they have on-hand. Color is important. I refuse to throw green or blue discs...the colors of professionals and fools (for those who know exactly where their discs will land and those who don't mind losing $15.00 in short foliage). I'm neither. I love that they include free shipping for almost everything. Their discs are comparable (and in a majority of cases cheaper) than I've found in several brick-and-mortar stores. For these reasons, I'll continue to shop for future discs at Disc Golf Station.

CONS: Some of the descriptions on discgolfstation.com are confusing and many don't take into consideration that wear and use will change a disc's flight performance. Strangely, a few of the disc's write-ups explain how it'll fly when thrown in one manner ("for right hand, backhand throws" is found in many places). Any disc-synopsis containing the words 'right', 'left', as well as 'hyzer' or 'anhyzer' (which always need added explanation) is confusing and misleading. Intentionally snubbing every left-handed discgolfer and all those right handed discgolfers who don't throw backhanded seems contrary to good business.

I've been playing disc golf for years and I'm familiar with all the foolish and incomprehensible terms, so I don't pay attention to confusing explanations for what +1.5 or -0.5 means when describing over- or under-stability. I suspect, however, that's not the case with everyone. For the novice shopper, Disc Golf Station could benefit from a clearer and more-succinct emphasis on the browsing and pre-ordering phase.

          Their entire Disc Golf Info page should be re-tooled with a more mature and professional audience in mind. Currently, it begins with: Disc Golf, commonly known as frisbee golf, is the most amazing sport ever invented! Easy to learn and FUN to play..." Gadzooks Batman, it hasn't been referred to as 'frisbee golf' for decades. The flagrant use of exclamation points and CAPS indicates someone thought it'd be neato-keeno to have their ten year old write copy.

None the less, thank you Disc Golf Station, your Discraft Meteor ESP is a fantastic disc.  If you are a knowledgeable discgolfer and are already aware what disc you are looking for, I recommend Disc Golf Station.

Glove Shoes (Glooes)

2011-06-01T00:26:00.000-07:00

      I've always been a little out-there in je-ne-sais-quoi-land when it comes to what I wear on my feet. I think it's probably because, in the military, I had very little footwear options.

          For about five years in the mid-1980s I wore grey puffy moon-boots. In the 1990s I had a pair of deckshoes, made by Timberland, with a foot-hugging gripping padded insert (which they discontinued). It seems when I find something I absolutely love it's a sure-bet guarantee there're very few other people on the planet who think the same way. In the early 2000s I found a pair of leather clogs with a squshy leather insole made by a company in Israel that fit perfectly...so I bought three pairs; one a little larger for when I might need to wear socks.

          Recently, I purchased my first pair of Vibram FiveFingers leather toe-shoes. It's like walking barefoot only with traction and protection. Hiking, disc golfing, no matter where...they are more comfortable than any other summer shoe I've ever worn. I feel as if I'm wearing a thin glove on my feet. I love them.

          Which means they are just too weird and will only be available on ebay soon. So. I'll have to get a few pair in different colors and one a size bigger for socks. Yea...these socks.

Decoration Day

2011-05-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

Please take this moment to think about those who's lives ended while they were wearing a uniform. It doesn't matter if you believe the conflict they were a part of was justified...or even if they did.

It doesn't matter if they were defending the North or the South (Korea, Vietnam, the US...it's always north and south); or if they were searching-for or not-hiding weapons of mass destruction; or if they were the victorious or the massacred (at the Little Big Horn, Twin Towers, or Pearl Harbor). All that matters is they died serving their respective countries or belief-systems, following their orders and protecting others.

LA NOIRE - Review (☆☆☆☆☆)

2011-05-22T14:26:00.000-07:00

          After I was about 24-hours deep into L.A. Noire the 17-year-old son of my fiancée (who'd not yet played) asked, "Do you find your former experience as a cop helps?"

          "No." I said, keeping the hop-headed juvenile delinquent in my peripheral vision while still focusing on the baby booming post-war city of angels (where none are depicted). "In fact, I find the opposite to be true."

If you're a fan of any or all of the games made by Rockstar, you'll like this one and will be in familiar territory. Here, instead of being a gangster (like in all the GTA's) or an outlaw (Red Dead Redemption) you're a good cop in a world of corruption. Just like previous Rockstar's, you still drive any and every vehicle—but in 1947 L.A. you ask politely or 'emergency commandeer' them—but, different from previous games, you must drive carefully; hitting citizens or damaging property ruins your score.

          The map of Los Angeles is huge and there are more puzzles than ever before. Players must find 50 golden film reels (hard—I've only found 2); discover and photograph all the 1947 landmarks; drive 95 different cars (not too hard—I've already found 83); and solve a few dozen crimes by locating evidence and interviewing people.

Here's where being a former cop is a detriment: You choose from truth, doubt, or lie after they answer every interview question. No going back. No do-overs. No interrogations. No repeating yourself. And, if you don't have hard, tangible, evidence in-hand you can't accuse them of lying. But...just like in real life...everyone rarely tells the truth. So far, I'm the worst at determining who's telling the truth and who to doubt (there's a built-in work-around using "intuition points," but I've not resorted to that quasi-cheat—obviously, my downfall).

All the missions in the game could probably reach 'case closed' status in less than 25 total-hours. However, with all the side missions, puzzles, and the occasional case do-over (because your outcome changes depending on the quantity of evidence you compile, confessions you obtain, and collateral damage you avoid) I believe the game will/could take a minimum of 75-100 hours before boredom sets in.

          Although I think LA NOIRE deserves my highest rating, it's not for children. Not because it's rife with the stereotypical misogyny, racism, and hyper-nationalism often depicted in films and TV, which show us post-WWII America through a dark and gritty lens, (e.g. Dragnet, The Killers, The Two Jakes) nor because it contains violence, nudity, and profanity (albeit that's not a bad reason) but because it requires an adult's reasoning and sensibility. If you're old enough to enjoy a black-and-white police procedural you'll understand and appreciate this game.

Sour Beer

2011-05-19T13:44:00.000-07:00

A first.

I enjoy each and every "first" (as one should at my age).

Today it was sour beer.

It has sip-ability. It's not a drink one can consume in quantity or at speed. Think: SweeTarts or Sour Patch candy in a dark beer.

World Bellydance Day Flashmob

2011-05-14T20:11:00.000-07:00

Portland's Pioneer Courthouse Square, 14 May 2001. World Belly Dance Day. Belly dance flashmob (choreographed, directed and produced by my fiancée).

Thought We Had 594 Days? Now It's 14.

2011-05-07T16:30:00.000-07:00

Yuuup...there's always going to be someone out there more bizarre and unstable than normal-weird. I say normal-weird because (as far as I can tell) there's always been a constant median of weirdness everywhere you look. I've come to expect it. If I took a downtown-stroll and didn't see at least a couple normal weirdos, I'd feel deprived—like an 'every-predator-asleep' visit to the zoo. With the population constantly rising, I expect there to gradually be more and more normal weirdos plying their brand of loony in my vicinity; not less....nooope.

But, these two über-weirdos say that starting on the 21^st of May (in two weeks) the earth's going to begin being earthquaked to smithereens. Then, according to their interpretation of an ancient allegorical anthology, over the next 153 days the universe crumbles and finally extinguishes on Friday, 21 October 2011.

Shit! I was hoping to get my golf game consistently under 90 this summer. It was already going to be tough—I just got a new putter—but now, with constant earthquakes, it's going to be nearly impossible. And here I was counting on the 594 more days the Mayan's promised and voting in next year's election as well.

Irishwind: An Amazing Artist

2011-05-05T14:03:00.000-07:00

I have admired Irishwind as an artist for six years. She lives in Singapore and draws like I wish I could. Similar to my work, much of her art relies on pareidolia and apophenia, (which happens to be one of my 2009 titles).

Recently, I learned that some people are either unable or less-prone to seeing "things which aren't there" and, I surmise, that's a primary reason why some don't like abstract art. When someone says they "don't understand" a work of art—what they mean is they are unable to look at (hear, watch) something that relies upon the "abilities" of pareidolia-apophenia (either or both) to appreciate it.

Irishwind's art can be seen here. Go appreciate it! (Even if you are pareapop-blind.)

MySoLiMo - My Song List Month

2011-05-01T00:34:00.000-07:00

In March-April I participated in a month-of-songs. I began by following someone. Once I learned it was a meme, *wards evil-claw while hissing* I began creating my own categories.

Your Favorite Song. Starship Trooper, YES
A Song You Fucking Hate. Fade To Black, METALLICA
A Song That Makes You Happy. Ooh Aah Just a Little Bit, GINA G
A Song That Makes You Sad. Beautiful, CHRISTINA AGUILERA
A Song That Reminds You of Someone. Canadian Sunset, HUGO WINTERHALTER
A Song That Reminds You of Someplace. Knock Three Times, TONY ORLANDO & DAWN
A Song That Reminds You of an Event. Vincent, DON McLEAN
A Song You Know All the Words To. Man of Constant Sorrow, SOGGY BOTTOM BOYS
A Song That Makes You Laugh. No Children, THE MOUNTAIN GOATS
A Song That Describes You. Poor Boy, SUPERTRAMP
A Song You Can Dance To. Block Rockin Beats, THE CHEMICAL BROTHERS
A Song That Makes You Fall Asleep. Surf Sounds, NATURE
A Favorite Song From (Random Year). True, SPANDAU BALLET (1983)
A Song That Reminds You of Elementary School. Winchester Cathedral, NEW VAUDEVILLE BAND
A Song Which Reminds You of a Sport or Job. D'yer Ma'ker (Jamaica), LED ZEPPELIN
The Oldest Song You Enjoy. Boléro, RAVEL
A Fucking Song. Mia Culpa, ENIGMA
Your Favorite Duet. Under Pressure, FREDDIE MERCURY, DAVID BOWIE & QUEEN
Your Paragon of Protest Songs. Why Can't We Live Together, TIMMY THOMAS
Your Favorite Instrumental. The Box, ORBITAL
Your Favorite Foreign Song. Cose Della Vita, EROS RAMAZZOTTI
A Song Which the Color (Random) Reminds You Of. And She Was, TALKING HEADS (green)
Your Favorite Spiritual-or-Secular Song. The Weight, THE BAND & THE STAPLE SINGERS
A Favorite From Your First Compilation Album. Lucky Man, EMERSON, LAKE & PALMER
A Song You Enjoy From Your Least-Listened-To Genre. From A Distance, NANCI GRIFFITH
A Quirky Song You Admire, But Can't Put Your Finger On Why. The Sun King et al., THE BEATLES
A Song That Reminds You of a Favorite Film. Monsters, CHI-AD
A Song Which Reflects Your Opinion On The Weather. Feels Like Heaven, URBAN COOKIE COLLECTIVE
A Favorite Talk Song. Somewhere Down The Crazy River, ROBBIE ROBERTSON
The Newest Song You Enjoy. Wishery, POGO

What The Fuss Is All About Patrick Rothfuss

2011-04-27T13:39:00.000-07:00

About once a decade I "discover" a "new" fantasy/speculative fiction author with sufficient imagination, drive, and wordsmith-ability to hold me rapt for thousands of pages. Normally, I come upon them—whether stumbling by lucky happenstance or navigating by direction—after their trilogy is complete. Not the case with The Kingkiller Chronicle, written by Patrick Rothfuss.

The first 750 pages (The Name of the Wind) were very good. The next nearly-1000 pages (The Wise Man's Fear) were great-to-excellent and better than the first. The third is still being carefully crafted. I hope it's published early in 2012; with sufficient time for me to read it before the end of the world.

Patrick Rothfuss is on the same shelf as: Orson Scott Card, Frank Herbert, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Gene Wolfe.

☆☆☆ Ratings—The Forgettable 3+/- Defined

2011-04-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

Dear anonymous (14-year-old-male) commenter who recommended Sucker Punch and questioned my 3+ rating on Source Code here.

I've previously detailed my unorthodox rating schema.

Simply put: The vast majority of everything is forgettable (the mediocre ☆☆☆).

Over time, we forget things that don't stand-out. ☆☆☆☆☆ are reserved for the few fantastically-great things we witness, and although we try to avoid ☆, occasionally, we step in something terribly-horrible anyway.

Normal rating systems fail to address that the majority of things (over 65%) are forgettable. My system—best visualized as a hyperbolic curve—addresses these bland, middle-range, ☆☆☆, forgettable things by sub-dividing it. 3+ are forgettable with some memorable accomplishments and 3- are forgettable with a few memorable errors.

pogo ∼ snapperhead ∴ pogos ∼ digi-rends

2011-04-22T14:55:00.000-07:00

Today is my thirtieth-consecutive day of my song list month, which I've grown fond of referring to as MySoLiMo. This eight-letter-run-on is a parody of National Novel Writers Month (NaNoWriMo). I pronounce it like an American butchering the Italian song 'O Sole Mio, but I begin with 'My' instead of 'Oh'. Today's title is a reference to my day-14 title: toothbrush ∼ condom ∴ dental caries ∼ ?.

The original meme author's final title was ~~your favorite song at this time last year~~; my similar but less-restrictive category is:

The Newest Song You Enjoy

On March 24^th I began MySoLiMo mistakenly thinking the titles were coming from the incisive mind of Ginny, a writer whom I respect. I also thought it was going to be a video month (that's how she described it at first). Although I began coloring outside the lines on day 3 (when I selected a sad video, instead of a song) the obvious cracks didn't begin to stand out—for me—until after a week (when I began to suspect Ginny wasn't the author and started choosing my own categories). Because I especially enjoy films, and I wanted to steer the meme back toward videos, my day 8 selection was from a film.

Day ten I briefly touched on the difficulty of creating MySoLiMo categories from whole cloth, while cherry-picking from the more interesting original author's titles. The fourteenth-day Ginny confessed to also disliking the titles. Now that I realized I wouldn't be stepping on her toes, I abandoned the original author's titles (albeit I did ridicule and scorn them more than thrice).

I retained the song-theme while continuing to hint at—as well as insert—movie, film, and video (maybe I'll craft a MoFiVoLiMo someday) references whenever the opportunity arose.

Recently I've been listening to Pogo (Australian artist Nick Bertke, not the possum cartoon character who's most memorable caption—quoted in 2009 here—is: We have met the enemy and he is us).

I love everything he pogos. Yes, as a verb. It's not mere remixing; no more than my digital renderings from poached images are just photo-shopping. The pogos (versatile, yup, now it's a pronoun) I enjoy most are those distilled from animated films. However, the pogo from his mother's garden is fantastic (makes me tear-up a little); as is the one I saw excerpted on television last month, about a local place I've hiked (Beaver Creek State Park).

My newest favorite is Pogo's Wishery. It plays to an entire menagerie of affinations: instrumental, talk-song, film, elec-trance, as well as it chimes both my happy and laugh bells.

AFFINATION

2011-04-21T16:09:00.000-07:00

A Favorite Talk Song.

Subtitle: (if you're not into the ol' brevity thing) a music composition incorporating instruments and vocals in such a manner that some, or all, vocals are spoken rather than sung (e.g. the rap genre; the song Tubthumper—a safe example because it's nobody's favorite; or everything by Lou Reed).

          There are quite a few talk-songs I like. I'm not exactly sure why, but, since I am the most qualified to posit a theory, here goes.

          Poetry sounds like a song which has taken a cappella to the extreme. When lyrics are sung the words become part of, and meld with, the song. Speak with instrumental accompaniment, however, and the prose stands out. Tells a story. I have an affination for this type of song-stylin'.

          Here's a thing (more of a tangential aside-thing) affination is a word I've used my entire adult life, but it doesn't mean what I want it to mean. And never has. But. I still use it. Affination (from the—obviously—abridged snapperhead dictionary): A proclamation of strong affinity used in much the same manner as the (real) words: abomination, fascination, consignation, and (especially) affectation.**

          But where was I? Oh, yeah. Talk-songs. Affinity.

The story takes center stage when a singer downshifts the lyrics and speaks some of the song's words. If he or she has an interesting voice—with a story-teller's ear-catching character and inflection—the story of the song is more-easily sculpted into memory.

Even if you haven't heard Lullabye by Shawn Mullins in over a decade, you probably still remember which celebrities her parents hung out with, at big parties?^‡ And, if you (like most) were only confused by the off-putting Mmm(x4) song by The Crash Test Dummies...I still wouldn't be surprised if you, none-the-less, remember why the boy's hair turned from black to bright white?^♦

** If you work in the sugar-processing or metallurgical industries, you may feel affronted by my repurposing your word. Good. I would ask that this not become the one turd in a sea of shit that pisses you off and hope you don't decide to do somethin' about this turd—but I won't. I hope it pisses your federally subsidized asses right-the-fuck off.
‡ Dennis Hopper, Bob Seger, Sonny and Cher.
♦ from when the cars crashed sooo hard.

Free My Mind...Just Free My Mind

2011-04-20T16:40:00.000-07:00

A Song Which Reflects Your Opinion On The Weather.

          The weather, in today's category, is a metaphor. It could have been anything beyond our control; chicken little's non-upcoming apocalypse, solidly proven quantum factoids, the flowering myth of world-wide social equality—anything at all—I just chose weather because it's global (omnipresent), powerful (omnipotent), and everyone has an opinion about it (omnipinint). (Not to be confused with omnipaninint...the burgeoning trend of selling every sandwich on earth with grill lines.)

Feels Like Heaven by Urban Cookie Collective is my metaphorical answer.

But wait.

Why then, does my answer seem meteorological in nature?

      I thought that would be obvious from the tone, young grasshopper.

Whether you're too vain to understand metaphors or your brain can only interpret all the information your senses send to it in such an extremely straightforward manner that you're unable to (free your mind) stop fixating on the weathervane, the answer is still the same.

There is no spoon.

          It's never just a foot massage.

          When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble, give a whistle.

The Prodigal Song

2011-04-19T05:21:00.000-07:00

Today's category: A Song That Reminds You of a Favorite Film.

          Quotes from two favorite films are within my favorite Chi-AD song Monsters.

          The first quote, from Aliens (1986), is a conversation between Newt and Ripley: "Mommy said there weren't bad monsters—not real ones—but there are." "Yes there are aren't there?" "Why do they tell little kids that?" "Most of the time it's true."

          The second is from The Usual Suspects (1995). Kobayashi, the lawyer, saying, "One cannot be betrayed if one has no people."

   I jogged to this song my last three years of military service; its tempo was perfect to set a strong initial pace. Upon retirement, I left the running, bathroom scale, uniforms, alarm clock, barber, and uncountable miscellaneous items and routines behind; this song became forgotten on my jogging playlist. I'm quite pleased this has reminded me of it. Enough to kill a fatted clef.

Sunday's on the phone to Monday

2011-04-18T16:20:00.000-07:00

          A Quirky Song You Admire, But Can't Put Your Finger On Why; everybody has at least one rollin' around back there like a three-legg'd puppy in a truck-bed bouncin' along a washboard road. When you think about it, faster than you can say Bob's yer uncle, you'll give-n-get a smirk with that inside-to-your-ownself smile.

                    but, even if you seriously try
                    to concentrate on all the why
                    n' all the way t' Kokomo pry
                    'til unwrapped-present sighs
                    Go figure

I'm not cheating. Mine is The Sun King et al. by The Beatles. Technically four songs, but not in reality (no more than side-one of Dark Side of the Moon is five). Those who say otherwise ...well... they're as wrong as blue soy turducken and should spin that-there dial back to their fav pop station lickedy-split.*

          I admire The Sun King et al. because...

whimsical non-words and alliterative phrases abound
my bona fide fy-ants is named Pam
I'm a retired police officer
my favorite condiment is mustard
Tuesday's on the phone to me (oh yeah)

*Where else can you find this concise of a sentence containing one hyphenated Americanism, three correctly used homophones, two abbreviated popular slang terms, one three-word malapropism (using a real 3-bird American meal to supplant a politically incorrect adage about homosexuals)?

From a Distance This Ain't No Meme

2011-04-17T19:01:00.000-07:00

My category for this 25^th day of MySoLiMo is A Song You Enjoy From Your Least-Listened-To Genre.

In all fairness, this is slightly similar to day 14's title from the original meme (which I abandoned a few weeks back because most of those titles were befuddlingly redundant and immature). The little girl's title was ~~A Song That No One Would Expect You To Love~~. I criticized it a little already, so I'll just explain why mine is superior. Her verbiage is too restrictive. Readers who ponder it are discouraged when they try-on different songs (in their mental dressing room) and discover none of them fit; either they don't love it, someone on the planet knows them well-enough, or the concept of song expectations is off-putting. My category relies on the simple assumption that everyone has at least one music genre they rarely listen to, but, can still identify an enjoyable song from.

I'm not proud of my prejudices. They aren't a characteristic I routinely discuss (with fingers or voice). My strongest prejudice comes in the form of a sincere disdain for those who proudly enjoy and embrace their own ignorance. It's easier to describe the behavior of these people from a distance. They live in America's rural south—in Texas and Georgia and all the sad states in-between. They enjoy watching cars race around in a circle, wearing impractical costumes, driving impractical vehicles and being hypocrites (reveling in the inherited-hatred of those who differ from them in thought, appearance, or deed...which they blithely rationalize as the will of their creator).

Oh sky cake, why are you so delicious?

This music, the music of those who enjoy flaunting their ignorance—American Country, Bluegrass, and Folk—are the genres I have, and will, listen to the least.

However, I enjoy Nanci Griffith (very much a down-home Texan folk singer). Her voice always contains a wink and a smile. Her lyrics rarely cater to the NASCAR lovin' cowboy, drivin' his HMMWV to church with stars n bars flyin' from his antenna. Her version of From A Distance (written by Julie Gold) is the one I prefer.

The 1^st stanza describes, literally, our planet from high above.
The refrain, 3^rd and 5^th stanzas sketch humans—from a distance—as harmonious, peaceful, and well-fed.
The middle stanza declares: God is watching us from a distance. (Irony?)

Maybe yesterday's song has me still thinking about irony too much. I get the idealized, hope-for-a-better-mankind-tomorrow message. But, within the song's context, isn't it saying: God doesn't exist. If she did, he can't see all the terrible feckin shite we keep doing to ourselves from its distant vantage point. Maybe it's just me and I'm not taking 'distance' metaphorically enough?

A Favorite From Your First Compilation Album

2011-04-16T20:06:00.000-07:00

My first compilation album came from a drug store bargain bin. The full set (two 8-tracks) cost me five dollars, was called Superstars of the 70's, and contained about fifty songs...'only a dime a song!'...was how I rationalized this expenditure to myself.

To put this in some perspective: it was 1976; I earned $2.30/hr; but, because my parents required me to save half of my pay for college, after taxes I received no more than $1.00/hr in pocket-money.

My Favorite Song From My First Compilation Album was—and still is—Lucky Man by Emerson, Lake, and Palmer. There were songs from that double-album I rarely listened to (pushing 'next track' every time they came on) and then there were those I re-listened over-n-over, so often, they're indelibly stamped in long-term memory. This was one of the latter.

My fy-ants (mentioned here) says this song is too sad and depressing for her. For me, it's a perfectly wonderful example of irony...the 'lucky' knight-soldier immortalized by Moog synthesizer.

For those still counting, this is day 24 of My Song List Month (MySoLiMo).

It's Just Me, Carrying My Weight

2011-04-15T19:15:00.000-07:00

Today is Your Favorite Spiritual-or-Secular Song.

The Weight by The Band and The Staples Singers (from the film The Last Waltz, directed by Martin Scorsese) is mine. At first glance, key lyrics (Nazareth, Moses, Judgement Day) hint that this is a religious song. But, each of the stanzas end with all-too human results...the listener eventually realizes that the song's protagonist (as it were) is just a normal human trying, failing, helping, and—ultimately—only succeeding in carrying his own load.

I've been a fan of this film, and especially this version of The Weight, since 1979 when I saw it in the Oriental Theater on Milwaukee's East Side. It was fantastic on the huge single screen. (The Oriental was, unfortunately, sliced into four small screens decades ago). 32 years ago, ten dollars got you a punch-card good for five admissions, which covered all the films showing that day except for the weekend midnight show (Rocky Horror). Normally there were two alternating films, unless a film was longer than three hours (e.g. The Seven Samurai, Lawrence of Arabia). When I saw The Last Waltz it was paired with The Concert for Bangladesh.

I also recall these double features:

King of Hearts & Women in Love (starring Alan Bates)
O' Lucky Man & If... (starring Malcolm McDowell)
Zardoz & Deliverance (directed by John Boorman)
Demon Seed & 2001 (starring evil computer)
Last Tango in Paris & Midnight Cowboy (X rated)
Pink Flamingos & Female Trouble (directed by John Waters)
Sleuth & Marathon Man (starring Laurence Oliver)
Harold and Maude & Being There (directed by Hal Ashby)

I love, enjoy (criticize too)...but most of all, I attend and I tithe. Films are my religion. Theaters are churches. They help me carry my load.

And She Was Random Colors

2011-04-14T17:24:00.000-07:00

           A Song Which the Color (Random) Reminds You Of is today's title.

          Appropriately, And She Was Random Colors is the title of this—my newest digital rendering.

          Clicking on the 'randomize' button of the color generator gave me: grass-green.

          Al Green wrote the song Take Me to the River; although I'm only familiar with the Talking Heads version.

One of my favorite Talking Heads songs is And She Was, which begins with the lyric: "And she was lying in the grass..."

...but then, where is life?

2011-04-13T15:25:00.000-07:00

Today's category is Favorite Foreign Language Song.

In the early-to-mid 1990s I lived in Belgium (mentioned here) but traveled continuously as a protective service agent (fancy name for bodyguard). I tried to find something I liked in the countries I visited (detailed here). In a few—where I wasn't in control of the radio—all I seemed to hear was English or American music. In many more I was able to listen to local music but failed to discover a song-style or musician I liked enough to buy their CD. Not to shock anyone...but fifteen years ago, that really was the only way to re-hear a song you liked from the radio or television.

I spent more than four months in Italy during those three years. (In the protection business, cultivating security relationships can be helpful, therefore, team-members usually returned to countries where they'd made useful contacts. Mine were in France, The Netherlands, and Italy.) It was in Italy where I heard and bought the CD containing Cose della Vita by Eros Ramazzotti. I prefer this original to the 1997 duet-version with Tina Turner.

Just like listening to an Opera in English ruins it (makes me laugh) the translation of these Italian lyrics are unimportant. If I knew them they'd probably lose their je ne sais qua.

Instrumental

2011-04-12T20:16:00.000-07:00

Today's category is Your Favorite Instrumental.

Since electronica and trance (and many of their sub-genres) are my preferred genres, it's simple to understand why Orbital's full version of The Box is my favorite instrumental (The Box Part 1 and The Box Part 2 are almost 13 minutes in length and unavailable on video; this, however, is a good 4 minute sample).

For those unfamiliar with elec-trance—claiming a preference for Orbital is the equivalent of declaring that one's favorite male vocalist of the 50s is Elvis or saying Pink Floyd is your favorite psychedelic rock band of the 70s. I know I'm picking low-hanging fruit. It's the best.

The Paragon of Protest Songs

2011-04-11T15:12:00.000-07:00

          My personal Paragon of Protest Songs (today's category) is Timmy Thomas' 1972 song, "Why Can't We Live Together". The Hammond organ. That punctuation note. Hammering home the message. Demanding your attention with subtle simplicity.

I was a child during Vietnam (that's how everyone referred to it. One word. One noun. Heavily laden with invisible but not silent verbs.) When I joined the "teenager ranks" my requirement to register for the draft in a short five-years didn't seem very distant. I thought my choices were clearly defined by Walter Cronkite on the nightly news: become a scorned soldier who napalmed innocent villagers or join the ranks of protesters beaten by police.
           At thirteen, I didn't want to do either.

The draft was eliminated when I was fourteen.

Vietnam ended when I was sixteen.

          When I entered Purdue University (go Boilermakers) at seventeen, all the protests had faded like my jeans.

Papa (mentioned here and here) passed away from a heart attack in his sleep when I was nineteen years old. At Nana's house, after his funeral, my sister and I sat at the organ (mentioned here) while family members milled, cried, and whispered around us. We both tried to play Timmy's melody and punctuation note; demanding attention with subtle simplicity.

When Two Heads Are Better

2011-04-10T19:58:00.000-07:00

          My song-category for this eighteenth day of thirty is: Your Favorite Duet.

          There are almost as many forgettably-forgotten songs sung by two people in tandem as there are played by groups and sung by soloists. To identify this favorite I ran my mind, ears, and eyes across many such songs, tunes, and titles.

I recall not hating the film Duets directed by Bruce Paltrow and starring Paul Giamatti. The one duet which has always stuck with me from the film—Giamatti singing Try a Little Tenderness with Andre Braugher. Although it's not my favorite duet, by deconstructing it I was able to identify my favorite.

Try a Little Tenderness is a fantastic song. I've heard it sung by several artists. I enjoy the version by Otis Redding and the covers by Three Dog Night as well as The Commitments.   So, first and foremost, a favorite duet must be a great song all by itself, no matter who sings it.

I was a bit surprised to learn that Giamatti and Braugher are capable-to-good vocalists, but there's a reason they both earn their livings acting and not singing. So, the second factor in identifying a favorite duet, is that both singers must be great solo-vocalists in their own right.

          The third and final determinate is the gestalt or the mise-en-scène (if you'll allow a visual metaphor to describe the realm of song). Combine the tunes meter, rhythm, instrument's sounds, vocals, echos, vibrations, silences, etc...with the lyric's words, phrasing, inflections, structure, intended meanings and emotions. Now mix in all the unintended meanings and associated emotions introduced by each listener. The result is a favorite song.

My favorite duet is one which both of the vocalists as well as the band of musicians contributed equally to the creation of, and overall everything of: Under Pressure by Freddie Mercury and David Bowie. They never recorded it together live. None-the-less, this wonderful video adds an additional layer of emotion to the recording.

...turned away from it all, like a blind man; sat on a fence, but it don't work...

Seventeen—You're Ready

2011-04-09T19:05:00.000-07:00

          "Ok, folks! We're back. And we're here with the Insipid family. Talking with their adorably cute young daughter, Brandi. Hello there my dear."
"Hi."
          "Your family already has two strikes. Are you nervous?"
          "Maybe kinda. But, not really. This is, like, pretty simple."
          "Well, the topic is interesting song-meme titles. Two weeks of answers still on the board. Get this one wrong and the Snapperhead's get a chance to steal. What do you say?"
          "~~A Song You Often Hear On The Radio~~?"
"Show us ~~A Song You Often Hear On the Radio~~!"
          *braaaaaaazzzzzz*

          "To steal, Snapperhead, what do you say?"
        "A Fucking Song."
"Are you sure? That can be interpreted as an intensifier, adjective, adverb, verb, emphatic particle..."
"That versatility makes it a brilliant title."
"Show us "A Fucking Song!"
          *bing*

17^th day, seventeen people surveyed said A FUCKING SONG . I'm going with the verb. Mia Culpa by Enigma happens to be the only song I've intentionally programmed to play while fucking.

Sticking with today's dual theme (fucking and 17) and trying to end on a humorous note:

Celebr·ageing Evolu·ddites Not So Fast!

2011-04-08T22:09:00.000-07:00

If you're counting, this is my 16^th consecutive day of song-O-rama. A few of the insipid titles I'm disregarding and replacing with my own: ~~a song that no one would expect you to love~~ (a shadow of yesterday's title) ~~a song that you used to love but now hate~~, and ~~a song from a band you hate~~ (that you used to?..terrible grammar. Both titles are foolish—only a child hates bands and songs).

My title for today is The Oldest Song You Enjoy.

The reason mine is Boléro by Ravel (1928) is this portion of the wonderful 1976 Italian film Allegro Non Troppo, by Bruno Bozzetto. I first watched this humorous homage to Disney's Fantasia in 1979.

Workin at a P'ro Sho'p (pronounced pussy)

2011-04-07T21:33:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Ginny's post clarified (for me) that she's not the author of this month-long-song-o-rama. For days, I've colored outside the lines as well as fabricated a few more interesting (for me) titles. When I, naïvely, thought they were her titles, I bit my tongue; I like Ginny. Now that it's just a stupid meme, I have no compunction expressing scorn for unimaginative titles written by an early-adolescent girl.

I committed to a month. I still want to prove—to myself—I can do it, and I enjoy not only the memory mining but where my creative juices lead (like, an artwork's back-story, a new poem, or a parenting theory) so for the final two weeks, if I decide to fabricate my own title I'll include the insipid child's title (appropriately ~~struck~~) only if it begs comment; as it does today, ~~a song that is a guilty pleasure~~.

If an immature stranger were to criticize my playlist (and I can't imagine a situation, but, going with the premise) I would be unaffected. No friends would do it. A new acquaintance would become a stranger. The concept that someone experiences an emotion they label "guilty pleasure" is foreign to me. I don't do things on purpose that make me feel guilty. There are things which make me feel sated, angry, content, tired, excited, sad, scared, and—occasionally even—bored. Never guilty. That title was written by a twelve year old who still gets her hand caught in the cookie jar and slapped by her mommy.

My title today: A Song Which Reminds You of a Sport or Job.

My first full-time employment was a 1974 summer job at Mississinewa Country Club. I worked in the Pro Shop collecting greens fees, renting carts, selling golf equipment and listening to the radio. I rode to and from work on my ten-speed (which had a radio mounted on its handlebars). Late that summer they hired the recently-graduated highschool senior class president. Mister Charisma. Mister Popular. Mister Charm. I was asked to train him. Me. The dorky boyscout who liked to squeeze in a free 9-holes after shift when there was enough daylight.

One day our shifts overlapped. He joked around. I got the impression he might not look down on me any more than any graduate disdained anyone who just had a learner's permit. Led Zeppelin's new song D'yer Mak'er came on. (LEARNED TODAY: the title is pronounced like saying the country Jamaica with an accent...Dje-May-ka.)

He began to gyrate. He humped the door jam. He replaced some lyrics with other, funnier, ones. It was hilarious. Then he said, "My friend's coming to pick me up. Wanna ride? It looks like it might rain. You could put yer bike in the trunk."

I accepted. And then tried to politely decline when his friend arrived driving an MG.

"No biggy. Sit in my lap." He said.

I sheepishly accepted. Once on his lap, head crammed into the roof, zipping down the county road, he put the 8-track on, turned it to D'yer Mak'er, and began to grind again. His hands on my hips. "Oh Veach, you're so tight. Just relax into it." And the jokes went on and on for half the trip.

"Ok. Very funny. I'm used to being picked on." I said.

Although he giggle-apologized and claimed it was "all innocent fun" I realized he and his friend got much more of a kick out of the comments and actions than would be normal, and it dawned on naïve little highschool-sophomore me: Mister Popular was gay.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

toothbrush ∼ condom ∴ dental caries ∼ ? *

2011-04-06T13:17:00.000-07:00

          Brushing my teeth this morning I thought: with Ginny on sabbatical, what's the best way to select a title without any of the (already discussed) mental entanglements and involuntary pre-approval requirements? Teethbrushing. A song about teeth brushing!

My mind then did what I can't prevent it from doing, and ran a search. About 1 result (.038 seconds). Upon examination, I realized that the one result was an advertising jingle. I discarded it. Began shaving.

My internal stream-of-consciousness dialogue continued. Toothbrushing reminds me...I don't have any cavities. Which is a lie. I have one. When I was thirteen the dentist discovered a crack in the enamel of my top-right-rear molar. He said it would become a cavity and so I got a filling. But, since it wasn't yet a cavity I'm not really telling a lie when I say I've never had a cavity...only if I were to ever say 'I don't have any fillings'.

I wonder. Why do I have only one? My blood relatives all have much worse dentition, so it's not genetics. Is my oral hygiene routine better? I brush twice a day, but I never floss, and I haven't seen a dentist in so long I can't remember. So, that can't be it. Maybe I brush better than others; could once when I wake up and once before bed be sufficient?

At this point my brain forces itself to do calcuations. Struggles. It can't be that hard. Math. But it is. Finally, I come up with: 830 times a year; 832 on leap years. Then... Fuck I'm terrible even at multiplying 365 times two! And, again finally, I arrive at: 730, 732 on leap years.

Others may say they brush regularly. But, like my no cavities but one filling shite, people lie. Even to themselves. How about others I've lived with? I've witnessed their routines. All my sig-o's possess relatively bad teeth. So maybe I've kept the evil bacteria at bay for a lifetime because I've never skipped a 1/2 day. Others fudge. They may say they brush but I know they forget because I witnessed it, smelled their breath, and paid their dentist bills.

Just like they also said they were on the pill. Or they couldn't get pregnant.

I've paid those bills too.

My first abortion—four years after my one and only filling (to date)—cost me $300.

Six years later my on-the-pill wife got pregnant, which cost me more than a little bit of freedom of choice (I joined the military to have both an income and attain free natal care).

And we mustn't forget the child support payments which began three years after that.

Another three years...let's see...didn't use a condom because she said she couldn't get pregnant, which resulted in another abortion. And another several years after that. (Totally on me. Because the adage "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, I'm a moron who deserves to be force-fed off the idiot's menu" very much applied to me in that instance there). I got into the shower and began washing my hair.

          Many say they're against abortion but their regimen to prevent tooth decay is not really strict habit but, in fact, more sketchy practice. Like the practice of birth control. If I skip a day or three of brusha-brusha-brusha what's the worse case scenario? Several hundred dollars poorer and a few hours, maybe a day, of discomfort after the offending tooth is extracted.

Wait...where was I going with this? My brain confused itself. Like it does. How did mulling over dental hygiene successes become discombobulatentwined with birth control failures?

          Steering blindly back onto the perfect smile highway, I wonder, what about that tooth experiment, in third grade, at Meadowbrook Elementary in New Haven, Indiana? The school where I had to run around the outside edge of the gymnasium, while listening to...

          Ahh HA! The title for today is: A Song That Reminds You of Elementary School.

The gym teacher played the same song every day. We were permitted to stop running when the music stopped. He would, randomly, lift the arm of the record player mid-song and... finally!...we could walk a while. Catch our wind. Then he'd start it over near the beginning. With the whistling. Winchester Cathedral (which I always called "wind" chester) by The New Vaudeville Band will always remind me of that elementary school.

About the dental experiment (don't worry, I never forget the punch line). A week after we returned our permission slips, the whole school filed into the cafeteria. We were patiently instructed by doctor-like people wearing white coats. They told us what they expected us to do. In front of each of us was a small paper container and a new toothbrush in cellophane. In each paper cup was a brown gritty-looking goop like substance. We were to unwrap the toothbrushes, scoop the paste onto the bristles, and—all at the exact same time—brush our teeth, all-over, for two full minutes. We were warned it would not taste good. But, they said, it would only be effective if we kept brushing the entire two minutes. It was going to help fight cavities, they said.

They had us all hold our toothbrushes over our heads while assistants and teachers walked around and inspected. The head white-coat did on your mark, get set, go! And we all began to brush.

It wasn't as terrible as some of my classmates made out. Some quit immediately, stood, and began spitting on the floor. Others made it longer and got to the trash cans near the front table with the water cups. All this time the teacher's assistants, teachers, and the "doctors" talked over the din...keep going and sit down and one more minute! I felt like I was brushing my teeth with a salty soap mixture made of mostly beach sand. The idea I have a mouthful of dirt was the hardest. As the countdown made it to ...ten, nine, eight... I stood up, kept brushing, moved to the front table and took a cup of water. At the ok, you can stop now point, I began swishing and spitting into a trash barrel.

*Abortions (for those stumped by the titular riddle-equation, who don't want to read this whole long article).

This is the SOUND of my SOUL

2011-04-05T19:23:00.000-07:00

I've had so many preferred songs, bands, and even genres in the five-feckin-hundred months which have elapsed since I started formulating favorites (described here) that it seems unfair/impossible/cheating to pick one. I could never only eat just one.

It's not that Led Zeppelin would get jealous if I said I like Pink Floyd better. Nor would Chicago Transit Authority get a bruised ego if I chose Fleetwood Mac over them, either. But as the last dozen days have shown, it is better—for me—to tie either an emotional balloon or a temporal anchor to my selection switch.

Ginny's title—a song from your favorite band—seems like it's missing that connection with my past or my soul or my sumthinerother. I prefer: A Favorite Song From (Random Year).

I used a random number generator to choose the year. With the parameter years between when I was 12 years old and today (52). The generator selected one integer for me. It chose 24.

I turned twenty-four years old in 1983.

Sticking with Squire as the font of all knowledge, I used Squire's favorite chalkboard to remind me what songs were released in 1983; then what songs were hits in 1983. (Unsurprisingly, it lists all years.)

From that quick scan of albums, artists, and songs I remembered many...but one was my favorite that year: Spandau Ballet, True. (My bona fide fy-ants will karaoke it, sometimes. She sings it fantastically.)

Sleepus Interruptus

2011-04-04T16:00:00.000-07:00

          My brain often reminds—I was once much more free of cares.
          In the pajama years, my heart thrummed light all thru the night.
          Until my supposedly-asleep adolescent ears heard Johnny Carson.
          On Tonight, in black & white, he jested about statistics. Sleep attire.
How much we wore; at what age. My brain no longer retains the funny.
It probably wasn't (even though Ed, Doc & the audience had to chuckle).
          That night, my mind decided to completely remove myself from childhood.
I tossed it, rumpled, on the rug—the next morning I dropped it in the hamper.
          The next thirteen and a half thousand nights weren't carefree—my brain recalls.
          There were the bunks of clothed nights in open-bay barracks hounded by snores.
The months singing the sleepingbag blues, just catchin a snooze in all but my shoes.
And the occasional fright; foxhole without light; desperate night forced to nap upright.
Or even those rare unkissed but unmissed, pulling the full-moon into the next's sun-rays.
          Sleep is now a skittish kitten, creeping in after all sounds (internal and external) extinguish.
White noise from a nearby brook does help damp down the unexpected, nearby coyote's yip.
Earplugs help transcontinental flights or when an inconsiderate bucking fastard is playing music.
          From books on the nightstand to Bogie downstairs on-demand, the sandman has many assistants.
          Warm mint tea in the evening, a bedtime valerian/melatonin dose and then a nice refractory period.

Ginny's title today: A Song That Makes You Fall Asleep caused me to sketch this prose-ish poem. There are no songs that make me fall asleep, lull me toward rest, nor do anything besides wake me...except white noise or—like the two-hour nap inducing video above—waves (and I might even be woken around the 17 and 42 minute marks of this, when some rude seagull shouts 'wake up!').

BackwidanodrwunadozBlokRoknBEATS

2011-04-03T12:16:00.000-07:00

Today's title: A Song You Can Dance To reminds me of my current reality. I don't "hit the dance floor" with enthusiasm anymore. I don't have the energy I once had. I'll join my partner on occasion, but I don't enjoy it (unless I'm not driving, have imbibed sufficiently to no longer care that I look like a goofy gyrating grampa, and the right music is playing). The Chemical Brothers, Block Rockin Beats is still the right music.

Crisis? What Crisis?

2011-04-02T13:57:00.000-07:00

...when half of what they got, you know, they never will use. Enough to get by suits me fine; I don't care if you think I'm funny...

I've got the baton. I enjoyed following Ginny, but yesterday she forwarded all her planned titles, which—I think—means she's relayed the song-a-day baton. Hopefully she'll resume. Until then, I'll cherry pick from her list and make up my own until...questionmark.

Choosing a title is much more complex than the linear exercise of identifying a song to fit someone else's title. This conundrum (similar to mentally wrestling with a kōan) stems from my mind instantaneously "discarding" titles which don't immediately pair-up with a tune from my frontal and parietal lobes. Even when I remind myself the challenge is to force yourself to dredge deep; you can't do that if you're putting the song before the title, my conscious brain still cheats when it competes with itself. I never could finish a paint-by-numbers, because I already knew what it would look like.

Today's title: A Song That Describes You.

The Supertramp song, Poor Boy, succinctly describes my personal politics, character, as well as a portion of my attitude (lassitude?) towards others and life in general. The "mouth-trumpet" which bookends the song is a key ingredient to my enjoyment of it. For me, it imbues an attitude of: too destitute to own an instrument but not too proud to fake it.

The one lyric which captures me best: Although I'll rant an I'll rave about one thing an' another...the beauty of it is (hope you'll agree)...tho' I'm a poor boy, I can still be happy, as long as I can feel free.

No Children

2011-04-01T13:07:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of being a good military wingman (Ginny's probably currently engaging the enemy with Gatling guns a-blazin) and a desire to—mixed metaphor ahead—pick up the fumbled ball and serve it with scallions and cheese...I'll keep her video-for-a-month thing going with an abstruse tip o' the dunce cap to April 1^st (All Fools Day). My title for today is A Song That Makes You Laugh.

The Mountain Goats, No Children fits perfectly by causing giggle fits.

I was never mentally supercharged enough to orchestrate an April Fools Day Joke. Days like today were the bane of my youth. In pre-cellphone years not only would I arrive an hour late each year on the day after Spring-forward's daylight savings but six months later I'd arrive an hour early after failing to Fall-back; I'd always get pinched for failing to wear green on March 17^th; and I seemed to be a prank-magnet every April's Fools Day morning (after falling for the first one, I'd then engage my remain-vigilant and overly-suspicious filter).

Ahhh've Seen Trouble All My Days

2011-03-31T00:10:00.000-07:00

As a serial monogamist, I've been involved with, married to, or in a serious relationship with, a relatively small quantity of women. Over the decades, I willingly adapted to the druthers, hobbies, and preferences of my partner. I started with Catholic Mass (I was young, forgive me for my hypocrisy) and over the next thirty years, as I dumped /slash/ became the dumpee /slash/ agreed we should go our separate ways...I morphed. From church, to wherever any other military personnel would not be, to bingo, to wherever her boyfriend wouldn't be, to slot machines, to hiking trails, to dance clubs, to casinos, to . . .

In 2003 I fell in love with a woman who loves to sing Karaoke. Last year she agreed to be my fiancée (pronounced fy-ants). And, can't forget to mention: she's bona fide.

Did you know that is the grammatically correct spelling? Two words? Latin? I didn't. Not until this very moment. Which is what Ginny's 30-day marathon is supposed to accomplish! Today is Day 8: A song you know all the words to.

Now I—too—kroak on occasion; and I've learned the words to some. One of my favorites is The Soggy Bottom Boy's rendition of Man of Constant Sorrow. Here's why it is the perfect song to sing in public:

Not many sing it because nobody remembers the artist or title.
Once the first chords begin...everybody recalls it from the film, and loves it.
It's short.
You can almost talk all the words with a breathy nasal twang.
There are a few well-spaced instrumental breaks so you can catch your breath.
If you over-pantomime a few hillbilly-esque step-turn-kicks and duck-walks (from the film) while pretending to run your thumbs under shoulder straps you can OWN the audience.

Birthday Event

2011-03-30T16:46:00.000-07:00

          Ginny's title the 7^th day of this month-long videorama is A Song That Reminds You of a Certain Event.

          How apropos.

          Today is my birthday.

My favorite impressionist painter was also born today.

I'm unsure which came first—learning that our births were exactly 106 years apart or falling in love with his brushstroke-genius. Vincent by Don McLean always reminds me of today. As an added coinkeydink...my favorite painting is at the three-minute and thirty-second point of this video.

For all the skeptics who don't believe in coincidences: Ginny and I didn't discuss today's topic ahead of time. It's just a happy circumstance that her song reminds her of giving birth and my song reminds me that Vincent Van Gogh's and Veach Glines's geboorte verjaardag valt samen. Since, in the US, today's date is depicted: 3-30; I also didn't coordinate with the creator of this video to insure Wheatfield with Crows would appear at the 3.30 mark...and it really has been my favorite since 1994, when I saw it at the Van Gogh Museum.

1970, Winter, Ohio

2011-03-29T00:07:00.000-07:00

...one floor below me you don't even know me, I love you...

- Caught my Mother in a lie; began filtering my thoughts and actions (and stopped confiding).
- Had my first crush on a classmate—Janice Brailer (but not on her twin, Janet).
- Discovered masturbation (far out, man).
- Began to cultivate a new-found interest in music different from that favored by family members.
- Asked for a Panasonic Ball Radio for Christmas, which I'd seen in a magazine.
- Joined the Nashport Elementary basketball team (a mean feat for the shortest boy in class).
- Became crossing guard (allowed to be late for first period; had to leave last period before everyone else).

I actually received the Christmas present I asked for—unheard of in my family—since we normally received clothes, books, safe and sanitized bargain-bin toys which may have been popular a year or two prior, and odd things that mom and ²dad wrongfully concluded we would enjoy. I hung this radio on my headboard and listened to it constantly until the battery died. And the next battery. And the next. Weeks. Months. Any rainy weekend, most winter evenings, every night...I was in my bedroom with the door closed. Doing homework. Reading books. Beating off while fantasizing about Janice. But always listening to my radio.

Day 6 of Ginny's month o' videos title is A song that reminds you of someplace. Knock Three Times by Tony Orlando and Dawn, reminds me of that entire winter.

All About My Mother2 and Parenting Skills

2011-03-28T18:01:00.000-07:00

The prefixes great- and grand- before "parent" measure both the distance along a family tree and (oft-times inappropriately) imply a distinguished performance, therefore, I'll use more algorithmic pronouns. Grandfather is father²; great-grandparents are parents³ (ad infinitum).

My parents⁵ (on mom's-father²s-side) would have thought the need for parenting skills was as ridiculous a concept as paying for water. They came from people of means. This was New England in healing-from-civil-war American times! Not only was indoor plumbing making it easier to relieve oneself with comfort—no more trudging to the outhouse in the middle of the night with a kerosene lantern and a Sears & Roebuck catalog—but this newfangled electricity-thingy was making all manner of things easier. Just in time too. The first Republican president's emancipation-thingy meant you had to cut back on the unpaid-household staff and all the nannies had been the first to go.

My parents⁴, proud Bullards from the northern Bullard stock, sent their son (father³) to Exeter Academy. He matriculated to Harvard with all of his schoolmates as was expected of him. After college, he married a Davis (mother³). She was also from a family of means and her uncle⁵ had been Isaac Davis.

My father² was ~~shipped off to boarding school just like his father~~ a legacy at Exeter Academy. Unlike his father, however, he dropped out of Harvard because he impregnated my mother² and needed a job now that he was all-but-disowned. His mother, always very full of herself, said to him—about my mother²—"How could you? With the low-born offspring of common grammar school teachers! Your life is over! Now you'll never amount to anything."

My mom—the compound-product of generations of the never-parented—couldn't attend Exeter Academy like her brother (my uncle) because of that unfortunate born-with-a-vagina-thingy. Instead, she got a summer waitressing job at The House on the Hill, an inn and restaurant in Kennebunkport, Maine, run by my father's parents. Mom did, however, fully embrace her parent's pregnant-before-marriage-thingy. And then dad had to stop busing tables and join the Navy in order to support his newly formed unplanned family.

I never knew my dad, Leverett Glines, nor any of his ancestors because my mother divorced him when I was just three and then moved us back-in with her parents—my parents²—whom I called Nana and Papa.

For the few years we lived at Nana and Papa's house (until my mom re-married and we moved in with my ²dad) Nana would oft times attempt to lull me to sleep, naptimes and bedtimes, by playing music on the 45rpm record player which was always positioned on the back of the organ, or by playing the organ itself. Of the stack of 45's she played over-and-over, I strongly remember only one. This one. And everytime I hear this song, Canadian Sunset by Hugo Winterhalter, I remember my Nana.

Nana...who recognized she'd been a terrible parent and tried to make up for it by cutting all the crust off her ²son's Fluffernutters made with Wonderbread and slicing them into strips she called "little soldiers." Nana, who put a scoop of vanilla in my rootbeer and called it a "Brown Cow frappé". Nana, who—referring to her scornful mother-in-law—said: "Great-Nana Bullard somehow thinks being distantly related to the only damn-fool-idiot killed by the 'shot heard round the world' is somethin to be so very proud of."

I have absolutely no parenting skills (and don't miss not having them, either). Is that because of my genetics? My environment? Probably because of heaping dollops of both.

This is Ginny's Day 5: A song that reminds you of someone.

Sad Beautiful

2011-03-26T20:22:00.000-07:00

Watching Christina Aguilera sing I Am Beautiful will chime no more emotional bells than Andy Rooney creaking I Am Elderly or Mel Gibson blathering I Am Crazy...but, every time I watch the two-minute video of Madame Aguilera's tune being sung by an animated ostrich, it strums my heartstrings, brings tears to my eyes, and—no matter how many times—makes me feel a little sad.

Although today's topic in Ginny's video-a-day challenge was 'song that makes you sad,' I decided (like I do) to color outside the lines a bit. Not because there aren't plenty of songs which make me sad. Oh sure there are me'boyo. By the raft load. Hell, I'm ovaries-deep in male menopause. I get a wee bleary if I overhear someone discussing In The Ghetto by the late-great Mister Presley. [Note: I've not a clue why the last few sentences came out as if I were a leprechaun. But, they did. And re-reading them made me giggle, so I left them.]

I jumped aboard this thirty day cruise because Ginny kicked it off four days ago by smashing her "video-a-day" bottle of bubbly across the bow. So even though this song, alone, doesn't make me even a little bit sad—in this video, it does. And has ever since I saw it six years ago.

Sad songs are better if you begin listening in a happy mood. If you're not happy right now, listen to yesterdays song first.

Wit Animation "Pretty Bird"

Dose Aurally as Needed = Happy

2011-03-26T00:50:00.000-07:00

There are certain beats, chord combinations, and rhythm syncopations which strike us viscerally. I think everyone should become as self-aware as possible—which, along with identifying mood-altering sounds, includes learning your odors, flavors, tactile sensations, and visual stimuli.

I'm calmed by seeing earth-tones (especially orange), tasting vanilla or wintergreen, and smelling lilac. There's a dusty powdered-rose odor that can cause me to become quite angry if I'm not able to get out of its aura of influence fast enough. And, I wrote about a song yesterday (this is Day 3 of follow-the-Ginny title: A Song That Makes You Happy) which makes me uncomfortable if I hear it.

Gina G's, Ooh Aah Just A Little Bit turns my amp up to eleven and bludgeons happiness into my nervous system. I don't really like the song very much. It's too chirpy and bubblegummy. But medicine doesn't have to taste good. If I'm down, all it takes is three minutes. Anyone who can stay in a bad mood after hearing this song is a hardcore angerball scrooge-grinch.

...you know what I'm lookin for...

Fade To Black

2011-03-25T02:29:00.000-07:00

          Until the summer of 1990, there was nothing in my Song You Fucking Hate category. Sure, there were (and are) entire genre's I don't like to listen to, but fucking hate? Strong words for a few minutes of lyrics surrounded by a melody. However.

          The song Ginny fucking hates is Kenny Loggin's - Playing with the Boys. In her video-a-day challenge (which I'm shadowing—today is Day 2) she states: "...I hate the living snot out of this horrible (yet refreshingly homo-erotic) soundtrack abomination..." She chose not to detail much in the way of why. In my case, I have an explanation. You betcha.

          After eight years as an Infantryman and MP, in the spring of 1990 I began my apprentice year as an CID Agent at Fort Benning, Georgia. At the risk of overusing the adverb du jour by using it twice in one sentence (and this might go without saying) it's important to underscore at this point in my tale about a song I fucking hate, that summer in the southeastern United States is-was-and-forever-shall-be fucking humid. As I arrived at work 0700 on Monday, 18 June 1990, the temperature was in the mid 90s (34 Celsius) and the humidity was over 80%. The dress shirt under my suit jacket was soaked-through with sweat just from walking from my air-conditioned car to my air-conditioned office. I was the "Duty Agent" today and, therefore, would be the lead investigator on all crimes reported to this office for the next 24 hours. At 0730 the MP Desk Sergeant informed me of an alleged suicide. This would be my first as a Duty Agent.

The fifteen foot (4.5 meter) square barracks room I needed to search, measure, collect evidence from, photograph, sketch, dust for prints, describe in detail, and videotape, was not air-conditioned. Its windows were closed. I had to keep its door closed.

          The room contained a bunk bed set, two desks with chairs, two wall lockers (wardrobes), a large stereo system, a television, a small area rug, and fifteen assorted rifles. One nearly headless body wearing an Army BDU (green/brown/black camouflaged uniform) was on the tile floor near the wall opposite the door. A brain was laying next to a loaded M16 rifle inside a pool of coagulating blood about the size of an adult's hula-hoop. A portion of the back wall and ceiling above the body was splattered with blood, tissue, hair and bone fragments.

I processed that scene for over two hours wearing plastic gloves on my hands before I could allow the mortuary assistant to enter the room. Then, because he was alone, I helped him load the body into a body bag and used the cardboard backing from a pad of paper to scoop the brain into the bag.

Prior to shooting himself in the face with two rounds of 5.56 NATO ammo, the soldier had programmed a Metallica CD to play the song Fade To Black, indefinitely. The volume was set to about 25dB. So quiet that, although I was aware the stereo was on, it took me more than 20 minutes to realize I was hearing the same song over and over. While processing the scene, I had to listen to that song—his fucking suicide note—at least a dozen times before I could dust the stereo for prints and turn it off.

          The inside of that room was well over 110 degrees (44 Celsius) before I finished—I was constantly wiping my face and neck with a towel to prevent my sweat from contaminating the scene. Dealing with the smells was memorably unpleasant...but the song. I still can't listen to it without feeling uncomfortable (so, if the video below doesn't play correctly please let me know).

I am here to testify that the Ludovico Technique from Clockwork Orange is real (although Metallica is not Beethoven and I was never a huge fan). After processing this suicide, I immediately began to create the work of art pictured at the top of this article (also titled: Fade To Black). I finished it in about three months. It was approximately 5' x 3' x 18" deep (1.5m x 1m x .5m); acrylic paint on spray foam, constructed on a wood and metal base. I sold it in 1999.

Like a Version: squatting over someone else's fire

2011-03-24T17:53:00.000-07:00

          There are some high-quality writers I eagerly look forward to reading. Andrew Vachss, Dean Koontz, and Malcolm Gladwell are three (off the tip of my temporal cortex) who've sufficiently proven themselves that I spring for their hardback.

          There are other writers who I feel the same way about. Ginny is one. Because she posts infrequently, I normally check monthly for new articles on her site, Praying to Darwin. Today, I discovered she just lit a self-inflicted fire under her own ass. The intent of Ginny's post a video-a-day for a month self-challenge, in her own words: Who knows what kind of stuff that’ll make me write about?

          If I'd not checked on Praying to Darwin until after April Fools Day—and she was already a couple posts into this challenge (I say this because I can't completely avoid commenting on the funny flying pink elephant in the corner)—I wouldn't think about joining hands in solidarity or in emulation or in an icky meme-like fashion. But. This is her day one. That's a sign. A SIGN, I SAY. So. I'm in.

          I enjoy spurring myself towards discovery, research, and the crystallization of ideas (both new-to-me and new). This was why I compiled Like a Version: My Alpha-vile Autopsy. Creating the pics and mining for just the right words in order to identify an alphabet of things I dislike was an extremely self-informative challenge.

          Back to Ginny's Day 1 topic: My Favorite Song. Her's is Everlong by the Foo Fighters. I hadn't seen the video in a decade and didn't remember it. It contains overlapping dream sequences.

          I have an aversion to dream sequences. It's not strong enough to call dislike, but I recognize my avoidance urge. I'm bothered by them (which my little sister once called dream sequins and then got mad when I wouldn't tell her what I was laughing about) because when a story uses a dream to explain what a character is thinking I can't stay in the story. Flashback's are fine; story within a story—also fine; jumps in time, yup, still fine...but when a character says, "I had this dream..." Nope. As I read (or watch) my mind keeps reminding: this is just a dream.

          I feel the same avoidance urge when reading fiction and the main character is a writer; or watching a TV show, play, or film about an actor; or listening to a song about music; or when the poem is about poetry; or the artwork is about the medium; or the joke is about being funny.

          There are exceptions, but most creative people don't have what it takes to craft a convincingly successful multiple reflection in a mirror. Or a dream.

          Following in the shadow of Ginny's footprints—my favorite song...anchoring me in time. The instrumentals of Starship Trooper by Yes are as important (if not more) than the lyrics.

...take what I say in a different way and it's easy to see that this is all confusion...

Poaching From Other Artists To Make Art

2011-03-21T19:44:00.000-07:00