Creative genius comes with side-effects

          The Self Help Center exposes some uncomfortably sharp reflective pieces which don't quite mesh inside of it's author, Romius T.  Occasionally I glimpse counterparts in myself.  If Philip K. Dick wrote a digital journal (instead of his Exegesis) or if Hubert Selby Jr. had blogged, this is how they would read.  Since an introduction in any other form seems impossible, I offer a snapshot-travelogue-of-sorts:

5½ years ago—

Here's a list of things you normally take for granted until you are faced with unemployment:
   1. A fresh box of Arm and Hammer odor dissolving baking soda for the freezer and refrigerator.  [If one of you would just click through a google ad, and buy some baking soda for christ sakes.]
   2. Health care.
   3. (2) two-liters a day cola habit is hard to break.

5 years ago—

While it's true that I have been eating better on food stamps than during my time with Arizona's Superior Court, it couldn't last forever.  First there was that annoying sound my roommate would make everytime of the month rent comes around.

4½ years ago—

About Me.  I was told every blog should have one of these.  I am 38.  I work in a grocery store.  I am an atheist and a Marxist.  I have acid-reflux disease, and for a white guy I can make a pretty mean homemade refried bean tostada.

4 years ago—

First, real beauty does not come in all shapes and sizes.  I don't care if Tyra suddenly feels sympathy for fat chicks, they still is ugly.  And I know a little something about ugly.  Hell my memoirs are called "Memoirs from the short bald fat white guy who sits next to you on the bus who wants to get your attention but quickly averts his eyes when yours meet."

3½ years ago—

Of course it's 2:38 in the morning and I am on my 4th Natural Light beer.  Don't ever bet against me—no matter how much you think the guy in the Fast in the Furious is not Ja Rule—otherwise you too will be offering up your secret beer stash to me.

3 years ago—

If you could feel my jugular right now you would feel how it is pounding away at me.  My fat isn't the jiggly kind.  It's more like hard yellow brick.  Sometimes it feels like the blood feels all pudgy and gets stuck in my veins.  I want to rub it.  To coerce it through back through my veins like jelly stuffed in a donut.  But I hear that is the worse thing you can do for a clot.  You rub a clot and it could pass through right to your brain or to your heart.

2½ years ago—

We were at the Dollar PBR bar.  Only today is not Dollar PBR.  So instead we drank 4 or 6 pitchers of beer.  The beer was warm and we stuck a plastic cup of full of ice in the pitcher to keep it cold.

My ex-roomie has the Gout.  He drinks way too much.  I drink way too much.  I can't think of any other reason, (other than the Bone Cancer) that my foot should hurt.  I must have the Gout too.  I have to stop drinking.  If I stop drinking I will soon have to kill most of the people I meet in my customer service line.

2 years ago—

I must love punishing myself like some kind of co-dependent housewife or something, because I always take jobs where I have to deal with complaints, assholes, and upset people, or just people in general.  Why do I forget that I hate people?

1½ years ago—

My stomach feels like I swallowed a pine cone and I am now trying to squeeze it through my intestines.  I guess that is why I am awake at five in the morning and why I've decided I would get this post out about "how my blog turned 4 years old last week and nobody cared."  I started blogging 5 years ago on March 5, 2003.  I was working for the local county at a self help center and library.  I sold divorce forms and helped people get restraining orders.  I used to save lives for a living before I bagged your groceries.

1 year ago—

I start the dishwasher.  I glance at the left over dishes.  4 wine glasses.  4 shot glasses.  I need to take out the trash.  I need to shower.  My face feels grimy.  I may have smeared the bacon fat.  I look dumbly in the mirror.  I hope to see something that is not there.  I see the growing scalp line appear where once there was hair.  The computer hums in the background.

6 months ago—

July 30th is the fifth birthday of this blog.  You might think I would be excited about that.  But I am not.  Somehow celebrating the five year anniversary of a blog that has attracted 12 readers only makes me want to cry.  You can't celebrate 12 readers.  Just like you can't celebrate how the writing on this blog has gone from awful to almost better.

4 months ago—

Anybody else just really tired of trying, I mean fuck, I've worked my ass off for almost 20 years and I am still barely just scraping by.

2 months ago—

I think the coke we bought had to have been cut with meth.  Actually I am sure all coke is cut with meth.  I am so not addicted to coke that a line sits on a paper plate hidden in my dresser drawer.  I did not finish it off last night.  I did not use it as a perk for getting up early and going to work this morning.  I did not snort it up as soon as I got home.  I did not think about doing the line while I stood around at work today.  I am not even thinking about doing it right now.

1 month ago—

I had 4 beers before I took the pill.  My ruddy complexion is even redder today than normal.  My face feels quite warm to the touch.  Almost alarmingly warm.  Though I have had the feeling that I am running a temperature all day long.

Two weeks ago—

I have discovered: the connection, warmth, and empathy that I lack in real world.  I know E is fake.  All you do is sit on the couch with your friends touching fingers.  But when I take E I get all the "feelings" you take for granted.  I know it destroys brain cells.  But let's face it.  I have not been using those brain cells for anything.

Today—

Maybe you don't know this, but we are all going to die.  I think that life is like a video game.  That even if you beat the Donkey Kong arcade game and get a million points and finish the 39th level—some one unplugs your machine.  I guess what I am trying to say is that at some point all of our high scores get deleted.

When I was a younger man, art was a lonely thing.  No galleries, no collectors, no critics, no money.  Yet, it was a golden age, for we all had nothing to lose and a vision to gain.  Today it is not quite the same.  It is a time of tons of verbiage, activity, consumption.  Which condition is better for the world at large I shall not venture to discuss.  But I do know, that many of those who are driven to this life are desperately searching for those pockets of silence where we can root and grow.  We must all hope we find them. — Mark Rothko

Sometimes we have the absolute certainty that there's something inside us that's so hideous and monstrous that if we ever search it out we won't be able to stand looking at it.  But it's when we're willing to come face to face with that demon that we face the angel. — Hubert Selby Jr. (Requiem for a Dream)

I may be mistaken...aren't quail wings white meat?

         With a hat-tip and head-nod to Mary Whitsell and her Resident Alien post, A Case of Mistaken Identity...I share:

Northern Arizona — From my porch I watched a row of birds dashing single-file about as fast as their short legs could carry them across a corner of the yard and I asked my (then, new) girlfriend if she could ‘see the partridges from where she’s sitting?’
          ‘You mean the quail?’
          ‘Quail?  No.  The little bobble of feather-tuft on their head...like an antenna...I'm pretty sure that makes them partridge.’
          ‘Nope, quail.’ The smile in her voice contrasted with the (new to me) question-at-your-own-risk tone I immediately perceived as a challenge (which I've never learned to completely stop questioning, but I've certainly learned to respect...maybe 85% of the time).
          ‘I’ll bet you an hour back-rub that those are partridge.’
          ‘Deal.’

          It only took a few minutes of research for me to learn that, although both are in the pheasant family, she was right—they were quail.  Why was I convinced they were partridge?  I blame the producers of the 1970's TV show The Partridge Family.  In the producers defense, the California Partridge has a tuft on it’s head like quail, so maybe the “Come on now, and meet everybody...”  little family of bird caricatures shown during the “Come on get happy!”  intro-credits aren't completely to blame for the back massage I had to give.

Silence is so accurate.  —  Mark Rothko

Virtual Sistine Chapel - Gif Generator

Click above to see the art of the Sistine Chapel and below to view and make your own gif-art.

We assert that the subject is crucial, and only that subject matter is valid which is tragic and timeless. — Mark Rothko (Marcus Rothkowitz/Rotkovich, 1903-1970)

Intelligently Evolve

          Evolution is the change in the inherited traits of organisms through successive generations.  Anyone who wants to see proof of ongoing 'forced' human evolution should tune their television to any American Sports Network.

          Historical recap:

1. Between the 1500's and 1800's hundreds of thousands of humans were kidnapped on the continent of Africa and transported to The United States (nee: British North America) where they were forced to serve as chattel slaves.  Only the strongest and healthiest—and their strongest and healthiest offspring—survived the slave ships, and the new world's diseases, and the legal punishments, and the life of forced labor.
2. After the abolition of the slave trade (around 1800) and before the passage of the 13th Amendment (1865) slave owners increased their chattel using an internal slave trade and by focusing on breeding a self-reproducing labor force.  The census of 1860 lists over 4 million slaves in the US.

3. Until 1967, many laws prohibited inter-racial marriage or sex between races.

          If one were to imagine a quick and efficient means of engineering super-humans...it might entail selecting a group of muscular people and forcing them to exclusively inter-breed.  Then, by forcing them to constantly labor and use their muscles, one could identify "best breeding pairs" as well as cull the underachievers, injured, handicapped and weak.  If one were to repeat this for about a dozen generations, and follow that with maybe six generations of regulated inter-breeding, the obvious result may be...the African-American sport icons and super-players of today.

          It's a safe bet you think kidnapping for the purpose of slavery is way more than just a reprehensible series of acts, and—even though there are about 27 million people still working unfree today—it's also a safe bet you think there should be no slavery anywhere in the world.

          However, along a similar vein, there's a sixty percent chance you don't think the world should be gender equal.  An uncountable majority of the world's women and LGBT people—almost 2.5 billion—are subjugated by their society's religion, government, customs, and males (or all the above).

          Even though evolution is as close to fact as science will ever permit the use of that word, (evolution's poster-children are any NBA All-Star lineup) nonetheless, there's also a sixty percent chance you disagree with this fact.  Of the dozens of religions in this world of 7 billion idiots, almost every one of them contains a creation myth as well as some form of dogma which promotes prejudicial ideation and/or behavior towards non-followers or followers of other religions....which means 4.5 billion don't believe in evolution, no matter how convincing Kobe Bryant and LeBron James are.

The trick to forgetting the big picture is to look at everything close-up.  The shortcut to closing a door is to bury yourself in the details. — Chuck Palahniuk (Lullaby)

This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.2)?

Imagine books and music and movies being filtered and homogenized.  Certified.  Approved for consumption.  People will be happy to give up most of their culture for the assurance that the tiny bit that comes through is safe and clean.  White noise. — Chuck Palahniuk

This is where I was at ten years ago — You (.1)?
United Snakes - Stephen Walker

March-n-Beat Box

Your handwriting.  The way you walk.  Which china pattern you choose.  It's all giving you away.  Everything you do shows your hand.  Everything is a self-portrait.  Everything is a diary. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)

The Advert Planters of Kuala Lumpur

" ...please where can I buy a unicorn? " 

Thirteen months ago, the anonymous author of these seven words intrigued me.  Could this commenter be my long-lost friend with scars on all eight of his fingers?  (If anyone had reason to still remember the words on that sign it'd be him.)   I re-dredged my decrepit and bleary memory of that night with the word 'unicorn' as a spotlight—still nothing.  I replied with:  " Ano..., I think they still sell them for a buck 3.80 on the other side of this sign.  Tell ya what, I'll pick one up fer ya next tyme I'm sign time! "

This was not just flippancy on my part—this was me saying "Marco!"  About a buck three eighty was a term coined by a forgotten comedian-of-yesterday.  When my friends and I wanted to imply something was cheap or worthless we would say it was "worth about a buck 3.80" (it rolled off our late '80s early '90s tongues in a funny ha-ha way).  Twenty years ago it was a broadly-understood inside joke (like quoting some catchy phrase from Robot Chicken today). 

Almost a month later, I received this comment (which didn't contain the "Polo!" I'd been waiting for):  " Hiya,  I can't say thank you enough for all the advice the people here have given me over time!!  Love this site!  (:(:(: "

For several reasons—I'm not people (plural); I don't give advice; and...although I don't emote...aren't those scowling-sorry or worried-sad faces?—I chose not to introduce this comment to   but, instead, to reply as if she were the unicorn-guy...so I wrote:  " De Nada.  I'm still lookin fer yer one horned horse.  I'll get back to ya when I find one, kay? "

Nine months later:  " In my opinion you commit an error.  I suggest it to discuss.  Write to me in PM, we will talk. "

Although every week of those nine months I'd moderated-deleted two or more spam-type advert comments from this post (and one other)...which is weird in-and-of itself...I wondered if the error this stumble-translating commenter was alluding to was my faux-surmise that the unicorn-guy and the scowly-girl were one in the same, so I wrote:  " Which error dost youse allude to my dearest poorly-translating ay-no?  I continually commit errors all the tyme (intentionally and un).  And, any old evening you'd like to discuss the multitude of wayz I (errr we) fumble that there infernal ball, I'm wide open...only you'd have'ta do two things:  1 - Translate this comment of mine (and I've not made that easy for a computer program to do).  2 - Stop hiding behind the anonymous mask.  Can ya do it?  I doubt it. "

Within a month, twice-a-week became about two-a-day (still only on this post)—so, wrongfully concluding that it may be computerized, I embedded some spam-poison along with this sentence:  " I'm unsure why, but this page seems to attract 90% spam (and 10% anon-loonies) so, I'm attempting a solution: Fight Spam! Click Here! "

Last week I received (from stumble-translator, I'm sure):  " In my opinion, it is a lie. "

I (now) assume he is she, she is they, and they are all together (koo koo ka-choo)...one group of advert-planters who inject advertisements into Squire from a small village near Kuala Lumpur.  To make their job easier, they put a random word or words (Like: Sign Story) into the goog, plant advertisements, and then bookmark the page where they plant...returning every so often to see if their ad-weeds are flourishing.

I suspect that they get paid a bonus when advertisements aren't deleted.  I also suspect they occasionally post non-advert comments (sufficiently generic for continuous cut-paste) to determine if a moderator is deleting all comments or only advertisements.

Three days ago I wrote:  " You unicorn hunters are definitely the loonies.  And anonymous status guarantees that your opinion doesn't count. "

Today I had the pleasure of deleting ten of their advert-comments.

Although I'm getting tired of the persistent kudzu-planting fuckers, pissing them off has definitely brought me a measure of pleasure.

My goal is to create a metaphor that changes our reality by charming people into considering their world in a different way.  It's time—for me, at least—to be clever and seduce people by entertaining them.  I'll never be heard if I'm always ranting and griping. — Chuck Palahniuk

Sneaky Low Down Persistant Ellipsis
Kill Twitter, kill it dead and Happy Lunar New Year
Open Letter to Crazy
Is Complacency in Your Resume?

70 Million—Hold Your Horses!

We tend to live by rules that never made any sense, but we've forgotten they aren't the truth. — Chuck Palahniuk

John Hughes was a hack

I received an email from a good friend which contained the following giggle-ditty:  ...the John Hughes montage from the Oscars last night made me feel all warm and nostalgic inside.

The lengthy recognition that The Academy bestowed upon the late Mr Hughes (who's creativity died twenty-three years ago) was extremely generous for such a hack-writer.

For twenty-nine years between 1979 and 2008, John Hughes wrote almost 40 screenplays for film and TV.  While six of his films, released between '84 and '87, were good-to-great:  Ferris Bueller's Day Off; Sixteen Candles; The Breakfast Club; Planes, Trains and Automobiles; Pretty in Pink; and Some Kind of Wonderful (the last of which is debatable), Mr Hughes only directed four of those gems.  I recognize Home Alone is popular with six-to-eight year olds—and those who were that age twenty years ago—nonetheless it's as much a vacuous, ham-handed, template-driven, piece of shite, as Drillbit Taylor, Beetoven, and all his Vacation movies were.

For every good film that came out of John Hughes's head, he wrote four absofuckinlutely terrible movies.  He got by with a 15% good to 85% terrible ratio.  And don't forget...he was so ashamed of the dreck he was generating towards the end, that he wrote under the pseudonym Edmond Dantes (and yes, I think he was trying to send a message of some sort by using the character's name from The Count of Monte Christo, but I don't care enough about him to hypothesize what that might've been).

For comparison:

• Stanley Kubrick         wrote/directed about 15 films      60% good to 40% bad.
• Akira Kurosawa         wrote/directed 60+ films             18% good IN THE US!

• Cohen Brothers        wrote/directed 18 films                45% good to 55% bad.
• Kevin Smith               wrote/directed about 9 films        50% good to 50% bad.

This is how Kevin Smith could become the next John Hughes:  with the handful of good films he already has under his belt—all he has to do, now, is continue to spew out the same unwatchable movies he's shat for the last decade (at a rate of one-turd-a-year) and die of a heart attack around 2023.  The Academy could, then, compile a montage of Clerks, Mallrats, Chasing Amy, and Dogma and have Ben Affleck, Jason Lee, Matt Damon, Chris Rock, and Selma Hayek provide verbal tributes.
 
There’s always the chance you could die right in the middle of your life story. — Chuck Palahniuk

Paper Digital drafts

Davecat, a long-term pen pal Squire mate (my first two marriages were shorter than the six-years he and I've been equainted) wrote an article about the ephemeral nature of writing in this après-paper world.  He highlighted one quality that separates the convenient-for-archiving-medium of the last few centuries and the convenient-for-editing-medium which has become de rigueur.  His conclusion (I'm presuming...because his landing was a mite soft, stopping on a ? the way he did) was that one of the negative side-effects of the digital age was the loss of all the unsaved preliminary sketches, initial drafts, and index card outlines.   He questioned if there were some past tangible benefits from the preservation of the unrefined building blocks of the creative process.   

In an imaginary monastery in 1453 a similar treatise was written (by Brother Davidcatatoniacal of he Chanting to hear the Graduals order) about how the newfangled and inexpensive pulp caused fellow-scribes to discard preliminary scrolls, which—if they were still writing on parchment—would have been reused.

Man has communicated with himself in many ways.  To name a few:  Wax tablets (very etch-a-sketch meets twitter); papyrus (fantastic in the desert, but rots in the rain-forest); quipu (where messages were knotted and worn); and now—the new paradigm—digitally communicating with Squire.

Synchronicity may explain the thing—where you stumble across a word for the first time (a while back, for me, it was: abstruse) and then every time you turn a page someone else has found a way to utilize that neat-o abstract/obtuse combination-word you just learned.

Was it also synchronicity when, two days ago, I learned about Rudyard Kipling's preference for writing longhand and about his paranoia that the labors of his writing might profit someone besides himself—so much so, that he insured his "roughs" were burned, daily, under supervision?  Because I think it's an answer to Davecat's question:  that the largest thing lost by the digital-snake eating his own tail (second and third drafts consuming the initial) is the profits to be made from selling the "discovered in an old trunk" sketches and rough drafts of famous artists, authors, and musicians. 

As I was writing this Echo, I came up with a question which is related-in-a-abstruse-sort-of-way:  How long will the world's governments continue to subsidize socialized communication?  The postal service is being used less and less.  Squire is being used more and more.  Eventually (in as soon as ten years?) won't corporate shipping companies completely replace government postal services and if not, why not?   When was the last time you wrote a letter with pen and paper?  Will your children's children think of postage stamps the way we think of sealing wax?

Leonardo's Mona Lisa is just a thousand thousand smears of paint. Michelangelo's David is just a million hits with a hammer.  We're all of us a million bits put together the right way. — Chuck Palahniuk (Diary)