Saturday, November 22, 2008

δεν έχει νόημα.

(My blog is telling me that my last publish date was 11.06.08, and that entry can hardly be qualified as an entry. Indeed, it looks as though no ‘typical for me’ entry has been dropped since 10.23.08. There is a moral and I am getting to it…here it is; a proper entry is due, and I am setting about to do it. (Maybe not quite typical (so to speak), but something beyond a few photos and a rant.) With all qualifiers out of the way, I now venture into the unknown…and I only brought one pair of slacks…Oh, dear me.)

The intention was to get up at 7a. Getting up at or prior to 7a is reserved for special occasions; going on a trip, going fly-fishing which I did once…that sort of thing. I did not get up at 7a. I think I rolled out of bed nearer to 8a, which is still remarkably early for me, especially on a Saturday. I suppose going to bed at 6.30p could have assisted in my early morning exuberance for an otherwise gray winter day, but that is neither here nor there. Regardless of reasons, there I was, alive and awake at 8.

A vague list was percolating in my mind as to what was required of me for the day. The weather was not all together horrific, but there have been nicer days if you take my meaning. My car started which was no great surprise, yet I am often taken aback by the magic of a running engine. FAHHHHH, to those who claim it is simple physics… As Sam and I headed northwards toward our first stop I decided a list was in order that I presently put together and entered into my small, white, electron-pumping pocket device.

I completed the first stop with only minor issue. It was a business related situation and it was between me and someone who’s faith does not support business transactions on Saturday mornings… I debated with myself regarding how to actually go about it, a compromise was met and the deal was done in a mutually agreeable fashion.

Following this I ventured further northward, deposited my paycheck then went into a shoppe that is, on occasion, pure bliss. Today was ‘on occasion’. Generally, I am not much of a shopper; my methodology is usually, get in and get out while holding your breath or as close to it as one can. The growing climate of holiday cheer or some other devilry must have gotten into my feet because I found myself a shopping fool. There were a handful of shoes that simple dominated the scene…several of the retro new balance family…and a few more in of the leather, saddle colored, square-ish toed variety. Between the shoes and the men’s wear I passed through the women’s handbag section. I would have lingered longer here had my little sisters not just landed the illin’-est purses in Mexico… The men’s jeans were slightly disappointing when compared to the usual samplings, but the winter wear made up for denim’s shortcomings. I found great delight in four jackets as well as a smattering of knits. In the end I walked out empty-handed feeling accomplished for besting a deadly foe. (AKA, I am waiting for the jackets to go on sale)

The next shoppe was the usual, I bought my small merchandise, the proprietor was a jerk and all was well.

The next shoppe was closed. (Yes, I was saddened by this; it generally has great books. They must assume that people who read don’t rise to go book shopping at 10a on Saturday mornings…So, yeah, noted.)

The next shoppe, The Armadillo’s Pillow, was open. The blast of incense and the ringing bell were in order upon my entry; this is always encouraging while simultaneously slightly noxious. This book shoppe is of the ilt (type) of shoppe where their products smell of old ink, older paper and incense for a long while after purchase and subsequent removal. The air is pungent inside the Armadillo; when one buys a volume they are issued a small amount of pungence whether they wish it or not. Picking through my usual sections I found nothing of interest. The sole employee directed me to the ‘foreign language’ section upon my request. It was during this interchange that I noticed something that froze my blood. (Not really, and yes that is too big a word for this usage (sorry Jack), but I just used it so deal!) Her head was down when I first asked the question, which is not uncommonly the case of employees in these sorts of establishments. As I rounded the register to address her more formally regarding said texts it immediately became clear that she was not reading a book, she was in fact reading a Sony Digital Reader Book. It was horrifying. My mind is still struggling for a proper metaphor but it must be along the line of a pregnant nun or the wedding of siblings…something upon this scale.

In the end I bought four books, three of them on dead languages and one on Italian. I thought that I would be able to keep a lid on my simmering pot of thoughts regarding a used bookstore clerk reading a digital book but seemingly I overestimated myself, surprise-surprise. “Isn’t it sort of sacrilegious of you to be reading on that thing?” I probed while she swiped my cc. “I am trying to save trees…” she replied in a manner that seemed very hollow and thin. I let the thought hang in the air and held her gaze a few milliseconds longer than required but not so long as to generate great discomfort. (You sit here day in and day out surrounded by thousands of already dead, pulpified trees, yet you go to your digital deity and claim to be crunchy.?.? I forgot, that that ‘book’ is powered by happy thoughts and granola. Absolutely not fossil fuel or coal is burned to generate the electricity required to charge that little pocket monster…you’re right, I am not sure where I get off thinking that this is a shade logically misguided.) I left without further adieu or the lambastement that I felt was appropriate.

For 2 hours I poured over an alphabet that made little more sense to me than sony girl, then took a three hour nap.



Thursday, November 6, 2008

Historical Fact.




And now the take home point...the market is only as good as people say it is...aka if people have hope in the market, it is up...if people do not, it is would seem people do not have hope in the market or the state of the World...yes, World. This is all very ironic give the past 48 hours. I understand problems were pre-existing...YET, the market is run on Today's HOPE, all of the gains posted in the pre-election weeks, have been washed away in the post election two interesting on-going development to observe...
(editorial note: often times people say what they do not really believe in...perhaps people also vote for what they do not believe in...perhaps. (?))

Wednesday, November 5, 2008

From the Hip.

I have been reading forums and blogs all morning...I was happy to place the election outcome on over zealous gen Y'ers....but it seems it seems young people are only a fraction of the problem...the morality of the whole society is so far eroded that the immoral voting strategies permeate all sects, we live in an emeregent society full of emergent people with emergent thoughts...aka there is lawlessness and people are delighted with the prospects it presents.




Friday, October 24, 2008

My Precious Cathartic Black Smudge.

I once knew a young boy obsessed with stuffing the world into his pocket. Yet, the more he seemed to put together relative to the world around him, the less he seemed to understand. Something akin to “The more you tighten your grip, the more star systems will slip through your fingers.” (The truths in SW continue to blow my mind.)

The ‘means’ for ‘sorting’ issues in one’s life is very great. Without a still, turning ‘A’ into ‘B’ simply will not happen; regardless of all the wishful thinking one can muster. Beyond this, person to person stills are nearly unrecognizable. Our boy from above found his in digging about in the dirt much like one’s half mad neighbor woman, Beatrice; yet had that tid-bit not just been reveled, the world would be none the wiser.

At a time, my personal still was black; much of her seemed very mechanical…but she was extraordinarily beautiful. “Beauty is found within,” and I will add, “and without, at least at the beginning of it all” to that bit of historical verbiage.

As with most relationships, yes, there is the ridiculously fast fading immediate attraction for the still; the ‘I must have that now!’ bit of time. Thankfully, this passes or burns out quickly so the real work can begin, or a better mechanism can be found respectively. Mine passed exceedingly quickly, note, passed…did not burn out. At our first meeting we were surrounded and could not get down to brass tacks right off the bat, but after 30 minutes or so we were finally left to our own devices and spent a merry 2 hours together. Oh, the glory of it! It was windy and cold the day we met, but that is just a shadow in the corner of my memory when recalled. I actually think the first batch was brewed just then, between Stoughton and Home; and it was not a bad batch at that.

Jumping ahead to some later point in time, when a grand repoire was already in place, I sat admiring her from afar. She stood across a high, stony plateau. There was a distinct smell of heather stirred with cold, wet, salty sea air hanging between us. The low lying clouds brought ‘the big lands’ almost to a human scale, yet the long view of our world remained interminable. I had never seen her so disheveled, dirty and weather worn; yet she had never been more satisfying to me. (Maybe those old wise men really were wise?) A smile broke across my rough brow. I had asked a good deal of her over the past few weeks and she had sacrificed without protest. She had run on when she was empty, she had shelter me from the driving rain, bearing it upon her own breast, she had taken me to places I had never seen and never will again. Selflessness was her name. All the while she listened to my lamentations, my bitter, muffled sobs. Patiently yet firmly she comforted my heart…she was my cathartic, black smudge, MY precious, cathartic, black smudge. It was a completely inhuman experience. As near as can possibly be, she was the exact plug that my leaky heart required. And loved her.



Thursday, October 23, 2008

With Best Intentions...

...I set about to pay attention to that which has been neglected...namely WaLST...despite my best efforts a legitimate post will have to wait as I have spent all of my time putting together tomorrow's musical drive-thru. Real blergs will be here presently.



Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Falling in Like.

(I will write this vision through the lens of the single person, for at present, I have none other lens to view through. I am well certain that counter statements to this text abound.)

There is a perpetual state in the life of singledom; this state personifies the idea of the rolling stone failing to gather moss. The concept of ‘love at first sight’ is a farce, we will do well to have that out and go forward understanding that it is a thought propagated by the same people that would never tell a dear friend the truth for fear of hurting them. Love, real Love (or as close as we can approach on so fallen a spinning ball), as has been clearly delineated by thinkers far greater than I, is not physically capable of growing within the few parsecs that birth an emotion. Walk with me: a fellow is riding his bicycle down the street, he happens upon a girl at the crosswalk. They make eye contact and a feeling emerges that each reader knows exactly. This feeling says, ‘She is perfect, she is beautiful, I need her or my life will not be ruined.’ Oddly enough, when the light turns green and he peddles off in one direction, she in another; the world continues spinning, gravity continues to operate, and all is well. ‘Falling in like’ is the state that the vast majority of the world around us confuses for Falling in Love; it manifests itself in a myriad of ways, most commonly in the state overestimating one’s attachment to another, a regular changing of the be’liked’ or in the more difficult cases, there is little change with be’liked’ yet they are not a viable candidate.

The great philosopher Ferris Bueller, once stated, “Life moves pretty fast…” If one honestly looks at the face before them in the mirror, whilst repeating the day’s date, this statement will become inevitably, inexplicable real. When high on the natural amphetamine of time, ‘like’ becomes a deranged, tormented, globual of energy. ‘Like’ hopped up on speed will take a casual, passing glance and grow it into a 50-year marriage if not well protected, if not chaste. There is an innate need engrained into the human psyche. There is this need for a woman in a man, and a woman in a man. (Call me a close minded bigot, you will not be the first, nor the last if I guess correctly.) I take the Law to be truth, and therefore I take the word of the Law relative to the creation of women out of the rib of a man to mean completely literal things. Moreover, the master teacher, the master metaphor architect is not of flesh and blood but of spirit that holds the entire universe in perfect balance…if that spirit deemed that women should come from man and they should be united, I am not so bold as to disagree…but by all means, be my guest if…I am certain that each of us will have the opportunity to stand before this Creator and air out if our beefs…if we have the legs to…but I digress. This manifestation of the ‘falling in like’ malady is one of Alice falling down the rabbit hole, there is a blink and it is past; the like has already happened. Giving of ‘the like’ over in one’s mind is akin to saying a word, once it has escaped the lips, there is not way for it to return.

This affliction becomes more apparent when the afflicted begins to monitor the regularity with which it cycles. The process of ‘FiL’, in the general public, is derived from reading and properly following the directions on shampoo. “Rinse and Repeat” There are only two ways by which the mountain of scar tissue amassed on the average human’s heart can be explained. Either the like and loss on a scale of the holocaust, or a myriad of likes and losses sequentially. The ladder is the model of society.

Yet, not all who participate in this idolatry flippantly jump from one temple to another. There are those that become devout followers of one, these poor souls are the most pathetic, saddest lot, not surprisingly they also form the majority. They ‘Fall deep in like.’ As a rule, the verb of falling in deep like is brilliant. Error occurs when one party falls in deep like with another party that does not even know they exist. If we take our fellow again we can learn another lesson from his troubles. He rides the train to work each day. The train leaves his stop at 7.47a. He sits in the second car everyday. She sits in the second car of the 7.47a train everyday as well. Over the past 10 months he has ’fallen in deep like’ with her 30 glorious minutes at a day, 5 days a week, 50 weeks a year, yet never more than a few glances have been exchanged. This fellow does not know her name, her faith, her family, her background --- she is an utter stranger, yet just by the proximity his mind has constructed, he feels a relationship that is also as much a construct as the moon landing. (had to) The hard truth of this model is this, on a specific Friday our boy happens upon the be’liked’ at a local pub, she is celebrating her recent engagement. He is crushed…yet who is there to blame for the state? Precisely.

__ personal note I had this editorial note in a draft (she doesn’t see him) and do not recall what it means…yet maybe it is poking at this concept ___

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

Being the fourth, fifth and sixth parts of six parts. (finally.)

The short list: (remainders)
-Flickr and how if you are a girl you get hits much easier, esp. if you are doing a 365.
-How I hate it when my boss treats me like I am a three year-old.
-How it bugs me that good things happen to bad people. (Clearly, I was getting saltier as the day wore on. I blame said map for acting as a catalyst.)

Since I have more or less completely lost interest in this endeavor and that of the that last three, two are trivial, I am going to enter a brief summation of thoughts on these three so that I can move on to (original text shows a strike through the next three words, but blogger is limited) bigger and better things. I have a ‘writingpad’ (iPhone app that is a must have for any blogger) that is stacked with ‘material’… and frankly I am getting impatient with my continual procrastination.

The lesson to be learned here is, never, ever, under any circumstance, promise a series on one’s blog. If this ever does happen to agree to aforementioned commitment due to water torture, bamboo shoots under the nails, or prolonged, forced Hannah Montana exposure, at the next available time, step in front of a speeding bus.

Onward: Flickr. This one is quite simple. Look at history. Who, generally speaking, spends more time oggling the opposite sex? Do women look at men more then men look at women…sadly for me, no. With this FACT on the table, the outcome of any 365 competition held between a man and a woman is a no brainer, IF the winner is based purely on photostream hits. (If the male participant was 1986 Tom Cruise vs. 2008 Cher…the men may have a chance…may.) Basically, it is sexist. (women have an easier time getting huge flickr hit numbers.) (Rant finished, wasn’t that one short? I told you I would be brief.)

Onwarder: 3 Year-old treatment. Because this blog is public and my boss is web suave enough to find it…I will stop there. (Even shorter…I know right? Scary stuff.)

Onwardest: Good things to bad people. This is a topic that, hopefully, will at some point be revisited because I do not see it as trival. Additionally, I do not really hold this point of view, it was said in a rash moment, but the though is one that I wrestle with. It is very easy as a standard sinful person to say, “Ahhhh, he is such a good guy, man, I wish he would get a break, why does so much bad happen to him?” But we rarely take the opposite tack, the view of, “She is a rotton, horric being, an apple with a bite out of it that reveals a soft core, and half of a worm…yet good things keep happening to her, and that chaps my hid.” Now this is pointing out many things in myself. Pride mainly. I am in some viewpoint to say, X is good and should get good, and Y is bad and should get bad. My faith puts me in a position that tells me all are bad. ‘There is none righteous, no not one, there is none that understandeth, none that seeketh after God.’ Yet in the above thought, we clearly see a god complex, a state of mind that says, I should be calling the shots around here.
Again, I do wish to revisit this sentiment, but for the present I simply apologize to the reader for being out of line.



Saturday, September 20, 2008

Being the third part of six parts. "How falling in love was one of the, if not THE, stupidest things I have ever done, yet I am, apparently.. ."

<-How falling in love was one of the, if not THE, stupidest things I have ever done, yet I am, apparently, dying to do it again. (The salt is in full effect now. It is like 20 minutes after surfing---you feel the crackle with each movement.)>
(Sorry Ms. Ryan, a ‘2nd person’ word slipped in there…)

Let it be known that I will not be slicing my chest open from the bottom up with my ginsu knife and dumping my heart on the keyboard. If a hot cup of tea, grandmother’s afghan and this blog are at hand with the expectation of reveling in me spilling the beans over my demise…I am sorry to disappoint. Although, It can be hoped that something mildly entertaining will emerge for the reader…but no money back guarantee will be made. (The best part of a blog is that a thesis is not required to be in this exact location.)

Now, A.D.D.-boy, to the task at hand; the messy business of love, the wake of destruction it deals and the peace of wisdom it plants. (Is this an adolescent thesis? Let us hope not.)

If one were to tell me that they were an expert on the subject of love, I would tell them were they could find the door. As far as I can surmise, there is only one supreme authority on the subject and He is not fleshy and boney as one might wish. There are however many false prophets of love who will ‘tell you lies, tell you sweet little lies.’ Chiefly one’s self is the leader of this cult.

Since we do not have an authority on love to stipulate ‘this is exactly what love is; this is how it looks’ or to stipulate, ‘in your specific relationship, yes, you have love.’ To have someone say, nearly like a doctor’s, ‘yes, you have shingles,’ regarding your relationship would be convenient in some instances. While we do not have this doctor, we do have the book of I John; an excellent test strip. Does it turn purple, is it acidic, is it basic? To temper one’s own personal David Koresh with I John is never a bad habit to get into, nor is it ever too late to begin the process.

(This is one ugly disjointed bit of garble…I too see it.)

Now that I have a handful of qualifiers, which is generally my style, I can get to a slightly more personal set of thoughts. Without having a clear vision of what ‘falling in love’ really looks like, it seems foolish to make the quoted statement I opened with. Not only does it seem foolish, it is foolish. How can I claim to have done something which I know next to nothing about? I can sooner claim that winning the world series was fantastic than falling in love was stupid, for I am as near to knowing what winning the world series feels like as I am to being certain what love feels like, much less whether the action was stupid or not. There are some truths to be found in the ruble of a relationship as mine; always a perk. When the fire-fighter pulls the baby out from a little cave of smash concrete and the wonder of how did she survive is on everyone’s mind…that is the feeling I am talking about.

Falling in love, which is what I will call my experience though the past few paragraphs would take issue with it, yet for my part I contend it was a love, was not stupid. The knee jerk reaction at the end is to call it stupid because the tearing hurts greatly. While the love itself may well be very ‘unhealthy’ for the person, which in my case it was, the healing is so much more than healthy.

It is growing, it is not merely healing. Love takes a person who is idling along in life, and uses a series of events to break the person of what seemed ‘healthy’ at a time, and re-work them into something more grand than they ever could have achieved ‘with or with out you {her}.’ This concept of the Authority, Love, using all things for good is new to some and old hat to others. May it be new to all in this instance, the old hattedness is David Koresh killing what issues that need breaking and reworking.

I have not done this topic justices. After two days of wrestling with it, I have determined this is not the proper medium to dissect this subject.

Sunday, September 14, 2008


(Here is a thought I have been puttering around upon.)

I will now present to you the person who sees the 800-pound gorilla in the room and contrary to the actions of ALL THOSE around him, decides to poke her. Nay, poke is too kind a word; maybe it is more akin to running and tackling her off the bench were she so casually (pompously) slumbers.
As these words ensue, you will no doubt be whole-heartedly convinced that I am the lowest scum of the earth, a male chauvinist. And you may be right…or you may just be drinking the delicate, little lies that society nurses you…”A drink for me? No, no thank you. Okay, fine…if you insist…but just one…after all, you have always watched out for me my closest of friend (instructor or mentor,)” then two…then three…then, “Oh, what the heck? Just get me a societal lies beer-bong and lets have at it…IT TASTES SO GOOD!”

(Find someone that knows me well and ask them if I am a chauvinist, if you have the gumption . If they answer ‘yes,’ then I am and you are simultaneously vindicated for the moment, if they answer ‘no,’…well then you – actually - never-mind.)

Were I a demon I would find the work of satan in the 20th century, literally, awe inspiring. I would have no choice but to redouble my efforts to be a better, more cunning tempter with his resume of astounding recent work so near at hand. I do not call upon the World Wars, The Islam explosion, extermination of over 6 million children of Israel, Roe Vs. Wade, gay marriage, (am I touching anything hot yet?) the genocides in Africa or even AIDS…all fantastic pieces of work to be sure; well done, but alas, not nearly my point. While these are, as I have stated, fantastic works for the kingdom of darkness, they are all very obvious, very plain, very common, more or less everyday, run of the mill, evil vehicles. From the prince of the power of the air one must expect better. Better is there, and it is so much better that it goes unnoticed by and large. Herein lies the brilliance, the cunning.
If you want to lead someone astray, you do not stand on the street shouting it…contrary to the “turn or burn” talking billboard peoples’ method. Instead you slowly curve the road, you move comfortable landmarks off the normal, “good” route, on to the “bad” route, but only by a few feet at first so that nothing “seems” to be amiss. Then, after some time, you move the landmark a bit further off, and so on and so forth, until you have this fellow who has been walking with his head down, heading back in the same direction he has just come. Two carefully placed items have yielded this complete failure. One is external and one is less external…to point fingers, the internal. The slickster whom moved the landmarks around is very external. Yet the fellow who is bombing along, not noticing that the Sun (Son) is no longer ahead of him - well - that is his own fault.

All of this is well and good to consider, though still not my specific point, merely the preface. Certainly there are a few of my 7 readers who are feeling no issue with what I have written thus far, and maybe there are one or two who think they know what I am angling at…I assure you, none of you have yet so see where I am going with this. (do not mistake that as prideful, did I not say she was sleeping and no one is poking her but me?) Likewise, while I will point out just one angle of the evil one I am certain that I am missing fifty thousand more cunning, better hidden, insanely more destructive ones that hover just beneath my nose. Begging forgiveness for the density of my mind; I humbly bring this thought to you.

I have in some ways dwelt upon this for a long time. Long in the sense that it came up long ago, and not long in the sense that I continually repress it for it bears a grotesque snout and reeks of death. If one were to ask me, in this moment, what is the single most destructive threat to Christian Unions today, I would firmly reply, “Feminism in some way shape of form” without a seconds worth of thought. (Let it rain, I can wear it, God has let heavier hammers fall upon me these past ten months) (Furthermore, I have read the dictionaries description of ‘feminism,’ and I see a glaring different one present by the culture as a whole. My discussion regards the 2nd of the two, The actual manifestation, not the cunning guise it masquerades around the square in, calling righteous people…’squares.’ She has another name in Proverbs; Folly. In the end, when you return whence you came, past all the moved landmarks, she will have you believe you do not need men - period. How cunning, how similar to a certain other spirit telling a certain other group they do not need Christ…isn’t it ironic…don’t ya’ think? Apparently, there are worse things than rain on your wedding day.)
This ideology is born upon many fronts, from the mass-media, to public education, et al. I have little concern with these aforementioned elements as they are not Chosen, they cannot be held to any standard, much less the one which I am preparing to draw. Shockingly (or maybe not so), when carefully reviewed, the finest level of installation occurs at our beloved “christian universities” (spell check has marked both of these as spelled incorrectly, I assure you, they are spelled correctly)
“We chose X university for our daughter because we wanted a good, christian framework for her to learn within, we did not want her surrounded by party animals that would no doubt have her turning tricks by thanksgiving,” said Bob the dad.
“Thank you Bob! (you moron)” quipped satan.
Cunning, I come back to the word because it is such a beautiful personification of a snake. Cunning professors feed our young women filth. Pigs have been cunningly done up with make-up, push-up bras, false lashes, etc. and our daughters have bought them hook, line and sinker. These pigs, these feministic ideals sold as “good, strong, christian womanhood,” will sooner have you reading any book written by anyone, as long as it is not the Bible. These cunning pig herders will gently instruct you to believe that there is nothing in the Bible that you cannot find in any other ‘good bit of literature that is not so antiquated.’ Allow a translation.
Cunning teacher: “Little girl, you are too dumb to decipher it, so why try? Here, read this one, it is much more ‘on your level’ ” (who is chauvinistic now?) Allow further translation.
Satan: “Teacher, you are only saving them a life of hardship by servitude to some evil “God Fearing Man”.”
Cunning teacher: “How right you are? Life is so unfair!”
Satan snickers:

I must confess, this is a dark piece of writing, one of the darkest I have ever put down. I did not choose this essay.

Strong Christian Womanhood has as much to do with ‘Feminism’ as a glowworm has to do with putting a man on the moon; possibly even less. Strong Christian Women will be formed in no other way then by an immersion in the Word, ceaseless pursing of Christ’s example, a humble and contrite heart, and an unparalleled prayer life. Tasty little books, written by ‘self-made, tumble-down women’ about the virtue of self would fall into the moved landmark category in my mind.
At this juncture I sit/sat and toy/ed with the need to place a series of biblical reference points to show the sad nature of feminism, the picture of Christ and the Church, the origin of Man and subsequently Woman…I have decided that I will not do so. After all, by doing this, would I not merely join those saying, “You, little girl, lack the discernment to do this yourself, therefore, I, MAN will show you,” which is exactly what I am trying to avoid?
If you are a woman, if you are aspiring to be a Woman of God, then seek! Show us! Do not sit around collecting your unemployment check while bemoaning how good the tax payers have it because they can afford a car…(to drive to and from work in, so that you do not have to)
Strong Women of God, just as strong men of God, are not strong due to the fact that they stand around like a pharisee, praying loudly in the temple or a friend’s eat-in kitchen, “Thank you God I am not like that sad woman over there that loves, honors and obeys her husband. Thank you that I know what is mine and I take it. Thank you that you have given me a mind that is vastly superior to so many others so that I can better worship you through my enormous spiritual gifts so bountifully bestowed on me. Thank you that I have insight far above the average man and that I am not afraid to use it. Please bless these common folk in their meager pursuits....” (you get the point)
SWoG are the ones that never HAVE to say anything, yet when the rubber meets the road, they DO comfort, they DO soundly advise, they DO sweep the floor and clean up puke. (Strong Men of God are called to many other similar and differing tasks that this diatribe will not touch; yet I am not ignorant to them nor will this pen spare them for long)


“So writer, I have chosen to go with you on this hooliganism for the present…what does it matter? So what if small ‘c’ christian women want to be feminist, who really gives a rip and what business is it of yours?”
I do! And, if you are truly a God fearing Christian you will have no choice but to do so as well. This is one of the most urgent matters of our time! I do not wish to spell this out, but I feel I must to be abundantly clear.

Feminism in a Christian woman CANNOT spiritually exist.

Feminism, even on the dictionary level which I find generous,
“the women's movement, the feminist movement, women's liberation, female emancipation, women's rights; informal women's lib.”
is no way, shape or form concerned with ‘dying to self.’ The sole concern IS self-promotion, self-service, and if I may be so bold, self-worship. It is no wonder that it has taken such flight, it only another, more P.C. name for Humanism. As I have noted, folly is cunning, she will dress as ‘seeking equality.’ Equality is in the eye of the beholder…it is an illusion. She is seeking promotion above all else because, ‘every little girl is a princess…’(am I right?).

(Again, I earnestly petition you to find a friend of mine and ask them my feelings regarding chivalry prior to burning me at the stake for being chauvinistic.) (you now may head down the road of chivalry IS chauvinistic. If that is your path…there is no helping you, best of luck in your endeavors.)

Now if we imagine that one could be a ‘C’hristian Feminist, which I contented you cannot be anymore than you can be a ‘C’hristian chauvinist, we have another bridge to cross. This bridge is that between Man and Woman.


Marriage happens – generally - after a certain amount of dating. Dating happens - generally - after an interest is formed between two ‘like-minded’ people to decide to have a go of making a union. This is a very loaded sentence that will require some digestion.
A union:
“unification, uniting, joining, merging, merger, fusion, fusing, amalgamation, coalition, combination, synthesis, blend, blending, mingling; marriage, wedding, alliance; coupling. antonym separation, parting.”
Well, that is quite a little bit to bite off. More over, it begs the question, how can so many of these qualities be met when one party is engaged in self-idolatry? The antonym seems more fitting; I mean she is seeking to rise correct? For one body to rise, one body must fall, in chemistry we would call the male body the precipitate, he must fall. It is simply a law of nature, oddly enough God wrote not only the laws of nature but also the laws of the heart. For a more comfortable Feminist sentence we could rework it to end with “…a go at engulfing and precipitating the male”? (If we have P.C. we may as well have F.C.)
“Like-minded” is our next victim. Given the general public’s understanding of women’s-lib, or feminism, I can only assume that a male with a ‘like-mind’ to a feminist is either a transvestite, or a gelding. In all seriousness though this, again, cannot exist due to the aforementioned idolatry point.
This is an extremely cursory view yet the loose threads are beginning to poke through already. How can a marriage be built upon this? How can one half of the union bear this mentality while the other half of the union is so dissimilar? I contest it cannot. Therefore, either there will be no marriages or there will be failed marriages. This begets no children, or mixed-up, non-Christ centered home children, respectively. This begets the cunning, efficient demise of the Church by…one marriage, two members…at…a…time.

“The safest road to hell is a gradual one – the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.” ~C. S. Lewis



Being the second part of six parts. "That flipping map interactive thing of singles in the U.S..."

“ -“That flipping map interactive thing of singles in the U.S. that James sent me” (A very interesting map that allows you to see what the situation is like for single men or single women within a given age group, within a given area. A good friend of mine emailed it to me today and I found it very curious.) " (expounded)

With respect this blurb it will do the reader well to take 10 minutes and check out the noted web page above. Move the little slider at the top around, look at the trends, read his thoughts, or skip them…I will ramble on regardless.
(I am going to check my facebook while you look at that stuff. Meet me back here in a few.)

---Back. Are you now informed? Great, lets dive in.
I am going to be upfront with you, blunt. This will come as a great surprise in that I rarely ever speak my mind…er…nevermind. I am going to take the only natural stance for a 27 year-old, heterosexual male to take when faced with this data.

‘Girls have it made in the shade!!!’

Notice, “Gals: Do single young girls exist? Not according to math! Fact: around 1/3 of 20-24 year old women are married. Only 70% are single!
Guys: Again, fact: Only 1/5 of men are married by age 24. 80% single! Like suburban deer, there are too many of you in relation to your prey, and you're destroying each others' game. Older, wiser deer who don't spend their time doing kegstands are snapping up your lady-foliage.”

Our author has a style that differs slightly from my own, but his point is well made---aka. young women go for older men and older men for younger women, Fact.
I have done further digging into this topic, I felt the internet, though it has made fantastic advances in the subject, still could not be taken as gospel in the areas of anything. One particular study revealed a couple that divorced at about 35 years of age. Both partners have since remarried; interesting statistic that totally supports my theory commencing now. She re-married a man that was 11 years older than her while he re-married a woman that was 10 years his junior. “The defense rests.” (not really, I just have always wanted to say that.)

Now, it is a good time to interject the sentiment that I am not putting forth what is wrong or right, I am putting forth a thought, a suggestion, a recognition.

One could take this at face value; which I am greatly tempted to do because I am tired and I fell off my motorbike a few times today and (I have more excuses if need be). But, I have decided to toss up one more idea in this mix.

Why is this happening?

I have probably never asked such a ridiculous question. The answer, I think, is quite obvious (sorry dave, I had to).

The two parts of the ‘why’.
-Men are immature. (you can quote me on that one) It seems to me, being an expert on the matter after all I am a man or trying to be one, that men are very, utterly immature. It is genetic. It is innate at a chromosomal level; there is a small rider piece on the male DNA, that will be discovered in 2037, which will explain this in gory detail. (check back then for an in-depth ‘why men are so immature’ chromosome review) Seriously though, if you put the most ‘mature’ men of a given age group in a room with the most ‘mature’ women of the same age group I am quite convinced you would not see ‘connection’ on a relational level in the order that you would if you repeated the same experiment but replaced said males with the same type but of an age group 5-10 years senior.
-Or…perhaps due to the skyrocketing divorce rates in the U.S. (~50ish%) and the vast majority of children being raised by single mothers…there is a break-down in the female psyche, especially as it relates to men? Now, as previously stated, I am a man consequently not an expert by any means on women. I know this much about women; they are very complex organisms without a manual.

More than likely the above two thrown into a blender with some bananas and milk are the driving forces behind soma’s fancy-pants little graph and the conundrum facing people like me.

What is to be done about it?

Absolutely nothing. ☺



Saturday, September 13, 2008

Being the first part of six parts. “-How living in a van really would not be that bad.”

There are 6 finalists. Picking which animal I will attack first has not been an easy task--- As I have mentioned, inspiration comes and goes, and at the moment it is gone pretty much across the board. Like any muscle, my brain must be given a work out so I will select today’s subject at complete random.

-“That flipping map interactive thing of singles in the U.S. that James sent me” (A very interesting map that allows you to see what the situation is like for single men or single women within a given age group, within a given area. A good friend of mine emailed it to me today and I found it very curious.)
-Flickr and how if you are a girl you get hits much easier, esp. if you are doing a 365.
-How living in a van really would not be that bad.
-How I hate it when my boss treats me like I am a three year-old.
-How it bugs me that good things happen to bad people. (Clearly, I was getting saltier as the day wore on. I blame said map for acting as a catalyst.)
-How falling in love was one of the, if not THE, stupidest things I have ever done, yet I am, apparently, dying to do it again. (The salt is in full effect now. It is like 20 minutes after surfing---you feel the crackle with each movement.)>

“-How living in a van really would not be that bad.” (expounded)

I cold brewed a bulk of Joe over the night and the aroma hangs heavily in the air between these brick walls.
Chicago has been rain soaked for a few days now and the humidity will not allow itself to dip below the 90th percentile.
I had a house showing today at 12:15 so I went out and about doing things that I pretended really needed doing, so my realtor could pretend she was doing something that really needed doing. I do not own an umbrella.
Recently, I had new kitchen counters installed. It cost thousands of dollars…for what? A thin horizontal slab located 18” below a set of boxes screwed to the wall, resting on another set of 36” tall boxes sitting on my kitchen floor. It is indefensible. I guess the upside is that said slab cost less than my yearly taxes…er wait…is that an upside? Okay, here must really be an upshot. With the use of a house, I can amass tons of possessions that is absolutely required to be happy, per the world both verbally and non-verbally.
The bathroom. This space solely earns its keep.


Friday, September 12, 2008

The Short-list. (of 091108)

I was sitting at a computer pining away for the better part of the day; all the while wishing I could be writing what I am setting about to put down now. I did not do it earlier because I was at work and like a good employee; I was working.
Now it is game time.
There is something to be said about “being in the moment”. I am now sitting, looking at this silver box, with a freshly cracked screen (don’t get me started on that) and I am having a hard time pulling my mind together. Not so much a hard time pulling it together, a hard time directing it into what I wish to gush about today. I am going to short list the topics, pick one and fire away. (This is why I am a project manager right? I am a trigger person…usually; in certain aspects of my life…sometimes…where was I? Ah yes, short listing.)

The short list:
-Sushi. (I am slow in coming to what is and what is not ‘in’…see dmb post below for better explanation…”Jesse welcome to the sushi party”…”Why thank you…wait, what is this? No, can you cook my fish please? Thanks.”)
-“That flipping map interactive thing of singles in the U.S. that James sent me” (A very interesting map that allows you to see what the situation is like for single men or single women within a given age group, within a given area. A good friend of mine emailed it to me today and I found it very curious.)
-My iPhone. (‘nuf said…amirite?)
-Flickr and how if you are a girl you get hits much easier, esp. if you are doing a 365.
-How living in a van really would not be that bad.
-How I hate it when my boss treats me like I am a three year-old.
-How it bugs me that good things happen to bad people. (Clearly, I was getting saltier as the day wore on. I blame said map for acting as a catalyst.)
-How falling in love was one of the, if not THE, stupidest things I have ever done, yet I am, apparently, dying to do it again. (The salt is in full effect now. It is like 20 minutes after surfing---you feel the crackle with each movement.)

Eight items on my short list. Now, if my memory serves me correctly that is just under the wire for maintaining ‘short list’ status. Had I hit nine two problems would have happened, well one actually, but it has two parts. I would have been bumped into ‘medium list’ status…and I do not have the bandwidth for that…crisis averted. (and I don’t even have a fancy suit for when I save the day…go figure.)

Of the eight, Sushi is the weakest link without question. I am sure there will be disagreement regarding that assertion; thankfully this is not a democracy, this is a dictatorship and I really don’t care what you think. Sushi out!!! (Three should suffice.)
My iPhone falls victim next. What a coward, I saw him hiding behind a Banzai roll holding a tube of wasabi…sheesh.
Only 6 remain…I wish votes could be phoned in or texts, or whatever anti-socially activity it is that you kids are doing these days. Of the remaining six I can make a compelling argument for each one, and I can blather on any of the topics for a length of time sufficient for a blog post.

(Insert jeopardy music here)

The solution is this. I will give a dedicated post to each of the remaining topics, one at a time.

Sunday, August 31, 2008


An immense plain lay unbroken before me, it was of purest white. “Pure as the driven snow,” how many times had I heard that? Many. Not nearly as often as she had begged me not to go though. Usually I ignored the plea; ‘suggestion’ as I wrote it off to be in my mind’s eye. In hindsight, that was probably not one of my better continual choices; that is most I will give.

I’m a proud man, I wouldn’t say that I was wrong in doing what I’ve done, nor would I say that I should have done anything different. I did what I did, how could I be me had I not done what I did? Is not each man formed by what he does, just as each new perception in life is received based on a previous memory? After all, had I been born an Eskimo, maybe this cursed frozen desert would not look so heinous to me? I suspect that, growing up as an Eskimo would cause this to look like home, or at least allow it to have a better face than that of death. I did not grow up an Eskimo, and my desert does look like death, or at least it does for now. If my previous musing are at all correct, there seems to be a chance to form some new perception, some new memory such that next time if find myself in a barren waste land of a frozen landscape, I can meet it with a cheerier perspective. This is no great stride of mental walk.

Standing here isn’t making me any warmer, best to move along. Not too quickly though, I can only move fast enough as to achieve an objective of distance and stay warm. To move too fast, fast enough to cause a sweat would, more than likely, be problematic.

My objective for today…tough to really measure when it such an amaranthine wilderness, was some point ahead of me. The point seemed to move, it was my own mirage oasis. The incessant waves of static snow silently mocked me. Man, how I grew to hate the interminable wrenches. Near the bottom of my hope I was holding out that there would be a dell, the smallest break in the hell. Someplace that I could dig in for the night, someplace hospitable enough to let me dig sideways, not down. With any luck I would have to fear for being drifted over due to the hill being large enough, and properly oriented, wind to my back. I began to identify whole heartedly with the pirate marooned on some God-forsaken island, the cowboy caught cheating in five card draw, buried neck deep in sand somewhere outside of Carlsbad.

It is a crappy road to hoe, even for a criminal. I thought a lot about how criminals felt and how criminals dealt. I was still walking. My eyes hurt, I seriously doubted whether they would ever be the same again. There was no chance of future unbiased in my mind relative to the color white. White was ruined. Criminals were saved. The sun was moving on past 3. Huh, what a plot?!?

A swell ahead? Or so my blistered eyes would have me believe. I made for it. The night came early there, the light was short and cold. Only thing worse, in my experience, then a short cold day, is a long absolute zero night. It seemed to me, from what I have been told about hell, that if you took the horrible qualities of hell along with its darkness, you would nearly have an arctic night, on a scale of nastiness. If you took the degree to which hell gets hot and turned that into an equal and opposite degree of cold, then my situation was well explained.

If I counted the days right Mary would be seven tomorrow. Happy birthday kid from…where am I…well it must be close to hell if how I recall it is correct. I couldn’t tell a daughter, a little daughter, happy birthday from hell… I better make up a name for a town that I will also make up when I send her my birthday wishes, telepathically. Not that she will get them either way, but it just seems the right thing to do, so long as I am going to just wish it, maybe utter a few words, may as well make it out to be kosher.

The swell proved fruitful, in a manner of speaking. No, there was not a banana and ripe orange there, but there was a bit of snow over a ledge. The hardish stuff, perfect for digging in. it was half past four when I arrived, as good a time as any to settle down, slightly later than I generally liked. There was no fire, there was no wood. At any moment I hope to hear that MIT students have finally learned how to burn snow. I never saw the satisfaction with sending pulses through some micro tube or whatever it is that they do. They have brains as big as a frigate, why not use them to do something useful for man kind, namely me? I would have been much obliged to anyone that could have taken the edge off with a little pot of ‘fire snow.’ I was carrying my fire in a few bottles, it would keep me warm tonight, why should it be any different than any other?

She was a nice little dig. Beautiful little hole, had I had the presence of mind to take a photo I probably would’ve, had I had a camera. I got out my pencil and my book to scribble down a few notes, after all, what was I being paid for? I think my lead was frozen, it had to have been something akin to that. I look back on the book and there is some scratch of the proposed date, then some drivel of cold fingers, low victuals and that I thought I had seen a fox, but he was rabid and I had had no desire to eat him. It then scrawled off the page, like a typewriter turned run away train. There was no more writing that night.

Walking through snow miles a day is difficult work. With food as scarce as it was, I should have slept, more or less, quickly. Yet I found it had been getting harder and harder to succumb to the temptress. Maybe yielding had nothing to do with it? Maybe I was actually chasing her and in some ironic way even in the chasing of tired, I grew less tired. Whatever it was I was there, not asleep.

The frozen hell had one weapon that I had yet to consider. Time. Painful time. The perfect concoction of torture would be one part cold, one part dark, and fifty bagillion parts time. Too bad I wasn’t sent to do torture research, I would have won a Nobel Prize, I could have stood up there next to the nano-tube guy…that would have been grand. King of torture and king of the useless inventions nerd guy. I am sure we both would have left the event escorted.

Sometimes it gets too cold to think, I thought about cold thinking when I was there. It is not as if one were a river freezing that finally stops flowing all together. It is more like if one were take oil for example, a heavy weight oil, say 80 weight, put that on a stove bringing it to a nice simmer. That is a great fluid. Now if it is taken and set out on the back deck in a winter night…you do see it slowly change. Not visibly, functionally. Slowly it winds down, slowly it becomes more sedentary. Approaching fixed, never arriving though. At a point it seems that it would under no circumstance flow out of the pot if tipped sideways, but if given enough time, it would, sure as shootin’ it would. I guess that it is not too cold to think then, I guess it is too cold to think well, or too cold to think bad for that matter, one is just trying to holding onto reality, and even some lose that if they get cold enough, dark enough for long enough…or so I have surmised. I know all I cared about was holding on.

I must have drifted off eventually. I don’t recall the drift, but I recall the wake, so there must have been a drift. It was still dark, my night had not passed.

It is funny thinking back how I cursed the day, the burning sun, the glaring white…then when the night fell, I was worse off, I cursed it evermore. I seem to have never been happy in that place, yet there I was, by my own choice.
Man it was dark. It was growing darker. How could it, night had long since come, I had apparently slept, and night would have inevitably advanced. It could not be getting darker, my eyes must just be a bit out of sorts, probably that blasted sun, irreparable damage has been done to be sure.

There is nothing for developing patience like sitting in a miniscule snow cave, in seemingly ever-growing cold, and ever-growing darkness, with absolutely no recourse aside from waiting…just waiting. What I would give to have my watch back? For one it could tell me what time it was, and for another it could shed the faintest of light on this God forsake hole of an existence. I had lost my watch in a poker game on The Dreadful, a fishing trawler I took out of Anchorhead. Pretty sick sense of humor…or maybe it was meant to be a threat on the fish… Don’t really recall much about how I got myself into the game, but I did. I would have to guess it was a product of boredom, fueled by a bit of liquid courage; I was not a gambler…nor was I good at it, apparently. It was a nice watch.

Dark and Cold. Could it really grow anymore? It did. And I had my answer…over and over again I had it. After was seemed three months I set to counting seconds, then through a reasonable crafty method of counting seconds, minutes and hours I decided I could count to ten hours, or I could get reasonably close, unless my guestimation of one second, one-one-thousand, was way off. In this way I arrived at Ten hours and there was still no light…either my snow cave had caved in around me, or well I don’t even want to image what else could be causing this hellish, ever growing dark and cold.



Saturday, August 30, 2008


I left my house with $18, my pipe and an intention of getting bread, aromate and sausage.

It was bitter cold. The cold that forced one’s hands to fight over which one gets to wrap around the warmth of a well packed, well burning wooden pipe.

The walk to the butcher was about 6 blocks. We had many inches of snow last week followed by rain this past weekend; I walked on over the ice. It was 6 treacherous blocks.

The butcher does not allow smoking in his shop, thank goodness, for as much as I like sausage and I like pipes, there are some things that belong separate. Ironically, they smoke the sausages…but I digress. Bearing this in mind and not wishing to stand in the blistering cold while my pipe simmered down, I carefully timed how much time I would need for it to self-extinguish. Brilliantly, I arrived at the butcher with a pipe that had quit and hankering for food that would not. In the back of my mind I could hear her voice reminding me of all the damage that my eating habits were doing to me and how I should be eating some organic crap that tastes like sand and mud evenly mixed.

‘sorry for the inconvenience, we are closed on the 19th for remodeling,” the sign said, ‘are you kidding me?’ I asked myself.

Utter dejection was born in this moment. (not really, but I was quite sad)

I had intended to go to my favorite bookstore which was across the street, now I was determined. The lights were very dim inside, but in my mind I knew that he was open until 7p (he always was). It was a shade after 6p. Without looking I pressed the door, fully expecting it to be open, it was. I walked inside as one does into their own home…(finally, I am back!) I had stepped about 6 steps and was nearing my shelf when I heard, ‘hello? We are kind of closed. The lights are off.’ Good point, the lights were off.

If utter dejection was not born at the anti-sausage moment, it surely was delivered here! (again, not really, but I was worse off than before)

‘I just want to see if you have any new Lewis and Tolkien!’ I heard myself plead. (ugg, how pathetic) ‘Oh,’ he said, I think remembering me. ‘When were you here last?’ it had been three weeks, and he did have new stuff. I bought it.

I ended up at home with $18 worth of old books, 5 old books; no sausage, cheese, bread, or the like.



Friday, July 25, 2008

How It Was Then.

-This is how it was then. ‘Then’ was a time ago. Some of then was just a few days back, Some of then was this very morning, and some of then was weeks, months, and even years ago. We speak fondly of ‘Then,’ or at least some of us do, some of the time. Some of us never speak fondly of past ‘Then’ only of future ‘Then’ while others have the quite opposite malady. Regardless, we all have a ‘Then’ or many a ‘Then’ and we all speak of it in one fashion or another depending on the present day, feeling, frame of mind, and intended usage for the ‘Then’. Is ‘Then’ quite dead yet? I should say not, and for the sake of my ‘, T, h, e, and n keys I will just say T from now on.
-On the particular day that I sit and think about a few particular T’s, I can draw a few particular points, which in no doubt will play into some angle that I have set about, consciously or subconsciously to make. If I end up making the point I am not much sure I care, that is in large part to do with, I have little idea of what point I am actually setting out to make. It is no small wonder how it takes the strain off the ol’ mind when one has no direction where they are going, therefore can not possibly be bothered with whether they are going in the correct direction or not.
-T1. It was a time of peace and harmony, for the most part. LOVE, a word that drips out of my mouth with utter disdain, was abundant in the air and all was right in the universe. (or so they tell me) (and so I told myself) (although as you read this you no doubt see that I am writing this having seen the erroneous way in which I was traveling) I was in LOVE, that wretched and traitorous whore of all words, and loving it. (Pun intended because poor puns flow so intrastately with sappy love sentiment.) T was a time. It was there and it passed. In T1 it did seem as there though there actually was a love, which was made of two…almost. In my heart of hearts maybe I wanted so to believe it that I would allow it to be nothing else. OR it actually really was, and in my now heart of cynicism, I cannot see it for what it actually was. (I lean toward the first explanation and you may or may not agree with me by T’x end)
-T2. Is a time nearer to now, now being when I am writing this, not now being when it is read. Although, T1 is, in the course of straight line time, before T2, so it would seem that from this point forward T2, will always be after T1. How much time I waste! At T2 I look back at T1 as if I was having an intestine transplant, not sure why I would be, but I am, and I have opted for the blue light special, which uses no anesthetic, and is performed by a group of 9th graders deprived of their frogs on dissection day. It is a fantastic state of affairs. Little grubby fingers probing around in my belly. How did I ever think I was living before this? (yes, I am being mildly sarcastic, mildly perverse, but not at all overstating the position of my T) I am living now, and while I will not say, ‘in hell’ I will say ‘I am not living well’ so there is that. It is not that I aspire to live well in the traditional sense of the saying (yet I do) but that is not what I am pointing out. I am seeking to explain that things are bad, and by bad I mean, very, very not good. I cannot relate the state of current affairs to hell anymore than I can relate them to Brazil; I have been to neither. I can say that I sit now with a feeling of T2 that is reflecting on T1. T2 would tell me that in T1 there was love from my part. That in my part I loved the best I could know how. (the word sickens me) (yet I am a cynic and I would retort to me, ‘isn’t it nice to hide behind what you think you did…then, self?) Regardless of jesse, or jesse, I can only say what I can say, and only record what T2 tells me. T2 tells me that I did love the best way I knew, and in this I did love…period. T2 goes on to say that in missing and hurting and bleeding soul in the wake of T1, there is no other explanation aside from love. Finally, T2 tells me that if you are on the end of T1, looking over the destruction, the barren wasteland that lies below, and there is no cry from behind a stone, no whisper in the broken trees, no subtle babble from the dying brook, “I did too”…it is easy enough to deduce, it never did. T2 further degraded me by explaining that I needn’t be anymore discerning than a frog to deduce this final, pointed fact.
-I suppose then, if this were a good story, there would be a T3. T3 would use these lessons on the past, and look at the future and potentially project the outcome, or forecast some lessons that should be abided by. This is neither a story nor good, so I am lucky to avoid having to be concerned with writing about T3 and whatever other fairytales a story would wish me include.
-This is a brief recorded history, facts. While my whole life I have contended that history is written by the winners, I am clearly not a winner in this instance, (or maybe not in the traditional sense of the word, maybe I am a winner in the ‘well I did not end up marrying someone that does not love me back.” Yes, there is winning in that!) At battles, or wars, there are winners and losers, or there were in the old days, after which, some crusty old vet would sit and pen the account. No doubt events were changed, 500 men in the last stand was reduced to 50, and 400 Japs was increased to 2500…all of this is to say, I am sure there are points here that are amiss, points I do not see, because I am involved and points that are much larger or smaller due to my involvement…none the less, in some way I contend that that this is fact. I can contend this is fact, because even if this is not exactly how it unfolded, at this T’x, it is how my mind is unfolding it. (I think, this is not clear, more a stream of thought…not clear at all)



Saturday, July 19, 2008

iHate. (the_thoughts_of_an_inwardly_jealous_man)

The norm and what I hate about it…uggg; where to begin? There is no clear thought in my mind as to whether the average man is really seeking the average life, or if he is seeking more or even possibly less than said normal life. I am not speaking in terms of some spiritual or spirituality concept or the like, (with fingers in Mr. Burns form) I am speaking purely in terms of ‘everyone says X is so good, so X must be awesome.’


For the longest time as a kid I heard people rave about DMB. The lunacy eventually became so rancid that I had to kill myself.
The End.
Okay, that was a minor bluff on the suicide bit; but hardly an understatement. Everywhere I turned my ear I heard satellites and two-stepping…life was in a state. Eventually, as per usual, the hysteria wore off and people began to feel their lips again, I believe many people felt the scars from constant biting while under the anesthetic. Note, DMB did not fade into the west, but the tide had turned. About this time or soon thereafter I happened to win an event at Younglife. I do not recall the specifics but if I have to have a game I will imagine in involved a tarp, ice cream, water noodles, and a strobe light. The treasure I was granted for being the greatest tarp-rolling, noodle-battling, ice cream-eating, strobe light-dealing athlete was Crash, and not the film…don’t get me started on ‘the norm’ and Crash the film…you don’t have the bandwidth, and I am already 27, so I haven’t the time.
I made a face like this (only much more angry, scoffing, and resentful) when I looked at the CD.

It probably could have been (insert your least favorite album every recorded here) and I would have been more receptive. Sigh…if only iTunes had existed and I had been gifted a gift card…I would not be writing this now, you would not be wasting your time reading it…(I need to stay on track here) Begrudgingly I jammed the CD into my overly generous pocket and skulked back to my respective seat on the floor amidst a shower of congratulatory cheers from my peers; double-ugggg.

Now my point is this, after months of sitting on my shelf, I finally did put the CD in and listen to the set. Much to my shagrin it was quite good, I actually found myself liking a handful of the tunes. This brings me to the larger point, the largest point of this minute drivel.
The iPhone, seems to be my own personal next DMB. There are differences and I would be remiss if I did not spell them out to get the full-bodied aroma this thought is due. (had too, sorry) Since the iPhone was introduced I have wanted it. It is all that is functional in my ridiculously, stupid techie mind. (note: I chase ‘cool’ too, I just call it ‘functional’ etc.) Then there was the overflowing of people buying it; this brought on the aforementioned general DMB aura. The mad DMB influenza is a close relative of the iPhone influenza, or visa-versa, I am not certain of the proper genealogy of influenza as it relates (or inter-relates) to music and or technology. With the inflation of iPhone’s ego, I found it less and less palatable, like his brother Dave.
My issue is this, I never yearned for Dave…(that is not a dangling sentence I ever thought I would type) But, I do yearn for the iPhone. GPS, web, talking, texting (not that I do it), music, pics, etc…it just goes on and on…if you are reading a blog; you more than likely know the functionality and interface attractions all to well. Yet, in wanting an iPhone I become one of them, and I hate them.
I mean seem to have developed ‘iHate,’ apparently macs are not as impervious to viruses as once thought.



Saturday, May 31, 2008

Long Strange Trip, More A Stream of Consciousness, Less A Ride Report.

(written over a series of days)

After dinner I found myself reading a little bit of Joseph Conrad and a sliver of Daniel Defoe. A thought has been growing in my mind for some time, percolating. Finally I feel as though I am approaching something that remotely resembles a conclusion. The past year of my existence has been quite excellent at banishing all thought of finality out of my life; particularly in my ability to make decisions…but in this instance I feel that I am actually quite close to right.

Diner tonight was a spicy dish of penne. I started with a glass of wine, it was not satisfactory. Some how I ended up with Miller-Lite out of a bottle. I went to school in Milwaukee, for a time, but Lite was on sale…so it really should not feel special or any allegiance. I sat alone at my desk and eat while Dylan sang about a woman and her need to stay, to lay about his big brass bed. How she should stay with her man awhile, how she needed to stay and make him smile. The thoughts of Her and the thoughts of a wedding that was planned but never happened flood back over me; what year indeed. I have another gulp of the Lite. The next thing I know Bob is singing about another girl, he was wondering if she had changed at all. I can tell you She hasn’t. He was standing on the side of the road, and rain was falling on his shoes…he comes back over and over again to this woman, and his inability to escape her. What a poor sucker. I wish there was not so much Bob in me.

For centuries past, time out of mind, men have taken to the sea. In this time there were Sea-Men and there were Land-Men; Defoe and Swift understood this concept, Conrad was the ladder. These men had a birth or many a birth that gave them the resolution. The answer always manifest itself in a blanket of undulation, a fluid uncertainty marked their paths. For these men nothing fixed the indefinable hole in their hearts like the medicine of the sea. It was never about getting to Burma. The journey was only the conduit, the conduit that through solutions to their messed up lives could flow. This is what she never understood, that is what they never understand.

The Lite is getting empty, luckily the pipe is just tampered, and in these times there is an icebox in the kitchen, I believe more Lite lives in the bottom shelf of the door.

End of the thought.

Average modern man has not changed with the rising and settings of a few suns. The problem of problem solving, the inability to resolve issues, and the general principle that the harder you look at something, the less you really see, is still quite evident in said modern man. Though cycles have heated grips, abs, efi, traction control, boxes that carry more gear than one can shake a stick at, and all other fashion of other fancy gadgetry…these completely missing the point of the cycle and what it endows on the modern man; what the cycle actually DOES for the modern man. After all, the Seamen did not seek the sea because the helm of “The Dauntless” had heated pegs. I am quite certain it was not until “The Dauntless IV” that anyone even considered the idea of heated anything. These men went to sea for one reason, only one. Only there were they far enough away from the forest to see it through the trees. It is only in ‘the doing’ only in ‘the sailing’ that they found what would have never been revealed in all searching, high and low, about the earth.

“In this particular place, in this particular time, there were two small boys. Sam and Simon. Sam and Simon were best of friends. Being small boys, their world was large and small at the same moment. Large in the sense that they both understood that beyond the smoke covered mountains there were many, many miles, kilometers, fathoms, or whatever one fancies for measuring given sections of land-mass, to be discovered. Conversely, their world was small because they made it such. The concept of how small they were was not lost on either of them, particularly Sam, or Samuel. Taking a wild world and cramming it into one’s pocket is not an easy task, as one can imagine. It must be done one day at a time, one spoonful of dirt by one spoonful of dirt. Sam and Simon did, in fact, dig in the dirt with spoons. Though they were not keen enough, neither of them, to realize what they were doing, they did go out and make battle on the world everyday, determined to make it palatable.”


If one is to claim that they lead a life anymore amazing, interesting, or excellent than anyone else…one could suggest they were an arrogant self-centered prig. Yet, it would seem that based on the way of the world, and the decisions that people make that inevitably there will be folks with more colored pasts, and folks with more even keels. There is a particular chap that will more or less shape this story, his life is his own, far be it from me to make an conjectures regarding it, or upon it any judgment pass.


Had dinner with a fellow inmate (stromboni) tonight. The topic of conversation was all over the place. Cycles were a headliner, naturally, but we also dabbled in ride reports. This musing came up as I tried to explain my issues with rrs in a very inefficient and round about sort of way.)


Had my last dinner with my sister and her family, my mom, and another inmate Lamoson tonight. When I left I said good-bye. The good-bye was my much different than the usual ‘later’ I offer as I peel off on one wheel. Something about ‘the next time I see you will be 5.5k miles and three weeks later’ stopped me, made me check myself, sort of a taking account moment. The weekend was spent in preparation, oil changes, checking bike, rechecking bike, repacking….sorting, lose this bit of luggage, repack. Finally, had to go blow off some steam and did some dirt eating on the drz, always a good time, nice to hone the dirt, mud and crud skills at every opportunity. I digress, as I was saying good-byes, heartfelt ones --- Nordstrom’s types --- not the Wal-mart variety, I was flooded with emotions. It is easy to get on my bike and blitz down the road, never thinking twice about too much of it, but this little stretch is not as such. It is strange, things happen; bad things happen daily on bikes. Once in awhile I pop into the ‘faceplant’ forum, helps the perspective. I love my family; negative thoughts never helped anybody, I doubt even for motivation, but supposedly an argument can be made. Pretty tough to keep my mind going in a straight line these days, there has not been much sleep lately. But then again isn’t the game of this trip to get my mind sorted out a bit? Maybe being a mental slob is ok for now, maybe for always? Guess the next few thousand miles will tell me a bit more about that…
I wonder if my water pump will fail, I should have done it, but with 5k should it be able to handle it? I don’t speak French, how did I end up being born in a third world country and end up with only a smattering of village speak coupled a Spanish vocabulary of a verbally stunted 24 month year old Spaniard child? What about those fuel pump threats or the fact that I am running a TKC with 600 miles on it, and my trip is no less than 5,500 miles? Guess I will throw the old Scorp on top of the rest of this luggage, it is good for a few more miles…just need a place to swap it, and break that accursed 950 bead….ugg.

I was riding my Z through town today, and I just had to give her a hug. In a strange way, when I lost one girl in my life I gained another, and then another. These last two, though much more mechanical and seemingly cold, have been much easier to deal with than the first one. Moreover, they do not talk much, except in excited purrs, thumps and or growls…none of which ever involve lies, with I relish kindly.