Dentists are quasi doctors, which I believe leaves many of them a bit insecure. Lots of dentists demand they be called Doctor, my real doctor, the one with whom I have a tenuous relationship, couldn't care less if I called her Fucker. Dentists have about a year of med school, the first one, which is really a review of basic biology and human anatomy–––think personal trainer certification with the dissection of a human hand and an eyeball thrown in. Thereafter the specialization comes where they are moved into the complex, rough and tumble world of teeth and gums, learning techniques like using the words “open” and “spit” as well as the intricate and subtle psychological tactics used in convincing patients to floss.
For instance phrases such as, “You know the tartar that builds up under your gums as a result of not flossing causes cardiac distress, Alzheimer’s, impotence and takes nearly a decade off your life.”
“OK Doctor (air quotes, clear throat, and roll eyes) so you’re sayin’ to avoid premature death, senility and erectile dysfunction I need to spend 5-10 minutes a day scraping my gums with fishing line until they are a pulpy, bleeding mash leaving several of my finger tips a bit gangrenous.”
Given the staggering rates of dementia and the fact that Pfizer never has to make another drug after Viagra and will remain profitable for all eternity I think we can see how well the whole floss campaign is going.
But I like really dentists, they are fun, my dentist is also gay making him extra fun, but it is the hygienists who are a truly special treat. Perky girls built for customer service with mad flossing skills. The difference between who becomes a stripper and who becomes a hygienist is determined by flossing versus pole dancing skills. My hygienist claims the mantle of “Best Flosser Ever.” Really. Upon completion of my teeth she always asks me, “How was that for you,” like it was a lap dance. Honestly I can do it better myself, which I’ve thought after a lap dance too, but always the charmer I express my profound joy at having her latex covered fingers shoved deeply into my mouth which oddly brings to mind other specialists in the sex industry.
Today my dentist tells me I need several fillings replaced, four to be exact because they are over 20 years old, I think about this, I have fillings in my mouth the same age or older than people having their first legal drink of alcohol who have been voting and possibly in the armed services for three years. Two of these fillings will need to become crowns, which makes me feel old. Old people get crowns or that may be bridges, yes, I believe it is bridges. OK, I’m old but not bridge old, this is good news. So I will get a crown, like a king, cool, or two crowns in this case, I’m sure Kings had more than one crown, one for really dressy occasions and one for everyday puttering about the castle. All good.
I discuss this procedure with my wife who immediately asks, “What is that going to cost?” I explain the economic impact while not insignificant will be greatly underwritten by my hefty academic benefits package. “How much?” she asks in an irritated tone. I believe she sensed I did not answer her question directly.
“Ahh sssseessundreummmm something” I respond.
“Six hundred dollars, are you fucking mad,” she shouts.
I do not think I should be taken to task over basic dental care but I would do exactly the same thing to her. We are a parsimonious duo. She contemplates this for another moment and suggests dentistry is a major racket defending this declaration with, “You don't really need teeth.” Since the majority of my nutrition is ingested in liquid form I can accept this may be true but contemplating the visual ramifications, with vanity always being the trump card, I cannot be moved to sacrifice a few teeth to save money. Using this logic I suggest she not purchase her Armani make-up and Swiss skin care products for a month…discussion over.
Without access to this bargaining chip what would the result have been? I am thinking of our kid at age 8.
“Ahh sweetie I know the other kids make fun of you but you don't really need braces. Mommy says you don’t even need teeth, plus they are like seven grand so I have to agree with her. Listen honey we love you but daddy’s Cayenne needs new rims, you’ll be fine, you just tell the other kids those extra teeth are an evolutionary advance…for eating lawyers. Kay sweetie."
Monday, September 14, 2009
Friday, August 7, 2009
Jesus Pretzels & the Holy Water Cooler
665--the neighbor of the beast.
I watched, admitting my own patheticness, one of the multitude of terrible shows on one of the multitude of terrible Discovery channels about a license plate in England that contained three consecutive 6’s as a part of its numeric sequence. It was not just 666, that might have been moderately interesting assuming it was not a vanity plate, but no, it was like WP2A7666Y9. This plate had been on a number of cars over the years owned by a number of different folks. The heavy voiced ridiculously ominous narrator described how each of the owners had suffered one devastating tragedy after another. Tragedies running the gambit from minor traffic accidents, to alcoholism and divorce confirming, for many I’m sure, the beast surely walks, or in this case commutes, among us.
The most compelling aspect of this program was that it was even actually produced, indicating that four monkey’s with an HD camera and a laptop can be television writers and producers. And why is this, because there are millions of other monkeys who will watch the monkey poop they produce.
Ahhhh pabulum.
I can only imagine the brainstorming session that led to this production, “Ooo, ooo, I know the significance and impact of demonic symbolism in contemporary society as demonstrated in extraordinarily ordinary circumstances.” I work at a university, I hear shit like that everyday just add the word diaspora somewhere, it doesn’t matter where, and you have a class, a dissertation or a discrimination lawsuit. I have no doubt the 40 something writer hired to script this dreck did indeed feel as though the devil was at work in her life, “You’re not selling your soul you are paying the mortgage,” she must have said over and over again, soothing herself with thoughts of getting back to work on her novel about a homosexual love affair during the opium war between a Chinese and Western merchant while the two 25 year old Discovery Channel producers said things to her like, “fuckin’ brilliant dude,” and hammed beers.
Conversely there is no dearth of idiotic programming about the presence of God found in Jesus shaped pretzels and Stations of the Cross water stained ceiling tiles. Who knew? The golden calf, a false prophet sure, but where does an image of the Virgin Mary clearly depicted in the condensation between panes of insulated glass at a sub shop in Jersey fall? Is this how a divine being chooses to present itself inciting the masses to reverence? The meek indeed.
Two things:
1. It’s good people have hope and look for miracles
2. People generally find what they wish to see
I am not Catholic but I have taken the holy sacrament on several occasions during a wedding or funeral when I was very hungry. Because the wafers are so tiny I had to go up 3 or 4 times since even if you ask nicely you can only eat one piece of Jesus at a time, but as a result I believe I have a certain impartial expertise. Why not just make Jesus pretzels, if you are eating his body why not a delicious pretzel over a dry tasteless communion wafer. Although it would be a much more complimentary palette, I am not suggesting the Catholic church go so far as to replace wine with beer, it would not be bloodish enough, it does however resemble other bodily fluids. I’m just sayin’. On the other hand cheese goes very well with wine perhaps a Jesus cheese would be a nice alternative called simply Cheesus.
But I only eat Jesus. Drinking his blood is a moot point for me as I do not drink wine so after three or four of these wafers I’m usually parched and need something to drink. This requires me to stumble over people to get out of the pew because the, otherwise very comfortable, footrest the Catholic Church graciously provides its flock leaves an uninitiated Protestant little room to maneuver.
I do not find the “bowl of water” method at the back of the church to be particularly sanitary way to get a drink, especially with everyone sticking their hands in it, but I suppose a water cooler would be distracting given the intermittent bubbling sounds it produces. I do think they could add a cup dispenser though as I had to donate a dollar so I could repurpose a votive, but I like do my part.
Sacrilege…sacrament I always get them confused…why are you running away?
I watched, admitting my own patheticness, one of the multitude of terrible shows on one of the multitude of terrible Discovery channels about a license plate in England that contained three consecutive 6’s as a part of its numeric sequence. It was not just 666, that might have been moderately interesting assuming it was not a vanity plate, but no, it was like WP2A7666Y9. This plate had been on a number of cars over the years owned by a number of different folks. The heavy voiced ridiculously ominous narrator described how each of the owners had suffered one devastating tragedy after another. Tragedies running the gambit from minor traffic accidents, to alcoholism and divorce confirming, for many I’m sure, the beast surely walks, or in this case commutes, among us.
The most compelling aspect of this program was that it was even actually produced, indicating that four monkey’s with an HD camera and a laptop can be television writers and producers. And why is this, because there are millions of other monkeys who will watch the monkey poop they produce.
Ahhhh pabulum.
I can only imagine the brainstorming session that led to this production, “Ooo, ooo, I know the significance and impact of demonic symbolism in contemporary society as demonstrated in extraordinarily ordinary circumstances.” I work at a university, I hear shit like that everyday just add the word diaspora somewhere, it doesn’t matter where, and you have a class, a dissertation or a discrimination lawsuit. I have no doubt the 40 something writer hired to script this dreck did indeed feel as though the devil was at work in her life, “You’re not selling your soul you are paying the mortgage,” she must have said over and over again, soothing herself with thoughts of getting back to work on her novel about a homosexual love affair during the opium war between a Chinese and Western merchant while the two 25 year old Discovery Channel producers said things to her like, “fuckin’ brilliant dude,” and hammed beers.
Conversely there is no dearth of idiotic programming about the presence of God found in Jesus shaped pretzels and Stations of the Cross water stained ceiling tiles. Who knew? The golden calf, a false prophet sure, but where does an image of the Virgin Mary clearly depicted in the condensation between panes of insulated glass at a sub shop in Jersey fall? Is this how a divine being chooses to present itself inciting the masses to reverence? The meek indeed.
Two things:
1. It’s good people have hope and look for miracles
2. People generally find what they wish to see
I am not Catholic but I have taken the holy sacrament on several occasions during a wedding or funeral when I was very hungry. Because the wafers are so tiny I had to go up 3 or 4 times since even if you ask nicely you can only eat one piece of Jesus at a time, but as a result I believe I have a certain impartial expertise. Why not just make Jesus pretzels, if you are eating his body why not a delicious pretzel over a dry tasteless communion wafer. Although it would be a much more complimentary palette, I am not suggesting the Catholic church go so far as to replace wine with beer, it would not be bloodish enough, it does however resemble other bodily fluids. I’m just sayin’. On the other hand cheese goes very well with wine perhaps a Jesus cheese would be a nice alternative called simply Cheesus.
But I only eat Jesus. Drinking his blood is a moot point for me as I do not drink wine so after three or four of these wafers I’m usually parched and need something to drink. This requires me to stumble over people to get out of the pew because the, otherwise very comfortable, footrest the Catholic Church graciously provides its flock leaves an uninitiated Protestant little room to maneuver.
I do not find the “bowl of water” method at the back of the church to be particularly sanitary way to get a drink, especially with everyone sticking their hands in it, but I suppose a water cooler would be distracting given the intermittent bubbling sounds it produces. I do think they could add a cup dispenser though as I had to donate a dollar so I could repurpose a votive, but I like do my part.
Sacrilege…sacrament I always get them confused…why are you running away?
Saturday, July 11, 2009
American Identity: Plastic Santa vs. Lawn Gnome
I have always loved what America is when it is at its best. A big piece of that affection is the mongrel dog bit, the, “we are the mutt of the world, our strength is in our diversity.” The fortitude and innovative spirit of my great nation comes from melting pots over homogeneity or desperately clinging to old world mores.
This means as a Bostonian, I always cringed when I heard some guy from Southie screech out, “Dude, um fahkin’ toe-dily Irish. Toe-dily, ahunert fahkin’ pacent dude,” as I am thinking, “No you are a retarded American criminal destined for state prison, rehab, reality TV or some combination of the three.” In fairness and for the sake of full disclosure, I am largely of German descent. OK, so I have joked about Aryan pride here and there, but mostly in the western Zoroastrian sense, and sure there was the occasional claim of genetic superiority but I was always American first, genetically superior second.
I was doing some consulting work for a company in Germany. Upon landing in Germany I had a sense of belonging I had not had since getting into the Sky Bar at the Mondrian in ‘98. After finishing the consulting job I was traveling to Frankfurt from Cologne to meet one of my very good friends-a German. I had met him several years before on a project I was running. He was a 3D artist working with several others on one of the components of a large, complicated project I was producing. He was helping a French girl who was very inexperienced try to get her bearings on a project that didn’t have time for people to get their bearings. Unfortunately it didn’t have time to find new 3D artists with bearings to replace the bearingless ones either. She had asked him for help on a 3D render. He replied, “I will be there in two minutes." He said this in a civil, professional tone that did little to disguise his contempt for either her Frenchness or her total lack of experience. I surmised it was likely a combination of the two. After about two minutes and fourteen seconds he stood beside her and said, “I am sorry I am late, how may I assist you?” I was intrigued. Several days later as we got to know one another over 22-hour days, martinis, Marlboros, and steak, we discussed her inability to produce. He said disparagingly of this young women and her nationality, “Dude, we took their entire country in like 2 weeks man, what do you expect.”
In an instant intrigue turned to love. I had found a fellow tribesman.
I had taken on this project for a friend’s company, he had taken the money and let the project languish for eleven months and now had one month to finish and deliver. One month to do a year’s scripting, storyboarding, game design, brand identity, customer education and acquisition creative development and technical execution. His company was in the process of being purchased by an “internet consulting” company, it was the dotcom heyday and this “internet consulting” company wanted everything to go smoothly. This meant they had tons of mostly clueless venture cash for their mostly clueless business model and wanted only good press. My company was offered the job as fixer. I was up for the challenge and all I needed was about $100K. They were happy to write the check.
All ended exceedingly well with me winning “Best in Show” for the client, doing some amazing European drugs (dunno why but they're just better there, ok) at a rave in a castle in Geneva after leaving a club where a hooker had accidentally set her hair on fire while telling me I looked like an American movie star which was right after I was parasailing in natural updrafts of a glacial lake in the French Alps where I was staying in a 15th century monastery. To cap it all off, I got free drinks since mine had burnt hooker hair in it, and really, everybody loves free drinks.
My German friend picked me up at the train station, we got dinner and caught-up. We did not talk much about the aforementioned project because as he once said during the job, “Dude, um only a verker bee,” therefore not able to take part in the international hijinx. During that project he described everyone by his or her equivalent bee roles, most were like him, worker bees, but as the producer attempting to keep order amidst the chaos, I was the soldier bee. The creative director, who was gay, was not surprisingly, the Queen bee. As such our conversation was limited to making fun of people and discussing new projects.
The next day I was treated to the German version of the big box store, it was a smart but odd combination of Target and Home Depot. It was just before thanksgiving so the store was brimming with Christmas stuff. They had the same crappy plastic lawn decorations we did; the electrified plastic Santa and the three and a half foot high red candles with “Noel” on them that were destined to quickly fade to their more natural pink hue as seen on the front lawns of the poor and elderly in March. He stopped as we walked by these petro-chemical atrocities and said, “Dooood I toetoly blame you faw dis sheet man. Da sawn-tas I con teak…dare OK, but da condols are bulsheet man.” I agreed. I was ashamed, we can push a lot of our crappy pop and consumer culture on the world but the three and a half foot high plastic Noel candles did indeed cross some line.
I was not sure I had the sovereign authority but I asked his forgiveness for my country’s transgressions anyway. He was so moved by my apology he later took full responsibility for lawn gnomes. I thanked him. Two great nations and a lawn ornament detente.
As we left the store we were stopped at a railroad crossing with the bars down, bell clanging and lights flashing. We were talking and laughing and after about five minutes realized nothing was happening on the tracks, no train, no action, just a bunch of Germans waiting patiently---because it is the rule, for some event that at this point seemed suspect.
Another five minutes went by with nothing happening, except of course Germans waiting patiently---because it is the rule. I said to my friend, as my impatience grew, that, “If two guys wearing lederhosen and green felt hats do not come through on one of those hand pumped rail cars seen only in cartoons in my country...America...I’ll be bullshit.”
Sure enough, no sooner said…not quite garbed in lederhosen but two guys on a pump cart, albeit motorized, went by. No really. He later made an animation of the event for me as a screen saver, possibly to replace the, “May Death Come Swiftly” screen saver I had recently dispatched.
I turned to him several minutes after this had transpired, and to satisfy a long burning question of mine that I believe most Americans, if not all humans have. I asked him when he realized it was funny to be German?
Without a dropping a beat he looked at me and said, "It took me a while dude, but I get it now." And I thought, there is the difference—my friend only has a single absurd, but largely accurate, stereotype in which to self-identify and understand himself in the broader world context. I, and all Americans, have a multitude of specific American stereotypes to draw on (New Yorker, Southern, So. Cal, etc) in an effort to better understand myself. But we are also blessed in that we can assume the native brands of our forefather’s to further distill a spunky amalgam of “self and the other,” or perhaps even better, "the American diaspora," as some retarded professor in humanities would say.
I surmise our strength of character is in our diversity of not just “type” but stereotype...as long as it is in English (they all speak it).
This means as a Bostonian, I always cringed when I heard some guy from Southie screech out, “Dude, um fahkin’ toe-dily Irish. Toe-dily, ahunert fahkin’ pacent dude,” as I am thinking, “No you are a retarded American criminal destined for state prison, rehab, reality TV or some combination of the three.” In fairness and for the sake of full disclosure, I am largely of German descent. OK, so I have joked about Aryan pride here and there, but mostly in the western Zoroastrian sense, and sure there was the occasional claim of genetic superiority but I was always American first, genetically superior second.
I was doing some consulting work for a company in Germany. Upon landing in Germany I had a sense of belonging I had not had since getting into the Sky Bar at the Mondrian in ‘98. After finishing the consulting job I was traveling to Frankfurt from Cologne to meet one of my very good friends-a German. I had met him several years before on a project I was running. He was a 3D artist working with several others on one of the components of a large, complicated project I was producing. He was helping a French girl who was very inexperienced try to get her bearings on a project that didn’t have time for people to get their bearings. Unfortunately it didn’t have time to find new 3D artists with bearings to replace the bearingless ones either. She had asked him for help on a 3D render. He replied, “I will be there in two minutes." He said this in a civil, professional tone that did little to disguise his contempt for either her Frenchness or her total lack of experience. I surmised it was likely a combination of the two. After about two minutes and fourteen seconds he stood beside her and said, “I am sorry I am late, how may I assist you?” I was intrigued. Several days later as we got to know one another over 22-hour days, martinis, Marlboros, and steak, we discussed her inability to produce. He said disparagingly of this young women and her nationality, “Dude, we took their entire country in like 2 weeks man, what do you expect.”
In an instant intrigue turned to love. I had found a fellow tribesman.
I had taken on this project for a friend’s company, he had taken the money and let the project languish for eleven months and now had one month to finish and deliver. One month to do a year’s scripting, storyboarding, game design, brand identity, customer education and acquisition creative development and technical execution. His company was in the process of being purchased by an “internet consulting” company, it was the dotcom heyday and this “internet consulting” company wanted everything to go smoothly. This meant they had tons of mostly clueless venture cash for their mostly clueless business model and wanted only good press. My company was offered the job as fixer. I was up for the challenge and all I needed was about $100K. They were happy to write the check.
All ended exceedingly well with me winning “Best in Show” for the client, doing some amazing European drugs (dunno why but they're just better there, ok) at a rave in a castle in Geneva after leaving a club where a hooker had accidentally set her hair on fire while telling me I looked like an American movie star which was right after I was parasailing in natural updrafts of a glacial lake in the French Alps where I was staying in a 15th century monastery. To cap it all off, I got free drinks since mine had burnt hooker hair in it, and really, everybody loves free drinks.
My German friend picked me up at the train station, we got dinner and caught-up. We did not talk much about the aforementioned project because as he once said during the job, “Dude, um only a verker bee,” therefore not able to take part in the international hijinx. During that project he described everyone by his or her equivalent bee roles, most were like him, worker bees, but as the producer attempting to keep order amidst the chaos, I was the soldier bee. The creative director, who was gay, was not surprisingly, the Queen bee. As such our conversation was limited to making fun of people and discussing new projects.
The next day I was treated to the German version of the big box store, it was a smart but odd combination of Target and Home Depot. It was just before thanksgiving so the store was brimming with Christmas stuff. They had the same crappy plastic lawn decorations we did; the electrified plastic Santa and the three and a half foot high red candles with “Noel” on them that were destined to quickly fade to their more natural pink hue as seen on the front lawns of the poor and elderly in March. He stopped as we walked by these petro-chemical atrocities and said, “Dooood I toetoly blame you faw dis sheet man. Da sawn-tas I con teak…dare OK, but da condols are bulsheet man.” I agreed. I was ashamed, we can push a lot of our crappy pop and consumer culture on the world but the three and a half foot high plastic Noel candles did indeed cross some line.
I was not sure I had the sovereign authority but I asked his forgiveness for my country’s transgressions anyway. He was so moved by my apology he later took full responsibility for lawn gnomes. I thanked him. Two great nations and a lawn ornament detente.
As we left the store we were stopped at a railroad crossing with the bars down, bell clanging and lights flashing. We were talking and laughing and after about five minutes realized nothing was happening on the tracks, no train, no action, just a bunch of Germans waiting patiently---because it is the rule, for some event that at this point seemed suspect.
Another five minutes went by with nothing happening, except of course Germans waiting patiently---because it is the rule. I said to my friend, as my impatience grew, that, “If two guys wearing lederhosen and green felt hats do not come through on one of those hand pumped rail cars seen only in cartoons in my country...America...I’ll be bullshit.”
Sure enough, no sooner said…not quite garbed in lederhosen but two guys on a pump cart, albeit motorized, went by. No really. He later made an animation of the event for me as a screen saver, possibly to replace the, “May Death Come Swiftly” screen saver I had recently dispatched.
I turned to him several minutes after this had transpired, and to satisfy a long burning question of mine that I believe most Americans, if not all humans have. I asked him when he realized it was funny to be German?
Without a dropping a beat he looked at me and said, "It took me a while dude, but I get it now." And I thought, there is the difference—my friend only has a single absurd, but largely accurate, stereotype in which to self-identify and understand himself in the broader world context. I, and all Americans, have a multitude of specific American stereotypes to draw on (New Yorker, Southern, So. Cal, etc) in an effort to better understand myself. But we are also blessed in that we can assume the native brands of our forefather’s to further distill a spunky amalgam of “self and the other,” or perhaps even better, "the American diaspora," as some retarded professor in humanities would say.
I surmise our strength of character is in our diversity of not just “type” but stereotype...as long as it is in English (they all speak it).
Friday, June 5, 2009
Finding your spiritual center or Whack-A-Mole Jesus
“Oh my motherfucking god,” and, “Jesus fucking Christ,” are not spiritually sound calls to prayer nor are they centering ways in which to begin your day. While invoking the spirit of a higher power upon awakening is a healthy and natural ritual, the former statements do not qualify as such or if they do the method and effect of the invocation is certainly in a manner proscribed by most spiritual elders.
When one does begin the day with such an invocation the broader implications for the next 16 or so hours are usually grim. If one can take pause at this point reviewing the actions or moments that led up to this outcry, it is best to rethink them and attempt to rapidly deescalate your approach to the morning from, “I will bring my personal motherfucking war to the doorstep of this day and tear the marrow out of its bones,” to, “What can I contribute and how may I best be of service to my fellows today.” It is a radical and therefore difficult shift because tapping the infinite source of all things and becoming a beacon of love and font of spiritual wisdom is hard. Sure “the source” is infinite and all, but it can be darn hard to access especially when the veins running across your temples are distended and pulsating like the thud of a techno groove. They call high blood pressure the silent killer––feels more like Sasha and Digweed have moved into my neck and are using my jugular veins to power a 100,000 watt rave in Ibiza.
But finding a way to get centered when in a state of heightened anxiety, for this Presbyterian, is more like a game of whack-a-mole Jesus, “Where’d he go...there he is...no there...got him...nope. What the motherfucking, fuck, where the fuck is God!”
Unfortunately this is progress.
As someone who began his first true dialogs with the alpha and the omega in the equivalent of emergency Federal Reserve sessions, “Please God let her get her period…today,” or, “All I am asking is can I get a do over for those three seconds where I drove my parent’s car into the backhoe, seriously God, just those three seconds. How hard is that? Just me and this teeny tiny area, not the whole time space continuum.”
Later in life I moved to believing I was inherently evil assuming the demonic possession scare of my early childhood after seeing "The Omen" had been realized, and that I was now actually in league with the devil––and this may have been true. In retrospect I feel the good news was at least I still believed in a supreme being, higher power, lower power…whatever.
I then moved beyond the principles of faith north or south to embrace sex as my religion, worshiping the act of physical love not in an earthy, pagan way but more in a slaughter fuck manner that left carnage, heartache, and despair in its wake. Despite the realities I had convinced myself there was sound basis in my love via lust approach and I was perhaps fucking my way to a serene state of oneness with the One. No, that was not the case and I will continue to pay karmically for this approach to spiritual well-being for some time to come.
Today I understand the importance in my life of embracing something, anything that is not simply, “this is it, kill or be killed, worm food next stop.” This is not because I fear death, not at all, my screen saver in the days of screen savers was, “May death come swiftly.” Which I changed after one of my partners felt it did not send the right message to our clients. I had to agree. No, I do not fear death––protracted illnesses or disfigurement sure, but not death. Nor do I fear damnation or await some reward in an eternal paradise which as my furnace guy assures me will be, “…like Boca, dude.” I have never been to Boca Raton, but Vero Beach is quite nice. Not Avalon, but nice.
No my desire to have a faith and sense truth in my life comes from my need to feel connected to something that connects everything. Of all the things in life that I attempt to rationalize, explain, understand and dominate through intellect and reason or power and aggression, having a connection and relationship with God is something I actually just need to accept, hence the faith part. Unfortunately I also believe God works largely through other people, I say unfortunately because as Sartre said, "Hell is other people," but alas, paradox is balance.
So in my effort to understand the infinite source in a non-intellectual manner, I have developed an understanding of God as the neurochemical system in each of us that transmits electro-magnetic pulses creating quantum connections to the fabric of the universe where all things that ever were and are yet to be exist simultaneously. So every thought and action you have ripples across this matrix affecting all things that are, were and will be.
Which leads me to think the seasonal advice we get from Alan Jackson at Macy’s each year while buying crappy presents for our loved ones is well founded and I really should, “…be good for goodness sake.”
When one does begin the day with such an invocation the broader implications for the next 16 or so hours are usually grim. If one can take pause at this point reviewing the actions or moments that led up to this outcry, it is best to rethink them and attempt to rapidly deescalate your approach to the morning from, “I will bring my personal motherfucking war to the doorstep of this day and tear the marrow out of its bones,” to, “What can I contribute and how may I best be of service to my fellows today.” It is a radical and therefore difficult shift because tapping the infinite source of all things and becoming a beacon of love and font of spiritual wisdom is hard. Sure “the source” is infinite and all, but it can be darn hard to access especially when the veins running across your temples are distended and pulsating like the thud of a techno groove. They call high blood pressure the silent killer––feels more like Sasha and Digweed have moved into my neck and are using my jugular veins to power a 100,000 watt rave in Ibiza.
But finding a way to get centered when in a state of heightened anxiety, for this Presbyterian, is more like a game of whack-a-mole Jesus, “Where’d he go...there he is...no there...got him...nope. What the motherfucking, fuck, where the fuck is God!”
Unfortunately this is progress.
As someone who began his first true dialogs with the alpha and the omega in the equivalent of emergency Federal Reserve sessions, “Please God let her get her period…today,” or, “All I am asking is can I get a do over for those three seconds where I drove my parent’s car into the backhoe, seriously God, just those three seconds. How hard is that? Just me and this teeny tiny area, not the whole time space continuum.”
Later in life I moved to believing I was inherently evil assuming the demonic possession scare of my early childhood after seeing "The Omen" had been realized, and that I was now actually in league with the devil––and this may have been true. In retrospect I feel the good news was at least I still believed in a supreme being, higher power, lower power…whatever.
I then moved beyond the principles of faith north or south to embrace sex as my religion, worshiping the act of physical love not in an earthy, pagan way but more in a slaughter fuck manner that left carnage, heartache, and despair in its wake. Despite the realities I had convinced myself there was sound basis in my love via lust approach and I was perhaps fucking my way to a serene state of oneness with the One. No, that was not the case and I will continue to pay karmically for this approach to spiritual well-being for some time to come.
Today I understand the importance in my life of embracing something, anything that is not simply, “this is it, kill or be killed, worm food next stop.” This is not because I fear death, not at all, my screen saver in the days of screen savers was, “May death come swiftly.” Which I changed after one of my partners felt it did not send the right message to our clients. I had to agree. No, I do not fear death––protracted illnesses or disfigurement sure, but not death. Nor do I fear damnation or await some reward in an eternal paradise which as my furnace guy assures me will be, “…like Boca, dude.” I have never been to Boca Raton, but Vero Beach is quite nice. Not Avalon, but nice.
No my desire to have a faith and sense truth in my life comes from my need to feel connected to something that connects everything. Of all the things in life that I attempt to rationalize, explain, understand and dominate through intellect and reason or power and aggression, having a connection and relationship with God is something I actually just need to accept, hence the faith part. Unfortunately I also believe God works largely through other people, I say unfortunately because as Sartre said, "Hell is other people," but alas, paradox is balance.
So in my effort to understand the infinite source in a non-intellectual manner, I have developed an understanding of God as the neurochemical system in each of us that transmits electro-magnetic pulses creating quantum connections to the fabric of the universe where all things that ever were and are yet to be exist simultaneously. So every thought and action you have ripples across this matrix affecting all things that are, were and will be.
Which leads me to think the seasonal advice we get from Alan Jackson at Macy’s each year while buying crappy presents for our loved ones is well founded and I really should, “…be good for goodness sake.”
Friday, May 1, 2009
Mooncoin & the Firemirror
My mother has issued, I believe, three tenets for me over the years, I am unsure of the specifics of the third so I have approximated here. These were not issued as actual rules but more like wishes. I have abided by them largely because it has not been necessary to move outside of them but in deference to her as well. They are:
1. No tattoos
2. No loan sharks
3. Something about trashcans and food
These were issued somewhat randomly but they were her Hamurabi’s Code of parenting. All other behaviors came down to the simple binary filter of, “Would you do that if you were having lunch with the Queen?” My mother worried a lot about things going wrong over tea and finger sandwiches at Buckingham Palace. Actually she worries about most things, which is why visits with my parents are always so revealing for my wife. This generalized and ubiquitous anxiety was passed to my mother from my grandfather a man who would cancel a vacation based on the ramifications of inconsistent tire pressure and believed on any given day his car could explode when exposed to direct sunlight if all the windows were closed.
Interestingly, sunlight caused a degree of panic for my father’s parents as well. They would cover all mirrors in the house before they left fearing an incident of reflective immolation. Apparently drawing the shades while they were not at home to prevent this common cause of house fires would send a signal attracting gypsies to rob them of every item ever produced by the Franklin Mint and their collection of any blue object they had ever seen costing less than $25. As a young boy when I suggested this safety measure was creating a haven for vampires they assured me the Oral Roberts commemorative plates adorning the walls provided a suitable defense. I remained skeptical.
As an advanced, educated culture we are smug in our thinking of how fear and ignorance regarding natural phenomena was explained in great mythological allegories by our ancestors. Right. Same fear, different object set and a great certitude in a sound math based logic.
Firemirror. Really.
Of course it always turns out some horrifyingly large percentage of these fears were well founded even at the most misguided level. The incidence of house fires in Northern California caused by folks hanging prisms in their windows now stands as an explanation for untold numbers of homeless hippies currently wandering the Haight. So my paternal grandparents were close it was just refractive not reflective—they were only off by a vowel, a consonant and a scientific principle or two. However as a result of not being robbed by gypsies because they were able to leave their curtains open and assuming my father decides not to monetize his father’s legacy, I will be fortunate enough someday to inherit a coin containing a piece of the moon. While the mooncoin is of course highly desirable, I feel since my grandfather had long ago purchased a piece of lunar real estate in my name from an offer in Reader’s Digest it is to some extent already my birthright.
Now my maternal grandfather on the direct sunlight, exploding car side, being a grousy rapscallion, if offered some acreage on the moon, would upon signing the closing documents insist on seeing it, demarcating it and posting "Trespassers Will Be Shot" signs. All after verifying there were no gypsy camps in whatever lunar hemisphere he was allowed to make his land grab. He would do this quickly and easily by retrofitting a rocket engine to his ’74 Mercury Monarch that he had devised out of a drill, borax soap and a broken wicker chair. The good news is he would take me with him as long as I wore safety glasses and finished re-caning the “perfectly good chair” he had pulled from the neighbor’s trash, which had proven unnecessary for his rocket propulsion device.
Much to his chagrin there is very little wood in most rocket engines. He was a wood guy. He was also a copper guy-holding untold amounts of AT&T stock and swearing the whole wireless phone thing was a fad. One would think this silly much as those who never believed color TV’s would catch on until the legendary McKinsey&Co report that assured AT&T there was no real market for cellular technology and to stick with the landlines. Xerox got similar advice in the 70's on the personal computer front once again proving those who can’t teach consult.
While I do not share my grandfather’s skepticism regarding wireless technology, gypsies, although I have never met a Roma, remain a problem for me. Oddly it is not the baby stealing myth I fear but their never-ending quest to apply poor quality driveway sealant in some distant land I have never seen but believe absolutely to exist because of his epic tales of such peoples and sealants. My friend and colleague of many years on the other hand does believe cellular technology and wifi to be of the devil and wears the equivalent of an aluminum foil hat fashionably disguised as something that bears a striking resemblance to a hat that very same grandfather used to wear, which I thought was only available at a certain bait shop on the Jersey shore in the 70’s. My conspiracy buff friend has also moved to the farthest point possible at land’s end to avoid wireless transmissions because as he told me, “it jumbles my thinking.” A hot plate and umbrella on a sea buoy are his next stop.
I have known him for a decade and his conspiracy theories run a 50% or better accuracy rate so I am sure the microwave and wireless radiation is indeed killing us or as I posit just another genetic modifier helping to expedite the evolutionary process in humans.
I am happy my friend has moved on from 9/11 government cover-ups and FDA denials regarding the toxic effects of the environmental estrogen released in into the atmosphere during the recycling of plastics. The former I would believe if I felt the government was in any way capable of executing anything but they have been extremely effective in convincing me they are not, but that may of course be exactly the brilliant subterfuge for which they wish me to fall. The latter I firmly believe only because of the skyrocketing incidence of man-boobs. When my wife says with some regularity, “Do my boobs look as good as his?” something has gone seriously awry.
His other current conspiracy theory is the secret Rockefeller-China war with threats of one million assassins on the China side and the use of a secret Tesla designed earthquake machine by Rockefeller. I laughed until the big China quake in the summer of 2008. Now I fear there actually is a million member strong Chinese assassins guild with a dumpling based strong hold in every major metropolis.
Thankfully fear based mythologies serving as explanatory rationales will always be with us. Humans may be able to live without cell phones but myth, not a chance. Far too much good comes from the fantasy of conspiracies or the monetization of “stunning new research reveals…” It’s just created by tech savvy paranoids, politicians or PR firms, the new tribe elders.
I just wish mythology could explain man boobs.
1. No tattoos
2. No loan sharks
3. Something about trashcans and food
These were issued somewhat randomly but they were her Hamurabi’s Code of parenting. All other behaviors came down to the simple binary filter of, “Would you do that if you were having lunch with the Queen?” My mother worried a lot about things going wrong over tea and finger sandwiches at Buckingham Palace. Actually she worries about most things, which is why visits with my parents are always so revealing for my wife. This generalized and ubiquitous anxiety was passed to my mother from my grandfather a man who would cancel a vacation based on the ramifications of inconsistent tire pressure and believed on any given day his car could explode when exposed to direct sunlight if all the windows were closed.
Interestingly, sunlight caused a degree of panic for my father’s parents as well. They would cover all mirrors in the house before they left fearing an incident of reflective immolation. Apparently drawing the shades while they were not at home to prevent this common cause of house fires would send a signal attracting gypsies to rob them of every item ever produced by the Franklin Mint and their collection of any blue object they had ever seen costing less than $25. As a young boy when I suggested this safety measure was creating a haven for vampires they assured me the Oral Roberts commemorative plates adorning the walls provided a suitable defense. I remained skeptical.
As an advanced, educated culture we are smug in our thinking of how fear and ignorance regarding natural phenomena was explained in great mythological allegories by our ancestors. Right. Same fear, different object set and a great certitude in a sound math based logic.
Firemirror. Really.
Of course it always turns out some horrifyingly large percentage of these fears were well founded even at the most misguided level. The incidence of house fires in Northern California caused by folks hanging prisms in their windows now stands as an explanation for untold numbers of homeless hippies currently wandering the Haight. So my paternal grandparents were close it was just refractive not reflective—they were only off by a vowel, a consonant and a scientific principle or two. However as a result of not being robbed by gypsies because they were able to leave their curtains open and assuming my father decides not to monetize his father’s legacy, I will be fortunate enough someday to inherit a coin containing a piece of the moon. While the mooncoin is of course highly desirable, I feel since my grandfather had long ago purchased a piece of lunar real estate in my name from an offer in Reader’s Digest it is to some extent already my birthright.
Now my maternal grandfather on the direct sunlight, exploding car side, being a grousy rapscallion, if offered some acreage on the moon, would upon signing the closing documents insist on seeing it, demarcating it and posting "Trespassers Will Be Shot" signs. All after verifying there were no gypsy camps in whatever lunar hemisphere he was allowed to make his land grab. He would do this quickly and easily by retrofitting a rocket engine to his ’74 Mercury Monarch that he had devised out of a drill, borax soap and a broken wicker chair. The good news is he would take me with him as long as I wore safety glasses and finished re-caning the “perfectly good chair” he had pulled from the neighbor’s trash, which had proven unnecessary for his rocket propulsion device.
Much to his chagrin there is very little wood in most rocket engines. He was a wood guy. He was also a copper guy-holding untold amounts of AT&T stock and swearing the whole wireless phone thing was a fad. One would think this silly much as those who never believed color TV’s would catch on until the legendary McKinsey&Co report that assured AT&T there was no real market for cellular technology and to stick with the landlines. Xerox got similar advice in the 70's on the personal computer front once again proving those who can’t teach consult.
While I do not share my grandfather’s skepticism regarding wireless technology, gypsies, although I have never met a Roma, remain a problem for me. Oddly it is not the baby stealing myth I fear but their never-ending quest to apply poor quality driveway sealant in some distant land I have never seen but believe absolutely to exist because of his epic tales of such peoples and sealants. My friend and colleague of many years on the other hand does believe cellular technology and wifi to be of the devil and wears the equivalent of an aluminum foil hat fashionably disguised as something that bears a striking resemblance to a hat that very same grandfather used to wear, which I thought was only available at a certain bait shop on the Jersey shore in the 70’s. My conspiracy buff friend has also moved to the farthest point possible at land’s end to avoid wireless transmissions because as he told me, “it jumbles my thinking.” A hot plate and umbrella on a sea buoy are his next stop.
I have known him for a decade and his conspiracy theories run a 50% or better accuracy rate so I am sure the microwave and wireless radiation is indeed killing us or as I posit just another genetic modifier helping to expedite the evolutionary process in humans.
I am happy my friend has moved on from 9/11 government cover-ups and FDA denials regarding the toxic effects of the environmental estrogen released in into the atmosphere during the recycling of plastics. The former I would believe if I felt the government was in any way capable of executing anything but they have been extremely effective in convincing me they are not, but that may of course be exactly the brilliant subterfuge for which they wish me to fall. The latter I firmly believe only because of the skyrocketing incidence of man-boobs. When my wife says with some regularity, “Do my boobs look as good as his?” something has gone seriously awry.
His other current conspiracy theory is the secret Rockefeller-China war with threats of one million assassins on the China side and the use of a secret Tesla designed earthquake machine by Rockefeller. I laughed until the big China quake in the summer of 2008. Now I fear there actually is a million member strong Chinese assassins guild with a dumpling based strong hold in every major metropolis.
Thankfully fear based mythologies serving as explanatory rationales will always be with us. Humans may be able to live without cell phones but myth, not a chance. Far too much good comes from the fantasy of conspiracies or the monetization of “stunning new research reveals…” It’s just created by tech savvy paranoids, politicians or PR firms, the new tribe elders.
I just wish mythology could explain man boobs.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Planning for the Apocalypse and Your 401(k) Contribution Levels
Much like hedging one’s bets on the existence of god and the afterlife by attending church a couple Sundays a year, one can also weigh a similar risk/reward matrix for the unanticipated end of the world and how much one is willing to have syphoned out of their check for retirement at each pay period. Go all in so you can walk out of your cube at age 55 and retire to my furnace guy’s paradise on earth, “Fahkin’ Boca dude, Boca,” you are abiding by the notion the end of the world predictions we humans have indulged in for all time is flawed. On the other hand embrace the possibility of seeing the end of days in your lifetime and maybe you should just put in the maximum that your employer will match, say 5%. Although I am not a Financial planner by trade I feel this is a solid, practical and fiscally responsible approach to Armageddon.
Financial advisors are not well versed in helping their clients plan for such events. It would seem antithetical to their own interests, “Ahhhh yeah, Scott, if that is the case my fiduciary responsibility mandates I advise you to just blow your life savings on eh…gee..I don’t know, whatever and if your thinking there is a God, quit your job and do good works. Either way our business here is done.”
In the absence of such counsel I am attempting to create a matrix to help folks factor in the apocalypse to their financial planning. Enter your age and the program will delineate a savings strategy for you based on possible several end of days scenarios.
Financial advisors are not well versed in helping their clients plan for such events. It would seem antithetical to their own interests, “Ahhhh yeah, Scott, if that is the case my fiduciary responsibility mandates I advise you to just blow your life savings on eh…gee..I don’t know, whatever and if your thinking there is a God, quit your job and do good works. Either way our business here is done.”
In the absence of such counsel I am attempting to create a matrix to help folks factor in the apocalypse to their financial planning. Enter your age and the program will delineate a savings strategy for you based on possible several end of days scenarios.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Money/Happiness Matrix
After not being dead by thirty I decided I would be married by forty. My grandfather told me by dodging marriage in my first twenty-five years I was safe until 40, he was a grousy rapscallion and generally accurate so I believed him. Being goal oriented I was married three months before my fortieth birthday. My wife did not have a party for me which made her feel bad. I remind her of this each year on her birthday or any occasion when I feel I have very likely disappointed her with my gift buying and celebratory event planning inadequacies. I am perfectly happy with this arrangement assuming it does not result in tears. If there are tears I am required to do the “happy clown” dance where I place my hands with outstretched fingers beside my head, make my eyes wide while contorting my face in some goofy fashion and chant, “happy clown, happy clown,” in a high-pitched voice over and over until she smiles. Yes this is identical to what parents do with their infant child who has just taken a tumble and has not yet decided if the incident requires tears and screams. Like me, the parent knows they have a tiny window in which to distract and redirect the subject from bad place to good.
On the other hand since I generally reside in the dark place, when I am just about to crawl, wraith-like, out of my netherworld suffering, clinging to some vestige of new found, but entirely misplaced hope my wife will tell me about one of her Harvard classmates who has just become the youngest Senator ever elected. Perhaps the hedge-fund manager who has just purchased 40 acres of beachfront in St Barths for his personal compound where he will also incubate businesses much like mine but run by people 20 years younger than me, paid in multiples of my salary.
The most recent instance of this was a classmate of hers whose younger brother had just graduated from the crimson empire. He took an internship with a Wall Street hedge fund and was given a $5K sign-on bonus with the caveat it had to be invested and grown over the course of the three-month internship. At the end of the summer he had made $110K. Are you fucking kidding me? He was hired, bought a house in Greenwich and keeps an apartment in town. He was 22 and was never going to have to worry about anything ever again; he had already come from money so chances of him slipping through the cracks were slim anyway.
When I was twenty-two I remember occasionally having to chose between cat food and toothpaste and thinking those fucking cats are so lucky….they have no idea. I wanted to be a cat, actually most days I still do. I have a similar reaction when I see a baby seat in a Bentley––I already hate that baby. Fuck that fucking baby.
I am not suggesting that big money will make me happy but let’s be serious, it does take the sting out of a few things.
I have, over the years, been able to see a fascinating delineation regarding money and happiness. Again locker room wisdom prevails, at an old health club I used to belong to downtown the demographic was mostly high-end brokers and lawyers. But the commuter rail station was across the street and the transit authority HR people had made a deal allowing their employees to use the club. So there were always train conductors and ticket guys in the club as well. The professional folks were fine and a nice lot but they were harried, haggard and always on, amped up and twitchy. The union guys on the other hand were hilarious, always laughing, earnest, really good-natured men and some of the happiest people I have ever seen. They weren’t concerned with competitive home buying, a retirement before 50 portfolio, being invited to the soft open of the new “in” restaurant or pushing their kid into every conceivable activity possible to build their academic resume. They spoke with honor, pride and humor regarding their jobs, families and lives. They weren’t vacationing in the Maldives but they were always taking some kind of trip whether golfing in Charleston, fishing in Colorado, weekend trips with there buddies to Maine it sounded pretty good and not all that far off us white collar boys.
They were not their job. They worked their shift and moved on. They kept things in perspective from the lifestyle they enjoyed to how good and bad days effected them. They didn’t jam themselves into corners where if a deal caved or client left they were fiscally doomed. They didn’t have to work from 7am until 10pm every night to make partner nor was their outlook on life tied to whether or not the collective value of thirty companies on a per share basis moved up or down.
I am not suggesting that everyone forget about their JD or let there series 7 lapse to become a carpenter or join the Carman’s Union in an effort to seek truth and happiness, perhaps raising goats for artisanal cheeses would suffice. But perhaps there is a more than a small lesson to be gleaned from these men about perspective.
On the other hand since I generally reside in the dark place, when I am just about to crawl, wraith-like, out of my netherworld suffering, clinging to some vestige of new found, but entirely misplaced hope my wife will tell me about one of her Harvard classmates who has just become the youngest Senator ever elected. Perhaps the hedge-fund manager who has just purchased 40 acres of beachfront in St Barths for his personal compound where he will also incubate businesses much like mine but run by people 20 years younger than me, paid in multiples of my salary.
The most recent instance of this was a classmate of hers whose younger brother had just graduated from the crimson empire. He took an internship with a Wall Street hedge fund and was given a $5K sign-on bonus with the caveat it had to be invested and grown over the course of the three-month internship. At the end of the summer he had made $110K. Are you fucking kidding me? He was hired, bought a house in Greenwich and keeps an apartment in town. He was 22 and was never going to have to worry about anything ever again; he had already come from money so chances of him slipping through the cracks were slim anyway.
When I was twenty-two I remember occasionally having to chose between cat food and toothpaste and thinking those fucking cats are so lucky….they have no idea. I wanted to be a cat, actually most days I still do. I have a similar reaction when I see a baby seat in a Bentley––I already hate that baby. Fuck that fucking baby.
I am not suggesting that big money will make me happy but let’s be serious, it does take the sting out of a few things.
I have, over the years, been able to see a fascinating delineation regarding money and happiness. Again locker room wisdom prevails, at an old health club I used to belong to downtown the demographic was mostly high-end brokers and lawyers. But the commuter rail station was across the street and the transit authority HR people had made a deal allowing their employees to use the club. So there were always train conductors and ticket guys in the club as well. The professional folks were fine and a nice lot but they were harried, haggard and always on, amped up and twitchy. The union guys on the other hand were hilarious, always laughing, earnest, really good-natured men and some of the happiest people I have ever seen. They weren’t concerned with competitive home buying, a retirement before 50 portfolio, being invited to the soft open of the new “in” restaurant or pushing their kid into every conceivable activity possible to build their academic resume. They spoke with honor, pride and humor regarding their jobs, families and lives. They weren’t vacationing in the Maldives but they were always taking some kind of trip whether golfing in Charleston, fishing in Colorado, weekend trips with there buddies to Maine it sounded pretty good and not all that far off us white collar boys.
They were not their job. They worked their shift and moved on. They kept things in perspective from the lifestyle they enjoyed to how good and bad days effected them. They didn’t jam themselves into corners where if a deal caved or client left they were fiscally doomed. They didn’t have to work from 7am until 10pm every night to make partner nor was their outlook on life tied to whether or not the collective value of thirty companies on a per share basis moved up or down.
I am not suggesting that everyone forget about their JD or let there series 7 lapse to become a carpenter or join the Carman’s Union in an effort to seek truth and happiness, perhaps raising goats for artisanal cheeses would suffice. But perhaps there is a more than a small lesson to be gleaned from these men about perspective.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
What Kind of Rolex Would Jesus Wear and the Case for Polygamy
Neighbors are interesting things. I believe there are two main types.
You have the a) “we really like you, until we ask you to cut down your tree because we are tired of the crap it drops in our yard like four times a year-oh you won’t, well you won’t like it when we sue your ass if a limb falls on our house but it's OK now because you bought lemonade from our kid,” neighbors.
and b) “sure we live ten feet away but since it’s the city and we see each other six or seven hundred times a week let’s not acknowledge each other because it would just add more complexity to our already stressful lives by taking time to engage in some meaningless dialog,” neighbors.
It is good to have a mix of both.
With the first type of neighbor, although having potential volatility, you share a value system that even if based only on socio-economics allows you to ask them to shovel your sidewalk while you are in the Keys for some made-up conference that’s sole purpose is to get you out of shoveling snow. The second type of neighbor allows you to develop theories about them since you only have gossipy anecdotal and observational data to reference. Both are highly unreliable data sets, which is particularly well suited to developing numerous theories about their lives, especially around holidays. “Just who is the strange flannel clad, farmer-looking man in the little 20-year-old pick-up truck with Wisconsin plates that looks like the wife of the couple you don’t talk to?”
Upon learning he is the brother of the wife of the couple you don’t talk to visiting from outside Madison where he grows organic beets you realize visual data may be more reliable than previously thought and the whole making things up about your neighbors thing is not nearly as fun as you had hoped. Until the sweet old man with what you thought was a Slavic but was really Austrian accent is taken away for war crimes. Then you start to wonder about the guy that wears the strange mask and blood crusted leather apron whose house reeks of death that’s always asking you to help him dig holes and carry bags of lime. I think he might be the bass player in Insane Clown Posse….or Mormon.
A friend of mine was a Mormon before moving to Paris. Well I’m not sure if he ceased to be a Mormon upon arriving in Paris but I believe it became less of a priority. He was telling me about visits from his family. They would arrive in Paris and spend several days with him touring the city. At some point he knew “the talk” was coming. His favorite instance of “the talk” was when he and a brother-in-law were at the Louvre, as they gazed upon the Mona Lisa the brother-in-law says to my friend, “It really is very beautiful......but isn’t something missing?” My buddy knew it was beginning, the lecture about god-shaped holes, self-absorption, a life devoid of purpose and meaning––wouldn’t his current rudderless ship of a life be better shared with Jesus Christ and living in Utah away from the godless and unwashed European masses.
He said it was just something you endured for a couple of hours one day between lunch and dinner. He didn't really mind and it was something the family was more or less required to do or their souls became part of the same at-risk population as his. He would nod his head a lot, be humble and talk about his personal relationship with God, perhaps one free of Jesus-shuttling wooden submarines, God’s personally inscribed tableware and sudden reversals of policy on the consumption of Coca-Cola. That, he said, was a huge mistake. He was then pummeled by the “there was only one way to have a relationship with God and the Latter Day Saints are it,” speech. The term "latter day" of course used to distinguish Mormon origins from the inferior former day saints. I suppose their argument being newer is better. Which, honestly, is a pretty good argument.
There is no need to rehash the whole my all loving god is better than your all loving god and I’ll kill you to prove it thing but I am always struck by fear and insecurity that surrounds the “worship my god, my way or else” mindset. Isn't the whole point of God is to instill faith which by definition should remove or at least substantially allay fear, and if nothing else certainly the fear that surrounds one’s faith or lack thereof when challenged by something that does not adhere to some specific dogma. Ritual, ceremony and community in the pursuit of good works is a wonderful thing but dear god man the distortion and manipulation, speaking broadly and historically, is so off-putting to the entire circus it is no wonder people would rather fuck, read the Times and go for a walk ending in a nice brunch with your wife’s rich friends that makes you feel inadequate on Sunday instead.
This is not even considering the financial ramifications. Most Sunday operators ask for a tithe or as I would say, “You want 10 percent of my pre-tax household income? You're fucking kidding right, that’s a Rolex, a year’s lease payments on a 3 series B’mer, two laptops, an Armani and Canali suit plus six months of my wife’s drinks with the girls budget.”
Fortunately I feel certain most supreme deities want me to have these things, in fact I often wonder what kind of Rolex Jesus would wear. In an effort to fulfill some unfinished comparative religious studies requirements I believe Allah to be a sportier god and would opt for a TagHeuer while Buddha in the less is more, time is irrelavent tradition would opt for an inexpensive watch, but one with a pedometer/calorie calculator for seeing just how long he really was "on the path," but clearly the calorie calculator would (ahem) be of very little use to him.
The Mormons did believe in polygamy, I suppose that’s why they were Latter Day Saints people, perhaps the Former Day Folks were not as accommodating with regard to having twelve wives, there does however seem to be such a substantial tradition of misogyny in religion I doubt that to be the case. The practice of polygamy was banned in the late 1800’s when Joseph Smith must have conferred with some latter latter day saints-as always going for the newer trendier thing that didn’t result in yet another exile as they were running out of west to move to.
My wife and I were thinking as we became enamored with the show Big Love, that maybe it is time for polygamy to make a come back. There are certain aspects that could be very sensible in contemporary society and as stigmas and the law go the gay marriage agenda is really opening the door for non-traditional thinking around the whole issue. Since it is difficult, if not impossible, to sustain a household on a single income in many parts of the country, to add a third spouse to share in the household and child-rearing responsibilities may prove to be not just a smart logistical maneuver but also an economic reality.
Polygamy in fact may be required to even survive in some insanely over-priced urban markets if a couple wants to have children. As such it may ultimately prove to be a requisite component of fulfilling the biological imperative. We are not proposing the addition of numerous spouses, just one or perhaps two in Geneva, Oslo or London. People could switch off occasionally in this arrangement, moving in and out of the work force to spend a year or so with the kids and going to Target a lot. It really is quite human and infinitely practical. So current economic realities become an evolutionary trigger once again trumping tradition. So marry the nanny in to the family (note: I make no assumptions regarding the gender of the additional spouse).
You have the a) “we really like you, until we ask you to cut down your tree because we are tired of the crap it drops in our yard like four times a year-oh you won’t, well you won’t like it when we sue your ass if a limb falls on our house but it's OK now because you bought lemonade from our kid,” neighbors.
and b) “sure we live ten feet away but since it’s the city and we see each other six or seven hundred times a week let’s not acknowledge each other because it would just add more complexity to our already stressful lives by taking time to engage in some meaningless dialog,” neighbors.
It is good to have a mix of both.
With the first type of neighbor, although having potential volatility, you share a value system that even if based only on socio-economics allows you to ask them to shovel your sidewalk while you are in the Keys for some made-up conference that’s sole purpose is to get you out of shoveling snow. The second type of neighbor allows you to develop theories about them since you only have gossipy anecdotal and observational data to reference. Both are highly unreliable data sets, which is particularly well suited to developing numerous theories about their lives, especially around holidays. “Just who is the strange flannel clad, farmer-looking man in the little 20-year-old pick-up truck with Wisconsin plates that looks like the wife of the couple you don’t talk to?”
Upon learning he is the brother of the wife of the couple you don’t talk to visiting from outside Madison where he grows organic beets you realize visual data may be more reliable than previously thought and the whole making things up about your neighbors thing is not nearly as fun as you had hoped. Until the sweet old man with what you thought was a Slavic but was really Austrian accent is taken away for war crimes. Then you start to wonder about the guy that wears the strange mask and blood crusted leather apron whose house reeks of death that’s always asking you to help him dig holes and carry bags of lime. I think he might be the bass player in Insane Clown Posse….or Mormon.
A friend of mine was a Mormon before moving to Paris. Well I’m not sure if he ceased to be a Mormon upon arriving in Paris but I believe it became less of a priority. He was telling me about visits from his family. They would arrive in Paris and spend several days with him touring the city. At some point he knew “the talk” was coming. His favorite instance of “the talk” was when he and a brother-in-law were at the Louvre, as they gazed upon the Mona Lisa the brother-in-law says to my friend, “It really is very beautiful......but isn’t something missing?” My buddy knew it was beginning, the lecture about god-shaped holes, self-absorption, a life devoid of purpose and meaning––wouldn’t his current rudderless ship of a life be better shared with Jesus Christ and living in Utah away from the godless and unwashed European masses.
He said it was just something you endured for a couple of hours one day between lunch and dinner. He didn't really mind and it was something the family was more or less required to do or their souls became part of the same at-risk population as his. He would nod his head a lot, be humble and talk about his personal relationship with God, perhaps one free of Jesus-shuttling wooden submarines, God’s personally inscribed tableware and sudden reversals of policy on the consumption of Coca-Cola. That, he said, was a huge mistake. He was then pummeled by the “there was only one way to have a relationship with God and the Latter Day Saints are it,” speech. The term "latter day" of course used to distinguish Mormon origins from the inferior former day saints. I suppose their argument being newer is better. Which, honestly, is a pretty good argument.
There is no need to rehash the whole my all loving god is better than your all loving god and I’ll kill you to prove it thing but I am always struck by fear and insecurity that surrounds the “worship my god, my way or else” mindset. Isn't the whole point of God is to instill faith which by definition should remove or at least substantially allay fear, and if nothing else certainly the fear that surrounds one’s faith or lack thereof when challenged by something that does not adhere to some specific dogma. Ritual, ceremony and community in the pursuit of good works is a wonderful thing but dear god man the distortion and manipulation, speaking broadly and historically, is so off-putting to the entire circus it is no wonder people would rather fuck, read the Times and go for a walk ending in a nice brunch with your wife’s rich friends that makes you feel inadequate on Sunday instead.
This is not even considering the financial ramifications. Most Sunday operators ask for a tithe or as I would say, “You want 10 percent of my pre-tax household income? You're fucking kidding right, that’s a Rolex, a year’s lease payments on a 3 series B’mer, two laptops, an Armani and Canali suit plus six months of my wife’s drinks with the girls budget.”
Fortunately I feel certain most supreme deities want me to have these things, in fact I often wonder what kind of Rolex Jesus would wear. In an effort to fulfill some unfinished comparative religious studies requirements I believe Allah to be a sportier god and would opt for a TagHeuer while Buddha in the less is more, time is irrelavent tradition would opt for an inexpensive watch, but one with a pedometer/calorie calculator for seeing just how long he really was "on the path," but clearly the calorie calculator would (ahem) be of very little use to him.
The Mormons did believe in polygamy, I suppose that’s why they were Latter Day Saints people, perhaps the Former Day Folks were not as accommodating with regard to having twelve wives, there does however seem to be such a substantial tradition of misogyny in religion I doubt that to be the case. The practice of polygamy was banned in the late 1800’s when Joseph Smith must have conferred with some latter latter day saints-as always going for the newer trendier thing that didn’t result in yet another exile as they were running out of west to move to.
My wife and I were thinking as we became enamored with the show Big Love, that maybe it is time for polygamy to make a come back. There are certain aspects that could be very sensible in contemporary society and as stigmas and the law go the gay marriage agenda is really opening the door for non-traditional thinking around the whole issue. Since it is difficult, if not impossible, to sustain a household on a single income in many parts of the country, to add a third spouse to share in the household and child-rearing responsibilities may prove to be not just a smart logistical maneuver but also an economic reality.
Polygamy in fact may be required to even survive in some insanely over-priced urban markets if a couple wants to have children. As such it may ultimately prove to be a requisite component of fulfilling the biological imperative. We are not proposing the addition of numerous spouses, just one or perhaps two in Geneva, Oslo or London. People could switch off occasionally in this arrangement, moving in and out of the work force to spend a year or so with the kids and going to Target a lot. It really is quite human and infinitely practical. So current economic realities become an evolutionary trigger once again trumping tradition. So marry the nanny in to the family (note: I make no assumptions regarding the gender of the additional spouse).
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Individualism
When a person has moved beyond a few pieces of body art and a piercing or two to actually tattoo their face, this really makes a statement to the world. In no uncertain terms, they are clearly indicating that they are fully committed to an alternative lifestyle. A person can have Okuza style full body ink and several pounds of surgical steel jewelry hanging from their nipples and genitalia and still pitch an ad campaign to Proctor and Gamble for Huggies with no one the wiser. However, permanently add a few tribal symbols to your face and you have dramatically limited your employment options.
My wife has said on occasion referring to clients and employees, “I wonder what they would think if they knew I was pierced and tattooed.” Let me give that statement some perspective, my wife has a really cute belly button ring and a teeny tiny ankh tattoo on her hip that actually looks more like Munch’s painting The Scream in crucifixion pose or if she is lying on her side it appears to be a robed alien directing traffic. Both are a far cry from having the ability to put an actual bone through your septum.
But we Americans really like to consider ourselves individuals, outside the box thinkers and terminally unique despite wanting to be accepted and loved by all. The US more than any other sovereign state claims to be the home of the individual this is of course not really true but we have brilliantly branded ourselves as such with “The American Dream” platitudes and cowboy images and therefore own rights to all contemporary claims on individualism. This owes more credit to Leo Burnett than Thomas Jefferson. What is certain is that no other country settled itself and built a subsequent media and marketing empire to promote itself better. Americans will suffer many things from bad food to poor service but we will not suffer a dearth of media choice or poor production values. No, despite our affinity for Dame Judi Dench we will limit our casting of her to no more than two media vehicles annually, we will not have her playing simultaneously on 3 of only 4 channels we broadcast.
The peopling of this land brought legions of folks fleeing all varieties of unpleasantness or just wishing a clean slate. They came to the shores of this beautiful new world leaving all that they knew to start fresh and kill the other people already living here. The mostly poor but also the wealthy, the religious, the criminal and anyone looking for the newer trendier thing, like the Mormons with their hipper latter day deities, all got pretty entrepreneurial pretty darn quick, because dying was a very real possibility in the absence of quick thinking. Just ask anyone from the Lost Colony.
It was how the West was won. These rugged individualists, although producing this brand label would require a Swiss psychiatrist not Ogilvy, setting out for unchartered territories, sometimes a wee bit later in the season than they should have, eating each other and dying anyway. Or killing each other for gold, oil rights, land, etc. But these greedy cannibalistic trailblazers were fulfilling a greater destiny and proving that only the strong survive or the smart ones who wait until spring to attempt the pass. Those folks only lose 30-40% of the family due to starvation and cold, which is infinitely, better than a washout like those impetuous Donners. Of course those 30-40% percent were the weak, the sickly or the ones that just got tired of eating salt cod and hay.
I would rather die than eat salt cod; this is also key for me to proving the coexistence of the evolutionary cycle and fate or the presence of a divine being. It was clear for me to be born into a condition worthy of…well me, it had to come after all this land settling, indigenous people killing and general living in mud, constraining one’s sartorial selection all the time stuff. No my hardship was to be limited to pulpy juices, poly blends and general anxiety and my anxiety is only because I'm not distracted by basic survival needs eating salt cod or a delicious relative.
My wife has said on occasion referring to clients and employees, “I wonder what they would think if they knew I was pierced and tattooed.” Let me give that statement some perspective, my wife has a really cute belly button ring and a teeny tiny ankh tattoo on her hip that actually looks more like Munch’s painting The Scream in crucifixion pose or if she is lying on her side it appears to be a robed alien directing traffic. Both are a far cry from having the ability to put an actual bone through your septum.
But we Americans really like to consider ourselves individuals, outside the box thinkers and terminally unique despite wanting to be accepted and loved by all. The US more than any other sovereign state claims to be the home of the individual this is of course not really true but we have brilliantly branded ourselves as such with “The American Dream” platitudes and cowboy images and therefore own rights to all contemporary claims on individualism. This owes more credit to Leo Burnett than Thomas Jefferson. What is certain is that no other country settled itself and built a subsequent media and marketing empire to promote itself better. Americans will suffer many things from bad food to poor service but we will not suffer a dearth of media choice or poor production values. No, despite our affinity for Dame Judi Dench we will limit our casting of her to no more than two media vehicles annually, we will not have her playing simultaneously on 3 of only 4 channels we broadcast.
The peopling of this land brought legions of folks fleeing all varieties of unpleasantness or just wishing a clean slate. They came to the shores of this beautiful new world leaving all that they knew to start fresh and kill the other people already living here. The mostly poor but also the wealthy, the religious, the criminal and anyone looking for the newer trendier thing, like the Mormons with their hipper latter day deities, all got pretty entrepreneurial pretty darn quick, because dying was a very real possibility in the absence of quick thinking. Just ask anyone from the Lost Colony.
It was how the West was won. These rugged individualists, although producing this brand label would require a Swiss psychiatrist not Ogilvy, setting out for unchartered territories, sometimes a wee bit later in the season than they should have, eating each other and dying anyway. Or killing each other for gold, oil rights, land, etc. But these greedy cannibalistic trailblazers were fulfilling a greater destiny and proving that only the strong survive or the smart ones who wait until spring to attempt the pass. Those folks only lose 30-40% of the family due to starvation and cold, which is infinitely, better than a washout like those impetuous Donners. Of course those 30-40% percent were the weak, the sickly or the ones that just got tired of eating salt cod and hay.
I would rather die than eat salt cod; this is also key for me to proving the coexistence of the evolutionary cycle and fate or the presence of a divine being. It was clear for me to be born into a condition worthy of…well me, it had to come after all this land settling, indigenous people killing and general living in mud, constraining one’s sartorial selection all the time stuff. No my hardship was to be limited to pulpy juices, poly blends and general anxiety and my anxiety is only because I'm not distracted by basic survival needs eating salt cod or a delicious relative.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Truth and Beauty
Some people are better “touring” travelers than others. A simple statement of fact. I am not one those people. I have tried in earnest to be a better leisure traveler, yet in a few short years I have given my wife a small twitch triggered anytime she is asked about a recent trip she has endured with me. Although final decisions remain to be made I may be barred from accompanying her anywhere that requires the use of an airplane ever again unless I am sent two days in advance.
No, I have never been an extremely effective tourist. I am great on business travel having accumulated several hundred thousand frequent flyer miles as a result. I am great traveling alone. I can even adventure travel very well. For instance, the kind of trip where some burned-out, former investment banker who plunged all his assets into a white water rafting company says, “OK here are three matches and a compass, get in that boat follow the map to this X- set-up camp, eat a grub, sleep leaning against a tree, in the morning boat some more and we will extract you at this other X at noon. Don’t be more than one hour late or we leave without you. In that event the indigenous people may or may not fuck and/or eat you…or you them…whatever, just don't be more than an hour late.”
The i-banker says that with a carefree detachment earned only by someone who brokered deals with double-digit commissions for GE prosthetics that just missed FDA approval to be imported to war torn parts of Africa. Here small children, victims of warlord violence, will have their severed limbs replaced in order that they could be put to work extracting toxic, precious metals from mountains of legacy computer parts dumped by the West to ultimately help Dupont create new industrial solvents while taking advantage of huge new “green” tax breaks because they are recycling. I love i-bankers.
Anyway, I can solo, adventure and business travel largely without incident. I am also very capable of packing a white shirt, light colored sport coat, pants and shoes for dining in a five-star restaurant while otherwise wearing only board shorts in a hut over clear blue water in Bora Bora with an itinerary of sleep, sex, sun and ceviche.
It is the in between stuff that causes me great duress. My wife, and all other people I have ever encountered (and many who only know me via anecdote) think it may be a control issue. Whatever. In the above examples I am either in total control of my destiny or there is nothing to bother controlling or perhaps most importantly I am not paying for anything. But drop me in the middle of a train station, on my own dime, in a place with no affinity for vowels and without a clear understanding of next steps or how to achieve them once delineated, I become a cornered, snarling, semi-feral creature. Or as my understanding and supportive wife says, acknowledging my fear based insecurity and intense sense of vulnerability at these junctures, “Is little Scottywhattydoodoo having a tantrum?” Yes, little Scottywhattydoodoo is having a tantrum and I need to be comforted, nay, coddled with an exacting explanation of: where I am going, how do I get there, more importantly the answer to everything that can possibly go wrong in every given circumstance in all languages and dialects currently spoken. Once this is settled I can relax and enjoy the trip. Needless to say these requirements have been an impediment in my ability to be a spontaneous and carefree traveler. Unfortunately when I do not sense these things are in place the world becomes, not hostile or unkind-that I can confront, no the world becomes indifferent. It doesn't care, my problems are not its problems and that becomes a problem, which I will make everybody else’s problem and that’s the real problem.
As stated, I have tried to become a more go with the flow traveler, taking in the sights and experiences as they come in a wide array of places while touring, unfortunately I usually still end up reverting to, “What the fuck are we just walking around for anyway?” This is not to say I do not enjoy being in a foreign city and immersing myself in its cultural ambience in order to understand its unique urban qualities—that I do extremely well. I just need to be alone, move fast and survey the city by quadrant on foot using maps, running statistical analysis of dining and retail per capita spend while developing arbitrary but relatively sound theories on coolness factors helping me decide where I would live and what I would do if I resided there. Hence being sent two days in advance of my wife’s arrival so I can grasp the landscape, find my place and settle in to it. She has control issues too but this is about self-preservation and avoiding divorce.
My touring problems begin with the general approach of, “let’s stroll here and there really slowly,” making my marathon capable legs tire in under 45 minutes as we ping-pong between meaningless landmarks. “Oh look a church not unlike the 29 others we’ve already visited today, ooooooo looky, this one has a mosaic of a third tier deity riding a gazelle. I think it depicts Hermes’ personal assistant, a wood nymph named zzzxxum, who is in charge of keeping his winged shoe collection peppy.” I hate mosaics. Love a Pollock or Kandinsky they are good abstract messy, but mosaics are bad realistic messy and always look amateurish. Seriously, it's a fucking tile floor. I’m sorry I know lots of folks love them. What can I say move to Antioch, but seriously does anyone know the name of a single mosaic guy. No, because he was the tile guy. Did Pope Julius II give a floor gig to Michelangelo? “Hey Mike, I’m thinkin’ the Old Testament on the floor here, whaddya think.” No, it was probably a team of two Italian brothers just like you call today to re-grout your shower.
No Michelangelo did not do tile floors and despite the hype maybe he should not have done giant allegorical frescos competing with Botticelli’s either, but sculpture yes. On one trip, after "lounging" which I, shockingly, was not doing very well at a villa in Tuscany, we met my wife’s family in Florence. At one point my father-in-law and I were standing transfixed in front of our favorite, does not like women or adult men but really loved the young boys, sculptor’s David. David is a true otherworldly testament to the transcendent power of art as a passage to truth and beauty. I am tempted to say something about how beautiful it is but that isn’t something missing and would he hear my testimony but I do not. There is a time for humor and a time for contemplative discussion. He turns to me and says something about feeling the presence of God. I mention that David is not to scale and that the lighting is really very good but acknowledge the connection to something divine was undeniable. Apparently humor and contemplating man’s glory to God can coexist.
Later that evening my wife tells me I look like David when I am nude. I am flattered but I am certain my cock is bigger than David’s. Seeking clarification I learn apparently it is not and I am struck once again by how art allows us to experience our own humanity both in glory and humility.
Stupid truth and beauty.
Upon our return from Italy my wife informed me she would be going to a spa in Arizona...for a week...alone.
No, I have never been an extremely effective tourist. I am great on business travel having accumulated several hundred thousand frequent flyer miles as a result. I am great traveling alone. I can even adventure travel very well. For instance, the kind of trip where some burned-out, former investment banker who plunged all his assets into a white water rafting company says, “OK here are three matches and a compass, get in that boat follow the map to this X- set-up camp, eat a grub, sleep leaning against a tree, in the morning boat some more and we will extract you at this other X at noon. Don’t be more than one hour late or we leave without you. In that event the indigenous people may or may not fuck and/or eat you…or you them…whatever, just don't be more than an hour late.”
The i-banker says that with a carefree detachment earned only by someone who brokered deals with double-digit commissions for GE prosthetics that just missed FDA approval to be imported to war torn parts of Africa. Here small children, victims of warlord violence, will have their severed limbs replaced in order that they could be put to work extracting toxic, precious metals from mountains of legacy computer parts dumped by the West to ultimately help Dupont create new industrial solvents while taking advantage of huge new “green” tax breaks because they are recycling. I love i-bankers.
Anyway, I can solo, adventure and business travel largely without incident. I am also very capable of packing a white shirt, light colored sport coat, pants and shoes for dining in a five-star restaurant while otherwise wearing only board shorts in a hut over clear blue water in Bora Bora with an itinerary of sleep, sex, sun and ceviche.
It is the in between stuff that causes me great duress. My wife, and all other people I have ever encountered (and many who only know me via anecdote) think it may be a control issue. Whatever. In the above examples I am either in total control of my destiny or there is nothing to bother controlling or perhaps most importantly I am not paying for anything. But drop me in the middle of a train station, on my own dime, in a place with no affinity for vowels and without a clear understanding of next steps or how to achieve them once delineated, I become a cornered, snarling, semi-feral creature. Or as my understanding and supportive wife says, acknowledging my fear based insecurity and intense sense of vulnerability at these junctures, “Is little Scottywhattydoodoo having a tantrum?” Yes, little Scottywhattydoodoo is having a tantrum and I need to be comforted, nay, coddled with an exacting explanation of: where I am going, how do I get there, more importantly the answer to everything that can possibly go wrong in every given circumstance in all languages and dialects currently spoken. Once this is settled I can relax and enjoy the trip. Needless to say these requirements have been an impediment in my ability to be a spontaneous and carefree traveler. Unfortunately when I do not sense these things are in place the world becomes, not hostile or unkind-that I can confront, no the world becomes indifferent. It doesn't care, my problems are not its problems and that becomes a problem, which I will make everybody else’s problem and that’s the real problem.
As stated, I have tried to become a more go with the flow traveler, taking in the sights and experiences as they come in a wide array of places while touring, unfortunately I usually still end up reverting to, “What the fuck are we just walking around for anyway?” This is not to say I do not enjoy being in a foreign city and immersing myself in its cultural ambience in order to understand its unique urban qualities—that I do extremely well. I just need to be alone, move fast and survey the city by quadrant on foot using maps, running statistical analysis of dining and retail per capita spend while developing arbitrary but relatively sound theories on coolness factors helping me decide where I would live and what I would do if I resided there. Hence being sent two days in advance of my wife’s arrival so I can grasp the landscape, find my place and settle in to it. She has control issues too but this is about self-preservation and avoiding divorce.
My touring problems begin with the general approach of, “let’s stroll here and there really slowly,” making my marathon capable legs tire in under 45 minutes as we ping-pong between meaningless landmarks. “Oh look a church not unlike the 29 others we’ve already visited today, ooooooo looky, this one has a mosaic of a third tier deity riding a gazelle. I think it depicts Hermes’ personal assistant, a wood nymph named zzzxxum, who is in charge of keeping his winged shoe collection peppy.” I hate mosaics. Love a Pollock or Kandinsky they are good abstract messy, but mosaics are bad realistic messy and always look amateurish. Seriously, it's a fucking tile floor. I’m sorry I know lots of folks love them. What can I say move to Antioch, but seriously does anyone know the name of a single mosaic guy. No, because he was the tile guy. Did Pope Julius II give a floor gig to Michelangelo? “Hey Mike, I’m thinkin’ the Old Testament on the floor here, whaddya think.” No, it was probably a team of two Italian brothers just like you call today to re-grout your shower.
No Michelangelo did not do tile floors and despite the hype maybe he should not have done giant allegorical frescos competing with Botticelli’s either, but sculpture yes. On one trip, after "lounging" which I, shockingly, was not doing very well at a villa in Tuscany, we met my wife’s family in Florence. At one point my father-in-law and I were standing transfixed in front of our favorite, does not like women or adult men but really loved the young boys, sculptor’s David. David is a true otherworldly testament to the transcendent power of art as a passage to truth and beauty. I am tempted to say something about how beautiful it is but that isn’t something missing and would he hear my testimony but I do not. There is a time for humor and a time for contemplative discussion. He turns to me and says something about feeling the presence of God. I mention that David is not to scale and that the lighting is really very good but acknowledge the connection to something divine was undeniable. Apparently humor and contemplating man’s glory to God can coexist.
Later that evening my wife tells me I look like David when I am nude. I am flattered but I am certain my cock is bigger than David’s. Seeking clarification I learn apparently it is not and I am struck once again by how art allows us to experience our own humanity both in glory and humility.
Stupid truth and beauty.
Upon our return from Italy my wife informed me she would be going to a spa in Arizona...for a week...alone.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Joseph, Jesus' step-dad
In my ongoing contemplation regarding biblical anecdotes as mythic explanations of biological occurrences, I am struck, "Why does Joseph get no play in the Bible?" I mean this guy is totally smacked. He must have been the most easy going, forgiving man that ever lived, we’ll at least the second. Think what this poor guy must have had to endure beginning with Mary coming home pregnant and being all, “Now Joe, I know this looks bad but I can explain.” But he was a carpenter, he worked on a construction site, can you imagine the grief he took from his carpenter buddies on the job as he is trying to explain this?
Joseph shaking his head nonchalantly “Oh no man, you got it all wrong, it’s totally cool, it was God.”
The other carpenters are like, “So what you’re saying is your “virgin” (perhaps the first use of air quotes ever) fiancée is pregnant with God’s progeny.”
Joseph: “Exactly.”
Carpenters: “So you’re saying God banged your fiancée”
Joseph: “No, no, no, this angel Gabriel, I don’t know his last name, came down from heaven,”
Joseph is gesticulating with arms stretched upward but getting flustered,
“and….well….did something…,” (doing spirit fingers) “…some magicky thing, but there was no touching, seriously, and like a minute later she was…ahhh, you know…with Messiah.”
There is a long pause until one of the carpenters with his head tilted to one side looking perplexed says, “So..., en vitro?”
“No man totally, totally untouched.” Joseph says clearly annoyed
Carpenters: “Was it in a sterile area?”
Joseph: “Well I’m not sure if it was sterile but it was very, very clean.”
Carpenters: “So what happens now?”
Joseph: “Well, we know it’s a boy,” grumblings of approval, “and I think we have to go to Bethlehem sometime in December.”
Carpeners: “Oi, is it ever busy that time of year you should book ahead.”
Joseph: “I’ve never had a problem before I usually just book a room when we arrive. Anyway after he is born I’ll raise him like my own, teach him the trade, emphasizing how to join wood at a 90 degree angle, until he decides to go forth preaching love and forgiveness.”
Carpenters: “Cool.”
Joseph: “Yeah, but the Romans will kill him for that.”
Carpenters: “Yikes.”
Joseph: "But he’ll rise from the dead on the third day."
Carpenters: "So wait a minute, is he dead or alive now?"
Joseph: "Well both."
Carpenters: "So is he a zombie Christ?"
Joseph: "More like a Holy Ghost."
A collective “ahhhhh” is uttered by the carpenters.
"See he has to die so he can become God,” Joseph continues to explain
Carpenters: "But he is God’s son"
Joseph: "Right."
Carpenters: "So wait a minute, is he God or the son of God?"
Joseph: "Well both…and like I said a Holy Ghost too."
Carpenters: “Then is he dethroning God, replacing him or like mushing into him?”
Joseph: “Mushing I think”
Carpenters: “So let's see if we have this straight. Your still technically undefiled fiancée is pregnant with the son of God via the angel Gabriel who did some magicky angely no touching stuff. Mary will bear the Messiah, who will preach about love until the Romans kill him at which point he will rise from the dead and become God, who is his father, through some sort of mushing process and live in the kingdom of heaven."
Joseph: "Yep."
Carpenters: "Seems like being a Jew will get pretty complicated."
Joseph: "Well about that….”
After some more explanation one of the carpenters-actually the construction manager who had wandered over to see if there was some sort of union work stopage going on says,
“This seems like an amazing business plan to gain traction for a fledgling religion.”
Joseph: “Sure does, but it’s really the marketing plan, I think the business plan will have more to do with making folks give ten percent of there gross adjusted income and then having a few wars, albeit Holy ones, controlling the masses through strong association with the prevailing political entity and some good old fashioned empire building in an effort to add overall value to God by more efficiently preaching a message of love.”
Carpenters: “So gotta name yet?”
Joseph shaking his head nonchalantly “Oh no man, you got it all wrong, it’s totally cool, it was God.”
The other carpenters are like, “So what you’re saying is your “virgin” (perhaps the first use of air quotes ever) fiancée is pregnant with God’s progeny.”
Joseph: “Exactly.”
Carpenters: “So you’re saying God banged your fiancée”
Joseph: “No, no, no, this angel Gabriel, I don’t know his last name, came down from heaven,”
Joseph is gesticulating with arms stretched upward but getting flustered,
“and….well….did something…,” (doing spirit fingers) “…some magicky thing, but there was no touching, seriously, and like a minute later she was…ahhh, you know…with Messiah.”
There is a long pause until one of the carpenters with his head tilted to one side looking perplexed says, “So..., en vitro?”
“No man totally, totally untouched.” Joseph says clearly annoyed
Carpenters: “Was it in a sterile area?”
Joseph: “Well I’m not sure if it was sterile but it was very, very clean.”
Carpenters: “So what happens now?”
Joseph: “Well, we know it’s a boy,” grumblings of approval, “and I think we have to go to Bethlehem sometime in December.”
Carpeners: “Oi, is it ever busy that time of year you should book ahead.”
Joseph: “I’ve never had a problem before I usually just book a room when we arrive. Anyway after he is born I’ll raise him like my own, teach him the trade, emphasizing how to join wood at a 90 degree angle, until he decides to go forth preaching love and forgiveness.”
Carpenters: “Cool.”
Joseph: “Yeah, but the Romans will kill him for that.”
Carpenters: “Yikes.”
Joseph: "But he’ll rise from the dead on the third day."
Carpenters: "So wait a minute, is he dead or alive now?"
Joseph: "Well both."
Carpenters: "So is he a zombie Christ?"
Joseph: "More like a Holy Ghost."
A collective “ahhhhh” is uttered by the carpenters.
"See he has to die so he can become God,” Joseph continues to explain
Carpenters: "But he is God’s son"
Joseph: "Right."
Carpenters: "So wait a minute, is he God or the son of God?"
Joseph: "Well both…and like I said a Holy Ghost too."
Carpenters: “Then is he dethroning God, replacing him or like mushing into him?”
Joseph: “Mushing I think”
Carpenters: “So let's see if we have this straight. Your still technically undefiled fiancée is pregnant with the son of God via the angel Gabriel who did some magicky angely no touching stuff. Mary will bear the Messiah, who will preach about love until the Romans kill him at which point he will rise from the dead and become God, who is his father, through some sort of mushing process and live in the kingdom of heaven."
Joseph: "Yep."
Carpenters: "Seems like being a Jew will get pretty complicated."
Joseph: "Well about that….”
After some more explanation one of the carpenters-actually the construction manager who had wandered over to see if there was some sort of union work stopage going on says,
“This seems like an amazing business plan to gain traction for a fledgling religion.”
Joseph: “Sure does, but it’s really the marketing plan, I think the business plan will have more to do with making folks give ten percent of there gross adjusted income and then having a few wars, albeit Holy ones, controlling the masses through strong association with the prevailing political entity and some good old fashioned empire building in an effort to add overall value to God by more efficiently preaching a message of love.”
Carpenters: “So gotta name yet?”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Sales: How dumb people get rich or Contemporary Darwinian theory
I am looking at the VP of sales for some company that makes something stupid that some other stupid companies use in their completely flawed businesses. Just to be clear by “the VP” I of course mean one of 20 or 30 at this guy’s company who sell something they understand nothing about to people who know even less and I wonder how much longer before the country’s economy actually implodes like the house of cards it is. (author’s note-this was written in Early September 2008 approx. 2 weeks before the 9/19 proposed Fed. bailout of the capital markets)
The VP, who speaking mostly in retarded business jargon from the “Bi-directional exchange of value” handbook, is telling me about his kid. As he prattles on I am thinking, “But you’re so stupid how did your kid get into Stanford?” Imagining his wife must be responsible for the prodigious talents of this young man I ask about her, “So what does your wife do?” “Oh, she’s a mortgage originator.” Well that sure didn’t settle it; she’s a mortgage broker in the state that leads the developed world in creating the worst notes ever written. Then it occurs to me. Athletic scholarship. This is easy now although he is an idiot I can’t just say, “Oh did he get an athletic scholarship” it’s just cruel so I make some reference to the quarter million or so dollars he is about to be relieved of as he underwrites his son’s education. “Nope,” he says shaking his head from side to side, “full ride. My boy is a lacrosse genius.” I just repeat, “Lacrosse genius,” as I nod my head while smiling in a way that often makes my friends uneasy, but nothing nasty is to follow I’m just pleased the world makes sense to me again.
How do dumb people get rich? Acknowledging wealth in certain environments, by creating security and stability, is a necessary component of survival and continuation of species. Sales is proof of Darwinian theory in industrialized and technologically advanced societies. Geeks, creatives and all around smart people should essentially dominate wholesale in this environment leaving jocks and charming but dumb people with chameleonic personalities to languish. But this is not the case, everyone has a rich uncle with tons of money that he is basically unsure how he acquired but is happy he can now do his part to help republican candidates of all flavors. In theory there is no need for that uncle to exist anymore and he should have been eaten, however he was able to sell IBM mainframes with the computational power of air to universities in the sixties and seventies making handsome commissions but more importantly taking massive stock grants. He will explain, “IBM don’t even make nothin’ no more now that they sold that little computer makin’ business to the chinamen.” Any efforts to explain the lucrative nature of consulting, managed services and custom business solutions results in his arms waving as you simultaneously replay the business jargon you just spewed bringing back visions of the economic house of cards.
This of course gets you back to the urban apocalypse. But at least you are prepared.
Sales is the great equalizer in societies where creativity and brilliance is the major economic driver, the lacrosse genius will attend a top tier school making connections with other jocks that will serve him a lifetime as they all go on to sell things to each other in a self perpetuating cycle that without would leave the gene pool filled with too many Dungeons and Dragons players and people suffering from suicidal ideation that can’t run fast or lift heavy things.
This is also why the smartest girl in the class, who only cared about grades, drama club and becoming either Bronte sister will go on to marry the a guy who played football and shotgunned 16oz beers at State U. but is now a broker at Legg Mason. He doesn’t work all that hard now that he’s built his book giving him time to golf which helps him get new clients so he actually makes more money by working less. What transpired to keep her from marrying an economist with a degree in medieval literature and several years of modern dance experience who works for some non-profit where he develops predictive models for expediting food and water to third world countries during natural disasters is unclear but I believe it is an evolutionary trigger that keeps the gene pool from condensing. It didn't have to be a stockbroker she might have had the biker gene, well all women have the biker gene for some period of time. Specifically the biker gene is the, “he is hot, potentially dangerous and fucks me so hard my spine occasionally goes numb-but in a good way.” The actual biker population has thinned substantially and those that remain are generally posers therefore the role of biker in contemporary society is usually occupied by musicians, rogue poets or other brooding, disenfranchised, self-proclaimed geniuses who will never meet her parents. Some of these may however clean-up well go to business school and reenter the population under the guise of normalcy perhaps even fooling some ivy league graduate into marrying them and thus continue the evolutionary cycle in precisely the manner in which it is supposed to while confirming the theory of camouflage in the natural selection process as a causal method of increasing the genetic diversity of species.
Consider careers in real estate, pharmaceutical sales and anything on the brokerage side of the financial market—not the quants, they are a teaspoon of testosterone away from the non-profit modeling guy but when they are not crashing hedge funds with poorly timed swings in natural gas futures still spend way too much time on the playstation. These are the careers that in the event of the urban apocalypse, for which I am prepared, would ensure the continuity of species. Because the sales people would be able to run, hunt and build shelter moreover in the event elements of the food chain were so compromised it became necessary to resort to cannibalism the stockbrokers and realtors would have no problem eating other people in order to survive helping the rest of us acclimate to the taste of human flesh. I feel confident they would start with the lawyers.
Ummm….corporate counsel burgers. Maybe the apocalypse won’t be so bad.
The VP, who speaking mostly in retarded business jargon from the “Bi-directional exchange of value” handbook, is telling me about his kid. As he prattles on I am thinking, “But you’re so stupid how did your kid get into Stanford?” Imagining his wife must be responsible for the prodigious talents of this young man I ask about her, “So what does your wife do?” “Oh, she’s a mortgage originator.” Well that sure didn’t settle it; she’s a mortgage broker in the state that leads the developed world in creating the worst notes ever written. Then it occurs to me. Athletic scholarship. This is easy now although he is an idiot I can’t just say, “Oh did he get an athletic scholarship” it’s just cruel so I make some reference to the quarter million or so dollars he is about to be relieved of as he underwrites his son’s education. “Nope,” he says shaking his head from side to side, “full ride. My boy is a lacrosse genius.” I just repeat, “Lacrosse genius,” as I nod my head while smiling in a way that often makes my friends uneasy, but nothing nasty is to follow I’m just pleased the world makes sense to me again.
How do dumb people get rich? Acknowledging wealth in certain environments, by creating security and stability, is a necessary component of survival and continuation of species. Sales is proof of Darwinian theory in industrialized and technologically advanced societies. Geeks, creatives and all around smart people should essentially dominate wholesale in this environment leaving jocks and charming but dumb people with chameleonic personalities to languish. But this is not the case, everyone has a rich uncle with tons of money that he is basically unsure how he acquired but is happy he can now do his part to help republican candidates of all flavors. In theory there is no need for that uncle to exist anymore and he should have been eaten, however he was able to sell IBM mainframes with the computational power of air to universities in the sixties and seventies making handsome commissions but more importantly taking massive stock grants. He will explain, “IBM don’t even make nothin’ no more now that they sold that little computer makin’ business to the chinamen.” Any efforts to explain the lucrative nature of consulting, managed services and custom business solutions results in his arms waving as you simultaneously replay the business jargon you just spewed bringing back visions of the economic house of cards.
This of course gets you back to the urban apocalypse. But at least you are prepared.
Sales is the great equalizer in societies where creativity and brilliance is the major economic driver, the lacrosse genius will attend a top tier school making connections with other jocks that will serve him a lifetime as they all go on to sell things to each other in a self perpetuating cycle that without would leave the gene pool filled with too many Dungeons and Dragons players and people suffering from suicidal ideation that can’t run fast or lift heavy things.
This is also why the smartest girl in the class, who only cared about grades, drama club and becoming either Bronte sister will go on to marry the a guy who played football and shotgunned 16oz beers at State U. but is now a broker at Legg Mason. He doesn’t work all that hard now that he’s built his book giving him time to golf which helps him get new clients so he actually makes more money by working less. What transpired to keep her from marrying an economist with a degree in medieval literature and several years of modern dance experience who works for some non-profit where he develops predictive models for expediting food and water to third world countries during natural disasters is unclear but I believe it is an evolutionary trigger that keeps the gene pool from condensing. It didn't have to be a stockbroker she might have had the biker gene, well all women have the biker gene for some period of time. Specifically the biker gene is the, “he is hot, potentially dangerous and fucks me so hard my spine occasionally goes numb-but in a good way.” The actual biker population has thinned substantially and those that remain are generally posers therefore the role of biker in contemporary society is usually occupied by musicians, rogue poets or other brooding, disenfranchised, self-proclaimed geniuses who will never meet her parents. Some of these may however clean-up well go to business school and reenter the population under the guise of normalcy perhaps even fooling some ivy league graduate into marrying them and thus continue the evolutionary cycle in precisely the manner in which it is supposed to while confirming the theory of camouflage in the natural selection process as a causal method of increasing the genetic diversity of species.
Consider careers in real estate, pharmaceutical sales and anything on the brokerage side of the financial market—not the quants, they are a teaspoon of testosterone away from the non-profit modeling guy but when they are not crashing hedge funds with poorly timed swings in natural gas futures still spend way too much time on the playstation. These are the careers that in the event of the urban apocalypse, for which I am prepared, would ensure the continuity of species. Because the sales people would be able to run, hunt and build shelter moreover in the event elements of the food chain were so compromised it became necessary to resort to cannibalism the stockbrokers and realtors would have no problem eating other people in order to survive helping the rest of us acclimate to the taste of human flesh. I feel confident they would start with the lawyers.
Ummm….corporate counsel burgers. Maybe the apocalypse won’t be so bad.
The Gift Return of the Prodigal Son
I am a terrible son. I am an only child, my parents were born on the same day. I do not know when their birthday is, other than in the month of February. Never have. Their anniversary, May…maybe.
I do not have DNR power of attorney for my parents.
My wife left a voice message saying she is getting cards for mother’s day should she pick one up for my Mother. Duh. Half the reason men get married is to alleviate the responsibility of buying gifts, sending cards, in general remembering things that they are supposed to, however in my case this takes on new dimension as I simply never did any of those things anyway. Marriage by default should not just allay my previously shirked responsibilities as a son…in theory it will make me better.
My wife calls to follow-up on this as I have forgotten to call her back about it. Like I said, in theory. I say of course get a card---thinking we are done. She goes on to ask if I have just decided to send flowers and if so have I already done that online. Puzzled and sensing this is a rapidly deteriorating, I say no.
She says, “Should I,” drawing out the “I” with an upward lilt, “look for something for her.”
Sweaty now and unsure of how to respond I say, “Ahhhhh, yes”
She fires back, “OK, then would she like stationary, does she journal, artisan-crafted jewelry is always nice……
“artisan-crafted Jewelry,” I yell in some combination of auction and multiple choice response….”about $30 worth” this is good I have made a decisive call, I am involved, I care.
“Well there’s nothing for $30…” she says.
Now mind you I am working, not doing anything important because most jobs today are, as observed by children, basically writing stuff, emailing and talking on the phone-pretty much what they do. What the children do not understand is that this is to solve problems and create opportunities in a bi-directional exchange of value. So I am focused--as much as my ADHD addled brain can be.
This gets me thinking how much I love those ads for ADHD from a few years ago talk about a solution looking for a problem. The low, serious voice over guy- “Have you ever been watching television and suddenly changed the channel. Have you ever had a thought in your head and out of nowhere another thought enters. You could be one of millions of people suffering…..” This while an image of a woman in a meeting is rubbing her forehead looking perplexed and/or agitated.
Jeez I have been watching TV and suddenly changed the channel and I have been thinking one thing and then had another thought enter my mind, and I assume I have rubbed my head while being both perplexed and agitated at a big whole heck of a lot of meetings. Surely this indicates I need amphetamines to conquer this debilitating malady.
How is it possible to air that ad. Seriously….and who falls for it, pausing I realize I have a half dozen friends on the stuff—who rave about it. Note to self: check strike price on Novartis and make doctor’s appt.
“Focus!” my wife yells as she tells me there is nothing for $30. In my desperate desire to get back to whatever problem solving or opportunity creating thing I am wholly engrossed by I say,
“It doesn’t matter, Jesus Christ Marcie it just doesn’t matter, get whatever you think is right, I am a terrible son I have never purchased a mother’s day gift for her, ever. No matter what it is she will know you bought it so pick something you want to get her.”
“OK”, my wife says slowly in a flat tone that indicates this spewed confessional drivel just revealed more to her about me than the past 2.5 years we have spent together ever could have. Worse, she is clearly confused as she simultaneously pities and hates me because she sees my self absorption runs so pathologically deep that it extends to the very core of my being. Not just in the cute edgy guy way she initially found sexy believing I would eventually become a great father, provider and all around good man. No, the seriously messed up way that makes her feel sorry for me and then for herself for marrying me which then makes her resent me because she is now stuck with me. But this is progress: hatred, pity, and resentment, the traditional places where all familial gift buying begins.
I was graced several hours later with a box containing the ugliest earrings I have ever seen made from something close to but not exactly fishing tackle and some unidentifiable baby blue rock thing. God-awful. This presented my next serious quandary, now there are a lot of factors at play here like, does she actually think my mother will like baby blue mystery substrate fishing tackle earrings or is she trying to teach me something. This for a recently married man is a quagmire, a proving ground, because it brings into play the wife/mother first loyalty thing. Now if my wife actually thinks my mother will like these heinous, made by one of god’s children, craft objects I need to intervene quickly and make clear what does and does not constitute an acceptable gift to my mother. If I do not we open the door to truckloads of craft objects made by hippies and “special” people. On the other hand if my wife is taking me to task and saying you need to man-up here and be a better son and get your mother a real gift because you should be ashamed of this piece of crap-what is the correct response. This is as tough a test as can be devised.
In life I have often heard it said, and believe to be true, that the right thing to do is the harder thing to do. I of course knowing the stakes took the path of least resistance, the low road perhaps. I let it ride. The shameful earrings were mailed out for the contrived holiday and received without so much as a blip. The non-acknowledgment is my mother’s not so subtle way of saying it is better to not give than to give crap my loving son lest ye wife do thine bidding. I do not think it was a test on my wife’s part. All this however made me recognize my responsibility and in the future will be more mindful, thoughtful and involved. I will be a better son-at least in theory.
See marriage is making me better.
I do not have DNR power of attorney for my parents.
My wife left a voice message saying she is getting cards for mother’s day should she pick one up for my Mother. Duh. Half the reason men get married is to alleviate the responsibility of buying gifts, sending cards, in general remembering things that they are supposed to, however in my case this takes on new dimension as I simply never did any of those things anyway. Marriage by default should not just allay my previously shirked responsibilities as a son…in theory it will make me better.
My wife calls to follow-up on this as I have forgotten to call her back about it. Like I said, in theory. I say of course get a card---thinking we are done. She goes on to ask if I have just decided to send flowers and if so have I already done that online. Puzzled and sensing this is a rapidly deteriorating, I say no.
She says, “Should I,” drawing out the “I” with an upward lilt, “look for something for her.”
Sweaty now and unsure of how to respond I say, “Ahhhhh, yes”
She fires back, “OK, then would she like stationary, does she journal, artisan-crafted jewelry is always nice……
“artisan-crafted Jewelry,” I yell in some combination of auction and multiple choice response….”about $30 worth” this is good I have made a decisive call, I am involved, I care.
“Well there’s nothing for $30…” she says.
Now mind you I am working, not doing anything important because most jobs today are, as observed by children, basically writing stuff, emailing and talking on the phone-pretty much what they do. What the children do not understand is that this is to solve problems and create opportunities in a bi-directional exchange of value. So I am focused--as much as my ADHD addled brain can be.
This gets me thinking how much I love those ads for ADHD from a few years ago talk about a solution looking for a problem. The low, serious voice over guy- “Have you ever been watching television and suddenly changed the channel. Have you ever had a thought in your head and out of nowhere another thought enters. You could be one of millions of people suffering…..” This while an image of a woman in a meeting is rubbing her forehead looking perplexed and/or agitated.
Jeez I have been watching TV and suddenly changed the channel and I have been thinking one thing and then had another thought enter my mind, and I assume I have rubbed my head while being both perplexed and agitated at a big whole heck of a lot of meetings. Surely this indicates I need amphetamines to conquer this debilitating malady.
How is it possible to air that ad. Seriously….and who falls for it, pausing I realize I have a half dozen friends on the stuff—who rave about it. Note to self: check strike price on Novartis and make doctor’s appt.
“Focus!” my wife yells as she tells me there is nothing for $30. In my desperate desire to get back to whatever problem solving or opportunity creating thing I am wholly engrossed by I say,
“It doesn’t matter, Jesus Christ Marcie it just doesn’t matter, get whatever you think is right, I am a terrible son I have never purchased a mother’s day gift for her, ever. No matter what it is she will know you bought it so pick something you want to get her.”
“OK”, my wife says slowly in a flat tone that indicates this spewed confessional drivel just revealed more to her about me than the past 2.5 years we have spent together ever could have. Worse, she is clearly confused as she simultaneously pities and hates me because she sees my self absorption runs so pathologically deep that it extends to the very core of my being. Not just in the cute edgy guy way she initially found sexy believing I would eventually become a great father, provider and all around good man. No, the seriously messed up way that makes her feel sorry for me and then for herself for marrying me which then makes her resent me because she is now stuck with me. But this is progress: hatred, pity, and resentment, the traditional places where all familial gift buying begins.
I was graced several hours later with a box containing the ugliest earrings I have ever seen made from something close to but not exactly fishing tackle and some unidentifiable baby blue rock thing. God-awful. This presented my next serious quandary, now there are a lot of factors at play here like, does she actually think my mother will like baby blue mystery substrate fishing tackle earrings or is she trying to teach me something. This for a recently married man is a quagmire, a proving ground, because it brings into play the wife/mother first loyalty thing. Now if my wife actually thinks my mother will like these heinous, made by one of god’s children, craft objects I need to intervene quickly and make clear what does and does not constitute an acceptable gift to my mother. If I do not we open the door to truckloads of craft objects made by hippies and “special” people. On the other hand if my wife is taking me to task and saying you need to man-up here and be a better son and get your mother a real gift because you should be ashamed of this piece of crap-what is the correct response. This is as tough a test as can be devised.
In life I have often heard it said, and believe to be true, that the right thing to do is the harder thing to do. I of course knowing the stakes took the path of least resistance, the low road perhaps. I let it ride. The shameful earrings were mailed out for the contrived holiday and received without so much as a blip. The non-acknowledgment is my mother’s not so subtle way of saying it is better to not give than to give crap my loving son lest ye wife do thine bidding. I do not think it was a test on my wife’s part. All this however made me recognize my responsibility and in the future will be more mindful, thoughtful and involved. I will be a better son-at least in theory.
See marriage is making me better.
Byzantine Institutional Bureaucracy
I am sending an email to find out the status of a budget item for a final report I owe. I have asked for this ten business days ago. I have been told for six of those days “tomorrow.” It was four numbers, I gave them the four numbers they just needed to enter the four numbers I gave them into a form I had also provided. Oh I hear you. Because they have to do it. Because it’s the rule.
I work at a large research university; let’s call it MIT. Having come form a world where to get something done meant doing it I was astonished early on to discover what true institutional bureaucracy was-a Chinese puzzle box of competing, contradicting and redundant fiefdoms. In the first year I was developing my project I kept it as far away from the Institute’s administrative process as I could. I used to tell people my affiliation with the institute was me running along the side of the building grazing it gently with my fingertips. I certainly needed the clout the MIT brand provided I just didn’t want my nimble young project consumed by the Byzantine bureaucratic quagmire that lay inside waiting to crush it.
Although now I am worn down and bitter which seems to be the thing bureaucracies do most efficiently I was not always that way. In the early days on the occasion I was required to use the institute’s protocols to get something done I was merely fascinated by the process. Like watching ants carry stuff. If say my heating unit were not functioning properly I would have to call the administrative office speaking first with an underling before clawing my way to the department’s head administrator. The request, “Please help me, I am freezing and will perish soon as the heating unit is not working,” had to be verified as legitimate. This required someone from the administrative office to accompany me back to my office, jiggle something, return and say, “The heating unit is not working.” This had a bizarre effect as first I am stunned that I need to be chaperoned by an 18 year old temp who stands as the gatekeeper to my comfort and second that I am grateful when they confirm my complaint as legitimate. “Oh thank you kind sir and may I compliment your regal Iron Maiden concert tee, for it is your generous overture which allows my pathetic quips be seen as legitimate.” Confused I shake of my Stockholm syndrome. Upon regaining my faculties I had to assume the verification process was to quell the drumbeat of false claims issued by people whose real agenda is to have men wearing dusty clothes in their office who discuss snowmobiles.
I see this often and it is always a wonderful and entertaining contrast to watch especially at a place like MIT. You have a down to earth, union guy and a nuclear physicist discussing plumbing. In fairness they are each experts in the problem. There is a stilted conversation about traffic or weather, the professor trying to seem natural and like he is enjoying the exchange but he is talking to the guy that beat the crap out of him in grades 2-9. All he really wants to think about is his research on fluid dynamics that will solve rising sea levels by creating floating levees around vulnerable arcapelogos and that his chainmail is repaired for this weekends Battle of Grunswald where his shire is heavily favored. On the other side you have this good guy who knows he is not dealing with exactly his ilk because this guy sort of reminds him of that retard he used to beat the crap out of for wearing a cape. Discussions of football and ATVs are out of question except as examples kinetic transfer. But mostly he wishes his buddy were there so he could excuse himself to poop because the buffalo wings and rice krispy treats he had for lunch weren’t getting along.
So I receive an email from my office asking me to describe the problem so they can describe the problem to someone in another office who will complete the form that describes the problem so the person who decides who needs to fix the problem can describe the problem to the person assigned to fix it. Since I had just been chaperoned by someone I thought perhaps that person could verify the no heat thing to the other person in the room who just sent me the email and who heard me say I had no heat before the whole confirmation process began. Alas, no.
I describe the problem in my email reply.
The heater does not seem to be functioning, I turn it on and instead of warm air the air is cool consequently I do not have heat.
I have learned it is important to be specific but not be too detailed in the description. Too simple a report like “no heat” gets a flurry of useful suggestions such as, “ did you turn it on” Not being the eighty year old sitting in front of their first Dell, I respond “yes the power button has been activated.” On the other hand provide too much information or get too specific you arouse suspicion “I believe the problem is related to a release value malfunctioning causing a vapor lock in the supply line.” Now the gatekeeper becomes a bit caddy thinking to him or herself, “so you think you know something about HVAC-guess you’re a real smart guy well maybe you can just fix it yourself” leaving you at the bottom of the list and when help finally does arrive they’ve sent the new guy who learned the trade while in prison. He will tell you all about his time inside in a way that is both sweet and oddly subservient but that leaves you thoroughly on edge as you are keenly aware this man would gouge your eyes out with his thumbs if you moved too quickly.
Now of course you only know about the vapor lock issue not because of your fluid dynamics prowess like nuclear physicist next door but because it happens about eight times a year. To implement a lasting fix requires the expenditure of some amount of money that exceeds that line item in some standards guide produced by the US Navy by $108. To green light that requires some massive amount of paper work because the $108 must come from a different account under the watchful eye of some other gatekeepers who hold a grudge against your department for some perceived slight in recognizing their authority in addressing matters just such as this. That may have been me.
Corporate structures and their uglier cousin institutional bureaucracies were developed to establish protocols for repeatable tasks and too create systems that removed inefficiencies by reducing mistakes.
To remove inefficiency.
I estimate based on my lost time, the mechanics time and time required to push it through the system that each of these band-aid fixes costs about $500. It happens eight times a year and has gone on for 3 years. $12,000.
Oh good, I am told I will have my budget report tomorrow. Perfect.
I work at a large research university; let’s call it MIT. Having come form a world where to get something done meant doing it I was astonished early on to discover what true institutional bureaucracy was-a Chinese puzzle box of competing, contradicting and redundant fiefdoms. In the first year I was developing my project I kept it as far away from the Institute’s administrative process as I could. I used to tell people my affiliation with the institute was me running along the side of the building grazing it gently with my fingertips. I certainly needed the clout the MIT brand provided I just didn’t want my nimble young project consumed by the Byzantine bureaucratic quagmire that lay inside waiting to crush it.
Although now I am worn down and bitter which seems to be the thing bureaucracies do most efficiently I was not always that way. In the early days on the occasion I was required to use the institute’s protocols to get something done I was merely fascinated by the process. Like watching ants carry stuff. If say my heating unit were not functioning properly I would have to call the administrative office speaking first with an underling before clawing my way to the department’s head administrator. The request, “Please help me, I am freezing and will perish soon as the heating unit is not working,” had to be verified as legitimate. This required someone from the administrative office to accompany me back to my office, jiggle something, return and say, “The heating unit is not working.” This had a bizarre effect as first I am stunned that I need to be chaperoned by an 18 year old temp who stands as the gatekeeper to my comfort and second that I am grateful when they confirm my complaint as legitimate. “Oh thank you kind sir and may I compliment your regal Iron Maiden concert tee, for it is your generous overture which allows my pathetic quips be seen as legitimate.” Confused I shake of my Stockholm syndrome. Upon regaining my faculties I had to assume the verification process was to quell the drumbeat of false claims issued by people whose real agenda is to have men wearing dusty clothes in their office who discuss snowmobiles.
I see this often and it is always a wonderful and entertaining contrast to watch especially at a place like MIT. You have a down to earth, union guy and a nuclear physicist discussing plumbing. In fairness they are each experts in the problem. There is a stilted conversation about traffic or weather, the professor trying to seem natural and like he is enjoying the exchange but he is talking to the guy that beat the crap out of him in grades 2-9. All he really wants to think about is his research on fluid dynamics that will solve rising sea levels by creating floating levees around vulnerable arcapelogos and that his chainmail is repaired for this weekends Battle of Grunswald where his shire is heavily favored. On the other side you have this good guy who knows he is not dealing with exactly his ilk because this guy sort of reminds him of that retard he used to beat the crap out of for wearing a cape. Discussions of football and ATVs are out of question except as examples kinetic transfer. But mostly he wishes his buddy were there so he could excuse himself to poop because the buffalo wings and rice krispy treats he had for lunch weren’t getting along.
So I receive an email from my office asking me to describe the problem so they can describe the problem to someone in another office who will complete the form that describes the problem so the person who decides who needs to fix the problem can describe the problem to the person assigned to fix it. Since I had just been chaperoned by someone I thought perhaps that person could verify the no heat thing to the other person in the room who just sent me the email and who heard me say I had no heat before the whole confirmation process began. Alas, no.
I describe the problem in my email reply.
The heater does not seem to be functioning, I turn it on and instead of warm air the air is cool consequently I do not have heat.
I have learned it is important to be specific but not be too detailed in the description. Too simple a report like “no heat” gets a flurry of useful suggestions such as, “ did you turn it on” Not being the eighty year old sitting in front of their first Dell, I respond “yes the power button has been activated.” On the other hand provide too much information or get too specific you arouse suspicion “I believe the problem is related to a release value malfunctioning causing a vapor lock in the supply line.” Now the gatekeeper becomes a bit caddy thinking to him or herself, “so you think you know something about HVAC-guess you’re a real smart guy well maybe you can just fix it yourself” leaving you at the bottom of the list and when help finally does arrive they’ve sent the new guy who learned the trade while in prison. He will tell you all about his time inside in a way that is both sweet and oddly subservient but that leaves you thoroughly on edge as you are keenly aware this man would gouge your eyes out with his thumbs if you moved too quickly.
Now of course you only know about the vapor lock issue not because of your fluid dynamics prowess like nuclear physicist next door but because it happens about eight times a year. To implement a lasting fix requires the expenditure of some amount of money that exceeds that line item in some standards guide produced by the US Navy by $108. To green light that requires some massive amount of paper work because the $108 must come from a different account under the watchful eye of some other gatekeepers who hold a grudge against your department for some perceived slight in recognizing their authority in addressing matters just such as this. That may have been me.
Corporate structures and their uglier cousin institutional bureaucracies were developed to establish protocols for repeatable tasks and too create systems that removed inefficiencies by reducing mistakes.
To remove inefficiency.
I estimate based on my lost time, the mechanics time and time required to push it through the system that each of these band-aid fixes costs about $500. It happens eight times a year and has gone on for 3 years. $12,000.
Oh good, I am told I will have my budget report tomorrow. Perfect.
Monday, July 14, 2008
A Tenuous Relationship
I had a routine physical recently. Now I can’t stand doctors. I don't think they really know much more than you or I or anyone attuned to their body and yet they play it like they do with that ridiculous doctor arrogance. In reality doctors are more like garage mechanics with biology degrees. I saw an interview once where a doctor was telling an interviewer that in the body most things heal themselves. I have adhered to that notion, eaten well, stayed fit and learned the art of minor home surgery for a variety of ailments-while developing my own, I believe much more practical, theories on human health. But I occasionally have some questions for my internist-we, need I say, have a tenuous relationship.
I wanted to know my testosterone level so I could, as I told my doctor, “establish a baseline.” This is so the minute I am less horny or tired or whatever condition I think can be explained by a precipitous dip in testosterone levels, I can get juice legally. As I am in the examination room explaining this to my doctor she is not buying it. We move on.
“Hold old are you?”
“41,” I reply.
“In the early forties we usually do a prostate exam.”
I instantly loose it, I explain that the prostate exam occurs at age 45; everybody knows that, I have 4 more years.
“Well we like to do it in the early 40’s so we can” she pauses and adds, “establish a baseline.”
As I said it is a tenuous relationship.
I go on to explain that men are prepared for this from an early age, it is a milestone-not one recognized by “hey, I get to have my prostate checked in 5 years” but “thank god I don’t have to have my prostate checked for 5 more years.” The stories are horrifying, from descriptions of the various positions-on back with legs in lady stirrups, all fours or the most horrific, on knees with chest on exam table and ass straight up ---oh dear god the horror….the horror.
I actually managed to charm her, she laughs and gives me a pass. However now I am intrigued and my wife is out of town.
Observe this pathology; my doctor is a woman because several years ago when I had to choose my doctor, as discussed I knew the day would come when that person would stick their finger up my ass. Knowing this I chose a female doctor-simply because if a finger, other than my own (for strictly hygienic reasons), is going up my ass I would rather have it be attached to a female then a male. I should have known but just didn’t anticipate it being a matronly Chinese woman.
We begin, I am now in the green open-back paper smock, clearly made by the same folks who make the rain gear handed out at university graduations—which is a really garbage bag with arm holes. She asks me to lie on my side and pull my knees up to my chest. “OK” she tells me, “I am going to use a lot of lube and it will be cold.” She does, it is. “I am inserting my finger,” I didn't need her to tell me that, surprisingly this was not a problem as she really did use a lot of lube, “I am circling the anus to check for (I think she said fissures) and now I am touching the prostate.” Which caused an electric sensation to shoot through me. Not a pleasant one, but tolerable. “and we’re done.”
She tells me to sit up; I slide upright. While she puts drops on the-was just in my asshole 10 seconds ago-finger and tells me she is checking the fecal matter for colorectal something or other I missed because I am thinking there’s my shit on your finger, but I just showered—I am ashamed.
Now she hands me the box of tissues and says, “clean yourself up, get dressed and come see me in my office.” As she is telling me this I am taking a few tissues feeling a bit, oh I don’t know, odd. She says, “no, the whole box,” with a firm but reassuring tone that just made me melt.
Moments later in her office I sit across from her at her desk in one of two chairs that were not in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement, which I corrected before I sat down. I am surprisingly OK with the fact that this woman just anally penetrated me. I am however arranging her furniture to be more Feng Shui. We go on to discuss family medical history and the fact that I have low good cholesterol but fortunately very low bad cholesterol. She tells me the low good cholesterol will be a factor in heart disease but there is nothing I can do about it. We are looking at her computer and I ask another question about one of the results on my blood test and she seemed perplexed causing her to open a browser and google it where she proceeds to click the Wikipedia result. No, really.
Now this is about the third time this has happened to my wife, a friend or me. Where the doctor, whom you just tossed what you believe to be an easy one, has googled the question. Shit, I can do that. I often do, running down the list of symptoms until I have either mad cow or perimenopause. I know I should be all hey it's the democratization of information and isn't it great doctors finally have access to blah blah blah. This stands as absolute confirmation that doctors don't know jack more than any concerned citizen. I remind my doctor her kind were still using leeches 50 years ago. To which she replies we actually never stopped.
My wife got very ill on our honeymoon because some drunk Vikings did not cook chicken long enough. She spent a month shitting and was on a course of no less than 4 kinds of antibiotics including Cipro-the one for anthrax, before a blood test finally revealed she had something called Campylobacter jejuni—which is essentially e. coli. Her doctor googles this and finally gets the right anti-biotic on the web, the regular open web not some special physician’s pharmacological matrixed network—and writes the script from the results of a google query.
Now I imagine there were about 187,000 results returned in about 0.6 seconds, which one did she use. She did, however, get the right one.
Did I say tenuous?
I wanted to know my testosterone level so I could, as I told my doctor, “establish a baseline.” This is so the minute I am less horny or tired or whatever condition I think can be explained by a precipitous dip in testosterone levels, I can get juice legally. As I am in the examination room explaining this to my doctor she is not buying it. We move on.
“Hold old are you?”
“41,” I reply.
“In the early forties we usually do a prostate exam.”
I instantly loose it, I explain that the prostate exam occurs at age 45; everybody knows that, I have 4 more years.
“Well we like to do it in the early 40’s so we can” she pauses and adds, “establish a baseline.”
As I said it is a tenuous relationship.
I go on to explain that men are prepared for this from an early age, it is a milestone-not one recognized by “hey, I get to have my prostate checked in 5 years” but “thank god I don’t have to have my prostate checked for 5 more years.” The stories are horrifying, from descriptions of the various positions-on back with legs in lady stirrups, all fours or the most horrific, on knees with chest on exam table and ass straight up ---oh dear god the horror….the horror.
I actually managed to charm her, she laughs and gives me a pass. However now I am intrigued and my wife is out of town.
Observe this pathology; my doctor is a woman because several years ago when I had to choose my doctor, as discussed I knew the day would come when that person would stick their finger up my ass. Knowing this I chose a female doctor-simply because if a finger, other than my own (for strictly hygienic reasons), is going up my ass I would rather have it be attached to a female then a male. I should have known but just didn’t anticipate it being a matronly Chinese woman.
We begin, I am now in the green open-back paper smock, clearly made by the same folks who make the rain gear handed out at university graduations—which is a really garbage bag with arm holes. She asks me to lie on my side and pull my knees up to my chest. “OK” she tells me, “I am going to use a lot of lube and it will be cold.” She does, it is. “I am inserting my finger,” I didn't need her to tell me that, surprisingly this was not a problem as she really did use a lot of lube, “I am circling the anus to check for (I think she said fissures) and now I am touching the prostate.” Which caused an electric sensation to shoot through me. Not a pleasant one, but tolerable. “and we’re done.”
She tells me to sit up; I slide upright. While she puts drops on the-was just in my asshole 10 seconds ago-finger and tells me she is checking the fecal matter for colorectal something or other I missed because I am thinking there’s my shit on your finger, but I just showered—I am ashamed.
Now she hands me the box of tissues and says, “clean yourself up, get dressed and come see me in my office.” As she is telling me this I am taking a few tissues feeling a bit, oh I don’t know, odd. She says, “no, the whole box,” with a firm but reassuring tone that just made me melt.
Moments later in her office I sit across from her at her desk in one of two chairs that were not in an aesthetically pleasing arrangement, which I corrected before I sat down. I am surprisingly OK with the fact that this woman just anally penetrated me. I am however arranging her furniture to be more Feng Shui. We go on to discuss family medical history and the fact that I have low good cholesterol but fortunately very low bad cholesterol. She tells me the low good cholesterol will be a factor in heart disease but there is nothing I can do about it. We are looking at her computer and I ask another question about one of the results on my blood test and she seemed perplexed causing her to open a browser and google it where she proceeds to click the Wikipedia result. No, really.
Now this is about the third time this has happened to my wife, a friend or me. Where the doctor, whom you just tossed what you believe to be an easy one, has googled the question. Shit, I can do that. I often do, running down the list of symptoms until I have either mad cow or perimenopause. I know I should be all hey it's the democratization of information and isn't it great doctors finally have access to blah blah blah. This stands as absolute confirmation that doctors don't know jack more than any concerned citizen. I remind my doctor her kind were still using leeches 50 years ago. To which she replies we actually never stopped.
My wife got very ill on our honeymoon because some drunk Vikings did not cook chicken long enough. She spent a month shitting and was on a course of no less than 4 kinds of antibiotics including Cipro-the one for anthrax, before a blood test finally revealed she had something called Campylobacter jejuni—which is essentially e. coli. Her doctor googles this and finally gets the right anti-biotic on the web, the regular open web not some special physician’s pharmacological matrixed network—and writes the script from the results of a google query.
Now I imagine there were about 187,000 results returned in about 0.6 seconds, which one did she use. She did, however, get the right one.
Did I say tenuous?
Monday, June 16, 2008
A Drop of Ink in the Snow Globe
I was, and may still be addicted to chaos. That is to say, calm, steady, measured periods of time lasting more than about a year just seem to ruin my---leaning forward into this life with all the fight in my heart and head, adrenaline riddled, narrow-eyed, bring the war posture, which I used think of as my defining characteristic. That, you say, may be a good thing and I say you would be right. The disclaimer is this; I loose my way without some level of maniacal drive, craven blood-lust and sheer excitement and when I loose my way the fear that I manage to keep at bay by remaining in this teeth-nashing and frothy state catches up to me. A little at first like slowing down in a sail boat with a dingy in tow, the dingy bumps against the hull but then it starts to chafe, scratching the paint a nick becomes a gouge and eventually a hole, filling everything inside it capsizes and goes under.
That is what fear will do to me if I idle for too long—truly the devil’s tools. When the fear starts to set in my first reaction is to create chaos. It should also be understood that chaos is just drama, only it sounds manlier. It is not. It is however often more destructive if only because men are basically destructive. So I want chaos, why, because it fills the void, it distracts the fear, but more importantly it allows me to put myself squarely in the middle of disaster, disaster that I design—which puts me in control of everything around me. In the best cases I put everything back in order orchestrating my salvation. I am my savior. Yes, I want to dangle myself over the fires just so I can pull myself away. Actually, I want to find the kindling, gather the hardwood, start the fire—take it in for a moment-assess it’s blaze worthiness-then douse it with a thousand gallons of jet fuel. Then and only then when I am sure I have saturated everything flammable with as much accelerant as I can, I throw myself atop the pyre in order to design a brilliant extraction plan for myself.
Self-destructive, oh yes. Insane, perhaps but maybe not so much as it seems. If you learn to understand your place in the world by being in control, in an excited state, in the middle of the action where you are the most important component that connects everything else. If that is how you know you are safe and have value in a world that is almost entirely out of your control then it starts to be a coping mechanism. Albeit a kind of retarded one but an extremely effective way to assuage all that assails us upon the realization that we are alone in a hostel world. It is like using noise to cancel noise or detonating an explosive device in order to extinguish a raging chemical fire. See, maybe not so nuts after all.
The problem arises when you start to build a world where all the stuff is in the right place. You have rescued and reinvented yourself enough times to have created a life that makes sense. In other words a lot of the stuff that you used to need to create the chaos to avoid dealing with or feeling has been dealt with—it's just you now—well, you and those feelings: self-doubt, insecurity, inadequacy—which are just different shades of fear anyway. So now chaos really looks, well, chaotic and it becomes unacceptable as a coping device and that becomes a problem. You are missing the excitement of conducting your symphony that puts you squarely in control--godlike.
You are suffering from the, “Geez, my life is really great; got the job, spouse, money, house….this is great but kinda boring and I am a little nervous and afraid…hmmm….what to do, what to do… I know, I will burn this life to the motherfucking ground,” syndrome.
But, you're older now; you don’t get another do over. This is it, the scorched earth policy is not a viable protocol anymore. You burn this one down and living under a bridge drinking Listerine eating stale bread with packets of ketchup and duck sauce is the next stop. It is not cute anymore, remember this existential crisis is just teen angst plus time and economics. So, no affairs, no embezzling, and certainly no being a little bitch and giving your pistol a blowjob. Nope, you gotta make something else happen....you gotta make this work. And you gotta get OK with the fact that this really is it, more importantly that you are OK and being just OK is OK-at least sometimes. I haven’t got an answer but I know it requires being still with no chaos canceling chaos initiatives for long enough that you move through some of the stuff that wakes you up at 3:23 in the morning.
Oh yes, you will be one twitchy kitty cat while you sit still. On the other hand fucking your son’s third grade teacher and moving to Australia to wildcat for shale oil deposits in search of fortune is not acceptable. At 24 sure, 34 maybe but probably an asshole move, 44 no fucking way, 54 you are seriously retarded.
Don't put ink in the snow globe.
That is how I have always envisioned it. Life is chaos-like a snow globe, all can be beautiful and suddenly a magnitude 8.8 tremor comes along and rocks your world and the sky really is falling. Your natural impulse is to create chaos you can control in response to chaos you can’t. You put a drop of ink in the snow globe and like a black jellyfish it slowly descends and envelops everything. The snow alone is going to settle-like most situations in life, but the ink you added requires an entirely different clean-up and it lingers, it never really gets clean, just less dirty and then you start to get used to it. Don’t get used to it.
No one gets out of this life clean, no one, no matter what. So try, just try...not to put ink in the snow globe.
That is what fear will do to me if I idle for too long—truly the devil’s tools. When the fear starts to set in my first reaction is to create chaos. It should also be understood that chaos is just drama, only it sounds manlier. It is not. It is however often more destructive if only because men are basically destructive. So I want chaos, why, because it fills the void, it distracts the fear, but more importantly it allows me to put myself squarely in the middle of disaster, disaster that I design—which puts me in control of everything around me. In the best cases I put everything back in order orchestrating my salvation. I am my savior. Yes, I want to dangle myself over the fires just so I can pull myself away. Actually, I want to find the kindling, gather the hardwood, start the fire—take it in for a moment-assess it’s blaze worthiness-then douse it with a thousand gallons of jet fuel. Then and only then when I am sure I have saturated everything flammable with as much accelerant as I can, I throw myself atop the pyre in order to design a brilliant extraction plan for myself.
Self-destructive, oh yes. Insane, perhaps but maybe not so much as it seems. If you learn to understand your place in the world by being in control, in an excited state, in the middle of the action where you are the most important component that connects everything else. If that is how you know you are safe and have value in a world that is almost entirely out of your control then it starts to be a coping mechanism. Albeit a kind of retarded one but an extremely effective way to assuage all that assails us upon the realization that we are alone in a hostel world. It is like using noise to cancel noise or detonating an explosive device in order to extinguish a raging chemical fire. See, maybe not so nuts after all.
The problem arises when you start to build a world where all the stuff is in the right place. You have rescued and reinvented yourself enough times to have created a life that makes sense. In other words a lot of the stuff that you used to need to create the chaos to avoid dealing with or feeling has been dealt with—it's just you now—well, you and those feelings: self-doubt, insecurity, inadequacy—which are just different shades of fear anyway. So now chaos really looks, well, chaotic and it becomes unacceptable as a coping device and that becomes a problem. You are missing the excitement of conducting your symphony that puts you squarely in control--godlike.
You are suffering from the, “Geez, my life is really great; got the job, spouse, money, house….this is great but kinda boring and I am a little nervous and afraid…hmmm….what to do, what to do… I know, I will burn this life to the motherfucking ground,” syndrome.
But, you're older now; you don’t get another do over. This is it, the scorched earth policy is not a viable protocol anymore. You burn this one down and living under a bridge drinking Listerine eating stale bread with packets of ketchup and duck sauce is the next stop. It is not cute anymore, remember this existential crisis is just teen angst plus time and economics. So, no affairs, no embezzling, and certainly no being a little bitch and giving your pistol a blowjob. Nope, you gotta make something else happen....you gotta make this work. And you gotta get OK with the fact that this really is it, more importantly that you are OK and being just OK is OK-at least sometimes. I haven’t got an answer but I know it requires being still with no chaos canceling chaos initiatives for long enough that you move through some of the stuff that wakes you up at 3:23 in the morning.
Oh yes, you will be one twitchy kitty cat while you sit still. On the other hand fucking your son’s third grade teacher and moving to Australia to wildcat for shale oil deposits in search of fortune is not acceptable. At 24 sure, 34 maybe but probably an asshole move, 44 no fucking way, 54 you are seriously retarded.
Don't put ink in the snow globe.
That is how I have always envisioned it. Life is chaos-like a snow globe, all can be beautiful and suddenly a magnitude 8.8 tremor comes along and rocks your world and the sky really is falling. Your natural impulse is to create chaos you can control in response to chaos you can’t. You put a drop of ink in the snow globe and like a black jellyfish it slowly descends and envelops everything. The snow alone is going to settle-like most situations in life, but the ink you added requires an entirely different clean-up and it lingers, it never really gets clean, just less dirty and then you start to get used to it. Don’t get used to it.
No one gets out of this life clean, no one, no matter what. So try, just try...not to put ink in the snow globe.
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
It really is all about sex and death
So if our crazy all starts from the same place, some biological imperative, what makes mine different than yours? Your basic instinct, like mine, is to survive. But survival has two aspects, there is the first part---that is the not dying part but the second and much more colorful part is the continuing the species part---rounding out the whole biological imperative. Survival means more than just not being eaten it means procreation, establishing lineage and continuity to ensure the survival of the species. You are after all just another virus.
Here is a simple equation to illustrate the concept:
Survival = Fear of Annihilation multiplied by Sex + Death
S=FA(Sx+D)
Your crazy is a function of your basic biology, in fact it seems pretty necessary, yet everybody has his or her own style, depth and shade of crazy. Crazy that gets uniquely distilled in each of us by our environments-which is to say our exposure to other people’s crazy.
For example, your first serious girlfriend got drunk at a party and lost her virginity to the school soccer star a week before you were supposed to loose it with each other, decorated his neck with hickies and on Monday you made fun of him in front of the entire class, all of whom knew the source the hickies—all, of course, but you. When you eventually do find out about the tryst, you loose all trust and faith in people, experience a sense of vulnerability (Original Sin tie-in: love object becomes food) and humiliation (Original Sin tie-in: Wow do I look like a dick, I am less than a man, I will never get laid-no sex=death) so profound that you began a fuck war-that is to say a battle royale of infidelity that would go on to shape your entire world view on relationships and how they should evolve. This created your belief in a parallel moral universe, one where you were immune from the rigors of the day-to-day moral universe where the simple folk dwell, you then begin the slow compartmentalization of people and situations that ultimately allows you to section off feelings into manageable segments thereby mitigating any potential emotional risk by creating near total control of the interactions in these relationships.
You know, stuff like that.
Anyway a broad example there just about everyone has experienced to illustrate how environment-i.e. other people’s crazy takes the basic crazy and colors it yours.
So everything really is all about sex and death-the Victorians, and the Druids, and the whores at the temple gates before them knew it-they just didn't know why.
Here is a simple equation to illustrate the concept:
Survival = Fear of Annihilation multiplied by Sex + Death
S=FA(Sx+D)
Your crazy is a function of your basic biology, in fact it seems pretty necessary, yet everybody has his or her own style, depth and shade of crazy. Crazy that gets uniquely distilled in each of us by our environments-which is to say our exposure to other people’s crazy.
For example, your first serious girlfriend got drunk at a party and lost her virginity to the school soccer star a week before you were supposed to loose it with each other, decorated his neck with hickies and on Monday you made fun of him in front of the entire class, all of whom knew the source the hickies—all, of course, but you. When you eventually do find out about the tryst, you loose all trust and faith in people, experience a sense of vulnerability (Original Sin tie-in: love object becomes food) and humiliation (Original Sin tie-in: Wow do I look like a dick, I am less than a man, I will never get laid-no sex=death) so profound that you began a fuck war-that is to say a battle royale of infidelity that would go on to shape your entire world view on relationships and how they should evolve. This created your belief in a parallel moral universe, one where you were immune from the rigors of the day-to-day moral universe where the simple folk dwell, you then begin the slow compartmentalization of people and situations that ultimately allows you to section off feelings into manageable segments thereby mitigating any potential emotional risk by creating near total control of the interactions in these relationships.
You know, stuff like that.
Anyway a broad example there just about everyone has experienced to illustrate how environment-i.e. other people’s crazy takes the basic crazy and colors it yours.
So everything really is all about sex and death-the Victorians, and the Druids, and the whores at the temple gates before them knew it-they just didn't know why.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Acceptable Lechery
I watched a guy in his mid fifties turn and stare at a girl’s ass as she walked by him. She was this beautiful Latina girl about 24. This guy was some kind of sales guy, a guy that would make Arthur Miller shudder, the kind you don't see a lot of in the city but often enough to recognize. They wear slacks, what exactly defines slacks and where they come from I am unsure, I just know they exist and these guys all wear them. Always a shirt and tie-but the kind that come in a box set from a discount retailer, you will never see ties like that anywhere but bundled with a shirt in a box and these ties are also worn by television weathermen working in small mid-western markets. The best part of the their attire is instead of a sport coat they always wear a nylon windbreaker with some awful logo for the company they represent stitched on the right breast like, “Synlon-excellence in industrial fluid delivery” Rounding out the look are bad shoes, really bad shoes, either something that looks like 80’s era Capezio jazz shoes or a thera-sneaker-oxford monstrosity with a thick rubber sole-they are a hair’s breadth from having Velcro straps. Invariably these shoes have been worn so long that the cheap leather has softened and stretched the to the point where parts of the shoe hang over the sole in a grotesque, anthropomorphic way.
So I watch this guy, a component of some out-moded shadow economy I can’t comprehend, with his giant three ring binder under one arm holding an overstuffed vinyl attaché in the other check out this girls ass, turning his head shamelessly as she walked by. I shuddered. It was simply too lascivious for me pushing me far beyond my female objectification comfort zone. It was just gross. After observing this, and having this reaction, as I am checking out her ass, I begin to ponder where I fall on that scale of acceptable lechery. How long before I’m that guy. Am I already that guy-sartorial crimes withstanding.
I recall being at dinner with a friend when I was about 20 and he was about the age I am now. The waitress comes over to the table and makes some remark that I pick out some part of and reply to with some perhaps indelicate innuendo. She giggles, we flirt and she walks off smiling. Upon her return she says something that my friend then responds to playfully, she looks at him stone-faced, if not openly annoyed and asks for his order. When she left my friend looked at me and says you see the difference, at your age it’s cute-you're a smartass at my age you’re just an asshole.
I have never forgotten that because as I get older I look for that moment of open rebuke, signs of my wiles and charm sliding into assholeness. Granted I am youthful in appearance, well dressed, still arguably have my “hottie” days, and I have stretched the latitude that brings further than most, but I must accept those days are indeed numbered.
So I watch this guy, a component of some out-moded shadow economy I can’t comprehend, with his giant three ring binder under one arm holding an overstuffed vinyl attaché in the other check out this girls ass, turning his head shamelessly as she walked by. I shuddered. It was simply too lascivious for me pushing me far beyond my female objectification comfort zone. It was just gross. After observing this, and having this reaction, as I am checking out her ass, I begin to ponder where I fall on that scale of acceptable lechery. How long before I’m that guy. Am I already that guy-sartorial crimes withstanding.
I recall being at dinner with a friend when I was about 20 and he was about the age I am now. The waitress comes over to the table and makes some remark that I pick out some part of and reply to with some perhaps indelicate innuendo. She giggles, we flirt and she walks off smiling. Upon her return she says something that my friend then responds to playfully, she looks at him stone-faced, if not openly annoyed and asks for his order. When she left my friend looked at me and says you see the difference, at your age it’s cute-you're a smartass at my age you’re just an asshole.
I have never forgotten that because as I get older I look for that moment of open rebuke, signs of my wiles and charm sliding into assholeness. Granted I am youthful in appearance, well dressed, still arguably have my “hottie” days, and I have stretched the latitude that brings further than most, but I must accept those days are indeed numbered.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Were you walking with the wounded or wounded while walking
I am unfixable so how did I get this way? Well searching for the “it” usually gets the same boring answer, the one that makes your mother cringe when you tell her you going to see a shrink, saying, “they are going to tell you it’s my fault” pauses for a moment and asks, “is it?”
Hmmm.
So years later it does eventually come down to the realization that—yeah it is her fault, your dad’s too, they each bring their own level of whack to your pre-verbal pure. Imbuing you with their fears and insecurities, which you go on to carefully craft into something uniquely yours and that you will pass on in some form to your own progeny. But it’s not really their fault because their parents gave it to them and your great-grand parents to your grandparents and all the way back to prehistoric man and if you want from multi-cell organisms to single cell creatures to the stardust in the primordial ooze.
This trans-generational transfer of fear and insecurity is simply based on the most primal instinct any living organism owns—survival---therefore the biggest fear any organism has is fear of annihilation-everything we do, all that we are, starts and ends with it.
Envision a prehistoric scene, a baby is laying in a cave on a fur of some sort, happy as its mother coddles it, now the moment the mother has to go off to tend to some other matter about the cave that baby is no longer the love object, that baby is food. So without her “love” i.e. protection-that baby is bear food and be sure that baby knows it-it’s instinct, it’s in there. That fear, that sense of insecurity is there, imprinted-on a cellular level, and it is not going away. That fear is in us, so really we are hardwired with 30,000 years of crazy that got us here.
The entire concept of Original Sin I am dirty because of Adam and Eve’s lapse, taken out of the biblical metaphor becomes a much more viable concept when creating a corollary to fear of annihilation as something that is carried in us from some genesis point-Eden or stardust-your call.
Now I’m not trying to assuage a millennia or so of Christian guilt, I am just positing a parallel theory that takes a provocative religious concept and tethers it to biological moorings. If Original Sin, or something that is in all of us, is really the instinct for survival manifesting itself most profoundly as fear of annihilation and fear of annihilation still lives at the bottom of every fear and therefore every action/reaction you display which colors a whole rainbow of mal-adaptive or crazy behavior.
So you are crazy, but it’s what got you this far, and yes, it is your mom’s fault.
Hmmm.
So years later it does eventually come down to the realization that—yeah it is her fault, your dad’s too, they each bring their own level of whack to your pre-verbal pure. Imbuing you with their fears and insecurities, which you go on to carefully craft into something uniquely yours and that you will pass on in some form to your own progeny. But it’s not really their fault because their parents gave it to them and your great-grand parents to your grandparents and all the way back to prehistoric man and if you want from multi-cell organisms to single cell creatures to the stardust in the primordial ooze.
This trans-generational transfer of fear and insecurity is simply based on the most primal instinct any living organism owns—survival---therefore the biggest fear any organism has is fear of annihilation-everything we do, all that we are, starts and ends with it.
Envision a prehistoric scene, a baby is laying in a cave on a fur of some sort, happy as its mother coddles it, now the moment the mother has to go off to tend to some other matter about the cave that baby is no longer the love object, that baby is food. So without her “love” i.e. protection-that baby is bear food and be sure that baby knows it-it’s instinct, it’s in there. That fear, that sense of insecurity is there, imprinted-on a cellular level, and it is not going away. That fear is in us, so really we are hardwired with 30,000 years of crazy that got us here.
The entire concept of Original Sin I am dirty because of Adam and Eve’s lapse, taken out of the biblical metaphor becomes a much more viable concept when creating a corollary to fear of annihilation as something that is carried in us from some genesis point-Eden or stardust-your call.
Now I’m not trying to assuage a millennia or so of Christian guilt, I am just positing a parallel theory that takes a provocative religious concept and tethers it to biological moorings. If Original Sin, or something that is in all of us, is really the instinct for survival manifesting itself most profoundly as fear of annihilation and fear of annihilation still lives at the bottom of every fear and therefore every action/reaction you display which colors a whole rainbow of mal-adaptive or crazy behavior.
So you are crazy, but it’s what got you this far, and yes, it is your mom’s fault.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Everything is wrong to me but everything is what I need
The morning had started at 5:30 because of my obsessive compulsive drive to keep a 40 something body at sub 8% body fat and looking like a 20 something body which acknowledges in my world, fitness and well-being as merely a by-product of vanity. All was on track as I pushed through a somnambulant haze with caffeine, until the application of toothpaste ran awry somehow bending a toothbrush bristle with enough force that it catapulted a microscopic bit of toothpaste into my eye causing me to writhe spasmodically with one hand over the burning, minty eye the other giving the finger to the heavens. “What the fuck, how does that even motherfucking happen” I whisper in a guttural throaty tone through my clenched and still unbrushed teeth, it is a deliberately low hiss as to not to arouse my sleeping wife—yes it was a quiet anger. While quiet enough to leave my wife undisturbed it did however begin to stoke my own, as of yet unprovoked but ever smoldering rage as I felt the little flashes of fire dance across the coals.
After packing all my nutrition potions-proteins, specialized fats and other requisite foodstuffs in my bag, finishing my third cup of coffee I was making my dawn jaunt for the subway to get to the gym. It is a twelve-minute walk through urban neighborhoods that comprise a bizarre collection of working poor in subsidized housing, students in $3000 a month flats, professional folks and the people out of time-the elderly who have owned their homes since Eisenhower was in office, a few cleaned-up hippies who still run Marxist societies, tenet rights organizations and other well-intentioned poorly run ineffective causes. People who you can’t tell if they are trapped, lost, or simply confused and I always wonder what they are thinking.
I was one of a very few folks out on a street that would be bumper to bumper with traffic in less than an hour but now it was just me and a smattering of other early risers and two cars. Two cars one of which found the need to honk on an otherwise deserted street. A jarring, unbelievably loud squelch of a honk in this otherwise serene scene-this sound electrified the caffeine in my bloodstream causing me to shake my head and bring my shoulders to my ears while my elbows clenched my sides. Why. Seriously, why is this person honking at 6 AM on a deserted street? I ponder this as I stare hatefully at the driver, has the honking affected positive change for the person, changed something that displeased them more to their liking? ….why, I continue to think, you stupid motherfucker, why…so yes that honk has effected something, but nothing positive.
……….and the embers are stoked…..
The indictments begin.
I begin a mental conversation over an email word choice with one of my two bosses, who are actually more like colleagues, the one with whom I have an extraordinarily complicated relationship who lives on Japan at the moment. This ends with me spewing a string of profanities at him out loud. Ashamed I look around to make sure no one has caught this, unsure of what I would do if someone had. How do you even play that off…you know…like you’re not crazy.
With no witnesses to shame me into humility and better behavior the indictments continue, every owner of every dead plant containing planter, each piece of litter-indicting both litterer and those who fail to care for their property. Leading to anger at the drunk retarded mayhem causing college students-probably because I'm jealous that they can be drunk retarded mayhem causing college students and then there are the generally ignorant folks who seem to think it is ok to throw their trash anywhere or do they consider it a control issue, some kind of mostly impotent power-play like when a group of teenagers walk with deliberate slowness across a street, they stop traffic, they are in control, they have power even if only for a moment.
I see no parallels in my life at all. None.
Then I mock a barking dog---I mean I mock a dog—I squinch my face up looking at the dog who is on a porch and use the universal high pitched, lower lip protruding, mock voice and proceed to make two barking sounds.
It is 6:15 in the morning and I am making fun of a dog, are you fucking kidding me.
After packing all my nutrition potions-proteins, specialized fats and other requisite foodstuffs in my bag, finishing my third cup of coffee I was making my dawn jaunt for the subway to get to the gym. It is a twelve-minute walk through urban neighborhoods that comprise a bizarre collection of working poor in subsidized housing, students in $3000 a month flats, professional folks and the people out of time-the elderly who have owned their homes since Eisenhower was in office, a few cleaned-up hippies who still run Marxist societies, tenet rights organizations and other well-intentioned poorly run ineffective causes. People who you can’t tell if they are trapped, lost, or simply confused and I always wonder what they are thinking.
I was one of a very few folks out on a street that would be bumper to bumper with traffic in less than an hour but now it was just me and a smattering of other early risers and two cars. Two cars one of which found the need to honk on an otherwise deserted street. A jarring, unbelievably loud squelch of a honk in this otherwise serene scene-this sound electrified the caffeine in my bloodstream causing me to shake my head and bring my shoulders to my ears while my elbows clenched my sides. Why. Seriously, why is this person honking at 6 AM on a deserted street? I ponder this as I stare hatefully at the driver, has the honking affected positive change for the person, changed something that displeased them more to their liking? ….why, I continue to think, you stupid motherfucker, why…so yes that honk has effected something, but nothing positive.
……….and the embers are stoked…..
The indictments begin.
I begin a mental conversation over an email word choice with one of my two bosses, who are actually more like colleagues, the one with whom I have an extraordinarily complicated relationship who lives on Japan at the moment. This ends with me spewing a string of profanities at him out loud. Ashamed I look around to make sure no one has caught this, unsure of what I would do if someone had. How do you even play that off…you know…like you’re not crazy.
With no witnesses to shame me into humility and better behavior the indictments continue, every owner of every dead plant containing planter, each piece of litter-indicting both litterer and those who fail to care for their property. Leading to anger at the drunk retarded mayhem causing college students-probably because I'm jealous that they can be drunk retarded mayhem causing college students and then there are the generally ignorant folks who seem to think it is ok to throw their trash anywhere or do they consider it a control issue, some kind of mostly impotent power-play like when a group of teenagers walk with deliberate slowness across a street, they stop traffic, they are in control, they have power even if only for a moment.
I see no parallels in my life at all. None.
Then I mock a barking dog---I mean I mock a dog—I squinch my face up looking at the dog who is on a porch and use the universal high pitched, lower lip protruding, mock voice and proceed to make two barking sounds.
It is 6:15 in the morning and I am making fun of a dog, are you fucking kidding me.
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