Edgy, edgy, edgy

Remind me to tell you tomorrow about what it means to cast aside your white hat and black hat in favor of a deep brown, and how the laws of the jungle work.  In the meantime, though, may each of you enjoy a day with your own nutbag families and basket-case friends.  Or, if you are blessed with a sane version of one or the other, may you not have to deal with traffic, may your turkeys (or substitutes) be fat and juicy, and may your naps be deep and restful.

Chapel Hill: The Nutsmaker

Rageblog Entry #3:

You know, I didn’t originally intend for this to be my venting channel.  I wanted this blog to be a repository for all sorts of insights and information, and I wanted it to be a chance to keep everyone up to date on me–not just the basic facts, but what’s going on in my mind.  But venting is a) entertaining to other people, b) good for me to focus–especially considering how much I bottle up, and c) just so damn much fun. So, to start this Tuesday off right, I vent–about Chapel Hill.

I start with the appropriate disclaimers.  I went to school in Chapel Hill, I worked in Chapel Hill, I’ve visited friends there long after I graduated, and I still take my roommate there to school on a regular basis.  I don’t know this town inside and out, but I know it well enough.  Part of me loves it (and keep in mind, I include Carrboro in this mix), and always will, not only for nostalgia, but for the talent of many of the people and for the attempts to create a community that is forward-thinking, for the environment, for civic policy, and for general citizenship.  Kudos, Chapel Hill.

Now let me tell you what’s wrong with you.

Chapel Hill, you are a fucked up town.  Your streets are narrow, there’s no parking, and it seems like everywhere I turn I’m surrounded by douchefags.  Seriously.  It always starts with dealing with the fucktarded drivers trying to clog those narrow streets.  You, hipster boy!  Driving your old-ass Volvo like you’re the Prince of the Universe, smug and satisfied in your irony!  STOP RIDING UP MY ASS.  Stop trying to pull around me when I’m going around a curve.  And stop trying to pull out and around me while we’re waiting for pedestrians!  Speaking of which–GROUNDWALKERS!!! You fucking idiots!  You should remember that not everyone trying to get through this goddamned rat maze of a campus is your frat brother or some professor that you secretly resent.  I don’t want to be here, and in the unspoken negotiations of you passing verses me passing, I AM THE ONE WITH THE CAR.  21 people died on your campus last year, most of them due to traffic issues, half of those due to angry passers-through that got tired of waiting 10 minutes for you cattle to pass.

BUMPER STICKER PEOPLE:  Let’s start Woman Driving the PT Cruiser.  Your bumper stickers–one advertising women in the Republican Party and the other proclaiming that God knew me before he shaped me in the womb–driving slow and blocking all lanes of traffic is a great way to get me to read your stickers–and to HATE you.  Your brethren on the liberal side can be just as obnoxious–I encountered your sister, HPPYCHK, earlier in another town, with her NIN sticker stacked above the Compassion religious sticker and the Women for Obama sticker, all attached to her mini-van.  But really.  Did you all of a sudden remember that women in the Republican Party aren’t just an armband for their office-running husbands when Sarah Palin showed up?  Fuck off.  Too little, too late.  As for the God statements—you’re in the wrong town.  There’s an atheist hanging from a tree with a physics book, full colon, and bad attitude, just waiting for you to pass.  And since you’re taking up the whole fucking road, no one ELSE is going to be passing!

HIPSTER COFFEE SHOP:  I thought I had found refuge.  All I wanted was a joint with internet, plentiful seating, elbow space, and a parking spot.  So what if I had to circle for 10 minutes to get that spot–it’s not your fault.  You actually had plenty of spots, you’re just popular.  When I walk in I know I’m going to get decent, non-hipster music (an unexpected surprise on my first trip–go goth kid behind the counter!) and the plague of Trustafarians are going to be at least 10 feet away on vintage couches–we’ll be fine.  But then I went into your unisex bathroom.  As I take a leak I have to stare at a pretentious french painting (all in french) of some fat bastard in the various stages of tasting wine.  It’s a manual, in french, of how to appreciate wine.  God damn you, Carrboro.

And finally….

YOUR HIPSTER MUSIC:  I can see it on computer screens.  I can feel The Shins radiating off the malnourished little boy with the tight jeans and remnants of a scouring pad for a beard.  I know it’s what you are all feeding off of.  I want to kill you for it.  I took my shots at pop, but Indie, you’re not far behind.  I give you cred for doing something different from pop, and the blame for EVERY ONE OF YOU FUCKING INDIE BANDS copying each other.  You all sound the same.  Seriously, every song I hear sounds like a guy or girl from a 5th grade choir playing a Fisher-Price xylophone with their buddies from beginner band playing a shitty trumpet and trombone shittily.  Give it a rest.  Your lyrics may be deep or shallow, I don’t care.  You aren’t more genuine for creating this sound–the first four bands that did it may be, but not the rest of you.  You may be creating a sound that takes people back to their childhood, but forgive me, I’m trying to act like a grownup out here.  Give me someone who has actually tried to refine their musical ability, instead of writing their lyrics on the back of a napkin while eating ramen in their shit-tacular apartment.

I love Chapel Hill.  I love all that they do.  I wouldn’t trade it away, because there is no place like it, and for God’s sake, this state needs this kind of place to exist and be a resource.  But I can’t cross your borders for 20 minutes without wanting to go apeshit.  We’ve had our good times, but I’m happy to keep the new potential times at arm’s length.  You’re like the crazy girl you try to date when you’re young–you have a good time, get into some wild shit, it doesn’t work out, you stay friends, but you realize as you get older that “that bitch is CRAZY.”

So, to you, Chapel Hill: Shine on, you crazy diamond.

Let the grownups talk.

So I realize that I spend a lot of my time talking about friendly topics or childhood hobbies.  I don’t get a chance to debate solid topics often, and sometimes when I do, I beat people down with it.  Sorry bout that, you poor victims.  But I thought I’d take a few moments here to address a few topics and give an adult perspective on them.

• Information is the gold of this day and age.  We have a tremendous amount of it right now, and access to glorious gobs of informational glut.  We learn a lot, and stay aware of a lot more.  But I have big concerns about who owns the hard drives that we save our data on, who else is reading my email (which is mostly useless), and how many people are looking over my shoulder.  The age of Cyberpunk is upon us, and it wasn’t supposed to be–frankly, William Gibson’s world was a little horrifying.  And now it’s coming true, albeit in a more Disney-friendly shell.  I don’t think we’re all going to be yoked into slavery, but I do think we’re sacrificing some freedoms we don’t even realize we have.
• I think Obama’s getting too hard a time right now.  The man has made good on more promises than most presidents of the 20th Century, and more of his promises than he’s broken.  He’s spent a lot of political capital to effect the changes that he promised.  And now he’s getting beat down for it?  Seriously, people.  It takes work and sacrifice to make the changes you wanted.  If the man weren’t so honest, he’d put a lie and a shine on everything he’s doing, and we’d all still think he smelled like roses. Lay off.
• Our economic structure needs a major overhaul.  It’s so byzantine that hardly anyone understands it, and those that do are in the system, and profiting from it.  It may sound basic, but I’m all about supporting the small businesses and choosing only the products you want.  The dollar rules in this day and age, and if yours didn’t matter, then why are so many people advertising so hard to get it?
• Green is the way to go, but it shouldn’t be a fad.  It should be worked into our infrastructure.  The good news is, I think it’s well on the way.  In the meantime, we can all do little shit that’s painless to help–low flow shower heads, hanging your clothes out to dry, blah blah blah.
• I’m getting older, and respecting the cycle of time.  I’m at that age where you constantly think to yourself when viewing your elders that they were once your age, doing the shit you do.  The children will be this age, too.
• I keep the company of people that are smarter than me.  That’s hard to take, sometimes, especially when you’ve been primed to think you’re so damn smart.  But frankly, it’s all about knowing your own strengths, and respecting others.
• My ideas of God have to grow with me.  My philosophy has changed with time–now my understanding of the world and the divine has to broaden as well.
• I’m not sure how much of my child-like self I’m willing to put on the chopping block to get shit done.  But that’s the question we all have to answer, isn’t it?

There you have it, folks.  Please feel free to comment.

The American Music Awards

This isn’t going to be a long post.

I direct you to www.thesuperficial.com.

Now THIS is an example of what makes music great today.  These fine artists, giving of themselves everything they have to give–their asses, their crotches, their flaming pianos—really, what more could we ask of them?

ONE IOTA OF TALENT!!!!

God damnit, you fucking fools!  Stop wasting my time and airspace!!! The record execs wonder why the ratings are so low for these shows?  Because NO ONE WANTS TO LISTEN TO IT!!!  You give me Rhianna, Lady GaGa, J-Low, and all these other buzzards looking to make twice as much as their predecessors with half the talent?!?  Go fuck yourselves–and do it off the air.

The one thing, the ONE THING that was half-redeeming about the whole thing was that Michael Jackson got four posthumous awards for his music.  The good part?  Four awards.  Bad part?  You couldn’t have given them to him BEFORE HE DIED?

Seriously.  Someone throw these people a bone, and help them find some other way to waste my time.

Simpler Times

One night as the sole driver at an intersection

I realized I’m in a time preserve,

Or at least my neighbors think we are.

Times are so much simpler here.

The children are smart

The streets are clean

And you can leave your door unlocked at night.

 

Meanwhile middle school kids are into the stuff

It took me college and a lot of booze to get into.

Gangs have gone paramilitary

And everyone can find out where I am

With three clicks of a mouse.

 

Is it so wrong to want simpler times?

Is it wrong to look at the young and wonder

What world I’ll be subjected to in 20 years?

Should I have to be a computer tech to get by at work?

Will I have to become generic to have a place?

 

The choices are slim.

You conform or you fight.

You bleed or your brain rots.

You struggle no matter what.

We made where we are

And yet it was snatched from under our pillows.

 

So I’ll drive down the old dirt roads

Listening to songs 30 years old

Without irony

And seek the days where toys were toys

You had to call someone to communicate

And parents didn’t make play dates.

 

I’ll stick to my simpler times, while I can.



About that name….

(to get it, read the post below)

The source of that name comes from my reclusive nature.  I know, I know, it may be hard to believe, but really–you see me retreat at parties after I’ve been entertaining, you’ve seen me play the quiet support while someone else entertains, and you’ve seen me retreat to my room.  It’s there.  It’s always been there.  It just shows itself at various times, in various ways.

Fact is, in recent years I’ve needed more and more time to myself.  Perhaps it’s a side effect of being “on” most of the time, or perhaps it’s just not realizing how much time I’ve had to myself before.  But what most people don’t realize is that I was raised in solitude.  I spent a lot of my childhood alone (not abandoned, people), doing my thing, and thinking–doing a LOT of thinking.  As I’ve gotten older I’ve had more people around, and have gotten more stamina for being entertaining.  Indeed, like many entertainers, I feed off a good audience.

I think part of it was being entertaining all the time for the people around me, whether gaming or just keeping conversations going, keeping the peace or keeping the excitement going.  People who have seen me at parties or dinners know that I can get some shit going.  I’m not too humble to admit–it’s not only native talent (I come from a family of bullshitters), but it’s skill, one I put to good use.  I’ve also used that skill for money for many years, and I think performance-on-command has taken it’s toll as well.

So, all this (and I’m sure other shit) has led to me coming home and holing myself in my room for long periods of time.  When guests come over, I disappear.  Why?  Sometimes it’s clear–I’m overloaded and burnt out.  Other times, I just have a craving to be alone.  I’m trying to understand that craving and satisfy that deep-down desire so that I can be more outgoing and regularly “on” than I have been.  People think I’m being an asshole and a loser when I duck out, when it doesn’t really have anything to do with them.  All right, sometimes with them.  But frankly, it’s not as regular as it seems.  Tonight, I ducked out to use the bathroom, ended up chatting with a friend in my room, and ended up missing other friends’ departure–and not without comment.  I’m not offended–it’s in good nature (or good enough).  But I don’t want that to be the expectation.  And when I do duck out, I want the people around me to understand that it’s for good cause.  I don’t want them to feel short changed.

Here’s a secret I give to you, gentle readers and longtime subscribers–sometimes my ideal day is to just sit somewhere, screw around with my computer, by myself, have no one talk to me or bother me, and have no one put out, upset, hurt, or offended by my absence.  I want them to know that I care, I love them, it has nothing to do with them, and that I’ll be back “on” tomorrow.

God bless, gentle reader, and take these words to heart: make your heart’s desire known to the people you love.  They may appreciate it more than you think.

Reclusion, thy name is Sanctuary

I’ve had one of those weekends that isn’t perfect per se, but is the substance of what I’ve wanted for a long time.  Frankly, I don’t know why I can’t call it perfect, but it was what should have happened and needed to happen.  In short, it was a “lazy” weekend.

Now, to call it a “lazy” weekend is actually a misnomer.  I think of a lazy weekend as one of those where you don’t have anything scheduled and you spend your time around the house.  There are no pressing social engagements, there’s no crisis, and there are no surprises.  It’s simple.  Now I say it’s a misnomer because we hardly sat around the house all weekend.  Lazy Saturdays, for example, are all about getting shit done.  You work in the yard, you clean the house, you spend the afternoon doing something laid back or constructive with the younger members of the family, and you spend the evening watching a movie or some tube.   A lazy Sunday is spent relaxing, but being constructive–reading, writing, taking drives, etc.  Sometimes you mix in light social activity, if you feel like it, and you end the night on a good, relaxing note, recharged and ready for the week.

This weekend met all the criteria.  Raked the yard (a feat in itself, repairing years of neglect), milkshakes, assembly of paper robots, and a little family-style TV to end Saturday.  Sunday was reading, good lunch, writing, and having friends over to watch a favorite show.  Brownies and Rice Krispie treats were had with cider, and all went well.  Idyllic, in fact.

So why can’t I call that perfect?

I think part of it is that it’s part of a tapestry.  These weekends counterbalance crisis weekends, vacations, and adventure weekends.  These are the weekends where laundry gets done, dishes are washed, and you get a little further ahead in things.  But is that it?

Is it that I’m so used to crisis and stress that something feels wrong when it’s not there?  Is it that nothing “exciting” happened? Is it that I’m secretly seeking something more, something more jam-packed?  Hell, I don’t know.

All I know is that I have been wanting to create a home where I can have people come over, relax, enjoy the home, have lots of well-made goodies, and have some good adult conversation.  Well, done.  We had that.  We continue to have that.

What’s next?

You Talentless Bitches

(Please note that there are TWO posts this evening: for the more pleasant post, see Valparaso, below.)

 

I would say that only a few of you have heard me go off on a true rant.  There are only a few topics that are true Red Button topics for me, and when you hit one, you know I have more than my share to say on the topic.  That may be a misnomer–I tend to be reserved on most topics, and my Red Button topics are where I say that share that I’ve held back for quite a while–so it’s actually my share.

Guess what?  Tonight, one of my Red Buttons have been hit.  And I get to share.

The topic: modern “music”.  I’m watching Fuse right now, listening to their Top 20 Countdown, or whatever passes for it.  I remember watching this show when I was younger, on MTV, when it played, you know, music.  Hence, the M.  When I saw it, there were throwaway acts littering the countdown, but you could be sure that a genuinely talented individual appeared at least a quarter of the time.  I remember my family telling me that my granddad hated MTV for the sex portrayed.  I also think that he, like so many older people, didn’t think that shit counted as music.

Well count me in.

What is this crap?  This is pure fucking TRASH!  I’m listening to a countdown full of people that really think they’re musical performers!  What I’m actually seeing is a bunch of young people dressed up in whatever costume their company decided to put them in, kind of dancing to a kind of beat (that they didn’t make), “singing” (sometimes with digitized vocals, sometimes just reciting in a vaguely musical monotone) lyrics that they didn’t write.  And what trite fucking shit!  Lady GaGa’s “Paparazzi”?  Jesus, get me a fucking freshman in high school with the assignment of “Write What You See”, and I’ll churn out her next hit!

Please.  These are some talentless bitches.  Who the fuck are these kids, anyway?  I know who they are–that question was rhetorical.  Bred in an entertainment farm of commercials and Disney shows or scraped off some talent show, they’re prepped for their grand “music career” with a fucking ARMY of producers, consultants, and other sundry team members that I’m frankly too tired and disgusted to name.  They are fucking dancing dolls.  That’s all.

And here’s the other part–this shit is aimed at the lowest common denominator, and IT HITS!!!! In spades, damnit.  This younger generation, the one that picks up all these mp3s from iTunes while talking about their latest sexual escapade and speaking in fucking incomplete txtspk, is so fucking inept that this drivel is what entertains them!  It’s not just irony, it’s fucking soulless.  Whatever substance exists in this audience is so drowned in information overload and SATISFY ME NOW entertainment that they can’t rub two brain cells together long enough to appreciate a true melody, or–GOD HELP YOU ALL—composition.

Don’t come to me telling me that Britney Spears is a true musical entertainer.  She’s a piece of ass with some half-assed choreography and a voice that is so fucking lame that she has to have a fucking massive background track to cover its sheer emptiness.  The girl’s talent has always been tantalizing men that thought she was some forbidden fruit due to her age, and now she’s struggling to keep up her sex appeal.  You tell me if you can remember one of her latest songs.  Shit, tell me if you can remember one of her songs and NOT connect the outfit she was wearing in the video to it.

And, ladies and gentlemen, this is their queen.  It’s downhill from here.

I don’t know whether to kick the record company execs in the nads, the performers, or the retarded fucking brats that buy this shit.  They all deserve it.

I know.  Let’s find some super hacker that can send out the latest song to iTunes–with a surprise.  It has a special code (since record companies are all fond of adding something to their mp3s) that wipes out all the other songs on the iPod and leaves that song on repeat.  Maybe one of these Lady GaGa type songs.   The execs don’t get the Beatles, Eagles, or Stones to wash their palettes clean; the performers don’t get some performer’s music from the 80’s to be their “inspiration”, and therefore the target of a modernized cover; and the kids don’t get anything from Guitar Hero, Rock Band, or their parents’ CD collection to consider fashionable and ironic.

Oh, and the earbuds fry your frontal lobes.  You weren’t using them, anyway.

So the next time someone wonders why I don’t listen to anything made after 1993 besides trip-hop, read this post and comprehend.  I’ll stick with all the guys that showed an iota of talent because they wanted to, and I’ll cherish those who thought that they had to have a truckload of it just to do their jobs.  I don’t know where America let the tin ear take over, but fuck em all.  I’m taking your musical culture and taking it to Europe.  At least someone there will offer you a cigarette for it.

Fucking bastards.

Valparaso

On a snowy hill, a lean man breathes mist into the evening air, his eyes on the valley below.   Little houses spindle out streams of smoke, filling the air with the scent of charred pine.  No one moves between the houses.  In a cold like this, it’s too much trouble for families to lead children frivolously to a neighbor’s, or for men to drag fat-soled work boots the few hundred steps leading to the pub.  No, it’s better to settle into a chair by the fire, savor a glass of bourbon or, for the children, warmed milk, and ease the night away in the stocked comforts of home.

He knows this, staring down at the candlelit collection of homes.  One hand withdraws from the warmed pockets of his wool pea coat, long enough to pull his scarf around his mouth.  These are people with a place.  They bitch and whine, revel and rejoice, cry and suffer, but they do so together.  Most of them don’t even realize that sense of belonging until they’re removed from it.  When they are, there’s this sense of fear, a cloying scent of the alien, the different, the not-part-of-my-tribe. Sooner or later, most of the time sooner, they make their way back to the village, resume their role, and all is right in the world.

Some part of him longs for that sense of belonging, to have that rightness about a person, place, or thing.   That kind of solace isn’t the rarity that most men think it is–it exists, very much in their lives, and in the lives of most people.  God saw fit to dole his gifts out liberally, so much so that they are taken for granted, like the gifts of most parents.   There are the few, however, who receive different gifts.  Observation, perspective, insight–all gifts to cherish daily, used liberally, and placed in their sheathes, well oiled, at the end of the night.  But every gift comes with a price.  He gets to see–but to see, he has to be out here.

Placing his longing in one of hundreds of boxes in the dry and dark recesses of his heart, he turns to the thin path that runs across the spine of the hills.  The alien waits for discovery and exposure.  Let the townspeople enjoy their warm fires and enclosed walls.  The moon lights the white fields to the horizon.

 

Dear travelers, this is impromptu storytelling.  A simple writing exercise, it’s a good way to keep writing skills sharp, as well as expose all of the rust that’s built on your tools.  I’ve advised others to practice, but especially after parceling that particular piece of advice out more than three times this week, I find myself remissin not doing it myself.

I’ve missed this blog, but I’ve missed it for different reasons.  I recognize the power of your own public space, and what you can do with it.  For me, it’s multifaceted–but writing, and practicing my writing, is one of those facets.  So, you may see some more than the basic update here–you’ll see writing.  When you see that writing, don’t treat it as the finger painting of a beloved child, or the interesting new toy of an old friend–treat it as blood in the water.  No dam gets strengthened without spotting the cracks in it.

 

Kneeling before the tower of song

Where do you begin?

You walk into a concert hall expecting a fine performance from a longtime professional.  The building is lovely, the event carrying the feeling of excitement–people from all over in attendance to see a legend, a songwriting virtuoso, and a man of such esteemed elegance that the prices on the seats float away with the rest of the worries of the night.  You sit, accompanied by a fan the likes of which cannot be measured, waiting for the show to begin.  You know the result will be good, and that you will enjoy songs you have liked, some you may not have liked before, and will walk away no less than pleased.

 

You walk into his garden.  You realize you walked in blindly.

 

From the opening song, he was no less than magical.  No, magic would say that there were some other power responsible.  What you witness is almost fifty years of art, skill, love, sex, meditation, agony, prayer, heart-wrenching living, and hard-won grace, encapsulated in a performance.  Every lyric was sung from the depths of memory, from the humor of “Dance Me To The End of Love” to the pain of “The Miracle” to the peace and humility of “If It Be Your Will”, which he didn’t actually sing.   He spoke poetry.  He sang.  He played guitar like a man my age.  He danced, knelt, and cradled his microphone like a child.

The artisan of a century was well accompanied.  An assembled crew of musicians from around the world, renowned each on their own, supported him, and in turn were supported by him.  In his grace he shared the spotlight in every way, eyes glued to them and hat off while they soloed, and singing to individual performers just to literally share the light with them.  His introductions were ebullient with praise, and their performances were overflowing with heart and style.   They lent their abilities to his masterworks, covering the spectrum–country, latin, ballad, and plenty of blues.   They performed like a band that had played all their lives together, sharing, falling into solid grooves, standing out individually, and coalescing to create a unified, polished performance that rates no less than spectacular.

Even above the man and the band, though, was the music.  New interpretations of older songs, made fresh for a live band, mixed with rock-solid performances of every classic you could desire (save one–”Joan of Arc”), and songs you may have never heard before, created a set list that had no rival.  With a performance that came in at 3 1/2 hours, including four encores that comprised a complete set in their own right, the audience was never left behind.  On the contrary, the concert hall was ringing with cheers, squeals, and catcalls that belonged to a performer 50 years his junior.  All the while, the man was humble, funny, light on talk, and heavy on songs that each rate as masterpieces.

To paraphrase Bono, Leonard Cohen throws away songs that other artists aspire their entire lives to write.

At the end of the night, I walked away renewed, revealed, and revived.  The Master made me think, made me feel the entire time, and reminded me, song after song, of some of the best moments of my musical career, where I really made beautiful music in the company of others.  If an artists makes you love music again, the way you did as a child and the way you should as an adult, then he has done his job splendidly.  You walk away from his concert knowing that this is the way all concerts should be given.  He has fallen and risen, he has stalled and striven, and he leaves you and the stage after placing his microphone down on the stage floor like an offering on a shrine, dancing.