Allow me a brief caveat, my friends, lest my comment on the impending doom of New Orleans in my last entry be taken the wrong way.
Humor is my way of responding to stress. I’m the fellow at the funeral with a large smile, hugging and shaking everyone’s hand. Quick with a joke and eager to bring smiles to those around me. It’s not due to a lack of compassion or mourning, quite the contrary. I don’t really respond well to such things, so I tend to veer towards inappropriate gallows humor. Nothing unseemly, but it’s safe to say I’d be the fellow on the deck of the Titanic asking the orchestra to play something less depressing than ‘Nearer My God To Thee’ and ordering another martini as the ship split down the middle.
During my brief respite in the shower, Art Bell let me down and didn’t serve up his usual buffet of lunatics, damn him. Rather, he’s covering Katrina non-stop, taking calls from those in the effected areas. It’s what I love about Art. Behind the mask of the showman who parades out the weird and bizarre on overnight talk radio sits one of the last remaining true newsmen. Focused on the story and clearly invested in it and the people behind it, he provides the kind of raw, real information that can no longer be found on the ‘regular’ news media.
He mentioned a few minutes ago that an anchor and a reporter (who is onsite) on CNN just engaged in a shouting match over the situation. Ah, if only I could have seen that, I love it when the phoney-baloney veneers of the mainstream media crack and we see that these are people who generally have no clue how to present the news.
But I digress.
Of course, my heart and prayers go out to those in New Orleans, and we certainly do face a catastrophe like none we’ve ever seen in America. Art is currently posing the question, what happens when we lose a major city? Just, lose one? It’s never happened to us before.
My answer, of course, is that there’s no such thing. If Americans decide that the city will come back, it will. It may take time, it may take an amazing amount of effort, but when Americans set their mind to something, it happens. We just do not give up. We refuse to be put down by anyone or anything.
So no, New Orleans isn’t going away. I don’t believe it, anyway. We just don’t work that way. I hope it doesn’t come to that, but I believe I’ll be eating those beignets in the French Quarter before I breathe my last.
So here’s to all of you who are in the path of Katrina or those with loved ones in that path.
And here’s to the rest of us, and the harsh reality that within the next few days, our country might be plunged into a crisis the likes of which we’ve never seen before: gas that no one can afford, if they can even get any. Go fill your tanks, buy some wonderful Bulldog Root Beer, and get ready for one seriously interesting work week.
Monday, August 29, 2005
News Briefs From The Wilds Of Aztlan
Many small things to discuss in the news. I’m settled in with a fresh, handcrafted Bulldog Root Beer, the finest beverage ever created by man, so I’m good to go despite this awful heat. It’s hot out here tonight in Aztlan, an incomprehensible 73 degrees at 12:45 AM. It’s madness, I tell you. I’m thinking all these natives who have come to reclaim the Aztlan region have somehow influenced the weather to make it resemble the jungle wilds their people once ruled in South America. Well, there’s no relief in sight, so let’s pop the cap on this Bulldog and get to it. (I should note that I mean that in the ‘opening the bottle’ way, and not the traditional ebonics way…no bulldogs were harmed in the making of this entry.)
Hurricane Katrina...what a shame. Always wanted to visit New Orleans, and I don't like swimming. I’m prone to ear infections, and I doubt beignets taste very good soaked with sewer water.
Cindy Sheehan is thoroughly screwy, driven right round the bend by the loss of her son. Sad, but please lady, stop whoring out the names of other people's sons, especially after they've publicly said they don't want you to do it. Pleas such as this, based as they are on reason and decency, will certainly have no effect. The latest news has Al ‘Who’s Tawana Brawley?’ Sharpton and Martin ‘I play the president on TV so that makes me important’ Sheen down there kibitzing with Cindy. My mother told me Joan Baez has been lurking about as well. She hasn’t really worked since Vietnam ended, so I guess she sees this as her last chance at making money off the deaths of good Americans. This whole Sheehan ‘Camp Casey’ situation has me terribly concerned. If someone like Michael Moore or Jane Fonda should show up, I fear it could create some sort of ‘liberal whackjob wormhole’ that pierces the space/time continuum and causes all matter to instantly blink into nothingness. We should send Fred Thompson and Dennis Miller down there just to balance out the insanity and keep the material universe safe.
Green Day wins seven awards on the VMA's on MTV. Wow, I guess MTV was in a hurry to drive those nails into that 'relevance' coffin, now weren't they? I love that it was a shocker to some commentators I've read that they beat out Gwen Stefani. If the world of music video excellence is a battle between Green Day and Gwen Stefani, we really need to call the whole thing off and just replay every year of MTV from the beginning, like one big repeat episode. The music will be just as relative, although most people will wonder why there are so many white people on the channel.
My dear muse and imaginary mentor Dr. Hunter Thompson finally got blasted off from his gigantic gonzo fist last week. Sad to see the old boy go, but he went out as only the Doctor of Journalism could. Were I able to drink, I’d toast a glass of rum, straight up, in his honor.
Fred Phelps and his 'God Hates Fags' clan are now protesting at the funerals of soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan, claiming that these men are dying because God is mad at us for sheltering gays. Ironically enough, I think Fred is on to something...God MUST be mad at us, because Fred Phelps is still alive. I mean, come on...if there was a popular vote on who to kill, I think Phelps would be a prime candidate for the #1 spot, with the only possible competition being that guy who screams YOU'RE KILLING ME LARRY on those damn Sit N Sleep commercials. I say, use a high caliber weapon and have them stand single-file. We could even have Larry do it, just so that obnoxious bastard could be right, for once.
The Sunnis rejected the Iraqi constitution that's just been ratified by their government. One of the reasons is that the constitution bans the reformation of Saddam's Ba'ath party. Yeah, you -really- want that to happen, good plan guys. I know it was your locus of power in the past, but Saddam is future worm food, his days of power are over, and you really, really need to wake up and smell the hummus. Someone needs to sit down with these yahoos and explain the math. You're only 20% of the nation. The other 80% all hate you and want you dead. You sat out of the first national vote and now they own the vast majority of the national government. Sit down, shut up, be very very friendly, and offer cheap goods and services. Otherwise, well, let's just say I really need to invest in a funeral home near Sunni country, because business is going to be booming. It's going to be coffins a go-go, and there won't be much anyone can do to stop it.
The Bulldog is gone and the heat continues. I’m going to hit the shower, use very little hot water, and listen to Art Bell’s show. I think I need to listen to a little quackery and conspiracy lunacy to relax my overtaxed mind.
Hurricane Katrina...what a shame. Always wanted to visit New Orleans, and I don't like swimming. I’m prone to ear infections, and I doubt beignets taste very good soaked with sewer water.
Cindy Sheehan is thoroughly screwy, driven right round the bend by the loss of her son. Sad, but please lady, stop whoring out the names of other people's sons, especially after they've publicly said they don't want you to do it. Pleas such as this, based as they are on reason and decency, will certainly have no effect. The latest news has Al ‘Who’s Tawana Brawley?’ Sharpton and Martin ‘I play the president on TV so that makes me important’ Sheen down there kibitzing with Cindy. My mother told me Joan Baez has been lurking about as well. She hasn’t really worked since Vietnam ended, so I guess she sees this as her last chance at making money off the deaths of good Americans. This whole Sheehan ‘Camp Casey’ situation has me terribly concerned. If someone like Michael Moore or Jane Fonda should show up, I fear it could create some sort of ‘liberal whackjob wormhole’ that pierces the space/time continuum and causes all matter to instantly blink into nothingness. We should send Fred Thompson and Dennis Miller down there just to balance out the insanity and keep the material universe safe.
Green Day wins seven awards on the VMA's on MTV. Wow, I guess MTV was in a hurry to drive those nails into that 'relevance' coffin, now weren't they? I love that it was a shocker to some commentators I've read that they beat out Gwen Stefani. If the world of music video excellence is a battle between Green Day and Gwen Stefani, we really need to call the whole thing off and just replay every year of MTV from the beginning, like one big repeat episode. The music will be just as relative, although most people will wonder why there are so many white people on the channel.
My dear muse and imaginary mentor Dr. Hunter Thompson finally got blasted off from his gigantic gonzo fist last week. Sad to see the old boy go, but he went out as only the Doctor of Journalism could. Were I able to drink, I’d toast a glass of rum, straight up, in his honor.
Fred Phelps and his 'God Hates Fags' clan are now protesting at the funerals of soldiers from Iraq and Afghanistan, claiming that these men are dying because God is mad at us for sheltering gays. Ironically enough, I think Fred is on to something...God MUST be mad at us, because Fred Phelps is still alive. I mean, come on...if there was a popular vote on who to kill, I think Phelps would be a prime candidate for the #1 spot, with the only possible competition being that guy who screams YOU'RE KILLING ME LARRY on those damn Sit N Sleep commercials. I say, use a high caliber weapon and have them stand single-file. We could even have Larry do it, just so that obnoxious bastard could be right, for once.
The Sunnis rejected the Iraqi constitution that's just been ratified by their government. One of the reasons is that the constitution bans the reformation of Saddam's Ba'ath party. Yeah, you -really- want that to happen, good plan guys. I know it was your locus of power in the past, but Saddam is future worm food, his days of power are over, and you really, really need to wake up and smell the hummus. Someone needs to sit down with these yahoos and explain the math. You're only 20% of the nation. The other 80% all hate you and want you dead. You sat out of the first national vote and now they own the vast majority of the national government. Sit down, shut up, be very very friendly, and offer cheap goods and services. Otherwise, well, let's just say I really need to invest in a funeral home near Sunni country, because business is going to be booming. It's going to be coffins a go-go, and there won't be much anyone can do to stop it.
The Bulldog is gone and the heat continues. I’m going to hit the shower, use very little hot water, and listen to Art Bell’s show. I think I need to listen to a little quackery and conspiracy lunacy to relax my overtaxed mind.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Chasing The Extraordinary
Chasing The Extraordinary
After a brief unexpected virtual vacation, I have returned. (It’s a long story, involves tights, guns, and people with names like ‘Komodoman’. We’ll just leave it at that.)
And…I can’t think of a single thing to say.
That’s not true at all. Starting out with lies. Oh, that doesn’t bode well. I have a thousand things I’d like to get into here. The problem is that they aren’t the fuel for the fire I want to create. I don’t want to just light the burners on my convenient, gas-powered counter-top writing stove, I’m looking for a Burning Man-style pyre to light the skies and scare the gods.
At the very least, a nice little bonfire, perfect for roasting hot dogs, marshmallows, and the occasional witch.
My search for intellectual and creative kindling just isn’t working. I’m thinking it’s because I’m well rested and generally relaxed. I think one of the reasons I identify so well with the late and recently blasted into the atmosphere Dr. Thompson is that we have something in common: we do our best work when we’re at the limits of our endurance. Chemicals and alcohol fueled his plunges into the depths; mine tend to be driven by extended periods of sleeplessness and stress. If I feel happy, healthy, and awake…chances are I would be able to make a grocery list boring and pedestrian, if I could work up the stuff to actually write one out without puzzling for 25 minutes for an appropriate and interesting synonym for ‘eggs’.
It’d be very easy to just pull a Jack Webb and stick to the facts, ma’am. It’s oh-so-very easy to just say the basics. Cindy Sheehan is a total whack job who is destroying her life and that of her family because the death of her son drove her mad. Illegal immigration is killing the country like a slow poison, and something must be done to stop it or we’ll need to do a remodel job on the Alamo and find the new Davy Crockett really damn soon. John McCain is a power-mad nutjob who shouldn’t be allowed out of his house unmonitored, nevertheless allowed to join up with Hillary to try and teach junk science to the unwashed masses. A blonde girl is still missing on an island, a black girl is no longer missing in the east, and Sin City is one of the best things I’ve ever seen on film.
The list goes on. It’s all so…pedestrian. Not the issues, the things I have to say about them.
My original intent tonight was to try and shape something out of a recent experience I had at a local children’s pizza establishment. For the sake of the story, we’ll call it Chuckie Cheese, since that’s what it’s called. The bizarre nature of the place and it’s denizens on your average Sunday afternoon in the California desert seemed like a ripe opportunity for social satire and commentary on the state of the culture as it is reflected in the hyper little heathens populating it’s broken, dysfunctional playground. Unfortunately, the experience was marked with a nice shot of pain alongside the mesmerizing elixir of absurdity filling the place, so I found all attempts to make light of the situation completely useless. Losing things you love tends to put the kibosh on your ability to highlight the social inadequacies of modern Californian society using lighthearted quips and satire.
Another plan was to take the detailed, travel-oriented trip report of my recent Vegas wedding and try to work it into something different. As I wrote it in the first place, it morphed into something other than your average ‘stayed here, ate here, it was a good bargain but avoid the veal’ kind of travel piece. Try as I might, I just can’t find the inspiration to take it beyond a travelogue and make something entertaining, bizarre, and socially relevant out of it, despite the action-packed tales of feeding bums on Fremont St. and pondering violent outbursts on clerks at high-fashion boutiques on the Strip.
I think I understand why the good Doctor of Journalism approached his gonzo journalism the way he did…well armed and liquored up. He dove into things, personally. Hell, Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas only happened because he’d spent weeks tracking down an extremely dangerous assignment involving police brutality and murder in the Latino community of Los Angeles. In both cases, he threw caution to the wind and just inserted himself into situations where a story was inevitable; it was only a matter of telling it. And yes, he usually had some liquid or chemical courage to embolden him when walking into situations most of us would never conceive of.
I, on the other hand, am an unfortunately sober newlywed with a full-time job that has nothing to do with writing and everything to do with keeping up with the ever-increasing cost of living here in this wonderful paradise of Aztlan, North Mexico. (To call it Southern California any longer is just a sick, stupid joke and I’ll have none of it.)
My desire to buy a laptop, rent a car, and drive to Vegas for a week or more, resuming Thompson’s search for the American dream in a post-9/11 world is simply out of my reach. Were I a single, healthy man, maybe I’d take that kind of chance, committing small crimes and social indiscretions for the sake of the story, pushing my body and mind to the limit to squeeze out something that I could be proud of once I slept it off.
I’m not that man. Never will be. So what do I have? Right now, I don’t have a whole hell of a lot. Ideas. Desires. Inspirations. Drives. Ambitions. Obsessions.
I also have a meeting with Komodoman before I finally succumb to inevitable sleep and the impending five days as a wage slave. I need to meet with him while there’s still time. If I hurry, I may just catch him before my wife insists I go to bed.
I understand this made little sense. That may have been the point. Maybe not. Figure it out on your own, and if you come to any conclusions, let me know.
After a brief unexpected virtual vacation, I have returned. (It’s a long story, involves tights, guns, and people with names like ‘Komodoman’. We’ll just leave it at that.)
And…I can’t think of a single thing to say.
That’s not true at all. Starting out with lies. Oh, that doesn’t bode well. I have a thousand things I’d like to get into here. The problem is that they aren’t the fuel for the fire I want to create. I don’t want to just light the burners on my convenient, gas-powered counter-top writing stove, I’m looking for a Burning Man-style pyre to light the skies and scare the gods.
At the very least, a nice little bonfire, perfect for roasting hot dogs, marshmallows, and the occasional witch.
My search for intellectual and creative kindling just isn’t working. I’m thinking it’s because I’m well rested and generally relaxed. I think one of the reasons I identify so well with the late and recently blasted into the atmosphere Dr. Thompson is that we have something in common: we do our best work when we’re at the limits of our endurance. Chemicals and alcohol fueled his plunges into the depths; mine tend to be driven by extended periods of sleeplessness and stress. If I feel happy, healthy, and awake…chances are I would be able to make a grocery list boring and pedestrian, if I could work up the stuff to actually write one out without puzzling for 25 minutes for an appropriate and interesting synonym for ‘eggs’.
It’d be very easy to just pull a Jack Webb and stick to the facts, ma’am. It’s oh-so-very easy to just say the basics. Cindy Sheehan is a total whack job who is destroying her life and that of her family because the death of her son drove her mad. Illegal immigration is killing the country like a slow poison, and something must be done to stop it or we’ll need to do a remodel job on the Alamo and find the new Davy Crockett really damn soon. John McCain is a power-mad nutjob who shouldn’t be allowed out of his house unmonitored, nevertheless allowed to join up with Hillary to try and teach junk science to the unwashed masses. A blonde girl is still missing on an island, a black girl is no longer missing in the east, and Sin City is one of the best things I’ve ever seen on film.
The list goes on. It’s all so…pedestrian. Not the issues, the things I have to say about them.
My original intent tonight was to try and shape something out of a recent experience I had at a local children’s pizza establishment. For the sake of the story, we’ll call it Chuckie Cheese, since that’s what it’s called. The bizarre nature of the place and it’s denizens on your average Sunday afternoon in the California desert seemed like a ripe opportunity for social satire and commentary on the state of the culture as it is reflected in the hyper little heathens populating it’s broken, dysfunctional playground. Unfortunately, the experience was marked with a nice shot of pain alongside the mesmerizing elixir of absurdity filling the place, so I found all attempts to make light of the situation completely useless. Losing things you love tends to put the kibosh on your ability to highlight the social inadequacies of modern Californian society using lighthearted quips and satire.
Another plan was to take the detailed, travel-oriented trip report of my recent Vegas wedding and try to work it into something different. As I wrote it in the first place, it morphed into something other than your average ‘stayed here, ate here, it was a good bargain but avoid the veal’ kind of travel piece. Try as I might, I just can’t find the inspiration to take it beyond a travelogue and make something entertaining, bizarre, and socially relevant out of it, despite the action-packed tales of feeding bums on Fremont St. and pondering violent outbursts on clerks at high-fashion boutiques on the Strip.
I think I understand why the good Doctor of Journalism approached his gonzo journalism the way he did…well armed and liquored up. He dove into things, personally. Hell, Fear & Loathing In Las Vegas only happened because he’d spent weeks tracking down an extremely dangerous assignment involving police brutality and murder in the Latino community of Los Angeles. In both cases, he threw caution to the wind and just inserted himself into situations where a story was inevitable; it was only a matter of telling it. And yes, he usually had some liquid or chemical courage to embolden him when walking into situations most of us would never conceive of.
I, on the other hand, am an unfortunately sober newlywed with a full-time job that has nothing to do with writing and everything to do with keeping up with the ever-increasing cost of living here in this wonderful paradise of Aztlan, North Mexico. (To call it Southern California any longer is just a sick, stupid joke and I’ll have none of it.)
My desire to buy a laptop, rent a car, and drive to Vegas for a week or more, resuming Thompson’s search for the American dream in a post-9/11 world is simply out of my reach. Were I a single, healthy man, maybe I’d take that kind of chance, committing small crimes and social indiscretions for the sake of the story, pushing my body and mind to the limit to squeeze out something that I could be proud of once I slept it off.
I’m not that man. Never will be. So what do I have? Right now, I don’t have a whole hell of a lot. Ideas. Desires. Inspirations. Drives. Ambitions. Obsessions.
I also have a meeting with Komodoman before I finally succumb to inevitable sleep and the impending five days as a wage slave. I need to meet with him while there’s still time. If I hurry, I may just catch him before my wife insists I go to bed.
I understand this made little sense. That may have been the point. Maybe not. Figure it out on your own, and if you come to any conclusions, let me know.
Monday, August 01, 2005
Once More, With Feeling
Almost a year ago, I started this blog, planning to use it as an outlet for my frequent socio-political rants and, maybe, help influence the outcome of the 2004 election. I did just that, pouring out quite a few large pieces of commentary on political things big and small. My personal journal just wasn't a place for that anymore, I'd lost numerous friends over the election as it was and my remaining friends really didn't care to hear me chatter on for three pages about Memogate.
I hate writing things if I know no one will read them, so that led me here. This worked for quite awhile, but by the time Dubya found victory, I was fried. Burned out. Cooked. Just completely spent, physically, mentally, and emotionally. All those hours spent on the intellectual battlefield here and elsewhere just took a toll on me, and it was a high one.
Before and during this period, I was also writing for a major Internet entertainment site. Once the election was over, I became very busy there as I covered video games and, well, the fourth quarter of the year is zero hour for video game releases. Needing to heal and rest after the lengthy election battle and focus on my part-time journalism gig, I abandoned this blog, supposedly just until things cleared a bit.
That turned out to be a long time, as you can see.
I lost my voice. Many things happened in that time, and continue to happen, that changed who I was as a person and a writer. They're the kind of changes that don't have much of an effect on my outward personality, but the voice that tells me every writer what to put down on the page is very susceptible to those elements. The final effect was that I just wasn't interested in simple political rants anymore, commenting on public affairs in a sarcastic way. This left me without anything to say here. As you can see in my original introductory post, this was a pretty small frame I built for myself, a cramped box with little room for stretching.
That has to change if I'm to continue here, and I am. I'm back, this blog will return to relatively frequent action. I've found my voice again, changed though it is.
So what's new? Don't expect quite so much political ranting. At least, not the standard stuff I did before. In the last couple of months I've embraced the wild, bizarre side of the writer inside me, and I've decided I like him quite a bit. Expect to see him show up a lot more often. You'll either get into it or you'll think I've gone a bit odd and delete the bookmark to the site. Either way, I'm his hostage at this point. I'm a writer. I HAVE to write. It's not an option, it just has to happen. This stuff either comes out on the page or it finds it's own escape route, and that frequently involves a high-caliber handgun.
Keep checking back. More often than not, you'll be rewarded. If I can sort it out, I'll set up an RSS feed for you to add so know when I've updated over here. If you enjoy it, keep coming back and maybe leave a comment or drop an e-mail. If you don't enjoy it, just remember that it's free and all you're paying is time you'd otherwise be spending reading the rantings of some other semi-demented netizen.
As long as I'm enjoying what I'm writing, I'm going to keep doing it. Maybe this can be a place where people will actually read what I write and enjoy it. That's all I want, no loftier goals in mind at all. If you enjoy what I put in here, recommend it to a friend. That's all I ask.
I hate writing things if I know no one will read them, so that led me here. This worked for quite awhile, but by the time Dubya found victory, I was fried. Burned out. Cooked. Just completely spent, physically, mentally, and emotionally. All those hours spent on the intellectual battlefield here and elsewhere just took a toll on me, and it was a high one.
Before and during this period, I was also writing for a major Internet entertainment site. Once the election was over, I became very busy there as I covered video games and, well, the fourth quarter of the year is zero hour for video game releases. Needing to heal and rest after the lengthy election battle and focus on my part-time journalism gig, I abandoned this blog, supposedly just until things cleared a bit.
That turned out to be a long time, as you can see.
I lost my voice. Many things happened in that time, and continue to happen, that changed who I was as a person and a writer. They're the kind of changes that don't have much of an effect on my outward personality, but the voice that tells me every writer what to put down on the page is very susceptible to those elements. The final effect was that I just wasn't interested in simple political rants anymore, commenting on public affairs in a sarcastic way. This left me without anything to say here. As you can see in my original introductory post, this was a pretty small frame I built for myself, a cramped box with little room for stretching.
That has to change if I'm to continue here, and I am. I'm back, this blog will return to relatively frequent action. I've found my voice again, changed though it is.
So what's new? Don't expect quite so much political ranting. At least, not the standard stuff I did before. In the last couple of months I've embraced the wild, bizarre side of the writer inside me, and I've decided I like him quite a bit. Expect to see him show up a lot more often. You'll either get into it or you'll think I've gone a bit odd and delete the bookmark to the site. Either way, I'm his hostage at this point. I'm a writer. I HAVE to write. It's not an option, it just has to happen. This stuff either comes out on the page or it finds it's own escape route, and that frequently involves a high-caliber handgun.
Keep checking back. More often than not, you'll be rewarded. If I can sort it out, I'll set up an RSS feed for you to add so know when I've updated over here. If you enjoy it, keep coming back and maybe leave a comment or drop an e-mail. If you don't enjoy it, just remember that it's free and all you're paying is time you'd otherwise be spending reading the rantings of some other semi-demented netizen.
As long as I'm enjoying what I'm writing, I'm going to keep doing it. Maybe this can be a place where people will actually read what I write and enjoy it. That's all I want, no loftier goals in mind at all. If you enjoy what I put in here, recommend it to a friend. That's all I ask.
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