Dreams, Bad Bad Luck, and Crumbling Theocracies

Last night a pretty young woman recognized me from my writing this column for Synthesis. I was in a crowded restaurant, a pizza and pasta joint in a mountain town. I don’t know exactly how I bought it up but at a certain point this woman whose name I can’t recall pushed back her chair and asked if I was “Bob Howard from the Synthesis?” I affirmed that I was and she extended her hand towards me to shake.

Then I woke up. Seriously – it was a dream. How’s that for the ego working overtime to get a little gratification?

Talk About a Bad Luck Run

If you are ever feeling sorry for yourself here is a story that will make your situation seem a lot less miserable. Apparently video footage has turned up of one of these Chinese Muslims known as Uighurs (pronounced roughly “wiggers”) being tortured by Al Queada. Then after those jerks were through with him, we went ahead locked the poor bastard up in Guantanamo for seven years. It seems that he may have tried to join Al Queada, but after only two weeks they’d decided he was a spy and so they tortured him and kicked him out. Then, in a stunning display of the competence of our nation’s intelligence services, we decided he was a member of Al Queada, and as such a terrorist, so we decided to lock him up for awhile. It turns out that none of these Uighurs pose much of a threat to anyone, but now nobody knows what to do with them. They’ve been ordered to be released by a U.S. Court – but nobody will take them in! They can’t go back to China for fear of religious persecution, and, save for the island nation of Palau, nobody is willing to let these religio-political pariahs settle in their country. To complicate the situation even further, the Uighurs themselves are wary of Palau’s offer because they are not guaranteed any protections from the Chinese government. ¡Aye Caramba!

How to Make Money On-Line

I finally figured out the secret to making money on-line. I’ve been searching for forms of alternative income. I know you’re thinking to yourself – ‘you write a high-profile column for the Synthesis, surely you must be rich beyond your wildest dreams!’ Well sure, I make big money here, particularly after you factor in the black market Duffy Buck sales, but Trish and I live a pretty lavish lifestyle and a dollar just doesn’t go as far as it used to in this mangled, burned out wreck we graciously refer to as an “economy.” Yes things have gotten a little tight around here. So in a moment of desperation I clicked on one of those “make money from home!” links and started entering my information.

Well I didn’t glean much information from that on-line visit, but over the course of the next few days I learned exactly how to make a ton of money on-line. What you want to do is gather people’s e-mail addresses and then sell them to the highest bidder. Since my on-line research I have been literally bombarded with e-mails from companies offering everything from home loans to quick cash to dates for lonely singles. My in-box and my spam box have been virtually over-flowing with possible solicited but definitely unwanted information. You learn from your mistakes I suppose – following that logic someday I should be an extremely wise man.

Insanity in Iranity

Last week I wrote that I wasn’t too impressed with the choices Iranians have for President and I’m still not. To quote Ralph Nader: “Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumb.” But there is a truly interesting development happening and that is a rift opening up within the supreme council – the group of clerics who determine the country’s “Supreme Leader.” This is where real, genuine, 1776 style reform could be happening right before our very eyes! This could signify the cracks in the dyke that will ultimately bring down theocratic rule in Iran. Clerics have been openly marching in protest in support of the reform party – in direct defiance to the wishes of the Supreme Leader.

This I will be keeping a close eye on.

Hey I just noticed this will be the last column I write before the Fourth of July Weekend! So Happy Independence Day to you and yours. If you are so inclined, drink a few cold beers and eat a few tofu dogs, take in the fireworks, and take a moment to reflect on the freedoms we have grown so accustomed to in this country. People are dying for smaller freedoms in Tehran.

madbob@madbob.com

Winners and Losers - Trump vs. Seeger

I caught myself watching Donald Trump’s “Celebrity Apprentice” the other night. This show is trash – but in its best moments it gives us a glimpse into the way these “successful” people think about themselves and others. I thought there was a revealing moment when Trump was talking to celebrity welder and motor-enthusiast Jesse James.

Jesse James – In-Crowd Outlaw?

Personally I don’t know what to make of James. On the one hand he claims to be a representative of the “working class,” but on the other hand he has capitalized off of his name and his genetic link to a famous bandit from the wild west – and he has used that link to catapult himself into the limelight; resulting in his owning a slew of successful businesses including body shops and restaurants; and he is married to one of the most successful and powerful actor/producers in Hollywood, Sandra Bullock. So this whole “working class hero” thing leaves me feeling a little suspicious of the guy. But whatever – that’s not the point I am trying to make here.

The point I am attempting centers on Trump’s assessment of James. James managed to get himself into the final 4 on the show by working hard, keeping his head down, and not making himself a target for firing in the infamous “boardroom.” But Trump can’t figure James out because he isn’t particularly ambitious, he won’t use his celebrity connections to raise money for his charity, and he essentially didn’t raise a thin dime for the cause he claimed to represent. As far as I’m concerned, James failed completely to understand the point of the game he signed up for and in the process demonstrated a sort of blandness of personality. I found James to be ineffectual and basically a worthless player who was never in a million years going to win the game. But Trump can’t accept this because Trump believes, like many rich and famous people, that other rich and famous people are necessarily gifted in some special, supernatural way. Trump comes back time and again to this idea that “Sandra Bullock sees something in you, and because she is so successful, you must also be an especially gifted person.”

God Favors Me…

This is how rich and famous people justify their lives of wealth and privilege. I believe it is pathological. When they look around in a world filled with people suffering and scrambling just to get by, and they live in a penthouse surrounded by servants and sleeping on a mattress filled with thousand dollar bills, their every whim and desire is catered to, they have to justify this to themselves. The way rich people justify their wealth is to say to themselves: “there must be something innately special about me personally that has allowed me to be so successful.” Essentially they come to the conclusion that” “God must favor me. And conversely: “God must disfavor those who live in squalor and suffering.”

This is the Protestant work ethic. I think it is a sickness passed down through generations of Americans; and a testimony to greed, pride, and gluttony – three of the 7 deadly sins.

Pete Does it His Way

As a really interesting contrast to Trump and his pathological cronies – Pete Seeger’s 90th birthday was on the same Sunday that the Celebrity Apprentice aired. I wonder how Trump rationalizes a man like Pete Seeger – a musician who has had a long and successful career without seeking the spot-light; Seeger is loved, and represents in his music and his life all the virtues that Trump would scoff and eschew. Trump equates winning with accumulating wealth and accolades. But Seeger is a successful person who has done it on his own terms and his own way. To my way of thinking Seeger is the winner, and Trump is sort of a pathetic loser. He’s got this over-blown ego, can’t maintain a relationship to save his life, and he doesn’t have a wit of taste or class. He has to know deep down that no one really genuinely likes him – they just suck up to him because of his wealth and power. Aside from that, Trump has played by the rules of the game as it is laid out, while Pete Seeger has shown the true courage and creativity it requires to live a life that is unbounded.

I run into kids once in awhile who have placed a high level of personal value on material wealth – they brag about BMW’s and how they can “do whatever they want” because they have a lot of money. They’re living in an illusion and I feel badly for them. Material wealth comes with its own demands and chains. Success doesn’t have the first thing to do with how much crap we can accumulate.

madbob@madbob.com

Racing, Reading, and Pro-Creation...

Something hit me like a freight train late on Sunday. It started brewing in my guts and then spun into my head. I couldn’t sleep, I was sweating and my head buzzed. My stomach was in complete turmoil and I spent several hours sitting on the toilet. Monday was hellish. The lack of sleep coupled with the fever and stomach cramps made work practically impossible. I came home at lunch time and slept for two straight hours – shivering and shaking under the covers. After the nap, I decided I’d mustered enough energy to head back into the office for a few more hours. The afternoon was better and once I made it home everything was fine. My stomach was calming down. Trish had a fire going and there was a pot of rice on the stove. I ate gentle foods, watched television and wondered at the strange foreign invader that had rampaged through my system and then disappeared as quickly as it had come on. This morning I feel just fine – a little bit tired, my stomach slightly uneasy – but a hundred times better than yesterday morning at this same time.

Saturday was a day of racing. The 50-1 long-shot “Mine That Bird,” ridden by jockey Calvin Borel, took home the roses at the 135th Kentucky Derby. Borel’s post-race interview bought me to tears as the ever-emotive 42-year old with Cajun roots spoke of his deceased parents and how proud they would’ve been if they were there to see their son have success in the greatest race of the year.

That same evening Nascar superstar Kyle Busch took the checkered flag at the Richmond 400 on the evening of his 24th birthday. Busch is only the second Nascar driver to ever win a race on his birthday – the other is Cale Yarborough, who accomplished that feat not once, but twice during his illustrious racing career. By the time you read this the Darlington 500 will be in the books.

Sweet Thursday

Speaking of books I stumbled across a John Steinbeck novel called “Sweet Thursday” the other day. This is a sequel I never knew existed to one of my all-time favorite Steinbeck books “Cannery Row.” The story picks up on the adventures and exploits of the characters who inhabit Monterey’s cannery row. It is a good, fast read and I found myself laughing out loud and even shedding a few tears when it was over.

What’s in a Name?

I also saw a fantastic film over the weekend called “Rachel Getting Married.” Trish picked it up and I have to say, when I saw the title and that it starred Anne Hathaway I rolled my eyes and almost thought out loud: “chick flick.” But this couldn’t have been further from the truth! The movie turns out to be a tense drama about a self-centered addict sister named Kym who gets out of rehab to attend her sister Rachel’s wedding. Her reprieve from rehab takes everyone off-guard and over the course of the film the complex, intertwining circumstances that lead all the character to where they are now are revealed in layers. It is a nail-biter from start to finish. I really think this is one of the best films I have seen ever, and frankly I am perplexed by the film’s title. It doesn’t represent anything about the film. I don’t know what it could’ve been called – but it feels almost like they got to the end of the process and then just sort of said “call it whatever.” Maybe they’d lost faith in the film. I don’t know – but it is good. Check it out if you’re looking for a really provocative glimpse into a well-intentioned but extremely flawed family.

The Male Birth Control Injection

Apparently science has come up with an injection that temporarily sterilizes men in such a manner that they could go off the injection and father children if that was their desire. Personally I would’ve been all for this back when I was a free and single man. Right now I have no such worries or issues – I’ve opted for an even more effective and permanent solution to the problem of pro-creation. But hey – I’m all for more birth control in this here over-populated world of ours.

Isn’t it funny – we have on the one-hand all these folks going to incredible, expensive measures in order to pro-create: surrogacy, in-vitro fertilization, etc.; and then we have all these other folks who seems to pro-create at the drop of a hat. It feels like there is an answer in there somewhere and that it starts with an “a” and ends with “doption,” but who am I to say?

madbob@madbob.com

Bonsia and the Art of Fear Mongering

Last weekend Trish and I went to the CARD Center for the Chico Bonsai Society's annual exhibition. Bonsai is an ancient art-form that involves intentionally keeping trees small. But this is a massively incomplete explanation of a practice that involves mind and spirit. To quote from a piece Trish wrote on the subject of Bonsai: “A focused, contemplative grooming or creation of a Bonsai keeps the practitioner in the here and now; it is a meditation on, and integration with, the materials and the prospective result. Caring for a Bonsai piece requires the dedication and consistency of a religious acolyte, or at least that of an appreciative worshiper. To put ones' self into the miniature landscape, noting minute changes to the health and form of the plants, and the balance of composition, strips away both the outside world and the inner brain chatter; as is the aim of all successful meditations or prayer.”

As you might be able to tell, Trish is a Bonsai devotee. I'm not as knowledgeable as she, but I'll tell you what – those little trees are super cool! Seriously, there were perhaps a couple of dozen of these immaculately groomed, beautiful trees lined up in the CARD Center. We went on Saturday morning and the light filtering through the top of the wooden structure was just awesome. The Bonsai trees draw you in – you can't help but study the shape and structure of the trees. I am an admirer of nature – I suppose most of us our. But I have never really looked at a plant, in its totality, the way I looked at these trees. I've looked at the flowers, or the foliage, or the plant itself – but this was so incredible. These are genuine, mature trees – some of them 20, 30, even 40 years old. And yet, because of the diminutive size of the specimens, I was able to look at them completely. It is hard to describe – I felt like a bird, or a giant. I was able to see an entire, mature tree, from the top, or the side. We've all seen trees from below – that's how we are used to seeing them. So to see them from above and to really be able to examine the tree – it expanded my mind; it widened my perspective.

The trees pull you in and compel you to focus on the details; they are nothing but detail! After I had studied the various Bonsai trees I found myself studying the folds in the skin on my knuckles; the hairs, the scaly pouches of skin. I studied the seam in my cup of coffee and the crumbs that fell from my peanut-butter cookie to the threads and stitches that made-up the table-cloth below.

Oh the Humanity!

Later in the day I wound up in the grocery store studying the people in that place – Jesus, we are strange animals. It's hard for me to conceive that we weren't a creature that ambulated on all fours at some point during our evolution. We're barely able to properly stand upright today! Our arms are wrenched, our legs are bowed; we've got crows feet and hunched-backs. Even the most beautiful specimens amongst us are pocked with freckles, moles, and blemishes What encouraged us to walk upright like we do? We were made in God's image? Really? Maybe – in a Michael Keaton, Multiplicity kind of way; each generation has become more mangled, distorted, and discombobulated. If we are really made in God's image then she must have an awfully sore back by now.

What Would Jesus Think?

Oh yeah and by the way, here's a little shout out to the Zion Worship Center for going so far over the top in blatantly exploiting insecurity and paranoia to promote their church (business). Forget love, peace, and forgiveness, now it's all about fear of the apocalypse. Way to make Jesus proud!

Whatever – to each their own. I don't mean to pick on a particular religion; I just think using fear to promote anything is a cheap, low-handed tactic. If you have a church worth going to, explain why; why should I go to your church, as opposed to Joe's church down the street? Should I go because I am afraid? Or because your church has something to offer that Joe's doesn't?

Incidentally I had the exact same problem with an advertising campaign milk ran a few years back. The add showed x-rays of broken bones and played creepy music. The insinuation was that if we didn't drink milk, we would suffer broken bones and horrible pain. I think the mustaches on athletes was a better tact. State the positive things that could happen if we use your product – not the negatives that could befall us if we don't.

That's my two cents.

Madbob@madbob.com

Bubble Baths

There are equal parts of beauty and frustration wafting in through my office window right now. The jasmine is blooming; it has a thick and luscious perfume. My computer is acting up and I mashed on the “i” key so violently a moment ago that a mysterious window I have never seen before popped up from nowhere. It is difficult to concentrate on the beauty when the blood is boiling and coursing through one's veins.

All of the computers around me have turned slow. I don't know what it is. I don't know if the process of repetitive application has just made them seem slow, or if they have really bogged down under the weight of additional bookmarks, add-ons, and viruses. Regardless; they've all gone slow and this adds to my frustration. At points my life has been fluid, flowing, and radiant. Now it is bloated and pale. Last night I dreamed that I was fighting random groups of people, then running away from them. My legs felt as though they were asleep, or encased in clay; I could barely lift them off the ground. Still I plodded on, desperate, away. Then I would turn around, certain that my lame pace would leave me vulnerable and captive, almost looking forward to finally being caught, but there was no one in sight. I ended up face-down in mud and woke up screaming into my pillow: “I am so lonely! I am so lonely! I am so lonely!” The dog is barking at the top of his lungs and the dinner I prepared has sent us all running for the toilet, the check I deposited in the bank yesterday was gone before it landed, and I spend 8 hours a day locked in a small room listening to the radio.

I have been listening to a science program on the radio called “Radio Lab.” Actually I listen to it on the internet. Does anyone listen to live radio anymore? I do, in fact. KZFR is in the midst of their annual pledge-drive. I like KZFR because of the live DJ's. It is nice to know that, if you are really desperately lonely, you can pick up the phone and ask a live DJ to play a song they've never heard of, or if they have, that they wouldn't touch with a 10 foot pole. I saw the other day that Jeremey V is taking requests on the Point – but I know longer have access to a proper radio tuner. It's live on the internet or canned these days.

Radio Lab features a bunch of scientific vignettes. One scientist relates better to bugs than he does to people. He tells about how he often dreams of being an insect. In fact he says in one dream he was an insect telling the other insects how he sometimes dreams of being a human. Another scientist talks about how he relates to the element of Xenon because it is reluctant to combine with other elements. This particular scientist recalls being profoundly happy when he learned that a chemist had managed to combine Xenon with Fluoride – apparently one of the sluttier, or rather the most social, of all elements. That bitch will go ahead and combine with anything.

Today I listened to radio programs about phantom limbs, deadly mis-diagnoses, the Quaker idea of the perfect penitentiary, and the anthropological nature of morality. I listened to a disturbing, but nevertheless moving, examination of telling silences in the Bible. The narrator placed me in the point of view of the animals who were left off of Noah's Ark during the great flood; who were left to starve and drown while Noah herded their compatriots onto that square vessel two by two. When he raised up the gang-plank they could only watch and maybe wonder why this God who became infuriated with the humans he had created still found it okay to let the blameless animals also suffer for their sins. Noah would endure the flood only to become a grower of grapes, a distiller of spirits, and finally a mean-spirited drunkard. So much for happy endings. I don't understand the way people interpret the Bible. Certainly it can be twisted in such a way as to reflect God's love and purpose. But it can just as easily be manipulated to reflect God's cruelty and indifference. Ecclesiastes is seemingly devoted to this interpretation. Eat, drink, and be merry, for it matters not to God.

For my money the whole book is a ruse, an ironic joke, an ode to the chaos and whimsy of one of many universes expanding into space that never existed before it was created. A bubble bath is what the radio program said – we are all just floating on these ever-expanding bubbles in this ever-expanding bubble-bath. Call it what you will.

madbob@madbob.com

Three Fingers the Hard Way

Okay – I'm trying to get as much of this done as I can before I head down to Honky Tonk night at the Maltese. I am excited – I'm meant to be interviewing Three Fingers Whiskey tonight. Their latest CD, “Pleasure the Drinker,” is hot off the presses and they are going to be throwing their CD-release ho-down extravaganza at Duffy's on Friday the 24th. Three Fingers Whiskey are a rarity these days – a straight up country rock band. They're not new country, alt-country, or Americana – what they are is country. But you can read more about them in the interview.
In the mean-time there is a lot to write about and sometimes blasting it off in this short span of time with a definite start and stop point can be just the way to go about it – similar to tearing off a band aid or ripping out your itching stitches. It is best to slug hard off the bottle, get your head swimming, and then do it. It is not that it will be any less painful, hell, it will likely be more painful if you follow this approach. But the decision making period will be decidedly brief. It is my firm belief that we all fear pain a lot more than we should. Like Patrick Swayze quips in the movie Road House - “pain don't hurt.” Of course the cute doctor lady ends up smirking when she is injecting Novocaine into his wound and he grimaces. Theories are just theories. Life is for the living.

Easter Blows Up!

Easter weekend was a mash-up – Saturday I guzzled hand grenades, Mickey's Big Mouths, on the east bank of the Sacramento River a little bit north of the small town that is Los Molinos. Later I gazed into the dancing flames of a beautiful simmering bonfire. I saw good friends and made new friends in spite of myself. Easter is one of those bizarre holidays – quasi-religious, quasi-pagan, entirely alcoholic these days. It has really become a post-modern event. Thanks to Johnathan Troxler's terrific and terrifying paintings I will never get the image of the crucified Easter Bunny out of my head. That and the three stooges strumming the guitar in a manger for baby Jesus and Santa Claus. This is Troxler's older work – to me it doesn't point to any particular warp or hiccup in his character – instead it asks of us a simple and direct question: What kind of sick freaks are we? We go through life thinking this craziness is normal – going to church in the morning to celebrate the resurrection of a man who was nailed to a cross, and then spending the afternoon collecting colorful, dyed, hard-boiled eggs and gorging ourselves on chocolate and Pabst. On the 69th Day God looked around and said “What the fuck have I done?” Then he took a long nap and he hasn't awoken yet. Look out because when he does finally get out of bed the Big Guy is going to be pissed!

Fire sale at Cafe Coda!

There's a benefit show this weekend for Concow-based musician Garr1son. Garr1son has been recording his own brand of the creepy Concow blues forever but things turned grim when his recording studio and equipment was all destroyed in the fires last summer. The benefit is going to be held at Cafe Coda on Sunday, April 26th, and will feature a bevy of local musicians including the enigmatic Dan Cohen, the energetic Aubrey Debauchery and her Puke Boots, and the man of the day Garr1son himself. Just to add injury to injury though it turns out Garr1son recently busted both shoulders and as a result will have a stunt double filling in on guitar. Look out – it sounds like the curse of the drummers in Spinal Tap or some such thing.

This, that, up, down, right left. You say whiskey I say coffee – maybe a little of both. It doesn't take a long time to write a decent column. On the other hand – sometimes you can spend hours writing a piece of garbage. It once took me over a year to write one of the stupidest songs on Earth. It wasn't like I really spent a whole year on it – I just thought up this really dumb chorus and then took my own sweet time in building a song around it. Songs can be allowed to percolate that way – to simmer and stew until they are just the way they are going to be. It's a process like distillation but without the precautions regarding temperature, cleanliness and time. With a column there is no such luxury. The thing has to be started and finished in a whirlwind because goddammit we are capitalists and as capitalists we have deadlines that must be met!

madbob@madbob.com

The Cold Wind of Destiny

As I write this Easter is less than a week away and spring is in the air; but you wouldn't recognize that by looking out the window. Something ominous is blowing in – dark clouds are filling the evening skies and I can hear the wind starting to howl against the windows and through the bamboo.

Metal at Paradise Lost

The past weekend was a blur of parties and art gallery openings. Something about spring just brings out the creativity. On Friday night I stumbled upon an artist's reception at Paradise Lost on the corner of Park and 20th – next to the Flavor Falls Asian Buffet. The show featured a series of metal sculptures that were hung from the ceiling. There were rocket-ships, prehistoric looking metal fish with saw blades for teeth, and geometric shapes. The pieces were all constructed in such a way that the lights that were planted inside shone through the gaps and holes in the surface of the metal. The illuminated sculpture in the low-light of the opening were luminous. I talked to the artist briefly – his name is Doug and he is based in Paradise – and asked him where he found the time to work on his art. He told me “I quit my job!”

After fortifying myself with a couple of gin and tonics at the reception I continued on down the road towards a party in the avenues. Before I could make it though I ran into a few friends at Duffy's – and in a nook near their I got into a conversation with a fellow who told me that if I was thinking about raising chickens, be sure and get the kind that lay the blue eggs. I socked this piece of worthwhile information away and headed down the street – finally making it to the party. Kegs of Pabst were flowing and there were loads of people in attendance and a ton of bands. The flier said it started at 7:00 and I rolled in around 8; but everything was delayed. The final band didn't play until midnight, and by then people were pretty well lubricated and either having a good time, or a bad time, depending on the whims of alcohol and mood. The night got a little stupid: insults, shoving, some saliva, you know – the usual. But hell – I suppose that's the way those things go. Punk rock the old fashioned way – reminded me of a Guttermouth show.

Mosaics at Mims

Saturday was a much more civilized affair. I moseyed over to Mim's Bakery for another art reception. This evening, an incredibly talented mosaic artist, Sarah Campbell, was showing a pastry related series of mosaics. The pieces were detailed, gleaming, edible-looking recreations of cup-cakes and pastries; along with a marvelous rooster framed in red! Mim's was at full capacity – a lively crowd of art-appreciators, friends, and colleagues had come together to enjoy the fine food, sangria, and delectable assortment of cookies and appetizers that had been assembled for the occasion. The pieces were moving fast – but I was able to secure a commission on a set of three small squares with iconic images distorted under a bubble of glass staring back at me. I could not resist. Campbell's mosaics will continue to be on display for the next month; so art lovers, and lovers of baked goods, should make a point of getting over to Mim's for a taste of both!

By the time you read this I will be recovering from a Spring Solstice/Easter party taking place a few dozen miles from town. I've got a strange tradition of really kicking it up a notch for Easter. To properly celebrate a resurrection, you have to flirt with death... This world is crazy. You go cruising along for months floating on air – you can't do anything wrong. It feels like you are unstoppable, invincible; and you know in the back of your mind that it is going to come crashing down. But what can you do? Nothing. That's what. Not a damned thing. You just keep moving forward, knowing damn well that you are about to get punched in the face, or the gut, or kicked in the nads. And then it happens, and you're doubled over in pain, rolling around on the ground like a dog, and you think to yourself “goddammit! I knew that was going to happen!” There was nothing you could have done. There was nothing I could have done. Lately I feel like destiny has the upper hand. Isn't that the way of it though? When things are going great its all about free will – then when it turns to shit, well dammit – it's destiny.

madbob@madbob.com