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
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
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
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
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Boils in the Stream
You laugh? Delighted. My jests, gentlemen, are of course in bad taste, jerky, involved, lacking self-confidence. But of course that is because I do not respect myself. Can a man of perception respect himself at all?
Feodor Dostoevsky – Notes from the Underground
I've finally, at the age of 38 years, gotten around to reading some of Russian novelist Feodor Dostoevsky's writing, and I am thoroughly enjoying it. Thus far I have finished “The Double” - a disconcerting tale of a split personality, and am now just getting started on “Notes from the Underground.” The actual plots are almost irrelevant compared to the sheer beauty and imagery of Dostoevsky's language. He is just masterful.
I started to become interested in the writing of Dostoevsky through the work of American writer Henry Miller; whose ribald tales of self-indulgence and debauchery have always connected with my own somewhat sleazy sensibilities. Miller is prone to mad flights of flowing poetic linguistic exploration. It is easy to get lost in those ramblings and he creates more flavor and thought than explanation. Miller brings up Dostoevsky regularly in his stories; describing him and his characters as “mad Russians.”
This is an aspect of literature, art, and music – human expression I suppose – that I just love. Over the course of history one writer flows into the next; the result is an endless shimmering river of language and thought. I became interested in F. Scott Fitzgerald after learning that Hunter S. Thompson had taken the time to type out “The Great Gatsby” word for word just so he could experience the flow of Fitzgerald's writing style. I believe Thompson did the same with some of Hemingway's writing. On a more macabre note, Thompson visited the site where Ernest Hemingway ended his life with a gunshot – Thompson went on to take his own life in a similar fashion.
I learned about the ethereal, spiritual songs of Leonard Cohen through the lyrics of Kurt Cobain in “Penny Royal Tea” - 'give me, Leonard Cohen afterlife, so I, can sigh, eternally” - its a nearly perfect four line description. Kurt Cobain was my John Lennon, or maybe my Elvis. I remember the day of his death like it was yesterday. I was working at a nursery in San Diego and a snarky co-worker came by and made some snide remark about “Kurt Cobain blowing his brains out...” I was absolutely devastated by his suicide. I found an isolated corner of the nursery, dropped to a knew, and cried. That was in 1994. Jesus; has it really been 15 years? I haven't been able to listen to his music since that day.
That may change though. This Friday, Cafe Coda is hosting a Nirvana tribute night featuring a host of local musicians and bands playing their favorite Nirvana songs. I can't say enough good things about Cafe Coda. The venue is perfect for those more intimate, thoughtful acts. The staff is friendly, the kitchen is immaculate, and everyone I talk to tells me the food is excellent.
The Year of Music Continues
One of my resolutions this year has been to bring more music into our lives. I have been playing and listening to more music. That goal got a boost from my wife who bought me a new turn-table for my birthday a few weeks ago! I won't go into the details of the transaction – in this troubled economy I don't want to cast aspersions on a corporation's customer service. I will say I had to scalp pieces off of a non-functioning turn-table I had in the basement in order to get the dust cover on my “new” turn-table properly mounted and working. Also, we have to keep out eyes open for the 45 adapter that was mysteriously absent from this “brand-new” out of the box unit. But whatever – I am absolutely thrilled to have it and it has vastly extended out music collection. I forgot how much fun turn-tables are! The artwork is so big and colorful, the sound is warm, I even enjoy the pops and bobbles that the records make as they spin around. There is just something about laying that needle down on a spinning piece of vinyl – and somehow it makes music! Don't ask me – but I love it!
This winter we have spent more time sitting by our wood stove and listening to music than we have done over the course of the last 5 years combined! I am enjoying it so much more than the usual mind-numbing television that drones away with its urgency and its advertisements.
madbob@madbob.com
Feodor Dostoevsky – Notes from the Underground
I've finally, at the age of 38 years, gotten around to reading some of Russian novelist Feodor Dostoevsky's writing, and I am thoroughly enjoying it. Thus far I have finished “The Double” - a disconcerting tale of a split personality, and am now just getting started on “Notes from the Underground.” The actual plots are almost irrelevant compared to the sheer beauty and imagery of Dostoevsky's language. He is just masterful.
I started to become interested in the writing of Dostoevsky through the work of American writer Henry Miller; whose ribald tales of self-indulgence and debauchery have always connected with my own somewhat sleazy sensibilities. Miller is prone to mad flights of flowing poetic linguistic exploration. It is easy to get lost in those ramblings and he creates more flavor and thought than explanation. Miller brings up Dostoevsky regularly in his stories; describing him and his characters as “mad Russians.”
This is an aspect of literature, art, and music – human expression I suppose – that I just love. Over the course of history one writer flows into the next; the result is an endless shimmering river of language and thought. I became interested in F. Scott Fitzgerald after learning that Hunter S. Thompson had taken the time to type out “The Great Gatsby” word for word just so he could experience the flow of Fitzgerald's writing style. I believe Thompson did the same with some of Hemingway's writing. On a more macabre note, Thompson visited the site where Ernest Hemingway ended his life with a gunshot – Thompson went on to take his own life in a similar fashion.
I learned about the ethereal, spiritual songs of Leonard Cohen through the lyrics of Kurt Cobain in “Penny Royal Tea” - 'give me, Leonard Cohen afterlife, so I, can sigh, eternally” - its a nearly perfect four line description. Kurt Cobain was my John Lennon, or maybe my Elvis. I remember the day of his death like it was yesterday. I was working at a nursery in San Diego and a snarky co-worker came by and made some snide remark about “Kurt Cobain blowing his brains out...” I was absolutely devastated by his suicide. I found an isolated corner of the nursery, dropped to a knew, and cried. That was in 1994. Jesus; has it really been 15 years? I haven't been able to listen to his music since that day.
That may change though. This Friday, Cafe Coda is hosting a Nirvana tribute night featuring a host of local musicians and bands playing their favorite Nirvana songs. I can't say enough good things about Cafe Coda. The venue is perfect for those more intimate, thoughtful acts. The staff is friendly, the kitchen is immaculate, and everyone I talk to tells me the food is excellent.
The Year of Music Continues
One of my resolutions this year has been to bring more music into our lives. I have been playing and listening to more music. That goal got a boost from my wife who bought me a new turn-table for my birthday a few weeks ago! I won't go into the details of the transaction – in this troubled economy I don't want to cast aspersions on a corporation's customer service. I will say I had to scalp pieces off of a non-functioning turn-table I had in the basement in order to get the dust cover on my “new” turn-table properly mounted and working. Also, we have to keep out eyes open for the 45 adapter that was mysteriously absent from this “brand-new” out of the box unit. But whatever – I am absolutely thrilled to have it and it has vastly extended out music collection. I forgot how much fun turn-tables are! The artwork is so big and colorful, the sound is warm, I even enjoy the pops and bobbles that the records make as they spin around. There is just something about laying that needle down on a spinning piece of vinyl – and somehow it makes music! Don't ask me – but I love it!
This winter we have spent more time sitting by our wood stove and listening to music than we have done over the course of the last 5 years combined! I am enjoying it so much more than the usual mind-numbing television that drones away with its urgency and its advertisements.
madbob@madbob.com
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Details of a Late-Night Conversion
Something is seriously strange here... Time has started to slow down; or compress; or encapsulate at this point. I don't understand exactly what is happening. I was just playing music over at my friend's... I was playing music with some friends; things were going really good. I was very happy; but then I was distraught. I don't know. Again – I don't know. It just went from bad to worse very quickly and then I did not understand what was going on. It was like a million things were all coming at me at once – all these points were beaming at me in a sort of unison. I don't know how to describe what happened. It was weird. I was suddenly surrounded by energy. I was no longer myself – or; I was fluctuating in between myself and nothingness. I could feel myself losing my id – or my ego? I'm not completely clear on which is which anyway.
Poor little people and dogs are crashed out all around me as I drink the last of the wine. I guess this isn't stuff you should joke about – and so I won't. I was stricken tonight. I was struck by a strange kind of feeling. I am unsure how to continue. It wasn't like anything else I ever felt.
The thing is, that, for a long time now – for awhile. For a long time I have felt... incomplete? I just haven't been able to come to grips with all these questions. There are all these questions floating around out there – and they beg answers! But I didn't have any answers – I only had the questions. And it was driving me crazy! Because I am a person who wants; no, I am a person who requires answers!
So tonight's conversion was good. It really relaxed me. There is such a comforting feeling in knowing that there is a reason and a rhyme for all of this. The idea of order is so beautiful.
I thought about a dozen stories tonight. A few anyway; a captain who ends up not going down with the ship. A pre-judge in a camel toe contest; a car that is rolled over and returned to the parking spot from which it was stolen: Four-wheel slides and epic backgammon contests; one hundred sixty five and one/half? pound tuna?!?
Music – always music behind all of this mayhem.
I am desperately trying to get to the point of all of this. It just isn't easy to describe this feeling of complete understanding – this underlying belief that everything is placed before us with purpose. When you think of a rapidly spinning cosmos and all of these planets and stars spinning around one another – through space – the idea of pre-destination just takes shape in there somewhere... It all just makes so much sense!
From Stephen Colbert to the drying carcass of a centipede; there is this sense of purpose. I feel it.
[that could end it but...]
It's pretty short so I could go on about the beautiful, intricate, and obvious purpose of the universe around us. I could use words to write about that feeling; but words don't really capture everything. I have to be careful – because a path has been chosen for me... and so now I must follow the path.
I've had enough of bashing drinking glasses into my teeth – now I want to feel the Light of the Lord! Now I have felt the Light of the Lord! God this is the beauty of writing. We are not constrained by the normal rules of time. The written word can be slowed or sped up; it can be warped or crinkled to make events seem more spontaneous, radical; or violent. Words can do the opposite.
Now that I believe – I understand. I don't pretend to know everything – but I am starting to understand. It feels good to know that there is an answer to every question. It feels safer – knowing everything is backed – by a plan...
But I am just spinning now; spinning through a Universe. Spinning through some time, and space. I like the straight lines – the spinning gets to be too much...
You've caught me on a weird night. I am feeling warmer than I expected to. I have to get this thing wrapped up! I wouldn't trust a single sentence. The words are just the words... today.
And so just as I am in the very depths of turmoil; my mind opens and awakens to the presence of the Lord! He is coming down for me! He is reaching out to me! He takes my hand in His; He beaming light from a fiery cross. We become One – He and I. I feel the Love at last!
madbob@madbob.com
Poor little people and dogs are crashed out all around me as I drink the last of the wine. I guess this isn't stuff you should joke about – and so I won't. I was stricken tonight. I was struck by a strange kind of feeling. I am unsure how to continue. It wasn't like anything else I ever felt.
The thing is, that, for a long time now – for awhile. For a long time I have felt... incomplete? I just haven't been able to come to grips with all these questions. There are all these questions floating around out there – and they beg answers! But I didn't have any answers – I only had the questions. And it was driving me crazy! Because I am a person who wants; no, I am a person who requires answers!
So tonight's conversion was good. It really relaxed me. There is such a comforting feeling in knowing that there is a reason and a rhyme for all of this. The idea of order is so beautiful.
I thought about a dozen stories tonight. A few anyway; a captain who ends up not going down with the ship. A pre-judge in a camel toe contest; a car that is rolled over and returned to the parking spot from which it was stolen: Four-wheel slides and epic backgammon contests; one hundred sixty five and one/half? pound tuna?!?
Music – always music behind all of this mayhem.
I am desperately trying to get to the point of all of this. It just isn't easy to describe this feeling of complete understanding – this underlying belief that everything is placed before us with purpose. When you think of a rapidly spinning cosmos and all of these planets and stars spinning around one another – through space – the idea of pre-destination just takes shape in there somewhere... It all just makes so much sense!
From Stephen Colbert to the drying carcass of a centipede; there is this sense of purpose. I feel it.
[that could end it but...]
It's pretty short so I could go on about the beautiful, intricate, and obvious purpose of the universe around us. I could use words to write about that feeling; but words don't really capture everything. I have to be careful – because a path has been chosen for me... and so now I must follow the path.
I've had enough of bashing drinking glasses into my teeth – now I want to feel the Light of the Lord! Now I have felt the Light of the Lord! God this is the beauty of writing. We are not constrained by the normal rules of time. The written word can be slowed or sped up; it can be warped or crinkled to make events seem more spontaneous, radical; or violent. Words can do the opposite.
Now that I believe – I understand. I don't pretend to know everything – but I am starting to understand. It feels good to know that there is an answer to every question. It feels safer – knowing everything is backed – by a plan...
But I am just spinning now; spinning through a Universe. Spinning through some time, and space. I like the straight lines – the spinning gets to be too much...
You've caught me on a weird night. I am feeling warmer than I expected to. I have to get this thing wrapped up! I wouldn't trust a single sentence. The words are just the words... today.
And so just as I am in the very depths of turmoil; my mind opens and awakens to the presence of the Lord! He is coming down for me! He is reaching out to me! He takes my hand in His; He beaming light from a fiery cross. We become One – He and I. I feel the Love at last!
madbob@madbob.com
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Fed Up!
Geniuses…
Well, in their infinite wisdom, the brainiacs that run the Democratic party have decided that it will be fun and productive to pick a fight with right-wing radio douche-bag, bloviator at large, and putzy ego-maniac Rush Limbaugh. Apparently the Democrats have made a conscious choice to cast Limbaugh as the “voice of the Republican party.” This seriously frustrates me. The only person this helps is Rush Limbaugh. The Democrats may believe that they make themselves look better by casting the Republican party as a party of shallow-minded hypocritical bigots who aren’t capable of critical thought – but they are just dead wrong!
The fact of the matter is that the Republicans and the Democrats make up our political system and it is the push and pull, the back and forth, the respectful disagreements, that make our system the great political system that it can be.
In other words – a team plays better when they face stronger opponents. It is in the interest of the Democrats, and all of us, for the Republicans to be presented as a vital, challenging, competent part of our political system.
I just, this, it’s the same crap we’ve been shoveling for the last who knows how many years? And it’s what I thought we were rejecting when the people got together and put the nation’s most unlikely candidate in the most powerful position in the world.
Stop with the Game Playing!
This really makes me spitting mad. Rahm Emmanuel and the Democratic leadership are just playing petty games; gotcha and grab-ass. It’s sickening. We are in the midst of war without end and financial ruin and our damned politicians are too caught up in the feeding of their own egos to care. What do they really know anyway? Do you know anyone who takes a damned limousine to work? I’ve had it with these people. They take our money and they play games with it – live in their estates and their ivory towers. We need leaders who give a damn about something other than their own personal power.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m in the Obama camp. I think if anyone can change the tone in Washington it is this man. I just don’t know if the tone can be changed. There are too many insiders and behind the scenesters who have become invaluable in navigating the corridors of power. They know the rules too well to be driven out.
The Real Power
I figure this has to be where the real power is – not in the Oval Office – but in those secret offices we don’t know about. It rests in the hands of the same people who have always wielded it. And they have been warped and mutated by their contiguous flow of power. This is the sharp double-edge of wielding power; beware to those who lust after it – it will twist you, mash you, give you the bends, Montezuma’s Revenge, and a nasty case of psychological rickets all rapped up in a neat little foil package. You think you hold the most delicious candy in your hand, but when you un-wrap it, it turns out what you have is a steaming little coin of dog-shit. Only by the it’s too late – you’ve become addicted to the shit. You look in the mirror and you don’t recognize the monstrous mask staring back at you, salivating onto your tailored suit, standing in your gilded office. Too late for you compadre – you sold your soul and now the devil wants his tax.
Whoa – I got a little carried away there. I probably ought to write about Saint Patrick’s Day. Trouble is brewing in Ireland again as a police officer was shot dead – a splinter IRA faction took credit for the assassination. In Afghanistan thousands of women gathered together to pray for peace. The women are tired of losing their brothers, sons, and husbands. They’ve been dealing with war for over thirty years now. War, death, brutality, endless misery. Our answer – more troops. More bullets, more bombs, more death, more suffering. More of the same.
Saint Patrick’s Day
Okay – Saint Patrick’s Day – my birthday. I’ll be at the Maltese playing some music so come by and buy me a beer or a whiskey! I promise my set won’t be as dreary as this week’s column has become.
This upcoming week also represents the first day of Spring! Hurray! Our tulips are days away from blooming and we’ve already been blasted with scent from exploding Narcissus. We’re coming into a period of renewal and growth – maybe we can leave some of this death behind us.
Madbob@madbob.com
Well, in their infinite wisdom, the brainiacs that run the Democratic party have decided that it will be fun and productive to pick a fight with right-wing radio douche-bag, bloviator at large, and putzy ego-maniac Rush Limbaugh. Apparently the Democrats have made a conscious choice to cast Limbaugh as the “voice of the Republican party.” This seriously frustrates me. The only person this helps is Rush Limbaugh. The Democrats may believe that they make themselves look better by casting the Republican party as a party of shallow-minded hypocritical bigots who aren’t capable of critical thought – but they are just dead wrong!
The fact of the matter is that the Republicans and the Democrats make up our political system and it is the push and pull, the back and forth, the respectful disagreements, that make our system the great political system that it can be.
In other words – a team plays better when they face stronger opponents. It is in the interest of the Democrats, and all of us, for the Republicans to be presented as a vital, challenging, competent part of our political system.
I just, this, it’s the same crap we’ve been shoveling for the last who knows how many years? And it’s what I thought we were rejecting when the people got together and put the nation’s most unlikely candidate in the most powerful position in the world.
Stop with the Game Playing!
This really makes me spitting mad. Rahm Emmanuel and the Democratic leadership are just playing petty games; gotcha and grab-ass. It’s sickening. We are in the midst of war without end and financial ruin and our damned politicians are too caught up in the feeding of their own egos to care. What do they really know anyway? Do you know anyone who takes a damned limousine to work? I’ve had it with these people. They take our money and they play games with it – live in their estates and their ivory towers. We need leaders who give a damn about something other than their own personal power.
Don’t get me wrong – I’m in the Obama camp. I think if anyone can change the tone in Washington it is this man. I just don’t know if the tone can be changed. There are too many insiders and behind the scenesters who have become invaluable in navigating the corridors of power. They know the rules too well to be driven out.
The Real Power
I figure this has to be where the real power is – not in the Oval Office – but in those secret offices we don’t know about. It rests in the hands of the same people who have always wielded it. And they have been warped and mutated by their contiguous flow of power. This is the sharp double-edge of wielding power; beware to those who lust after it – it will twist you, mash you, give you the bends, Montezuma’s Revenge, and a nasty case of psychological rickets all rapped up in a neat little foil package. You think you hold the most delicious candy in your hand, but when you un-wrap it, it turns out what you have is a steaming little coin of dog-shit. Only by the it’s too late – you’ve become addicted to the shit. You look in the mirror and you don’t recognize the monstrous mask staring back at you, salivating onto your tailored suit, standing in your gilded office. Too late for you compadre – you sold your soul and now the devil wants his tax.
Whoa – I got a little carried away there. I probably ought to write about Saint Patrick’s Day. Trouble is brewing in Ireland again as a police officer was shot dead – a splinter IRA faction took credit for the assassination. In Afghanistan thousands of women gathered together to pray for peace. The women are tired of losing their brothers, sons, and husbands. They’ve been dealing with war for over thirty years now. War, death, brutality, endless misery. Our answer – more troops. More bullets, more bombs, more death, more suffering. More of the same.
Saint Patrick’s Day
Okay – Saint Patrick’s Day – my birthday. I’ll be at the Maltese playing some music so come by and buy me a beer or a whiskey! I promise my set won’t be as dreary as this week’s column has become.
This upcoming week also represents the first day of Spring! Hurray! Our tulips are days away from blooming and we’ve already been blasted with scent from exploding Narcissus. We’re coming into a period of renewal and growth – maybe we can leave some of this death behind us.
Madbob@madbob.com
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Some Thoughts on Capitalism...
Well you wouldn't know it from looking out the window this moment, but spring is officially only a few short weeks away. Spring is that magical changing of the seasons that the ancients looked forward to – the symbolic and literal re-birth of the natural world after the seasonal death that is winter. Make no mistake – this has been one tough winter. Ice on the east coast and rain on the west has been coupled with economic catastrophe and financial panic as banks slide into oblivion and the roles of the unemployed swell under the weight of this drenching hundred-year storm.
The Cause of All of This
Some people will tell you they know what caused this financial shit-storm; they'll tell you it was over-regulation, too much government. Or they'll look you straight in the eye and tell you it was de-regulation – a lack of government oversight that lead to this pickel. They'll point to the bankers, or the banking system. They'll signal the realtors, or the people who bought houses they couldn't afford, or the lenders who made the loans, or the banks who packaged the loans and sold them to other banks. It could be the politicians, or the Federal Reserve, Al Queada, or the Chinese. There is plenty of finger-pointing to go around but I will tell you right here and now what the cause of all this chaos is:
Dishonesty
That's it in a nutshell. I'm not specifically talking about the real dishonest brokers, the Bernie Madoffs or the Allen Stanfords of the world – though they are certainly worthy of plenty of scorn for their complete sleaziness. But they are only symptoms of a system that went haywire.
Capitalism...
Some people are saying all of this signals the death of capitalism. I think that's dumb. Capitalism can't die – it isn't a living thing. Capitalism is a theory – same as socialism or communism. Capitalism, socialism, and communism all work splendidly – on paper. The problem is that in the real world these systems are only as good as the people who ascribe to them. Communism failed in the Soviet Union because it is eminently corruptible and the greedy slime-merchants who care more about their own personal accumulation of power and wealth inevitably claw their way to the top. Well today it is pretty easy to argue the same thing of capitalism -it just took a little longer for the corruption to manifest itself.
In my eyes the problem is that we, as a nation ostensibly of capitalists, lost our way. For capitalism to work it has to be based on actual value of goods and services. Value is the key word in the equation and value has to be calculated honestly.
Greed took over. Our businesses, driven to always show increasing profit, took to hiding and deferring actual costs – thus creating an artificial and inaccurate representation of value. Personally I think so many of our goods are under-priced. If we took an honest accounting of the value of the goods we buy, an accounting that included the human and environmental costs of those goods, there is no way you would be eating three hamburgers a day. No way. There is no way our closets would be so full of clothes that we don't wear, or that we could actually throw food away at the end of each week.
Resurrection
I think we'll come out of our current hardships. I think we'll probably even come out stronger for them. But we've got to start being honest like we've never been honest before. As consumers we have to really educate ourselves. We have to understand where our food and our clothing and our luxuries come from – and it isn't going to be good enough to just close our eyes or put the blinders on and ignore the human catastrophe of the textile industry overseas, or the environmental catastrophe of the beef industry in the Amazon. And the time for justifying atrocity by siting profit are going to be long gone. Greed, pride, lust for wealth – these motivations need to go the way of the dodo bird – and the mutants who adhere to these misanthropic philosophies need to be shunned from a society that re-embraces ethical and moral business practice.
This does not mean wealth cannot be created – wealth is created as value is created. Any wealth that is not derived from actual value is unethical and possibly immoral in the world of tomorrow.
madbob@madbob.com
The Cause of All of This
Some people will tell you they know what caused this financial shit-storm; they'll tell you it was over-regulation, too much government. Or they'll look you straight in the eye and tell you it was de-regulation – a lack of government oversight that lead to this pickel. They'll point to the bankers, or the banking system. They'll signal the realtors, or the people who bought houses they couldn't afford, or the lenders who made the loans, or the banks who packaged the loans and sold them to other banks. It could be the politicians, or the Federal Reserve, Al Queada, or the Chinese. There is plenty of finger-pointing to go around but I will tell you right here and now what the cause of all this chaos is:
Dishonesty
That's it in a nutshell. I'm not specifically talking about the real dishonest brokers, the Bernie Madoffs or the Allen Stanfords of the world – though they are certainly worthy of plenty of scorn for their complete sleaziness. But they are only symptoms of a system that went haywire.
Capitalism...
Some people are saying all of this signals the death of capitalism. I think that's dumb. Capitalism can't die – it isn't a living thing. Capitalism is a theory – same as socialism or communism. Capitalism, socialism, and communism all work splendidly – on paper. The problem is that in the real world these systems are only as good as the people who ascribe to them. Communism failed in the Soviet Union because it is eminently corruptible and the greedy slime-merchants who care more about their own personal accumulation of power and wealth inevitably claw their way to the top. Well today it is pretty easy to argue the same thing of capitalism -it just took a little longer for the corruption to manifest itself.
In my eyes the problem is that we, as a nation ostensibly of capitalists, lost our way. For capitalism to work it has to be based on actual value of goods and services. Value is the key word in the equation and value has to be calculated honestly.
Greed took over. Our businesses, driven to always show increasing profit, took to hiding and deferring actual costs – thus creating an artificial and inaccurate representation of value. Personally I think so many of our goods are under-priced. If we took an honest accounting of the value of the goods we buy, an accounting that included the human and environmental costs of those goods, there is no way you would be eating three hamburgers a day. No way. There is no way our closets would be so full of clothes that we don't wear, or that we could actually throw food away at the end of each week.
Resurrection
I think we'll come out of our current hardships. I think we'll probably even come out stronger for them. But we've got to start being honest like we've never been honest before. As consumers we have to really educate ourselves. We have to understand where our food and our clothing and our luxuries come from – and it isn't going to be good enough to just close our eyes or put the blinders on and ignore the human catastrophe of the textile industry overseas, or the environmental catastrophe of the beef industry in the Amazon. And the time for justifying atrocity by siting profit are going to be long gone. Greed, pride, lust for wealth – these motivations need to go the way of the dodo bird – and the mutants who adhere to these misanthropic philosophies need to be shunned from a society that re-embraces ethical and moral business practice.
This does not mean wealth cannot be created – wealth is created as value is created. Any wealth that is not derived from actual value is unethical and possibly immoral in the world of tomorrow.
madbob@madbob.com
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