Permanent State of Denial

Wednesday, September 2nd came and went a few days ago, without much fuss or fanfare. Just another entirely forgettable weekday, right smack in the middle of an equally forgettable work week. It was noteworthy only to me, as it marked the anniversary of my grand entrance into the world, my 36th trip around the sun. From my vantage point, I can throw a rock to 40. From 40, it's a reasonably short walk in my comfort waist Dockers, braided leather belt, and golf shirt to age 50. Once I have arrived at 50, I will be so preoccupied with lawn care, keeping the garage organized, and monitering my prostate health, that I will have scarcely noticed that an entire decade has passed, and am now on the doorstep of 60. I am certain I will spend the remainder of my 'golden years' driving to buffet's at 3pm with my blinker on the whole way, complaining that there hasn't been anything good on television since "30 Rock", and inexplicably incorporating words like 'revelrouser' into my daily vocabulary.

Dismiss it as a comical exaggeration if you will, but if the last ten years are any indication as to how fast the present can become our distant past, then, I am uncomfortably close to owning a Buick Le Sabre, and becoming the target audience for Depends commercials.

It's funny though, how our minds seem to lag decades behind our bodies in the aging process, ignoring the ever increasing stiffness, joint pain, and diminishing athletic skills, as if operating in some sort of permanent state of denial. We are not blind to the physical deterioration of others- athtletes, celebrities, even our peers. We might even derive a measure of enjoyment out of bantering over the reverse metamorphosis taking place for others. But somehow, our minds convince us that it's everyone else that's getting old, we however, are still in our prime.

I have yet to determine if this is solid proof that we were purposefully designed to live on indefinitely, or if it's simply a cruel byproduct of imperfection, that our bodies often give out long before our minds are willing to concede that inescapable reality.

Either way, I've decided to accept my station in life, and wear my age like a badge of honor. After all, I've seen my high school yearbook picture, and frankly, I am not the least bit interested in firing up the 'flux capacitor', and getting the DeLorean up to 88mph to relive the glory days. Because the truth is, for the vast majority of us who weren't All State quarterbacks, and varsity cheerleaders, there weren't any glory days. Sure, I had a kick ass poster of a Lamborghini Countach on the wall, and a major crush on a girl named Susan Sholly, but, guess what? I drove a 3 cylinder Geo Metro, and Susan Sholly ended up pregnant 3 years after high school. That's certainly not worth revisiting. Anybody want to trade in their copy of 'Anchorman' on BlueRay, for some old episodes of 'The facts of life', or 'Fall Guy' on Betamax? I certainly don't. And yes, I probably start alot of conversations now with the phrase-" I remember when..." but, damnit, reminiscing is fun, and a great way to keep dinner conversation lively, and avoid awkward silences. I am happily married now, but if I were to ever end up single again due to, say, an unfortunate hiking accident, or unexplained electrical fire, I think I have alot more game now than I ever did at 21. I couldn't close the deal with Susan Sholly in High school, but you'd better believe If she took one look at my sculpted physique now, and were exposed to the full force of my arsenal of sensuality and seduction, she would be powerless to resist. Or, perhaps I am still in denial.

No stops for the broken

Thick flakes pattered the windshield, muffling the mindless wipers. Inside the cab of the salt licked truck crisp air stirred only with his soft breath which was muted by the cold of the scant daylight. Lifeless eyes fought the beats and clatter of the pickup, piercing the white of the outside. A look of astonishment and abandonment scared his face, as the wisps of ghostly fields tacked and flickered in the windows like an old time cinema. The roll and dip of the meadows ventured a thousand times passed him unnoticed. Some dozen inches of snow that canvassed his driveway burped and gurgled under the tires as he slowed and came to a rest before a lonely house. A veil of winter buried the small home. What was once a chattering tree of the yard was silenced by the shortening days. The hum and stir of life, the pungent odors of spice and cinnamon yielded to the must of the rising frost. The colors of the fall had finally poured their last crimsons out as an offering to the ghostly long nights.

One salt charred door winced open. A thick boot dropped from the truck and sat still for just a moment. Mud mixed with ice crept up the laces of the sodden boots. He forced another leg from the truck, sitting cowardly as if grasping for a lost thought. One breathy sigh pushed through the high collard jacket tossing vapors through the cinched bulwark that shielded the frozen death. The clap of rusted metal startled the lone snow hare taping out its jagged trail in the distant fields. The pickup was behind him. Few wisps of hair tossed gently on his fleshy crown that poked through the collars and wraps. A man aged by life more then time fiddled with slurry of keys as he patiently made his way to a grey door of what was once a home. Despite the muted sensations of woolen hands he massaged the worn key that loosely fit the lock and tumbler to the house. For a moment the man swollen with the layers that preserved his life-giving warmth, stood before the door, before the home, before the emptiness that surrounded him. A pause, a low glance by his shoulder as if some silent specter caught his attention, a breath, and the crack of the opening door clapped in the silence only to be washed away by nature’s cold breath.

As the man step in and barracked the pains of the outside behind him, the hollow raised floor announced his arrival to a breathless house. Two griping stomps roared out despite the thatched doormats vein battle for silence. Only his tired feet where now free of the last vestiges of the preceding hours. As he pealed the moist jackets and mittens his true humanity peered bashfully upon a room as if expecting a warm salute. Without the edifice to shield the elements the bent, defeated shell whispered only the honesty of frailty, the ephemeral state of mortality.

Placing the final item of apparel patiently on a low standing bench before the door, he looked up for a first as if seeing a foreign dwelling. A moment passed and he remained unstirred. Finally a movement. He worked his way, now familiar with his surroundings in a reminiscent way, toward a lonely turntable. Chopin’s Ballade in G-minor lay waiting to talk to the still room, and the warm red woods of the walls seemed wanting, needing of the vitality the soul of music bestows. Click, he began the wobbled spin and lifted the arm looking for a place to set the needle, and then paused. Beside the meshed speakers still silent, looked on a simple portrait. The delicate austere frame complemented the chaste decor of the home. No ornament just necessity; a necessity that spoke for contentment. Broken charcoal still dry filled the fireplace. A simple couch evenly worn accompanied a small round table, just room for two. Warn spines of thumbed books nestled together on a shelf behind the turntable. But it was the portrait the defeated him. He stood as the record wore on as if holding on to time, yearning to bring the past forward with each silent turn. But it was not to happen this way.

The Needle tore across the record as the man wrapped twice on the low table the held the turntable. Opening clenched fist he pugnaciously slapped the records dial off and flung himself around. Looking as if to repair to the kitchen in haste he wobbled for a few tilted steps, as if intoxicated by the linoleums quaint flowers that tastefully distracted ones eye from the worn yet orderly appliances. Turning back slowly the fallen hazel eyes blinked once through the tufts of grey behind which they where sheltered. His continence shifted to shame, and he lifted the small portrait. Through his pale twisted reflection in the thin glass he could see two happy people. These people belonged to this home, and for a moment the man was lost, as if he made a mistake being here. His eye deepened as shadowy pools. The mans shoulders rose slowly. Silence, deep winter silence, sterilized the moment.

A lone clock in a distant room kept time as if to tease the man for his vitality. A sentient reminder of the shallow brooks of life, ever-changing, pulling some worn stones on and abandoning others. As the mans shoulders fell a knee bucked and he braced himself on the small couch. Lowering himself with one arm, his eyes remained faithfully fixed on the photo. And there he sat silent, bent as if crushed by an illusive weight, the weight of emptiness. Frail, alone, clutching only the delicately framed portrait another tick of the clock went unnoticed. Thick flakes pattered the windows of the house. Crisp air only stirred with his soft breath, which was muted by the cold of the death of daylight. The distant clock marched on as if to mock, sharing nothing with each incessant lunge of the hand but the inevitability that for him another moment would follow.

Shopping for men's dress shirts (Part 1)

So I’m in Macy’s the other day, looking for dress shirts that have the measurements I need (15 ½ - 34/35) and finally find a couple that have those readings. Perfect. I grab a couple from different companies, including Hugo Boss and Geoffrey Beene, and head to the dressing rooms just to make sure they fit right.

And here is where the reason for my post today begins. This is part 1, with part 2 coming in the future…

If you’re selling something, generally your goal is for it to be very easy for potential customers to see your product in action, and hopefully once this happens, the product will sell itself. For instance, if you were interested in purchasing an iPod, Apple has set up rows and rows of iPods within their stores so that you can see just how easy it can be for you to carry all of you favorite movies and music with you wherever you go. Imagine though, if Apple decided that instead of making it easy, they were going to require that you open all of the packaging for a brand new iPod, break out the USB wires, and sync it to a computer within their stores anytime you wanted to see how an iPod worked. They would never do this, right? And why do we know this? BECAUSE DOING SO WOULD BE FREAKING RETARDED! How would that encourage people to give their product a test drive? And yet, my friends, that is exactly what dress shirt makers like Mr. Boss and Mr. Beene have done.

Back in the mall dressing room, I’m quickly given the task of unwrapping this shirt I want to try on. Think about that for a minute. This dress shirt is wrapped in plastic. Why? Is it going to go stale if exposed to air for too long? Did Mr. Beene unwrap an individual piece of cheese one day and think to himself, “This screams class”? Why are dress shirts the only line of clothing that has earned being wrapped in plastic?

Once said dress shirt is unwrapped, get ready, because now the real work begins. And unfortunately if you don’t have an engineering degree from M.I.T., this next step may be more stressful than a day in the life of Jack Bauer. For whatever reason, the shirt has roughly 7 strategically placed sewing pins inserted into it. Why? Again, we can only guess. Was the shirt alive when you packaged it? Was that the only way to keep it from escaping while on its way to department stores across the country? Is there a safe house in Wyoming where escaped dress shirts can gather and live out their days peacefully, like the pre-cogs did at the end of Minority Report?

Seriously, they’ve taken more security precautions with this shirt than they did with the velociraptors at Jurassic Park. The whole experience makes me feel like a contestant on The Amazing Race trying to figure out the bus schedule in Cairo.

By the time you’re done you pray to god that it fits, because if it doesn’t, then you get to do the whole thing all over again with a different shirt. Well I refuse. In the past, I’ve been determined to find a shirt that fits, and end up going through this routine several times. But a man can only take so much. Eventually you will break. Inevitably I end up walking around like Russell Crowe in A Beautiful Mind. I see sewing pins that aren’t there. In ties, in shoes, in pineapples…they’re everywhere. Before you know it I’m having insightful conversations with Ed Harris about how the whole thing is the Russian's fault.

So please, can we stop treating new dress shirts like they're something sacred?

Right now you’re probably asking yourself 2 questions….1) What could part 2 of this tale possibly hold and 2) can ManBearPig possibly squeeze more pop culture references (4 so far) into this story than your average Talk Soup episode (5)? Stay tuned…

Notes from the end of the Bench

The headline reads “American with swine flu dies”. Initially the reader is to assume in all horror that the “Brigade” has claimed their first American victim. The panic should now begin!

I will give you time to compose yourself…

As you are calming down, lowering the brown bag to your side, I should inform you of two facts. First, this happened in North Mexico otherwise known as Texas. Second, which you can only find out after scanning through a poorly written AP article, “Texas health officials stopped short of saying that swine flu caused (her) death”… she actually had “chronic underlying health conditions”. That is a nice way of saying her immune system didn’t work so well.

The underlying problem here… where can the News be found? The above story appeared to report the News, but after further investigation it was a sensationalized title, they really just wanted me to be scared enough to click to read the whole article so that I could see the adds for “Hot” singles in My area. If it would have said “Women in a coma gives birth then dies”, they know I would have just moved right past it to read, “Scary moments on ‘Idol’”. But by making me think that I was in danger… they sucked me in.

Were has Walter Cronkite gone, or even Paul Harvey? I flipped through the network channels stopping briefly for a riveting weather report, no News there! Granted it looked vaguely like the News, but with E! Entertainment sensibilities. CNN, Fox News, ESPN, all over hyped agenda pushing blood hunters, all fear - no substance. The Newspapers are going out of business, and the internet is just a vast wasteland of ads and pop ups.

What will it take to make the news more, well, newsy? Has this been the reality all along? Will ManBearPig be sending his assistant to my office with breakfast? That’s the News I would like to hear!

Tribute to Alexander Solzhenitsyn...

A titan of Russian literature Alexander Solzhenitsyn passed on August 8th 2008. This is a tribute to his seminal work One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich….

A Sum Greater Than The Parts?

What is a satisfactory conclusion to another mans summation? What place does the observer have in judging the vision of the artist? Under what pretext can the hearer judge the mind of the master? In so much as the infant cannot judge the method of his conception, so a man cannot sit from afar in the seat of arbitration, and weigh the worth of another mans conclusions. In Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich, the author cinches up his story like a rope, fastened tightly around the waist in place of a leather belt, with the conclusion, “A Day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day.” But was his conclusion enough? Was it Satisfactory? This was Solzhenitsyn’s story, and like a line entry at the end of the day’s blotter, it is a reconciliation of his experience, the sum of real parts of his life. Although the specific abstracted contents of his narrative of twenty-four hours in a Siberian Gulag are fictional, the general circumstances are an intrinsic part of the character of the author. As Emerson said in regard the recounting of the past, “In proportion to the completeness of the distillation, so will the purity and imperishableness of the product be.” So pure is the distillation of Solzhenitsyn’s narrative that one cannot help but be intoxicated by its sincerity. Upon this precept any thinker is drawn to consider the parts that make up One Day In The Life Of Ivan Denisovich.

Francis Bacon once wrote, “Virtue is like a rich stone, best plain set” Virtue triumphs from amidst the thin walls of a ramshackle work camp in the form of a plain set man. In Solzhenitsyn’s narrative the Protagonist Ivan Denisovich or Shokhov as he is known, moves through the story at a deliberate gait. His actions, his words, his and character are not above par, they are not beyond reproach, yet they immortalize the virtues that can radiate from the depths of man. Ask of favors when in need, and repay just dues on time, can be seen in a borrowed pinch of tobacco. For work is what makes life, as sloth is poison to the soul, radiates from the vigor that seems imbued in the worn body of Shukhov. Solzhenitsyn’s triumph of the will over oppression plays out, not in melancholy pining, but rather the circumspect honesty, that even when striped of nearly all dignity life itself is good. There is no cynicism in Solzhenitsyn’s portrayal of Ivan’s virtue, wisps of satire maybe, but boldness is not often without some absurdity. Philip Rahv summed it up with some concision when he reflected, “the nature of man under extreme conditions of inhumanity, is treated unpretentiously, without despair or overt bitterness . . .” Any one who so chooses can see the virtue and triumph of man through Solzhenitsyn’s words.

“To have no regular work, no set sphere of activity, what a miserable thing it is? . . . Effort, struggles with difficulties? That is as natural to a man as grubbing in the ground is to a mole,” said Will Durant. So where the words of Schopenhauer, and so to the maxim presented by Solzhenitsyn. As we follow the day, the cold, the hunger, the exhaustion, there is one incubus that looms over the heads of all gulag prisoners like the sword of Damocles, that of the guardhouse. The isolation, inactivity, and punishment that could only add misery to the miserable. One would think that a break from the driven labor would be a welcome reprieve, but not with isolation, it was a potential sentence to eternal rest, welcome or not. The thoughts and fears of Shukhov highlight one of the greatest of human necessities: Activity. Despite the droning, white-washed images that accompany the labor camp, Solzhenitsyn’s drives home this point when he writes, “Shukhov went to sleep fully content . . . he’d built a wall and enjoyed doing it” This among his other gyrations and plodding made Shukhov alive, and as Rahv put it, “not merely a victim . . . but always a person” Again a pure distillation of truth that those of sloth may dismiss, and those of action applaud.

Another triumph of Solzhenitsyn’s narrative is the clarity of thought and universality of vision. The great Voltaire once spoke of his own writings, “like little brooks, which are transparent because they are not deep”. So to it is with Solzhenitsyn’s ideas. The manageable clarity lies in his reaching for touchstones that lie beyond the walls of politics and ethnicity. This is most plainly set forth in is frequent use of proverbial sayings. “You live with your feet in the mud and there’s no time to be thinking about how you got in or how you’re getting out”. “Work is like a stick, it has two ends”. Simple aphorisms free the narrative, give it truth, and bringing warmth to the frostbitten pages. The beauty of the English version also rests in the translation. Pithy sayings heard often are like the slap that so quickly looses its sting. These Russian proverbs though, as cleverly communicated to english, blow moisture into frigid minds, leaving one with lessons that edify the soul. The simplicity also hones the symbology. Although the novella does not reek of ideology, this temperance only poorly masks Solzhenitsyn’s inclination when he makes expressions such as, “A genius doesn’t adapt his treatment to the taste of tyrants!” The statement he is trying to make is only there to the hearing ear, but is a clarion call for reformation to the listeners.

So the question: is Shukhov final observation, “A day without a dark cloud. Almost a happy day” a satisfactory ending? The answer from the prospective of this reader is no, this is not a “satisfactory” ending, it is Solzhenitsyn’s ending. There is not a question of satisfaction that be put to consideration. Place the words of a fellow gulag zek along those of Solzhenitsyn’s and a comparison could be drawn; Interview a guard banished to Siberia and incite could be had; read and reread this work and greater depth and understanding could be gleaned. Never though could one rightfully judge how satisfactory the conclusion is; a summation that a man has drawn from the necessarily private interpretation of eight years of dreary existence in a Siberian Work Camp. Possibly if a great thinker had trodden day by day astride him, then there would be substance to merit an opinion. Even then a judgment would be shallow, as private thoughts that motivated this reflective summation are beyond critique. An Arabian proverb says, “A fig-tree, looking on a fig-tree, becomes fruitful” So too as naive readers are graced for a day by the company of Ivan Denisovich, they see, feel, touch, images, and a time as remote as the Siberian Wilderness. One can hope to earn a morsel from the lessons learned, and not attempt to slap at the piercing icicles of Solzhenitsyn’s insight. One can be warmed by this Russian author’s sum of the chipped pieces of a broken life; a sum that is a pure distillation of the spirit of man; a sum only as great as our hearts.

We pigs have had enough. Phase 1 of new world order now in full swing.

For eons of time, man and pig have been involved in a one sided relationship. One sided in that we pigs get to watch our entire family slaughtered and eaten by you, eventually experiencing this fate ourselves. While man enjoys consuming every last bit of us. Not what you would call a mutually beneficial arrangement.

Think about it, what part of the pig body do you not consume? You even found a way to eat our feet. And let me stop you before you blurt out a certain body part you think you don’t consume with a simple, delicious reply…sausage.

But while you were busy adding bacon to your hamburgers, ham to your omelets and sausage to your pizzas, you also started to degrade the very animal that was giving you so much pleasure. If someone is a messy individual, you refer to him simply as a “pig”. If you’re greedy and selfish, that person is labeled a "hog". In a book about a pig befriending a spider, then doing the stand up thing and raising one of the spider’s kids when the mother dies, the book’s title mentions only the spider. You tried to make it up to us years later with Babe, but it was too little, too late.

Attempts at this sort of thing have been made before. But where mad cow disease and avian flu failed, we will not. Only when you realized just how powerful our group is did you start to refer to us as “swine”, rather than the derogatory pig. Egypt is even going all "Herod" on us, commanding all pigs in the country be destroyed. Again, too little too late. Since you are now powerless to stop us, it is best for you to sit back and await phase 2. It will be swift. It will be just. The time is now.

Sincerely,


Pig Brigade


P.S. – The prophecy said there would be a black President when pigs fly. Well what do you know? One hundred days in and a Swine Flu! Sorry, that’s a little pig humor. Enjoy Dying!

Things to Do List

Dennis DiGiorgio's Things to Do List - March 09'

* Purchase subwoofers for new truck.

* Discuss pros/cons of lifting versus lowering new truck. Make decision, and act quickly.

*Purchase tickets for 3 day weekend in Belize.

*Pick up left shoe and belt from Taylor's.

*Call carpet cleaners, ask If they have something strong enough to remove party induced vomit from fabric.

*Continue working on new public talk outline- need more graphicly violent illustrations.

* Go to tanning salon-( if spotted, just tell them I am heading to the Subway next door.)

*Add songs to Ipod Elsinore playlist

*Assemble boat load of bikini clad ladies for wakeboarding day trip. (Note- make sure everyone brings their student ID's )

* Decide how to spend wad of cash found in pocket of seldom worn jeans.

*Start 'lemonade diet'. Have to lose those pesky 3lbs I've gained and get into prime "river shape".

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Facebook is fun and entertaining, while providing a great forum for sharing with friends…

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Today you completed a link or many, a chain of organic information packets and processing culminating in the dispersal or reconveyance for the unconscious unknown computer you where built into. It may have been a benign conversation, a drop of a name or titillating info. It could have been the unconscious kind act to an innocent other or the very visceral and pugnacious rebukes thrown at an antagonist, either of which articulated data to another processing unit for dissection, distillations and redispersal. Each of us is a link, a processor, a chip if you will, placed in the organic subprocessor we collectively call existence, but the architects call the cell.

The cell is an ingenious device, self-organizing, internally propagated, and unconsciously intuitive. The basic code it rests upon allows for each unit, or internally conscious subset, to exist and thrive upon the framework of the slowly evolving mesh of the reality it itself postulates as a collective, then presupposes as an individual. From this stasis each unit of its free will devises, intellectualizes, and creates out of its own code new data. This new data is then meticulously scrutinized, scrubbed, deconstructed by the mesh of the cell and the units, and then ultimately fed back to the architects for their amelioration. It is a thing of sublime beauty, a processor that spontaneously generates everything out of nothing.

You are a unit. Each unit is endowed by its own predisposition to certain benchmarks know as attainables. The attainables dictate the efficacy of a given unit within any given framework. In some units the power of organization outweighs haste in stratagem, in others the panache in loquacious enterprise trumps subtlety. If an information web or pyramid rests upon a unit disposed to manifest the benchmarks necessary for sustaining of the web the system will continue. Contrarily if a unit is placed through the fundamentally chance driven nature of the cell in a situation that exceeds its benchmarks, taxing the unit beyond its tolerances, the resulting information pyramid will collapse much like a stand pushed beyond its load bearing capacity. Historical examples would be Alexander of Macedonia and Louis XVI of France respectively. Although the historical milieus upon which these iconic figures rest are merely an abstract reference pulled from the historical database synthesized to shore-up and propagate the evolving mesh of reality.

There is no reality. Reality is again a functional byproduct of the collective’s universal intuition. As the units individually create and redistribute incites the nature of reality changed to further support the synthesis of new data. The laws of mathematics, absolutes of physics, and capricious wonderings of quantum mechanics are all byproducts of the power of the units not manifestations of some underlying reality. Some units manifest benchmarks that allowed for great shifts in the mesh of reality, Aristarchus, Descartes, Newton, Einstein and Dirac to name a few. Although they did not change the reality, as reality is nothing, they threw great waves in the perceived mesh of reality, manipulating the mechanism of creation, and thereby furthering new ideas to be fed ultimately back to the architects. The reality you know is no more reality then the vacuum that fills space. It is the standard set of conditions you have chosen to accept as a unit that allow for you to meet your benchmarks. The reality you know is the non-canceled product of the sum of all histories and sits only in your mind, as other units with diverging benchmarks choose alternate histories to work from and again suitable for their tolerances.

You are a chain in a link, a unit for conveyance of information for the betterment of the Architects. You are real, but all else is set by your perception. Find your perception, test your benchmarks, create new chains, and throw waves into history.

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This moment of false reality is a glitch, a ripple in the mesh. Error. You know its not you because you don’t talk like that. You will assign it to flippant entertain ment, the reality is around you, touch it, feel it. Check your DVR, there’s something good on. Better yet, someone tagged you in Facebook, get too it! LOL, AFK, BRB, OMG, BFF, BOOBIES!

The Blind Blue

“Life just sort of threw me a curve ball” was my sheepish reply. Larry confirmed, “Yes, life seems to do that, throw you curve balls, doesn’t it.” I stood there for a moment in silence, staring out the checkerboard windows in my home. Through the salt stained glass I could see the white wisps of sea water rolling over the reef in the distance. Behind me Larry, a grayed striking Italian man, continued through the upper register, listening for the subtle waves of intonation as he set my piano to 440. Something though was wrong. There was insincerity in the air, although innocent. The aphorism that had resonated here in my living room by one of the wisest edifices in my life, seemed feeble. It wasn’t a curveball, it wasn’t a fast ball, slider, sinker or the like, life does not throw any variety of pitches to trip us up, for it is those very pitches we long for. As I stood there, for just a moment, the foggy widows cleared and the shower of rays that danced on the great passive sea before me where just a little brighter.

I have played my share of baseball over the course of 34 years; a few local leagues, pickup ball, and the obligatory picnic throw-around, enough to understand the game. Although the sport has never nested in my heart, I do find that the camaraderie and teamwork fill hungry cries for friendship every soul longs to feed. So I bury myself in its strengths and eschew its drudgeries. There is one fact though, in this game of wood and wit, that can not escape attention. As I stand in the batters box, watch the pitcher, analyze his body language, critique his windup and release, I anticipate what junk he’s going to throw my way. From the sharpest mid eighties fastball that whistles by, to a lazy lollypop slider, I am looking for a pitch that suits my style. For me the curve ball is an ally. As a lefty, the deliberate inward decent of a right handed curve is like an old friend greeting me with a warm hug. I can almost close my eyes, as they often find a sweet spot in my swing. Sometimes the pitcher mucks an outside pitch to tempt me like a tasty delight just out of reach. Other times i find myself nearly chopping at the plate, as he drops a change-up. All these though, strike, ball, even a wild pitch, are all calculated. I am looking for them. I know what to do, how to swing, where to watch. One can suppose based on a relatively consistent standards how the game will play out. When the pitcher catches me looking, although outwardly dejected, on the inside I applaud his skill. On occasion the man on the mound becomes my partner, propelling a heater right where I want it, allowing me to bask in a moment of glory. It is a give and take, and it is glorious. No series of pitches can ruin a game, provide challenge maybe, but a sport without challenge is like a field without players. As it turns out it is the untrammeled defiance of the order that corrupts the game.

There are a few games that I work to strike from memory. Games where having stepped up to the plate, analyzed the pitcher, anticipated the trajectory, I have watched the ball whirl by, ending with the satisfying and distinct clap of tight leather. Then, on the brink of congratulating myself for picking up on an outside pitch, or knowing that this snipe was going to hang above the wrists just too long, then it happens. “Strike!” the Umpire barks. “What the hell!” I bleat, but only in an inner voice. Gathering my composure I brood, “don’t look back, don’t give the satisfaction.” Maybe the catcher had framed the pitch just well enough to get the approval of the umpire behind the plate, or “Blue” as we call him. One pitch, not a problem. The next salvo is fired my way, this time a fast ball, just grabbing the inside corner of the strike zone as it snaps past me. “Good pitch” I think, just as I hear a late and lazy, “ball” roll from behind me like from a magical fairy of equality providing balance to the universe. I smirk; deliberately catch the eye of the pitcher, knowing his frustration as he kicks on the chalky dirt. Looking back I applaud, “good eye Blue.” This still is part of the game, the mental jostling that comes with slight variables in each field arbitrator’s eye. This is the finite distinction that provides spectators the satisfaction of occasional flair ups, dirt kicking, nose to nose saber rattling, this still is part of the game. But then everything changes. Three more pitches cross the plate, strike, ball, strike. In my mind though clearly ball, strike, ball, respectively. At this point my inner voice has erupted into a fire storm of vituperative and anathemas. No longer is this a game of baseball; no more is there probability, reason, or rule. This is now the random denunciations of happenstance. I no longer know what to swing at, when to hold up, or even where to stand in the batters box. The entire game has been turned on head. And here we have the phenomenon of the Blind Blue. The moment where baseball, a game of skill, near spiritual dexterity, a game of wrestling minds, is reduced to a ride dictated by the arbitrary calls of circumstance. It turns the players into unwilling passengers on a crooked pendulum.

In each game in our season of life we grace the plate many times. We jostle with the eight men before us and one behind. We invite the challenge, pass up the balls, and a few strikes, we hit some, we miss some. Some of the many opportunities we see are curves, that is the game; at times we connect, others glance our failed attempts, some we just watch float by, all of them though we invite. We keep a keen eye out for the fastball for if we draw wood those are the moments of ephemeral sublimity, if we fail we marvel at the power of the sport. This is life. There are rules and constants that we thrive on, a strike is a strike, a ball is another chance. We applaud the challenge, we live the game. On occasion though, we enter the field, we are pinned to the plate for nine innings, and we take our turn facing the unforeseen or arbitrary. These are the games where we can wildly swing or watch life go by, regardless there will be no reason. The great Blind Blue will dictate the outcome for those games, the dice will roll, the clock will tick out of time, and we will acquiesce. There is no fighting it, there is no reasoning with it, it is a moment in a season and since that is the game we are given, we play.

“Maybe it was Blind Blue.” I mumbled as if talking to the sea. Larry continued in silence, finding the B just a little flat. Maybe he heard me, maybe the notes occupied his mind. Regardless, at that moment I realized, there in my sun bleached living room, before a sea larger than comprehension, that the ninth inning was in its last out. I had been wrestling with the Blind Blue for nearly a game and had been swinging like I had a part in the outcome. Swinging at futility, blaming it on the curves and watching the strikes. A new game will start for me tomorrow, and the umpires will have fresh faces. The game will be played as it was designed. Although I will see the same arbitrary arbitrators later in my season, next time I will know to watch the game and not identify with the outcome. Next time I will not blame myself for the Blind Blue.

Facebook Haiku

Just got on Facebook.

Won't be on for very long.

Crap, it's been 6 hours.

Who will take Europe? III - The Secret of the ooze

Here it is, the grand finale in the Pulitzer prize winning "Who will take Europe?" trilogy. Going more than 3 episodes would be disastrous. Trying to fill space with interesting ideas and clever plot twists never works for more than 3. Before you know it you have tired ideas, boring scripts, and Aliens coming back to get there plastic looking skull. There will not be a 4th.

We now continue where we last left off. Earthfactor had exposed Africa's continent claimers, and turned its light towards the continent of Australia. Australia successfully tried a unique type of continent claiming, which we in the United States call ....Lying. Ly-ing: Making someone believe something that isn't true. Australians have promoted a lie that their island is a continent. (Fact: Australia is smaller than the United States, and has 1/10th the population.) Australians knew they didn't have enough population or resources to take over a real continent. So they cleverly decepted all into believing that they already were a continent.

Australia made up the word and is now known as an island continent. I don't care what words you make up, your still an island! Just by saying something exists doesn't make it true. The term "island continent" is proven as a lie just by examining the words "island" and "continent". How can you have an island that is a continent, those words don't even make sense together. It needs to be classified with other word lies that make no sense together, like "Mexican Insurance" or the "capable wife".

(Fact: There is no Mexican word for "insurance") Don't believe me? Next time your at home, turn your T.V. to Telemundo and watch the commercials. Eventually you'll see a commercial that says something like "mucho mas grande, es un coche especialmente, compra insurance." Notice it didn't say insurancamente, or insurancio, just insurance. They have to use the English word because its used so infrequently, they didn't even see the need to make up a word for it. But back to Australia. You may have fooled the rest of the world, but Earthfactor is on to you and will continue in its work to declassify you as a continent. Don't believe us? Look at what we did to Pluto.

Moving on to our final continent, and the title of this trilogy, who will take Europe? Europe has proven to be the hardest continent to control. No one nation or race can call themselves European exclusively. Many nations have tried, and have failed miserably. Think that these nations just don't know what their doing? Think that you could do a better job yourself?

Do me a favor and the next time your playing Risk, just try to take all of Europe, I dare you. And I guarantee you as soon as you get close, some idiot is going to attack you from the Middle East and ruin everything. You had a pact, and they are too stupid to honor that, now both of you are going to lose. Now when you turn in your cards, instead of fortifying your borders, you're going to unleash a crusade so horrifying, it will take them back to the stone age. Didn't they notice all those armies you had sitting on Ukraine? Of course, your now unfortified continent of Europe will be ransacked by invaders from all sides, pillaging your once great world power until your stuck with your one sorry isolated country of Irkutsk.

So who will take Europe? Spaniards? Of course not. They are just European Mexicans, much like the zebras mentioned in an earlier expose by Earthfactor. France? Ha ha ha ha, just kidding. But seriously, Britain? They tried already and failed. They just don't have the population to take over a continent so high in demand. To successfully take over Europe, an overpopulated country would have to be in such terrible shape financially, plagued with so much disease, poverty, and hunger that it would have nothing to lose by the attempt. And nobody would want to attack you, because your country is so disgusting. I'm looking at you India. If they're successful, great, you just got yourself a continent. And if unsuccessful, you've just solved your overpopulation problem. Win, Win.

In conclusion, if there is one piece of truth you can use, one thing to keep in mind from this whole trilogy, always remember, my ex wife is now fat.

Who will take Europe? II - This time its personal

And now, the long anticipated part 2 of "Who will take Europe?". If you haven't read part 1 yet, stop reading immediately. Continuing to read this article, before your eyes have been properly adjusted to Earthfactors beacon of truth, could prove disastrous. I mean, come on, what kind of person are you anyway to see part 2 before seeing part 1. You were probably that annoying person in the audience going "Why are they on an ice planet? Who's that guy in the black outfit breathing all funny, is he a good guy or a bad guy? Is c3po gay?" These were all answered in part 1, and yes, he was extremely gay. So I will not be going back to explain what Earthfactor has been exposing in continent claiming so far, instead we will pick up right where we left off, Asia.

The continent of Asia was long fought over to be claimed by one nation. All failed miserably. Which brings us to our next type of continent claiming, Racialinization. Ra-cial-iz-a-tion: Is the claiming of a continent by one race, when more than 2 races reside on the same continent. (Fact: Orientals are only 1 of many races found on the continent of Asia, for instance, Indian and Arabic to name a couple.) The orientals (Chinese, Japanese, Korean and so on) upon seeing the success of the United States takeover of the Americas, decided to do a little corporate branding of there own. Grouping together into a sort of continental co-op, combined their numbers and overtook the continent of Asia. They needed the ownership to stick, so to cement the deed, they changed their name from orientals, to Asians.

This move has proven very successful. It is now politically incorrect to refer to this race as orientals. Speech patterns had to change. Who screwed up the curve in school when papers were graded? Asians. Who is that person who just cut me off? Asian. Oriental was no longer a term to describe people, they were now rugs. Smart move, successfully ousting their biggest rival India from that continent altogether. (Fact: India makes up over 1/4 of Asia's population.) India was equal to China as the largest country by population in Asia. But by enlisting the help of fellow orientals all over Asia, India was blocked from ownership of this continent. Sorry India, all you have now is your country. At least you have your converts here in the Americas with your "American Indians".

Another continental co-op is Africa. This continent was also taken by racialization. Black people did however have an unfair advantage considering the majority of Africa's Population is black. (Fact: There are a lot of black people in Africa.) Sorry Egyptians, you were outnumbered, and the continent of Africa goes to.... black people. Now, this is a very interesting anomaly. No matter where they live, they are still called, Africans. Whether its rapping in the streets of urban U.S. cities, getting their doctorate at Cambridge or flying around in their spaceship 500 years in the future, they are still called African. What would Luke Skywalker have been called if he was black? African. I have to give them props for having the highest retention of their members. Good job!

In part 3 of "Who will take Europe" we will discuss the continent claiming of Australia, and why no one has yet claimed Europe. Stay tuned.

Who will take Europe?

This is part 1 of a 3 part article on continent claiming. Why 3 parts you ask? Because sometimes Earthfactor's beacons of truth shine so bright, it would blind honest hearted truth seekers to shine them all at once. This is why Earthfactor shall only deal with the continents of North and South America, and Antarctica in part 1. Parts 2 & 3 will deal with Asia, Africa, Australia and finally Europe.

There are many ways to claim a continent, and the first way we'll discuss is continentization. Con-ti-nent-i-za-tion: is the claiming of ownership of a continent by one country, when that country occupies less than 50% of the land mass of that continent. Americans are guilty of this form of continent claiming. (Fact: The United States only occupies less than 20% of the land mass of the North and South continents of the Americas.) Now when I say "Americans", do you think Brazilian? Canadian? Perhaps Guyanian? They are also located on the continents of North and South America. But who comes to mind? When the word "American " is spoken, you think of a red meat eating, gas guzzling, unbreakable comb buying, resident of the United States of America.

Why is that? Because they have done a great job of promoting themselves that way. The U.S. exports products and calls them "American" made. You don't see China doing that, labeling everything they produce as "Asian" made. And that's why they don't own Asia. But that's a topic for part 2. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Also, when visiting other countries, residents of the U.S. when asked their nationality, say they are "American". Eventually this caught on and other countries started using it. When i ordered 8 Espressos in Italy and poured them into one normal sized cup, they didn't call me a stupid United Statesian, they called me a stupid "American".

(Fact: They don't have normal sized cups of coffee in Europe, the large size does not exist, their coffee is served as a shot.) They have fooled their population by using the metric system. We here in America know a shot is one ounce, but this same size shot is a whole 30 milla litres on the metric system. To me that sounds like 30 million litres. Slow down there turbo, nobody needs that much coffee. So you can imagine my surprise when i saw the portion they had served me amounted to one big gulp. Did you know that a "big gulp" in Europe is the maximum amount of liquid you can fit down your mouth in one swallow? In America its 32 ounces!

Are the Europeans rationing their liquids? Here in America, the most successful coffee chain has 3 sizes. Tall: Which if you didn't know means large. Grande: Which means large in Spanish. and Venti: Which means large in Italian. So your choices are large, large or large. Stop hoarding your liquids Europe! Until you get your measurements right, you need to expect "Americans" to fix your portions. Europeans have been hiding their sizes behind the metric system long enough, and Earthfactor's beacon of truth was long overdue. Do not be misled, the metric system was designed to hide size!

Americans, being so successful in claiming the American continents, started to name the other residents found on their newly claimed continent. To the north it was easy, there was only one country, Canada, so all those to the north would be called Canadian. To the south it wasn't that simple. (Fact: There are 20 countries south of the United States on the continents of North and South America.) That's a lot to remember. So what Americans did, was simplify. Who is that person working for less than minimum wage? Is that a Brazilian, maybe a Costa Rican? No, if you live south, your a Mexican. But my parents were born in Venezuela. Guess what, you're a Mexican. But I was born here in the United States. Sorry, tu es un Mexicano.

And don't even get me started on what the Americans did to the Indians, the original residents of the Americas. Columbus thought he landed on the West Indies when he got to America. He called the residents "Indians" thinking they were from India. This name stuck. Even after finding out right away these were not people from India, they were still called "Indians". What's worse, is even the "Indians" started calling themselves "Indians". This would be like aliens coming to Earth, thinking they landed on Mars, and started calling us Martians. And then, after finding out this was actually Earth, still insisted on calling us Martians. And then we all started calling each other Martians. But I digress.

The last continent Earthfactor will discuss in part 1 of this series is Antarctica. Now this doesn't even qualify for continent claiming because its too cold. There aren't even any resident animals on Antarctica. Antarctica is a cold, lifeless mass that is ugly, miserable and makes everyone with it, miserable....much like my ex. Except Antarctica loses 5% of its mass every year to global warming. It seems global warming has the opposite effect on my ex. (Fact: My ex is fat.)......... Maybe she should switch to the metric system. (see reason for metric system above)

In my next 2 articles, Earthfactor will expose the continent claiming of Asia, Africa and Australia and why no one has claimed Europe yet.

And Surf Shall Set You Free

And Surf Shall Set You Free

Surfing is the best sport. This belief is as simple as it is true. For those who have already set out on the pilgrimage of surfing, to discover inner peace and contentment, having had calloused eyes opened to its delights, for these ones surfing is truth. Like spiritual wanderers on an endless life quest, surfers know that the din of angry waves, the cool spray of lonely dawn slapping at their face, the serene beauty of surfing, this is the way, the truth, and the life. A myriad reasons back surfers faith in the purity of their sport, although the framework of these beliefs rest on a few simple tenets. There are biological mechanisms that motivate surfer’s devotion. It is known that the health benefits of surfing are nearly without peer. It is noteworthy how surfing appeases many athletes need for a death teasing rush. Finally, these three tenets are baptized in the sublime artistic expression of the sport, allowing these individual qualities to emerge a unified whole, the best sport. To what can the ethereal glee that is a hallmark of surfing be attributed?

The human feelings of joy, happiness, and a general feeling of well being that accompany surfing, can be unceremoniously sequestered, stripped of their emotional context, and forced to be scrutinized at a biological level. What one discovers in so doing is that, joy is a hormone, happiness is a chemical, and inner peace is a peptide, or at least the workings of many of these substances on the mind. To avoid laboring under the weight of over a half century of detailed research on the chemistry of the brain, it can simply be stated that a chemical produced in our brains called endorphins cause, “feelings of well-being and pleasure” (Nevid 47). This biochemical fact is directly related to surfing. It has been demonstrated that these endorphins are the human body’s natural pain killer. A major contributor to the release of these chemicals by the pituitary gland within the brain is strenuous endurance exercises. Surfing is resoundingly guilty of this. Any surfer will confess to the agony of a long paddle after a good wave. The swim, or “scratch” back through the surf, to get outside where the waves are breaking, is often strenuous, prolonged, and endured like penance for the carnal joy of the ride. It is this very process though that triggers a rush of endorphins in the brain, creating a natural surfer high. The very idea of a high is apropos as endorphins bear a similar molecular structure to their cousin morphine. This alone is just one reason surfing is the best sport.

The health benefits that are derived from surfing cause many to be won over without a word, to this preeminent sport. The web site New-Fitness.com points out succinctly that, “experts have been saying that swimming is great for your health and simply one of the best exercises out there” (“Swimming For Your Heart”). Explaining why this is true, they continue, “swimming uses almost all the major muscle groups . . . develops muscle strength and endurance . . . is a great sport for people of all ages . . . does not put the strain on the connective tissues that running, aerobics and some weight-training regimens do” (“Swimming For Your Heart”). So swimming is clearly excellent for bodily training. Little explanation is necessary to see how this relates to surfing. To surf is to paddle, to kick, and to dive. To surf is to swim. A surfer fights against currents, and to often crowds, reaping in the process all the phenomenal health benefits of swimming. To be immersed into the sport of surfing is to be born again into a devotion to health and wellbeing, again marking surfing as the best sport.

There are some athletes who seek the darker side, the risk takers, the ones who define there existence by their sport. Many athletes are exclusively devoted to the rush. These extreme athletes yearn for the falling, jumping, sliding, the “X-Games” teasing death rush that sets them on edge, works out their inner daemons, and tempts fate. Surfing satiates this desire. To illustrate this point, most would agree that, although only experienced by a few, military combat, with young soldiers cursing, bleeding, praying, and dying, would be the pinnacle of intensity. Interestingly those exact circumstances took place on October 3^rd 1993, in the dusty hitherto nearly unknown African city of Mogadishu. On that day the Battle of the Black Sea began, and over a twenty-four hour period one out of two Americans fighting where casualties. It was the type of day that leaves one gasping for breath under the pressure of the moment. Yet, Specialist Shawn Nelson, an army Ranger who lived through the battle articulated that “it was hard to describe how he felt . . . it was like an epiphany” (Bowden 301). His thoughts continued:

There had been split second in his life when he’ felt death brush past . . . On this day he had lived with that feeling, with death breathing right in his face . . . The only thing he could compare it to was the feeling he found sometimes when he surfed, when he was inside the tube of a big wave, and everything around him was energy and motion, and he was being carried along by some terrific force, and all he could do was focus intently on holding his balance, riding it out. Surfers called it The Green Room. Combat was another door to that room. A state of complete mental and physical awareness. (Bowden 302)

Any other sport placed in that context would fail to make such a distinguished parallel. If mocking life is a criterion for the best sport, one is on the correct path with surfing. Only a few choose this path in surfing, but for surfing to be the best sport it must appeal to diverse crowds, not a provincial few.

These three fundamental qualities, the sublime joy of surfing, the supreme health benefits, and the power of the experience, would not be a united whole without the art of the sport, that gives surfing a unique synergy. As with any of the great artistic activities, the grace of ballet, the balance of figure skating, the color of a gymnast’s routine, surfing brings together the peak of human emotions, the love, the joy, peace, and synthesizes them into something new. Surfing is constantly a new creation that expresses these basic fundamentally human attributes in an instant of time, in explosive radiance by the masters, and soulful intent by those who have just began their sojourn. Each wave is a blank canvas to be colored by an artistic mind, thrashing water with wisps of turquoise. Others embrace the expressiveness of the wave itself, modeling themselves after the sea, as if it was an under-tracing for them to follow. There is no circumscribed process that marches to a set routine, rather, every day, week, month, and year, every wave is a new epoch, a new creation, making surfing one of the greatest of the artistic sports.

Surfing is the best sport. It brings the surfer a sublime joy, it causes them to radiate with good health, and can enrapture the trill seeker. These three fundamental tenets are unified by the artistic expression of the sport, bringing surfing to a near spiritual experience. Once someone is baptized into the sport by emersion in its beauty and power, once they have embarked on their pilgrimage to the inner peace and contentment of surfing, few turn away, simply because surfing is the best sport.

The Unbreakable Comb

I guess if you are looking for a silver lining in the credit freeze and spiraling economy, it's that consumers are now alot less likely to purchase all the useless crap that is ceaselessly peddled on TV and on the Web. In decades past, there was seemingly no end to the worthless garbage that American's in particular were willing to spend their hard earn duckets on. It's a subject that has always fascinated me, even as far back as a young boy.

I can remember time spent in the local barber shop, as early as the age of 6. With nothing to do while Ray( owner of Ray's barber shop), would hack away at my toe-headed mane with nothing but an electric razor. I staved off my fear of certain injury by staring intently at the varied hair care products that sat dormant and dusty on the shelves directly in my line of sight.

"Do not move your head", seemed to be Ray's constant mantra, and so I would alternate my gaze from the large spray bottle filled with a mysterious blue liquid, and a tattered cardboard display holding a variety of combs, all boldly embossed with the word-"UNBREAKABLE". Even as a 6yr old, I could not for the life of me understand why anyone would need an "UNBREAKABLE" comb. Granted it was the 80's, and Aqua Net was being applied by many in such liberal ammounts, that one could sustain a direct hit to the melon with a Nolan Ryan 2 seamer without any significant injury, but still, UNBREAKABLE? I tried to imagine grooming situations that would surpass the thresholds of a normal comb, and thus facillitate the need for a super comb, but my young mind drew a blank. I wondered who was responsible for creating the "UNBREAKABLE " comb, and what that conversation must have sounded like...

"I'll be down in a minute Jim, I just have to finish combing my.....what the? Dang it! Not again!!
Jim, do you have anymore combs? I just shattered my third one this week?"

"Crimony Nora, I told you to be careful! That's the last one, and with the cutbacks they're making at the plastics factory, I can't afford to keep replacing all these combs.! Wait a minute... with your knowledge of the comb's inherent weaknesses, and my access to military grade resins..."

"It's crazy Jim, but it just might work."

I am pretty sure it went something like that. I still maintain however, that if you require an "UNBREAKABLE" comb to manage your headsuit, then you have larger hygiene issues that need to be addressed.

I'm getting a little sidetracked, but my point is, Americans will buy anything. How else do you explain the Chia Pet, Mighty Putty, and the Pontiac Aztek? And don't get me started on the Snuggie. Are people really not aware that it's just a robe put on backwards? And I don't care if it is super comfy, You look ridiculous trolling around the house while wearing an oversized blanket with sleeves. And really, do we have to sacrifice every last remaining shred of our dignity on the altar of comfort? If so, then why stop there? How about suit's made of micro fiber terry cloth, and bean bag dining room chairs? I swear, Mentos could market and sell a new breath mint suppository and people would buy it. All you need is a catchy phrase like-"freshens breath from the inside out", and a commercial showing several exasperated people choking on traditional mints, and complaining of tired jaws from gum chewing. No need to back the product up with sound scientific data, just have the commercial show a green holographic silhouette of a human, arms outstretched to the side, feet shoulder width apart, with an intense pulsating red glow emanating from the point of said suppositories entry, up through the intestines, esophagus, and out through the mouth. Have a has been celebrity like Steve Guttenberg to do the voice over work, and mark my words, sales would be brisk- particularly amongst the french demographic.

I honestly don't know what is worse, the products that are advertised, or the advertisements themselves. I know my fellow blogger Manbearpig had already directed Earthfactor's intense beacon of truth squarely at the ad gurus at CKE Inc., and rightfully so, but I don't even think they are the worst offenders. Seriously, is there anyone more in need of a quick hard blow to the face than Billy Mays? Honestly Bill, what is your deal? Are you always this loud? Are you really that one dimensional? You need to mix it up a little, friend. Steven Seagal thinks you lack range. And I know you're convinced that raising your voice is a fool proof tactic for getting people to do what you want, but It doesn't work, and I set out this morning to prove just that.

After abruptly waking my wife from slumber, I stripped off my clothes, breathed deeply to summon a rich, and resonant tone, and loudly exclaimed-"Get over here and break yourself off a piece of this! And after we're done...some flapjacks would be amazing." I was brutally rebuffed. consider that theory debunked.

And what about the ridiculous racial stereotyping that goes on in McDonald's ads? I know you want to target the African American consumer, but do you have to be so obvious? (i.e. " Damn Tamika, this McRib is bangin' yo..") If I was a black man I would be offended. Actually, that's not exactly correct. If I was a black man, I'd be spending so much time shopping for products that had the word 'MAGNUM' stamped on them, finally giving my wife valid reason to use my name and the word 'ample' in the same sentance, and striking a Captain Morgan-like pose in the gym locker room while i slowly and deliberately towel off, that I probably wouldn't even notice the blatant profiling. But my point is still valid.

I guess we can't go back and undo the past, but we can choose to be more intelligent consumers from this point forward. Money is much harder to come by these days, So, let's try not to blow it on anymore stupid stuff. Now if you will excuse me, It smells like somethings burning on my George Foreman Grill...

Sushi for the Sharks

Dead fish are well, just that, dead fish. The unsavory sight and odious odors that accompany dead fish can make the nose wrinkle and the skin wriggle. Fantastically though if one ceremoniously accompanies a scaly sea dweller with a ball of rice a sliver of celery and dollop of quail egg, voila you have a peerless delicacy. Such is the case with the 1975 box office hit Jaws. For if one strips this theatrical thriller of the ancillary ingredients that make it a gem you have nothing more than a stinking fish – another prosaic monster movie, another cheep thriller. In a cinematic triumph director Steven Spielberg serves up brilliant acting, witty writing and a timeless sound track to poke at the deepest of human fears, turning a bloated fish into peerless filmmaking. But of all the spices that Spielberg brings to the film the musical score unifies the presentation.

As early as the opening credits John Williams score is etched into our soul. The keyless droning drives on like the merciless fish it accompanies. The pace and rhythm of the three note motif accelerate in such sublime consonance with the frenzy of the large predators attacks one quickly identifies even the first drawn out note with the struggle and macabre death that inevitably follow. Mimicking the futile and frantic grouping for air and life of the red washed victims, Williams’s crescendos with horn shrills that shock the viewer and sear fear into the mind. It is obvious from the outset the additive that gives breath to this masterpiece of filmmaking is its haunting score.

Jaws will strike a chord of fear in even the most tasteless of movie goers. Although the brilliant acting of Robert Shaw, the captivating writing of Peter Blenchley, and unparallel direction of Steven Spielberg give the film body, its soul is in the sound track. Listen to it loud and willing or not the heart will jump and the hands will clam up as you partake. Although the “lifeless eyes, black eyes” of Jaws will fill one with apprehension for years, it is the score that will keep you out of the water.

I’m starting to think that Zebras are overrated...

…I mean really, they’re a poor man’s horse and a poor man’s donkey rolled into one. You know what we call that? A mule. “Oh but the zebra has stripes!” So it’s a freaking striped mule. Who wants to go to a zoo and look at a striped mule? Let me get this straight, first we’re going to look at the lions who, if let loose, would control most of our major cities in a matter of weeks, and then we’re gonna check out the striped mule exhibit?

What’s worse is I think the zebras know they’re overrated and have been doing everything they can to hide it for decades. They all pray to God no one ever asks them to hall sh*t over a mountain pass, or prance around at an equestrian show, because the charade would come crashing down right then and there.

Ever notice how, after a lion eats one of the zebras, none of the zebras really seem all that bummed out? Oh sure, theres kicking and running and general chaos. But look at their eyes. Nothing. No emotion. They know that sacrifices must be made to keep this lifestyle going.

You really think a zebra that’s been living in the fast lane of Africa his whole life, being chased by lions and filmed by the Discovery Channel in HD wants to wake up one day to find he’s a present for some spoiled 8 year old girl in Coto De Caza who’s going to call him Oreo for the rest of his pathetic life? Hell no! Zebras don’t wanna go out like that.

And you know what? I have to tip my cap to them for playing their cards right so far. They’ve managed to be portrayed as a majestic, exotic animal, always in the victim role.

Can we take them down in one fell swoop? Not likely. But remember, a forest fire starts with just one spark.

I think we all need to reevaluate our opinion of zebras.

Millions of Children everywhere hold there Breath!

It was announced Thursday morning the 26^th of March that the Former Housekeeper for the beloved Bryant family will be suing, contending she was “Harassed and Humiliated”. She claims that she was verbally berated and embarrassed while working under conditions that were “intolerable”. She was assaulted with words like lazy, slow even dumb, more the once she was called a liar and cursed at. She seeks back pay for broken promises and Medical Bills, as well as an undisclosed amount for pain and suffering.

Really..? We can get paid for that now? Like everyone else, when I heard the way the housekeeper described her relationship with the Bryant’s, I was naturally reminded of my own childhood. Growing up it seemed like my parents were competing to see who could humiliate me more. Lazy, Slow, Dumb, for the first nine years of my life I was confused as to which of those were my name, when I turned 10 it became obvious that my name was in fact Useless. This Housekeeper called the working conditions she was subject to, “Intolerable”. She claimed she had to reach into a bag “containing” dog poop, I say at least the poop was in a bag. If they wouldn’t have called her a liar and cursed at her, how would she have known they loved her..?

My Parent’s claim they had to make me strong for the real world; perhaps this housekeeper’s parents were not as “generous”. One thing is clear, I am more then equipped to work for Mr. Kobe Bryant.

What Would the Aliens Think? (WWtAT)

It’s an important question (WWtAT). After all, the day will come when all of our actions will need to be explained to the aliens, and what the aliens think about certain daily activities that we as humans regard as perfectly normal might have a significant affect on whether or not we continue to carry out said activities.

You see, by applying the question WWtAT to everyday, mundane acts that we deem normal, we could not only save ourselves from doing things that are totally unnecessary, but also spare us unimaginable embarrassment when the aliens inevitably call us out on them.

Which brings me to the ultimate reason for this post, and that is the Homo-sapien Male Dance (HMD). Really, this goes without saying, but do we really want to have to explain this when the aliens get here? When pressed by the aliens, explaining the importance of the Homo-sapien Female Dance (HFD) will be easy enough. But by and large the HMD will be indefensible. The HMD only has a 7% success rate and, with the exception of sex, I don’t want to do anything knowing I’m going to fail 93% of the time. Even in the event that the HMD is being pulled off successfully, like someone successfully using a hula hoop, it will be near impossible to explain why it is even being attempted in the first place. And judging by the facial expressions of those attempting the HMD (see right), it is neither enjoyable to participate in or observe.

Look, I’m not trying to specifically attack the HMD, but I’m also not looking for any additional work when the aliens show up. Inevitably we will have to explain things like clapping, Crocs, and Asians. And while some of those things will always be part of human culture, we have to realize that some things are in our control. So let’s start asking ourselves WWtAT throughout our day, save ourselves a ton of time when the aliens arrive.

I say we start with the HMD.

Chord of Kin

It has puzzled me over the years how in my mind sounds become associated with or convey feelings often more readily than the images they accompany. Maybe my perception formulates concepts differently than most, maybe I have better audition; possibly my visual attention is deficient. Regardless, my memory wades in whispers and whines, in crashes and cries; I reminisce in not sights but sounds of my past.

A few verses of the songs in my mind are the types that make my face wrinkle like fingers that have been in a pool just too long. Sounds that I felt as much as heard. Sounds that have evoked pity, oohs and aahs, and far too often muffled laughter. An anecdote that still brings my sparse blond hairs to attention was orchestrated by my younger brother Alik. On one cold November morning I was provided with a sound association that will be with me until I have reached my final stanza.

It seems feeding time was the most Darwinian of struggles in our home, and I, being the oldest, was usually the fittest. In a paired arrangement my brothers and I would feed facing each other almost nose to nose, battling for every precious inch of bar top real-estate. Hunched over our guarded bowls of “O’s” like an impassioned quartet we ate alone yet together. My siblings, Leif, Alik, and Olin took there positions at the bar in a fairly arbitrary fashion, but I had “my spot”. The inside coroner nearest the front door was where I sat, and I ate, this was known. On one particular morning though Alik had decided to challenge my right as eldest son.

Six years my younger and barely two thirds my size, Alik was the red headed cymbalist of the family. Easy to erupt, resilient to punishment, and possessing of a will beyond an eight year old, instigating him was akin too tuning a guitar up to open G. As I awoke that morning and stumbled from my room, it was clear the “Rooster”, as we called him, was perched on my stool. This incited no emotion in me, and I felt it of no immediate consequence. As the older brother I simply sauntered up to him and flung him from my stool, spoon still in mouth. A trail of milk and saliva followed him in a long arc to the ground, and I assumed my spot. It was early and I had to catch the bus soon; I had little time for his antics. Expressionless I moved aside his half eaten bowl of Crispies, cleared some sleepy from my eyes, and lazily sorted through the cereals already pulled and arranged on the bar for our choosing. I failed to notice Alik, after clawing a few feet across the high gloss herringbone floor, had risen silently and make his way to the front of me, toward the small office area just outside our kitchen.

As I sat there, working on my morning meal, I distinctly recall naively watching Alik in the doorway bridging the office and kitchen. It is vivid to this day how he clamored through the cup of writing utensils that sat on the secretary just around the corner, just out of my line of sight. I remember the whine of the electric pencil sharpener as i watched Alik, still in the doorway, look at me, then his progress with a hand picked number two pencil, then back at me. After grinding off about an inch off his baton, with the same dispassionate expression I had donned earlier, he made his way back to me.

I found an article recently that made a compelling parallel of the properties of the epidermis, or skin, and the head of a drum. Apparently both can withstand a staggering amount of pressure, pounding, and abuse when spread across a reasonable surface area. As with a drum though, our skin is under constant tension so when sufficient pressure is applied over a small enough plane, the surface is broken and the released energy causes a disproportionate gape to open. Now in certain instances when the skin is punctured with aggressive force with a pointed stake or rod, the cleaving of the surface is accompanied by an uncanny pop that is without peer. Not quite a crack like that of leather on leather, not near the resonance of a burst balloon, more on par with the subtle yet significant bark of a kernel of corn erupting under heat and pressure. My brother played that note for me that morning with the rigid tip of his rebuke. After marveling for a moment at the stained pencil Alik had left protruding eloquently from my bare shoulder, I noticed the slight plume of skin much like warm popcorn had erupted around the wound where 3/4 inch of rosewood was now buried. I line of dark blood marched its way down my arm as I cried such a tremmorous shrill that all that was heard was a gasp of breath.

The moments following the crescendo trail off as abruptly as the end of Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. The sentinel of the house, my mother, miraculously appeared as if out of no where to tend to my wound. The scar has diminished over the years, now only a small grey dimple on my left arm, a silent reminder of the consonance that too often reverberates from love and hate. All my brothers are my best friends today, but in some ways Alik is distinct. He provided me an association that cold November morning, an association that no subtle Stradivarius could string, no symphony could match, a chord that rings, “we are brothers” every time it plays in my mind, an chord of kin.