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Surreality

Last night, we had a surreal experience, and I thought it might be constructive (inasmuch as it makes up a blog entry) to share it with all of you.  Jesse flew into Nashville from Madison yesterday, and last night, Max & C & I hooked up with Uncle Brian and Aunt Kate and Jesse and went to the abomination that used to be Opryland, currently known as Opry Mills. 

When I was a kid, Nashville had this theme park, like a Six Flags but on a slightly smaller scale, called Opryland.  It had your basic water rides, like the Grizzly River Rampage and the Flume Zoom, it had your upside-down roller coaster, the Wabash Cannonball, and it had places for people to play music, along with everything else you'd expect from the fusion of fair and theme park.  I liked Opryland.  It spoiled me, I think, to grow up with a theme park in my hometown.

Sometime after my adulthood reached what scientists refer to as "full swing," Opryland folded and was razed to the ground to make way for what passes for progress in this day and age, a huge fucking mall.  Opryland has been replaced by Opry Mills, which Jesse tells me is a consequence of them having been purchased by the MIlls Corporation, which owns and operates several throbbing hard-ons of malls like this one.  It has several movie screens, many restaurants (all of which feature an hour wait or more on a Wednesday) and every shop for everything anyone would ever want to buy.  It's all very stimulating for the economy, and it gives no aid or comfort to the terrorists, keeping them at bay.  It was very strange for me to tread over my childhood memories of fun and whimsy, which have now been subsumed by a mall.

After the mall, we went over to the Opryland Hotel to look at the festive lights, both on the front lawn and inside the garden observatory.  We had a nice time with this, making fun of the less successful holiday decorations - like the incestuous tree-decorating family and the carol singers on crack - and also enjoying the relative tranquility of the plants and waterfalls and such.  Max liked it very much, I think.  I should also point out here that the Cascade bar does in fact spin, a fact that Kate was the 1st to pick up on last night, and that I gave her endless shit about until I was proven wrong as usual.  Props to Kate!

The most surreal thing about all of this were the cheerleaders.  Everywhere we went, both in the mall and in the hotel, there were cheerleaders all over the place.  Mostly female and some male, many of them painted like the whores of Babylon personified, complete with purple accents and shading and glitter and such, got up in the tiniest skirts and belly shirts, hanging about everyplace like they had a reason to be there.  And giggling.  So much giggling.  This led to me elicting a promise from my three-year-old not to spend any time dallying with painted whores, and he rapidly agreed, much to my relief.

Whup!  Time for pancakes!

Southeastern Whirlwind Holiday Tour

Okay, folks, here we are on Day 5 of our Whirlwind Holiday Tour, and we have just played the Pop Culture DVD Trivial Pursuit game for only the second time since I got it for Xmas, and it's about three in the morning, and most everyone is either asleep or gone home, so it's time for me to break digital silence.

We got our start late on the 23rd, and rolled into Chattanooga from Pensacola in the evening.  That night, my mom's new boyfriend, Andy, became my mom's fiance Andy, in a surprise question-popping that left my grandmother in a tizzy, Max nonplussed, and me forcing a cautious, guarded optimism.  He seems nice enough, but they've only been together three weeks, and I - well, I want to know more.  The weekend progressed from there into long and late night conversations, smoking, eating great food and sweets, and had much good gift-giving and company.  I hadn't spent Xmas with my mom and grandmother in a dog's age, and I think it was a good idea.  It also featured the debut, assembly, and maiden voyage of the Spider-Trike.

On the eve, we hit the Tennessee Aquarium.  We saw a bunch of cool stuff, we touched sturgeons, and spent a solid chunk of the day there.  They are adding an addition (pretty much what one does with an addition unless deciding to call it something else entirely) with sharks and stuff for Spring of 2005, so I recommend going back to check that out.  It was great, and we had a lot of fun.

From Chattanooga we went on to Atlanta, (stopping briefly to see my great-grandfather's grave in Dalton and the Lemony Snicket movie) where we saw Cayce & Matt, who are doing well, happy together, attractive and recently Canadian.  We were able to wish them a happy Boxing Day, and also had much good hanging out and conversation time, catching them up with the antics of the Madtown crew (among other things) while they enlightened us as to the habits of the Canadian Chinese and bought pizza. Today we went into Little Five Points, where we bought cool books, one of the many things one does in Little Five Points.  We also hit Atlantis Hydroponics, and I recommend them to anyone who needs an indoor growth system for any reason.  With their helpful staff, organized store and many large, friendly German Shepherds, I would go back, and I much appreciated their help.

Major props to Matt's mom for putting us up, Max's new friend, the Japanese student whose name escapes me, and Matt's grandma for waffles amazing and hospitality glorious.  Also to Cayce for advice I took to heart whether or not it sounded like it at the time.

So now we are in the Nash, here to stay until the ought five.  Jesse will be here in a couple of days, and we have a couple of things planned, including getting in touch with people, seeing Grand Revue on New Year's, and sleeping in.  I would like to take a moment to wish everyone a happy Kwanzaa, and to encourage you to send some much needed funds to the relief effort from the quake/tsunami via Oxfam, as C & I did today.

Temple of the Undead Celebrity

Section 1: A Faith Is Born

Once, long ago, (about eight years) as we gathered around the fire on our Episcopalian communal kiwi plantation in South Florida, we ruminated on whether or not a fire was really a good idea in South Florida weather.  As we contemplated this, we began to discuss it in depth, and in a much more poetic fashion, passing the chilled bottle of Thunderbird amongst us, and wondering how to throw off the yoke of our oppressive Episcopalian masters. Eventually, the fire burned out of control, and solved this dilemma for us, as we were thrown off the commune in order that we might seek jobs, and evade retribution at the hands of the Episcopals, by paying them back for the damage.

We needed, I thought, someone who could craft rhetoric, someone who could shape words, some for whom the act of creatively stringing together words and phrases was an act as natural as breathing, as shitting in the woods, as watching a bag blowing in the wind, as looking directly into the sun.  We needed a poet, a person of words, someone who gave birth to phrases that stole the heart, and verses that cracked the protective shell of the soul.  Someone who, with pen in hand, could bring about the revolution we would need to start our own church.

In the midst of this discussion, the name of famous beat poet Alan Ginsburg was bandied about.  I saw but one problem with enlisting the help of Mr. Ginsburg, and I mentioned it.

“He’s dead.”

At the time, as others were quick to point out, he was not, and indeed he was scheduled to arrive in our little corner of the world, and flirt with young male New College first years very soon.  Regardless, I remained unconvinced.  I decided that whether or not Alan Ginsburg was dead, he was.  I had believed this when I alleged it, why not continue to do so?  Logic has no place in faith!  This unyielding belief would become the rock of my faith.  The strong mast to which I lashed myself in the storm, and screw getting a poet, it would become the foundation of my church.  I declared myself Imperius Rex and Big Enchilada of the Temple of the Undead Celebrity, and began looking into tax-exempt status.  There was but one who agreed with me, then, in my hour of strife and triumph, my faithful wife, C.G.C., and she became High Priestess, Pontificator, and Kick-Ass Momma of the Temple.

Thus Saith The C.G.C.:  “When the topic of Allen Ginsberg originally arose from the shadowy depth of the collective primal brain, Garrett’s faith wavered.  He called me via the hand held/touch tone communications device seeking answers.  I, you see, was not at the important gathering.  Instead I was doing some work society had deemed important in the earning of an oil skin paper.  The future Big Enchilada imploringly inquired of me my knowledge of the eternal status of Allen Ginsberg.  I told him that, yes, I too believed he was passed on.  With his faith confirmed, The Big Enchilada went on to form the First Church of the Undead Celebrity, the Church to which I became High Priestess, Pontificator, and Kick Ass Momma.  You see, behind every brilliant man is the craziness of a Red Hot Kick Ass Woman.”

Thus, an idea, nay, a faith entire, was born.

Fuckin’ drama queens.

Section 2: The First Test of Mettle for an Acolyte

Jonathan Broad, or Jay-BEE, had been a follower of Temple doctrine from the very beginning.  He had seen our behaviors, our services, our crazed rantings beneath the stars, and he was intrigued.  He was heard to mumble to himself on several occasions, and once was heard to say, “What the fuck?!?”  Future first convert and eventual Lord High Priest of the Temple Jay-BEE would soon find out what the fuck.  What the fuck, indeed.

I remember the evening well, one of the moonless boring hot variety that so frequently occurs in South Florida.  Jon burst into our apartment - clad only in sackcloth and a duck - during some very important drinking and smoking to announce that comedian, actor, and beloved children’s entertainer Chris Rock was dead, an apparent suicide.  Apparently, the story went, Chris had found out that his girlfriend was either AIDS positive or hooked on smack, and he had blown his brains out.  A shockwave went through us all, but in the hearts of some, there was suspicion that Chris yet lived.  A lurking, damned thing, this suspicion.  A vile, evil thing that would soon be destroyed.  Chris Rock’s rocket ride into superstardom began shortly thereafter, and so did acolyte Jon’s greatest test.  Rock hosted a couple of sets of MTV awards, appeared in a number of 1-800-COLLECT commercials, and made not only one of Chris Farley’s final movies, but also appeared in the highly profiled 4th Lethal Weapon movie, alongside Jet Li, who I only mention ‘cause it’ll make Jim Moore happy.  Just after this, Rock began hosting his own late night TV forum on HBO, and made another comedy special for the same network.  “That Chris,” some said, “he’s something else.”

As Rock's career continued with movies and specials on HBO, JB was tested.  In spite of this, in spite of all the slings and barbs life had chosen to throw at Jonathan Broad, his faith never wavered.  Vacillating wildly between his “Android Replacement” and “Government Conspiracy” explanations, (and often fusing the two) Jon scrambled to protect what he knew was the truth.  To this day, Jonathan Broad, or Lord High Priest Jay-BEE to you, still maintains that Chris Rock is dead, and nothing can change that, not logic, not the testimony of others, and not the vast proliferation of empirical evidence available to people the world over.  His is the faith of mountains, of mountain men, of Mountain Dew, of Dr. Pepper, Dr. Fine, and Dr. Howard.  It’s a white-hot, phosphorus kind of faith, a faith that could burn your face off and then run away and watch snuff movies all night eating pretzels.  His is a faith that spans the miles, children.  Learn from it.

Section 3: Our First Kill, and The Temple Gets Going

It was a tumultuous weekend, and on that Saturday night, New College threw one of its pretty little Bacchanals, otherwise known as a Wall.  I attended the Wall that night, to hear the latest sounds, take the latest chemicals, and have too much to drink.  It is, after all, what is done at a Wall, except for the latest sounds part.  Walls tend to begin late, and go on ‘til the early morn.  This one was no exception, and it was around two A.M. when the music paused as someone switched tapes, (this was back in the age of tapes, see) and the announcement came forth from one of the party people:

“Alan Ginsburg is dead!”

At last, thought I, people are coming around!  I drained my mugful of vodka and shouted,

“I told you so!”

Truly, a declaration of purpose.  There is no doubt that people sit up and take notice when the clarion call of  “I told you so” rings forth.  The music started back up, but the Wall was not the same, and neither was the world.  They all sensed it, a new presence, a new force in the cosmic scheme of things.  The Temple of the Undead Celebrity was walking among them, right where they could see, and our purpose would not be denied.

After that, the converts really started rolling in.  Our members now include:

· Garrett C. Crowell, Imperius Rex and Big Enchilada, author of the Manifesto
· my clone
· C. "No Last Name", High Priestess, Pontificator, and Kick-Ass Momma
· Jonathan Broad, or Jay-BEE, Lord High Priest and Selector of Martyrs
· Eric S. Piotrowski, Master of the Sect of Culture & References Obscura
· Joshua Heling, Digital Overlord and Chief Decorator
· Douglas Andrew MacDonald, Hip-Hop Monster & Believer in Sand (the many small rocks of faith)
· Michael Pomraning, Bishop of Weller & Duccommun

We have added to the ranks of the Temple’s “dead” roster as well.  In addition to the aforementioned Ginsburg and Rock deaths, we now also have:

· Piers Anthony (there is a computer program which writes his books in his style)
· Dean R. Koontz (there is a monkey which writes books in his style named Dean Koontz, hence the dropping of the “R” a few years back)
· Robert Stack (who’s been dead for years, but functions as a zombie)
· Dick Clark (I mean, come on…)
· one of the Olsen twins

And others I currently can’t remember!  You too can add to the list!  Join now by posting a comment which includes your reasoning why a given celebrity is dead, but the general public seems to avoid talking about it!  Also, as a church, we can always use your money, so just send stacks of cash, or checks, or money orders, or government bonds or loose change or foreign currency or shiny shells and rocks, or raw sugar or crude oil or animal pelts out to the Temple of the Undead Celebrity at:

Big Enchilada c/o the Temple of the Undead Celebrity
666 Skyclad Jesus Way
Horrible Fucks, FL 32533

We appreciate whatever you can send, and the more you send, the more we appreciate it!  Help us carry on a semi-grand tradition, and join a church you can live with!  The Temple of the Undead Celebrity!

The Curious Mr. Rumsfeld

As many of you have noticed, Secretary of Destruction Donny Rumsfeld has recently come under fire for being responsible for the deaths of many soldiers, not listening to people when they have criticisms about the bloody mess Iraq has become, and being an insensitive prick in the 1300 or so instances where he let a machine sign the death notices that go home when soldiers do not.  President Monkeyface attempted to set the record straight a couple of days ago, when he informed us that under the "gruff and grumpy" (or whatever pandering pablum he shat at us) exterior, Don was actually a caring, decent guy, and what the fuck, people?  Take a chill pill and let him do his job.  Or, you know, he said something along those lines.

Today, however, a "saddened" and "uncharacteristically subdued" Rumsfeld appeared at a Pentagonal briefing and tried to further expand on his side of the story, as begun by the Monkeyface Administration.  The photo above is from this briefing.  If this is "subdued," he must normally come off like a wolverine in heat.  Or maybe people are confused about what "subdued" means.  I wouldn't be surprised.  A razor-thin margin is now a "mandate," Iraqis are currently enjoying "freedom," and George Bush claims to be "President."  It's easy to become confused in this new, madcap world of ours.

Rumsfeld reacted to the criticisms of everyone but his mother that he's fucking this thing up, and said he "stayed awake at night worrying about America's fighting men and women."  Well, there's your problem, folks.  The man (if that is indeed what he is) is under-rested.  I think we all know what it's like to scrape by on a little or no sleep, and then try to do your job effectively the next day.  Our jobs don't have the fates of entire countries resting on them, either.  Or that carping John McCain, coming in and out of our office, making limited extension arm gestures and swearing at us about armor plating and the bodycounts.  Rumsfeld needs rest, people.  We need to chip in, get him one of those comfort-dial mattresses and some Sominex, and maybe we can turn this Iraq thing around.

A lack of sleep is the only thing that can explain this, from the same briefing: "The enemy is effective," Rumsfeld said. "The enemy's got a brain. The enemy alters its tactics. As things happen on the ground, they see what we do to respond to it. They then change their tactic."

Maybe it's just me, but it sounds to me like Rumsfeld's asserting that the insurgents have a hive mind.  Maybe Rumsfeld's staying up late, reading too much Orson Scott Card and watching "Starship Troopers" over and over.  Maybe he wishes Michael Ironside would play him in the movie.  If our current strategies in Mosul and Fallujah are based on tactics employed to defeat enemies with hive minds - well, that would explain a lot.

...and Then the Rains Came

Today the weather in Pensacola was cool and windy with a 1000% chance of pounding, horizontal driving rain that soaks everything in its path and reminds people what region they have, in a fit of gargantuan foolishness, chosen to live in. 

(The irony of this hit me full force last week, when we dug down into the ground in my backyard to re-plant the fenceposts.  You have to dig down about two feet, and the dirt turns to mud, which covers clay, under which is sand.  Fucking sand.  A conservative, mostly Christian community has chosen to build - not just build, but sprawl out everywhere - their houses upon the sand.  The irony didn't hit me as hard as say, my drill or my car, but it was still pretty hard.)

The sky is dark not only with clouds, but also ominous portent, (no, really) and pregnant with thunder and rain that pisses all over everything, and does not, contrary to expectations, wash anything away.  The same problems lie underneath, and they don't go away.  I had forgotten this when I went out to run a couple of errands and buy some picture frames and milk.  And cat food.

My first stop was by the lovely home of my in-laws, to return to my mother-in-law her gloves, baking pans and vacuum cleaner.  While there, she made it clear that she would like to discuss "the great unpleasantness" now.  On what is, essentially, our Christmas Eve with them.  In the middle of the day, let's just open a fat can of worms and let them gag in the puddles on the driveway.  So, I declined.  I am not going to rip into her now, I love my wife and child too much to fuck up Christmas for everybody, no matter what the MIL wants.  Apparently, now this is driving her nuts.  She called C before I got home and REALLY doesn't want to wait until calendar 2005 to hash this out.  Apparently, while I am in Chattanooga, Atlanta, and Nashville having fun and seeing people I love, getting presents and having good times, she will be sweating the inevitable confrontation that is scheduled for my return.  Somewhere, deep in my soul, a small man clad entirely in black is laughing, and he cannot stop.

Then, I waded out into the storm to buy a few things, as I believe I mentioned, and once I got inside out of the oppressive weather, well, it was raining dumb motherfuckers again.  I saw a woman sideswipe an old lady with a cart (I blocked her way and made her go back and apologize) and people who apparently were underinformed about how many carts will fit through a tiny space.  All of this pales in comparison to the number of people still completely baffled by a store's UPC scanner.  I go through the self-checkout lines because I don't like people and because it's theoretically faster, and it seems like half the time the stores are testing me, because there's a retarded sloth in my way who's never seen a scanner before, but thinks he can get through the self-checkout process.  The mark of the beast is coming any day now, people - best get acquainted with UPCs!!!

Now it's later.  I got my camera, after the rain of gifts that is always my in-laws' Christmas.  I could get them a gold bar and be outclassed.  Max alone had eight things to open, most of which was blessedly left behind for him "to play with when he goes over there."  The actual rain outside has finally stopped, everyone's asleep but me, and today marks the 10 year anniversary of when my family accused me of being a thief and a liar.  I haven't spoken to many of them since, and based on the events of the past ten years, I don't think I regret that very much.  I think, having made it through the storms of today, I'm going to go on vacation tomorrow, and try to enjoy myself.

Enjoy your holidays - look for a Christmas Day post!

Happy Solstice

I spent the first official day of Winter rushing to keep an appointment with Ron so he could take us to four stores in order to buy the Christmas present for us that he asked us to pick out.  I'm not griping too much, mind you, because it's a digital camera, and I want one quite badly.  (All the shots on the side there I took with a borrowed camera - thanks, Jones!)  After this driving around in mall areas dealing with mall people, we ate too much meat at a chain steakhouse (which actually wasn't half bad) and drove to Baker.  I slept most of the way in the car.  Max did, too.

Baker, Florida is where most of my wife's extended family resides.  It is over an hour outside of Pensacola, and it is a tiny place surrounded by miles of farmland and not too many people.  We went today to visit Uncle Tommy and Aunt Rhonda, two of the nicest goddamn people you would ever hope to meet, and a crucial part of any holiday time off.  They live off of a clay/dirt road, which is named after Tommy.  They have a couple of dawgs.  I spell it this way not because that's how they talk or anything, (though the accent is unabashedly stronger there) but because that's what these animals are.  A canine that ambles rather than run, lives outside, barks at strangers, chases deer, and only moves when there's food or sun to be had is a dawg.  End of story.  We ate a fine dinner of Aunt Rhonda's spaghetti, and ate too many sweets.  Cousins and second cousins and spouses came over, and there was a grand seven-hour visit with present-wrapping, throwing a ball for the kids, riding on four-wheelers through forest trails, and food.  It was great, and cast the first part of the day into sharp relief.

I did an entry Friday that mentioned me needing a little quiet.  There's no quiet like Baker quiet.  Tommy and Rhonda live so far away from other houses that you can't hear anyone or anything.  No cars, no powerlines, nothing.  The wind blows gently through the trees, and you can hear that.  Someone lights a cigarette on the other side of the house, and you hear it very clearly.  It's a nice place to go and soak up quiet.  I have this idea that if I soak up enough Baker Quiet, I can bring it back and use it later.  I think I'm going to need Baker Quiet well into 2005, and so I tried to absorb as much of it as is possible tonight, as I was walking around.  This was after I shattered it for awhile with the four-wheeler.

I had never ridden one before today, and my wife taught me how and when to shift the gears.  After getting over my old motorcycle elitism and taking one ass-bruising ride on the rack while she drove, I went out by myself to one of the trails and played harmonica where it wouldn't bother anyone, and then drove it back across one of the fields and down the road a little.  I learned that you can't get to reverse on a steep incline, and that the most fun game in the world to play with a four-wheeler is "Run Over Pine Cones."  After dinner and some time, I went out and threw the ball for Max and two of his cousins, Wade and Olivia.  My son learned to tackle today, and after I explained to him that head tackles and clotheslines are not kosher, he did okay, if you rule out that one time he kicked Wade's feet out from under him after a particuarly vicious grab.  He's hard asleep now.  He tapped out on the way home, covered in dirt and grass stains.

All in all, a very pleasant day - Happy Solstice to you.

P.S. - if anyone comes across anything called Bob's Two Minute Holiday Workout - I need to know.

Christmas in Fallujah

I heard a report on the radio today about the recent success of the American armed forces in Fallujah, and I thought I should pass the good news along.  The good news is that American soldiers are in control of the city, in spite of the recent spate of car bombings and insurgent attacks that began back on the 12th.  They estimate, in a city which used to hold about 200,000 people, (all of whom are currently refugees) that 200 "insurgents" are really giving them trouble, but they hope to have that problem "mopped up" in a short while, and they're ready to get the people of Fallujah back into their neighborhoods and homes, in the cases where those neighborhoods and homes are still extant.  There won't be any services, but fuck it, give Fallujah back to the Fallujans.

White House tool Iyad Allawi (recently returned from his refurbishment at Henson studios) said that the insurgents were trying to "incite civil war"and create religious tension to "destroy the unity" that is Iraq.  You guys see that, right?  All the unity?  Man, when I think of unity, I think of Iraq - let's face it: They're as unified as we are.

The recent insurgent attacks in Fallujah are only one of the obstacles that must be surmounted if we expect to re-populate Fallujah.  Add to them the lack of water, power, or sewage, and any kind of basic civil infrastructure - we blew all that up already, or the insurgents did.  Additionally, no one in Fallujah will be allowed any cars, since cars create gridlock, which slows down reconstruction, and the roads are all bombed to shit anyhow.  Also, without cars, there are no car bombs, so everyone will be taking public transportation via "shuttle buses," which means the insurgents will have to find suicide bombers to carry out attacks on those.  I guess that's one way to thin out their numbers.  Seems kind of high profile, though.

On top of all this, there are the searches, which have been going on for a while.  These will be enhanced by the system the authorities currently use to track their criminal element: biometric scans, including retinal scans & thumbprints, with all this info encoded onto an ID card.  Not just for criminals and lawbreakers, oh no, every male of "military age who looks suspicious."  Nice.  And you thought we had civil rights problems here.  Once these measures are in place, the interim Iraqi government will begin informing Fallujans who live in the "least destroyed" areas that they can come back.  (You think I'm exaggerating, but I'm not.)  They predict that this will create a run on the city once the word is on the street, and the Marines anticipate being forced to refuse people at the entrances of certain neighborhoods, on the grounds that they no longer exist.

I imagine this will create scads of goodwill toward the liberators of Iraq.  And we wonder who the insurgents are, while making more of them all the time.  Sure, some of them are religious zealots, nationalists, people with a tribal mentality - but some of these guys have got to be pissed-off motherfuckers with no houses who are just mad we're still there.  What would you do if a foreign military removed your dictator, then invaded your city and annihilated your house due to it being between them and a military objective of theirs?  You'd be upset.  Merry Christmas from the US, Fallujah!  Enjoy the spread of Freedom!

A Shower of Assholes

Welp, folks, it's official.  What used to be a fairly useful, objective and critical news magazine when I was a kid (though I could be romanticizing a bit) has turned into a masturbatory agent for societal trends so bloody obvious blind retarded chimps on cocaine/ex-lax cocktails have time to take note of them.  Time Magazine has once again awarded "Person of the Year" to President George Dubya Monkeyface Bush, in spite of the fact that he is not much of a person, and this hasn't been much of a year.  Bush, pictured above looking a bit like an intoxicated circus clown, joins the ranks of other former persons of the year like Hitler, Stalin, and the Ayatollah Khomeni. 

The cluster of fucking dickheads who obviously now run Time debated giving the award to Karl Rove, Michael Moore, or Mel Gibson.  While none of these would have been worse choices, they would have been more ridiculous, to be sure.

The award is meant to go to the person "who has the most impact" on world events during the referenced calendar year.  I suppose you can't really argue with that.  He managed to win an election by only committing a little fraud (and nothing we're not used to, and only in places like Florida and Ohio) after raising more money to run than any candidate for office, anywhere, ever, and coming off like a confused and belligerent semi-coherent putz during the debates and public speaking endeavors.  He managed to get a bunch of people killed while simultaneously running roughshod over the concept of sovereignty and ruining any hope for a normal life or economy in places like Iraq, Afghanistan and oh, the United States with it's record deficit.  He made light of his own lies, with the WMDs, and he trampled the rights of some groups of Americans while setting himself up to trample the rest.  But, he stuck to his guns, something you could say about any small-minded, stubborn, bratty, foolish motherfucker, and leads a people who probably, for the most part, deserve this silly fuck.

Congratulations, President Monkeyface and Time Magazine.  You've plotzed on America once again.

This is my Friday night.

Right now, I am deeply unhappy. This shall pass.

Right now, I can see the Christmas lights across the way blinking, whether I want to or not.

Right now, I can hear Quentin Tarantino being desperately clever, whether I want to or not.

Right now, I do not like who I have recently become, who I feel like, and I don’t like who I want to be, either. The person I want to be is fed up with biting his tongue, of keeping it to himself, of going along with rules established to make sure everyone stays comfortable and light and happy and polite. That person is inside me, in the back of my brain past all of the crap and the useless fluff, and is shouting to be heard above the din of everyday life. He’s telling me that social obligations, debts and scores and promises and responsibilities are a pretty poor fucking excuse for what you ultimately want to do and say and how you want to live. He’s also telling me that the power to change things is within my grasp if I will only grasp and wield it. And he’s right. The only reason I don’t do exactly what the fuck I want is because society is filled with people who don’t want me to, and at some point, I decided I was civilized, and I stopped listening to my internal animal. He’s always there, though, and tonight I needed only about half an hour in a dark, quiet space to hear him properly for a change.

(And you thought I was abrasive on a day-to-day basis.)

Society is wrong. It’s easy to feel this way at Christmas time, especially for me, because the entire season is geared up to emotionally fuck with your head. Why do we sing the same songs, have the same patterns, and do the same things every year? Why have tradition at all? It’s all completely designed to be perfectly evocative, to bring to the surface the last time you did this, and better yet, to pump up the nostalgia factor to about eleven, and fill you with the feelings you had when you were a kid, bring out that Christmas spirit. That Christmas spirit, for me, sucks. It’s nothing but a time of emotional tumult, people acting chaotically, and I can’t wait for it to be over, so that the cleansing New Year rebirth time can begin. This does not change. Perhaps, in that one year where I look around and I don’t see people making foolish cosmetic changes and thinking they matter, when I don’t see people stepping over each other in the stores, or cutting each other off in traffic, or marketing to me from every corner of every surface of absolutely everything, I’ll be able to re-evaluate this feeling. For now, though, it sucks.

And society is still wrong. All of its inherent majority rule, where the mob makes the decisions, is ridiculous. We are corrupt, and so are our leaders, and that’s pretty much all of them. All of the distractions, and the distance we put between the heavy things that matter and the light things we can "deal with." Endless fucking media. Imaginary achievement. Our willingness to box up others without ever stepping out of our boxes. The politeness, the political correctness, and the euphemism that we use to avoid offense, when really, how harmful is offense? You get offended, the blood pumps up, and then what? Fuck, makes me proud to be anti-social. I tend a little more towards misanthropy every day that I exist, I think. Those who accept me for who I am, great. Everyone else can fuck away off, and I’ll do you the same favor. Total acceptance and my unconditional love, or get stuffed. That work for you?

I have a mother-in-law, who every time she speaks to me now, it’s like a needle in my fucking eye, flattening out the cornea as it goes in, blinding me to anything human, and letting out a little more of the whiteness behind my face. It’s an effort of will not to pound her through the ground with rhetoric, with a million words about past transgressions, with speech after speech about her hypocrisy, her disdain, her banality, her ignorance, hate, spitefulness and stupidity. Frustration? You betcha. Doesn’t matter, though, ‘cause nothing will ever change her, and she’s never wrong. She exists in a special bubble of bouncy attitude formed by circular arguments and returns to the same basic platitudes and Bible verses she can spew out on command. Beats thinking. Apparently, it’s easier than apologizing, relating to people, and being honest, too. Of course, she’s married to the ultimate slave to cycles, the bipolar madman himself, racing from one end of the spectrum to the other in the course of an hour, a day, a week, whatever. With someone who’s like that, you get a feel for the shape of the wave, and then it doesn’t much matter if it’s a long wave or a short one, you can ride it. But like a wave beneath your feet, you respect the damage it can do without giving it any credit for thinking, and hold it in contempt for how easily it can be mastered and thwarted.

Little social engagements where we reach out, we seek to impress, we talk about the little things of the world - I continue to participate for two reasons only, since the effort that goes into these things now that we are older far outweighs any fun that could be had; the sake of others, who still, mystifyingly enjoy my company and my presence, and that scintilla of a chance that the conversation and the interaction will stretch out beyond the norm, and bring some kind of real human bonding, that sense that something important is happening, and that the interaction has transcended the silly engagement that created it. We all hope for that, I think, otherwise, we are automatons, mindlessly showing up and bringing a bottle of wine and smiling and trying not to choke the life out of the racist fuck in the hallway.

Additionally, I suppose, we do it for our kids, but I’d rather spend a day alone with my son than one second at someone else’s house with their pseudo-lives on display. Alone, in small engagements, we see the good and the ugly, and we can hear the machinery of the mind move. No one has ever glimpsed a window into the "soul" at a fucking cocktail party. Society keeps us at arm’s length, and it’s not good for anyone, except those who seek control - and I would be wary of anyone who falls into that category. This society is rank, and rotten. We run about like crazy people looking for our heads. Our lives.

Of course, this could just be me experiencing a second adolescence. It could be because I spent my whole day quietly with my son, and then found myself thrust into decisions and interacting with people who make me sick with fear (for my son) and rage and impotence to affect the situation. I am not used to fear. I do not trust them, these people. They are not worthy of trust. I don’t think they understand what the consequences of violating that trust can be. At least, among those who have accepted me through the blood and death and pain, and the joy and union and happiness together, there is forged something that is inviolate. I could commit the most egregious acts, and perhaps, still expect to work toward redemption. But these people, at this time...

I and mine are not where we belong.

Indie Film Life

I became convinced this evening that my life is an indie film.  (Not an Indy film, then I'd have a hat) I walked out into my driveway, on my way to drop something off at C's parents' house, and took a breath of the chill night air.  The neighbors across the way did not reciprocate my wave, and the brief flash of anger I got from this made the bruise on the back of my head (from where the drill hit me while we were repairing the fence, you see) throb once or twice.  Clad in my usual uniform of black pants, T-shirt, sneakers and overcoat, I got into my car and looked for cigarettes I already knew were not there.

Backing out of my driveway, I decided to go out through the front entrance of the neighborhood, instead of the back way, which is usually how I make all of my exits and entrances.  As I drove through this nightmare of sprawled development ersatz-suburbia, I noticed that the bohunks down the way have even yet still more Christmas crap on their front lawn.  They've been progressively adding since the beginning of the month, and now they actually have covered the entire ground in lights, to simulate that a snowfall of lights has just occurred.  (These are the people, about whom I sarcastically commented to Christie, just last night, "Now these people need more crap on their lawn."  That'll show me.)  Not to be outdone, the people across the street and two doors down have an immense, blinking, without a trace of irony, eight foot high cross.

This is used, presumably, for crucifying people at night, when the nails go in all crooked because you can't see what you're doing.  No, seriously, though, when is it that the vampire elves come out from under the holly trees and try to take back Christmas for the legions of the undead?  That's what this is for, right?  Warding off vampire elves?  No?  Because if it's not that, it must be the marquee for a Christian brothel. 'The Holy Hole.'  Fuck.  And also, damn.  This thing is seriously tacky, and huge.  Huge and tacky and huge, and they have no idea.  It brought my car to complete halt in the middle of the street, and I got out, kind of "Field of Dreams" style, and wandered up to it, like a moth.  Upon closer inspection, I can't tell if this is a store-bought item, or something they made and wrapped a bunch of lights around.  It's creepy as shit, though, I can tell you that.

The soundtrack to all of this was "Burning Photographs" by Ryan Adams, which was playing on whatever crunchy show was on public radio.  It's a good song, and it's what tipped me over into thinking my life is an indie film.  Go listen, and you'll see why.  All that remains, now, is for me to find out whether I'm the main character in the indie film, or one of those colorful people who populate the landscape and make the town seem real.  It doesn't seem real to me, so I'd like to speak to the attractive first-time director chick in the green sweater and the horn-rims, please.