squidbag

Dream: 12-23-12

I awakened in a severely bleary and disoriented state this morning from a dream in which I was tooling around a major, but unnamed city with my lovely wife, Lee Meriwether (not as Catwoman, but from the 1960s), David Tennant (in his 10th Doctor outfit, but as himself), and a crazy person in a cowboy hat and straitjacket who kept telling us that he was a Duke of Hell and that we would all "perish in flames!" We were driving a huge, 1950's vintage Chevy of indeterminate kind, and I was wearing an itchy pink and blue Christmas sweater. There are all kinds of things wrong with this fashion choice. I don't wear colors, preferring black now since about 2004, I don't like sweaters, as I find them restrictively hot and hard to move around in, and I don't typically wear Christmas clothing, outside of the occasional whimsical Santa hat, and usually that only for photos or 15 minutes.

We started out at the 1100 House, this massive raw wooden structure like a multi-level Lincoln-era cabin, where after a labyrinthine journey down countless hallways filled with memory doors (You open them and events from the the past - your own and the general variety - play out. So, like the time I knocked a fruit punch over on Kim Whitworth during a school party in the 4th grade, the time I punched a WBC protester, and my son's birth were alongside the Battle of Waterloo, the Kent State shootings and Columbus landing in the Bahamas. Very confusing.) we finally located a room with inexplicable trees and a hammock indoors where my brother-in-law was tending a small fire and roasting some lightly salted fish and drinking out of a half-shellfish. We chatted for awhile we he put on coffee, and played this intricate boardgame using frozen waffles as game pieces. Eventually, we left as we were supposed to see someone else, and he stayed behind, playing a dobro in his hammock.

Back to the car, which we drove past what everyone was calling a park, but looked to me like this untamed crevasse of trees and animals and forest on two hills between 1100 and 2620, which is where we for some reason got in the car and went. We drove, like a block and change. Getting in and out of the damn car took longer than the drive there.

At 2620, my friends Erin and Joel (sans their kids) were hanging out in an enormous glass and concrete minimalist room watching a documentary-style film about an alien race who had been robbed of their free will and yoked en masse to this giant blue power generator dynamoesque thing which was connected directly to their planet's molten core and which they had to push for miles in circles in order to harness the energy produced by the core. For whom this was being done was never entirely clear. Joel seemed a little more into the film than Erin, but I eventually felt uncomfortable trying to distract either of them from it with real conversations, and so I woke up and wrote this. 

Coffee now.

We Are What's Broken

It's always in the wake of tragedy that we want to talk about what's wrong.

This is a symptom of what is wrong with us as people.

We always want to do it when it's already too late, when it's after the fact, and when it won't do anyone any good whatsoever. We want to act like every horror is a new creature, an aberration. We willfully fail to see patterns, and we sabotage our own behavior, because we aren't mature enough to live up the reality of working really hard every single day at caring. If we acknowledge problems, then that gives us the responsibility for dealing with them, and we in equal parts eschew the extra work and the label of "slacker."

Placing blame is easier.

And make no mistake, Adam Lanza is to blame. Adam Lanza murdered 27 people and brought horror and instability and grief and ruin to a community, a nation, and the world. Parents everywhere feel insecure, while children all over feel fear and loss of innocence. Adam Lanza was a monster, and I'm glad he took his own life before he could dispense any further misery and violence.

But that never seems to be good enough for us. We want revenge, and failing that, prevention, but in a way that doesn't ask very much from us, as that would victimize us, too. We are too selfish to admit the real commitment required to even attempting to deal with something like Sandy Hook before it happens.

So we start conversations. Polarized back-and-forths that fill the time until the next tragedy.

So far, I've heard arguments about security, guns, gun control, abortion, gender roles, expectations of men, religion, hate groups, mental health, privacy rights, education, taxes, the Constitution, progress tracking and police brought into this, and all of them skirt the edges of what's wrong with us without getting in the ring with the problem.

The real problem is that  lack compassion and commitment, because those things take work and we don't like to work unless we have to. We live in a free society. A society so free, in fact, that it takes sacrifice and makes it an option. You don't have to sacrifice if you don't want to. You don't have to teach, raise kids, be a doctor, serve in the military, volunteer, or give to charity. You don't have to produce for anyone but yourself if you don't want to.You can work a job for money you keep and then sit on your ass watching TV and eating snacks and still be a solid consumer member of our society. You don't have to do jack, which is why some people still get upset when the President interrupts Sunday Night Football to memorialize children.

We are so free under the law of the land that we forget that some things – like love, compassion, giving and empathy – are more important than the law, more important than ourselves, and crucial to our survival in a civilization. You can't turn a blind eye to what goes on around you all the time, enjoy your guns and gods and rights and dismiss the other people all around and then act fucking shocked when school shootings happen. It's our collective job to pay attention and help out. And trust me: you could make the fucking time.

Help people. The kids at Sandy Hook will always remember the monster who killed their friends and teachers. They will come to understand that early help might have stopped him. They will remember the teachers who sacrificed everything for them, and they will remember the cops and other first responders who helped them live through last Friday.

We can all live more responsibly, and stop acting like we inhabit the universe all by our lonesome; stop being mock-surprised when violence steps up and destroys the relative peace. Stop acting like you're owed something and simply give a little more of yourself. It's up to you to determine what that is, but you know you can do it.

If you're honest.

Twelve Days

Dear "True Love,"

It's over. We're breaking up.

I know this must come as a shock to you, especially in light of your recent over-the-top gifting to me over the past Christmas holidays, and while that was an orgiastic feat of generous outpouring in terms of financial commitment and sheer logistics, I don't know if there was some clerical error involved, or if you and I have different ideas about boundaries, or really, what the fresh hell was going on with all that crap you had delivered to what used to be my home.

On December 13th, just as I was beginning to think about nog and lights, I received at my door one day a delivery of a nice fruit tree with a bird. Interesting and cute, and I let you know so, via a quick text. "Perhaps she is unaware of my personal distaste for birds," I thought to myself as I fetched a shovel and planted what turned out to be a lovely pear tree in my backyard. I let the bird, I don't know, like a pheasant or something, I thought, do what it wished, and it jumped down into the yard. This was just fine, and a somewhat pleasant start to the gift-giving season. Your thoughtfulness in the tree selection was evident, inasmuch as it would "keep on giving," and I figured the bird would simply fly off for friendlier skies after a short while.

The following day, I was awakened by a another knock at my door - same deliveryman, looking bemused as he handed me another sapling-plus-bird combo. As I signed for this, checking to see if it was really identical to the previous day's delivery, he handed me a crate with two more birds in it. This was becoming extremely odd, as I have mentioned that I don't particularly care for birds and now had a total of four, which is four more than I have ever wanted. I planted the tree and turned the birds loose in the backyard, settling down with a copy of Audubon's.

Over the next two days, you sent me 16 more fucking birds. Partridges - which don't like being in trees, I might add, as they nested all over my yard and deck; doves, & blackbirds - kind of creepy, hon. Finally, to top this all off, you sent me hens. I have more eggs now than I can ever use, and have been pawning them off on neighbors, friends I used to have, and the deliverymen who frequent my poor house. My yard is a giant birdhouse, and seed covers the grass. But of course, there was to be more.

On the fifth day of this madness, an armored vehicle pulls up in the driveway, and nice man called Simon gets out with a briefcase chained to his wrist. He delivers five golden rings to me, and makes it clear that his firm is obligated under contract to arrive each successive day for the next week, to deliver five gold rings everyday. I ask, "Why not drop them all off right now?" He explains that this is not the arrangement to which he's been contractually obligated, makes a funny face, and then leaves. I don't think Simon likes birds much either. Of course, after Simon left, another tree and ten more goddamn birds were delivered. I'll be honest with you - by the fifth day, I wasn't even trying to plant the stupid trees anymore, and they are leaning against the fence in the back, root balls still in burlap, dropping rotten fruit on the ground and mouldering in birdshit and seeds. It's a nightmare.

But the best was yet to come. Over the next two days after that, you branched out, including swans (which need water - did you know that? I have a freaking kiddie pool back there now, also covered in bird feces) and geese, the loudest bird imaginable. They never shut up. Constant goose noise comes from my place now, and goose crap is the slickest thing you'll ever step in. Thirty-nine, sweetheart. Thirty-nine more squawking avian invaders crapping all over my place and molting like feathers are butter and the whole world is their toast. At this point, I hadn't slept in a week - what with the constant bird sounds around my house, the neighbors siccing the neighborhood association on me, and the Health Department stapling things to my front door. I did get ten more gold rings during this period, but I had to pawn them all down at Savino's on the corner just to feed the birds and clean up after them. I broke my shovel moving the trees and trying to shovel shit, and at this point was living on nothing but eggs and water. The geese started looking tasty. Dead birds are quiet birds.

Just when I thought the barnyard theme couldn't go any further, a truck backs up on day eight of this crap and disgorges eight stinking bovine monsters onto my property. As I'm contending that this must be some kind of mistake - because no one is this fucking crazy, right? - eight women showed up with buckets and started milking the fuckers right in the middle of the daily tree and birds deliveries. At least one of them made off with some of the rings that day, I think. And my blender. Of course, they would be back. It was on this day I began to aggressively kill some of the birds (and one of the trees) with my shotgun.

On successive days, more cows and milkmaids would arrive, along with Lords. I had to look this up. Apparently, you found and paid British people to come jump around at my house. Everyday. For three days. You are deranged. Did you know that lords expect to be fed? So do maids. Likewise, pipe and drum corps guys. I mean, they sound great, but this is a residential neighborhood, and on top of armored trucks and loud-ass live music, I got cows and eventually, 184 (more or less with the deaths) scratching, pecking, egg-laying feathered fucks roaming around the place. Shitting. Shitting like they never goddamn stop. Did I mention that? Did I mention that they shit over everything in my entire life? That my life is now encrusted in a hardened white shell of birdshit? This is in addition to the giant hordes of people who wander in and out, looking for food when I all I have is eggs and milk and rotten pears and trees every fucking place. And speaking of hoarding, do you know how it looks when you have trees and buckets of milk piled every place? Like you're a maniac. A bathrobed maniac with a shotgun. At this point, I was wandering to and fro, fending off attorneys and policemen, angry farmers and neighbors, just throwing eggs and shooting at whoever had the misfortune to stumble into the insane Christmas explosion you made out of my house.

A party's not a party any more when it goes on for five days and you don't know anybody! Leaping and dancing and music is fine - I like fun like anybody - but when it's happening in an insane birdyard with cows milling about, it's like Bollywood gone wrong! And there's no booze - just milk and eggs and dead birds, people. 40 rings doesn't even begin to cover the expense I incurred, and Savino won't talk to me anymore anyway. 

In short, I now associate you and our relationship with one of the most traumatic experiences of my life, and will need years of therapy even to be able to hear birdcalls without collapsing into a fetal ball of floorbound fear and rage, slinking off to a corner and peeing on myself. We can no longer see each other, and I have filed a restraining order in addition to a standing "DO NOT DELIVER" order with the postal service and most major shipping companies.

Your reply is not required.

The End is (Not) Nigh

I know you people believe stuff more or less at random, but this? This is embarrassing for us as a group. No, as a race. The human race should be collectively embarrassed over this. This would be as bad as reality TV if it didn't have a built-in expiration date stamped on it.

First off, even if you are the sort of person who believes that this symbol, or this one, or this one or this one or even this one, mean something to which you can semi-rationally or emotionally relate, you have to admit that basing a belief that the world is going to end on an ancient piece of semi-functional rock is pretty fucking thin. It's beyond thin. It's Karen Carpenter, it's Kate Moss's hipbones. I mean, I get that a lot of people want to believe in angels and demons and a coming zombie apocalypse, and that they base their "serious" beliefs on...well, on a lot less than this, but choosing to believe that the end of the world is coming because this thing doesn't have December 22nd on it is like assuming the world ends every year on December 31st at midnight because you didn't get a new calendar for Christmas. It is beyond ridiculous, and it is the behavior of people who shouldn't have privileges, knives, children, conversations, licenses or credit. 

First off, this thing is not a measuring device that should be given any credence by an advanced civilization. In this case, "advanced civilization" means any civilization who has given up worshipping corn gods, tying your wife's tongue up with barbed wire, and using heads for sport. Our measuring devices have numbers and letters on them, and if you want to argue that this is an arbitrary difference, imagine a tape measure where you had to tell someone the couch was "six snakes long." Or someone's temperature was "three pointy face guys." Extreme silliness.

Then, there's how this great mad stone bastard works. It needs two other massive stone wheels to work properly, I believe, and you only ever see this one. The "long measure" of time as calculated by the Mayans requires this disc inside of the other wheely thing, and no one's really doing that. Regardless, you can set this one in the other one and get to December 21 and no further - which is the point at which the Mayans would have re-set this thing and started counting again, you stupid, stupid people. Just a little reading and you can get right to it. I don't even really understand it and I have a better grasp on this than you do, you end of world moron, you. Additionally, it is perhaps important to realize that the Mayans didn't do leap years, and when you try mooshing that system with the one they were using, the world ended eight months ago, and you dumb motherfuckers didn't even notice.

So. What is this, really? An excuse for people to act stupid again? For people to kiss and fuck and fondle people they're not supposed to because the world's coming to an end? So they can be irresponsible and claim this was the reason? So they can spend too much on Christmas bullshit stuff? Just a "belief of the week," where, once you were done with Planet X or Ron Paul or vampires or group supremacy or religious craziness you could move on to this, believe in it until the 22nd, and then move on to "Well, I'm going to hold onto my canned goods and shotguns because the world has to end sometime."

Not soon enough, cousin. Not by a long shot.

Final Speechifying

For my final exam in my speech class, we had to give a speech. Makes sense, right?

This one was a two-minute tribute speech. I thought you might be interested how, in a class of 21 folks, people broke down on subject matter. I paid tribute to "The Public Speaker." This was a softball move including everyone in the class (and everyone who's ever spoken publicly) while really pinpointing the importance of public speaking in our society. It was short, well-received (I think), and I got a 100, though I think most everyone did on this. We were not an emotional bunch, but we were effective and motivated like Monroe. Our Prof came ready to be moved and cry, but I think we fell well short of that goal. Here's what folks talked about:

There were three mom speeches. One "strong woman, she's my rock" kind of speech, and two of the "nurturing caregiver" variety. I think one of these was given without notes and in kind of a big hurry. In addition, there was one other collective "both parents" speech, and it was so strongly delivered that I feel like I know Rabia's parents now. We also had one dad speech, and apparently the guy's dad is unkillable, but they only know this because he has terrible luck. This was not the lesson he chose to take, unsurprisingly, from his dad's various medical recoveries. Near the end, we had Janeel's granddaddy, Tom King, and we also had one Big Sister speech to round out the family category. She recommended we watch this movie.

As far as inspiration in people's personal lives not coming from their families, we had one youth minister, Mark Smith, who inspired our speaking to become a youth minister, so you can draw a straight line through that. We also had two teachers, Mrs. Harris, a 6th Grade teacher who cared about her students enough to look in on them in the hospital, and Ms. Benedict, a high school Criminal Justice teacher (no, I don't know how that works, either) who taught the speaker to make a sand cast of a tire track so she sounds pretty fucking awesome to me. Finally, my least favorite person in the class gave an uninspiring, rambly, no-notes quickie about his scoutmaster, Mr. Dan Weaver. He also passed around his Eagle Scout wallet and talked about how hard it is to become an Eagle Scout. I was glad when he was done.

We had a very gung-ho tribute to MTSU's Pep Band, which was delivered passionately by someone who's said two words all semester, but who did this one so well I'm thinking about joining Pep Band. We had one on RFK, focusing on the speaker's perception that RFK takes a "back seat" to MLK and other civil rights leaders in that movement and deserves more recognition. The Walt Disney one focused on the magic and wonder that Disney set out to achieve, and the Oprah one was about her being a trailblazer. The presenter wore purple, which I thought was a nice touch. The guy who wore the longshoreman's cap and leather jacket all semester did his on Les Paul (his last one was about Tom Petty) and the dorky guy who did one of his other speeches about one of the characters from this show, did his final (without notes, which was not a good move) on the titular character from this movie. This leads me to believe that perhaps he doesn't know of any real people.

There were two "funny" speeches. One girl, after telling us about her fun friends, Coco, Lesley and Chanel, revealed that they were in fact, shoes, but had no substance or punchline after the reveal. The other guy, though, who paid tribute to his best friend Sonic Drive In Restaurant on the grounds that they always make him feel better, are near when he needs them and never let him go hungry, amused me to no end.

Finally (she didn't go last, but I'm putting her finally), there was Jill's inspirational and heartwarming speech about her 1/2 pound hamster friend, Marshmallow, who's got enough loyalty, character and personality to be very small dog. Marshmallow apparently subsists primarily on hamster food, but with large supplements of Twizzlers and other junk food. This was the only pet highlighted, and Jill made sure we got to see pictures of Marshmallow, which I think was the closest our Prof got to tears, unless it was tears of joy to see us heading out the door, never to return.

Rank Escapism II: Escape Ranker

School's almost out for the semester. I've written all the papers that needed to be written, and the three exams I still have coming are two open notes affairs and one two-minute speech. I'm not studying very hard, and have instead been working on feeding my brain the equivalent of happiness drugs in the moments I spend being able to read. This is what currently occupies my bedside table, accumulated over the space of about three weeks:

Crooked Little Vein, Warren Ellis' diseased exploration of what constitutes the new mainstream currently bookmarked with the scariest cigar company business card I've ever seen;

Preacher: Gone to Texas;

Cherie Priest's The Inexplicables, the fourth book in a steampunk zombie series and a recent gift from a dear friend;

a Super Hero Squad birthday card from Meredith & Sandy;

a folded program from Max's recent school band performance;

Power Man & Iron Fist #75, with the first visit (I think) to K'un-Lun in it;

Milk & Cheese's Other Number One;

Brian Wood's Channel Zero, a "gift" from Matt Olson;

Marvel Premiere #57 (1980), with the first American comic book appearance of Doctor Who;

The Incredible Hulk: Future Imperfect;

2 DC New 52 Volume Ones - Aquaman: The Trench & The Flash: Move Forward;

3 issues of Popular Science from September, October & November of this year;

Batman: Year One;

JLA: Earth 2;

Obnoxio the Clown vs. The X-Men;

The Big Book of Urban Legends (from Paradox Press) which I wouldn't own if I didn't know Eric;

2 other birthday cards; one from my wife and a handmade one from my kids;

Karlology and The World of Karl Pilkington, because 2 books from Karl stack higher than one;

Modern Manners & the Bachelor Home Companion, both by P.J. O'Rourke and both signed;

30 Days of Night (the 1st one, before they got stupid);

Batman: Under the Hood (volumes 1 & 2);

The Curse of Lono, by Hunter S. Thompson and Ralph Steadman, stolen from a prevous employer;

Sgt. Rock: Between Hell & a Hard Place - Kubert & Azzarello, and finally;

The Chronicles of Harris Burdick - various authors expanding on the stories implied by the Mysteries of Harris Burdick, and a last Christmas' gift from the Silvermen, Becky & Mitch.