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Update 2020-12-16: (True sticky posts banned; click to read.) So, owing to the evolution of the internet, or at least my own approach to it,...

Monday, December 31, 2012

Evolution: Something Went Wrong.

Wisdom teeth, tonsillitis, the need for glasses, hair that's utterly useless in providing warmth or protection, appendicitis, ingrown toenails, hands that require lotion to not dry up and bleed, cracking knuckles and other joints, having to wipe every time, and a useless bit of penis the removal of which improves everything. Just a few mind-boggling and irksome qualities of the human body. Now try to come up with some on your own. (I imagine women will have plenty to say here.)

Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Linus

Three days from now, the twenty-second of December, 2012, marks the four-year anniversary of the death of Linus the cat, as well as the two-year anniversary of the death of my younger aunt. I wrote a big thing about Lucy, Linus's sister, after she died. I wrote a big thing about Cookie, my father's sister, about half a year before she finally took her one-way trip into the tie-dye dimension. But I never wrote a big thing about Linus, even though his life did end during this blog's lifetime; I only wrote a tiny thing. I feel like he deserves more.

Linus was, quite simply, the ideal pet. About his only quality that could be considered a drawback was that, like Loki before him, he was diabetic and required insulin shots on a rigid twelve-hour basis. But that wasn't a big deal. He didn't feel anything in the scrunched-up back between the shoulders (cats are like that), he got a treat after each shot, and he was happy. So beautifully happy.

He loved attention. He loved being petted. He loved a good, soft belly rub. His size, condition, texture, and easy personality made him the ultimate snuggle-bunny. He was, in essence, a living pillow. Not too clingy; very laid-back. He had a good life, and he knew it. He loved everything....except the dogs. (And perhaps Loki.) He and Lucy had to take refuge in the basement any time the dogs visited, and that was nearly any time I visited. The dogs have never gone to the basement. I always did. I knew where the really good quadrupeds were.

Sometimes in the morning, while the dogs were still locked away in the bedroom upstairs with my folks, Linus would be out on the dining room table, just relaxing. I'd bring the newspaper in, set it down in its plastic sleeve next to him — he loved licking plastic for some reason — pull out the chair a bit, sit down, snuggle him, bury my head in him, and stay there until someone else had gotten up and come downstairs — usually my cousin, who would see us and just sort of spiritually melt.

Linus was the only pet in our family that I could really do that with. The other pets were either too small (the yorkie, or Lucy), too reclusive (Abby), too grouchy (Loki), or just not really designed for snuggling (the pointy-eared schnauzer). Loki slept with me once, and watched Saturday morning cartoons with me, but he wasn't much keen on fully snuggling. About the closest approximation to Linus I've had, and still have, is Dinah the second schnauzer, who is basically the canine version of Linus. Same general temperament, good bit of size, nice soft texture. Yet, as much as I enjoy snuggling her, I've never really succeeded in burying my head in her and just leaving it there for a sizable time, the way I did with Linus. She's just not built that way.

I miss Linus so much. In this crazy world with religious nuts, gun nuts, sex nuts, money nuts, war, poverty, diseases, natural catastrophes, artificial catastrophes, and all other brands of madness raping our senses, I feel an ever-growing need to find something or someone snuggly and appreciative, bury my head in them, and just leave it there for a while. For brief windows in time, I had such a creature, and I will be forever grateful for that and for him.

Rest in love, precious pumpkin.

P.S. Now and then I run my cursor over his tummy in this picture and imagine his purrs. (Click to enlarge.)

Monday, December 17, 2012

The Wake

In case anyone missed it — perhaps your corner of the world wasn't so abuzz about it — we had yet another mass public fatal shooting here in the States this past Friday. This time it was in a very well-off, primarily white, far suburban elementary school. Hence, this time, people may actually talk seriously about guns and the people who obtain and use them. They might, they may, they could...will they?

So we've been having the inevitable few days in the wake where we ask in stupefaction, WHY? And my mind has certainly not been at rest. I've been quietly unraveling some thoughts the past day or two. Somewhere early yesterday morning, when I was about ready to go to sleep for the day and unprepared to write a full blog post, I quickly jotted down a note in the form of a Tweet: (something profound about the lonely outcast gunman stereotype and the increasing lack of sociability in today's world). And I think I'm ready to at least begin to expound on that.

Most of the "lone gunmen" we hear about are young white men. The common stereotype is that they were previously, as people, very quiet and kept to themselves. They've seemed pleasant in the past, maybe even intelligent. Many of them, from what I've read so far, have some family turbulence in their personal history and have struck out on their own. This last seems to apply to both Friday's Connecticut shooter and the one at the Oregon mall earlier this month. A certain number of them also may have a history of depression — understandable for people prematurely separated from their parents (also for intelligent people, it seems). So, to briefly summarize, for your average perpetrator of a mass murder-suicide, we have a reasonably nice, reasonably intelligent, young white guy who has known social isolation and depression and, therefore, thoughts of a very dark nature.

....holy shit. That's me.

....well, almost, anyway.

Reasonably nice: check. Don't you agree?

Reasonably intelligent: check. At least many people and supposedly indiscriminate tests have assured me of this over the years.

Young white guy: check. I don't much identify with any of those qualities, but, at twenty-six earth years, with my genitalia and sexual desires, and a neat comparison of my skin tone to that of others I've known and how those people identify, I guess this is right.

Now, to social isolation. I have perhaps exaggerated in the past about myself being socially isolated. I've lived with my parents all my life. Although they argue more or less constantly, they've never divorced or in some other way fully split. Aside from the occasional trip taken by one or two of us, we've always been together, "put[ting] the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional'", as my mother once put it. The three of us. Just over a hundred miles from the nearest reasonably close family. Mom with two fairly good friends that come over once in a while, or, more frequently, take her out for an evening. Dad with no friends or apparent desire for them at all. And me with my own picoscopic social life. And up to three small dogs at a time, which is absolutely not my thing (except this one). And zero cats.

So, social near-isolation, with bizarre tastes and not much ability to connect or identify with anyone in this college town in the cornfields. Fragment of a check mark.

On to depression. I'm not on any antidepressants now. But I most assuredly was for a time during my eight-year college tenure. I went through five different varieties of antidepressant from roughly 2008 — when I announced I wanted to drop from school and the family panicked — to 2012. The first one didn't do anything. The second one made me more depressed. The third one, I shall come back for. The fourth one lifted my mood but did nothing for my apparent lack of will to progress. ("Now I can wear a smile as I swirl down the john!", I semi-joked.) The fifth one at least got me through what I needed to get through, before my insurance ran out. I finally graduated shortly after that. I'm done with college now, and I feel fine, except that I'm still here in the tiny home of arguing and gracelessness. But, as I'm sure I've said a number of times now, I'm working on that.

Thoughts of a very dark nature. These are absolutely existent, surfacing in my brain on occasion. A few of them have even made their way onto this blog. Like here. And perhaps here. And maybe in a few other places in this archive. I seemed to hit a fever pitch of sorts in 2011. Depending on your interpretation, "Society's Waste", written that year, could raise a red flag in your mind.

The thoughts and fantasies are there, certainly. As a milder example, when the yorkie's annoying me, I sometimes fantasize yet about clocking her a heavy one and throwing her in the trash can. And I'll also admit to some sexual fantasies that completely betray the feminist notions I've put forth on here. I will honestly say that I've never fantasized about shooting up a school or any place crowded with so-called strangers. (Even if I did, I know and live with nobody who keeps firearms, at least that I know of.) But the dark and perhaps violent fantasies are there, in limited quantities. Now the question is, do I ever act out those fantasies in the flesh?

About that third antidepressant I said I'd come back to: It was while I was on that that my mother came home one day in her usual bossy, grating manner, and I punched her face. I didn't draw blood or break anything, but I did elicit a certain amount of panicked yelling and calls for me to immediately leave the house. In a panicked stupor, I hopped a train to my aunt's house early the next morning for the week to follow. I never touched that third antidepressant again.

It was also rather a while after I came back from that week at my aunt's before my mother and I spoke to each other again. Eventually we got to talking enough to move me on to the fourth antidepressant.

There was also, at some point later that I don't remember exactly, an instance where I was washing dishes, and "Bossy Boots" (a name she's been known to bestow upon one of the dogs vocalizing that they want a biscuit) was going at a hundred miles an hour, and I just took the knife I was washing, held it, and stared silently and menacingly. My memory of that moment is dim, but I believe she eventually went away for the moment, and I simply turned back and resumed washing. Nothing major happened, that I can tell, but the occurrence could be noteworthy, lest one day I somehow do lash out at a crowd of unsuspecting people, which I doubt.

I want and love peace, and love, and I cherish those things when I have them. I think this is true of many people. But in this cold, crazy world, I suspect that those primal, carnal, animal instincts that dwell within us get more difficult to contain as, with this global age, the world slings ever-increasing shit everybody's way. Certain people don't seem to know how to release stress and feelings, and the onslaught erodes at their outer human façade, unleashing the beast within.

I've revealed all of this information about me simply to provide an idea of where I'm coming from. And about now, my destination here shall begin to pierce the horizon.

There's been plenty of talk since Friday's massacre in Connecticut about gun control. Some people want a total absence of guns among civilians; some people apparently want to fight fire with fire and arm all the teachers. Some people want restrictions on the types of guns that civilians can obtain — presumably no military-style automatic assault rifles. (Why does an elementary schoolteacher need something like that, anyway?) And some people want background checks on potential gun owners. I say, given the American mindset, start with the background checks. If someone has a history of depression or other mental illness and has seemed withdrawn, it's probably wise to deny them gun ownership. It may not always help — the Newtown killer took his mother's guns — but it's perhaps a start. Maybe also minimize the damage with some of those aforementioned restrictions on types of arms. Of course, if we do that, someone may be tasked with taking the banned guns from people who will be quick to use those very guns on anyone who would take them away, and that could get nasty.

Indeed, this is not at all easy. But I do have one other proposition I'd like to make, and it takes on a rather broader scope of life than simply guns and gun control/rights. My mother made a remark during a telephone conversation over the weekend that "something is wrong with the basic mentality in this country" (paraphrased from memory). I'm not convinced she knows what it is, but I think she has the right idea.

I'm thinking of the quiet/loner aspect of the typical mass shooter. Humans are a social species; loneliness and "lonerism" are not at all healthful for an individual, and they are certainly not healthful for a people, or a country. Yet the general mentality in this country seems to be one of mandatory, aggressive self-sufficiency, often forsaking others just to get one's own self ahead in the socioeconomic ranks. Helping our fellow humans here seems frowned upon and apparently, in some cases, illegal. (I think I've mentioned this before.)

And it seems that contemporary technology is making it worse. We can use our devices, mobile or otherwise, to ignore and dismiss the people we're physically with while we discover via the internet things we don't like about other people whom, before the discoveries, we considered friends. For a lot of us, I think, cyberspace is replacing real, human friends. The more rapidly technology develops, the faster our descent. Even without technology, it seems that at least my own family, probably many others, never gather outside of certain major holidays, thanks to our jobs and whatever other obligations we feel cement us where we are. We, as a people, are becoming more withdrawn and forgetting who we are. We're lost and lonely, and we'll remain as such until we decide to stand up and guide each other.

Please: If just for an hour or two a day, twice a week, something like that — turn everything off — television, cell phones, computer, etc. — get together with family, friends, barflies, whoever's around, and just spend time talking. Maybe play a game together. Maybe exchange uncouth jokes or random anecdotes from your week. Maybe have a meaningful discussion about how things are and how they need to be.

Remember also to teach your children to help, to love, and to accept and be accepted as friends and human beings. Teach them attentiveness, togetherness, and positivity. And while you're at it, turn them on to arts: painting, writing, playing music on instruments, dancing, perhaps sports can qualify. The children may come to rely on those as a means of catharsis. I know I've benefited from setting myself loose on the writing board — even if it is virtual.

And, if you can help it, stay near a big city, where people and resources are available. And try not to move too far from other family.

I can't say that togetherness is the perfect solution for mass shootings, or for everything. But I think it can be a terrific start.

Peace and love be with all of you. Happiness will surely follow.

~C.A.~

Friday, December 7, 2012

Re: Isn't the Last Thing We Want For Them to Reproduce?

In a previous short post here, I pondered the common expression of "Fuck you". I didn't exactly say it that way, but you get the general idea: "Fuck you", "Go fuck yourself", "Get fucked". We say these as though they were violent ideas — and I suppose they frequently can be. Certainly the media seem to portray fucking in a negative light more often than not. But rumor has it fucking does not equal raping. I wouldn't know. But I do know from copious self-pleasure. So I got to thinking: Maybe, in origin, "go fuck yourself" is less a wish of total ruin of the subject's life, and more of a wish of an orgasm or six for the subject. Maybe.

You know what, I think I said it more succinctly in January 2011 when I wasn't totally thinking about it....

Back to the drawing board :+)~

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Searching for the Sounds

(with apologies to Petersen and Lesh)

I just posted a comment to a friend's link on Facebook. I never heard of the site that hosts the article before he posted the link, so I'm not keen to register there, which I apparently need to do to comment, but I do want a public place to post my comments. Well, I just happen to have one.

When I created this public place in March of 2008, I didn't know what general direction it would take. Most of the blogs I had known at that time were of a rather different nature: they were music blogs, with external links to free downloads of full albums. You can still see, in the archives, how clumsy I was, trying to find my voice and my purpose in the blogosphere. I didn't actually have much music to post that wasn't already "out there".

So, I've taken, these days, to more or less random writing. Luckily, I seem to be a pretty good writer. And here is my latest bit of stuff, slightly edited to be fewer inside references — a response to...

...this article about music blogs.

****

Another factor in the decline of music blogs, I would think, is the decline of blogs in general. Social media have changed in the past few years, as Facebook and Twitter have risen. Music services, too; we now have Spotify, Last.fm, a bunch of others that I can't be bothered to think of just now (the US-only Turntable.fm is a particularly social one on which I've spent many an hour and made many a friend since its launch in summer of '11) — and, of course, YouTube features many a taster, even though it too may be plagued at times by trolls in copyright masks (so has Turntable been, come to think of it). I just recently found a trove of sorts of full albums as single 'Tube videos. I didn't much care for Fuzzy Duck's self-titled album, but at least I got to try it. And many more "classic" albums remain for me to hear, via the 'Tube or any outlet on which they may appear.

Social media have changed. Hopefully the communities of the older ways have been able to stay together as they navigate the shifting landscape — although, as my long-time favorite forum proves, it's not always the case. With forums collapsing as a networking form, we moved and shape-shifted a bit too much, reducing us now to a weekly e-mail of the latest playlist of one member's weekly radio show, with occasional flashes of an ignored yet optimistic Croatian with limited English skills, and maybe a request or two.

I will also dare say that we were not immune to the "paranoid times" spoken of in the article. I think one admin in particular (who, by the way, un-friended and blocked me on Facebook a bit ago without a word of explanation) mistakenly turned away a few legit people from later incarnations, believing them to be "Hans". That hurt us, I think, more than any troll ever did. We had one bad incident our first couple months of forum-hood. We lived well after that, before RapidForum closed down. It wasn't a main concern.

But I'll try to keep personal politics out of this. There is another forum of which I'm still a member. It's not very far from a complete coma. Not counting me, there are about six active members (including the ignored yet optimistic Croatian). Music is still posted there, but in very trace amounts compared to the music blogosphere's heyday.

The digital landscape has changed. Although the music blog with its warm, personal touch may have largely fallen by the wayside, I can say this: There shall always be ways to discover new and forgotten gems — as well as the people who create and appreciate those gems.

Psych on, psyblings.

Friday, November 23, 2012

A Special Message for Family and Possibly Others

"Black Friday" seems as good a time as any to say this. For the past few years, I've directed you to the "physical wish list" on the side of this blog in honor of your request for a list of things I'd like as holiday/birthday gifts. Of course, for the past few years, at least one of you has held on to being "tired of buying [me] CDs". This year, though, I don't mind.

It's not that I don't want chocolate; chocolate's always good. It's not that CDs are an obsolete format; they totally have been for years. What I want, right around now, is just simple support. Maybe it can come in a monetary form; maybe it can be some other bare necessity. The thing is, lest you don't realize it yet, I'm looking to start a new life in a new city. I don't yet know where or how; it's a quest in progress. I sent my savings account to the U.S. Department of Education a couple days ago. (Of course, with that bit of monthly payments out of the way, I got hit with a bi-monthly bill for that lovely bit of heartless Western culture known as "insurance".) That leaves me with about $4800 that I can use to "get started", as it were. Time to explore beyond the stagnant cornfields. I ask only for sincere, gentle, helpful guidance (not nagging and yammering). I have no particular use for more physical things; I'm likely to leave most of it here for the while, anyhow.

I'm leaving the wish list here for simple posterity. And maybe a couple of the "tilde" items. You know I'll always accept dessert.

Peace and love.

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Bulging Wanderlust Blues

Somewhere earlier this past week, I met with a guy from the state who invited me to a job-counseling appointment. I gave him many different aspects of my personality and perspective. Pretty much anything I said, he remained with the same recommendation of employer: Meijer. Lest anyone lives where Meijer is as-yet unestablished, it's a supermarket chain based out of Grand Rapids. When I mentioned the idea to my mother later, she expressed a thought more or less the same as mine: I don't belong in a supermarket. I should have something more professional and appropriate for a bachelor of the arts. ("Meijer props dead people up behind the counter", she said.)

I've pretty much reached the conclusion that, if there's a future for me beyond sitting alone and jobless in front of this monitor, it isn't here. Geographically, I mean. These flatlands have nothing to offer me. There's nothing in jobs, and there's nobody that I really connect with on a spiritual level. I need to be in a completely new place. Or Chicago. The city I call "home" likely has good stuff.

I went out on "the town" tonight. I ate alone, and I sipped my cherry soda alone. (Side note: I've remarked in the past that I enjoy ordering a "cherry soda" and hearing the waitperson repeat it translated. This one rather stuttered through a couple varieties before finally asking "cherry Pepsi?".) Everybody in the uptempo downtown bar & grill was indistinct (but not uneasy on the eyes...) and gathered in impenetrable groups. I had neither invitation nor particular desire to mingle with anybody. I wandered through a few other downtown bars — the ones that had no cover charge — plentiful of people but not so much of openness or curiosity.

Eventually, I did find one old friend in one particular chair in one particular bar where he seems to take part-time residence. The old hippie who once taught my high school's CISCO networking class greeted me warmly and took me aside from his group for just a few minutes as we conversed. I explained my feelings of post-grad bitterness. He mentioned his imminent retirement after this final year of teaching, as well as the fact that he'd just come back from the Windy City where he saw Bob Dylan for the forty-seventh time. I laughed and applauded upon hearing that latter; my good man is still rocking as hard as ever. Anyway, he doesn't know where he'll go after his retirement, either. For either of our situations, "it'll be all right", he assured. About the last thing he said was, "My advice is, don't look back."

I stopped briefly in a couple other places before coming back to the house. I stopped there for the simple reason that they had people with guitars playing. They were certainly competent within reason, and they had tip jars. Given my current circumstances, I didn't tip anyone. But I did think about the possibilities of moving to a new city with new people — or at least old cyber-acquaintances that could be new real-life friends.

So, once again, I'm calling out to the great wide world of cybercitizens: Who doesn't live in the middle of the flatlands and is willing to have an angelic 26.5-year-old stay with them a while? If nothing else, I can grab musical gigs with my guitar while I seek something more, um, reliable. Hopefully, some people out there can make a serious offer. Preferably people without dogs, but I won't haggle too much.

Tuesday, November 6, 2012

One Last Round of Facebook Selections (and Why It's the Last)

Lest I still have any readers that don't come here by way of the social networks... Right around the two-year anniversary of my second Facebook account, I decided to wrap it up and find a new outlet for my witticisms. The overwhelming majority of my "friends" there weren't really friends at all. There were simply too many people who never talked to me or so much as gave me a "like", and with whom I didn't otherwise connect at all, even though I'd known most of them for a great many years. Perhaps they were just busy; perhaps they were humoring me by keeping me as a friend while "unsubscribing" from me. I can't tell. A great many of them were married and/or had (or having) kids. I don't much care about the kids, and all the marriages just served to remind me that I'm hopelessly alone in a place where people are bred to shun individualist guys with beards and deep voices. And it sure seems like once people are married, they have to break off all other social contacts, save for a few close friends.

So, I'm kind of bitter. I decided I needed to get away from all these people on whose walls I can only say "~<:-)" (my version of "happy birthday") when it's their birthday because I have nothing personal to say. Time to find a new outlet. And so I came up with...

Twitter.

Feeling bitter? Come to Twitter! Heh. *cough* I'm also transferring the few groovy people from that second 'Book account to my original account. Anyone who's an actual human is welcome to add me there. I'm also set up on Google+, but I very seldom check that desert.

Okay, so now that I've issued my usual cry for attention and appreciation (and no doubt repelled everyone), here's the last batch of my favorite of my own Facebook statuses, as well as the first few "choice chirps" — favorite tweets. Here's to many more.

****

I was always a bit self-absorbed growing up. It turns out a "graphic novel" is not just a regular novel with more detailed descriptions of gore.

Why do we call 'em "The Lower 48" when one of the other two is farther south?

Expressions we ought to have: Shit got had!

Tie-dye shirts are great. If they get "stained", no one knows. It just blends right in.

Toilet roll: A particular type of oddly-shaped bit of bread.

Sight of the night: A vehicle labeled "Luxury Transport" with the tailpipe dragging on the ground.

I've thought it over, and I've decided I'd rather be a pussy than a dick.

I never know quite what to say on or about Memorial Day. Words like "happy" and "celebrate" seem wrong. Best I can think of is, May peace (have) come to our military folks. And I hope that's right.

That's whatever-number-you-just-said more than I've done.

BAD ROAD! BAD!

....oh, sorry, am I not allowed to hit the road anymore?

If food be the music of love, cook on.

someoneelse's(•'e)cards

My family argues to the point where it corrodes your nerves. They're acidic Jews.

Caption in search of an illustration:

CROSSWORD PUZZLE

HAPPYWORD PUZZLE

Is a single piece of ravioli a raviolus? These things eat at me. And vice versa.

It was all right at first, but I gotta tell you, I've gone right off the idea of having a cup of shut the fuck up, or a bowl of bow to my superiority, or whatever container of whatever directive. Please, have a vat of leave me alone.

You are somewhere else.

In wanting to be free, it seems most people are quick to settle for being cheap.

Monkey-descendant see, monkey-descendant consider.

Don't talk with your mouth open. Don't eat with your mouth full.

I ain't out of the cornfields yet.

STREET VIEW VIRTUAL ROAD TRIP!

If you're really interested in privacy, why are you on Facebook in the first place?

I'm getting mighty fucking sick of all these "job openings" that require experience. Is it too much fucking trouble to actually teach someone the simple task of shuffling papers and answering the phone professionally? I know this status jolly well casts the latter in doubt, but I think I could at least try. But if so many of these jobs or would-be employers require experience, how the fuck does anybody get a job in the first place? I'm tired of this shit.

*pant* *pant*

Okay, I'll put my *pant*s back on.

An antimorphous face
not too far from red
concealing worlds and eras forgotten

He's dealt with the space-time anomaly very well
outrunning the ever-encroaching homesickness
but now a rare friend in Wonderland
escorts him to the tarmac
Takeoff is soon

The third tentacle didn't know what the seventh tentacle was doing.

Please.....make Flo the Progressive salescreature go away.

republicunt

democrap

While listening to Chuck Berry's Roll Over Beethoven, I suddenly realize where the phrase "rhythm & blues" comes from. It's standard twelve-bar blues set to a novel, prevalent rhythm. Freaky.

There's another component of the whole college football culture that turns me off: the marching band music. I just don't like it. It all sounds the same, and it doesn't do anything for me. Basically it serves to connote the whole "we rock, they suck" cultural mindframe.

I suppose it's not an accident that I spend most of my time alone, listening to weird stuff.

An idea in search of an illustration: a fat Steal Your Face logo, called Stuff Your Face

If it hasn't been already, I think we should go ahead and redefine "acronym" as any set of initials.

I find it rather interesting that Frankie Valli's whi-yi-yine was actually a smash-hit once upon a time and an oldies staple yet. It's just totally counter-intuitive.

What is this nonsense I've heard about "I'm just like everyone else; I put my pants on one leg at a time"? I don't know about anyone else, but you know what I do? I sit on the edge of the bed, hold the top of the pants open, lift my legs, and FOOMP! Both legs at once. Now, socks! THOSE I gotta put on one at a time!

The thing I was eating that I thought was ice cream instead turned out to be "frozen dairy dessert".

Here's something wonderfully stupid: natil gip. Take any word that ends in "ay", remove the "ay", and put the new last letter at the beginning. There's a wonderful w to l a bit of dto to waste.

Sorry, sharing is unavailable at this time. Please try again later.

—Google

Forever Unemployed meme:

FORGETS TO CHECK NEW "PROFESSIONAL" EMAIL ACCOUNT

DOESN'T MATTER

another Forever Unemployed meme:

GETS EMAIL WITH JOB OFFER

MUST BE A PHISHING SCAM

That "said no one ever" comment is really clever!

....guess what goes here.

You may have reached adulthood if you've taken up doing crosswords.

You also may have reached adulthood if you complain to yourself about the horrible clues and certain subjects the crosswords feature. Has it occurred to these people that some of us don't live in New York?!

Passing thought: Is it safe to get in the other lane and pull ahead?

Stream of consciousness
expand out to a river
and to the ocean

Peddle. There's a word that's all but disappeared. All we got now are vendors and salespeople. What happened to the peddlers? Bring back the peddlers!

Also, I sense that there was once a single word "launder" for "do laundry" or "wash clothes" that got hijacked by criminals over the years. I'm too lazy to do laundry; I'd rather launder.

I know Clapton didn't write Cocaine, but those first four notes sound eerily similar to those of his earlier Cream hit, Sunshine of Your Love.

I've never been near the Arctic Circle, but I hear it has a certain aurora to it.

Soup: A clever way to simultaneously quench hunger and thirst.

Apparently there exists out there somewhere a different kind of mouse — one not associated with a computer. It leaves "droppings".

Hot dogs and pickles. How phallic was your dinner?

The frequency with which physics manages to turn my clothes inside-out in the appliances is kind of astounding.

As a writer, I'm trying to learn the fine distinctions between pretty, beautiful, lovely, and gorgeous.

Driving backwards, I
only realize ever
increasing distance

Talking at cross-purposes: vehemently arguing.

I have to question the use of "for good" to mean "forever". In this soulless, corporate age, I rather doubt that these local shops are closing "for good".

I should totally adopt "Is that a euphemism?" as a catchphrase.

A lone ant on the
bathroom wall. Now that's an in-
dividualist

If you can't stand the bark, part ways with the dog.

You know what kind of pet I like? One whose mere access to their equivalent of the bathroom doesn't depend on me.

Open window behind closed blinds

My parents put the "err" in "errand".

With so many windows open, it's a wonder this thing doesn't freeze more often.

I don't even have this car.

All it takes is one small "oops".

Instead of tweeting, I think I'll chirp. Take that, establishment!

Monday, November 5, 2012

And Yet

Concurrently with
all the feminist talk, I
want me some pussy

Friday, November 2, 2012

I'm Cheshire Adams, and I Approve This Message

On the social networks — Facebook, the new Twitter account, and so on — I do not often blatantly promote my political opinions. I happily befriend people who promote theirs, most of them on the left, but I don't do it myself. I don't do it much in face-to-face, real-life conversation or beyond either. No lawn signs, very few vocal discussions/arguments, etc. I think part of the reason for this is that, well, (a) I don't get to interact with people in person much in the first place, but (b) I realize at my deepest instincts that no political expression of mine is likely to sway the opinion of anyone who encounters it. In cyberspace, chances are you're only friends with people who agree with you anyway. And anyone else that you're friends with is either hopelessly apathetic or not going to be your friend much longer. People got fixed mindsets; they believe what they want to believe. Y'know?

So, any political things I have to say go more or less exclusively here, on Lucy in Cyberspace. And, right here and now, I'm going to attempt to summarize my political beliefs. Bear with me, if you dare.

I want peace and civility. I want people to work together and help each other out without discrimination. In other words, I do not want an every-man-for-himself (and every-woman-for-himself, in the words of Mickey Rooney in It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World) free-for-all without compassion. Of course, guess what we got? And, as I've pointed out on here a couple posts down, guess what clearly ain't going away anytime soon?

So it seems that my beliefs and desires most closely align with the political left. In this country, that translates as "democrat". And please don't bother me with "down with the two-party system!" talk; the fixed mindsets of the general public won't allow for the success of new alternatives. Like it or not, republicans and democrats are what we got. And, like it or not (I fall in the latter category), the whole damn thing is shifted toward the aggressive right. So, from my perspective, our only hope is to vote democratic and see that we, the people, can't gradually influence people to drift back left in time.

Lots and lots of time.

That's about all I had to say for now. I now return you to your pictures of pets with sub-literate captions.

Sunday, October 28, 2012

Walk on the Lighter Side: A Trip to the Bathroom

We call it the bathroom, even when there's no bath. You'd think we'd call it the toiletroom, or the sinkroom. Maybe the showerroom, if what it has is a walk-in shower with a door. Some newer houses that I've been in, the toilet, with its roll of toilet paper that seldom tears properly along the perforations, gets its own tiny room with a door separate from the sinks and tub. I can picture the paranoid American parents of today compulsively spraying and scrubbing that doorknob every day. "Eboli and ecola gonna get me! Gotta scrub that knob so I can one day scrub a 24-karat gold bathroom doorknob someplace! ...Ha ha, 'scrub that knob'. No time for laughs! Ecoli gonna get me!"

Other places in the world, the bathroom's called the water closet. Or the lavatory. There's a nice word that politely downplays the room's excretory function. If we're British, we can skip to the loo. Of course, our skipping can be awkward if we really need to go.

At home, it's the bathroom, but in public, it's the restroom. Yet — I haven't tried it myself, but I have a hunch — merely resting in the restroom is quite frowned upon. Someone finds you napping on the floor in there, they'll think you're a homeless person and give you a new home — one where the toilet stands nakedly in the same room as the beds — and where the lone door is only unlocked from the outside. Nope, no time for resting in the restroom. You do your shit (or piss), you get out. Depending on the sort of person you are, you wash your hands between those two things — that is, if you can coax some water out of those faulty sensor-activated faucets. Maybe you also sort-of dry your hands with one of those automatic dryers that stop about five seconds too early. At least for me, they do. Maybe I just have big hands. All the better to wrap around a certain neck, my dear. (My guitar's neck!)

Here's something about me that may interest some people: In a public restroom, I'll usually urinate his way, y'know...standing at the urinal, inconspicuously. In a private bathroom in someone's home, meanwhile, I do it her way. There are many great reasons for this. First off, I live with my folks — thank you, thank you very much — in a house with very thin walls, where the main bathroom is the only completely interior room (no windows). When my father uses the bathroom, unless the music, kitchen sink, or television is sufficiently loud and/or engaging, we all have to hear it. I'm more considerate; I muffle the sound by doing it her way and covering the toilet with myself. Secondly, no need to worry about aim. Amazing how men can live as many years as they do and not quite master that skill, ain't it? No aim, no mess. Thirdly, I'm just the sort of person who likes to take it slow, so to speak. I can sit. I can stay a while if I feel like it. I'm in no hurry to walk out and have to resume dealing with everyone. Sometimes my name gets shrilly called the very instant I open the door. Your family ever do that to you? Drives you nuts. You don't even get to breathe. Naturally, I often hear my name when I've just gotten in there. I don't wanna deal with them right now. I'll just sit and stay a while. Let my mind drift wherever it wants for a moment or six as I stare into space — you know, as much as it can drift in that thin-walled house with the television blaring. (Side note: I was on the can when I first heard, from Brian Williams on the television, that Michael Jackson had died. It was immediately followed by my mother saying "HE DIED?!?") I will also admit to grooming myself sometimes while I'm "there". You may have noticed that I'm a bit of a hairy creature. Still, for all the evident testosterone, I urinate her way in private bathrooms. By the way, I think the phrase that applies to my revelation here is "baring myself on the page".

Have you ever been using the toilet — you're sat there, you're going to be there for a while — and you realize that there is a MOSQUITO! Right there in the bathroom with you! Here you were — you thought you were clear to be totally naked, exposed and vulnerable — and one of nature's bloodsucking CREATURES is right there! They've got their eyes on your prize! And you can't move; it'll stink up the room prematurely! You have to hope that at least it doesn't go out of sight where it can sneak up behind you. If you're lucky, it'll make the mistake of flying in front of you just where you can clap your hands exactly on it. Spiders and other small things are also loads of great entertainment if you're droppin' great loads.

Eventually, I do use the bathtub in the bathroom. Of course, I shower; never bathe. Baths are giant puddles of your own filth; you gotta let gravity do some of the work for you. So I shower in the same tub (or shower) in which the rest of the family showers. My family recently converted from the old-fashioned bar of soap to more contemporarily hip liquid soap, and those 3D "bath sponges". I don't often like my mother's ideas, but I am very much loving not having to wash all the hair off the soap before I use it anymore.

So we use liquid body soap. Of course, it's never called "soap" these days. The common descriptor seems to be "body wash". There are other variations floating about. There's a "facial cleanse" and a clarifying something-or-other. Kinda ironic that we can't be sure what a "clarifier" does. Somehow, shampoo is still called shampoo. Thank goodness for a little sanity. And we still have conditioner, even though I'm still not exactly sure what conditioner is supposed to accomplish. I asked my folks this recently; the response I got was "It conditions your hair!" Gee, very helpful. Good to know that if my hair runs an impromptu race, it will be well-conditioned for it.

Many items around the tub and the rest of the bathroom, it isn't obvious what they are. The first thing on the container that the eye notices isn't usually what the stuff is; it's merely the company logo. Sometimes you really have to hunt through the very large advertising buzz words ("INVIGORATING", "REFRESHING", etc.) and the pretty flavor indicators — you got your nice picture of a pomegranate or whatever — and, finally, somewhere in tiny print near the bottom, it says "cleanser". Great, just what I need — to be cleansed. Like ethnic cleansing. There is one company with products in our bathroom that's actually pretty good with telling us what's inside. The company's name is "Up & Up", and I can't help but imagine that they were founded by the Up Brothers — Jack and Fuck.

Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Not Every Free Thing is a Gift (Indeed, Very Few Things Are)

The past couple days saw yet another story of a career politician (a gop, natch) making a pro-rape comment. And naturally, those days also saw many people expressing outrage online. The question I gotta ask is this: how are these people allowed into politics in the first place? I'm not convinced that they're all beamed down from some supernatural, misogynist, bigoted mothership. I believe that they are created and installed by us — the people.

Ladies of the U.S., I hate to tell you this, but here it is: The people of this country are firmly primitive and regressive, and there is no possible short-term "change" that will reverse this and so quickly make us a females' utopia.

The prevailing idea in much of the country seems to be that the future is inexorably bleak — in all respects — and that the "old days" were better. Somewhere in people's minds, we were at our highest quality of life in the days when men had complete and utter control, and that slight majority of us known as women were essentially considered commodities — not even human. It was only a little less than a hundred years ago when that slight majority was first granted the right to vote. I wasn't there at the time, but I expect that the women's vote was granted with tremendous reluctance. That reluctance has not faded in the least; indubitably, it is increasing with the presence of all these "regressives" — people who seem to see a long-established religion as permitting and encouraging rape. (I stumbled upon this on a humor site compiling "Unintentionally Sexual Church Signs", and I honestly cannot fathom another way to interpret it. "To forgive is divine! Be a deity! Do what we goddam tell you to!")

No. Do not be sub-human deities. Be humans. Stand tall for yourselves — for ourselves. We got a lot of work to do yet. We may not see positive results in our lifetimes yet. But we have to try.

Teach peace. Teach equality. If you can, teach all the people how to recognize and avoid these. (A reputable-enough source, yes?) And, if you must be religious, at least be very careful with how you interpret your sacred texts. It may take a generation or three for us to come to the point where we aren't electing people and then getting faux-outraged when one of them claims that rape is a gift (basically, paraphrased). And, who knows? Maybe by then we'll have shifted out of reverse as a people and actually rendered our future brighter than it seems now.

Meanwhile, we have to hang in there and work/vote for what is available, while it seems we still can.

Thursday, October 18, 2012

I Could Only Write This During the Playoffs

Has American football surpassed baseball yet as our national pastime? Seems like it to me. The countryfolk around me seem to express that much greater enthusiasm about the pigskin sport (hereinafter "football"; may this not confuse my non-US audience) than they do about the diamond sport these days. And why shouldn't they? Football, with its warlike qualities, is much more relevant to the American psyche than the quaintness of making it "safe at home" on a nice summer day. And it seems to have a greater variety of winners from year to year as well. (I guess; I don't pay such close attention.) Baseball, meanwhile, has been pretty much plundered by big money; almost all the stadia bear some forgettable, corporate name, and it's generally the same teams in the playoffs every year now. I am sick to my stomach of the New York Yankees and the St. Louis Cardinals. Braves, too. If only the Birds and the Pinstripes just went away and gave someone else a chance, maybe I'd be interested in baseball again. Maybe that's true of other "fans" as well (beyond New York City and the shadow of the Arch). My Cubbies may be a lost cause, but that needn't be true of the whole sport.

Friday, October 12, 2012

Musing City

I got back from four days and change in Nashville yesterday. Already I feel a need to get back to Tennessee, Jed. The change in scenery — more accurately, the momentary introduction of scenery — was exactly what I likely still need. Lately, I've felt particularly stifled out here in the flatlands. It seems that there's nothing out here, least of all truly friendly people willing to lend a hand, or even an eye or ear. This sanitized plastic land is not the place for me. Maybe the whole country is sanitized plastic by now; me, I'm willing to give the benefit of a doubt to places I haven't fully gotten to know yet.

So I was in greater Nashville for a handful of days. I can tell you this much: whether it actually has it or not, Nashville at least has the aura...of "life". I don't quite know how to explain it; there's just a feeling that things actually happen there. It's a feeling that permeates the rolling hills and the winding roads that must conform to them — roads on which one can easily get lost without a GPS, because there's no workable grid. But getting lost there isn't too bad, because it's very beautiful in the rolling greenery, or green-red-and-orange-ery here in the autumn. At least it is during the daytime; those close, fast-paced winding country roads tend to not be at all lit at night. I say all this, by the way, as someone who is apparently really amazingly good at directions. Pretty much anyone I talk to tells me how horrible they are at directions and navigation. But give me a couple minutes with Google Maps before I hit the road, and I sail smoothly. At least I usually do; I had rather a hard time one night in England in 2006. So maybe I'm skewed by my life in flat, gridded Illinois. But I've done well so far in the Nash. Anyway...

I didn't get to manage but a couple interactions with "locals"; I would love to have interacted more. As it is, I stayed alongside my family, except for one night at a bar, finally meeting someone I had known in cyberspace for a while. (Also, the previous night when I tried meeting them and failed, but never mind.) As a northerner in the South, it was wonderfully trippy for me. And from a comment made by the fellow who came to join my friend and me, the feeling was mutual.

I would most certainly benefit from getting out (of town/state) and interacting more often. If only I could find a way to be able from within this cornstalk-barred prison....

****

Here are some things other than scenery and natural beauty that I've seen in Tennessee but not in Illinois that I can recall:

• SPEED LIMIT 70

• MapCo

• Belk

• Stoplights after midnight implementing a two-way stop by having one of the two intersecting streets seeing yellow flashing lights while the other street sees the usual red flashers. I guess that's how that works, based on about two other vehicles that were out at the time that I saw.

• Exxon, though we do have their other half, the most boringly-named Mobil. No "Tigermarket"s here.

• Kroger, except down in the south of the state where I never went until last year. Actually, Bloomington-Normal might have it. I never go there, so I don't know.

• Someone else's outdoor cat coming to visit us and ours, although ours is not particularly a fan

• Shoney's (I'm pretty sure)

• Publix

• Cartoon-esque holes in the ground and a tree or two in the yard. Where are the "critters" that would make such holes where I live? What do they look like?

• An OVERSIZE LOAD passing another OVERSIZE LOAD on the interstate. I'm sure that's not exclusive to other places, just something I don't see every day. Actually, this might have been in Kentucky on the way back.

• Piggly Wiggly. I'd heard that these existed, but I never saw one until this past Monday.

• Quite so many two-or-more-word street names. Seems Tennessee likes to make it absolutely known who their roads are named for. I think the town I live in has exactly one street that bears a person's full name, and it likely helps that that one person is named "Ed". If we named a street for General George Patton, as has been done in a couple places in the greater Nashville metro, it would likely just be "Patton Avenue".

And that reminds me of another thing: Pikes. No Illinois roadway seems to be described as a "pike". We got most every other variety of thing to drive on: street, avenue, boulevard, drive, road, parkway, court (if it's a dead-end or only a block long). Occasionally we might chance upon a "trail", or "place", or something. But no pikes here. Weird.

• Jack in the Box. Another chain that's supposed to be nationally renowned, but if we have any here, I don't know where they are. I don't even know what kind of food they serve, exactly. Typical greasy fast food?

Actually, there are a couple chains like that, or used to be. Chick-Fil-A was totally unheard of here until maybe three or four years ago when one came in to replace the McDonald's in the Illini Union food court. News is that they've opened a few places in Chicagoland since. Also, Chicago has had a White Castle or three — the one at Clark & Ridge comes to mind — but never down here.

• A sign at the end of a dead-end street saying "Temporary Dead End", with another one right behind it saying "Permanent Dead End". The site of a legal battle, my family surmised.

• Someone removing their clothes right there in the bar. It wasn't my friend, and I don't think "Trish" will be, but it was good for a laugh. "Why is your bra in your hand?" "Because I took it off."

• A kitten climbing a tree. Before I went down, my cousin had actually snapped a picture of "Ellie" having gotten on the roof. I didn't get to see that in person, but that can be all right.

• Someone using their fireplace. Matter of fact, the house I live in doesn't even have a fireplace.

• The kitten using the ash-filled fireplace for very much her own purposes.

• And, last but not least, I feel a need to point out that I live north of this. But I'm told I ain't missin' much there.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

Class is By and Large Dismissed

Sleepless night on the couch before I hit the road to Nashville for a few days. Being up from 4a to about midnight, you'd think I could sleep more easily for a while. Ah well; time to write.

I found myself thinking back to an instance in high school where my intranet account seemed to have frozen up at a rather inconvenient time. I needed to use Word, and I wasn't being granted access. I went down with a hall pass like the ones I always carried through the halls during class when I had to — exactly once, during freshman year, did someone actually stop me to look at it — and talked to the network admin about the problem. The cause was indeed found: My account had been purposely suspended because I had a small bunch of mp3s in the folder.

That was kind of amusing; they were not full songs. They were merely clips of 'em, used in a Powerpoint presentation for Spanish class the previous semester. I used them because I apparently had no clue how to give a Powerpoint presentation, in any language. I considered, and kind of still do, Powerpoints to be excess media. Words on the screen and coming from my mouth? What does that accomplish? So, music man that I am, I just had bits of songs for the audience's enjoyment as they read. And I had explained this at the beginning of the presentation — in Spanish, of course.

But anyway, it evidently took admins a while to discover that there were mp3s (of any variety) in my folder, and they just suspended the account without a notification one day, when I rather needed to use the account for some advanced-placement physics work. I calmly explained to the admin in that basement cloaked in the sort of dull yellow that only schools possess, that the mp3s were old news and could be safely erased. Normality was restored. Still, though, I look back and recall just how terribly bureaucratic the old high school was.

High school was horribly bureaucratic. We weren't allowed to wear hats; apparently, hats are dangerous weapons. You throw 'em like a Frisbee, they can cut through solid metal statues. It was in a movie. Or, I think their explanation was, we could hide other weapons in the spaces between the top of the hats and the top of our heads. Well, by that logic, couldn't we be hiding weapons in all our clothes? We should all walk around naked! That ought to ensure a lack of dangerous weapons. Unless someone figures out how to shoot a laser from within their finger or something; then I guess we're screwed.

But yeah, everybody naked in the Illinois autumns and winters! That's wonderfully in tune with the bureaucracy. And there'll be no weapons. Except maybe exacerbated teenage hormones. But even then, in this age of tight, low-rider jeans on the ladies, I'm absolutely amazed at the self-restraint I had during those years. And at twenty-six years of age now, having still never had even a casual girlfriend, I'm still utterly astounded at the civilized self-control I, and probably a great many others, seem to have.

But back to schools. Last night, on the national news, they ran a story about young women turned away from their own homecoming dance because, in some Utahan's eye, their skirts were too short. They had a picture of the spurned ladies in their dance clothes. I can tell you this: There was absolutely nothing provocative, offensive, or anything of the sort about any of the ladies or their apparel. Who cares about bare legs up to the knees? Legs do nothing for me. The good stuff is in between!

It's all so arbitrary. I think we should find a new name for "schools". Everything else in our society is being made over; just ask George Carlin. But I think I have a new term to describe schools: Human processing plants. Manufacturing facilities designed to convert vibrant and promising young people into passive sheep, accepting whatever they're told and never revolting, despite all the urges to the contrary at that age. Somehow, by and large, they pull it off. Saddening.

Although, there was the one rule during our Freshman year where we all started out having to wear those ID tags with the clips on us at all times. Enough of us rejected the notion that the requirement was eventually thrown out. A small victory, perhaps; we seemed to make the point that someone legitimately associated with the school could wreak as much havoc as someone who waltzed in from outside.

By the way, this last was 2000 — before 9-11. It's possible that the country was always heading this way, and that 9-11 merely accelerated it. Schools can easily be seen as microcosms of this country — people obsessed with security and soulless bureaucracy as a supposedly airtight and efficient enforcement method. I remember one time somewhere after 9-11 when everybody in the whole school got evacuated and crammed into the next-door middle school's gymnasium because someone spilled salt on a table in the cafeteria at breakfast, and someone cried ANTHRAX. Fun times.

But that's just it; schools as national microcosms. If we can change how the schools function, maybe we can change how the country functions. If the presidential debates and surrounding political scene are any indication, the change is quite in order. I say start with the schools. Teach the kids to think for themselves; when to rebel; when to comprehend and accept reason in rules. Who knows, it might catch on. More schools; fewer human processing plants.

Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta rub one off to a fantasy of teen girls in tight low-riders.

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

Looking through my archive here as I put some new tags on posts, I realize I have a curious lot of rather dopey "emo" posts here — you know, the kind of vague, moping posts that gave rise to the "annoying Facebook girl" meme. On one hand, I want to clean that stuff up (delete it); on the other, I rather like the idea of having an unfiltered record of my ups and downs.

That's one thing that amuses me: that signals of desperation actually by-and-large repel our fellow human beings. That's certainly how it appears in this Western culture, at least. Usually, when someone actually answers a call for civilized help, it makes the news. In other words, the norm is to ignore people who need, or, okay, claim to need, a helping hand. In fact, I seem to recall a few news articles where people were arrested for helping the homeless or similar.

Truth is, we're not the least bit above primal Darwinism. The financially/socially/physically?/etc. fittest survive, unconcerned about the unfit; the unfit could all perish, and the fittest would not miss a beat. Heck, the gop [see post below] running for president now is rather known for saying that he's "not concerned about the very poor". We have a Darwinian people gripping this country, denying, among many, many other things, the teachings of Darwin.

We're wonderfully contradictory. Maybe we're in a transitional phase of humanity; maybe humanity is eternally a Darwinian entity with mere flashes of what I will call post-Darwinism.

Either way, for the time being, those post-Darwinist flashes are out there somewhere. And I want to find those flashes.
I don't like to get too overtly political in my cybertravels, but here's a thought that amused me: I think we ought to start calling republicans "gops". The derivation of that term should be obvious, and it just sounds very much like an old-fashioned slur — something racist or homophobic. "Fuckin' gop!" I should think the political right's opponents should be happy to have such an easy derogatory name to use on these greedy, oppressive, angry people. Plus, it sounds like "cops" — people loved by gops, not so much by, well, others. I think both sides could come to embrace the idea. You be my gop, I'll be your lib.

Monday, September 24, 2012

Sob Story: Epilogue

It seemed like I ought to check back in after that whole big thing back there. I just wanted to say that I appear to be reasonably secure here at home after all. My family's had a nice talk, following my whole big thing, and the point appears to be made that I already have about all I can handle, and family likewise. Call it "the family forgiveness act". We need each other, without the anger.

Of course, I still have the problems of being unemployed, socially deprived, and soaked in student debt and bimonthly health insurance payments. But at least I'm slightly less miserable. And at least I won't be miserable without a consistent place to sleep and eat.

Still, if you have a good job opening, fill me in, won't you?

Sunday, September 16, 2012

Speak of it Only in a Soft, Sharp Whisper

Here's something no one ever seemed to talk about, even though it's totally a thing. I guess no one ever talked about it because it wasn't a universal thing, but it's a thing nonetheless. I've long known this thing from a handful of records, from people whispering around me in classes, and from other sources that escape me just now. Somehow, I never thought to mention it to anybody. Never thought to look it up on the net, either. Certainly never thought to give it a proper name. I just kind of enjoyed it when it happened and thought nothing more of it.

Then earlier this week, a cyberfriend of mine posted a link to an article. The article seemed to think it was talking about my thing, but I'm certain it was actually pursuing something different. But it was enough. For the first time, it was evident that a handful of people out there know the thing and are reasonably excited to talk about it. Even if the article missed the mark, it had plenty of links and references to people who didn't. All the while I was off in my own little world, other people were uniting theirs into one growing, marvelous globe. They even decided upon a name, albeit a clinical one that translates into an unmemorable set of initials.

The name is: Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response. ASMR for short. And what it is — are you ready for this? No you're not. Unless you've experienced it, in which case I retract that statement. What it is, basically, is this: A sort of upper-body orgasm induced by intimate, yet sharp, sounds. The best example of such a sound that comes to mind is a really close-up whisper on a quiet background, full of well-enunciated Ts and Ss. Sometimes and somehow, those sounds just perfectly hit something within my head, resulting in, at least in my case, a kind of flash-orgasm shooting from near my inner ear down into my upper back, usually on the right side near my shoulder.

I should add that I seem to need to be relaxed for it to happen. If I'm too tense, and given my current life situation, that does happen often, the tension seems to kind of block the sounds from getting through to the "sweet spot". So relaxation is a good thing to have. (When isn't it?)

So there you have it. Apparently, not everyone gets that. But there are plenty of people that do, and they are gradually emerging from the deepest recesses of the Internet (which happen to include YouTube and *ahem* Blogger). And, for whatever it may be worth, I'm happy to join them. This is why I was so stunningly tolerant of classmates whispering around me during class, back when I was actually an enthusiastic student eager to do well. Ah, that seems so long ago now.

This is not the original article to which my friend linked. But it's as good an information repository on the matter as we're likely to find at this point. There is supposedly an official research website, but it hasn't worked since I stumbled upon all this. And there are plenty of other links within this article.

But you know I can't just leave you hanging. I have to provide at least a couple of examples of my own "triggers". I'll start you with psychedelic pstaple Syd Barrett and his old band. Isn'T iT goooooD?



Next up, the acid folk stylings of Linda Perhacs. This demo appears on the expanded CD reissue of her classic 1970 LP Parallelograms. Listen in particular for the middle part with the right-channel-dubbed vocal.



I'll leave you with those two for now. YouTube can only do so much. (I have an mp3 copy of, of all things, Johnny Mathis' "Chances Are" where Johnny's voice is astonishingly crisp in the right channel. I don't think the 'Tube can match it.) And anyway, "chances are", we wouldn't want to overdose on these "back-gasms". Everything in moderation; always remember that.

Peace, love, and limited quantities of euphoria,
~C.A.~



Edit 2013-8-24: Further thoughts on this phenomenon here.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Sob Story, Part Three

All right. I want to thank you, cybercitizen, for playing the role of Doctor Freud here for me. Here we go.

Things are good. Father has his television and word-search puzzle book; I have my cyberspace, with its music, virtual friends and useless job sites; things are almost ... peaceful.

Then ... a low rumbling; a subtle thunder.

The quadrupeds explode into a vocal foreshadowing of their own vocal explosion's aftermath. True, they go off for any visitor — sometimes even me — but this particular visitor elicits a unique tone; the howls are louder and in greater unanimity, as if providing a symphony its crescendo. The oldest, in particular, seems to be wailing as she did once upon a time when people left. Something disappointing must be happening; the symphony has reached its end.

They go to greet the visitor in the hopes that their greeting will instill a sense of love in the newcomer. And, for maybe half a minute, there is a kind of high, sing-song quality to the human voice in the other room. But it quickly subsides along with the tapping and sliding of paws on the hardwood floor. And, not two minutes from the dogs' initial eruption, a new cacophony echoes through the house: a blizzard of profanity and discontentment, the biting cold misery settling into the interior landscape. And I do my best to seek shelter from the storm.

Mother's home.

Letting everyone know, among many things, that she hates coming home.

So, I've gotten to thinking that maybe leaving (getting kicked out) wouldn't be such a bad thing — as long as I have a place to go and something to do when I get there.

One friend commented on Part One that I probably want a place of my own. I'm actually not convinced I want a place all my own; I'm fine sharing a place. I just don't want to share a place that's soaked in misery.

So maybe that's why I've written this whole thing: it's a call for friends and/or potential friends to maybe take me in for a while, or at least offer some tips on where to go and what to do. A couple people have made me an offer, but I'm not quite ready to accept one just yet. I guess I want to gather some options.

Today, meanwhile, I'm getting ready to talk with my career counselor at the university. And after that, I'm going to an examination where the university will determine whether or not I'm fit to stand behind a counter and sell candy bars. (I did work four solid years at a now-defunct Baskin Robbins. I miss that job.)

Peace and love be unto you.

Monday, September 3, 2012

Sob Story, Part Two

And I'm back. For a little while.

So I'm a “special kid” (who apparently is cool revealing those details to the world) with nowhere to go and, presumably, nowhere to come from, very soon.

As those of you who've checked out my song “Now What?” posted above and been able to listen to it despite the outside noise that plagues the left channel in particular, may know or have figured out, I'm just out of college. It took me twice as long as it apparently was supposed to have done, but I did finish. My degree? A bachelor of the arts in creative writing, mathematics and technology. I kind of semi-joke that, in other words, I'm a jack of all trades and master of none. I aborted the mathematics and computer science bits of my education two or three years in when I realized that I was neither enjoying nor doing well in those classes. I subsequently tried three or four majors — anthropology, psych, rhetoric — before getting together with a small team of administrators to write up an independent creative writing major, designed with a focus on poetry and an intent on just getting me the hell out of college. It took a lot of effort (in my opinion) and rather a bit of intervention to even get me to realize the IPS (Individual Plan of Study). For a couple semesters, I went as low as one class at a time. The normal full-time number of classes per semester is four. In fact, I seem to recall sitting one semester out entirely, in an effort to shake the pressure and depression.

I've kind of forgotten where I was going with this. I just put on Court & Spark. I think what I was saying was that I went through all that for...what? A slab that is currently sitting in my gig bag? Oh, and can't forget that student loan debt, which, thanks to what I can only guess is a communication error, is triple what I thought it would be.

That's what I got. No real clues about life beyond academia. No job, and no particular career aspirations. I can tell you that the idea of a career — one thing that I spend my whole life doing — turns me right off.

So what about minor day (or evening/late-night) jobs? Well, who's hiring? Doesn't seem to be much out here. I did have a job for a couple years that I purposely left a couple years ago. They claim to take me back if I want, but, again, I left it for a reason. I tried, for a while, to do a job that requires me plopped in front of a computer all the while. I simply don't have it in me. I'd find myself just sat there, zoned out, accomplishing nothing. Not even surfing the net; just sitting there — even though I sit at a computer nearly all of my “spare” time, basically playing music and messing around mindlessly. And the reason I spend my spare time doing that is, as I mentioned in part one of this extravaganza, I have no social life. Nor do I care much for movies, books, television, or most video games. (I probably could have been a gamer, if games hadn't gotten all 3-D and pseudo-realistic.)

I'm a “mouse potato” with an inability for that would-be profession to translate into an actual profession. Certainly my other natural high points — wit, writing skills, musical knowledge and talent — have no place in contemporary society, at least not in America. I need a job with social aspects. And so I ask again: Who's hiring?

I suppose you all realize that I'm not one who's willing to stay with something that I don't enjoy. This happens to be precisely where I clash with my mother, who stayed at her old workplace that she detested for some sixteen years before being unceremoniously fired for an expletive. She's also sticking with a loveless marriage to my spineless father (who's another story altogether) which just about daily features high-volume arguments. I'm thankful that neither parent is an alcoholic; imagine the destruction that could result from that. Mother knows she can't particularly count on my father for much, so I become a kind of “go-to”.

And, for some reason, she wants me out of the house.

Just a shade more in part three.

Sunday, September 2, 2012

Sob Story, Part One

Happy Labor Day weekend, cyberworld.

Like many younger Americans, the exact meaning of Labor Day is deep within a mist from me, so it may or may not be somehow poetic that I'm bringing this up now. And I'm hesitating at the beginning here, considering that, apparently, I really feel that I need to write and post this. At least some aspect of it doesn't seem right. But here it is:

My mother has threatened to kick me out of our house if I should remain unemployed come this month's end.

This, as perhaps you can imagine, is not something I'm having a great time coping with. I've been in my parents' shelter all my twenty-six years. I went to college right across town. I've never known anything else. And despite my mother's half-assed attempts to charge me (her only son) monthly rent for staying here, I'm not the least bit prepared for anything else, and I'm wholly unlikely to make a smooth transition.

Another piece of information that might be useful here: I'm a child of Asperger's Syndrome. Though the affliction was more prevalent in childhood than now, my aversion to minor changes then may perhaps be indicative of my (potential?) aversion to major changes now. Also, it meant that I was not at all social growing up — I wasn't anti-social, I just simply didn't make friends or talk much — the consequence of which is that I have no social group — no clique or niche — that I identify with or conceivably fit in. Though that aspect of me has eased somewhat the last few years, I still nonetheless have no close friends, not even from the last bits of college. Also, I don't drink, which rather robs me of what seems to be the primary means of adult socialization. I have kind of bar-hopped locally on Saturday nights now and then, occasionally casually conversing with a familiar face from days of old and then just awkwardly standing or sitting with nothing much else to say. And, to top that all off, I am an only child. For all the horror stories of sibling torture I've heard, I can't particularly recommend “onlihood”. I might not even recommend first-born-hood, but I suppose our species actually does depend on those. I can sort of approximate a sibling with my only cousin, who is a wonderful perpetuator of peace, love, and a general lack of dysfunction, some three-and-a-half hundred miles away.

Where was I....the Syndrome also means that I take horrendous amounts of time doing certain things that might take non-afflicted people not so much time. Writing is often a good example of such a thing. And I must break now. Back in a bit.

Saturday, June 30, 2012

The Day Blogger Went All Femality

A handful of people in the wild, wacky world of Facebook have proclaimed this "the day Facebook went all Vagina". I guess this is what counts in this country as a protest, after the Michigan incident where a female house speaker was barred from speaking after using the word vagina in a (pro-women's-rights) speech. Okay, granted that censorship in general is a huge problem here and elsewhere that seems to be getting inexorably worse; nevertheless, I'd like to know who all — what kind of people — were behind the decision to bar this speaker. I have a hunch.

I'm not sure I've mentioned this in public so much, but I'm kind of a feminist. I'd very much like to see a matriarchal society emerge here in this digital age. I'm sure the patriarchy has been excellent for self-protective nation-states in the days before globalization, but as we come together as peoples, the need for the male brand of aggressive "conquer at all costs" leaders diminishes. Heck, if this country is any indication, the idea backfires when the leaders have nothing left to plunder but their own people. And, maybe you've noticed this, but our leaders/plunderers tend, perhaps overwhelmingly, to be men. I say, put the men to their more natural strengths — domestic physical and related labor — and get more women in charge. At least just to try it. See what the womanly touch can do for a nation — and a globalized world.

Although, perhaps somewhere within, men know they're on the way out. That might be why so many of them are quick to strip women of basic, natural needs and expressions, apparently now going so far as to prohibit use of the proper term for the female reproductive outlet.

This may be some perverse release for the men, but it is not healthful to us as a people, and I am not convinced that we're doing enough to stop it. What we need to do, I'm not sure. But if it helps ease talks between the sides, I'd like to propose a new euphemism for vagina (and other female reproductive parts). Hey, I'll be honest: vagina really isn't all that pretty a word to describe an often pretty thing.* (I have the same complaint about "orgasm".) I used this new term in my song "Sweet Release" (read and listen a few posts from the top of the blog). The term is... "femality".

This is not to be confused with "femininity". Femininity is more about qualities that play into the traditional gender role of the girl/woman. Pink, flowery dresses, long hair, quiet subservience...those are feminine qualities. Femality is simply the physical quality of being female. It's a perfectly honorable thing to have.

So if you got it, let it rock. And don't let the government or other slimy bastards get all up in your femality! Stand up for yourselves! And maybe...just maybe...take full control.



*I guess it's a pretty thing; I've not had the pleasure of encountering (m)any vaginas.

Monday, May 28, 2012

Baseball Season's Under Way

I wrote this at the beginning of the 2011 baseball season and posted it as a Facebook note. Why there and not here, I don't know. So I'm bringing it here now. And why not? The Cubs have lost twelve straight coming into today. And they're down a run now.

There's a certain poetry about the Cubs and their fans. A parallel, perhaps, to the greater humanity and the widespread undying faith in a higher power that will make everything "right". Sure, it's possible. It could happen. Any millennium now.

Somehow, it remains. Nothing happens, and nothing happens, and nothing happens, and nothing happens, and nothing happens, and the faith somehow remains. We will be rescued from this existential hell! We will be saved! The Cubs are going all the way! Humanity is going all the way!

I find it fascinating that the same people in the heartland who make it a point to act as sort of local missionaries, spreading the word about our savior, should mock the Cubs and their fans for believing in something that "just ain't gonna happen".

And, of course, I'm not the least bit religious in any sense or direction. I firmly believe that anything involving deities and saviors that aren't ourselves is pure bovine fecal matter.

So why am I a Cubs fan? Maybe it's partly genetic, but the Cubs happen to strike me as simply being a uniquely likable organization, unlike any other sports entity. Yeah, the Red Sox got that cozy community feeling as well, but the Cubs' aura beats it out, to me. The Cubs can trade away the half of their major players that don't have noticeably imperfect personalities, and, in spite of what I say at that time, spring comes around, and, somehow, here I am again.

Cubs fandom is the mark of true human beings. And, in spite of my frequent talk of me coming from another planet, that ain't likely. I am human, and I find it best to roll with that.

Play ball!

Thursday, May 17, 2012

I quite dislike getting the news of the death of certain pop stars. Not because I'm a fan, but because I know I'll have to put up with their insipid pop music as everyone's playing it in tribute. Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston, now Donna Summer. Rest in peace, all of 'em. I know I'll be leaving them in peace.

Lolling Out Loud

Those of you who've interacted with me online a lot may have noticed that I never use the term "lol". I'll say "ha ha", "heh", "hee hee", or any one of a number of such things, but I just don't dig "lol". I guess I'm a big fan of particular expressiveness; I find "lol" to not be terribly descriptive. And it certainly doesn't convey the feeling of actually laughing out loud very well. Especially since many people use it in nearly everything they post. And frankly, I ain't laughing at everything they post. It's rather lost any kind of meaning for me. Heck, a couple people even put some variation of "lmao" in nine out of ten statuses/tweets/etc.. I wonder, "What, isn't there a strong enough duct tape that can keep your ass attached while you laugh? You've lost it so many times now."

I also get rather turned off by so many discussions I encounter where about a third of the transmissions, including the last consecutive four, are just "lol". Maybe my sense of humor is just different from that of most people, but I am seldom laughing that much in one conversation. I tend to picture these "lol-ers" as just sitting there, sort of pretending to be amused — maybe making just a fraction of a chuckle with their breath, maybe two very short exhales through the nose, but very little show of emotion at all. And that's about how "lol" comes across to me — emotionless filler.

I rather hope that I don't find myself putting emotionless filler out there. Or that society should somehow compel me to. I kind of feel like I'd be holding my hands in the air and surrendering if I used "lol". Come to think of it...
lol rather looks like a guy with his hands in the air.

And I probably should say, I don't completely distance myself from cyber-acronyms and similar initials. I'll use FTW on occasion, as well as a couple others that escape me just now. But LOL just doesn't do it for me. Nor do OMG or ROFLMAO. And I'll usually use an emoticon in place of "WTF": ¿-⌠ (Tilt your head like you would for :-), and you'll see it. Hopefully.)

Saturday, May 12, 2012

Eight More Favorite Albums

So I thought I'd post something rather more positive after that lash at commercial radio below. Enjoy!

July - July

I can't believe I forgot about this one in the first "Favorite Albums" installment. This is one of the cornerstones of classic British psychedelia.

"Mothers say, stay away far as you can, friendly man."


Boston - Boston

So after my post about commercial "classic rock" radio, I go and endorse the album with More Than a Feeling on it. What the hey? Well, I happen to think that More Than a Feeling retains its freshness and just outruns the blurred line of overplayedness. Indeed, I think that the whole album retains a crisp, fresh and unique sound. Well, maybe Rock & Roll Band is just a bit stale.

"Now you're climbin' to the top of the company ladder / Hope it doesn't take too long / Can't you see there'll come a day when it won't matter / Come a day when you'll be gone."


Ananda Shankar - Ananda Shankar

Ravi's nephew released this marriage of East and West in 1970. I actually haven't spun this in a while; I need to again.

"He belongs equally to us all."


Frank Zappa - Joe's Garage

Zappa takes an utterly horrifying three-LP look at this society's views on music, taken to their logical extremes, as only the supernaturally intelligent Zappa can.

"I've got it — I'll be sullen and withdrawn. I'll dwindle off into the twilight realm of my own secret thoughts...."


Rainbow Ffolly - Sallies Fforth

Something lighter-hearted to follow up the insanity of Joe's Garage: an unfinished, playful pop-psych record from the UK in '68. Excellent pop songwriting, randomish non-sequitur segues....such qualities don't often show up on albums.

"Come on Noah! Eat up your curried unicorn!"


Steve Miller Band - Fly Like an Eagle

Les Paul's eager student flaunts his psychedelic side in 1976 with the finest in outer-space production, but not without acknowledging his roots. Just a captivating listening experience.

"We're lost in space, and the time is our own."


Anonymous - Inside the Shadow

That's just the band's name; they're not actually anonymous. What they are is a thoroughly excellent sort of hybrid of the Byrds, Jefferson Airplane, and maybe a touch of the kind of "power pop" that had established itself by 1976, when this came out. Wonderful, other-worldly sounds from Indianapolis.

"Will you ride?"


Sopwith Camel - The Miraculous Hump Returns From the Moon

From 1972. Think "Vaudeville in space". The album has some nice jazzy touches as well.

"Who's gonna go on all those trips in outer space?"

Monday, May 7, 2012

Fifteen (or Sixteen) Songs That Classic Rock Radio Needs to Forget

The appearance of this topic on here may puzzle many of you. "Cheshire Adams is a well-seasoned veteran of the music blogosphere and just about every musical outlet of the Internet. Why is he wasting space on terrestrial radio? That dump's been dead for years!" Well, suffice it to say that even with the mp3 player and all the contemporary conveniences, I still find myself trapped in a car with a closed-minded family member or two every so often. So I once again turn to my blog as an excuse to get this stuff off my chest. And I'm going to try to pick evenly and fairly from classic rock radio's limited range of artists — one from each overplayed artist.

Queen - Bohemian Rhapsody

I can hear all the Queen lovers and Wayne's World fans getting up in arms over this choice. The truth is, though it's a fine song on its own, cinematically sewing styles together, it has simply been played and heard far too often. Believe me, back when I was making my own mixtapes on cassette (I think I got up to eight and a half), before I discovered the blogosphere, this was on one of them. Alas, the commercial world has utterly robbed this song of its luster and rendered it a mundane lump of rock in a volcanic wasteland. But I may still listen to Weird Al's Bohemian Polka on occasion.


Foghat - Slow Ride

Oh my holy Zarquon, does this song ever end? It just goes on and on and on. It was only so good to begin with. This song has nothing to hold my interest, despite the ending that gradually speeds up as if approaching orgasm. No orgasm here, though; just another mundane "classic rock" radio song.


Foreigner - Cold as Ice

Foreigner left a few candidates for this list: "Hot Blooded", "Feels Like the First Time", "Jukebox Hero" ... but I think this one beats out the other hits in the forgettability department. "Hot Blooded" at least is cheesy in that Seventies style that never gets old. And I suppose I can grant "Jukebox Hero" its "pomp" value.


Pink Floyd - Time / Money

I couldn't decide between the two overplayed Dark Side of the Moon hits, so I picked them both. Hey, "time is money", right? Ha ha. Certainly overexposure renders them the same mind-numbingness that emanates from a radio tuned to a "classic rock" frequency.


The Who - My Generation

Televised and similar commercials might be in part to blame for this song having gotten stale. Sure, it was a vital cultural touchstone when it came out, but now? As Calvin (Hobbes the tiger's human) pointed out in one strip, the generation that created it is now the establishment. The song has become a symbol of the bland, greed-driven baby-boomer corporate culture that's gripped this country in bondage and pleasured itself all up in it. It's repulsive. (It's possible that Townshend and Daltrey realized this after just a few years; "Meet the new boss / same as the old boss", they sang in the Orwellian "Won't Get Fooled Again" in 1971.)


Bad Company - Can't Get Enough

Another band with plenty of choices — "Feel Like Makin' Love" and "Rock & Roll Fantasy" come to mind. This one, I decided, wins the blandness contest among Bad Company's big splashes in the classic rock cesspool.


Led Zeppelin - Whole Lotta Love

It's just been overplayed. Simple as that.


The Rolling Stones - You Can't Always Get What You Want

Use the "world's greatest rock & roll band" protest all you want; this thing is a snoozefest. "Sympathy For the Devil" is cuttin' it close as well.


R.E.M - The One I Love

R.E.M. ain't that great a band to begin with; they're kind of drone-y. This song tries so hard to be something; it's, like, almost there.....! But not quite. Drives me nuts.


The Eagles - Hotel California

Another song that could've been fine if stations would've played this song in greater moderation, even though I feel like I've heard certain musical elements of this song in something older. But the stations haven't done so. Also, I won't diss it outright as an official entry here, but "Peaceful, Easy Feeling" is boring.


Eric Clapton - Wonderful Tonight

All right, boring and overplayed sappy shit!


Stevie Nicks - Edge of Seventeen

Good God, this song just goes on and on and on. Stevie should have stayed with the Mac.


ZZ Top - Tush

Short, mercifully...but still overplayed and boring. Was there some kind of novelty value to this song at one point? 'Cause it's lost now.


Electric Light Orchestra - Don't Bring Me Down

For a non-overplayed take on the main riff here, may I suggest Atomic Rooster's "Can't Take No More"?


....Finally, Journey. I sense some of you have been eagerly awaiting a Journey entry on this list. And I ain't one to disappoint.

Journey - Any Way You Want It

Okay, maybe I do disappoint in that the choice isn't "Don't Stop Believin'", but I ain't quite that "hipster". I pick this song because, in addition to being mundane radio noise with none of the catchiness of DSB, this song also gets regularly whored out in commercials. I make reference to one particular commercial that's using it now in one of the selections in the Facebook roundup that's the post below this one. It's like "Oh my God, not this again! Somebody put a foot-long bullet in my head. So....boring!"


All right, that's all for now. I'm listening to fresher stuff as I type this, so I likely missed a few things that make me change the station. Skynyrd and later-era Aerosmith should probably make an appearance here somewhere. Anyway, have a great day!

EDIT 8-30-12: I'm adding a bonus entry, the suggestion thanks to Brian...

Manfred Mann's Earth Band - Blinded By the Light

This kind of long Springsteen cover is played out. And cutting out the solo doesn't make it much better; it's just kind of there. It could have been all right with lesser airplay, like the Earth Band's other Springsteen cover, "For You". That one has a certain freshness, although I think they chickened out replacing "lick my sores" with "fight my wars".

Okay, bye!