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Tuesday, December 17, 2013

NEW RECORDINGS!

Yes, friends, the rare time when I unleash newly recorded songs is upon us again. The new songs are embedded above.

"Spin" is rock-driving weirdness.

"Pointless Lament" is an easier pop affair which ideally has a longer instrumental break, but my solo guitar skills can only go so far.

"Unemployed on Labor Day" is a folk song — done, of course, with a pop beat. I hope the edits I performed on that one aren't too obvious.

And, finally, a yet-unnamed instrumental piece, of whose time signature I am uncertain; I think a "10" may be involved.

Enjoy!

Thursday, December 12, 2013

"Thanksgivember"

Seems I haven't blogged in a little while. So as not to give the impression that I'm dead, here is what I was doing on Facebook in November, with edits kept to a minimum.

Oh, and do read that article I mention in the twenty-eighth entry. Many things I wanted to say on here but couldn't figure out how to express.

****

In past years, my cousin, among others, has done this "Thirty Days of Thanksgiving" thing wherein each day in November, the participant comes up with one thing for which they're thankful. Given the way I've been feeling of late, I'm going to at least make an attempt at this, just as my own exercise in knowing what's good. See how I fare. Starting with....

....well, how 'bout my aforementioned cousin, who did this the past two years and managed to keep most every entry engaging. Always one of my favorite people — an honestly loving fan of peace, cats, and all things good. Sense of humor, too. Hope to soon be in your metro, cous'. (I keep these statuses "public"; I can tag you if you like.)


Today on Thanksgiving Theatre:

The 1971 Alvarez acoustic six-string that is nestled inside my gig bag just behind me to my right. I feel so naked and incomplete when it's not with me. (I'm still incomplete, but I'm much better.) Sometimes I even get to play it, and I think I do pretty well, considering my wholly unorthodox style.


This fine extended Sunday in the land of Thanks: An extra hour of sleep. Pity it only happens once a year. This orb spins far too fast for my taste.

I will also cast a vote for bagels and lox.


Forth comes the fourth:

One of the few upsides of being forever unemployed is that I'm generally not bound to routinely rising at obscene hours of the morning. I honestly have no idea how I ever made it through middle and high school. College, though better with scheduling, remains an enigma in my head, despite seven and a half years of imprisonment there. My natural circadian rhythm seems to be that of a different planet, drifting through all bits of the Earth day through the days. I rather do prefer to stay true to (my) nature.


Harmonic Fifth:

In some years, and perhaps in some places, this would be Election Day here in the States. Traditionally, I've kept my politics on the blog and off of here, but I want today to acknowledge "the good guys" — the ones who believe in, and work toward, equality, opportunity, basic health and dignity, and peace, for everybody. (Here's a hint: Many of the "good guys" are not guys.) I do believe, conceivably naïvely, that we're going to see more of them in power fairly soon — maybe even enough of them to make a difference.


Sixth and stones may break for a few minutes:

The fact that I am done with college and academia. I speak from eight years and five or so varied majors of imprisonment there: It is a cold, lonely, isolating experience that is absolutely not worth twenty thousand a semester (unless you're really really really into being cold, lonely and isolated). Now I'm still cold, lonely and isolated, but at least I'm not rushing into deadlines for a price that a corporation would be lucky to afford (because corporations are totally people who go to college and everything). Something went terribly, terribly wrong with our education system somewhere along the line.


Unseventhed bread:

As sort of a follow-up to yesterday's entry in the "thankful" series (the relevance will become apparent), I remember my aunt Cookie. For the bulk of her story, you can check my archived blog entry. About half a year after I posted that entry, she was finally, mercifully, relieved from her earthly condition and memorialized in typically cold Chicagoland winter sunshine. She had no children, thus leaving my cousin and me as beneficiaries. Though my memory of her actual personality fades — she was sweet, I can say that much — my inheritance from her just about exactly satisfied my student loans, therefore relieving me of all but health insurance payments to haunt me all my days.

So, Cookie, many thanks for memories of happy times (I don't much mention them on the blog, but we had good holidays together in the old days) and for a significantly less dark time now. I hope you are enjoying peace and happiness in the next world, whatever it may be.


Livin' on th'eighth:

As long as I'm on aunts, I gotta shout out to my "main" one — my one remaining immediate aunt, who has stayed close with me and mine, lending graces, support, advice, and all things good through the years. Excellent host, award-winning care professional, mother of my cousin, and all-around solid-minded person. Also, she's on here (in tastefully limited doses). Hi Auntie dearest! Σ:+)


Number nine.... (repeat a few times)

("Ninth" is a really awkward word. Nothing appears to rhyme with it. I cannot think of anything clever to do with it.)

The fact that my family finally has something in the works to get the %$@& out of these flatlands. No offense to my friends who live here, but this town has nothing to offer me — no jobs, no truly close friendships, never mind romance — nothing. Yay for change! And yay once again for my cousin, who essentially led the way to the new metro! In fact, most immediate family is at our destination this weekend. Hi family! Snuggle the cats for me!


For all in tenths and purposes:

We are living in an age where technology has made it such that quick, clean transit to different pieces of geography is very much possible and nearly always at hand.

This is, of course, a doubly-edged sword that requires a sure, steady hand.......


The eleventh in the room:

Given what my feed on here looks like right now, this must be Veterans' Day. Now, I've honestly never quite figured out how I feel about soldiers past or present. I'm sure historically a great many fought for things they actually believed in and were genuinely convinced that they, their nation-state, and their actions were right. I'm sure they generally don't deserve to be stripped of domestic dignities, as seems to be a thing in the political world here. And I realize, from the back of my mind, tales of my grandfathers fighting in the second "world war", an event that is probably more talked about and referenced in culture and contemporary life than any other.

So in an effort to keep my offense to a minimum, I will respectfully acknowledge everybody who played a role in shaping the world into something we can recognize today (It's not easy). I wish you peace, love, happiness, and perhaps even some *tangible* survival benefits.


See for your twelfth:

This is my parents' wedding anniversary. We celebrated with a nice meal out this past evening — stuffed mushrooms, calamari, salad, shared entrees including creamy rigatoni and chicken piccata, crème brulee — majestic stuff. We celebrated the evening *before* the actual day, because later today, my mother must leave me, father, and the dogs alone for a while to look after *her* mother, who lives on rather a different continent. So the time seems just appropriate to dedicate an entry in my "thankful" series to the folks — especially..........Mom.

Mom is undoubtedly the brains of our little three-piece vehicle in the cornfields. She has our finest financial sensibility; she seems to instinctively know all the little things in domestic life that simply don't come naturally to father or me; she showed the lion's share of interest in and attention to me as I developed; she "sure can cook!"; and, as we and time have evolved, she greatly splits with me the task of looking after father (while she still looks after me to an extent).

We don't always see eye to eye on things. She still scoffs at the "Cheshire Adams" moniker; I suspect she always will. Our world views and basic philosophies are forever at odds with each other. Our mutual tastes are next to nil beyond the realm of food. But at the heart of the matter, she's kept me sheltered, fed, clothed, and comfortable. And those are pretty damn advantageous qualities.

So here's to Mom, a 'Book dweller among my friends here. I bid you a safe and pleasant journey across the globe, as well as health to Grandma and everybody. I'll be waiting for you over here......alone.....with father......and the dogs......and.......



OH GODS PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME


Lucky thirteenth: Mother is at grandma's place intact. Yay!

Fourteenth or againtht them?:

A bot cannot replace me.

Σ;+)


(Editor's note: At the time of the fourteenth entry, the 'Book feed was flooded with people playing with an app called "What Would I Say?" that read the users' statuses and produced mostly nonsensical word strings based thereon, signed "-[user]bot".)

Out of my brain on this fine fifteenth:

A day shall come when I will never again have to do suburban yard work.


Sweet sixteenth:

Hugs.

Most any time I can get 'em, I'll give 'em. This culture is nearly devoid of friendly physical touch — much to its detriment, I firmly believe. We're hardly close with anybody anymore. Physical proximity just may promote mental/spiritual proximity. And if nothing else, it's something I can give in the absence of items or funds.

(Conceivably related note: family Thanksgiving tomorrow! Yay!)


Edge of seventeenth: These all-too-elusive *joyous* family gatherings.

(posted a considerable number of hours before the event, so that I may be enjoying the actual event rather than checking into cyberspace all throughout it. Ya dig?)


What I eighteenth:

Cranberry sauce, pickles, dark meat, shrimp, pasta, cake, pie, chocolate, and all other edible delights.

Thanks also to the family and friends that allowed me to partake in festivities this past day!


Nineteenth new-Facebook-down:

Music.

I can't imagine too many of you who are friends with me requiring an explanation of this, so suffice it to say that life would suffer greatly without it.


Where you twentieth (h/t EJ):

A follow-up to yesterday's entry: The fact that, so far, I have been able to freely engage in discovery and sharing of musics without legal consequence. Supposedly, some countries have essentially banned music altogether. So far, this country has managed to fight the suits to an extent. Keep it up.

Also, that there have been people with whom to share and discuss music in cyberspace. My tastes tend to not grant me many friends in physical proximity.

Here, for instance, is the song I reference in the heading, a light psych affair from Norway. Enjoy while you can; there's a message on the top of the page that reads "Hi, United States JUZP is upgrading. music will be filtered. sorry for rare interruption". (But I do assure you, Kaspersky doesn't mind the common site among Google Video search results.)


Twenty-first (Ambrosia):

One more in the music section: Not only that I can indulge in the music of others, but that I have also been able to craft a certain amount of original material. This, to me, definitively states that I am a unique being — passion incarnate — rather than a clone who accepts whatever trash the powers that be have decided is popular and right. Whose was that quote about having created something? It's made the rounds on here often enough. It's something like that. Create! Firmly establish yourself as alive in this world!

Also, natch, the contemporary technology that allows me (and many) to upload my recordings to a place where they can be heard anywhere there is internet. Given the heading, I cannot resist linking to my relevant song here once again......


Twenty-second to none:

This.

The only dog I ever cared for.



Twenty-third in the punchbowl:

I sense this series has worn thin. Either I'm running on a premise that was stale two years ago, or I've bared maybe just a little too much of my inner mind. So for your Saturday, I nominate feedback and honest discussion, wherever and whenever it may be offered. Too often we, as a species, ditch the truth in favor of "politeness" or some such thing. Truth is, there is absolutely nothing polite about silence as a response to a thought. Anyone who responds with silence may as well not exist. And lying through your teeth (or keys, or touchpad) is just bad for everyone. Speak your mind. Don't hold back. You look fat, and that's perfectly fine.


Packs of twenty-fourth:

Warmth.

Physical or personable, I thrive on 'em all. These flatlands are a bit short of the physical on this late November day; luckily, our house has nicely functioning heating. And I suspect you all know by now what I think of this country's overall personality these days.....


Twenty-fifth to serve:

Laughter. Science-proven natural medicine. However downward we may spiral, we must always remember (how) to laugh. Beware the ones who lack a sense of humor; they are a certain ticket to misery.

Here is a YouTube channel that features just about the entirety of the UK Whose Line is it Anyway (and related shows), a show that picks up after the first two or three seasons and is much less rigidly censored than the US version.

By the way, what makes you laugh? Comment away!


Twenty-sixth and tired:

I don't feel the pressure of deadlines and strict following of artificial rules, and so on days like this when my brain is a blank, I can post something quick and stupid like this. Or nothing.

:+)~


Twenty-seventh heaven:

Cats.

'Nuff said.



Twenty-eighth — Chanukiving, or Thanksgivukah, or "I'm not prepared for this!":

Just before I posted the link to this article yesterday, I tweeted the author, "To put it simply: Thank you for that piece." He courteously responded: "You're very welcome. Thanks for the thanks." And that just seems about right. So, for your once-in-seven-eons celebration today, I nominate for ...."Chanoveming"? (Thanksgivember + Chanukiving.... I dunno. Ain't portmanteaus fun?)......

Gratitude. It's easy to lose or forget in contemporary society, where everything is relentlessly slung at you in mass quantities. How do we react when we're stuck in traffic in our cars with climate-control and high-definition audio systems in a spot beyond cell phone signal reception? Or when a long-time bug-and-incompetence-plagued cyber-hangout that we frequented nonetheless is shutting down? How do we treat the conceivably imperfect families that took us in and accept(ed) us?

Some food for thought to accompany the food for the twice-over holiday.

Happy travels (I'm about to see to my own),
~C.A.~


Tie-dyed (not black) twenty-ninth:

A certain wit and wordsmithery. It's gotten me bugger-all in life beyond cyberspace so far, but it is such good free, noncommercial fun, ain't it?


Down and thirtieth:

Finally, in a moment of blatant pandering, I would like to acknowledge all of *you* for keeping me entertained and relatively sane in these trying times that don't have to try very hard, and for at least putting up with this Thanksgivember nonsense and some of my politics revealed herein. I don't have many places I can go, so it's nice to have a friendly virtual place.

I know you're sorry to see this series end, so I'll ask you: What would you like to see from me in your cybertravels? Little observations? Youtube Facebook DJing? Words and links of sociopolitical conscience? Or maybe just bad puns and cat pictures? Clue me in if you have a preference.

Decent December, descendants! (h/t Wim)

Monday, October 21, 2013

Monday, October 21, 2013

Ten days to Halloween. Or is it "Hallowe'en"? Whatever it is, it allows certain novelty shops to exist in buildings that used to contain renowned chain stores. There's a meme floating around that shows one in place of what used to be a major Tower Records installment. Whether that's true or not, I don't know, but in my town, the former Circuit City building and the former Blockbuster Video building are now both Halloween "Spook-taculars" or some such play on words. Novelty shops make a pleasant disguise for the scary reality that is our gop-led country and economy, don't they?

"Spook-tacular". I'm awfully sick of these Halloween-themed puns. It's the same ones every year. Halloween's no fun anymore. Everything's been sanitized. Can 27-year-olds like me trick-or-treat? Probably not. Cops would be on me like Anthony Weiner on a mobile device. Or something. I used to be better at hip celebrity/politician jokes. But it's a shame; I think an adult desperately seeking free candy in a bad economy is wonderfully spooky and in spirit. Also a shame that I have no costume party to go to this year; I'd rent a suit and go as a gop. Just as well, though; I ain't got the dough to rent that suit.

Here, have a photo from last year's party instead. The "pharaoh" is a long-time friend and classmate's brother. I didn't really have any ideas, so I just took my old black cape that I've had since I was small enough to trip over it, stuck it over my best tie-dye Dead shirt, and called myself "Super Outsider".



Back to the future, which is murder. ("Live in London" version there; tremendous release, LiL.) How 'bout that government shutdown? I don't have much to say about it myself; it's all fast become a blur to me. Sequester, debt ceiling, shutdown, stalemate, congress — all these words are just noise now — like a parade of garbage trucks on the other side of the front door except nonessential. (Get it?) Things are bad; I know it. I don't have hopes the least bit high for myself when I go to test for a temporary, non-social job on Tuesday, let alone anybody else for longer periods.

Ah, but haven't I whined on here enough about my distaste for this anti-social, roboticized, outsourced western society?

Something I've noticed lately is this:

Almost everybody I encounter, be it in person or via media images, their faces look almost exactly the same. Same features, same demeanor, same style of movements — male or female, black or white, senior citizen or six-month-old. I don't know how well I can describe this face, or expression; it kind of seems like the wearer is in a deep haze of thought — one from which it's highly dubious that they will ever emerge. Often their mouth is hung slightly open; their head smoothly and very slowly bobs. I have no idea what this means, if anything; it's only the last couple weeks that I've really noticed it. Just a passing thought, perhaps, that I'm passing along to cyberspace with the fantasy that a fellow traveler will know exactly what I mean and excitedly say so.

These are the thoughts that flit through one part of my head as another feels nasty sinus pressure that helps prevent me sleeping.

I bid you as pleasant a Monday as you can experience in your current circumstance.

Thursday, October 10, 2013

Is Feedspot a thing?

If so, and you're from it, please comment here.

I want to know that people are out there.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Spin (draft)

Country dawn
illuminates a scene familiar
rolling on
and ever slowly getting hillier

naked eye
will not suit up and scour this landscape
find out why
its trail would want to make an escape

pioneers
figments of a mass dreamt past
it disappears
these phone translations never last

big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
spinnin', spinnin'
in the mud

room to shout
with none to hear or heed the call
too far out
alike its host revolving ball

big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
spinnin', diggin'
in the mud

too blind to know it's stuck in place
unfed it just keeps on with its race
keeping up its frantic pace
the motions slowly wear away its face
without aid it soon will be erased
senselessly lain to waste
if there's help, it must make haste
someone, bestow your grace!

naked, I
will not fare well and likely perish
left to die
alone within this evening fairish

country dusk
renders all a single item
flea or husk
they hurtle on into the night

big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
big wheel keeps spinnin'
spinnin', diggin'
in the mud

big wheel keeps spinnin'
keeps on spinnin'
diggin' deeper
in the mud..........

Saturday, September 28, 2013

I Got Dem Ol' Isolation Blues Again, Mama

(Mom, for once, try to read past the fact that I mention you.)

For those who have never met me in person, I occasionally meow.

Just like a cat, yes. Sometimes I'll meow just quickly as a reaction to a minor, unexpected stimulus. Other times, I'll give a friendly *rowr!* to the family as a short way of saying "I'm awake, sort of; Hi!" Sometimes I'll hiss in moments of passing irritation. And, sometimes, I'll meow loudly and repeatedly from the other room as a reaction to a major, twenty-seven-year ongoing stimulus. A few minutes ago, before I started writing this thing, was one of these latter times. After a few vocalizations, my mother said from the other room, "Why are you behaving like a cat?"

I was in bed, for having nothing else to do and no place to go and just being depressed, and it took me a moment to think of an answer for that question. The one I came up with was this:

I guess I feel denied status as a member of the humans, so I'm trying something else.

I wasn't invited to my family's dinner out tonight. They went with their friend in the only car I could drive, not long after my mother had asked me "Why don't you go out tonight?". So I stayed here, fed the dogs, and went for a sleep as I marinated some more in the knowledge that I am completely goddamn fucking alone.

Cyberspace just ain't cuttin' it. I need people. Close friends. I have no siblings. My only direct cousin is a six-hour drive away in a car I don't own. No one's hiring me. Never had a really close friend growing up. Maybe three or four casual friends at best. The average 27-year-old seems to have a job, a spouse, their own place, and maybe even a kid or two. I've never even had a girlfriend. I did have a minor job twice and a fraction, but no more.

I haven't posted anything purely autobiographical in a while; I'm sure all my readers have missed that. Here's where we (my family and I) supposedly are now:

My folks are aiming to move to a retirement community in the greater Nashville metro. "The 615" was selected because it's where my cousin lives (albeit way on the other side of the metro from the retirement community). It would — will? — be my greatest pleasure to not live in Bumfuck, Illinois anymore and actually be within earshot of a major downtown. Here's the thing, though: it won't be until next spring at earliest — if it happens. For all I know, we may lose on the bidding on the lots, which happens this coming month. (Parts of the community have not yet been built.) Then there's my undecided aunt, who might move into the same house, get a separate house in the community, or possibly just stay in Chicago; this will affect finances. But, any way you slice it, barring actual help from my cybercommunity, I'm stuck right here in nowhere at least until probably April, with no place to go and no one to connect with when I get there.

Earlier this week, I did actually try stopping by my old university "sanctuary" across town — the disability "rehab" center, where I worked for two years until I could no longer actually work at the computer. It's a shame; the people there were, and by and large still are, friendly and great. But though we worked in the same room, we didn't really work together most of the time, and my will to work alone just tanked. Since I seem to lack a natural social life, I need a social job to balance myself. Anyway, there were and are good people there, to the point where there was frequently dessert available. This past Monday or Tuesday (I forget which) was no exception; a more recently hired employee whom I hadn't met yet had brought in cake. With fondant — but cake nonetheless. Further talks with everyone revealed the reason for the cake: That employee had just ....... gotten married.

Married. Another one removed from my partner-selection pool in a happy ceremony of which I wasn't a part. Everybody and their mother is either getting married or otherwise participating in a wedding. The pictures intersperse sponsored posts by Facebook, music "videos", and pictures of food from my "food group" in my 'Book feed. That food group is chock full of playful, loose-tongued females, and I'm willing to bet my lack of funds that, despite the suggestive banter, every last one of them is married. (
Edit: Yay, one isn't!) (Although, really, what single person is driven to cook a full meal for no one?) But, their marital status is moot anyway, because, guess what? None of them live anywhere near me. One's near St. Louis. That's as close as they come. This applies to everybody. They're either buried in the deep South or on one of the coasts. Why the hell do I keep cyber-befriending people on the coasts? When I see people going on about how beautiful and perfect it is by the bay in California, I feel a dull rage, thrashing somewhat like a distant kettle drum roll, or possibly like how I imagine ocean waves sounding as they wash on the shore below in a place that has "ocean", "shore", "above" and "below". And I want so badly to punch Brian Williams every time he gets sentimental about some New York institution that "SO MANY of us" have enjoyed, from the Sandy-ravaged Boardwalk to today's retirement of the Yankees' long-time closer. Why the fuck does the Yankees closer get to be on the national evening news? If it were the Cubs, would they grant him so much as a brief mention? Fuck the Yankees and all these self-righteous New York humpers. Save that shit for your local broadcasts. The rest of us don't need to see or hear you masturbating.

But I'm rambling now. At least in language. Maybe someday I'll get to "ramble" in a more physical sense. While I was discussing my situation — guitar in tow — with the friendly staff at the rehab center, a couple different people suggested that, when I get to Nashville, I just pick a spot on the downtown streets — Broadway ought to accommodate nicely — and pick at my guitar. I can't do that here, but I can most certainly do it there. See who salutes and how strongly. I also mentioned the possibility of trying that "Go Fund Me" site I've seen going around; my State contact was on board with that idea. If anyone takes that seriously, I can have at least *some* sort of income in this awkward time where, in the unlikely event that I do get hired here in the flatlands, I couldn't stay for long before moving to greener pastures, so to speak. Greater Nashville does seem to be rapidly growing. I don't know if it can match up to the coasts in terms of potential friends I can fully connect with, but, with luck, I can find out for sure.....


Couple other thoughts on the subject since I posted this almost two days ago:

After a couple months in the Nashville metro, the family plan is to put me in an apartment. Don't you love that word, "apartment"? I'm apart enough already. What I need is a "togetherment". But that's not a thing in this country, is it? It's not even a thing in our language.

It's that independence motif again — the undercurrent in Western thought and culture that other people suck and that there's no point in pursuing, nay, being, a counterexample. The likely mass self-projected belief that everybody is out to "get" us, which we use to justify primitively selfish behavior: hoarding all the goods we can in our spaces, and never allowing anyone else into those spaces because they will undoubtedly rob us blind and possibly lifeless, because that's what we apparently would do. So the shut-outs get more deprived and desperate, violent incidents spiral through the ionosphere, and nothing is gained but loss. Even now, in my tiny corner of the flatlands from which I type, I'm hearing more sirens from beyond the window than I've ever done.

And apparently I — we? — should just sit back, accept, and be one with, the vile chaos.

There was something else I wanted to say here, but it escapes me just now.

Love.

Thursday, September 26, 2013

Thirst (Ambrosia) is recorded and available for listening and downloading!

It is tacked on to the end of the Demos set above!

(I also removed the live "Now What" and the eighteen-minute Dead cover; if anyone misses them, let me know.)

Monday, September 16, 2013

Unemployed on Labor Day (draft)

Oven heated frozen pizza
unemployed on Labor Day
no one's preppin' veggies or meats, I'm
unemployed on Labor Day
Chicago's hosting much too brief
downstate pounds me with grief
cannot lie or be a thief
unemployed on Labor Day

ain't worked since the day of Valentines
unemployed on Labor Day
that gig earned me five thin dimes
which didn't make it to Labor Day
Mothers' Day they called me back
learned it two months after the fact
feelin' like I might soon crack
unemployed on Labor Day

résumés spread like disease
unemployed on Labor Day
applications are a breeze
unemployed on Labor Day
wasted time and wasted ink
wasted mind and I don't drink
into madness I slowly sink
unemployed on Labor Day

can't talk to a human anymore
unemployed on Labor Day
cybernetics determine the score
unemployed on Labor Day
all the local pages redirect
to the same useless mainstream drek
with these machines I just can't connect
unemployed on Labor Day

unknown in a forgotten land
unemployed on Labor Day
forsaken by my fellow man
unemployed on Labor Day
next one to tell me GET A JOB
is gettin' motherfuckin' clobbered
hire me or let me sob
I'm unemployed on Labor Day

oven heated frozen pizza
unemployed on Labor Day
you know I'm tired of these low-budget eats, and
unemployed on Labor Day
city's hosting much too brief
country just pounds me with grief
if I lived near water, I'd kiss reef
I'm unemployed.....

Friday, August 23, 2013

Speak of it in a Soft, Sharp Whisper Some More

Good luck with this post. Certain amount of made-up language here. And that may be the least of my problems....

A while back, I took perhaps something of a risk and posted publicly about a most bizarre, possibly genetic, and delightfully euphoric phenomenon for anyone who, like me, gets it. What follows is just sort of an improvised disorganization of some further thoughts on the topic of what the 'Net has come to call "Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response", or ASMR. I just call it "meridian" myself, except on Twitter, whose format makes "#ASMR" advantageous. "Meridian" just sounds better than "a-ess-em-arr", doesn't it? Rolls off the tongue better, certainly.

One so-called "ASMRtist" came to follow me on the blue bird network. This is not someone whose work I had encountered previously, but unlike many people, most of whom follow me and then unfollow me a couple days later, she had the courtesy to respond when I sent her a greeting. (That's what I do when I gain a follower; I warmly greet them. I have thirty-six followers. I know the most recent one won't stay; they've not acknowledged my three-and-a-half-day-old greeting. Why do I keep getting sidetracked into people being anti-social on social networks? Ah, well...) Therefore, I took her to be someone worth investigating. I plugged in and donned my headphones, brought up her 'Tube channel, picked out a video that looked like my audio realm, and put it on.



Just short of 43 minutes. (By the way, I usually just listen to these meridian videos while they play and I look at other tabs. It's all about the audio; no reason to just sit here watching 'em. Eyes can be otherwise engaged all the while.) Maybe some gamers are actually paying wide-eyed attention to this material; an attractive, young female is whispering about their favorite thing! And that's fine; I will wholeheartedly grant that. But I do feel a need to say this: The meridian is quite strongly triggered in the beginning. However, as the video plays on, the effect diminishes, and by the half-hour mark, due either to natural exhaustion of whatever it is off which the meridian feeds, or to my own mind drifting into 2012 Appalachia or 13,291 Mediterranea and therefore away from the video audio, the meridian has gone for the moment, leaving only a sort of ambient audio piece I'm hearing, featuring whispers and the occasional click of a button or other item. Of course, ambiance can still be soothing in the more traditional sense; it's soft and gentle and capable of comfort. But the meridian, the supernatural euphoria darting yet beyond the reach of our human comprehension, has fled, to return another time soon.

A number of patrons of YouTube's "ASMarts" have chimed in with comments of gratitude, some claiming that the videos help put them to sleep. This is an interesting idea. The meridian-less, soothing ambiance that the, uh, "muggle" (unfortunate soul who doesn't get meridian) would get from the experience of listening to whispering (or tapping/crinkling/etc.) could certainly serve as a lullaby of sorts. (I just realized, a "lullaby" is "a" thing "by" which to "lull" to relative sedation. Ha ha.) But does meridian, when it happens, come with the standard hormones that could calm the person to sleep? In my high school, we had a choice between either physics or anatomy; I went with physics, so I'm kind of making things up about anatomy. But despite fairly frequently emerging from meridian indulgence (maybe there should be a word for "indulging in meridian", the way we have "masturbate" for "indulge in the pursuit of sexual orgasm"; "meristurbating"?) without feeling the least notable bit sleepier than before I clicked ►, I do have to wonder if the non-sexual upper-body euphoria is related to similar .....dopamine?.....releases within the body as with the traditional sexual orgasm. With traditional sexual orgasms, I usually — but not always! — do feel rather sleepy in the immediate aftermath. Or maybe that's because I tend to masturbate in bed, right before I'm aiming to sleep anyway, so it could be a bit skewed.* No, I still recall feeling sleepy in class during high school when having my private, hands-free sub-orgasm sexual euphoriae in my pants. Then again, why wouldn't I have been sleepy in class? Damn thing started at eight in the morning every friggin' weekday.

Meridian really does need some actual scientific studies. Control groups! Muggles and ....non-muggles. (Did we decide on a name for people who get meridian? I don't know.) Male and female. Young and old. Times of day. Intervals between meridian indulgences. See if there's a correlation between non-mugglehood and certain other selective genetic traits. Can non-muggles generally also wiggle their ears, or curl their tongue into a U? I can tell you that for me, just as I tend to feel meridian more strongly on the right than the left, so I am also better at wiggling my right ear than my left. My tongue curls nicely when so driven, and, for some reason, while I am right-handed, my left hand does the better "live long and prosper". And, I think we gotta compare personality types across the board. Are non-muggles ("meridianists"? "meridiots"? Help!) generally less violent than their unfortunate counterparts? You know, make orgasms, not war? Ahhh.....

Meridian needs scientific studies — if we can turn enough people on to the idea that the phenomenon exists. The very idea of it is still rather emerging, ever gradually, from our digitally collected conscience and risking making muggles bitter and angry. It ain't made its way into too many renowned publications, but I think it is, ever gradually, as I say, gaining momentum. Some of the 'Tube meridian community, according to one of the other videos on Donna's account, have evidently collaborated to produce a documentary about it. I recognized in that video one particular "ASMRtist" ⒜ whom I take to be the ambassador of meridian and its community to the world, and ⒝ whose videos I've most certainly enjoyed the most (often) since I discovered this whole technological revolution on the matter. I'll embed one of hers here: simple speaking and stereo close-up ear-to-ear whispers — in Russian, because, as with the German above, it's chock full of consonants, and the content of the words is like the points on Whose Line — it doesn't matter one bit. Also, it's significantly shorter than the above, at a mere 12.24. (Again, headphones are essential!)



Nobody so far triggers my left side like Maria. (Sounds like an old song, right there.)

Trying to think if there was more I wanted to say now while I'm on this topic. I can't stand reality television, but my mother gladly watches Big Brother, among other atrocities. I haven't talked at all explicitly aloud about meridian, but I did mention to Mom as I was passing through: "The one good thing about Big Brother is, sometimes they whisper." "What? What does that have to do with anything?" "I like whispering. Whispering is good. It's soothing." "[shakes head] That's one of the weirdest things you've said! You've said a lot of weird things, but this is one of the weirdest!" Yes, perhaps it is. Probably because, although I'm not about to listen to a Big Brother marathon with headphones (I know I said content doesn't matter, but please...), I have one of the weirdest phenomena in mind.



P.S. I wonder how I would react to an actual person whispering directly to me. Maybe....some day.....



Edit 2014-5-3: A third meridian post



*While there is no apparent sexual connection to meridian, I will often get one single meridian-style euphoric SHOT down my right side while I'm in bed and have just turned on to my side for sleep after sexually masturbating to climax. Actually, I'll sometimes run my thumbnails against the pillow and blanket right up by either ear while I'm in bed and "meristurbate" that way.

Au Naturel?

While crawling through my 'Book feed a few days ago, I chanced upon a friend's thread, all about whether or not women ought to ever shave any part of them — pits, legs, something in between — any part. I couldn't immediately think of something to say about it, so I went on with my unemployed day, dodging family and cruising in Street View. (Side note: I've actually discovered Geoguessr since I posted that link from May; however, I've momentarily taken a break from landing in Brasil every game and getting super-annoyed in Russia. I have nothing against Brasil, mind you; I'm sure it's as fine a country as one can find in South America. I just prefer a little more variety in my blind-drop nations. As for Russia, it seems rather a chaotic place. Driving there is obviously insane; even though Street View images are static, it shows. And I'm sure everyone's heard about them a fair amount in the news. They'll harbor the whistleblower Snowden, but they'll hard-labor-imprison most of Pussy Riot while they thrash homosexuals and the like in various manners. In my yearning for world travels, I think I'll pass on the old Soviet master.) ......Where was I? Women's body hair, right. And as I clicked down the winding road, something struck me. This became my comment.

*~*~*~*

I'm fiddling around in Street View right now, as I'm all too wont to do. At the moment, I'm in a piece of Appalachia. There are bits where the imagery wavers between old, low-def 2008 imagery and new, hi-def 2012 imagery. Aside from the vastly improved resolution, there are obvious roads that didn't quite exist in 2008. This is difficult for my life-long midwest-bound mind to grasp, but, in Appalachia, it is necessary to carve into hills to make room for roads. Most of the roads run through the spaces formerly occupied by the now-erased bits of hill, leaving all this exposed rock.

While the exposed rock at the roadside is a kind of exotica to me in the corn fields, it is also, when I get down to it, kind of bizarre. There's all this wonderful green around, and then, every last bit of a sudden, there's this odd wall of lifeless tan. As newly done as it is, there isn't a blade of grass in the whole thing — at least, until I get to where it isn't quite so new, and nature has started to reclaim that lost real estate at the roadside in its way. The newer exposed rock looks decidedly unnatural and a tad off-putting.

It rather reminded me of this thread, which I saw earlier. ★

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Pointless Lament (draft)

The song took a little bit to write after the idea behind it started forming. It's still rather taking that bit. Here's what the lyrics look like as I head to bed couch. (As it happens, my aunt from out of town is here tonight and using what's usually my bed.)

Countless orbs in space
fortune may grant one
with all the right
sparks for life
a proper distance from its sun
and resources are abound
but filler's much more rife
chance may deliver
yes she may give her
self up for the sake of life

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless static grey
scattered semblances of oases
may distract you along the way
and there are miles of barren wasteland
where it seems like nothing's there
don't it seem like hard times drag right on
the good times seem so rare

Seven days a week
fortune may grant two
to pause your quest
take a rest
and do the things you wanna do
and the months pass by
before a high
holiday comes around
and then's your chance
to see your aunts
and everyone else you love from out of town

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless numbing grey
scattered semblances of oases
may dissuade you along the way
and there are scores of heartless zombies
separating folks who care
don't you see the hard times stretch right on
and the good times seem so rare

Billions of earth-bound souls
fortune may grant three
to cherish you
care for you
accept you as true family
you'll hunt for words of wisdom
among sheer droves of jive
in eons and eons of pure void
there's just this short time we're alive

and it's a long long road between bases
relentless static grey
enigmas behind kindly faces
may divert you along the way
amid the miles of barren wasteland
where life just seems so bare
don't you feel the hard times plod right on
while the good times seem so rare

yeah it's a long long road between bases
relentless numbing grey
scattered semblances of oases
just might help you along the way
but there are hordes of heartless zombies
masquerading as folks who care
don't it seem the hard times trudge right on
and the good times are so rare

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Thirst (lyrics)

One of my usual isolated angst rooted pop-rockers.

A dog eat dog world
ain't got much place for cats
such cannibal animals
just ain't where it's at

where'm I gonna run to
where'm I gonna go
who will I meet there
will either of us show

This courtship
don't short shrift
leave me on my own
your grain waves
your brain waves
shake me to the bone

who'm I gonna turn to
is it worth the trip
I need full nourishment
more than just a sip

Ambrosia
nectar of the gods
Ambrosia
tie the ends and odds
Ambrosia
I ain't got a lotta time

Ambrosia
you taunt my mortal reach
Ambrosia
my sense of hope you breach
what holds ya
speakin' out is not a crime

this dog eat dog world
ain't for no one but the birds (and nasty curs)
we manifest at a test
of sheer power of our words (and we hope we're heard)

it's time we gotta act, now
for so long we've rehearsed
you recognize my needs
you can quench my thirst

Ambrosia
in my cones and rods
Ambrosia
tie those ends and odds
I told ya
pretty soon I gotta fly

Major-Minor (lyrics)

I still haven't quite figured out exactly how the music for this goes, but I can tell you that it's a highly Beatlesque piece, ideally played on a piano (which is not at all my instrument) and featuring copious slick musical references to the likes of Tintern Abbey, The Aerovons, Badfinger, "I Am the Walrus", some other things, and, as you may guess from these lyrics....."Hey Jude".

Hey Judas
don't make it worse
it's pretty bad
as it stands

your music
has scapes and verse
that belie
a crooked man

you waltzed into our hearts
with mass collections of the arts
you gladly shared
as though you cared

then we gave control you never had
and all since then we all too badly fared
we're past repair
what has you scared?

Hey Judas
please leave my skin
so I'll begin
to improve

'cause my mood is
so paper thin
it's prone to snap
right in two

the damage done, the havoc wreaked
you and the barkeep streaked
right down the hall
no last call

now I've got to say, your new dark days
your wily silent ways
of handling all
just appall
you just appall

where's the harmony (it's gone)
hear the harmony (in my song)
where's the harmony (all gone)
here you're harmin' me (what did I do wrong)

Hey Judas
yer scary mug
gonna get
counter-clocked some day

'cause your ass
is way too smug
and I sense
it's high time you paid

Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh
Aaaaahhhh......

Tuesday, July 23, 2013

"A lot of people would be thinking, 27, what have you got to complain about."

So commented a friend on the Silliest Ffourth entry, two down.

The sheer stagnation.

My own life seems to be going at a pace slowed to half the norm. My body is 27; that would put every other aspect of me to roughly 13½. I'm living in a small house with yappy dogs and parents that loudly and gracelessly snore, burp and obstruct. I have no job, and I have never had even a temporary romantic partner. All around me, everybody's getting married and having kids. Even this past day, the world, or at least the media, has gone gaga for royal goo-goo. (Why does America care? Hell, why does Britain care? Useless figureheads. Leave them alone! Man, this new baby's life is gonna be hell.) The rate I'm going, my body will be 35 by the time I get to be with somebody.

Everybody's getting married. One of my favorite old co-workers with whom I'm cyberfriends came up in my feed this past Friday as having her wedding; I'd known she was engaged, but I hadn't known the wedding date. Me, I managed to find a wedding that I could attend on Saturday, namely, that of my mother's best friend's daughter, whom I hadn't seen in rather a number of years. It was a small town wedding, just up 150 a bit, in a small church — low-key and fairly pleasant. Reception in the next town's American Legion post; food unremarkable but got the job done (I love me some pasta salad); cake curiously sweet and far too plain — no filling at all; music by and large horrendous. Also, I only got to talk to the bride and groom once. But other than the song that busted out with "LET ME SEE YOUR TITS", an overall decent and happy time. That feeling lasted through most of Monday.

So, back to jobless, isolated, lonely reality, wherein my new improved health insurance bill has arrived. I want to leave online social media for a while, but I have no place else to go. Dating sites require payment. I gaze helplessly at pictures of people with cats and food. I "Like" some of those pictures. One friend just found somebody. I dig that friend very much, and I hope it works for them. Somebody talks about all the frogs around. My mind produces a 404 page; I have never seen a frog in my life. Somebody else invites me to an "Event" at least a hundred fifty miles away from me. On Twitter, I follow Neko Case for some reason. She's single — yay — but all the posts about traveling do their best to persuade me to unfollow her. She and plenty of others speak of New York. Fuck. I put on something by the Diogenes Club and space out a bit. I play some obsessive rounds of Boggle against the computer; I win more often than I lose or tie. I destroy "bubbles" by matching three or more of the same color. I sign selected political petitions that have been e-mailed to me, never with my own name, address, or number. I play Freecell, in which I now have 940 wins and zero losses. I check in on this ... and its thread. It's gotten exciting. The music I'm playing is so dreamy as it's winding down. And then, from beyond the door to the room I'm in, the sound of another door opening. Skittering dog paws on the hard floor. Door closing. Human footsteps. Loud, repulsive burp. More doors. Fart. Piss. Decibels. Reality.

Or some semblance thereof.

Thursday, July 18, 2013

Choice Chirps, Part I

I'm rather struggling of late to muster anything to post that won't make both me the writer and you the reader yearn deeply for the sweet, sweet caress of death. The same is true, I suspect, of all the rest of the Internet these days. With that in mind, I come to realize that I haven't done one of these short-takes roundups in rather a while. I hope at least some of these are as entertaining as they seemed when I originally chirped, or "tweeted", them. (Some have been edited and cleaned up in translation to Blogger.) Enjoy!

Why are they called "urban legends"? Aren't a bunch of them rural in origin and popularity?

Maybe doorknobs should be at eye level rather than elbow level. What did my elbows ever do to doorknobs? Huh!?

In this age of cursing and mud-slinging, nobody seems to call you a "doofus" anymore.

Where I live, Election Day just happens to coincide with "garbage night".

Cartoon panel yearning for illustration: a dog yelling RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF, and a cat gently murmuring "Smooth."

You know a case of verbal diarrhea has gotten bad when it gets to talking about the other kind.

My father has what I call the Sadim touch. Everything he gets involved with turns to shit.

A "blockbuster" is now a wrecking ball that demolishes buildings that used to feature Blockbuster Video stores.

December: It's the most overplayed time of the year.

Parents: The playfully mocking way you pronounce certain things may be how your kid(s) will think they're actually pronounced. Apparently, "homage" is pronounced "ah-midge".

Social climate change: The theory that people are getting colder.

Tweeted by Jasmine Dreame: "The "why" stage of adulthood is so much worse than the "why stage of childhood."

Looked up "twitter" in the dictionary on a whim. It says, "to talk rapidly in a nervous or trivial way." (OAD, 2008)

Google+ emails my Gmail account. The e-mails land in the Spam folder.

Is anything other than wit ever "vaunted"?

Assorted anagrams for Cheshire Adams: "He has dire scam". "Her chasm aside". "Ham chaser dies". "Cash sad; hire me!"

Why do we choose to stop observing Daylight Saving Time during the time of year when we could use the extra daylight?

Supposedly Google has developed self-driving cars. Fuck that shit. Show me a self-functioning lawnmower. I'll gladly snatch that up.

Why is tupperware round? It's inefficient. It would store better as squares. Or right triangles. Or hexagons.

I wasn't looking at the ad. I merely heard: "Click to see simple inaction".

Eggnog ice cream or milkshakes taste much better than actual eggnog.

Turning over a new leaf likely won't help if it's from the same tree.

My father puts the "annoyed" in "humanoid".

He who announces that something must be done clearly doesn't intend to do it himself.

Things I miss about childhood: Standing on the base of the shopping cart, pushing it along with my foot, and riding it down the aisle.

If someone gets kicked out of a hacker group, are they deleeted?

Y'ever get a big thing of chocolate-covered raisins, pick out the Siamese ones, and separate 'em with your incisors before chewing? Sublime, isn't it?

Does anything other than corn come on cobs?

"I lost part of my earring; I hope I didn't drop it in the food somewhere." —my mother, while baking

"Spare ribs" sounds like they're leftovers, doesn't it? What are these restaurants selling us, anyway?!

I'm not even bothering trying to set something in stone. At this point, I'll be ecstatic if I can make an impression on "memory foam".

"The Itsy Bitsy Spider" seems to be a metaphor for people who keep living in flood zones.

It's really just a single oodle — not that much at all.

People I can do without: Social network users who snarkily imply that you should Google the question you just asked. I'm trying to be social, you bastards. That's what this thing is for. You are part of the problem.

Teach your children to say "pardon?" or "sorry?", because "loser says what."

The average human imagination can likely be approximated by the fact that only one world flag is non-rectangular.

Threw out cassette tapes
it wasn't my decision
This is not my home.


Because nouns.

dashing the wishes

Always remember: It's the little things that accumulate and erode you slowly and agonizingly.

Not all who constantly harp are angels.

far and tethered

I think I'm coming around to understanding "taking the lord's name in vain" being an abomination. I'm so tired of people who say "Oh my God" four times a minute.

Worthless endeavor
putting a single staple
inside the stapler


Idea yearning for illustration: "Doctor Who's Next", in which a TARDIS has replaced the concrete monument on which Townshend et al. have pissed. (Edit 7-18-13: Just had the brilliant idea of Google Image searching for it. Yay, results!)

Re the Beloit Mindset List: By now, Sonic the Hedgehog is old enough to have an obese toddler — powered by onion rings.

Also re the Beloit Mindset List: Fiat never existed in America before this year.


Nashville has an FM radio station that brands itself as "Hippie radio". It features hourly updates from Fox News.

"Turn up the Radio" came on at work, but it was nearly inaudible.

Why, as a species, do we demonize the end slices of loaves of bread?

Why also do we hold a glass that has a handle, not by the handle?


Trends I have seen on Twitter: "Scandal", "TheMostAnnoyingThingsInLife", "DontBotherMeWhenIm", "ThingsIHateAboutSchool". Talk about Bill Watterson's "excessively negative people".

How am I supposed to take seriously anything on a site called "SurveyMonkey"?

Where the grass is greener, it probably rains that much more.

They tell me the key to success is who you know. A midwestern only child of a day care worker and a loner bureaucrat, I guess I'm screwed.

We lose an hour to commence Daylight Saving Time.

Life's little moments: Blowing a hole right through the tissue.

So it turns out, a "speed zone" is a place to go slow.

The fruit I was eating had actual seeds! I want to get on the porcelain rotary phone and tell everyone!

Slow cooker: A device for torturing you with smells of things that you can't enjoy for hours yet.

I suppose it's "creepy" or some such thing if I go to play on the playground in the park.

The printer software offered to print the page that said I was almost out of ink.

Loitering: Because only rapists and child killers would want to stand outside in enjoyable weather.

Y'ever just lie in the darkness and watch the green and purple swirls as they perform the mathematics of the universe?

Clarifying lotion: It's this goop you can put on your body to make your body feel better.

Two things I can give away limitlessly: The finger, and orgasms.

So I guess non-GMO products will wear a "non-GMO" label, and we'll buy those.

I think "major" and "minor" scales are misnamed. Seems to me the most urgent messages use "minor" keys.

Some things I've never seen in real life: Frogs, snakes, somebody flying a kite. Much more where those came from.

Far too much of the chicken is white meat. Not unlike the country.

Here's something I don't much care for: store-bought sauerkraut with caraway seeds. I guess someone had a reuben on rye and got confused.

Perhaps life is more valuable when there is greater threat of its sudden end. (In other words, fuck safety.)

Quite telling, perhaps, that the phrase "I hope you're happy" is most commonly spoken and associated with bitterness and sarcasm.

Paying big bucks for
cheap lawn gloves. It's my hands that
got the raw deal


Sunlight rapes the shades
another fruitless day has
been thrust upon me


A picture of a tree
in a wooden frame


You can't negotiate with terriers.

Doctor Who caption in search of illustration: Psychedalek

Is it far-out to be down-to-earth?

Has there been an episode of a mainstream cop show where the cause of the crime turned out to be supernatural? It seems to me that this needs to happen.

I hope that wasn't
an itty bitty earring
the vacuum picked up


You don't meet too many Ursulas anymore. I think it's because Disney ruined that name.

I have a crack problem.

Knuckles, heel, elbows, neck — I crack 'em all.


Every Facebook user wants a "Dislike" button. Me, I'd prefer a "Be happy for them while wholly bitter that you'll be in no such place any time soon" button.

Songs used to go "do do do do do do do". Now they go "don't don't don't don't don't don't don't". (...wait, what?)

lunatic fringe benefits

Some useful information about me: I am a VERY sore loser.

Rehearse: To transport a dead person a second time.

Funny how some dogs that bark as loud as they do can be scared of loud noises.

Unemployment Valentine Candy Hearts: "Dole queue-tee"; "Be my reference"; "This gun's for hire"; "May as well take off the suit".

Why do we call it "dusting"? Shouldn't it be "de-dusting"? In my case, more like "de-hairing"....

Obligatory: A temporary existential plane, characterized by perpetual obligation to others until the time when a more permanent plane has become available. See also "life".

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Silliest Ffourth, or The Decoration of "Independence"

I have been in an absolutely wretched mood of late. I turned 27 Earth-years old about a week ago — the age at which Jimi, Janis, Jim, and many other icons, musical and otherwise, fled this existential plane. I have a useless bachelors' degree that took eight years to achieve — or just under 26 years, if you count all the schooling and growing up before college — no hope of employment in a dead-end town, the finest writing skills that ever failed to gain a following beyond a very small circle of cyberfriends,* a splitting headache from the onslaught of familial aggravation and yelling in a small house with greater acoustics than ever thanks to the replacement of carpet by hardwood, and, after my mother told me that I'm "debt-free", I got a thing in the mail that informed me that my bi-monthly health insurance payment is hopping up to $286 and change. For my reader (-s?) outside the US, that's right; my mere existence, let alone its continuation, apparently requires me to forever cough up dough in increments, because if something horrendous happens to me, I will not be allowed to just die and escape the madness, no matter how limited my contributions are to endless menial errands and half a gigabyte of scribbled lines. I'm unallowed, and I'm feeling mighty unappreciated. I don't even get a word of criticism most of the time, save from my mother who complains that I keep making fun of her; people "unfriend" me without so much as "goodbye", or they ignore me. One person in Portland seems to appreciate me quite well, but suffice it to say that the idea of going to them has perished. And I may not be far behind.

Be it personally or (inter)nationally, I gotta say, independence is bullshit. On the national scale, we in the US have run ourselves into the ground and will soon be buried six feet deep there. Everything is outsourced to....other countries. (Including pop stars from Britain, I might add.) That's not independence. Employing our own people to produce our own goods on our own soil would be closer to independence. No doubt we'd still be making treaties and starting unnecessary wars with other countries, but it would be a start.

As for the personal level, I'm not even sure where to begin. We make a big enough deal about it. I hear it from my parents; I have to be independent! They won't support me forever! Nobody will support me! I have to support myself! Nobody will hire me! I have to support myself! Nobody will host me! I have to support myself! What, do I build a house out of wood and mud, with my bare hands? Do I grow my vegetables in the roof of that house? Where do I build that house? The whole country's divided up into other people's properties. I'll be shot and/or arrested.

With the possible exception of some radical guys in Montana — or so I've heard — nobody is really independent. At the very least, we have to deal with others to get the goods, materials, and decorations we need and want. And even before we get to an age where we can do that based on our own decisions, who among us can claim that they raised themselves as children, without anyone around to teach them what things are, reach the snacks off the top shelf for them, prevent them from stuffing that mud and those creatures in their face, et cetera, et cetera? Hell, our being born in the first place is dependent on at least one other person! We don't just pop out of thin air; we pop out of another human! And, thanks to our grotesquely fucked-up evolution, even she can't conjure you alone. At least one other person needs to help with a normal, natural delivery, which I understand is superhumanly painful for her. And how about that increasing number of cesarean births? How many people does it take to surgically remove someone from their own umbilical cord? Not to mention that the mother didn't impregnate herself. Unless she broke into a sperm bank at night. But even then, she didn't build that sperm bank alone. I should think it very implicit and inherent in our biology that we are inexorably dependent on each other.

So why this crushing "independence" mindset? Outmoded macho bullshit, mixed with the greed of those special few who never outgrew that bit of childhood where the kindergarten teacher tried so hard to get you and the other kids to "Share". Those stupid, uncooperative brats ruined everything for the whole class. The whole working class.

We depend on each other. Some in certain ways, some in others, some unfortunate souls on life support completely and terminally. If the family or hospital goes cold and pulls the plug, they're gone. We're humans, and physical care is not enough for us. We need emotional support — love. We need to know that our existence has value, even if it's merely local. And by "value", I don't mean financial. If money is your primary concern, may I say this: It's humanity, stupid!

That seems such a perfect ending, right there. But I got to thinking about something I read recently on the Good Men Project, an intriguing site whose publisher somehow came to follow me on Twitter and still does. Apparently I've reached a point in my feeling of loneliness that I'm reading mating/dating articles. Anyway, one of them said something akin to "you're not looking for a partner; you're looking for a caretaker." Yes. Yes I am. And she should be too. We take care of each other. That's what we're supposed to do.

I bid you an American Fantasy Day full of happy festivity, delicious food, and well-guided love. Make it happen.




*Lucy in Cyberspace's official followers remain at three after some five years and change. I still have no idea who Daniel is, which could be the tiniest spark of encouragement. Daniel, looks like you're near Chapel Hill. You don't happen to know Rockin' Ammonia Karaoke, do you? Also, Hi Mond_licht! Long time no interact with. And Type, great to have you. Otherwise, I get a very occasional comment from the likes of Momo and Beccabear. And Tucker, I think. Love you folks to bits.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

New Raw Set!

See second sticky post, where the unpolished home-recorded set has been appended. I recorded these songs some nineteen days ago, during a very brief moment in time when I had the house completely to myself — no dogs to bark (they were at the groomer's), and all other humans at work or otherwise out. Bliss.

"Beckoned" is a nice, light instrumental.

"Vicious" is not. In fact, you haven't heard me shout like that before.

"Colds Suck" is a folk song.

"Objectionism" is an instrumental with an up-tempo, "So Far From Home"-style rhythm.

"Now What" is now available in a cleaner-sounding (and sung) studio version.

And lastly, I cover Gerry Rafferty's classic "Baker Street".

I hope you enjoy! More to the point, I hope you consider my artistic cause worthy of support...!

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Mon-Cutesy, Non-Cutedo

Well, only half a month since my last post. Not bad by my attempt at "weekly". I might make up for it, though; I'll know when I've finished typing this.

Somewhere in the depths of my old Facebook status selections, there's a bit where I talk about "cute". I wish to expand on this about now. I've mentioned in the past where I feel as though my dislike of coffee, alcohol, and the like sort of robs me of some of the most common opportunities to be social, on the grounds (coffee grounds?) that people seem to most often gather around those particular refreshments. It's rather hitting home of late that my very dull, almost lacking, sense of cuteness may be another obstacle in that department.

I don't necessarily find the things and creatures repulsive that others revere as adorable. I simply by and large fail to see what's so special about them. I will often respond to quiet beauty and grace, hence my deification of cats, but "cute" seldom does much for me. Most dogs and human babies are just....there. Making a mess and requiring care. And many is the anthropomorphized pet meme in social media that I just scroll past, unamused.

"Cute" doesn't start out as much with me, and it can easily be made irritating and aggravating with repetition. Calling small children "big" is just stupid anymore. Unless through some biological fluke they really are the size of a Volkswagen, they are not big at four weeks old, much less four days old. I've seen enough of "Grumpy Cat" that I wouldn't miss her if she vanished from the face, neck and spleen of the universe. (Mission accomplished?) And I feel a particular overwhelming ennui when I hear my mother kvell over the dogs in that high voice and partially gibberish language as she's done most every day since late 1993. With the exception of Dinah, the dogs are really not that remarkable to me. In fact, they're kind of noisy, stinky idiots, scared of loud noises or walking on the smooth floor, and eating things they're not supposed to.

Actually, much of "Dog culture" turns me right off. I've never been a dog person, and I just don't see in these creatures what most of the world sees:

• Posing them in human settings doesn't help. I'm sure a sweater is good for keeping them warm in cold weather, but I see no reason to obsess over it. Costumes are demeaning and awful. Dogs that look like their so-called owners: big whoop. "Puppy Bowls" running parallel to the Super Bowl on the television featuring puppies on a miniature football field are just meaningless, empty entertainment in which I have no interest whatsoever.

• Randomly inserting dogs and their likenesses wherever possible. Why does licorice need to be shaped like Scottish terriers? If "A Friend in Need" featured cats, goats, or lizards playing poker instead of dogs, would anyone care or even have heard of it?

• And, of course, Dog language. Apparently, you can modify anything in English to include a dog-related word and thereby create "cute" perfection. Including, I might add, names of dog breeds. Not only are Scottish and Yorkshire terriers "Scotties" and "Yorkies"
(Side note: cuteness in general can be elicited by simply sticking an "ie" on the end of anything, e.g. eggies, cakie, doggies, et cetera. "Rabies" sounds like it should be something cute, doesn't it? Why does "rabies" sound cute and "orgasm" sound like someone spittin' up? Ah well, I digress...), but cross-breeds are referred to by wholly ungodly names like "schnoodle" (schnauzer-poodle), "chorkie" (yorkie-chihuahua, I think), and who knows what else. Is the offspring of a bulldog and a shih-tzu a bullshit? And the rest of the dictionary: dogs' breath mints go by "Yip-Yaps" and "Puppamints". I suspect some dog owners put "bark & roll" on their stereo (which has a subWOOFer) all day for the dogs while they're at work. Maybe they drive home in their Pontiyap and get stuck at the tail-road crossing on the way. It's ridiculous. I suppose we'll all be happy and not raise a fuss over "statuterrier rape" and "pawlice brutality". This stuff gives me a mastiff headache and is absolutely re-pug-nant.

Anyway, I don't sense "cute" very well (you can tell from the bit about rape and police brutality right there), and it necessarily limits the meaningful interactions I can have with people, including family and friends. Last weekend, I went to Chicago for my cousin's party where she introduced her recently-born child to all our Illinois family and friends (that made it to the party). By and large, it was a fabulous party and weekend. I got to see and talk with many a friend and family member that I don't see very often (one came in from DC, and another I hadn't seen since the wedding), food and cake were plentiful, and things were good. But when it comes to the actual reason for the party — my baby "grandcousin" — I just sort of sit quietly, taking in the aura of joy. I have nothing to contribute to the conversation. The baby isn't bad by any means. I'm just not into babies or children. If they're functioning properly, good. Let 'em develop to the point where I can get to know them as equals. Here at the party, we had four other youngsters, most notably my cousin's best friend's two boys: one twenty days younger than my grandcousin, and one young toddler who is walking and talks in blurred gibberish but seems to understand certain things. In fairness, the toddler shares his mother's nice, wide smile. I do like a good smile. The weekend was a good, happy time, but through a couple days with the "April babies" who took two evenings together, I could feel my brain slipping away, seeking a plane of existence to which it could meaningfully contribute.

I still love you, friends of the family and everyone. I do. But I'm not done talking about "cute". I have developed a point of view wherein the use of "cute" implies assumed superiority of the speaker. We apply the term to pets and children, whom we believe are intellectually beneath us. By extension, we apply it to novices of a trade who don't quite get it right the first time. And then we snarkily so label people we see as terminal failures trying to make like they're not terminal failures. "Cute" has rather become an inherently demeaning descriptor. This is why it pissed me off so greatly a week or two ago when my mother heard me playing back one of my recordings and said "Oh, you recorded yourself! That's so cute!" News flash: Drive On is not my first recording. I have a whole set of songs dating back roughly to 2009. I wrote most of them, lyrics and guitar work both. Your musical output, mother, consists of endlessly and atonally repeating VOOOLAAARE and GOTTA GET DOWN TO THE CUMBERLAND................MIIIIIINE. But I will give you the benefit of a doubt as to whether you actually wrote "I love my schnauzers, one-two-three".

All this talk was perhaps somewhat prompted by something I saw my mother's cousin, and then my closest Portland friend, post on the 'Book. It's a map of the United States as interpreted by a New Yorker.



Is there a certain vibe you get from that? There's one I get from it, and it ain't too great. The Chicago comment clinches it. So I made a similar US map, one as interpreted by me, a prisoner of the flatlands with very limited experience beyond. There was a DC road trip in 2000 and a Minneapolis road trip circa 2002. We would pick a weekend of record heat to visit Minnesota. Oh, and 2006 saw one brief St. Louis weekend. (That year also saw the northern UK, not pictured.)

View in separate tab/window

That's your reputation, New York. (No offense to my friends who are there.) Self-important alpha cock, strutting around, thrusting yourself in everyone's face. Chicago is perfectly sized, thank you much. We don't go around whoring ourselves out for attention. We keep our corruption quiet, the way it's supposed to be done. Now kindly take your fuckin' Macy's out of our city and give us our Field's back, please. ♪♫♪ Our Marshall Field's Forever! ♪♫♪

****

Speaking of cities, I need a new one. I thought I had gotten one, but perhaps not. Starting to feel like my existence will be entirely contained in Square One. Time to talk with people.

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Memorial Morrow

Did you enjoy Memorial Day? Did you remember fallen soldiers? Did you partake in celebrations of the free life for which they presumably died? Or, are you like me and slept through most of it?

On the one paw, I didn't get invited to any barbecues. On the second hoof, it was pouring rain most of the day, so it's unlikely there were any barbecues to be invited to. On the third tentacle, what do barbecues have to do with memorials, anyway? Were the soldiers particularly big barbecue fans when they were alive?

I think my maternal grandfather fought in World War II. Or something close to it. Pretty sure it was the big one. I never really got to know the man. I was three or four when he died in civilian life. And even then, he was living some six thousand-plus miles (ten thousand-plus kilometers) away from where I was and still am. But I understand he was a fairly jolly soul with a sense of fun and smiles.

I never knew my other grandfather either. They both died during my early childhood. My paternal grandmother wasn't too far behind, done in by the effects of smoking circa her age 70, my age 7. I remember their half of a duplex in Skokie better than I remember them. A near-wall of plants overlooking the round, dark wooden table. Red carpet beneath the low coffee table in the living room, in turn beneath my grandmother's ashtray and game of solitaire — you know, with actual, physical playing cards. Dull beige couches and the old recliner. The black metal railing with swirly-cue bits. The rotary phone in the spare bedroom. Rust coming out of the bathtub faucet. The dark but tame basement, with its big freezer full of "goodies". Baby Linus and Lucy, wherever they feel like being. The memories fade, perhaps like the pictures that I'm sure we have somewhere. If not here, then certainly at my aunt's house, in which basement the low coffee table remains. Along with other relics.

Edit, an hour and change later: I'm told that, in fact, both my grandfathers were World War II soldiers. Fitting. Yes!

My mother's mother remains. Unfortunately, she does so in Israel, as I say, a continent and a half plus a major ocean away. Our communication is limited more or less to annual "snail-mail" cards (she doesn't do computers), and, every few times out of her weekly phone calls, I'll attempt a conversation via that medium. I tend to have nothing much to say, and she can barely hear my deep voice over the phone anyway.

A couple months ago, one of my cousin's friends whom I met at her wedding and subsequently befriended on the 'Book, playfully out of the blue listed me as his grandson. Joke's on him; I accept. Yay, I have a living grandfather! He's in California.... but still closer than Netanya!

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Spring in Suburbia, Part II

Lest I didn't make it so clear in Part I, two posts down, I despise suburban lawns, and I particularly despise my own being drafted to maintain such a lawn.

So you can imagine how utterly thankful I am that I survived this past week, which was hell in that department. The old mower had been scraping on the ground in a way that it oughtn't after I posted Part I, and so it had been in the shop since the beginning of the month. Fifteen days later, when the grass had grown taller than the dogs, we got on the horn with the shop, and, after a brief exchange, we told them to keep the old one, and went in search of a new one. We chose a store on the polar opposite end of our twin towns, and from it a mower with an electric start up (to replace our old mower's "pull"-start). Two or three drives back and forth to the store — me as a nerve-wracked passenger in my father's stick-shift car, I might add, which I have not learned to drive, and Father ain't so hot at driving it either — essentially taught us ⒜ that the handle is set by default to be right where it can stop the blade dead, ⒝ any time the blade can't move, it causes a chain reaction that means we have to go back to the store and replace a part that allows the electric start to work, and ⒞ that means that the simplest clog results in the thing being dead until we get that part replaced every time. Two days and all of my mother's hysteria over the matter later, we traded it in. Simple pull-start mowers from here for us. And even with the new mower, the tall, thick grass that had grown over some eighteen spring days took hours to mow. And despite the gloves, my hands hadn't been that sore since the Edible Arrangements gig in Nashville with all the pineapple.

But, yay, finished stuff! At least until the grass grows back again. And my mother isn't hysterical about the lawn anymore. But not to worry; she'll find more things to be hysterical about. The terminal lack of employment among my father and myself, for instance. Or my magically vanishing eyebrows that she claims will cement my joblessness. (Will it?) Or whether what my father's set to record on the DVR will override what she wants to record. Or whether we failed to do some minor household task during the given afternoon. Ah, well; time to go somewhere else for a while.

****

Meanwhile, this past day in Cyberspace: A tornado wiped out an Oklahoma City suburb, Ray Manzarek touched the earth at 74, and Grumpy Cat is enjoying all the bad news. As tired as I am of all the Grumpy Cat (aka Tardar Sauce) memes, I can quite see her way sometimes.

Here's the late Manzarek with the Valedictorian, paying tribute to his old band. (By the way, more music and multimedia on my other blog, Lucy Dream!)

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

I chirped these separately in the early morning of March 10, save for the opener, new to today

I hear the beating
of dull drums — dem ol' doldrums
beating down on me

Stifled so much that
I want to take my own life
up into my hands

my own tied up hands
my entire tied up mind
suffocating me

suffocating me
my head badly, horribly
crammed senseless with muck

crammed sleepless with muck
symbolically release streams
as words in a form

a forming of words
from the primordial ooze
of wild shapeless thought

shapeless thought emerge
from the haze of this mind state
sleepless thought, converge

Wednesday, May 8, 2013

Each of us woke up one moment, and here we were in the darkness.

(This title a line spoken by the ballerina in The Twilight Zone's "Five Characters in Search of an Exit"; click to watch via IMDb/Hulu.)

I'm in a rather bizarre place. It's loaded with trees, and the ground is doing this crazy up-and-down business. I think I've heard that referred to as...hills? A while back, there was a stretch of civilization or something like it. I think it was called "Oceana". It had these gas stations I've never seen before: "Chevron" and "Sunoco". Since then, I've seen occasional dwellings amid the trees and neighboring creek over which there have been little, rickety, wooden bridges through which I'd think a car would bust but perhaps not. A "Logan County" sign was legible not too long ago. I've momentarily pulled into a driveway off this road which has only been labeled with an eerie "10" in a box — to write this "journal". So, what I know is this: I'm on State Highway 10 in Logan County, somewhere in the United States. And I figure I'm in the United States because every other country that has Street View has nice, clear, high-definition, where I can actually read signs (unless they're auto-blurred) and occasional license plates (that should have been auto-blurred). We only have some of that.

This is just one of my "hobbies" that I've taken up in my nights and often days with the computer in the corn and soybeans. I put on some good music, zoom the Google Map all the way out, move it around a bit, switch to label-less satellite view, center it roughly around the eastern States — eyeballed, y'know; sometimes I miss. I haven't tried this in other countries yet, although this low-resolution imagery in this country is rather persuasive in that direction. Anyway — I click on the zoom scale to go directly all the way in, drag around until I find a road with Street View, drape a thing over the upper left of the monitor so I can't see the informative pop-up that Street View provides, and proceed to "drive" until, through recognition of highway signs and other clues, I've sufficiently figured out where I am.

I've gotten to know some of the States: Indiana and my state of Illinois have square-shaped state highway logos with their names in them. Kentucky puts their state highway numbers in circles. Tennessee mixes squares for the thruways and triangles for the more "roots" roads. Ohio has Ohio-shapes, Arkansas has Arkansas-shapes, and Missouri has Missouri-shapes (with lesser "letter" highways in squares). But I've yet to pick out this state, which is crazy hilly and wooded and only uses plain squares with plain numbers. And I've yet to hit a US highway or interstate, which would help me gauge how far north/south/east/west I am. I'm tempted to say I'm in Appalachia, but I really don't know.

By the way, a quick tip for American travelers, be they in real life or, like me, on Street View: For interstates, lower numbers within two digits are generally farther west (for odd-numbered roads, which primarily go north/south) and south (for even-numbered roads, which primarily go east/west). For the old US highways, it's the opposite: lower numbers are north and east compared to higher numbers. Triple-digit interstates are specific to one metro or otherwise not so long. And state routes seem to be total chaos. As can be the occasional diagonal US highway. (Where is 52 going?) So, New England gets US highways 1 and 2 and interstates 95 and I-don't-know-what-even-number, while Cali gets US's 101 and who-knows and I's-5 and 10. Florida gets I-4, and the rest of us get numbers in the middle somewhere. Me, I'm physically at the intersection of US 45 and 150, and I 74, 72 and 57. And virtually, I'm in a delightfully bizarre place (except, too many churches). And I'm fixin' to see more.

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Spring in Suburbia

Kids screaming in the street. The constant roar of lawn mowers, one asynchronous homeowner after the other. Dogs barking endlessly at all the mowing. Father barking endlessly at the dogs, trying to tell them to shut up, while the non-English-speaking dogs probably think he's joining in the chorus with them. And me, lying in bed, feeling my brain rattling against every bit of my skull's interior in a quest for a way out. Soon, I'll be coerced into contributing to that noise pollution with the family's own mower. And my mother will come home and add her disharmonic vocal to the mix. But for now, my father takes a moment to lull me back to sleep with his lecture about why I should get up and mow the lawn.

Lawn mowing is a microcosm of suburban life as a whole. Its only fruit, apart from the snot that the newly scattered pollen will elicit from our sinuses, is that the lawn looks nice in the eyes of horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. For maybe a week until the grass has grown back. And then it has to be done again. To please the horrid, imagination-less suburbanites. Theoretically.

Pure bright, even-height green. The whole premises, wherever there isn't a house, tree, mailbox, or bit of concrete. No fruits. No vegetables. No flowers. No organisms that resemble flowers but are apparently weeds. And if it's not the day of the week when the garbage collectors come by, get that bloody trash can outta here. (But if it is that day of the week, consequences will be dire if the can isn't out.) If it isn't an indistinct, crew-cut blade that lives only for itself and eventually dies in vain, it's not allowed. Sound familiar?

So, as I've said many times before, I don't belong here. And I remain in talks to hopefully belong somewhere new. But while I'm jobless, I am being given looping domestic things to do. Pointless yardwork. Moving trash forth and back every week. Cleaning up and fixing my demented father's "projects" and digital screw-ups. Assisting my demented father with getting to his outside errands and participating in the grocery shopping. And I get food, shelter and internet at no further cost than the $275 bi-monthly health insurance payment. So there's that. Plus this. At least for a little while longer.