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.

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.~

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.

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.

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.

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.