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...!

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.

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!

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!)

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

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.

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.

Earth Day 2013

I guess it was Earth Day. That's what it said in the ads in the Sunday Tribune. I didn't seem to hear about it anyplace else.

But perhaps I wasn't fully paying attention to media over the weekend. I was in Chicago and north suburbs, having a grand ol' time with family and, all too briefly, friends on Record Store Day (Saturday). Good food, good company, and just a pleasant break from the previous week's flood of talk about Boston bloodshed, shoddy journalism, Texas fertilizer plant explosions, failing gun regulations, and, indeed, flooding — in my home metro. As my aunt and I drove around with my granduncle, we noticed a couple things along the way that looked like little ponds and lakes — with trees sticking right out of them. The remains of something that had shut down the Edens expressway for a bit, and that none of us had actually been around to witness, with one of us downstate and another in Nashville. But, for the moment, lovely weather and vibes in Chicagoland.

Alas, good times don't last. I drove back to and through the flatlands Sunday afternoon, stopping twice to get gas, empty the bladder, call a far-away friend who had asked that I call them that weekend when I had a chance, and otherwise hitting 96 miles per hour at one point on my way to the promise of the world's greatest meatloaf. I criticize my mother about many things, but, in her own words, [she] sure can cook! It was goooooood...!

On to today, which it is for about twenty more minutes here. I awoke to the sound of Mom yelling at Dad for falling, as though he does it on purpose when it happens. He has rather a history of falling on occasion. I really don't think anger is the way to fix such a problem as that. But my father rather is the sort of person that, summarily, deserves his own post on here. He's a wreck. And today was one for me to see to him. He has a sleep aid with which he's struggling to get to work properly. I drove him across town to a fruitless appointment for that, among minor errands. As I've been typing this post, I've heard and gone to investigate hysterical laughter from the bedroom, catalyzed by the sleep aid machine making "fart noises". If and when I can, I'm supposed to fix a sleep mask that's in pieces on the dining room table and wasn't discovered until after the appointment. Apart from that, I hooked up a new television receiver in the bedroom, assisted with dinner in my usual sous chef role, and got called to assemble dessert and do other scattered things in the middle of a cyber-chat with the friend that I had called from Bourbonnais. Supposedly, somewhere between all the family engagements, I should be working at a steady job.

Perhaps I will go ahead and apply at the simple place that that friend mentioned — right in the face of my disapproving family. And pursue a visit, maybe a full-out stay, with them, over two thousand miles from here. They, the friend, might be right: I "need to look to myself for once in [my] life".

Monday, April 15, 2013

Well, I suppose if I'm going to be suggesting monetary donations on here, I should make some sort of effort to at least appear to be putting actual work into this blog and its posts. Maybe I'll try a weekly thing like this where I just process my mind's blurred image of the past day or so, maybe the past week, and render it somewhat in focus. My mind is often forced to resolve blurs on its own. Today, for instance....

I awoke somewhere around six in the evening and got up the following hour. My circadian rhythm is as horrible and hopeless as it's ever been, perhaps to reflect my own sense of hopelessness. I eventually found my way to that surrogate social life known as Facebook and was befuddled by a wall of posts putting "bombs" and "Boston Marathon" together. The posts included five or six friends sharing a status by Patton Oswalt, who is one of the many people that fall in my "heard the name before but know nothing of the person" category. "Mister" Rogers also had a common quote in the feed. Apparently, something ridiculous and horrible happened.

New England is having a pretty horrendous time of it lately. From Hurricane Sandy, to Sandy Hook Elementary, to winter weather madness, and now this. I've not been to that part of the country ever; I do have a handful of cyber-friends there, though I'm not convinced any are Bostonites in particular. They're wonderful people in a region that I understand is lovely most of the time. They have my wishes of wellness in the face of increasing disaster, and I will gladly visit them in person as I am resourcefully able.

....which, back in the flatlands, I am of course not. This time last week, I mentioned a few things about my world that I don't mind following up on.

My "grandcousin" was born last Wednesday. (I decided I didn't like the "removed" terminology, so I made up a new title.) My mother made the drive down to Nashville the same day — arrived pretty much in time, so I'm told. The kid, born via cesarean section tangled in his umbilical cord (further evidence against "intelligent" design), seems to be all right; systems are good and all that jazz. I believe my cousin is also doing well post-C-section birth. All I know I know from my mother's nightly phone calls. He came home on Saturday. My mother's aiming to come back here maybe Wednesday, maybe Thursday. That gives my father and me just enough time to shop, clean bathrooms, and see to other such menial time-eaters. (My father wants to take me to Wal-Mart. You'd think by now he would know, I will not set foot in Wal-Mart. Hell, I couldn't even wait outside last time I was there without some police figure approaching us as we were getting in the car and leaving, talking about "loitering". Because only killers and rapists enjoy nice weather wherever they are.)

I had my state employment office meeting last week. It went better than I had thought it would, but I remain skeptical. I watched cartoons with my local friend from high school. I picked up my bicycle from the repair/tune-up place for more dough than I cared to have spent, considering I hadn't used the bike at all last year. I need a new helmet, but those cost nearly as much. I remember MAD Magazine saying something like, "Bicycles, which became popular as a cheap alternative to automobiles, have been so upgraded and enhanced that the same people who could not afford a car now also cannot afford a bicycle" (paraphrased from memory). Anyway, I filled out a job application for that place while I was there, because why not?. Otherwise, since my mother left on Wednesday, I've just been putting up with and looking after Dad, the dogs, and the house. No Paypal or Bandcamp yet. Just the sound of the pouring rain beyond this window in the late 3a hour.

This may not be my best writing; it's rather sloppy and reminiscent of a twelve-year-old's bedside diary. But if anyone's out here, I'd love to hear from you as ever.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Some things that appeared on my "news feed" on Facebook this past day:

• Two celebrity deaths: One a polarizing political figure from the UK, the other a popular entertainer from before my time. I feel no personal connection to either. There seemed genuine sadness for the Disney representative; reaction to the former prime minister was rather more interesting. One person produced a picture of Mags and the Gipper and proclaimed that "these two are responsible for the world being as it is today" (paraphrased). Looking at this world, that would seem to be more of a dyslogy than a eulogy. (Does English have a proper word that can go where I made that one up? "On-grave dance"?) One person simply delivered the news gleefully and sing-song-ily. And at least one other person had a shared status scorning the celebration of certain deaths. Speaking of which:

• An article link proclaiming that the Westboro Baptist Church will picket the funeral of Roger Ebert. I don't know if my international audience gets to hear much about the Westboro Baptist Church, so lest you don't, the Kansas-based hate group is known for outright stirring up anger by showing up at various funerals (e.g. those of soldiers) and other events and spewing anti-gay and other vile sentiments. What they could possibly have against the central Illinois native film critic, frankly, I don't want to know. I didn't read the article.

• Monsanto with its chemicals and genetically modified food will destroy us all, and we are powerless to prevent it or circumvent it by, say, growing our own food and banding together.

• Exxon turned an Arkansas neighborhood into an oil lake and doesn't want anyone to know.

• Palestine, or Hamas, or somebody, is still firing rockets into Israel.

• People ought to be who they are and not let anyone drag them down.

• "Remove the North Korean supreme leader!"

• Of the two people that mentioned their marital engagements this past day, one has learned that their aunt has terminal cancer and is estimated to have about two months left.

• The usual assortment of memes, Doctor Who references that have ever gradually come into focus for this writer who has never seen a single episode, an overwhelming number of YouTube song "videos", and words of presumed wisdom imposed over pictures of natural beauty which I'll probably never see in person.

• And, last but not least, my cousin's announcement that the child within her will be "evicted" (her word choice) midnight on Thursday if he makes no effort to emerge on his own before then.

This last just seemed somehow poetic to me. In fact, I do faintly recall a poem, somewhere in my childhood, expressing the sentiment of an unborn child who doesn't want to leave the warm, safe womb. Silverstein, maybe? I'll have to dig out those books when I have a moment.

There's a theory that the world was always this mad and that it's just more apparent and magnified in the digital age. There's also a theory that the digital age is accelerating the madness. (Though they didn't show up so much this past day, women's rights, LGBT rights, and all kinds of "occupy"-style sentiments are also ongoing conflicts and staples of my news feed. Oh, and can't forget climate change, threatening to flood the planet and bust its orbit.) I know I've mentioned drawbacks of the digital age before: we're antisocial, and we're angry and judgemental. Catharses are intensifying, and it's getting uglier out there all the time. At least we can count on the Cubs rendering themselves unrecognizable and losing.

And so I'm thinking about that "cousin once removed" who evidently doesn't want to be removed. I'm hoping he will be able to know and keep peace of mind. He does have one thing going for him: an awesome pair of parents (with awesome taste in housepets)!

****

Meanwhile, I'm pretty much wasting away in the flatlands. Later this morning, I'm going to another probably fruitless meeting in the state employment office. Then, after that, I'm going to a friend's house to watch cartoons. I might also check out a local "singer-songwriter collective" in the evening.

I got a debit card recently. This has me thinking now about setting up a Paypal and including a "donations" button on here. Maybe somebody would use it. Or, I can try selling an "album" on Bandcamp. Though I'd like to record (and finish writing) a few more things before I attempt that. (Covers don't fly on Bandcamp.)

And I may have an opportunity to record soon. I won't be going to meet my cousin-once-removed, but my mother will. I'll have about a week's reprieve from being in the bathroom when my mother gets home and, when I get out to greet her, the first thing she disdainfully intones is "Gee, do you do anything else besides sit in the bathroom?!" And if I can get Dad out of the house for a while, I have only the dogs waiting to bark to contend with. With all the carpet now gone in favor of hardwood, the house acoustics are rather too good.

How 'bout it? Is it worth the bother? Anyone willing to support me?

Question for my Feminist (and -ism) Friends

The other night, I went to see a few friends give a belly-dancing performance. At the request of one of them, I captured their performance on video via my family's digital camera. The video's still on the camera for playback. About half an hour ago, my mother took the camera in a desire to photograph Dinah the dog wearing a sweater intended for a human baby. I mentioned the video to her. She scrolled to it. Almost immediately, she said something along the lines of the following:

"Well, she's a bit big to be doing belly-dancing, isn't she?"

That's my mother.

So I'm curious now about my network of cyber-friends who might well be full-out infuriated by that sentiment. What are/were your parents like? Did they bring you up as you are, or did you evolve independently from roots in — words elude me here — dubious mindsets, as I seem to have done?

Now What, Again

This isn't how it was supposed to go.

I came here with the intent to job-hunt after my brief stint as extra help for Valentine's Day for an inconspicuous chain business near Vanderbilt. After basically wrecking my fingers and back at that four-day job with one day carrying nineteen hours, I was able to squeeze in maybe three days of hunting between healing from that and contracting a horrendous head virus or two. I've heard from nobody to whom I've applied. I just made official my flight booking back to Ill-ennui three mornings from now. I'm heading back to the same old rut from which I came, and I have a head full of snot to show for it (though not quite as full as it was, thankfully). I haven't gotten to play any shows or see any of my friends here beyond my cousin's baby shower, the day before the Valentine's week stint. If nothing else, I've gotten to stay with my cousin, her husband, and two wonderful feline friends. And I've caught a taunting glimpse of what the real world is like.

I don't want to go to the flatlands. I left them for a reason. Nevertheless, my father's birthday is in just under a couple weeks, and I'm wanted there for that. Plus, my cousin and her husband here need time without me, with a baby on the way, people coming from all over to see the baby, and all kinds of things. This is a small house, and I'm not much good with babies. So, once again....I'm back in the puddle.

...if you can have a puddle in a land without valleys.

How long will I have to stay there? How much time does my cousin need? Is there any place that I can go? There must be someone 'round here who knows....

Colds Suck (lyrics)

(to be sung in a Bob Dylan voice, natch. Chords are the same throughout, as indicated in verse one. The one verse with the extra line, the extra line gets the F.)

I can't breathe [G]
my head is so heavy
I think I'd rather
be creamed by a Chevy
truck [D]
[F]
colds suck [G]

My nose is obstructed
my throat is too
with uninterrupted
nasty goo
and muck
colds suck

I can't sleep
or be horizontal
without coughing so much
I feel like I'm gonna
upchuck
colds suck

I can't go in
to work today
and with no sick time
from my pay
they'll deduct
precious bucks
colds suck

[harmonica solo]

Oh I've taken medicine
I hope it's helped
or maybe I couldn't
swallow those gel-
pills, they got stuck
colds suck

And I've just run out of tissues
and it's half past three
in the morning when nothing's open
now wouldn't that be
my luck
colds suck

Now I'm dripping on everything
which I'd rather not do
I imagine I'm thinking
the same as you:
YUCK!
colds suck

I can't breathe
it's a prospect that's frightening
I think I'd rather
be by lightning
struck
colds suck

And I just feel sick as fu—[coughing and gagging fit upon hitting that D-chord]

[end simply on G]

More Bodily Irks and Quirks: Trichotillomania

Another eyebrow gone. It's never a conscious choice to remove it manually, hair by hair (or three). I'm not out to make some sort of obtuse political statement with only one of the right and left sides of my face being naturally decorated in dark brown. It doesn't particularly hurt when I do this. It just seems that every now and then, my body, acting more or less independently of my mind, gets the feeling that perhaps there's too much weight or pressure or something at that one spot on my hairy self, and proceeds to alleviate, or think it's alleviating, the feeling there by plucking the cumbersome, protruding scapegoat occupants of that spot and apparently expecting a final, euphoric pull that will nab the main perpetrator and instantly restore total homeostasis. Of course, that may not happen — and the "spot" may sort of grow as the "partially euphoric" feeling of the pulls catches on. Hence, one whole eyebrow gone. Or, in the past, a set of eyelashes, a bit of my beard on and around my chin, a good-sized spot on top or near the front of my head (though it's been a delightfully long time since this last), or — dare I say it — "down there" when I'm on the can and in no hurry to get off it.

Describing "compulsions" is not so easy, especially with grace. I am not so much in the state of mind to look it up right now, but I'm sure there are plenty of stories, descriptions, and clinical terms available in a web search for "trichotillomania". I think I'm spelling that correctly. It's simply the manic pulling-out of one's own hair, and it may have gotten a couple bits of publicity here and there over the years.

In my relatively brief attempt to just get this out of my head and into the blogosphere during the two-o'clock hour ante-meridiem, I'll say this about my own "episodes": they usually happen when I'm alone, either in bed or at the computer (or on the can), and often when I'm supposed to be doing something specific. My mind just sort of spaces out, and my body is somehow not keen on just old-fashioned masturbating; it seeks other ways to be occupied: fidgeting, knuckle-cracking, grooming...and maybe getting carried away with the grooming, discovering what it proclaims is a pressured spot as I described it before and going to work. And I just drop what I pick out wherever I am. It'll get vacuumed up soon, I imagine. (Or, in the "down there" case, I'll soon flush.) Oh, and these episodes tend very much to be time vortexes, which can be important if I am indeed supposed to be doing something specific. I'm so glad to be done with school and all its assignments; on another tentacle, this whole "job hunt" thing is somethin' else.

Curiosity: In the times when I've freshly cleared what I'd think is a glaring spot on my face where everyone can see, usually the only person who ever mentions it to me is my own mother (who, of course, goes hysterical every time). Only once that I can recall did anyone else ever bring it up to me, and it was a good, delightful friend with absolutely no capability of mocking or malice. Do people honestly not care, generally? Do they say "What's up with that?!" among themselves after I've hit the road? If I went for a job interview like this, how would it go? Well, nobody's contacting me for interviews, so it might not matter. Anyway, it's only sometimes when I have an incomplete face. The stuff does grow back. Personally, I'm just glad I was symmetrical at my cousin's wedding; everything else seems dispensable.

This seems to be all I have to say for now. (I'm giving "bodily irks and quirks" its own tag on here.) If anyone has thoughts, please share them. Meanwhile, I think the feeling of pressure where I recently had an eyebrow has subsided, but my hands are still feeling a bit fidgety and "compulsory". I may try masturbating again. Good night!

Drive On (lyrics)

Drivin' where I feel I should be
somebody wants me
endless grey is all that I see
it's temporary

Long as I'm needed
I'm gonna be there
I'm gonna drive
until I arrive

Glance around me at like minds
in front and behind me
they all got their own prizes
they're all around me

So I'd better mind them
while everyone finds them
as they all drive
until they arrive

I'd better take a break soon
clear my weary head
regain balance before I try
to drive on

Headin' where I feel I should be
you know that I need me
I'll be at the end if I keep
awake and wary

Where someone needs me
that is where I'll be
so I will drive
until I arrive

Where I am wanted
I will be on it
I'm gonna drive
until I arrive

I'm gonna be there
where I am needed
I'm gonna drive
until I'm alive

A House With No Walls (lyrics)

In a house with no walls
there's no escape
from the eyes of the powers
locked on like a vulture

In a house with no walls
there's no escape
from the deafening mating song
of the dominant culture

In a house with no walls
there's so much noise
that thought is elusive
perhaps as intended

In a house with no walls
you can't be you
without the threat
of someone offended

In a house with no walls
there's no disguise
of the unpleasantly
necessary unclean

In a house with no walls
you'd better hope
that the powers will let you
be naturally obscene

In a house with no walls
your chosen craft
is only permitted
through luck of compliance

In a house with no walls
I am prepared
to stand with my craft
in utter defiance

In a house with no walls
how long can I stand
How long can I stand
how long
can I stand

Evolution: Something Went Wrong.

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

Linus

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rest in love, precious pumpkin.

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

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.~

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

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

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

Back to the drawing board :+)~

Searching for the Sounds

(with apologies to Petersen and Lesh)

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

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

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

...this article about music blogs.

****

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

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

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

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

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

Psych on, psyblings.

A Special Message for Family and Possibly Others

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

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

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

Peace and love.

Bulging Wanderlust Blues

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Twitter.

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

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

****

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

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

Expressions we ought to have: Shit got had!

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

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

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

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

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

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

BAD ROAD! BAD!

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

If food be the music of love, cook on.

someoneelse's(•'e)cards

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

Caption in search of an illustration:

CROSSWORD PUZZLE

HAPPYWORD PUZZLE

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

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

You are somewhere else.

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

Monkey-descendant see, monkey-descendant consider.

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

I ain't out of the cornfields yet.

STREET VIEW VIRTUAL ROAD TRIP!

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

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

*pant* *pant*

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

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

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

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

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

republicunt

democrap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Google

Forever Unemployed meme:

FORGETS TO CHECK NEW "PROFESSIONAL" EMAIL ACCOUNT

DOESN'T MATTER

another Forever Unemployed meme:

GETS EMAIL WITH JOB OFFER

MUST BE A PHISHING SCAM

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

....guess what goes here.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hot dogs and pickles. How phallic was your dinner?

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

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

Driving backwards, I
only realize ever
increasing distance

Talking at cross-purposes: vehemently arguing.

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

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

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

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

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

Open window behind closed blinds

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

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

I don't even have this car.

All it takes is one small "oops".

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

And Yet

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

I'm Cheshire Adams, and I Approve This Message

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

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

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

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

Lots and lots of time.

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Could Only Write This During the Playoffs

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