WHIRLING OPEN

Posting here is like visiting my old high school or hanging out with a co-worker on the weekend. I’m a little uncomfortable, edgy, unnecessarily cautious, and suspicious of my own motivations. I keep changing the site’s theme, renaming categories, editing posts, deleting some, rewriting others, and filling up my “drafts” folder so that now its count is higher than what’s published. I can compare what I’m doing best to a comment made regarding my step-mother’s redecoration of the family home. “It feels over-decorated and under-lived in.” In other words, a whole lot of neurotic with a dash of creepy.

I’ve been busy doing things I don’t like to talk about, which is unacceptable, as it breaks one of my own (un)tarnished Golden Rule(s).  They’re pretty basic: Don’t do anything I’m ashamed of, anything that will later require an apology, or anything that’ll cost me a little time in jail. Oh, and avoid liars, asshats, lunatics, motherfuckers, bastards, the vindictive, and the mean.  Sounds easy enough, eh?

I’m remembering what I forgot to remind myself to remember.  (This sentence is more painful to think than read, I assure you.)

I miss this space.  I forgot what it meant to me.  I allowed myself to be distracted by things unworthy of my time.  Shit happens.  I’m over it.  As I’ve said once or twice…this pointless space is mine.  I’m okay being a little uncomfortable until I get used to it again.  Because, ultimately, I live a life I don’t mind talking about.

It’s 4 am and Enimen’s losing himself on my iTunes shuffle. I’m tired. I want to go back to bed, go to sleep, dream about being someplace I want to be so I know where it is. In the morning I’ll buy a map, steal a car, possibly rob a bank, get there as soon as I fucking can, because today I’m tired and I don’t want to be tired anymore.

For the record, because ALL good songs you hear other people sing were written by either Bob Dylan or Tom Waits, this one is on Tom.

Tori Amos Strange Little Girls

Tom Waits Rain Dogs

The Glitter and Doom Tour

I really shouldn’t tell anyone this because I don’t have tickets yet but Tom Waits is going on tour. As asshats like to brag about seeing people who never go on tour, I, asshat that I am, get to brag about seeing him in L.A. in 2000. (Oh…did I mention I saw Leonard Cohen in 1993? I bet you’re so fucking jealous you’re pissing green.)

Oh yeah… Leonard Cohen is on tour right now. Did I mention I don’t have tickets to see him either? Of course…he’s not coming to the U.S. anytime soon…if at all.

The good news is all shows aren’t sold out. If you want to buy me tickets to see Cohen, just toss in a couple of tickets to Germany, Italy, or the UK (because you know how dangerous it is to hitchhike these days!).

Seriously. Tom and Leonard are on tour this summer?! Hell froze over an no one told me.

The sad truth is hell didn’t freeze over…  It opened its gates and flooded our streets.  Wanna know why Leonard is on a World Tour at age 73?  His long-time manager, Kelley Lynch, whom he considered a friend, robbed him.  He’s one of those poor rich people now.

People suck in ways I don’t like.

Leonard Cohen, The Letters

No, I don’t suppose I’ll be stealing cars or robbing banks.   I’ll get some sleep, pray to the Gods of music a few pairs of tickets to see Leonard and Tom will magically appear in my inbox, as well as airfare to get to the cities they’re playing in, and buy an extra map or two because they’re handy.  This notion that there is a place to be or go, somewhere I belong, where I can settle down (inside) and feel at home, is a distraction.  And that just won’t do.  And though it provides no more sense of security, integrity, or greater meaning in the grand scheme of things, “success is my only motherfucking option.”  If only as the more palatable option to its alternative…

~Nellie McKay
from Sari
Get Away From ME

…because asshats need practice, too

Came across your site. I remember Jr High. I looked forward to dodge ball.You were the one in the corner, that just stood there looking at me, hoping i would spare you.How did the blindside shot to your head feel? I tried not to laugh.nice article…look forward to more.
DC

For future reference, Mr. C., to “blindside” an opponent means to attack or hit on or from the blind side; to catch or take unawares. This is impossible to do if I am “the one in the corner, that just stood there looking at [you], hoping [you] will spare [me.]” And, though your fond recollection of a perceived preternatural ability to sense or instill fear in the heart of fellow prepubescent dodge ballers is mildly disturbing, aside from defining blindside, suppressing the urge to fix minor capitalization typos, your dubious comment inspired only one other thought: A quote from the film, The Witches of Eastwick.

Alexandra Medford: You’re not even interesting enough to make me sick.

There are many things about the universe I’ll never understand.  This is not pessimism but wishful thinking.  A prayer.  A “if everything works according to plan”.  For all my curious creature ways, certain mysteries and unknowables should be left alone; or at the very least should leave me alone.  If something smells terrible, tastes awful, permanently ruins your impression of something previously palatable or pleasant, don’t offer to share it with me.  I’ll take your word for it, believe it’s as bad as you say, avoid the video of that kid who accidentally staked himself at Halloween during an unfortunate costume malfunction, skip archival footage of the misguided decision by Oregon’s Department of Transportation to remove the decaying carcass of a beached whale by blowing it up, and every incarnation of the “Star Wars Kid” whose video created so much trouble for him he had to switch schools.  No one told him the 3 rules essential to living well:

1. Hide under a rock until you’re safely out of Junior High School.
2. Don’t film yourself if you’re pretending to be a Jedi.
3. Star Wars is dead.  We’ll still dress up in the gold bikini, let you collar and leash us, but it’s time to let all the other fantasies die.  Stop trying to use the force, Luke. 

Fortunately the ratio of people who own equipment capable of documenting their most humiliating moments skyrockets after age 14.  The pool of “Star Wars Kid” videos is so vast, the likelihood yours will be ridiculed by millions, and then picked up by creative-types with “mad programming skills” seeking to redeem you and their own inner “Star Wars Kid” decreases considerably.  However, YouTube with caution - This does not mean your friends won’t save it for an explosive, potentially marriage-annulling montage to be screened at your wedding.

The moral of the story is STAY BEHIND THE CAMERA.  Or avoid doing anything stupid for the rest of your life.

That’s easy enough. 

Where was I?

Oh, what stinks about being the ant.

Feeling a little stupid myself during a recent conversation with a friend I said, “Is this a joke?  And am I not getting it?”  He said, “Isn’t that a question you should be saving to ask God?”

Which brings me back to my original statement about our universe and things you know you can keep to yourself.  I’m pretty sure, if Gods do exist, I’m not getting the joke.  There’s lots to laugh about, yet we seem to have entered an age when we’re so intellectually bankrupt, all we come up with is the “kick each other in the crotch and watch each other cry” gag.  I tried to woo a boy this way when I was 9 and may have permanently ruined his desire for children because he’s pushing 40, hasn’t married, and is competing with friends to see who can hold out the longest.  I can’t really blame him.  Unless that’s what you’re into, a kick in the crotch is no way to say “I love you.”  There are hundreds of fascinating people in the world whose life’s work gets passed over and ignored so we can watch videos of a child who wants nothing more than to be left alone, forgotten about, allowed to be a child during the blink of an eye that is childhood.

You see, I know something about this…what it’s like to be a child one day, and something else entirely unidentifiable, (but clearly no longer a child) the next.  Regardless of whether the attention received is a result of their own actions or something forced upon them, children should not be subjected to our lackbrain boredom, pushed further into a spotlight they can’t navigate or comprehend, because we’ve run out of things to talk about.  If we’re so incapable of enjoying what’s already out there that we’ve resorted to humiliating children for entertainment, maybe we ought to go back to blowing up beached whales, watching tourists ditch BBQ equipment and dive behind cars to avoid chunks of blubber raining down on them like Styrofoam boulders on a movie set, as stunned reporters, duped by engineers into believing local wildlife would carry off whatever remained of the whale after the explosion exclaim, “The seagulls were nowhere in sight!”  I can just imagine a seagull swooping in immediately after half a ton of dynamite roasts their morning meal to perfection, and hauling off 25lb chunks to enjoy at their leisure - in their seagull Winnebago?

(Okay, maybe the whale video is pretty funny.)

It’s your thing, your life, but here’s something to consider…

If you find yourself watching something and the words, “Man, that’s fucked up” are said by you and your companions more than once - stop watching.  Instead of burning us ants, you’d be better off using your magnifying glass to examine the sun.  (Obligatory disclaimer: DON’T DO THIS ASSHATS!).  I guarantee you there’s not a funny fucking thing about being that kid.

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