Posts
So today I finally got the scoop on this phenomenon called Twitter.
I gave in to the Facebook peer pressure, creating my own page, and actually interacting with people. It's been fun. It's been different. And catching up with folks from my distant past has been intriguing and surprisingly satisfying.
But this Twitter shit just baffles the hell out of me.
There is NOBODY with whom I am so fascinated that I feel compelled to maintain a running tab on their whereabouts and activities.
And you know what? I hope like hell there's nobody out there that wants to know what I'm doing, not only because the whole idea is frightfully pathetic, but because they'd be disappointed with just how boring and unmotivated I am when it comes to informing people that, hey, guess what, that sauerkraut I ate just twenty minutes ago? Well, it's out of me now baby, and I spray painted me a porcelain-based masterpiece!
So while it may seem ironic to read coming from a relatively narcissistic blogger and Facebook participant, you can lose that Twitter shit, post-haste. Unless you're a celebrity, which renders you dismissible in my eyes, you're very likely boring, and if you're not, you're likely lying about not being boring. And if I want lies, bullshit, deceit, and self-righteous self-importance, I can listen to Rush Limbaugh.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Warm This
It's December 28, and it's a breezy, windy 65 degrees.
Sure, it's grey and damp, but it still feels too damned warm.
I say fuck the tree-huggers and their global warming horseshit, but I still don't like this unseasonable weather. It should be in the 30's, or at least the 40's, and any gusts should feel like icy razors drawn across exposed flesh. Instead it feels like temperate mid-winter tropical breezes out there.
This is not the kind of weather that compels me to stick up for New Jersey when outlanders comment on what a dungheap it is. I want the four seasons. I want the easy access to big cities and coastal playgrounds. I want smothering snow and I want blistering heatwaves. But I want them when they're supposed to be here, not as temporally displaced aberrations.
Oh, and fuck Hurricane Schwartz too. He said this should be a colder, icier, snowier winter than we've had in some time. Look into my eye, Glenn. You're a dork and a scam-artist like all the rest of the weather-clowns. Now go get your fucking shine box.
Sure, it's grey and damp, but it still feels too damned warm.
I say fuck the tree-huggers and their global warming horseshit, but I still don't like this unseasonable weather. It should be in the 30's, or at least the 40's, and any gusts should feel like icy razors drawn across exposed flesh. Instead it feels like temperate mid-winter tropical breezes out there.
This is not the kind of weather that compels me to stick up for New Jersey when outlanders comment on what a dungheap it is. I want the four seasons. I want the easy access to big cities and coastal playgrounds. I want smothering snow and I want blistering heatwaves. But I want them when they're supposed to be here, not as temporally displaced aberrations.
Oh, and fuck Hurricane Schwartz too. He said this should be a colder, icier, snowier winter than we've had in some time. Look into my eye, Glenn. You're a dork and a scam-artist like all the rest of the weather-clowns. Now go get your fucking shine box.
Resolution #2
I'm losing weight.
No, really, I am. I figure about forty pounds should do it.
I'm not committing to any particular fitness regimen, but I'm going to do it by Labor Day. Maybe even sooner.
And I'll likely talk to my boy Rob about some running guidance. Yes, I hate running, but I love the occasional patch of solitude. That makes running an alliance between the bitter and sweet. I like the sounds of that. For today at least.
No, really, I am. I figure about forty pounds should do it.
I'm not committing to any particular fitness regimen, but I'm going to do it by Labor Day. Maybe even sooner.
And I'll likely talk to my boy Rob about some running guidance. Yes, I hate running, but I love the occasional patch of solitude. That makes running an alliance between the bitter and sweet. I like the sounds of that. For today at least.
Order Now
I'm curious, actually, if I'm the only person who has an automatic prejudice against any product packaged with the red and white logo bragging "As Seen On TV!"?
And how about the Snuggie? I mean, don't we all want to look like Friar Tuck in the comfort of our own homes?
But really, as soon as there's one available with the Eagles logo, I'm ordering up so I can wear it to the next game I attend. I shouldn't get too many comments on that from the upper-level thugs.
And how about the Snuggie? I mean, don't we all want to look like Friar Tuck in the comfort of our own homes?
But really, as soon as there's one available with the Eagles logo, I'm ordering up so I can wear it to the next game I attend. I shouldn't get too many comments on that from the upper-level thugs.
Resolution #1
I've come to the conclusion that I'm a bad blogger.
I'm so erratic and so irregular, that even if someone wanted to read what I have to say, they could go months without anything new to ingest. And that's me failing to hold to my part of the Blogger's Compact.
And so, going forward, as of January 1, 2009, I resolve to blog more regularly. And yes, it's a very subjective concept, this regularity thing, but rest assured it will be more often than once every five or six months or so.
And Resolution #1A is my vow to become considerably less wordy.
Believe that I will find #1 much more accessible and viable than #1A. But I will do my level best.
Thank you for your patience.
I'm so erratic and so irregular, that even if someone wanted to read what I have to say, they could go months without anything new to ingest. And that's me failing to hold to my part of the Blogger's Compact.
And so, going forward, as of January 1, 2009, I resolve to blog more regularly. And yes, it's a very subjective concept, this regularity thing, but rest assured it will be more often than once every five or six months or so.
And Resolution #1A is my vow to become considerably less wordy.
Believe that I will find #1 much more accessible and viable than #1A. But I will do my level best.
Thank you for your patience.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Strange Days Indeed, Most Peculiar Mama
George Carlin is dead.
He died yesterday, which was a Sunday, which is apt in a way because he held Sunday in no higher regard than any other day of the week.
In one of the true ironies existent in human nature, he became an icon by excelling at being an iconoclast. He tore down with what seemed to many uptight assholes to be wanton disregard and recklessness. In reality, he tore down with a focus and insight that very few individuals in the public spotlight have ever possessed. And when presented with his spot-on, poignant social commentary, the knee-jerk response of many was to attempt to denigrate and insult. And blissfully, their impotent attempts at both served only to make him all the more relevant.
I got a kick out of the attempt at Faux News to trivialize his demise. They basically said he focused on drugs and obscenity. I have no doubt that's exactly how the tight-assed, hypocritical, ego-maniacs under Murdoch see it. Many of the readers as well. But what sums it up best is the interview from Hannity and Colmes. Not surprisingly, Hannity got nowhere near Carlin. He left it up to Colmes. And while I'd have given a pinky toe to have seen Hannity eviscerated by George, I was at least somewhat surprised that Hannity had enough sense to let his survival instinct keep him safe. On the flip side, Hannity was once again shown to be a sackless pussy shill for the Demonic Right.
So he became notorious for his Seven Words. And like a bunch of good mindless, right-wing sheep, the establishment took him to task for what they saw to be senseless obscenity and vulgarity. In reality, though, what he did with those words, and the way he presented them, was establish that the words themselves carried no more power or significance than what we attributed to them. Without archaic, puritanical sensibilities, those words were no more offensive than any others. We, as careless communicators, attached the nastiness to the words. He felt they were nothing more than the product of silly religious superstitions. They should no more be banned, in total, than any other words in the language. Indeed, the obscenity of those words paled in comparison to the inherent obscenity of war, which was brought on not by some obsolete hang-ups, but by the very commission of acts to which we seemed unable or unwilling to attach due significance. It seems his message was on-point.
He felt that humanity has lost its way, that we, as a species, have become more concerned with property than people. And in this, at least from a non-third-world aspect, he is quite correct.
He stated clearly that he was not happy with his homeland, the USA. He felt it had become one huge, capitalist mall, with everyone trying to sell everyone else cheeseburgers, laundry detergent, drugs, and cars.
He felt that the American people had willingly become duped, and that they based their perception of freedom and liberty on false, meaningless choices. We feel free not because those we put into power are going to offer us something different when all is said and done, because let’s face it, they won’t, but because we can get dozens of flavors of jellybeans and ice cream on a whim.
He felt that the only things the people in this country truly had any absolute right to were the ability to eat, have decent shelter, and the capacity to be able to work to provide and maintain those first two things. And unfortunately, those things are regularly trod upon by those we put into power. And we deserve the revocation of those rights for as long as we allow those assclowns to remain in their fancy leather chairs in whatever capitol they are serving.
No man has ever been right all the time. But I think George Carlin might just have one of the highest percentages of correctness seen in modern times. He could cut through the bullshit and lay open what most would rather not see or speak of. And in so doing, he created, in essence, two camps of people who listened to him. There were those who heard what he had to say and professed outrage and indignation. These are the souls who fear the mirror like field-mice fear the hawk. He spoke of what was inside these people, and they were terrified to the point that nothing other than strident denial would allow them to maintain the illusion of their lives.
Then there were those who heard him, and realized that the mirror was a best friend, that it could be used to identify those places that needed the most work, the dark recesses that, once illuminated, held the secrets that could do the most good.
I was a fan from the time I was allowed to listen to such comedians, pretty much the early 1970’s. I never got to see him live, because I always found a reason to say, next time, I’ll see him the next time he comes around. But I didn’t need to see him in person to appreciate the treasure he was.
We don’t become better by pampering ourselves and making believe all is well. We don’t improve our lots in life by pretending that we will be rightly served by the people we elect, the gods we believe in, or the relationships we undertake. We need to stay on top of these matters, not only because the others aren’t always acting in our best interests, but because we are often guilty of the worst things of which we accuse them. And so I would like to thank George for being the harsh mirror that too many of us shun, but that we all need in a real bad way.
He died yesterday, which was a Sunday, which is apt in a way because he held Sunday in no higher regard than any other day of the week.
In one of the true ironies existent in human nature, he became an icon by excelling at being an iconoclast. He tore down with what seemed to many uptight assholes to be wanton disregard and recklessness. In reality, he tore down with a focus and insight that very few individuals in the public spotlight have ever possessed. And when presented with his spot-on, poignant social commentary, the knee-jerk response of many was to attempt to denigrate and insult. And blissfully, their impotent attempts at both served only to make him all the more relevant.
I got a kick out of the attempt at Faux News to trivialize his demise. They basically said he focused on drugs and obscenity. I have no doubt that's exactly how the tight-assed, hypocritical, ego-maniacs under Murdoch see it. Many of the readers as well. But what sums it up best is the interview from Hannity and Colmes. Not surprisingly, Hannity got nowhere near Carlin. He left it up to Colmes. And while I'd have given a pinky toe to have seen Hannity eviscerated by George, I was at least somewhat surprised that Hannity had enough sense to let his survival instinct keep him safe. On the flip side, Hannity was once again shown to be a sackless pussy shill for the Demonic Right.
So he became notorious for his Seven Words. And like a bunch of good mindless, right-wing sheep, the establishment took him to task for what they saw to be senseless obscenity and vulgarity. In reality, though, what he did with those words, and the way he presented them, was establish that the words themselves carried no more power or significance than what we attributed to them. Without archaic, puritanical sensibilities, those words were no more offensive than any others. We, as careless communicators, attached the nastiness to the words. He felt they were nothing more than the product of silly religious superstitions. They should no more be banned, in total, than any other words in the language. Indeed, the obscenity of those words paled in comparison to the inherent obscenity of war, which was brought on not by some obsolete hang-ups, but by the very commission of acts to which we seemed unable or unwilling to attach due significance. It seems his message was on-point.
He felt that humanity has lost its way, that we, as a species, have become more concerned with property than people. And in this, at least from a non-third-world aspect, he is quite correct.
He stated clearly that he was not happy with his homeland, the USA. He felt it had become one huge, capitalist mall, with everyone trying to sell everyone else cheeseburgers, laundry detergent, drugs, and cars.
He felt that the American people had willingly become duped, and that they based their perception of freedom and liberty on false, meaningless choices. We feel free not because those we put into power are going to offer us something different when all is said and done, because let’s face it, they won’t, but because we can get dozens of flavors of jellybeans and ice cream on a whim.
He felt that the only things the people in this country truly had any absolute right to were the ability to eat, have decent shelter, and the capacity to be able to work to provide and maintain those first two things. And unfortunately, those things are regularly trod upon by those we put into power. And we deserve the revocation of those rights for as long as we allow those assclowns to remain in their fancy leather chairs in whatever capitol they are serving.
No man has ever been right all the time. But I think George Carlin might just have one of the highest percentages of correctness seen in modern times. He could cut through the bullshit and lay open what most would rather not see or speak of. And in so doing, he created, in essence, two camps of people who listened to him. There were those who heard what he had to say and professed outrage and indignation. These are the souls who fear the mirror like field-mice fear the hawk. He spoke of what was inside these people, and they were terrified to the point that nothing other than strident denial would allow them to maintain the illusion of their lives.
Then there were those who heard him, and realized that the mirror was a best friend, that it could be used to identify those places that needed the most work, the dark recesses that, once illuminated, held the secrets that could do the most good.
I was a fan from the time I was allowed to listen to such comedians, pretty much the early 1970’s. I never got to see him live, because I always found a reason to say, next time, I’ll see him the next time he comes around. But I didn’t need to see him in person to appreciate the treasure he was.
We don’t become better by pampering ourselves and making believe all is well. We don’t improve our lots in life by pretending that we will be rightly served by the people we elect, the gods we believe in, or the relationships we undertake. We need to stay on top of these matters, not only because the others aren’t always acting in our best interests, but because we are often guilty of the worst things of which we accuse them. And so I would like to thank George for being the harsh mirror that too many of us shun, but that we all need in a real bad way.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Don't Fear the Reaper, and more cowbell
People are afraid to die.
No great shame there, of course. Death represents the most inexplicable and profound of unknowns. It casts questions that cannot be answered. It’s the final, ultimate darkness at the end of what has been, hopefully, a long run of light.
And so it’s no wonder that people want to attribute some grand meaning to it. It’s not an end, but a beginning, the gateway to some ethereal plane, a place where all is always well and kindness and pleasure are eternal presences. And what better place to meet up with those who went before us, those we miss so acutely it hurts in our core, there to reunite and reminisce and celebrate?
But somewhere along the line, we saw the need, or someone did, anyway, to give credit for this splendid afterlife to the same god, or gods, who’ve become increasingly more obsolete by the decade. So if we’re watching the god-creators erode and decay, what does that say about their versions of Heaven?
Are the Fields Elysian? Are there seventy-some or so virgins awaiting our deflowering manhoods? Is St. Peter posted at the golden gates, checking his list once, and then twice, damning those naughty and admitting those nice?
Heaven might be none of those things. And it might be some or all of them.
Or, even more likely, but by no means verifiable, there is no heaven or afterlife beyond this one, and when your body ceases to function, your cells gradually and gracefully dance the slow waltz to decomposition that lands them back among the most basic elements from whence they primordially came. This would mean no dreams, no recollections, and no supernatural visits back to the land of the living to find out just how much your widowed husband is living it up now that you’re not there to crimp his philanderous style.
But no matter what our ultimate lot, whether this life is a way station en route to the next cosmic plane, or if it’s the be-all and end-all, the whole gamut snarled into one existential Gordian knot, the bottom line is, no matter how many SacredHolyDivine books and scriptures insist otherwise, and no matter how much I rant and crow to the contrary, we just don’t know.
Say that with me.
We just don’t know.
When we die we may have several dozen chaste young ladies crawling over us for a taste of our carnal hotness, or we may have several hundred worms and insects crawling over us to ingest us and excrete us into the earthly coil, that and nothing more.
But whatever it may be, whatever may await us, we just don’t know.
And yet, it seems that the majority of us live our lives with our eyes on the afterlife as some great prize, as though it’s a piñata that we’re lucky enough to hack at without the hindrance of a blindfold, so this word be damned, full speed ahead to Heaven, let me at what comes next, to hell with what I could do today with the time I’ve got.
To call it a shame would be like calling a nuclear blast a bonfire. In fact, it is an atrocity, a slimy, dripping gob of phlegmy saliva spit in the eye of the processes that have plodded for millions of years to bring us to where we are today.
We are so intent in worshipping something outside us that we forget about the god inside us. We are so focused on getting to the Next Level and avoiding some heinous, evil underworld that we lose sight of the life we have now. And in so doing, we lose sight of what’s truly important and Holy in the world around us, the souls we touch and who touch us, and the personalized faith we need to keep churning in our spiritual engines.
Yes, this intense fear of death helped create the need for externalized faith, and so aided greatly in the creation and evolution, not to mention the unscrupulous implementation, of religion. As we became more aware and cognizant and contemplative, we conjured up a need for a redeeming afterlife, one which somehow or another could only be magnanimously provided for us by a deity, assuming, of course, that we were aptly devout and duly cowed by said deity’s alleged greatness. And this afterlife helped make us less afraid. Or so the story goes.
Yet when the night is dark, and the odd noises creak ominously in our rooms, and sleep is found to be too damned distant, we might dare, perilously, to be more honest with ourselves than at any other time and think long and hard about the things that happen now, and why, and the things that happen next, and why. And in these moments, with the white-hot perception brought on by such introspective frankness, our hearts tach up and our souls grasp fruitlessly for a hold, and we admit to ourselves, with a teeth-chattering shudder, that when it comes to what happens after death, we just don’t know. We can hope, and pray, and desire and crave and need, but we do not know. And the fact is, if there’s no “after” after this, if our purpose here is nothing more than to be part of it all, to play a role, grand or otherwise, in this unbelievably intricate and complex production, then those who lived their lives with an eye on the heavenly prize will have wasted entirely too much time worrying about how what they are doing today will effect the judgment to come. They’ll have whacked the shit out of the piñata, hitting it square with every swing, and all that will have fallen out is broken hopes and shattered dreams.
So damn you if your primary concern is with some heaven or another. Damn you if you enjoy one thing less in this life than you could have just because you were worried about your name writ in some mystical endgame book. Damn you if you worshipped some god without when you should have been worshipping the gods within. And damn you if you ever take one life in the name of this silly-ass concept of god and his heaven. May St. Peter be a toothless, paranoid schizophrenic with TB, may all your virgins be syphilitic crone-whores, and may the glory of this alleged god be shards of glass rubbed in your face with a chain-mail glove.
You want goodness in this life? Love yourself, and love others, at least those you care to. Teach your children to be the best people they can be. Teach them accountability, that every action has consequences, and that those consequences are theirs alone to bear. Love them, endeavor to give them more than you had yourself, and try to learn when to protect them and when to let them feel the burn of failure.
Don’t do anything to anyone else you would not want done to yourself.
You don’t need a Bible, or a Koran, or a Torah, or some marketing-driven, cash-cow self-help scheme to fill those empty spaces inside. Because, see, they’re not really empty. They’re just waiting for you to let the faith already there become ripe, to let it shine more brightly than the fear you have of death or the misplaced faith you have in some god. And hey, if there ends up being a god and a heaven of some sort, you’ll have lived a good and scrupulous life, so you should be good to go anyway.
It’s a cliché, but truer words were never coined: Life is for the living. Not only that, but life is for living. It’s not for getting ready to die. Learn that, and believe in yourself and those you love and trust more than in any other specious concept, and you’ll be as full and happy as any book, seminar, audiocassette, or other religious trappings could never make you.
Next we’ll address synchronicity and intricate balances.
No great shame there, of course. Death represents the most inexplicable and profound of unknowns. It casts questions that cannot be answered. It’s the final, ultimate darkness at the end of what has been, hopefully, a long run of light.
And so it’s no wonder that people want to attribute some grand meaning to it. It’s not an end, but a beginning, the gateway to some ethereal plane, a place where all is always well and kindness and pleasure are eternal presences. And what better place to meet up with those who went before us, those we miss so acutely it hurts in our core, there to reunite and reminisce and celebrate?
But somewhere along the line, we saw the need, or someone did, anyway, to give credit for this splendid afterlife to the same god, or gods, who’ve become increasingly more obsolete by the decade. So if we’re watching the god-creators erode and decay, what does that say about their versions of Heaven?
Are the Fields Elysian? Are there seventy-some or so virgins awaiting our deflowering manhoods? Is St. Peter posted at the golden gates, checking his list once, and then twice, damning those naughty and admitting those nice?
Heaven might be none of those things. And it might be some or all of them.
Or, even more likely, but by no means verifiable, there is no heaven or afterlife beyond this one, and when your body ceases to function, your cells gradually and gracefully dance the slow waltz to decomposition that lands them back among the most basic elements from whence they primordially came. This would mean no dreams, no recollections, and no supernatural visits back to the land of the living to find out just how much your widowed husband is living it up now that you’re not there to crimp his philanderous style.
But no matter what our ultimate lot, whether this life is a way station en route to the next cosmic plane, or if it’s the be-all and end-all, the whole gamut snarled into one existential Gordian knot, the bottom line is, no matter how many SacredHolyDivine books and scriptures insist otherwise, and no matter how much I rant and crow to the contrary, we just don’t know.
Say that with me.
We just don’t know.
When we die we may have several dozen chaste young ladies crawling over us for a taste of our carnal hotness, or we may have several hundred worms and insects crawling over us to ingest us and excrete us into the earthly coil, that and nothing more.
But whatever it may be, whatever may await us, we just don’t know.
And yet, it seems that the majority of us live our lives with our eyes on the afterlife as some great prize, as though it’s a piñata that we’re lucky enough to hack at without the hindrance of a blindfold, so this word be damned, full speed ahead to Heaven, let me at what comes next, to hell with what I could do today with the time I’ve got.
To call it a shame would be like calling a nuclear blast a bonfire. In fact, it is an atrocity, a slimy, dripping gob of phlegmy saliva spit in the eye of the processes that have plodded for millions of years to bring us to where we are today.
We are so intent in worshipping something outside us that we forget about the god inside us. We are so focused on getting to the Next Level and avoiding some heinous, evil underworld that we lose sight of the life we have now. And in so doing, we lose sight of what’s truly important and Holy in the world around us, the souls we touch and who touch us, and the personalized faith we need to keep churning in our spiritual engines.
Yes, this intense fear of death helped create the need for externalized faith, and so aided greatly in the creation and evolution, not to mention the unscrupulous implementation, of religion. As we became more aware and cognizant and contemplative, we conjured up a need for a redeeming afterlife, one which somehow or another could only be magnanimously provided for us by a deity, assuming, of course, that we were aptly devout and duly cowed by said deity’s alleged greatness. And this afterlife helped make us less afraid. Or so the story goes.
Yet when the night is dark, and the odd noises creak ominously in our rooms, and sleep is found to be too damned distant, we might dare, perilously, to be more honest with ourselves than at any other time and think long and hard about the things that happen now, and why, and the things that happen next, and why. And in these moments, with the white-hot perception brought on by such introspective frankness, our hearts tach up and our souls grasp fruitlessly for a hold, and we admit to ourselves, with a teeth-chattering shudder, that when it comes to what happens after death, we just don’t know. We can hope, and pray, and desire and crave and need, but we do not know. And the fact is, if there’s no “after” after this, if our purpose here is nothing more than to be part of it all, to play a role, grand or otherwise, in this unbelievably intricate and complex production, then those who lived their lives with an eye on the heavenly prize will have wasted entirely too much time worrying about how what they are doing today will effect the judgment to come. They’ll have whacked the shit out of the piñata, hitting it square with every swing, and all that will have fallen out is broken hopes and shattered dreams.
So damn you if your primary concern is with some heaven or another. Damn you if you enjoy one thing less in this life than you could have just because you were worried about your name writ in some mystical endgame book. Damn you if you worshipped some god without when you should have been worshipping the gods within. And damn you if you ever take one life in the name of this silly-ass concept of god and his heaven. May St. Peter be a toothless, paranoid schizophrenic with TB, may all your virgins be syphilitic crone-whores, and may the glory of this alleged god be shards of glass rubbed in your face with a chain-mail glove.
You want goodness in this life? Love yourself, and love others, at least those you care to. Teach your children to be the best people they can be. Teach them accountability, that every action has consequences, and that those consequences are theirs alone to bear. Love them, endeavor to give them more than you had yourself, and try to learn when to protect them and when to let them feel the burn of failure.
Don’t do anything to anyone else you would not want done to yourself.
You don’t need a Bible, or a Koran, or a Torah, or some marketing-driven, cash-cow self-help scheme to fill those empty spaces inside. Because, see, they’re not really empty. They’re just waiting for you to let the faith already there become ripe, to let it shine more brightly than the fear you have of death or the misplaced faith you have in some god. And hey, if there ends up being a god and a heaven of some sort, you’ll have lived a good and scrupulous life, so you should be good to go anyway.
It’s a cliché, but truer words were never coined: Life is for the living. Not only that, but life is for living. It’s not for getting ready to die. Learn that, and believe in yourself and those you love and trust more than in any other specious concept, and you’ll be as full and happy as any book, seminar, audiocassette, or other religious trappings could never make you.
Next we’ll address synchronicity and intricate balances.
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