I just finished watching the movie It's a Funny Story. As the closing credits rolled I thought: I've waited too long to go crazy. Truth be told, I thought of it as a facebook status. Todd Jackson ... waited too long to go crazy.
I'm not talking about talking to yourself crazy, though I do. I'm not talking about the kind of crazy where I hurt myself or other people, quite the opposite. I'm talking about an odd type of crazy where I no longer walk the tight rope, towing society's lines while peeking over the edge, jealous of the people who live for and as themselves, wondering how they make it, how they survive. I never questioned if they were happier than me, these artists, musicians, and work-at-home people. I knew they were. I've been half-crazy since I started kindergarden. Tonight I realized, without question, it was the half that concentrated on following the generic path laid out for me, not the half that stayed up late and got up early, cheating the day to chase a dream, take a walk, and write my thoughts.
We all go through our ups and downs. I've said it a lot lately -- to my new friends, the people fate has timely sent to help me -- happiness isn't about smiling or laughing all the time, rather it is about working towards contentment. I can be happy -- I am happy -- while in the midst of a grand struggle, as long as it's my struggle. My crazy struggle.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Friday, January 27, 2012
another Actualist
I met a guy named Dave Morice last Wednesday at the open mic at Uptown Bill's. I'd seen him up there before. He is in his sixties, I'd guess, and comes with his wife. They are pretty out there, which I appreciate. He read a piece on a million year old language called it; four languages, actually, all called it; based on truth, falsehood, beauty and love, respectively. It was great. The audience got into it.
I read four completely random pieces from my Internal Narrator's Prosetry stuff (It's Happened Again, I am Dead Serious, When the kids go to bed peacefully, and Leaves me to wonder … in case you want to see for yourself) and somehow was able to find a way to tie them all together during my required intro. You can't just read a poem, it seems, you have to tell why you wrote it first. I'm fine with that, I guess.
Dave came up to me after the show was over and told me he really liked my stuff. I sensed he was going to continue, so I shut him down, asked about his piece. Was it a real interview of a fake person or was the whole thing made up? In the early-to-mid-seventies, he and an old girlfriend had created an imaginary poet. He would write the words and she would go out and perform them, presumably in disguise. The poet, Joyce Holland, lasted several years without being discovered. (My detective work later showed she made quite a splash on the poetry scene of the time and was published in 29 literary magazines.) I'd actually read about Dave in Joe Michaud's Iowa City – City of the Book. He was one of the founders of The Actualists, along with Chuck Miller. They were roommates. I told Dave about the message I'd received from Chuck. He agreed it was very complimentary.
He had said that the fake poet, Joyce Holland, had written a lot of concrete poetry and I asked him what that was. (I'm never afraid to show my ignorance with literary things; I figure they don't know much about the design and testing of airbags; people study different things.) Turns out that concrete poems are pieces that depend as much on their form / shape as they do on the words. I've actually played with that kind of thing before, not knowing (or caring, at the time) what it was called. This morning I wrote a concrete poem with Dave in mind. It's called:
A Better Shape
(for Dave Morice)
I've
shed
eighteen
maybe
twenty
pounds
in
the six
or eight
months in
which I've
been out of
employment.
I no longer sit
within earshot of
those god-damned
vending machines,
depressed and list-
ening to candy
dropping all
day long.
I still
don't
exer-
cise
the
way
I'd
like
to, though.
Crossing the line
I've mentioned it before, but not in a while, so I feel obliged to tell you that these pieces are simply things I thought. They haven't been edited or intricately studied. They're blogs. That said ...
A couple days ago I was going to pickup my daughter from preschool when some dipshit crossed the yellow line and kept drifting. I moved over and laid on my horn. He pulled his head out of his ass and returned to his lane, avoiding a head-on collision. I glared at him as we passed, pissed that my horn sounded so wimpy. I almost never use it and feel it should scare the shit out of anyone that deserves to hear it. I want a horn makes them jerk the wheel so hard the whole car bounces off the opposite curb and rattles them for the rest of the time they drive, hopefully much better.
I also made eye contact with the lady following him in her mini-van. She seemed saddened, concerned for the portion of our society that can barely drive anymore. I had seen him pull out in front of her as he got onto the road. The guy had a cell phone in his lap. I could tell from the way he was holding his arm, in a position that used to indicate creepiness and now signifies stupidity and a deep lack of concern for the people around you. I have hated cell phones in cars since they were invented, but now that texting is an option, the hate has turned. It used to be that I would see someone talking on their phone and I would think they were self-centered and ugly, probably lonely, possibly stupid, certainly incapable of being alone with their thoughts for a few minutes, now I drive around and see people looking at their laps and I know for certain whatever message they are sending is not more important than my safety. I want to pull these useless, self-absorbed texters out of their car, right through the window, grab their phone and smash it into the pavement.
Mercedes has a commercial in which it touts a new accident-avoidance system. In the commercial they show cars swerving around semis and fallen trees, rocks and other stuff, in between these clips they show people – I assume actors – talking into the camera about the system, telling potential customers how it saved their life. One guy says, "I had no idea the car in front of me was stopped." The first time I saw it I shouted at the tv. Really? Where were you looking? What were you doing that was more important than not hitting something with your outrageously expensive car? May I take a guess? You were busy not paying attention to your driving. "I had no idea." I still can't believe it. Really? Is this problem becoming prevalent? If so, let me be the first to give everyone a tip, no, a RULE, on how to tell if the car in front of you is stopped: It becomes larger, quickly. Often there are bright red lights on the back of it and appears to be headed directly at you ... at the exact speed you are traveling.
I heard about a girl that died half a mile from her boyfriend's house. She had left to pick up a pizza and was in the middle of sending him a text – HIM, the person she had just been talking to – when her car left the road at fifty, veered into a deep ditch and rolled several times, tossing her around until her head was smashed. The girl was the neighbor of a friend I used to work with. As he told me the story we both agreed it was sad that she died, a tragedy that the family shouldn't have to face, but neither of us could work up any real empathy for her. What would Darwin say about a single-car, texting fatality?
I don't know. But I could venture a guess. One thing I do know is that if you aren't paying attention and you hit me while I'm driving you had better hope that I am badly injured and it's left to the insurance company to settle, otherwise ... well, I'd like to say that you'll have to learn to text with your sphincter muscles, but I’m afraid that would be used against me in a court of law, so I will simply state: whatever happens from the point of impact forward will have been initially instigated by you, thus entirely your fault. I've been dodging shitty drivers for years. I'll keep trying, but one's luck can only hold up for so long. Maybe just knowing I'm out there with fifteen years of fury over people not paying attention and fully intent on kicking someone's ass if they drive into me while using their cell phone will help reduce the number of idiots.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
A poet's voicemail
Sometimes it is nice to know poets.
I met Chuck Miller through my friend Joe Michaud. The three of us had lunch at a Mexican place on the south side one Thursday. Chuck was a member of The Writers' Workshop, but does not associate with those people anymore. He moved on. To look at him you'd think he was just a grumpy old man -- which he is -- but there is so much more to him. He has taught English on four different continents and devoted most of the last fifty years, his entire adult life, to living and writing poetry. At lunch, he told us he was waiting for a translator to finish a long-dead Peruvian(?) tomb in order to finish a poem he was working on. He has never been shy with an opinion, which isn't always great with regards to employment, as he has very high standards. I'm trying to be polite. What I should say is that Chuck shoots his mouth off and loses jobs, always has. Some people are sensitive and don't want to hear negative things even if the source of the negativity has a valid point.
It turns out that Chuck lives in my town, not far from me. One day towards the end of December, I lent him my copy of More Notes from a Dirty Old Man by Bukowski and gave him a copy of The Judge T Chronicles. In exchange, he gave me a book of his poems, Crossing the Kattegut, which I read right away and liked. I had kind of forgotten about the exchange. I moved on and worked on other things. My phone was dead when I got up this morning, so I plugged it in and and found out I had a voicemail. It went like this:
I met Chuck Miller through my friend Joe Michaud. The three of us had lunch at a Mexican place on the south side one Thursday. Chuck was a member of The Writers' Workshop, but does not associate with those people anymore. He moved on. To look at him you'd think he was just a grumpy old man -- which he is -- but there is so much more to him. He has taught English on four different continents and devoted most of the last fifty years, his entire adult life, to living and writing poetry. At lunch, he told us he was waiting for a translator to finish a long-dead Peruvian(?) tomb in order to finish a poem he was working on. He has never been shy with an opinion, which isn't always great with regards to employment, as he has very high standards. I'm trying to be polite. What I should say is that Chuck shoots his mouth off and loses jobs, always has. Some people are sensitive and don't want to hear negative things even if the source of the negativity has a valid point.
It turns out that Chuck lives in my town, not far from me. One day towards the end of December, I lent him my copy of More Notes from a Dirty Old Man by Bukowski and gave him a copy of The Judge T Chronicles. In exchange, he gave me a book of his poems, Crossing the Kattegut, which I read right away and liked. I had kind of forgotten about the exchange. I moved on and worked on other things. My phone was dead when I got up this morning, so I plugged it in and and found out I had a voicemail. It went like this:
Hey, this is Chuck.
Read your book.
It's good, so
be happy.
All right.I'm going to follow his advice.
Bye bye.
Monday, January 23, 2012
Her last sentence
I've been reading a lot lately. I found HER by Lawrence Ferlinghetti (New Directions - 1960) at The Haunted Bookstore in Iowa City on Friday the 13th. It was in the middle of the stack I brought home, but I finished it last night. Here is the final sentence / paragraph. Additional comments to follow.
And so see now my blown newspaper once again tossed up upon the wind with my obituary writ in it ahead of time so all I have to do is give them a head for it even if a letter's printed backward in one line and all I have to do is give them my head and I'm off to see the wizard the wonderful wizard of odds against me in the nowhere void and nothing more to kiss and no more eyes and longing hair as when that time under the great trees where the crickets were, suddenly she stopt laughing, put my hands upon her breasts, and then, and so, and then so down and down we go, my granite dangle hanging down to dive through flesh of air, I smear my forehead ash my white skin sandals on I see dawn's angels stoned for good I see green lights turn yellow in the mad brain dust the tar roofs bleed I see God grips the genitals to catch illusionary me stunned down in the air of death's insanity to kiss me off he plays the deepsea catch he reels me in.
Comments:
- That was on page 157. More than once I counted multiple pages without punctuation, yet I read the whole thing. A few months ago I wouldn't have even made it through that sentence. Did you?
- It takes amazing skill for a writer to create some of the sentences in that book. That said, I don't recommend it, though I mostly enjoyed it.
- I'm pretty sure Ferlinghetti was sitting next to a stack of bennies THIS tall as he wrote this thing.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
from May 11, 2011
I downloaded and erased all of last year's pictures from my phone. 2011 was a misguided year. It never did behave as expected. Fortunately, over the last four decades, I have learned to negotiate with the years. Sometimes I can even persuade them to work with me instead of fighting me every day. For instance, when 2011 took my job in May, I said, "Wow. Okay. Are you [la la] kidding me?"
It was not.
I didn't think my response was unreasonable. The news, especially the delivery, was quite a shock. I had eight months left on that contract and my boss called me on a vacation day. I gathered myself. I knew profanity (you didn't think I actually said 'la la', did you?) wasn't going to sway a year. Once calmed, I asked, "Can I get a few minutes to figure out what I'm supposed to do next?"
2011, being what it was, said, "You have until tomorrow morning. We're building a sensory garden at your daughter's school. You're going."
I knew that getting outside would be important and volunteer work is never bad, so I grabbed some work gloves, a shovel and a heavy-duty rake. When I arrived, I found out I would be in charge of a section of the garden. The teachers would shuffle their classrooms through to help. Each class was made up of about twenty elementary school students raring to go. If you know children, you know that they're not always helpful to have around, especially if you're trying to figure out something you've never done. I was given the birdbath area, mostly because I could carry the birdbath.
We had a poorly-scaled drawing and a few minutes to make a plan, so I paced out a big lima bean shaped perimeter for our area and grabbed the plants shown in the drawing. When the first mob came out -- five kindergarten classes, I believe -- I asked my group to form a fire brigade. They passed landscaping bricks from the pallet (donated by Lowe's) to our area where we put them down, forming a border. The next group helped prepare the soil by removing pieces of sod from the area. There were clumps of dirt and giggles flying every where. The next class had seen the clump throwing, so they didn't need guidance. A few of them broke out and began to dig holes. The ground was a couple inches of black dirt, then hard-packed clay, making it very hard to dig. They dug, tired, and passed the little shovel to the next kid until the hole was eventually large enough to fit the plants. The next class broke into groups of three to five and planted the flowers. Each class had a minimum of half a dozen kids that didn't want to get dirty or pay attention, so I had them walk in a circle around the landscape bricks. The idea was to have their weight, what there was of it, seat the bricks into the tilled dirt. It worked. The kids got gradually larger as the morning went on until there were some boys big enough to carry bags of mulch, one kid at each end, from the pallet. We tore them open and spread the mulch around the birdbath area. By the end it looked pretty darned professional.
The garden is still there. It's winter now, so the ground doesn't look like it does in the picture. It's much whiter. Another thing that you can't see in the picture is that I was emotional. I'd just taken a life-changing vacation and found out on the last day that the job I enjoyed -- the first time I'd been able to say that in years -- was to be snatched from me. It was the second time I'd lost my job in less than six months, and the fourth in three years. Always to the same company in the same building with the same excuse: The Budget Throughout the morning there were occasional tears in the eyes behind my sunglasses. Sometimes it was due to joy; the combination of sunshine, digging in the dirt and working with kids is very therapeutic. Other times I welled up from the fear of not knowing how I was going to provide for and protect my family. And other times it was anger. I was so mad and completely devoid of solutions that I simply cried. The thing that tied all my reactions together was disbelief. I simply could not believe or imagine my life had turned in such a direction. 2011 had changed me, overnight, from a design engineer to a volunteer gardener, and it wasn't even close to done.
I've been going through the year's pictures and narrating them to myself. Hopefully the project will gain some momentum and I'll share with other people.
Friday, January 13, 2012
Fun for a day
I was outside when the snow started on Wednesday night, walking between bars with a friend I hadn't seen in months. Brent is on the last final revision of his book and I have several projects going, so we were both animated. The snow felt almost warm ... as the wind beat it into our faces.
On the drive home I kicked the back end of the Jeep out around a couple corners. I had been emotionally tested and made it through semi-happy. Aside from Brent, everyone I talked to, on my one night out, was going through something. From paranoia to schizophrenia to suicide to ... there's really nothing to list after suicide. The whole day was buzz kill which made the first real snow of the year an event.
When I got home my wife met me at the door, frazzled. "[the older child] is still up."
I took over. She was in her bed, the top bunk, coughing and quietly crying. I climbed up the little ladder and squeezed in beside her along the railing. I talked softly, covered her up, and slowly rubbed her back. It didn't work. She was still restless. "Have you gone to the bathroom?" I asked. Sometimes it helps to just get up and move around. You realize how tired you are and how good the bed felt. At the very least you get something done.
"I think I'll try."
I got her to sleep. By then it was two-thirty. Her Mom and I went to bed assuming we would not be getting up early to take the kids to school. The snow was still coming down sideways and no 2nd grader should be sent to school on five hours of sleep, especially not with a runny nose and hacking cough.
Sure enough, everyone stayed home, even the little one, who wasn't sick. We simply were not up for the battle, so we let her skip preschool. Also, if there are two of them here they will entertain each other, which they did with the help of tv.
I wanted to get back to work on the book, but it was too cold to go to the lake. I tried my office in the basement. Also too cold. I set up in bed, but it didn't work. I kept nodding off. The sun was hidden. The backyard and streets were drifting. The darkness of winter had arrived and I was already sick of snow -- after 14 hours, a new personal record. Finally, I grabbed the used book I bought at Uptown Bill's before the open mic and read the whole thing. I still nodded off occasionally, but it distracted me.
When you find out someone you know took blood thinners and slit his wrists shortly after you were talking to him -- or not, in this case -- you are forced to wonder if there was something you could have done to prevent it. Worse, you wonder what you might have done to cause it. When he left that night he had been upset because he couldn't keep up with our conversation. He felt excluded. And I understand. I've been there, on the alternate level, wishing they would just stop and listen to me, yet unable to say what I wanted to even when they did. The answer to my wondering, in either case, was nothing. It's not up to me to walk around telling people not to kill themselves. He's a fifty year old man with a beautiful mind and problems that few of us can imagine. He called the ambulance immediately. It wasn't his first call for help.
I hope this time he gets it. And I hope this winter doesn't last forever.
On the drive home I kicked the back end of the Jeep out around a couple corners. I had been emotionally tested and made it through semi-happy. Aside from Brent, everyone I talked to, on my one night out, was going through something. From paranoia to schizophrenia to suicide to ... there's really nothing to list after suicide. The whole day was buzz kill which made the first real snow of the year an event.
When I got home my wife met me at the door, frazzled. "[the older child] is still up."
I took over. She was in her bed, the top bunk, coughing and quietly crying. I climbed up the little ladder and squeezed in beside her along the railing. I talked softly, covered her up, and slowly rubbed her back. It didn't work. She was still restless. "Have you gone to the bathroom?" I asked. Sometimes it helps to just get up and move around. You realize how tired you are and how good the bed felt. At the very least you get something done.
"I think I'll try."
I got her to sleep. By then it was two-thirty. Her Mom and I went to bed assuming we would not be getting up early to take the kids to school. The snow was still coming down sideways and no 2nd grader should be sent to school on five hours of sleep, especially not with a runny nose and hacking cough.
Sure enough, everyone stayed home, even the little one, who wasn't sick. We simply were not up for the battle, so we let her skip preschool. Also, if there are two of them here they will entertain each other, which they did with the help of tv.
I wanted to get back to work on the book, but it was too cold to go to the lake. I tried my office in the basement. Also too cold. I set up in bed, but it didn't work. I kept nodding off. The sun was hidden. The backyard and streets were drifting. The darkness of winter had arrived and I was already sick of snow -- after 14 hours, a new personal record. Finally, I grabbed the used book I bought at Uptown Bill's before the open mic and read the whole thing. I still nodded off occasionally, but it distracted me.
When you find out someone you know took blood thinners and slit his wrists shortly after you were talking to him -- or not, in this case -- you are forced to wonder if there was something you could have done to prevent it. Worse, you wonder what you might have done to cause it. When he left that night he had been upset because he couldn't keep up with our conversation. He felt excluded. And I understand. I've been there, on the alternate level, wishing they would just stop and listen to me, yet unable to say what I wanted to even when they did. The answer to my wondering, in either case, was nothing. It's not up to me to walk around telling people not to kill themselves. He's a fifty year old man with a beautiful mind and problems that few of us can imagine. He called the ambulance immediately. It wasn't his first call for help.
I hope this time he gets it. And I hope this winter doesn't last forever.
Friday, January 6, 2012
With the caucus over
I don't know much about Rick Santorum. I doubt I'm alone. He was eight votes shy of beating Romney in the Iowa Republican caucus yesterday.*
We'll likely hear more about Rick, but Romney will be the candidate. Just look at him. He's tall and seemingly faithful. He's wealthy. The worst thing I hear is that he's --gasp-- a Mormon. So, despite the far right's dislike for Ol' Mit and his crazy Massachusetts ways, he's headed down the path. He has a chance to become the next president of the most powerful politician-bashing nation in the world, probably the history of mankind if you take into consideration that We chose them.
I look at these guys and I think: Anyone, in this day and age, interested in becoming the President of the United States of America has something terribly, horribly wrong with them. They don't even hide it well. The need for attention is deep and disturbing. Then there's the God Complex -- "I can change the world." -- or super-ultra ego. There is something wrong with these people ... and we only get two to choose from.
In a country of endless opportunities where a majority of us grew up hearing that we can be whatever we want to be, we have two candidates for President. No wonder they're so screwed up. They only have to beat one other guy for the job. And what's the easiest way? Make the other guy look bad. Doesn't it make sense that the puppet masters would have to work more on their own guys if there were multiple candidates in the competition? They would be forced to develop policies in order to stand out.
Of course, it doesn't matter. If you do become President, every single thing you say will be belittled in at least one national media outlet, and that's a bare minimum. Your approval rating will drop throughout your term, not because you are doing worse, but because no one in the land of the free forgives a grudge. If you do one thing that disturbs my neighbor (generic neighbor -- not you, Kevin) they will not forgive you, even if you have accomplished a dozen things he or she appreciated.
We have become an offended people, constantly looking for reasons to feel slighted. I watch people cling to these bizarre grudges, holding them tightly unto themselves until they begin to define who they are and how they see the people around them by their own indignations.
All this dependency on and anger towards the government has to stop. Our society is behaving like a bunch of moody kids. Grow up. Take some responsibility. They are going to tax you. You drive on their roads and (hopefully) enjoy their state and federal parks. Take the money you have left after taxes and do something with it. The government isn't responsible for your money, you are. They are going to take a percentage of it. Stop being so shocked and appalled and use the energy tmake a budget.
There is this one guy I've seen on several different shows. He is tan and overweight with graying, but perfectly molded hair. He wears beautiful suits. Even on my old, crappy tv you can tell they are of a quality material and tailored specifically to fit him. What I'm getting at is: The guy is obviously living well. Yet, every single time I see him he is bashing Obama and what he's doing to this country. Every single time. Every single thing that Obama (the disrespectful prick doesn't even call him President Obama) has even suggested has been bad & wrong in this guy's eyes. I understand he gets paid to see this way, but ... it is simply impossible to be wrong 100% of the time. You'd have to be a genius to pull it off. Even the dumbest, most incompetent squirrel finds a nut. President Obama is neither dumb nor incompetent. He is, as I mentioned earlier, crazy as hell to want to run for that office, but he's otherwise a pretty bright guy.
I usually don't talk much about politics, but I've been bombarded with phone calls and by ads for the last month. I don't like politicians because they no longer seem to serve the people. They all appear to be focused on making their buck without being caught blatantly screwing the people. Of course, when they have to choose, they take the money. Image be damned. You can buy a new image if you know the right people.
It doesn't matter if our current President wins another term or a new guy steps in. The shit in the halls and offices and courts of the federal government runs so deep no one person or congress will ever understand it again. How many 800-page documents have both sides put together in order to stymie the other? While they sort through it all, I'd like to suggest we focus on taking care of ourselves and each other. I'd give actual suggestions, but I don't have any right now. (I'm sitting alone in an empty parking lot, happy that some other state is going to jump into the caucus hot seat.) Besides, you probably have a conscience and know exactly what to do to make the world around you better. How about volunteering somewhere? Unlike politics, it is inexpensive and rewarding.
*written: Wed. Jan. 4; posted: later
We'll likely hear more about Rick, but Romney will be the candidate. Just look at him. He's tall and seemingly faithful. He's wealthy. The worst thing I hear is that he's --gasp-- a Mormon. So, despite the far right's dislike for Ol' Mit and his crazy Massachusetts ways, he's headed down the path. He has a chance to become the next president of the most powerful politician-bashing nation in the world, probably the history of mankind if you take into consideration that We chose them.
I look at these guys and I think: Anyone, in this day and age, interested in becoming the President of the United States of America has something terribly, horribly wrong with them. They don't even hide it well. The need for attention is deep and disturbing. Then there's the God Complex -- "I can change the world." -- or super-ultra ego. There is something wrong with these people ... and we only get two to choose from.
In a country of endless opportunities where a majority of us grew up hearing that we can be whatever we want to be, we have two candidates for President. No wonder they're so screwed up. They only have to beat one other guy for the job. And what's the easiest way? Make the other guy look bad. Doesn't it make sense that the puppet masters would have to work more on their own guys if there were multiple candidates in the competition? They would be forced to develop policies in order to stand out.
Of course, it doesn't matter. If you do become President, every single thing you say will be belittled in at least one national media outlet, and that's a bare minimum. Your approval rating will drop throughout your term, not because you are doing worse, but because no one in the land of the free forgives a grudge. If you do one thing that disturbs my neighbor (generic neighbor -- not you, Kevin) they will not forgive you, even if you have accomplished a dozen things he or she appreciated.
We have become an offended people, constantly looking for reasons to feel slighted. I watch people cling to these bizarre grudges, holding them tightly unto themselves until they begin to define who they are and how they see the people around them by their own indignations.
All this dependency on and anger towards the government has to stop. Our society is behaving like a bunch of moody kids. Grow up. Take some responsibility. They are going to tax you. You drive on their roads and (hopefully) enjoy their state and federal parks. Take the money you have left after taxes and do something with it. The government isn't responsible for your money, you are. They are going to take a percentage of it. Stop being so shocked and appalled and use the energy tmake a budget.
There is this one guy I've seen on several different shows. He is tan and overweight with graying, but perfectly molded hair. He wears beautiful suits. Even on my old, crappy tv you can tell they are of a quality material and tailored specifically to fit him. What I'm getting at is: The guy is obviously living well. Yet, every single time I see him he is bashing Obama and what he's doing to this country. Every single time. Every single thing that Obama (the disrespectful prick doesn't even call him President Obama) has even suggested has been bad & wrong in this guy's eyes. I understand he gets paid to see this way, but ... it is simply impossible to be wrong 100% of the time. You'd have to be a genius to pull it off. Even the dumbest, most incompetent squirrel finds a nut. President Obama is neither dumb nor incompetent. He is, as I mentioned earlier, crazy as hell to want to run for that office, but he's otherwise a pretty bright guy.
I usually don't talk much about politics, but I've been bombarded with phone calls and by ads for the last month. I don't like politicians because they no longer seem to serve the people. They all appear to be focused on making their buck without being caught blatantly screwing the people. Of course, when they have to choose, they take the money. Image be damned. You can buy a new image if you know the right people.
It doesn't matter if our current President wins another term or a new guy steps in. The shit in the halls and offices and courts of the federal government runs so deep no one person or congress will ever understand it again. How many 800-page documents have both sides put together in order to stymie the other? While they sort through it all, I'd like to suggest we focus on taking care of ourselves and each other. I'd give actual suggestions, but I don't have any right now. (I'm sitting alone in an empty parking lot, happy that some other state is going to jump into the caucus hot seat.) Besides, you probably have a conscience and know exactly what to do to make the world around you better. How about volunteering somewhere? Unlike politics, it is inexpensive and rewarding.
*written: Wed. Jan. 4; posted: later
Monday, January 2, 2012
Bloom on Iowa
I finally made it all the way through University of Iowa Professor Stephen Bloom's piece on living in Iowa. My first couple tries were cut short due to boredom. He begins with a great list of facts ... as you'd expect from a journalism professor. Then the whole thing kind of turns to name calling and generalization, which may be why so many people have talked about it over the last couple weeks. So many, in fact, that I decided I had to read the whole thing. Tonight. I even read some readers' comments and his reply to the backlash ... which he simply could not have been surprised by, seeing as he is PAID by the tax payers of this state -- the same people he tries to claim are unfit to vote for the president of our country.
I'm not the type to get offended, so I'm not. He raises some good points. The state has many towns that are slowly fading away. Industry is lacking. The percentage of young adults leaving the state is high -- though I'd be curious to know how many of them, like me, came back once they had children. And, yes, there are a lot of old people. I'm not sure how this is a bad thing. Longevity is better than the alternative, if you enjoy being alive. Also, old people tend to have interesting stories and aren't afraid to share an opinion; traits I assumed a journalist would enjoy to a certain degree.
The thing that did make me a little sick was how much he, as a professor of journalism, uses blatant generalization in lieu of actual examples or finite numbers. My quick tally shows the word almost is used 10 times, many: 15 times, often: 8 times. I will admit I didn't, and don't, care to check them all out in context. However, I have picked out two of my favorites (aside from the meth head stuff that everyone else seems to bring up). Here they are:
Stephen Bloom wrote: "... it's not unusual to take a date to a Tractor Pull or to a Combine Demolition Derby."
First, let me just say that I am NEVER going to date a Journalism Professor. How often does he take his wife to Tractor Pulls? Does she like them? And where does he find so many? Is there a league that I haven't heard of or something? Back that one up with some facts, Bloom. Which leads me into my other serious bone of contention (or pretentiousness):
Stephen Bloom wrote: "... I can't tell you how often over the years I'd be walking Hannah [his golden lab] in our neighborhood and someone in a pickup would pull over and shout some variation of ..."
They would shout something about hunting ... in his imagination. I CAN tell you what I think of an essay or article or any piece of writing that includes the phrase "I can't tell you how often" or any phrase of a similar ilk. If you can't tell me, don't submit your piece. Figure it out. Was it twice? Was it over a hundred times. How much capacity do you have in your mind for details, professor? Maybe you should carry a little notebook. He came up with three variations on hunting questions, so it is safe to assume he was asked at least three different times over the thirteen-year lifespan of his Labrador Retriever if it is a good hunting dog. Now, I am not a hunter, but I've heard that RETRIEVERS are good at bringing back game. Sorry if I come off like a know-it-all. It's just what I've heard. Apparently those three guys in pickup trucks that pulled up next to him heard the same rumor.
Overall, I don't think he explained in either a "real or metaphysical way, what Iowa is", just as no state or its people can be categorized in a simple article. He does get one thing right: Iowa is a place of bizarre contrasts. If he actually has received threats (it's hard to say what is true with this guy, having only read the aforementioned) and truly fears for the safety of himself and his family after this piece, I feel for him. That's not good. On the other hand, if you don't feel safe in (old, sparsely-populated) Iowa it is possible, dare I say likely, that you are an asshole. And you may -- just a guess here -- have awful things to say about wherever you spend the next twenty years.
If so, do tell. I laughed my ass off about that tractor pull thing. You could've said: In Iowa, women's vaginas open to the sound and smell of hard-revving diesel engines. The article would have been no less judgmental or inflammatory.
I'm not the type to get offended, so I'm not. He raises some good points. The state has many towns that are slowly fading away. Industry is lacking. The percentage of young adults leaving the state is high -- though I'd be curious to know how many of them, like me, came back once they had children. And, yes, there are a lot of old people. I'm not sure how this is a bad thing. Longevity is better than the alternative, if you enjoy being alive. Also, old people tend to have interesting stories and aren't afraid to share an opinion; traits I assumed a journalist would enjoy to a certain degree.
The thing that did make me a little sick was how much he, as a professor of journalism, uses blatant generalization in lieu of actual examples or finite numbers. My quick tally shows the word almost is used 10 times, many: 15 times, often: 8 times. I will admit I didn't, and don't, care to check them all out in context. However, I have picked out two of my favorites (aside from the meth head stuff that everyone else seems to bring up). Here they are:
Stephen Bloom wrote: "... it's not unusual to take a date to a Tractor Pull or to a Combine Demolition Derby."
First, let me just say that I am NEVER going to date a Journalism Professor. How often does he take his wife to Tractor Pulls? Does she like them? And where does he find so many? Is there a league that I haven't heard of or something? Back that one up with some facts, Bloom. Which leads me into my other serious bone of contention (or pretentiousness):
Stephen Bloom wrote: "... I can't tell you how often over the years I'd be walking Hannah [his golden lab] in our neighborhood and someone in a pickup would pull over and shout some variation of ..."
They would shout something about hunting ... in his imagination. I CAN tell you what I think of an essay or article or any piece of writing that includes the phrase "I can't tell you how often" or any phrase of a similar ilk. If you can't tell me, don't submit your piece. Figure it out. Was it twice? Was it over a hundred times. How much capacity do you have in your mind for details, professor? Maybe you should carry a little notebook. He came up with three variations on hunting questions, so it is safe to assume he was asked at least three different times over the thirteen-year lifespan of his Labrador Retriever if it is a good hunting dog. Now, I am not a hunter, but I've heard that RETRIEVERS are good at bringing back game. Sorry if I come off like a know-it-all. It's just what I've heard. Apparently those three guys in pickup trucks that pulled up next to him heard the same rumor.
Overall, I don't think he explained in either a "real or metaphysical way, what Iowa is", just as no state or its people can be categorized in a simple article. He does get one thing right: Iowa is a place of bizarre contrasts. If he actually has received threats (it's hard to say what is true with this guy, having only read the aforementioned) and truly fears for the safety of himself and his family after this piece, I feel for him. That's not good. On the other hand, if you don't feel safe in (old, sparsely-populated) Iowa it is possible, dare I say likely, that you are an asshole. And you may -- just a guess here -- have awful things to say about wherever you spend the next twenty years.
If so, do tell. I laughed my ass off about that tractor pull thing. You could've said: In Iowa, women's vaginas open to the sound and smell of hard-revving diesel engines. The article would have been no less judgmental or inflammatory.
So much more to say ...
The first blog post.
I have to remind myself: It's a blog.
It doesn't have to be perfect. I don't have to read it backwards from the end, sentence by sentence, to make sure it's sound down to the last phrase. In fact, if I don't tell anyone about it, the writing doesn't even have to be good.
Before I began this post I asked myself, as I do before every writing project, who is my audience?
Oddly, for this particular piece, I think it is me. I need to get this off the ground and this is the pep talk I need. If you stick with me, I promise there will be one aimed at you, or someone you know, soon enough.
I have a friend, my drummer friend, named Neel. I met him in Los Angeles years ago. He now makes a living as a performing percussionist. (I don't want to work, I just want to bang on my drum all day.) He teaches, of course, but he also plays a lot of gigs. That should actually be spelled A LOT. His goal is to do 300 shows every year. Sure, he could probably find one steady gig that played six nights and paid the same, but he hasn't and the 300 is a challenge for him.
So, I told myself: You must write 300 entries in a blog this year.
It seems manageable ... right?
Granted, I have no idea what I'm in for, having never posted a single blog before, but I've been writing every day (or close enough) for many years and I have a lot to say.
Which reminds me of a band that Neel played in back when we both lived in Los Angeles. The band was called Woodshed. The lead singer / guitarist was a funny, talented, Asian-American guy named Son (or Sun, I don't think I ever saw it spelled) and he had this one song that went:
"How could you walk away / when I had so much more to say"
Then it just kept repeating, or worse, had long instrumentals. It drove my overly-literal mind crazy and I said something to him more than once over drinks.
"If you're going to claim that you had so much more to say, you have to say SOMETHING. Give us a sample. Give us something."
He didn't have anything to say about my comments. In fact, he seemed pretty non-plussed by the observation. Neel left the band, as well as the next one, and the one after that, and eventually we both left L.A. You can't blame us really, their lyrics don't make sense.
As I prepare to write these blogs, I think of how fortunate I am to know a lot of people who do make sense, including (hopefully) myself and I will write about them (us) over the course of the year. In addition, I'll write about the morons in the public eye and anything else I can come up with in order to reach my goal.
Incidentally, I do not consider Son/Sun a moron, simply an artist not looking for my advice. I can dig that. Since losing my job in May of 2011, I have had a lot of suggestions on what I should write and most of them are not what I am going to write. Though it was a challenge, I have dropped my corporate mindset. I hope to never tackle another project that doesn't make sense, instead I now focus my efforts on MY goals.
One of them is to say so much more.
I have to remind myself: It's a blog.
It doesn't have to be perfect. I don't have to read it backwards from the end, sentence by sentence, to make sure it's sound down to the last phrase. In fact, if I don't tell anyone about it, the writing doesn't even have to be good.
Before I began this post I asked myself, as I do before every writing project, who is my audience?
Oddly, for this particular piece, I think it is me. I need to get this off the ground and this is the pep talk I need. If you stick with me, I promise there will be one aimed at you, or someone you know, soon enough.
I have a friend, my drummer friend, named Neel. I met him in Los Angeles years ago. He now makes a living as a performing percussionist. (I don't want to work, I just want to bang on my drum all day.) He teaches, of course, but he also plays a lot of gigs. That should actually be spelled A LOT. His goal is to do 300 shows every year. Sure, he could probably find one steady gig that played six nights and paid the same, but he hasn't and the 300 is a challenge for him.
So, I told myself: You must write 300 entries in a blog this year.
It seems manageable ... right?
Granted, I have no idea what I'm in for, having never posted a single blog before, but I've been writing every day (or close enough) for many years and I have a lot to say.
Which reminds me of a band that Neel played in back when we both lived in Los Angeles. The band was called Woodshed. The lead singer / guitarist was a funny, talented, Asian-American guy named Son (or Sun, I don't think I ever saw it spelled) and he had this one song that went:
"How could you walk away / when I had so much more to say"
Then it just kept repeating, or worse, had long instrumentals. It drove my overly-literal mind crazy and I said something to him more than once over drinks.
"If you're going to claim that you had so much more to say, you have to say SOMETHING. Give us a sample. Give us something."
He didn't have anything to say about my comments. In fact, he seemed pretty non-plussed by the observation. Neel left the band, as well as the next one, and the one after that, and eventually we both left L.A. You can't blame us really, their lyrics don't make sense.
As I prepare to write these blogs, I think of how fortunate I am to know a lot of people who do make sense, including (hopefully) myself and I will write about them (us) over the course of the year. In addition, I'll write about the morons in the public eye and anything else I can come up with in order to reach my goal.
Incidentally, I do not consider Son/Sun a moron, simply an artist not looking for my advice. I can dig that. Since losing my job in May of 2011, I have had a lot of suggestions on what I should write and most of them are not what I am going to write. Though it was a challenge, I have dropped my corporate mindset. I hope to never tackle another project that doesn't make sense, instead I now focus my efforts on MY goals.
One of them is to say so much more.
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