HAPEE HAWLIDAZE 2011

Hullo,

Itz mee raydeeo ugin. Wile I mae bee geteeng ohldur I kan stil rite. So I askd feedr if I cude du this ugin. Hee sed yes beecuz hee sed hee didn’t hav tyme tu gow tu cosco and mayk card pikchurez and wee didunt goh eneeware eneeway.

Ime dooeng prity gude. How ar u? gude to heer it.

I no I am nohn fore chayseeng swirz and barkeeng at katz, but I must sae that ime starteeng tu feele mi ayj uh bit. I now just luke at skwirlz and tel them tu leev. And wutz with this coled rayn? Foregit that. Eye’ll pupe in the hows.

Feedr hazunt dun much. Hee keepz sayeeng how much hee luvs hiz dee vee ar. Hee keepz maykeeng beere and tellz hiz frenz heez prity gude. Hee stil playz hiz gitar butt nott az much az hee uzed tu. I donet mind thu gitar that duzunt hav thu wyre in it butt thu wun that duz iz lawd and hurtz mi eerz. Hee awlsew keepz tokeeng uhbowt sum buke heez goweeng tu rite. Heez bin tawkeeng uhbowt that wun fore uhwyle now. Heez bin smileeng uhlawt thu pasd fu weekz awlso. I downt no uhbowt wut butt it betr not bee uhbowt that gurl hoo kut my tow nalez.

Feedrz dad did sumtheeng cawld reetyred this yeer. I downt no wut that meenz so thatz awl uhbowt that.

Feedr towld mee tu tell yu hee haz sum yeerlee recumendashuns fore thu yeer…

Muzik –
Wilco: Thu Hole Luv
The Jaehox: Mawkeengburd Tyme

Muveez (dee vee dee)-
Lyfe in uh Dae
Krayzee, stoopid, luv

Teevee-
Rayzeeng Hope (on fox)
Wokeeng Ded (on Ay Em Cee)
Kumune ittee (on En Bee Cee)
Cee Bee Ess Sundae Morneeng (Cee Bee Ess) its happee nuze.

Ok, eenuff uv that.

So, thatz awl I got. Wee howp u ar dooeeng gude. We ar. Hapee Hawlidae uv yor choys.

Pawz and likz,

Raydeeo and feedr

The Developmental Stages of the Average Americans View of The State of America

Rage Against The Machine Meter = Low, Medium/Low, Medium, Medium/High, or High

Ages Birth – 12: You’re oblivious to anything beyond your nose. It’s all about the world meeting your needs, and your needs alone. Should anything you want be withheld, you scream and shit your pants until said demands are met. Your days are spent immersed in a world of Dinosaurs, Barbie, and Star Wars.
RAM Level: Medium/High

Ages 13 – 18: Your thoughts and beliefs are now a combination of your own selfishness combined with 12 years of brainwashing from your parents, such as political, religious, and American Idol views, although you clearly have no understanding what your views actually mean. Adults know nothing, and if the world ran the way kids felt it should, there would be no problems.
RAM Level: Medium/High

Ages 19 – 29: You’re now learning critical thinking. You watch the news. You are reading books that don’t have pictures and are about things that have actually happened. And some of you have gone to college. The older generations are to blame for every problem in the world. You are the most informed person on the planet, however this overwhelming load of information is much like a person who has been blind for life and has suddenly gained their vision. You don’t know how to process all this new knowledge, thus are generally wrong about everything… you just don’t know it yet.
RAM Level: High

Ages 30 – 39: You’re now several years into your career and have an income. You’re paying substantial taxes, and working with people much older and wiser than you. You begin to have the realization that maybe you were wrong on a few things, but not ready to admit it publicly. You’re motivated and will make somebody a lot of money.
RAM Level: Medium/Low

Ages 40 – 65: You’ve had this job for quite a while now. Your routine is set. Weekends are the best part of your life. All of the sudden the stock market means something to you. The staff at Home Depot know you on a first name basis. You’re in a period of enlightenment where the older you get, the more you realize you know nothing. You’ve suddenly lost all touch with anything anybody under the age of 35 thinks, feels, or believes. It’s all about the countdown to your retirement without going postal at your job.
RAM Level: Low

Ages 66 – 79: You made it. And now these damn kids are trying to take away your Social Security and Medicaid. You’ve now moved into survival mode. Why not? You paid for your Social Security and deserve every penny of it even it will bankrupt the country. The younger generation is to blame for all the problems in the world. Screw those kids! Nobody gave you anything, so why should you give them anything? Completely fed up with the world, you buy a motor home and move to a land where everybody just like you congregates.
RAM Level: High

Ages 80 – Death: You’re oblivious to anything beyond your nose. It’s all about the world meeting your needs, and your needs alone. Should anything you want be withheld, you scream and shit your pants until said demands are met. Your days are spent immersed in a world of Depends, Canasta, and screaming at the nurse because your kids left you in this God forsaken retirement center.
RAM Level: Medium/High

My Own 20

My first serious interests in music took hold in the early 80’s. I had been raised on a mix of AM radio, which back then was Gordon Lightfoot, James Taylor, and Carol King. Throw in a mix of my mom’s album collection that consisted of Barbara Streisand, Elvis Presley, Willie Nelson, and ABBA. I had a small stack of 45’s that was made up of top 40 hits of the late 70’s and very early 80’s. My dad’s influence was mostly the old stuff from the 50’s, although he really never had a taste for Elvis. I remember watching my dad always being affected by the Blues and early Jazz as well. He liked rhythm. And in 1976, my parents took me to my first concert, Elvis himself. I don’t think my dad really wanted to be there, nor did I. But my mom was ecstatic, as were all the other screaming women in the Memorial Coliseum that night. All I remember of the evening was a tiny glitter dot moving back and forth and hearing loud music with the occasional, “uh huh huh huh… thank you very much.” And I don’t mean that with any hint of cliché.

By 1980, Judas Priest was on the rise. My brother was a rocker… Priest, Iron Maiden, Scorpions, Ted Nugent, etc. My oldest sister was into New Wave… B-52’s, Blondie, DEVO, Boomtown Rats, etc. One day my brother and I were at a record store with my mom. She told us we could each pick out an album. My brother grabbed AC/DC’s newest, Back in Black. I chose Chipmunk Punk. We went home and I quickly realized I had chosen poorly after first listen. Shortly after that I gave my brother Priest’s British Steel for his birthday. And that was the album that locked it all in for me. I would spend the next ten years fixated on Euro and L.A. Metal. I went to the shows. My brother took me to my first Metal show when Judas Priest toured for Screaming for Vengaence. I wore the T-shirts. I had shaggy-ish hair. I listened to Metal day in and day out. If you didn’t listen to Metal, you didn’t matter to me. And when I turned sixteen years old I received my first guitar, eventually mastering the power chord.

The first half of the 80’s was one of the highest points in the history of Rock for me. But… and I didn’t know this until many years later… the second half of the 80’s were nearly ridiculous. Flooded with coat tail bands, excessive hair, male models posing as rock stars, and just really bad music… Metal was dead… except… one brief hope… Guns ‘N Roses. GNR pumped a little bit of life back into a dying genre. I, by chance, had met them as they were my sister’s downstairs neighbors at her apartment in L.A. during March of 1986. I would have forgotten about them until, a few months later, I stumbled upon a cassette of their initial EP at the local record store where I spent my lunch hours during high school. I bought the tape and was bored by it pretty quick. But then about a year later they released the masterpiece. Appetite For Destruction brought a level of anger and aggression into Rock that had been forgotten. Metal had gone happy and pretty. We were getting to the point where the very music our parents despised was now being heard in car commercials. GNR gave us hope again. Our parents hated it and that was a good thing. But then GNR released the Use Your Illusion albums and my hopes quickly faded with their over production, pianos, and epic videos. And GNR vanished as quickly as they blew up my speakers.

My best friend at the time had left for college in Tacoma/Seattle right after high school. He was majoring in a music business program in Tacoma and began an internship at a recording studio in Seattle. He started dropping names of these unknown bands to me. His musical tastes changed. His guitar playing was changing. He discovered Jane’s Addiction and our mutual passion for Metal came to an end. I couldn’t grasp onto Jane’s yet. My mind wasn’t ready. I stayed at home for my first couple years of college. My thought process was still on hold.

One Christmas break he had come home. It was New Years Eve and he told me, “We need to go to Satyricon tonight. There’s a band playing I think you’ll love.” Satryicon was a Punk/Underground music club that was Portland’s equivalent to New York’s CBGB’s. I was afraid of it. My brother and youngest sister practically lived there. And at that time in their lives, that told me it was a drug den. I was brought up under the shelter of the suburbs. Yes, I went to Metal shows, but always at the Coliseum where the aisles were lined with security guards. I always felt safe… aside from the one night I saw Motley Crue open for Ozzy Osbourne. A much older drunk guy in front of me threw his beer on me without provocation, just because he could. He challenged me to fight. I was, maybe, 15 or 16. He was probably 21. Yeah, a real tough guy. I held my ground, and his friends calmed him down. That was the most danger I had ever encountered at a show.

I was very hesitant to accept this invitation to go to the Satyricon. I didn’t want to hang out in a smoky place with all those junkies. I asked him who the band was. “Nirvana. They’re a Seattle band. I think they could be huge some day. There’s a lot of buzz about them and they’re pretty popular in Seattle. I think you’ll like them.” At this point it was 1989. My friends’ tastes were different. He was submerged in the world of drugs. He was listening to things that weren’t on the radio or MTV. And I didn’t want to deal with the crowd I was afraid of at the Satyricon.

“No, let’s just go hang out somewhere.” My friend was clearly bummed out.

Not much later my friend kept dropping names like Mother Love Bone, Screaming Trees, Mudhoney, and Soundgarden. You need to remember… there was no Internet. I couldn’t look these bands up. I couldn’t go to iTunes or YouTube to check them out. But, these mysterious new band names kept coming my way by word of mouth. Every once in a while he would give me a cassette that was a tape of a tape of a tape of a demo by this band or that band. It was fuzzy and distorted. It wasn’t Punk. It wasn’t Metal. My ears didn’t comprehend what was going on.

I remember my sisters, at this point, having a conversation about the show they had gone to recently. They were now in love with a singer named Chris Cornell. And “he had the best voice” they had ever heard.

During this time, my brother had just put together a band with a group of his friends, all local Metal survivors. But they instinctually knew something new needed to happen. They all grew up on Metal and a slice of Punk. And they were all Portlanders. They weren’t quite tapped in to what was happening a three hour drive north. Yet, Six Feet Underground was formed. I had never heard anything like it. It sounded like the greatest aural assault ever assembled. The bass and drums could crush a tank. The guitars would terrify the strongest of men. And the voice absolutely destroyed anyone who had ever grabbed a microphone before him. Yet, this was short lived due to their own deficits in life. Had they stuck around, I am convinced this little essay would be more about them than what is to come.

Mother Love Bone. Mother Love Bone. Mother Love Bone.

This name kept coming from my friend’s mouth. One day I was reading an interview with Nikki Sixx in Circus or Hit Parader magazine. He was asked about the future of Rock and Roll. “Mother Love Bone,” was his answer. Hmm? Perhaps my friend was on to something. Sixx went on to describe this new incredible sound coming out of the northwest. And then one day I received word. Mother Love Bone was gone. Their singer, Andrew Wood, had just overdosed just days prior to the release of their debut release. But, I was encouraged to pick up their CD anyway. I did. And it didn’t leave my CD player for weeks.

At this point my Ratt and Dokken CD’s became completely irrelevant. I then had the thought that if this MLB CD was this good, what would a Jane’s Addiction CD have to offer. My thoughts on music began to change. I then scoured all the local music magazines for any information on this new tide of music. The word “Grunge” was building steam.

At this point I was now in Eugene, scooting my way through college. I had even more exposure to new bands due to the diverse pool of new friends who came from all over from all sorts of backgrounds. I was in the middle of the college music scene. I then read about a couple of the guys from MLB were putting something new together. They were called Mookie Blaylock. They were also working on a tribute to their friend, the deceased Andrew Wood.

I was walking home from class one day and passed a small tavern that had live music from time to time. I saw a flyer in the window. Mookie Blaylock was coming to play there the upcoming weekend. As soon as I got back to my house I began telling my friends and begging them to come and see this with me. “I have home work. I’m going out of town. I’m tired. There’s a party.” I got a solid vote of “No”. My own insecurities would not allow me to go by myself. The night of the show I sat in my house, sad and desperate. I knew something big was happening just blocks away and I was missing it. The next morning I woke up and the white brick wall across the street from me had been spray painted… “Mookie Blaylock”.

Shortly after that I caught a blurb in a magazine about Mookie who was now calling themselves Pearl Jam. They talked about the struggle of trying to get their name out there, so they would resort to spray painting it every where after they played shows. They also mentioned they would be going into the studio soon. I waited patiently.

Shortly after, my neighbor turned me on to Alice in Chains. I immediately called my Seattle friend and asked him about them. He told me they were a band that used to be poppy Hair Metal, but had changed their sound as things in Seattle were taking off. At this point my friend had worked with or met a lot of these bands as they had recorded demo stuff at the recording studio he worked at. He was also going to all the shows.

Then it happened. Pearl Jam released Ten. Just prior, the MLB/Wood tribute had been released by Temple of the Dog, a supergroup comprised of Pearl Jam and Soundgarden members… and our introduction to Eddie Vedder. I had been listening to Temple over and over, the same way I had devoured MLB’s Apple. But now was the time for Ten.

From there the whole Seattle sound had put the rest of my CD collection into a state of amnesia. Metal had become the Island of Forgotten Toys. I became very aware of the back and forth between Pearl Jam and Nirvana. It seemed you were either in one camp or the other. I was with Pearl Jam. I had all the Nirvana CD’s. I liked them. But I wasn’t connecting with them. There was a level of anger and dirt I wasn’t grasping. I didn’t feel like I would ever want to hang with Curt Cobain the way I thought I could be friends with the guys in Pearl Jam. I understood PJ’s songs better. They meant more to me. There was more depth in them for me.

I was having a conversation with my Seattle friend and I made the statement, “I think Pearl Jam is our generation’s Led Zeppelin.” This was our time.

“No.” He denied me my belief on this. “No, it will end. Just like everything good in music ends. They don’t have the depth of the classic stuff.”

I tried to argue back, but by this point he had become quite bitter in life and wouldn’t allow himself to enjoy things anymore. Everything was bad. “Oh,” I thought to myself. It’s that Seattle thing. All these bands sounded like. But for whatever reason, PJ had attached to my core. I understood their negativity, but I also sensed hope or promise in their songs. And their frustration seemed real. Nirvana didn’t seem to have any hope. It had too much of a sense of whining in it. And that irritated me. Most of these bands sounded very down, but the music was fantastic.

It seemed to become a struggle to see PJ live living in Portland. I eventually caught them opening up for Neil Young. They had lived up to everything I had thought and hoped about them.

At this time I followed their every move for the first three or four albums, but began to lose my understanding of them in their attempt to de-rock star themselves. I began to wonder if my friend was right. I figured the break up would be right around the corner.

Two decades later I just sat and watched the Pearl Jam Twenty documentary. I saw all that footage of the early days. I watched the evolution through the behind the scenes clips. And it hit me… I was right. While PJ conducted the deliberate struggle to avoid the limelight for years, they were still in control. A year or so ago they had released a new album that showed they could still put out a radio friendly hit, they were smiling, and they, now, all looked grown up. They survived. And everything they accomplished twenty years ago was still relevant. Pearl Jam were… are… my Led Zeppelin.

And then I was sad. I was all “grown up” in my 40’s. I felt sad for today’s kids, the college students. What did they have? Who was rocking their world? There was nothing. They would not have musical memories like this. Music right now is dead. It had been dead for some time. There was nothing new. Foo Fighters are big, but they have been around. While it’s great music, it’s not new or groundbreaking. There was no new big thing. Absolutely nothing to be excited about. Twenty years from now what flood of fantastic Rock and Roll memories will these kids have? Nickelback?

Things I Wish I Wrote and Thought

I want to post this simply for my own archives, so I always know where to find this. And you might just like it too.

David Foster Wallace-Kenyon's 2005 Commencement Speech-

"(If anybody feels like perspiring [cough], I'd advise you to go ahead, because I'm sure going to. In fact I'm gonna [mumbles while pulling up his gown and taking out a handkerchief from his pocket].) Greetings ["parents"?] and congratulations to Kenyon's graduating class of 2005. There are these two young fish swimming along and they happen to meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says "Morning, boys. How's the water?" And the two young fish swim on for a bit, and then eventually one of them looks over at the other and goes "What the hell is water?"

This is a standard requirement of US commencement speeches, the deployment of didactic little parable-ish stories. The story ["thing"] turns out to be one of the better, less bullshitty conventions of the genre, but if you're worried that I plan to present myself here as the wise, older fish explaining what water is to you younger fish, please don't be. I am not the wise old fish. The point of the fish story is merely that the most obvious, important realities are often the ones that are hardest to see and talk about. Stated as an English sentence, of course, this is just a banal platitude, but the fact is that in the day to day trenches of adult existence, banal platitudes can have a life or death importance, or so I wish to suggest to you on this dry and lovely morning.

Of course the main requirement of speeches like this is that I'm supposed to talk about your liberal arts education's meaning, to try to explain why the degree you are about to receive has actual human value instead of just a material payoff. So let's talk about the single most pervasive cliché in the commencement speech genre, which is that a liberal arts education is not so much about filling you up with knowledge as it is about "teaching you how to think". If you're like me as a student, you've never liked hearing this, and you tend to feel a bit insulted by the claim that you needed anybody to teach you how to think, since the fact that you even got admitted to a college this good seems like proof that you already know how to think. But I'm going to posit to you that the liberal arts cliché turns out not to be insulting at all, because the really significant education in thinking that we're supposed to get in a place like this isn't really about the capacity to think, but rather about the choice of what to think about. If your total freedom of choice regarding what to think about seems too obvious to waste time discussing, I'd ask you to think about fish and water, and to bracket for just a few minutes your scepticism about the value of the totally obvious.

Here's another didactic little story. There are these two guys sitting together in a bar in the remote Alaskan wilderness. One of the guys is religious, the other is an atheist, and the two are arguing about the existence of God with that special intensity that comes after about the fourth beer. And the atheist says: "Look, it's not like I don't have actual reasons for not believing in God. It's not like I haven't ever experimented with the whole God and prayer thing. Just last month I got caught away from the camp in that terrible blizzard, and I was totally lost and I couldn't see a thing, and it was 50 below, and so I tried it: I fell to my knees in the snow and cried out 'Oh, God, if there is a God, I'm lost in this blizzard, and I'm gonna die if you don't help me.'" And now, in the bar, the religious guy looks at the atheist all puzzled. "Well then you must believe now," he says, "After all, here you are, alive." The atheist just rolls his eyes. "No, man, all that was was a couple Eskimos happened to come wandering by and showed me the way back to camp."

It's easy to run this story through kind of a standard liberal arts analysis: the exact same experience can mean two totally different things to two different people, given those people's two different belief templates and two different ways of constructing meaning from experience. Because we prize tolerance and diversity of belief, nowhere in our liberal arts analysis do we want to claim that one guy's interpretation is true and the other guy's is false or bad. Which is fine, except we also never end up talking about just where these individual templates and beliefs come from. Meaning, where they come from INSIDE the two guys. As if a person's most basic orientation toward the world, and the meaning of his experience were somehow just hard-wired, like height or shoe-size; or automatically absorbed from the culture, like language. As if how we construct meaning were not actually a matter of personal, intentional choice. Plus, there's the whole matter of arrogance. The nonreligious guy is so totally certain in his dismissal of the possibility that the passing Eskimos had anything to do with his prayer for help. True, there are plenty of religious people who seem arrogant and certain of their own interpretations, too. They're probably even more repulsive than atheists, at least to most of us. But religious dogmatists' problem is exactly the same as the story's unbeliever: blind certainty, a close-mindedness that amounts to an imprisonment so total that the prisoner doesn't even know he's locked up.

The point here is that I think this is one part of what teaching me how to think is really supposed to mean. To be just a little less arrogant. To have just a little critical awareness about myself and my certainties. Because a huge percentage of the stuff that I tend to be automatically certain of is, it turns out, totally wrong and deluded. I have learned this the hard way, as I predict you graduates will, too.

Here is just one example of the total wrongness of something I tend to be automatically sure of: everything in my own immediate experience supports my deep belief that I am the absolute centre of the universe; the realest, most vivid and important person in existence. We rarely think about this sort of natural, basic self-centredness because it's so socially repulsive. But it's pretty much the same for all of us. It is our default setting, hard-wired into our boards at birth. Think about it: there is no experience you have had that you are not the absolute centre of. The world as you experience it is there in front of YOU or behind YOU, to the left or right of YOU, on YOUR TV or YOUR monitor. And so on. Other people's thoughts and feelings have to be communicated to you somehow, but your own are so immediate, urgent, real.

Please don't worry that I'm getting ready to lecture you about compassion or other-directedness or all the so-called virtues. This is not a matter of virtue. It's a matter of my choosing to do the work of somehow altering or getting free of my natural, hard-wired default setting which is to be deeply and literally self-centered and to see and interpret everything through this lens of self. People who can adjust their natural default setting this way are often described as being "well-adjusted", which I suggest to you is not an accidental term.

Given the triumphant academic setting here, an obvious question is how much of this work of adjusting our default setting involves actual knowledge or intellect. This question gets very tricky. Probably the most dangerous thing about an academic education--least in my own case--is that it enables my tendency to over-intellectualise stuff, to get lost in abstract argument inside my head, instead of simply paying attention to what is going on right in front of me, paying attention to what is going on inside me.

As I'm sure you guys know by now, it is extremely difficult to stay alert and attentive, instead of getting hypnotised by the constant monologue inside your own head (may be happening right now). Twenty years after my own graduation, I have come gradually to understand that the liberal arts cliché about teaching you how to think is actually shorthand for a much deeper, more serious idea: learning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about "the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master".

This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.

And I submit that this is what the real, no bullshit value of your liberal arts education is supposed to be about: how to keep from going through your comfortable, prosperous, respectable adult life dead, unconscious, a slave to your head and to your natural default setting of being uniquely, completely, imperially alone day in and day out. That may sound like hyperbole, or abstract nonsense. Let's get concrete. The plain fact is that you graduating seniors do not yet have any clue what "day in day out" really means. There happen to be whole, large parts of adult American life that nobody talks about in commencement speeches. One such part involves boredom, routine and petty frustration. The parents and older folks here will know all too well what I'm talking about.

By way of example, let's say it's an average adult day, and you get up in the morning, go to your challenging, white-collar, college-graduate job, and you work hard for eight or ten hours, and at the end of the day you're tired and somewhat stressed and all you want is to go home and have a good supper and maybe unwind for an hour, and then hit the sack early because, of course, you have to get up the next day and do it all again. But then you remember there's no food at home. You haven't had time to shop this week because of your challenging job, and so now after work you have to get in your car and drive to the supermarket. It's the end of the work day and the traffic is apt to be: very bad. So getting to the store takes way longer than it should, and when you finally get there, the supermarket is very crowded, because of course it's the time of day when all the other people with jobs also try to squeeze in some grocery shopping. And the store is hideously lit and infused with soul-killing muzak or corporate pop and it's pretty much the last place you want to be but you can't just get in and quickly out; you have to wander all over the huge, over-lit store's confusing aisles to find the stuff you want and you have to manoeuvre your junky cart through all these other tired, hurried people with carts (et cetera, et cetera, cutting stuff out because this is a long ceremony) and eventually you get all your supper supplies, except now it turns out there aren't enough check-out lanes open even though it's the end-of-the-day rush. So the checkout line is incredibly long, which is stupid and infuriating. But you can't take your frustration out on the frantic lady working the register, who is overworked at a job whose daily tedium and meaninglessness surpasses the imagination of any of us here at a prestigious college.

But anyway, you finally get to the checkout line's front, and you pay for your food, and you get told to "Have a nice day" in a voice that is the absolute voice of death. Then you have to take your creepy, flimsy, plastic bags of groceries in your cart with the one crazy wheel that pulls maddeningly to the left, all the way out through the crowded, bumpy, littery parking lot, and then you have to drive all the way home through slow, heavy, SUV-intensive, rush-hour traffic, et cetera et cetera.

Everyone here has done this, of course. But it hasn't yet been part of you graduates' actual life routine, day after week after month after year.

But it will be. And many more dreary, annoying, seemingly meaningless routines besides. But that is not the point. The point is that petty, frustrating crap like this is exactly where the work of choosing is gonna come in. Because the traffic jams and crowded aisles and long checkout lines give me time to think, and if I don't make a conscious decision about how to think and what to pay attention to, I'm gonna be pissed and miserable every time I have to shop. Because my natural default setting is the certainty that situations like this are really all about me. About MY hungriness and MY fatigue and MY desire to just get home, and it's going to seem for all the world like everybody else is just in my way. And who are all these people in my way? And look at how repulsive most of them are, and how stupid and cow-like and dead-eyed and nonhuman they seem in the checkout line, or at how annoying and rude it is that people are talking loudly on cell phones in the middle of the line. And look at how deeply and personally unfair this is.

Or, of course, if I'm in a more socially conscious liberal arts form of my default setting, I can spend time in the end-of-the-day traffic being disgusted about all the huge, stupid, lane-blocking SUV's and Hummers and V-12 pickup trucks, burning their wasteful, selfish, 40-gallon tanks of gas, and I can dwell on the fact that the patriotic or religious bumper-stickers always seem to be on the biggest, most disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest [responding here to loud applause] (this is an example of how NOT to think, though) most disgustingly selfish vehicles, driven by the ugliest, most inconsiderate and aggressive drivers. And I can think about how our children's children will despise us for wasting all the future's fuel, and probably screwing up the climate, and how spoiled and stupid and selfish and disgusting we all are, and how modern consumer society just sucks, and so forth and so on.

You get the idea.

If I choose to think this way in a store and on the freeway, fine. Lots of us do. Except thinking this way tends to be so easy and automatic that it doesn't have to be a choice. It is my natural default setting. It's the automatic way that I experience the boring, frustrating, crowded parts of adult life when I'm operating on the automatic, unconscious belief that I am the centre of the world, and that my immediate needs and feelings are what should determine the world's priorities.

The thing is that, of course, there are totally different ways to think about these kinds of situations. In this traffic, all these vehicles stopped and idling in my way, it's not impossible that some of these people in SUV's have been in horrible auto accidents in the past, and now find driving so terrifying that their therapist has all but ordered them to get a huge, heavy SUV so they can feel safe enough to drive. Or that the Hummer that just cut me off is maybe being driven by a father whose little child is hurt or sick in the seat next to him, and he's trying to get this kid to the hospital, and he's in a bigger, more legitimate hurry than I am: it is actually I who am in HIS way.

Or I can choose to force myself to consider the likelihood that everyone else in the supermarket's checkout line is just as bored and frustrated as I am, and that some of these people probably have harder, more tedious and painful lives than I do.

Again, please don't think that I'm giving you moral advice, or that I'm saying you are supposed to think this way, or that anyone expects you to just automatically do it. Because it's hard. It takes will and effort, and if you are like me, some days you won't be able to do it, or you just flat out won't want to.

But most days, if you're aware enough to give yourself a choice, you can choose to look differently at this fat, dead-eyed, over-made-up lady who just screamed at her kid in the checkout line. Maybe she's not usually like this. Maybe she's been up three straight nights holding the hand of a husband who is dying of bone cancer. Or maybe this very lady is the low-wage clerk at the motor vehicle department, who just yesterday helped your spouse resolve a horrific, infuriating, red-tape problem through some small act of bureaucratic kindness. Of course, none of this is likely, but it's also not impossible. It just depends what you want to consider. If you're automatically sure that you know what reality is, and you are operating on your default setting, then you, like me, probably won't consider possibilities that aren't annoying and miserable. But if you really learn how to pay attention, then you will know there are other options. It will actually be within your power to experience a crowded, hot, slow, consumer-hell type situation as not only meaningful, but sacred, on fire with the same force that made the stars: love, fellowship, the mystical oneness of all things deep down.

Not that that mystical stuff is necessarily true. The only thing that's capital-T True is that you get to decide how you're gonna try to see it.

This, I submit, is the freedom of a real education, of learning how to be well-adjusted. You get to consciously decide what has meaning and what doesn't. You get to decide what to worship.

Because here's something else that's weird but true: in the day-to-day trenches of adult life, there is actually no such thing as atheism. There is no such thing as not worshipping. Everybody worships. The only choice we get is what to worship. And the compelling reason for maybe choosing some sort of god or spiritual-type thing to worship--be it JC or Allah, be it YHWH or the Wiccan Mother Goddess, or the Four Noble Truths, or some inviolable set of ethical principles--is that pretty much anything else you worship will eat you alive. If you worship money and things, if they are where you tap real meaning in life, then you will never have enough, never feel you have enough. It's the truth. Worship your body and beauty and sexual allure and you will always feel ugly. And when time and age start showing, you will die a million deaths before they finally grieve you. On one level, we all know this stuff already. It's been codified as myths, proverbs, clichés, epigrams, parables; the skeleton of every great story. The whole trick is keeping the truth up front in daily consciousness.

Worship power, you will end up feeling weak and afraid, and you will need ever more power over others to numb you to your own fear. Worship your intellect, being seen as smart, you will end up feeling stupid, a fraud, always on the verge of being found out. But the insidious thing about these forms of worship is not that they're evil or sinful, it's that they're unconscious. They are default settings.

They're the kind of worship you just gradually slip into, day after day, getting more and more selective about what you see and how you measure value without ever being fully aware that that's what you're doing.

And the so-called real world will not discourage you from operating on your default settings, because the so-called real world of men and money and power hums merrily along in a pool of fear and anger and frustration and craving and worship of self. Our own present culture has harnessed these forces in ways that have yielded extraordinary wealth and comfort and personal freedom. The freedom all to be lords of our tiny skull-sized kingdoms, alone at the centre of all creation. This kind of freedom has much to recommend it. But of course there are all different kinds of freedom, and the kind that is most precious you will not hear much talk about much in the great outside world of wanting and achieving.... The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day.

That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.

I know that this stuff probably doesn't sound fun and breezy or grandly inspirational the way a commencement speech is supposed to sound. What it is, as far as I can see, is the capital-T Truth, with a whole lot of rhetorical niceties stripped away. You are, of course, free to think of it whatever you wish. But please don't just dismiss it as just some finger-wagging Dr Laura sermon. None of this stuff is really about morality or religion or dogma or big fancy questions of life after death.

The capital-T Truth is about life BEFORE death.

It is about the real value of a real education, which has almost nothing to do with knowledge, and everything to do with simple awareness; awareness of what is so real and essential, so hidden in plain sight all around us, all the time, that we have to keep reminding ourselves over and over:

"This is water."

"This is water."

It is unimaginably hard to do this, to stay conscious and alive in the adult world day in and day out. Which means yet another grand cliché turns out to be true: your education really IS the job of a lifetime. And it commences: now.

I wish you way more than luck."

Worthy of 27

While she became a household name, Amy Winehouse wasn't exactly known for the depth of her musical catalogue. With two releases, and only one that could be considered a success, Amy wasn't exactly at living legend status at the time of her death. But don't tell the media that as they have rushed to push her into the "27 Club", musical artists that all died at the age of 27. These artists include Curt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, and Jimi Hendrix.

Now go back, think about those artists, the depth of their musical output, and how it effected the musical universe. Then go back and think about what Amy did. Yes, she was horribly talented. Back to Black was an outstanding release. But that is all she gave before it ended. The impact of Nirvana's Nevermind on the music landscape was historical. What Jimi Hendrix did with the electric guitar is still looked at by every youngster the first time they plug in. Watch any season of American Idol to find the two or three young females who are still trying to kill Me And Bobby McGee. And what front man isn't still stealing moves from Morrison.

And while all these artists generally have the one big album that broke them out of obscurity, they went on to give us more. Winehouse gave us Back To Black. That's it. One big CD. Did it change the course of music? Not even close. Amy didn't start the Stax/Motown resurrection. She certainly led it, but she didn't invent it.

Again... I liked Amy's music. I'm sad she gave in to addiction before giving us more gifts. But, I'm also tired of the media looking for anything to make a story rather than just calling it as it was... the early death of somebody with promise. The 27 Club made good on their promise.

More Fun With Phone Notes To Self

4/12/2011 7:36 PM - Bitch, I know you can eat a pickle.

4/16/2011 9:27 PM - Just asked, "Do you know where there's a lesbian bar around here?"

4/30/2011 8:36 PM - Watching two people in obvious love and all I want is that, except I know one of us would eventually destroy it. (what, you think I'm always just silly?)

5/20/2011 8:56 PM - Arby's food should not be eaten in public.

6/7/2011 5:07 PM Ask mom to make asspads.

6/10/2011 8:09 PM - Rickissippi

6/17/2011 6:53 PM - Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was.

6/17/2011 6:53 PM - Always go with your gut.

6/17/2011 6:56 PM - No, I won't wear a poncho. Who wears a poncho?

6/25/2011 4:00 PM - It was fun but I'm glad I'm done.

The Real Thing

I sat at the red light with my usual mindless rotation of thought. Through my rear view mirror, I saw a clunker of a car approach. It was your typical heap... the kind of car that might make one think that the person driving has very little. I watched as the driver, a man, and his passenger, a woman, slowly crept up to my bumper. It became clear to me that this was a couple. And then it became even more clear that it was something more than that.

I watched the woman hold the man's left arm to her head as it draped over her shoulder. I could see that she was clearly out of her seat as she sat closer to the man than the seat's comfortably allowed. They exchanged several glances. She kissed his cheek. He kissed hers. He leaned over and kissed her below the ear and held his head there. She leaned to his left hand still hanging over her shoulder. She kissed it and then just left her lips on his hand, as if his hand held the key to his soul.

When the car approached, my first thought was this was a man who had very little based on the bare condition of his car. As I watched he and his partner I quickly realized this man had far more than all that I had. He had the bare minimum that the world could give, but he also had everything.

The Nerve

I went out with my friend Rebecca and one of her friends last night. We sat down at our table at the restaurant. And let me just say this... while I know I am pretty gutless when it comes to being bold with the ladies, but on the other hand, at least I'm not one of those guys who just bombard women and talk to them with entitled expectations. So, we sit down and right off the bat this guy comes to the table, "Hey ladies." He looks at me, "Hi." I just glare back at him.

"Can I get you anything to start," he asks. Are you kidding me? That's about the most ballsy introduction I've ever heard. Sure guy, and they'll just be lifting their shirts up for you too. But, I think the girls felt a little flattered and asked for beers. Ok, so first the guy is just all over them, but now they're going to try and score some free drinks off this guy? I figure I'll challenge the guy a bit and I tell him to bring me one too. He knows not to push it, so he just smiles and says he'll be right back. What a player.

The girls and I start looking over the menu. The guy returns in a minute or so with our beers. "Here you go." Damn, this guy is just fearless. "Hey, can I get you something to eat?" What? Is this guy just Mr. Money and he'll just feed his way into these girls' panties? But before you know it, the girls start telling him what they want. I really thought I knew these girls, or at least Rebecca. But all of the sudden it's like I'm in a Girls Gone Wild Video. Not to be outdone, I tell the guy to bring ME a cheeseburger. He rolls with it. I guess he figures he'll look like an ass if he tries to ignore me.

Before any of us can finish our beers the guy comes back again. "Can I get you all some more beers?" At this point I'm almost ready to stand up and say something, and if not to the guy, to the girls for being such floozies. But I keep my calm. Rebecca tells him to bring us another round, and HE DOES. Now listen, I know Rebecca is happily married and her friend is in a committed relationship. This is why I don't date. If my girlfriend or wife ever acted like this toward another guy, it would be over. But it seems they all act like this. They can't be trusted.

The guy comes back with more beers, but now he's acting all cool as he just drops them off and wanders off to another table where he's putting on the same act, but this time with guys. I guess he's bi or something.

A bit later the food arrives. I tell the guy, "Hope you can afford all this." He throws out a fake laugh to impress the girls. We start eating, but before we can even get four bites in the guy comes back and asks how we are doing. Give it a rest dude! They aren't going home with you.

We finish our food and, get this... the guy walks over and asks if he can get us anything else. "Oh, I know what you want you dirty son of a bitch," I think to myself. The girls sort of tone it down now. "Oh, no. I think we're ready to go home." The guy finally seems to get the message that they just aren't in to him. So what does he do? He walks back and throws down a piece of paper telling us to pay him. Now that is bold. I've never seen a guy get rejected and throw that one back. This guy's got balls.

What do the girls do? They pay the guy money. Do they have ANY self esteem? They look at me and ask how much I'm putting in. What? Let me get this straight... you ladies let some guy horn in on you... reject him after he buys you drinks and food... and I have to cover part of this? Seeing as how Rebecca drove, I figured I wouldn't argue with her, so I threw some money on the table. What a night.

The Awful Feed

Every year a different work team from my department is responsible for fundraising and organizing the Christm... er, Holiday Party for our department. It's often a battle to see who can raise the most money with fundraising and can throw the most elaborate party. The battle for "Oos and Ahs". This year our support staff unit is in charge. They've come up with some pretty clever fundraising tactics. But... they have come up with one event that has forced me back into a life of covert tactics. I am Jason Bourne... James Bond... Maxwell Smart.

For $5 you can have all you can eat waffles. Now, I like waffles, but my stomach doesn't. Throw me a pancake, whip up some French toast, or butter up a sweet croissant with jam and I'm one happy kid. But shove a couple waffles in my stomach and watch me agonize. Taste good. Feels bad.

I intentionally came to work early this morning so I could slip through the back door before they were set up. The bulk of us arrive at 8:00 a.m. I broke in at 7:30... and there they were... waiting. Our breakroom is pretty much the first thing you walk by when you enter the building through the back door. The pack of support staff were standing there waiting for all of us, irons hot. "Waffles?"

They're so nice and I want to be supportive, but my response was short and simple, "Oh no, my name is Sean, but thank you," and slithered to my office a mere 15 feet away from the breakroom. I was lucky. Their supervisor had yet to arrive. These folk were aggressive, but they did not have the power.

Now I was trapped. I ate my banana. I sipped from my water bottle, but I needed more. I waited until 8:00, called my co-worker, and suggested we go for a hot chocolate. She took my offer, but now I needed to get to her office. I could hear my co-workers being picked off, one by one, as they entered through the door. I could hear them gasp for air as the support staff water boarded them with waffles and syrup. I opened my door and peaked around the corner. It was clear. I walked the opposite direction at double speed. I didn't look back as I heard the back door open behind me, and the haunting, "Waffles?" SNAG! "Gasp!"

The layout of our building looks like a giant pound sign with one additional hall in the middle.

I worked my way over to the middle hallway, grabbed my co-worker, and we made our way to Starbucks. We made our order and came back in through the side door. I worked my way down to the back hallway which gave me a direct view into the breakroom from a distance. Those poor people. My co-workers were shackled to the tables as the support staff shoveled the waffles into their mouths, and then squirt syrup over their faces. At this point the support staff supervisor had made it to the feeding. She stood in the hallway intersection and ordered people into the breakroom. You had no choice. Say no, and feel the wrath. I took an immediate turn back into the middle hallway. I would have to work my way back the same way I had come.

I stuck my head around the corner to see if the hallway was clear. It was. I turned the corner, walking light as to not make a sound. I could hear the supervisor coming back to the intersection. I ducked into the state office copy room and held my back tight against the wall. I heard the back door open and another victim dragged in against their will. The hallway was clear again. I rushed to the House Arrest office, and dove in as the supervisor made her way back to the intersection. I was one door away from my office. I leaned out into the hallway, just enough for my left eye to see what was happening. The supervisor opened the back door, stuck her head out, looked left, looked right, came back inside and shouted out, "there's more coming, get ready!" She popped back into the breakroom for a moment. This might be my last chance.

With full speed, and little care for damaged property, I jumped into the hallway, took a few steps, and fell into my office. I quickly turned and shut my door as quietly as possible. I could hear the back door open, followed by a series of screams. I couldn't save them. I couldn't even warn those who knew not what awaited them. I could only listen to the feeding. Our office would never be the same.

Like all things terrifying, the feeding eventually came to an end. The cries from syrup drizzled chins slowly came to a hush. The breakroom emptied. It was safe again. I slowly opened my door and listened. The horror had died. I cautiously walked out into the hallway. I made my way down the center hall where the majority of my co-workers held office. I looked into each office as I made my way down the hall. The story was the same in every office. Bodies hunched over their keyboards. Arms were hung down with hands nearly touching the floor. Some would attempt to raise their hand as if signaling for help. I could do nothing for them. Some still had syrup surrounding their upper lips. They're tongues curling around the upper lip in one last attempt to taste the sweet nectar of Mrs. Butterworth.

These people would be worthless for hours. If the Chinese were to attack, now would be the time. I, however, was safe. I had survived... the Waffle Apocalypse.

More Thoughts From My Phone's Notes

2/20/2011 - The big dumb swede goes to cuban family dinner (movie idea I had after spending an evening in a house full of Spanish speaking Cubans and watching Rick launch an entire pan full of beans, rice, and pork on the floor)

(That same night) - Garlic lemon and salt for cuban meat (had to make sure I remembered the hostess' cooking secret)

3/12/2011 - Rick's a scaredy fuck tart. (I apologize for the harsh language, but he was that night)

3/15/2011 - Find an AA group to do marathons with so you can get all their drink tickets at the end of the race.

3/15/2011 - With my bag and my dog and my car (i broke into a mad rap with these lyrics at a beer tasting festival in regards to a somebody I used to know. It became a big hit... nn-t, nn-t, nn-t...)

3/16/2011 - No more theramin (came to my mind during the opening band during a DEVO concert. The band took the cowbell concept to a whole new level with the theramin)

3/18/2011 - Bump the junk (no idea)

3/25/2011 - Anonymous Friend: She's drinking tequila. She'll have her hands down your pants.
Me: Huh uh, I have a belt on.

3/25/2011 - Texting is like women on their periods. You can go weeks without anything and then you use up all your minutes in one night. ( I honestly have no idea where this came from and what it means)

4/8/2011 - Ricky gotta sippy cup. (in regards to the little glasses served at Horse Brass)

(Later that night) - Me (to Rick): How is it you know who every single hot young actress that nobody has ever heard of is?
Rick: I have cable.

4/9/2011 - (Overheard from a lady at the table next to me) It smells like frozen child care.

(Later that night at a concert) - Why are their conductors? Why not just have somebody from the Ramones just yell out, "1-2-3-4!" and let them play?

4/10/2011 - Purple fleece grey hat blonde (After going to my friends' kids' football game this morning and spotting a nice looking, single woman who I didn't have the guts to go speak to, but thought I'd post some ad on Craigslist Missed Connections)

Conan The Hygienist

I've been going to the same dentist office since I was six or seven years old, most likely longer than any person actually working in the office. I had a great dentist for years, as well as a great hygienist. She was gentle and careful, which is much appreciated. She retired within the last couple of years. Her replacement is nice enough, but I do believe she was, at one time, a bullfighter.

I arrived ten minutes early. I usually run a few funny lines through my head as I know I am always going to get drilled (no pun intended) for not flossing enough. I'm a bleeder. My failure to floss isn't because I don't want to. I don't floss because I forget. I have a roll of floss sitting on the shelf on the bathroom mirror, which is directly in my face. I have another roll in the top drawer of my desk at work. But for whatever reason, I just can't get it into the routine. I do floss when I remember. Thus, knowing the hygienist is going to give me crap about my flossing, I just try to keep it light with a few zingers to come back with. One time my old hygienist was working on me and I could hear the hygienist in the next room ask her patient, "Have you been flossing?" He responded with a series of distracting responses. I whispered to my hygienist, "He didn't floss either." She burst into laughter.

My hygienist, who I will refer to as Conan, as in the Barbarian, not the late night talk show host, calls me in and preps me. Shades on, towel thing tied around my neck, and stretched out on the fun chair. Conan grabs her ice pick and goes to work. I can taste the blood within the third poke. "Still not flossing," she says with an air of "You're going to pay for this" in her tone. It was the tone that told me to not even try to throw a funny quip her way. I looked up with her hunched over me. "What was that smell, " I thought to myself. I then realized she did not pull her mask over her entire face. She left her nose exposed, thus was breathing directly into my open mouth... and she had a little booger right on the edge of her nose.

What the Hell? She's supposed to have the mask over her mouth and nose! What if she was intentionally trying to spread her zombie affliction upon me? And with her vengeful tone, all I could assume was she was out to get me.

I began attempting to time my breath with hers so I would inhale as she was inhaling as to avoid her stale breath and any toxins that were drifting from her nose, and then would repel her breath with mine on the exhale. She stabbed her way through my mouth. With every suction of the hose, I could see a swirl of red. My blood. Gone. Gone forever. It looked like one of those whaling ships where they process the whale body. Just a massive puddle of blood. She wrapped up the scraping and I could tell my gums were bloody and swollen. She then did the polishing.

Throughout both procedures I watched the little booger flicker back and forth as she took air in and blew air out through her nose. I had visions of the little booger breaking free and going directly into my mouth. Somehow, this never happened.

By the end of the polishing I could feel the pain that would linger throughout the day. I swear Conan had a slight smile on her face. She then explained it was time to measure my gums and teeth. This was new to me. She pulled out an even sharper fighting utensil. Another hygienist came in to record numbers. Conan would jab my gum line and give out a number. Anything over three was going to get me in trouble. I had a number of fours.

Afterward she explained all those fours were bad because my gums were swollen. I argued back to her (in my imagination). Of course they're swollen. She just conducted an autopsy on my mouth.

The dentist came in to take a look and earned his 90% of the day's income with his three second viewing of my mouth. All was well. I had survived the stabbing. Men have gone to prison for lesser assaults.

Messin' With Notepad

From time to time I use my phone's Notepad function to jot down a thought I have or something I encountered when I'm out and about. I usually forget about it and every now and then will go back to check on what I put in there. 90% I have no idea what it meant. Today is one of those days, but I have decided I am going to write this stuff down here as it might mean something to somebody. Here we go.

2/12/2011 - Well bedazzle my jeans and frost my tips... I like Big Al's.

2/11/11 - Those douchebags with loud voices that just dominate a room and they about it as they talk about Cabo and their Corvette
*I actually noted this one down while at the Lompoc, sipping on a beer as I waited for Rick. There was some guy who just would not shut up and he could be heard in Reno.*


1/22/11 - The thing movie idea... movie tracks an ugly ass doll as it gets passed around the city through the course of the night.
*Bad idea*

1/14/11 - There's a guy who looks like Cornelius (Planet of the Apes) drinking beer across from me.

1/1/11 - Why do club security guys look so sad?

1/1/11 - Ospirg & marathon weirdos in the Pearl.

12/17/10 - How do batteries work?

12/8/10 - Little bugs flying around when the sun comes out after a cold downpour.

12/4/10 - Bald dudes always the first to hit on single women at a party.

12/4/10 - Want to clear the room with one blast (fart, not bomb). Want to leaves as soon as I walked in.

12/3/10 - "That's what I tell my people." Ricky P.

11/19/10 - Attention gaseous dude... candle lighters do not have the same effect as matches when you've dumped one off in a public terlet.

9/26/10 - Tomoatoes, peaches, and corn song.

9/10/10 - She's not single, but she's not happy. Less than lovers but more than friends. *another song idea I suppose*

8-28-10 - Drunk guy texting pics of ugly girls he thinks are hot.

8/27/10 - Don't get club time. Band says they start at 9:00, they always go on at 10:00.

8/27/10 - Bathrooms without mirrors.
*I believe this was in reference to a bathroom that either had NO mirrors at all, or was the place that had full length mirrors right in front of you as you peed*

Who Has What?

A local talk radio guy that I'm usually in much agreement with made a statement regarding those freaks with Westboro Baptist Ministries who preach the whole "God Hates Fags" thing and go and disrupt funerals of anybody they don't feel was worthy of life. In regards to the nine year old girl that was shot down and murdered in Tucson this past weekend, the holy rollers planned to attend her funeral and create a scene as the girl's family tried to lay her to rest. There was talk that the group was going to be banned. It was then said by the talk radio guy that while he despises the actions of the Jesus freaks that he was concerned about banning their free speech, which I'm sure many flag waving Americans would agree with. But let me pose this question... Does a family not have a right to bury their loved one(s) in peace? I have a very sneaking suspicion that when our forefathers developed our "rights" that they figured society wouldn't be chiseled down so far that nutjobs like these would exist, nor would the rights they developed be designed to defend such idiocy.

The concept of "rights" is abused and twisted every day in our courtrooms and life in general. I hear smokers who are slowly being corralled away from the public complain by screaming out, "I have the right to smoke wherever I want!" But I counter that with, "What about my right to breathe clean air?" People want their rights regardless of how it impacts others. I don't know if this is an isolated issue in America or not, but I think it is one of the things that really makes us unpopular amongst our international peers. People are so full of entitlements because of "their rights".

"I have a right to raise my family however I want." No you don't. You have a responsibility to raise them safely and to provide them with the best life you can.

"I have a right to say whatever I want to whoever I want!" My only response is that I should then have the right to hit you in the face as hard as I want if you are screaming at me, insulting me, or disrupting my life with your words.

With rights comes responsibility. I think that thought has somehow been left behind and it's a shame is wasn't worded that way when we were handed down our "rights" written in a world 200 years ago when people had no clue how ridiculous American society would become.

A Response To Palin

I just read Sarah Palin's "don't blame me" speech. I have a pretty big issue with this. With her own words, along with quoting Ronald Reagan, she states-

"President Reagan said, “We must reject the idea that every time a law’s broken, society is guilty rather than the lawbreaker. It is time to restore the American precept that each individual is accountable for his actions.” Acts of monstrous criminality stand on their own. They begin and end with the criminals who commit them, not collectively with all the citizens of a state, not with those who listen to talk radio, not with maps of swing districts used by both sides of the aisle, not with law-abiding citizens who respectfully exercise their First Amendment rights at campaign rallies, not with those who proudly voted in the last election."

Really?

Charles Manson never actually killed anybody himself yet sits in prison for conspiracy to commit murder. I can't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure Adolf Hitler carried out his attempt to eliminate an entire race of people by telling others to kill them, yet he is thought of as the most evil being in the history of the world. So if old Chuck and Adolf would have just said, "Hey, I didn't kill anybody myself," all will be fine? Hell no! (And no, I'm not comparing Sarah Palin to Manson and Hitler. I'm comparing her stupid ass reasoning.)

There is an ethical/moral responsibility when you suggest to others to take action against someone and somebody does just that, especially when you are a person of influence. As sad as it is for me to say this, there are Americans who actually are influenced by Sarah Palin.

My question to Sarah Palin is this... if your actions, words, suggestions, or directives to your followers had nothing to do with influencing the violence that took place in Tucson, why did you take down the website with the map containing the targets? If you were not in the wrong, why are you hiding it?

And... How dare she abuse the memory of 9/11 in an attempt to defend herself with a 9/11 reference. That is nothing but pathetic as she utilizes overly abused political heart string tugs.

To think that she believes she is worthy of leading this country repulses me.

Mind Breaking

Greater Loss of Gains

The Album to 8-Track to Cassette to CD to Digital Download.

The Film to VHS to Laserdisc to DVD to Digital Download.

The Story Telling to Books to Digital Download.

The Painting to Film to Digital Print.

The Conversation to Letters to Phone Calls to E-Mail to Texting.

Plastics? Not anymore. The future? Is not seen, felt, and will not sit on your shelf for use. The future will get smaller and smaller. Album covers? No more. Movie posters? No more. The back of a book cover? No more. A Kodachrome print? No more. Social interaction? I have hope, but so much doubt. Plastics? No. You got it all wrong Mr. McGuire. The future is not plastics. It's made up of little tiny circuits and wires. So tiny most of us don't even know what they look like, yet they will hold everything. And when I say everything... I'm scared to mean everything.

A Couple Giggles Worth Noting

I know that Alzheimer's disease is nothing to laugh at, but sometimes you just have to laugh at things. While spending time with my family on Christmas Eve I received a text from a friend who was at his in-laws for the evening. The father in-law, sadly, has been stricken with Alzheimer's. Apparently the whole family was sitting around the table playing a game that involved drawing numbers. Somebody called out the number five. The table went silent except for the sounds of somebody aggressively chewing. They looked over toward the father who was busy chomping away at what used to be the number five.

Yesterday I went to lunch with my parents. I saw that mom needed to blow her nose as she had a bat sleeping in the bat cave. For whatever reason I didn't mention it to her right away. Finally, our food came. My big bowl of Pho looked great. I added all the sauces and veggies to make it perfect. I figured I should let mom know about her nose. She grabbed a napkin and gave a mighty blow, releasing the little booger. It bounced off the napkin back to her upper lip, and it then shot out into the open. It arced across the table and landed right into my Pho. I let out a little noise of disgust and disbelief. Mom began laughing not quite sure what had just happened, but by the look on my face knew something funny had just gone down. Upon my confirmation of the Greg Louganis like entry into my soup mom completely lost it. She laughed so hard I thought her head was going to pop off. Once the table regained control of itself I went into debate with dad who could not understand why I did not want to finish my bowl of Boo Gie Pho. My biggest concern was how to explain to the waiter why I did not want to finish my bowl of Pho. It had nothing to do with the cook, but I also didn't want to further embarrass my mom. I suggested we just go to the counter to pay to avoid any further issue with the booger.

Later that evening I was in the bedding aisles at Target seeking out the perfect sheets for my new bed. I passed an aisle and saw a young man in his twenties speaking to what looked like his girlfriend. The young man was holding a packaged set of bedding when I heard the following come from his mouth, "I used to have these until my dad took them away from me because he said they smelled like tongue." It began to boggle my mind, but I then decided to just let it go as there was no way my brain could ever make sense of that comment.

2010 Tops

These are a few of my favorite things. No arguing required. It's just opinion. And hey, it's not like I've seen every movie or heard every album. This is just what I know.

MUSIC:

She & Him - Volume 2 ~ Portland guy M Ward teams up with Zooey Deschanel (yes, the actress) for some simple pleasantries.

Sharon Jones & The Dap Kings - I Learned The Hard Way ~ More old school funk and soul. It doesn't get any better than this, I'm talking to you everybody in Billboards top 100.

Gogol Bordello - Trans-Continental Hustle ~ I'm somewhat convinced that this Gypsy Punk outfit cannot put out anything bad.

The New Pornographers - Together ~ These days, nobody pulls off Pop Rock more consistently than these guys and gals.

Band of Horses - Infinite Arms ~ Even if everything other than the single Laredo sounded like my dog cleaning himself, this album would still be on this list. But they don't.

John Mellencamp - No Better Than This ~ I've never been a huge fan of Cougarmellon, but this release leaves me in awe.

MOVIES:

Toy Story 3 - Yes, it's as good as 1 and 2. Who knew?

She's Out Of My League - Maybe I just related to this one too much.

Greenberg - Ben Stiller going a whole new direction... that works.

Hot Tub Time Machine - Nothing made me laugh more this year.

Kick Ass - Yes, it is.

Harry Brown - A feel good movie where an old guy kills a bunch of punk kids.

Babies - Look, I don't even have kids and I liked this movie.

The Karate Kid - Yeah, I said it.

Winnebago Man - Best documentary of the year about an old angry guy.

Jackass 3D - My guilty pleasure. However, less penis next time please.

TELEVISION:

Raising Hope - From the creators of My Name Is Earl.

Community - Some of the most thought out story lines.

The Walking Dead - Zombies done right.

The Office - I don't know if this will ever go bad.

30 Rock - Sometimes you just have to think to get it.

Mike & Molly - Fat love.

Rules Of Engagement - Perhaps more consistent laughs than anything else on tv.

Conan - He's back and he's still king of late night.

South Park - It never gets old.

Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations - Sure, he's getting older and more sophisticated, but he still has the best job in America.

CBS News Sunday Morning - The only news telling you about the good stuff.

The Daily Show - The only show telling the truth.

Whale Wars - I will watch anything that promotes interfering with savages.

Louie - FINALLY! Truth in a sitcom.

BEER: My list of what to drink if it's ever on tap. (Not including the super limited high end stuff)

Deschutes - Black Butte Porter ~ The best Porter on the market.

Deschutes - Jubelale ~ The best standard winter seasonal available. And 2010 is their best year yet.

Bridgeport - Hop Czar - A great Imperial IPA from one of Portland's first.

Rogue - Dead Guy Ale ~ Their flagship beer.

Double Mountain - Kolsch ~ Simply fantastic. My favorite beer to drink in the summer.

Lagunitas - Brown Shugga' ~ Their winter release. Good things come from accidents.

Lagunitas - Little Sumpin' Wild, Little Sumpin' Sumpin', and Undercover Investigator Shut Down ~ Any of these are fantastic, in the bottle or on tap.

New Old Lompoc - Centennial IPA ~ Sure C-Note is fantastic, but I recently discovered their basic IPA is top notch.

Widmer - Deadlift IPA ~ Another Imperial IPA that knocks my socks off.

Ninkasi - Tricerahops Double IPA ~ Perhaps my favorite beer of all time.

BREWERIES: Where I spend most of my time

Hopworks Urban Brewery (HUB) - Great environment, nice staff, decent food, and consistently good beers.

The New Old Lompoc - Basically my second home.

Rogue Distillery & Public House - The food is as good as the beer and the beer is outstanding.

Deschutes Brewery - Their seasonals are off the charts delicious. The food is good enough to be considered fancy. And the room is gorgeous.

Columbia River Brewing Company - My new friends. Can't wait to see where this place goes. One of Portland's newest.

Holiday Letter 2010

Holiday Letter 2010

Hullo-

Wuns uhgin I hav cunvinsd feedr tu let me rite this yeerz hawliday ledr. Az alwayez it tuke sum cunvinseeng butt hee finelee sed yes. Butt hee sed ownly if I uhgree tu lern how tu uze the ledr kombinashun uv “t” and “h”. So, now I no how tu spel “the” and uthr werds lyke that.

Aneewayz, 2010 wuz uh gude yeer fore mee. Skwirl wer evreewair. I skaird lotz uv kiteez hu tride tu wok on mi grasss. I went tu the beech uh cupl uv tymes. Butt I kan awlso tel that I am geteeng owldr. I slip uhlot wen I tri tu run fast on the slipree flore. I coff. And wen I luke at the shynee wol I can see awl theez grae harez on mi fays.

Ive startd uh nu hobbee and folloe feedr arownd evreeware, evun wen heez in the showr. I just stand thare and stair at him wile hee getz awl wet. Hee opinz the plastic and sez, “wut?” I just stair. Ive awlso bin diggeeng uhlot this yeer. It may have bin a rekord yeer for holez.

This haz awlso bin uh yeer fore mee getteeng yeld at uhlot. I donet no wi butt I luv tu pee on the frij. Won nite I awlso jumpd up awn feedrz bed wile hee wuz sleepeeng. Wen I nu hee wuz uhsleep I jumpd down and peed on hiz dore. Hee woke up and reelee yeld at mee uhlot. Wutz hiz problim? So now I alwaze hav uh caje arownd mee win feedr leevs or sleepz. He awlso putz a medal skreene awn the cowch cuz I lurnd how tu dig stufeeng owt uv uh kushun and wont stop deweeng it. Itz lyke snow day!

If aneewon tokz tu feedr pleez remind him that mi favrit thang iz haveeng mi fays rubbed. LUV IT.

Feedr seemz tu bee deweeng prity gude. He keepz makeeng stuf kawld beere. Hee uzed tu dreenk it awl the tyme and now hee makez it. Hee awlso playz this big pees uv wude with medal streengs on it. Itz reel noyzee. Thare havnt bin anee uv thowz prity feedrz arownd the hows much this yeer. I lyke them. Thay pet mee uhlot and feedr seemz tu lyke them tu. I wundr wutz up with that?

Feedr haz had frenz ovr. Won uv the prity wonz evun kame and stade with us fore uh wile. Shee brot uh litl prity won with hur. Thare namez wur anjee and elluh. Thay were reel fun. Rik comez ovr uhlot. Ive nevr seen sumbudee whu woblz az much az him. Won nite feedr had uh hole bunch uv peepl over. Thare wer uhlot of prity wonz. Thay drank litl beerez and tokd abowt it awl nite.

Uzr than that feedr duznt du much. Hee keepz rambleeng awn and awn abowt riting but duznt seeme tu git awf hiz buttt and du it.

O, I shude menshun ime now on faysbuke. I rite on thare uhlot. Sae hi and lyke me! Yu kan fined mee at…

http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/pages/Radio/161035633922196

Hapee hawlidaze,

Raydeeo

& Sean

The Killer Of All

As a child I was quite the serial killer. While most people didn't know about it, it is surprising at how many people did and never stopped me. I killed daily. I took multiple lives every day. It was easy. I'd just lift up the planter, and with one swipe of the hand, hundreds of lives would perish in seconds. I was public enemy number one in the world of bugs. I killed any and all creatures with six or eight legs, and those slimy critters such as worms, snails, and slugs.

I killed for years. You can wrap up every casualty from the Civil War, WWI, WWII, Vietnam, Korea, Iraq, and Afghanistan and wouldn't even come close to the number of lives I've taken.

But one night, not so long ago, I was sitting on the couch and noticed a small fruit fly had fallen into my beer. It was still moving. I stuck my finger into the beer and pulled the little fly out. I held it up to my face for a better look and watched as the fly began to rub it's legs across its wings, in an attempt to dry them out. The fly then flapped its wings, drying them out even more. The front legs began wiping its face. I watched this for several minutes. The fly then jumped up and down a bit as if taking a few practice take offs.

I don't know what came over me at this point. In any other situation that fly would have not even had remains left after one swipe of my hand against the floor. But this time, I slowly stood up, walked to my sliding glass door, and opened the door. I stuck my hand out and gave a quick blow to the fly. The fly released its clutches from my hand and was gone. I sat back on the couch and thought back on all the bugs I had destroyed in my life. I then looked at my dog and thought of how horrified I would be to see my dog perish the same way all those bugs had died. I felt guilty.

From the corner of my eye I saw a spider making its way across my floor. I got up off the couch and went over to the spider. With one step, I squished that spider. Those damn spiders get in your bed and suck your blood. Not on my watch.