The New Goo

2005-10-21T20:00:00.000-07:00

**THIS HERE BLOG IS BEING UPDATED AND SPIFFED UP AND UP SPIFFED FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THREE YEARS: REJOICE!! OUT OF THE FUNK...OR INTO THE FUNK - EITHER ONE WORKS!

The Newest

Bound & Inquisitioned <-- click here (or on the picture) to view comic

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The Naked Onion <-- click here (or on the picture) to view comic

**special thanks to outgoing Speaker of the House Dennis Hastert, whose likeness I ripped off for the "Bob" character (the guy in the plaid shirt). I needed someone fat & corrupt with teeny eyes, and old Hastert fit this description perfectly.

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Encountering a talking bee half the size of my head <-- click here (or on the picture) to view comic

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You best be ignorant at this juncture <-- click here (or on the picture) to view comic

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Manipulating emotional triggers

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I feel like swimming away from the computer - be sure to scroll all the way down

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Miss Misproportioned <-- click here (or on the picture) to view comic

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Johnny's Problem

Stating the Obvious

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Soliciting Advice from a Total Stranger on a Bus - maybe that lady was onto something radical...

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Those Beatles Guys: Just Getting Started - so last week I was at work when these two guys started having this conversation about the Beatles in my head. I tried to ignore them, but then, sensing my annoyance, they started singing "Yellow Submarine" a capella! They had me at gunpoint like that for awhile, demanding (mid-chorus) that I grab the nearest post-it pad and draw them spewing some of their profoundly insightful (not!) dialogue. It was a fair trade: I got silence, and they got immortality and an incredibly teeny tiny bit of an audience. This sort of thing has been happening a lot lately, and it's affecting my work ethic...actually it's fucking my work ethic and giving birth to a whole family of distracting zaniness. I would start a support group, but then I'd be the only member, and then of course the Beatles Guys would have to crash and try to engage me in a debate about whether or not there is a big "fuck you" to J. Edgar Hoover (who may or may not have been wiretapping the White Album sessions) embedded deep within the piano chords of "Why Don't We Do It In The Road." I hate those Beatles Guys.

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Black Spotlights - this is my contribution to the Los Angeles Project. You don't have to be from/in Los Angeles to contribute - submissions come from around the world. I know, the title sounds a bit geographically specific, but that's because it's meant to be a constructively humorous reaction to the super scary Manhattan Project.

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I Can Be Nicer Than That

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You Look Terrible

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A message to anyone I dealt with today at work

This'll be your suit - just like hand-me-downs

Why are you always so damn serious?

You should be dancing

Busty Encounter

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Breaking up is hard to do - next time it happens to you, don't hold back - just say it like you mean it.

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Relics Sound Off

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Honesty is not a company policy - but be sure to practice it in your head.

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What's Your Strategy?

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Temporary Solution - where all your troubles go to numb themselves and turn into uncontrollable impulses

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Fear of Alternative Energy

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Apparently a Man of the People - because cynicism always wins!

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Restless Doomed Mopey Poet-y Guy

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R.I.P.
Legend (? - 2006)
He was a good dog. Neurotic? Yes. Insane? Enthusiastically Affirmative. Missed and Loved? Forever. This is how we will remember him...

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Dispatches from the Epidemic <-- click here to view comic (and accompanying story)

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Popular Jesus Folklore - 'cause it's about time!!

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Toupes & Boobs (or Boobs & Toupes) - I am continuously amazed/amused by the power of boobs, and although I think Donald Trump is a rich fuck douchebag, I harbor no ill will towards toupes. In fact, I would have the same indifferent reaction to a toupe factory as I would have towards a condom factory. Both are reluctant forms of male protection. Boobs, on the other hand, well...if you carry yours the right way, you can move beyond the objectivification of guys who can think of nothing but sucking on 'em like babies. Boobs are major players, no doubt.

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Age 11 on Age 26 - if only I had known THEN...

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Fun With Puppetry

The Consequences of Being That Guy - C'mon, people - have a little empathy for the socially awkward outliers

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The Poster Child for Introversion -

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The Choice of the Privileged

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The Five-Year 9/11 Aftermath: Still Doing the Math, After

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Conflict as a Way of Life

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The Guards of Time

It Goes Deeper Than a Device - a comic that is ALWAYS reachable

The Drone of the Debt-Ridden Losers

In War and Hurricane - a comic with black-and-white flags, controversial shirt slogans, and a yearning for fireworks.

You Don't Know My Name - a comic that celebrates the inspirational vacuum of our delusions

Spiritual Journey into the Bulk Email

The Guy Who Thinks Too Much: Humor Edition

Instant Punk: Just Add Style

Storytime with Grandpa: Alcoholic Fate

Real Perceptive Magic - a comic especially for cynics who want to believe

Roger & Damon: Going Out with a Blunt

Untitled Donald Rumsfeld Comic

Revenge of the Villain, Part One - you best watch out

Grew Up With Guns in My Hands

The Double Dose

Roger & Damon: Detrimental Generosity - because friends like Roger care enough to know when to say "when"

Gotta Let It All Sink In

They're Hiring at the Circus - a meditation on the failed potential of the Michael Jackson hit "Man in the Mirror."

Unlikely People Standing Next to Each Other

Curly Hair Every Day - struggling to understand elderly women in the same way we try to understand teenagers

Don, Dicky, & Chucky - another one

Outside the Grocery Store - a hypothetical scenario

Ways I might answer the phone tomorrow if I feel like getting fired from my new job

Trying to Personify Chemotherapy

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I would like to take this precious moment to thank (about to be FORMER) Congressman Tom Delay (otherwise known as the most shit-talked-about-man on this blog, ever!) for his dedicated years of service to the American people.

Here he is, having a chuckle:

"After many weeks of personal prayerful thinking and analysis, I have come to the conclusion that it is time to start sucking my own dick before it gets chopped off by my insatiable hubris inflation addictions."

Tom Delay, after evicting himself from Congress like a scared pussy on April 4, 2006

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Luis and the Cult of Personality - a compelling comic inspired by an email promising a sizeable African fortune

Cartooning the Network - a compelling comic memorializing the job interview of all Job Interviews (posted March 24, 2006)

The Passion of the Paper Towel - a compelling comic about what it really means to get clean (posted March 23, 2006)

Kinda Like a Stand-In - a compelling comic about attempting to communicate with an unconscious companion (posted March 22, 2006)

Wishful Career - a compelling comic about the struggles of passionate childhood aspiration in a frighteningly robotic job market (posted March 21, 2006)

Existential Moment - a compelling comic that wonders who we really are, why we are here, and why we just can't seem to fall asleep (posted March 21, 2006)

Bee My Honey- a compelling comic about honey, bears, bees, and testing the boundaries of office uselessness in the information age (posted February 28, 2006)

Nobody will give a fuck

2005-10-19T00:33:00.000-07:00

The withdrawal symptoms have subsided. Here I am again, dabbing into old habits, and I’m not even fazed one bit. No, I don’t even miss it. My battle with blogging addiction has come to an end, and I have emerged victorious. I don’t have to type one word for the rest of my life if I don’t want to. Nobody will give a fuck. The pressure to get another fix ASAP is gone. It’s a great feeling, knowing that I don’t have to type another word. I can, but I don’t have to. Maybe I shouldn’t. Well, just this once, for old time’s sake. Oh, alright. Shit, there are those voices in my head again. I thought I had enough friends in there, but apparently they’ve all been developing multiple personalities…no wonder I’ve been getting exponentially more irresponsible lately (ie. Attention video store! I’m just gonna go head and drop 40 dollars on the ground while I’m looking for a movie and not even realize it! ie., Hey mom and dad – I’m just going to take your car keys on the plane back to LA with me and not even realize it! ie., Attention ATM machine! After I get my money, I’m just gonna spilt before you spit out my card, so anyone can come and sabotage my bank account).

Ah, off on a tangent again. Just like old times, back in trig. But there is a time for nostalgia, and that time is not now. Now is a projectile, hypotenuse moment, a declaration of renovated habits that may well relapse, only to reverse themselves and beg for mercy, regurgitate themselves on the floor in front of me. By the time I wake up hungover, find out I’m chasing that goddamn dragon once again, I’ll have to have that moment of shame when I turn around to wonder what the hell happened. But no, that will not happen to me, ye voices in head! Wait, what was I talking about again? This is a perfect example of why I don’t blog no more; I don’t make any sense, and living with a constantly worrying “what the fuck am I saying?” “why did I say that?” “what was I thinking!?” cloud over my head is a guaranteed to be a stormy mental-hospital-bound day, every day. From here on out, the extent of my writing will be work-related emails that go a little something like this: “Hi Bill: Per your request, attached please find the benefits form for Summer Day. Please have him sign, date, and initial, and send the originals back to our office. Thanks! [smiley face] Delia.” And if my blogging addiction comes back and I start taking my morning commute with a flask of whiskey riding shotgun, these nice little emails will turn into a monster like this: “Shit, man. I didn’t think I’d ever have to send you another one of these fuckin’ forms, but this flaming gay wannabe transvestite makeup artist named Summer Day needs his benefit contributions directed to his home plan, whatever the hell that means. Home plan? Does anyone have a home plan? When I get home, my plan is to keep from killing myself. Anyway, have Summer Bunny sign these forms, and maybe have him recommend his favorite show tunes next to the signature or do some other stereotypically gay thing to poke some harmless fun at himself, because you know we all love that in da industry. And please, please tell him to quit checking the ‘female’ box on his deal memos, at least until the big operation. This is a major motion picture studio, not an online dating service for freaks and wizards. Alright Bill, I don’t even need to tell ya, you’re the best. And no, that’s not a cheap compliment aimed at finagling myself an invite to the wrap party. I told you five times already, we’re just friends. You seem to think that just because we email forms back and forth, we’re guaranteed fuck buddies. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Your repeated virtual come-ons are incredibly flattering, but I don’t boogie on a one-way street, especially when your street is made of hungry bytes. Yours forever anyway, [smile wink face] Delia.”

Okay, so what the fuck? Am I going nuts, or what? Are all the pent-up frustrations of a non-writing existence coming back to slap me upside the head, rendering my playdough brain coils too pliable for sense? Is it that I don’t give a fuck anymore, or that nobody gives a fuck about what I have to say? Well, fuck them all, then. Ah, but even the outliers rocking the I-don’t-care scene can admit - we’re all hungry for an audience of some kind; some of us aren’t very appreciative of the audience we have, even if it’s just one (fortunate?) person. Finding forty bucks on the carpet of a video store is luck; but the forty bucks you actually earn may as well be forty days and nights you spend on an Ark with a bunch of animals that are constantly fucking and shitting so much that you start believing that the bowel movement is one with procreation. One almighty God kicks back in the clouds, watching all this with great amusement and chuckling to Himself how he sure is fucking with evolution - Noah’s great-to-the-nth-power grandson Chucky D can just go to hell. Anyway, you know what also can go to hell? This writing addiction. I’m over it. Whatever psychologist philosophized that outletting useless diary thoughts is somehow therapeutic never met me last September, when I realized this blog was simultaneously running and ruining my life, when I was hopelessly clinging to some strange delusion that was never meant to be and not worth mentioning anywhere but in the depths of my most intimate, shameful brainwaves. That is to say, simply but surely, I got hurt, I tripped over my own emotions and fell…and although social struggles like these make you stronger and help you from avoiding the same mistakes again and again, there is a part of you that becomes more independent, and these days, independent may as well be locked in front of a computer, fingers tapping at the keyboard to gain some sort of relief from what has become a restless, busy mind that can no longer stand the sound of the tapping keys and would rather be lost in a book, movie, the vicarious life of a friend, the next great social upheaval, or any maze but the present reality – a balance of perception: propaganda vs. free will. Faith has never been a distraction for me, but lately I’ve developed faith in distraction. It’s the only remedy to dwelling on the self, front and center, wondering how others see you, particularly, the others who you care about who couldn’t give a fuck about you. Pain in the form of rejection hurts; it’s nobody’s fault, but it’s still your burden. You’ve got to distract yourself, or allow yourself to be distracted. It’s the only way to see straight these days. Many have already figured this out, but it took me awhile. It took me trying to distract my hospitalized mom from her physical pain, thinking maybe if I just say something funny or read a book, I can sort of help psychologically manage the malignant hurt inside. And even if it doesn’t directly help, it may impact her recovery somehow and help her get through this rough period of side-affect ravaged cancer treatment with more than just overlong uncomfortable silence that I just want to break every time I encounter it. Hey, there’s something better than this, and here it is! It’s a distraction, and it may not work, it may be completely unnecessary, but who knows, it may be better than just sitting here and wallowing and marinating in a moment that sucks all the flavor out of life. I used to look down on others for taking cover in distractions, for hiding, for taking comfort in its escape. In that way, I was no better than the morally righteous I attacked so hypocritically from my dirty soapbox. What can I say, I’m the village idiot at London’s Speaker’s Corner, the former blogging addict who has yet to encounter the mortal reality of the needle, yet I probably won’t voodoo doll myself with opiates anytime in this life, given that Neil Young once sang about the damage done, and that tonight I read a story about a young refugee mother in New Orleans whose husband was shot and dealt with the pain by shooting herself with numbness so numb her son once found her passed out in the bathroom, a handkerchief tourniquet still paled the blood flow to her arm after four hours in the nod. Our society gives us so many reasons to look down on this woman; we all have loaded guns we don’t know how to use. But I’ll throw my gun back at the NRA. I don’t look down on the junkie refugee mother. The more I think about her, I realize a couple things. One, I don’t know her. Nobody does. Two, who are we to judge that woman? Most of us probably wouldn’t help her if we had the chance, if we found ourselves walking down the street, glancing over and feeling the guilt rise up, our own unwanted addictions haunting us as we walk on by, we would look forward to every step bringing us closer to our next distraction. And I say “we” because I believe that I speak for the moral majority, whose righteousness is a primary distraction. No, we’ll just leave her be, because we exist in the comfort zone between judging someone and helping them. We like to stand here and look ourselves in the mirror, see how we look, and know deep down that we ourselves are the ultimate distraction.

Conflict as a Way of Life

2005-10-18T18:36:00.000-07:00

[Skip to comic]

The following comic needs the entire screen of image size in order to be truly effective, but the sidebar on the right is in the way. So if you wouldn't mind, please scroll down....

Ready?

Aim...

Fire.

Alec Baldwin is Like Cancer

2005-10-18T17:49:00.000-07:00

Yeah, you heard me, Alec, you big grungy teddy bear you. Listen up:

I used to think Alec Baldwin was a good actor. But now he's no longer good. He's like cancer.

Maybe you're reading this, and you're a fan of Alec Baldwin. Maybe you have no idea what I'm talking about. Maybe you think I should get cancer for talking about Alec like this.

But maybe you didn't see today's IMDB news story on Alec Baldwin's custody battle with ex-wife Kim Basinger. Here is what he said:

"It's like being diagnosed with cancer. Something I realize I have to live with. But I'm keeping things in perspective. Not letting it consume me and eat me up with anger as it used to. I stopped that when one late night I was on the street so unhappy and filled with rage that, in a fit, I smashed my phone against a lamppost. A black lady walking by said to me, Alec Baldwin,' you got to get hold of yourself.' So I have."

I've got a couple questions for you, Alec. I'll give you that your custody battle consumes you and eats you up. I know how it is; I can actually identify with this feeling. I never smashed my phone, but I'm sure many a lamppost has felt the extent of my rage. But that's where the similarities between your custody battle and cancer end, old boy.

Tell me, does your custody battle spread and kill people? Might this be the same kind of cancer that is in my mom's body? Maybe the same kind of cancer that indirectly landed her in the hospital yesterday and has her bedridden at the mercy of painkillers today?

Before you made that comment, Mr. Baldwin, did you stop to think that maybe somewhere, some cancer victim suffered a blood clot caused by the catheter inserted into her neck, which was supposed to make it easier for the chemotherapy drugs to kill her tumor? When you're having it out with Ms. Basinger's lawyers, is that kind of like the pain and Percocet battling it out in her body? Maybe I'm too sensitive, but I doubt it's that serious...am I right?

Let me ask you again, Alec, and this time, give it to me straight up and lose the act. How can a custody battle be like cancer? Answer me that question with a straight face, and I'll tell everyone you're the Greatest Actor Alive. You have impeccable timing with your tactless evocation of the c-word just before my mom starts her treatment. Unless you want a scathing public indictment, you'd better stick to the script from now on. That black lady was right. You got to get ahold of yourself.

So dear Alec Baldwin, if your child support ordeal really is like cancer, then you're like cancer to me. From now on, you spread around good movies and remind me of what you said. I'm not discrediting your Baldwin clan's history with the disease; in fact, that's why I find this comment so alarming. You may have the big bucks flowing into a cancer charities, but this doesn't give you license to publicly turn this disease into a badly worded, pseudo-offensive metaphor.

Cancer can be an effective metaphor, and I'm sure your child support battle is quite difficult, but before you bring it out again, please stop and think about all the people (now it seems like every other person I meet) who are or have been affected by this disease, and maybe select another word (preferably an adjective) that may more fittingly describe your ordeal. Not everyone is as sensitive as I am, but there are some who may be more sensitive. I'm looking out for them here.

Maybe this wrathful Alec-Baldwin-is-a-cancer feeling will subside, because I really enjoyed watching your performance in The Aviator and I would like to be able to enjoy many more Baldwin performances to come. And I sincerely hope your custody battle resolve itself...without the cancer metaphor.

Thank you kindly,
Delia True

Music

2005-10-18T17:37:00.000-07:00

Sorry...I don't play music - yet. Until I form my band, I have to settle for writing about it, which is actually a pretty good gig until I'm frontlining the Troubadour. Hopefully, hidden deep within the links below you will find plenty of good music - and maybe, if you haven't heard a band, artist, album, or song I've mentioned, you'll even be inspired to check it out for yourself. Yes, sadly, recommendation is my only aim in writing about music - conning you into listening to what I'm writing about. I gave up my lofty dreams of becoming a rock n roll journalist a long time ago, and although I'll be recovering from this rejection for the rest of my life, the blow is softened by (most of) my CD collection and the fact that there is much, much more music for me to hear. Just think - some of it is being created right this second...

The Rock Epic List

Late Registration, Indeed (Kanye West, Hurricane Katrina)

Amen to Sufjan Stevens (Sufjan Stevens / Illinois)

My Pitchfork Submission

To be a rock and not to roll("Stairway to Heaven")

President Bush and "Nowhere Man"

The Forgotten Arm (Aimee Mann / The Forgotten Arm)

A Distorted Reality is Now a Necessity to Be Free (Elliot Smith)

Be Careful, Or Else (Earlimart, Elliot Smith)

If I may be so bold (The White Stripes / Elephant)

Kara's Mix - Winter 2004

Guide to the Velvet Underground

Ain't It Fun (Rocket from the Tombs)

Two Modest Mouse Album Reviews (Modest Mouse / Good News for People Who Love Bad News)

If we walk away, they walk away (Mellencamp, Corgan, Saul Williams, Bright Eyes)

A Melody Softly Soaring Through My Atmosphere - "Soul Meets Body" by Death Cab for Cutie

If find my sanity where I find my glory - (N.E.R.D. / In Search Of...)

The Jackson Five...and Johnny

Tangent-filled Goodbye to Guided By Voices

Roommate Openly Mocks Apostles of Hustle

Review/flashback - The Dandy Warhols Come Down

Ode to My Playlist

It's all just a delusion, anyway (the Aracade Fire)

I'll send you the news ("My Ex-Lover Is Dead" by Stars)

It's just a stroke (the music biz in general)

Chapter Three: What's Going On, God-Style (Marvin Gaye)

Block Party Without the "K" (Bloc Party / The Silent Alarm)

Essays

2005-10-18T17:29:00.000-07:00

What is an essay, anyway? I just put these postings under this heading because they are the sort of thing I would write on a college entrance exam or SAT written assessment section just to fuck with the admissions staff.

A Suicide Note for the Living

The Molalla Buckaroo 4th of July Parade

Beer Church vs. Mormon Church (with comments)

The Moral Eclipse of Drug Noir Economics

Playing Los Angeles Rush Hour

Advancement Through Life

And I'm Most Definitely Going to Hell

Ten things that are not fun about soccer

Orwellian discourse on the soccer field

The APA Publication Manual Blows

And Now, a Much Less Informed Opinion (on Spin columnist Dave Eggers)

The Taming of the Sex

Golf Carts: The Transpo of the Future

Infiltrating the American Music Awards

The Super Bowl Manifesto 2005

Where Are They Now?

Is Tom Cruise Gay?

Film/TV

2005-10-18T17:25:00.000-07:00

The below three postings are articles that have actually been published. Unless you want to go back to Portland, Oregon's finest secondary school publication, the Cleveland High School Clarion (Go Warriors), you will not find any published articles by me anywhere other than Nathan Jr, a film discussion zine that my former co-worker started back in March of 2005.

No Direction Home: Bob Dylan - a review of the PBS documentary, published with one glaring typo (now corrected) published in the September/October issue of Nathan Jr.)

Not Just a Vin Diesel Vehicle: The Pacifier as Propaganda
(published in the May 2005 issue of Nathan Jr.)

Ask Why: The Cinematic Evil of Star Wars and Enron
(published in the June 2005 issue of Nathan Jr.)

Faulty Wiring: Probing the Glitch in Robots
(published in the April 2005 issue of Nathan Jr.)

All this other shit below hasn't been published, but perhaps maybe, in another life, it all could have been published...somewhere other than here. Yet here it remains, waiting for eyes like yours to really connect.

Art Without Risk is Business as Usual

Romantic Comedy Rundown

American Office: Bound to Disappoint

Dazed and Critical Corruption (Dazed and Confused)

No War is Worth the Worlds (War of the Worlds)

Go See Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room

It's Hard Out Here fo a Pimp (Hustle & Flow)

The Endless, Effortless Search for "Sam" (Garden State)

Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (Guess Who, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner)

Subcription Drive for Nathan Jr. (in case you live in a bomb shelter and have not heard of it)

Political Commentary

2005-10-18T17:00:00.000-07:00

During my 25th year I went through what the sociologists call a "political awakening," which involves the individual (usually immature and selfish) all of a sudden realizing "Hey, shit is fucked up!" At the time of my quarter-century mark, I thought it was very novel, innovative and productive to write commentary about how fucked up shit is, but mostly it would just make me really angry and bitter...and insane.

Classified: The Myth of Secrecy - an open letter to the National Security Agency

Katrina, Chavez, and the Cowboy King of Vacations (the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina)

Meet John Dean (my parents and I attend a Bush-bashing talk given by Nixon's former counsel)

The Evolution of Pointless Political Preoccupation (Evolution vs. Intelligent Design)

Hit With a Mind Bullet (fuck if I know)

The United States of Red and Blue: United by Division (hokey title...should be obvious)

ACAD - American Citizens Against Delay (written last December, before the indictment that nixed his career)

Truth is a Child of Time (I lost my shit over the Newsweek Qua'rans-in-toilet story, then I posted this link to Roger L. Simon's site, and then baby boomer intellectuals proceeded to flood the comments section with attacks on my overzealousness, making sly sexual references that were definitely not sly enough if the intent was that they would fly over my head. I'm not lying; this totally happened. I felt like my political conviction was being virtually raped. This marked a high point in my career - a rare, strangely humbling victory.)

The Idiot's Guide to the SBC-AT&T Merger

Election 2004 - What Will Become of the Left? (written as soon as I found out John Kerry conceded to President Bush on November 3, 2004)

Condoleezza Rice: World Tour

A sense of chilling guilt (the July 2005 London train bombing)

The Justification for Fictional Interpretation (Plame / Wilson leak)

The Real Culprit / the Big Enchilada (Plame / Wilson leak)

Your scare tactics are worthless (Mariane Pearl, wife of Daniel Pearl)

President Bush Continues to Spend Political Capital (hmmm...sounds familar, like about 500 letters to the editor written to various periodicals between November 2004 and January 2005)

Mistakes - And Why Bush Doesn't Ever Make Them

Inaugural Gowns, NPR-style

Slightly Drunken Angry Liberal (this one's actually pretty awesome. I do my best writing drunk and angry. Lots of cussing and incomplete thoughts.)

Smashing the Courts (MoveOn.org's ad proposal)

Letter to the LA Times (more angry rhetoric, see pretty much everything above)

Total Recall of Gov. Schwarzenegger

Move AWAY from the State Capitol

Tributes

2005-10-18T15:48:00.000-07:00

My Mom: The Hug That Won't Let Go

The Improbable Brilliance of My Dad

Mid-Vacation Toast (entended family reunion)

Hunter S. Thompson RIP (I'll let you figure this one out)

The Fuel and the Fueled (Hunter S. Thompson)

Thanking my lucky stars (have no idea)

Exit Interview: The Dub G (a former workplace)

LA and I don't get along, but we're about to have a friendship (Los Angeles)

The Bruce Springsteen Section

2005-10-18T15:36:00.000-07:00

I'm a big fan. Bruce, if you're here, welcome. Thank you for sharing your music with me and the rest of the world.

P.S. My mom says hi.

Papa Says He Knows that I Don't Have Any Money

Open to pain and crossed by the rain

Fill it with Devils and Dust

Bruce Springsteen: Hipster Hero?

Random Ramblings

2005-10-18T15:35:00.000-07:00

Paying Homage to the Cuckoo's Nest

Dive into an Empty Swimming Pool (drug overdose intervention for my ex-boyfriend)

We are pieces straining to fall out of line (my Dad's favorite post)

You try coming up with a title for this post (still not exactly sure what this was all about. I think I might have been searching for the meaning of life ??)

Sellout Liberals and Action Figures (first New Goo post ever!)

On Karaoke

Let's Just Go

Making the World Safe for Sarcasm

My Generation

Back at Work and It's a Fucker

Roommate CD Collection Merger

The Potential of Bullshit

The Plan - 25th Birthday

Alien Returns to Portland

Dwelling Point: Moving

Calculated Ramblings

2005-10-18T14:14:00.000-07:00

I'm usually self-depreciating to a fault, to the point where it hurts my reputation, and incites unwanted drama with my self-esteem - but even I have to break down and admit - this is my best work...hmmm well, maybe not best work. Let's just call it "some other stuff I typed out."

The Smoking AK-47: Chuck Norris Jokes (posted February 17, 2006)

The Black Void: Jeff Tweedy Live in San Diego - 2/11/06
Part One: Springsteenliness and Lame Poetry (posted February 13, 2006)

The Black Void: Jeff Tweedy Live in San Diego - 2/11/06
Part Two: Public Concert, Personal Review (posted February 23, 2006)

Advertising, Products, and Propaganda

High on the House of Time

Career Ambition / Pre-enactment

Nobody will give a fuck

Writing on a scrap of paper in the hospital room in the dark

It might just fuck with your head

My First (but not last) Protest

Danger: Idiots Crossing

Beep Attack at the Silver 7

The Lunchtime Walk

Million Dollar Bong Baby

Life's Good at the Wiltern LG

Chapter One: Bumper Sticker was a Cancer

???

2005-10-18T14:00:00.000-07:00

These postings actually belong in my diary, but hey, look, they're published here. So if, for some reason, you want to know my innermost thoughts and feelings, you can just click on one of the below links and knock yourself out.

Thursday Morning Burn

Holy Shit, There's a Company in My Back (a personal interpretation of the song "Company in My Back" by Wilco)

It's Only a Dream

Letter to the Marrying Kind

To be used for lyrics of yet-to-be-composed rock songs that will someday make me famous:

Scratch Your Itchy Conscience

Remember the Unknown

To all a good night

Sketches & Cartoons

2005-10-18T13:44:00.000-07:00

Please visit Intimate Portrait: Reality TV

For anyone who cares (that's nobody), I am taking a class on figure drawing, so hopefully there will be more attempts at "art" to share (with no one) very soon.

Writing on a scrap of paper in the hospital room in the dark

2005-10-18T13:42:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting here in the dark because the light bothers her eyes. Just a minute ago the brightness filled in every gap from above, energy darting back and forth, wasting away in the moment, but for now it's dark, until the next healthcare professional flips on the switch to my sanity.

I sit here and stare. I sit here and think. I sit here and telepathically try to heal the patient lying on the bed beside me. I know her. She's my mother. The pressure in her blood is low, but the pressure of my lifeblood is high, self-imposed and going nowhere, deteriorating its scope, merging into these sick walls. Until she's better, I'm on high alert.

There's the IV, straight in front of me, delivering hydration into mom's body as she dips further into sleep, the unconscious state of mind once taken for granted, now a delicacy. One mississippi, two mississippi - the count's eight missisippis before the intravenous pump sighs again, joining the constant hum of the air coming up through the radiator. The vertical blinds touch one another like reciprocal dominoes. They swing side to side, as effortless as a windmill's stride, picking up energy in the constant as fluids replenish this dehydrated, nutrient-deficient lifeform. She's sick, so sick she's in bed, in the hospital bed, in the oncology ward 5K Providence Medical Center, S.E. 47th Street, Portland, Oregon.

For the seventh time this weekend I glide back and forth like a surreal video game character stuck in worried purgatory. I drive her car from home's garage to the C-level hospital parking lot. Her car is like a ghost of where she once was. Her CDs keep me company as I sail down the 205 North, onto the 84/30 West, knowing I'll eventually have to drive back home again. I'm dreading the flight back to where I live. The only person who needs me there is currently writing these words, and I've never been much for self-serving in times like this. I walk slow-motion up to her room, up to a place where I sit here and sit here and not know what to do, not that I'm conscious of what I'm supposed to do. What I want has been displaced by unplanned necessity. The motions have set forth, put on automatic, and we're all just riding the tides, riding the tides ruled by this empty influential moon, its institutional trappings ready to turn on us and devour us all.

I'm writing in the dark. I can't see what's happening on the paper. It's all just spilling out like a good cry, only I'm not sad. I'm just a numb presence in this ill place. I can feel the drugs blocking out the pain. I can hear the TVs distracting the vegetables. I can smell the pleasant courtesy flowers. I can sense the impending flatliners signaling the end. I'm crying with the sympathy cards, I'm laughing with the twilight nurses in the break room, I'm theoretically plotting to make health a citizen's right, so it's no longer privileged, so plastic surgery is no longer performed in a world that suffers malnutrition, but then I look back at my mom's vibrating eyelids and I realize that nothing is as easy as it seems. These thoughts are stoned and fleeting. These cancer-fighting hospital junkie days will be the longest days of her life, but once they're over, they will be over, and we'll toast the struggle, because it has reminded us that we're not immortal, we're not apathetic, we're not moving day to day, going through the motions, self-consumed, self-esteemed, self-assured. I'm right here, sitting bedside, writing into the darkness listening to the hum of the IV, the sodium chloride hydrating plastic bag pumping life into the woman on the bed, the woman on the bed, lying there, eyes closed under a damp folded washcloth, the twin painkillers dilauded and opium subduing this pain that keeps crawling back, it keeps crawling back, pulling her side effect strings all over like a puppet of vulnerability. Her tumor runs the show, the presiding master of ceremonies unaware that he's about to be assassinated, the life in him halted, the corrupt and potentially spreading power forever a memory, his propaganda simply a myth...

I pause, looking down at my folded paper, filled with hurried handwriting, words I don't even remember writing. I wonder if I'll be able to understand it all when the lights are switched back on, energy's renewed, when we're no longer afraid of what does not make any sense, when we're no longer hurt by ignorance, and we can move on. When I was a kid, mom always told me not to read in the dark because it would damage my eyes. It had never occurred to me that it was dark. Now I'm writing in the dark, conscious of the darkness, and my eyes have never been more open to the potential damage.

Career Ambition / Pre-enactment

2005-10-18T12:43:00.000-07:00

I’m currently chipping away at credits towards my Master’s degree in library science so I can finally fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a librarian. If all goes according to plan, someday I may be sitting at the reference desk in a public library near you, doing my job, sort of like a fisherman except with an ocean of knowledge instead of fish.

Most recently, in true procrastination, under-the-wire form, I just completed a rather lengthy paper on utter needlessness of Patriot Act-era (so the saga continues…the fucking thing is getting renewed!) FBI snooping in public libraries. Which was really fun, but man, I’m burned out...I thought I’d recover from this self-imposed stress-out by testing a scenario…using the theory of self-reenactment (let's call it pre-enactment for accuracy's sake) to see how I’d handle this situation fictionally so I’ll be prepared professionally when the time comes…when it may be up to me to confront potential terrorists invading our oceans of knowledge...

**

It’s about 2:30 p.m. on a weekday. It’s pretty quiet, but Bob’s presence is loud. He’s been lurking behind the classics shelf for about a half an hour. I know this because my wandering eye carelessly watches people like a babysitter with no responsibility. I can’t help it; I’m just fascinated by people in libraries. This fascination, although indiscriminate and given to hit on everyone in the room, tends to favor the most recent additions to the situation. Bob is the freshest ingredient, an unpredictable wrinkle in this otherwise smooth fabric.

After a couple more minutes of lurking, he finally shuffles towards me, wearing wrinkled khaki pants, a white t-shirt, and flip-flops. What looks like a burn or irritated skin is splotched down his upper right arm. His sandy hair is messy, and he has the beginnings of a beard. Before I can wonder whether his proto-beard is intentional or the result of hygiene neglect, his blue eyes bore into mine and I stare right back, slightly intimidated but mostly just curious.

Bob: I’m looking for information about terrorism.
Me: [I open my mouth to answer, but he interjects before I can say anything]
Bob: I know what you’re thinking.
Me: You know what I’m thinking?
Bob: Yeah.
Me: Well, I don’t know you. You might be a mind reader.
Bob: What are you talking about? I asked you to help me look for information on terrorism, and here you are telling me I’m a mind reader. What kind of place is this?
Me: It’s a library. And I’m here to help you. What kind of terrorism information are you looking for?
Bob: Well, I just want to check out the various organizations that are currently involved in terrorist activities.
Me: Okay, well. [typing] I would recommend a book called Terrorism and Global Power Systems by Schawar Junaid.
Bob: Do you even know how to pronounce his name?
Me: Haven’t a clue.
Bob: Sounds like it’s written by a foreigner.
Me: She’s Pakistani, I believe. A woman.
Bob: A woman? What the fuck? Those women can't show their faces in public but they can write books about terrorism?

People in the library start to look at us.

Me [writing on a piece of paper]: Here, I wrote down the call number. You can find it upstairs in the Social Sciences department.
Bob: What department is this?
Me: Literature.
Bob: Literature...
Me: Yeah. Down here, I think we have some fictional books that have terrorism-related plots, but nothing real.
Bob: [holding up the piece of paper] So if I read this book, it will help me figure out which terrorist organization to join?
Me: Maybe. That’s none of my business. You told me you wanted to learn more about various terrorist organizations. I’m simply providing you with an excellent overview.
Bob: Alright.
Me: I'll give you some more suggestions if you want, but I've actually read that book, and it's very informative. You really should run up there and get it before somebody else does. We only have one copy, and terrorism is a pretty popular topic these days.
Bob: Really?
Me: Yeah.
Bob: Why?
Me: Well, if you want my opinion, I guess it has something to do with fear. Since we’re at war with terrorists, maybe people want to learn more about the supposed enemy. There’s a comfort in learning more about what you fear, diffusing the cloud of mystery…it becomes less scary.
Bob: What are you, a librarian or a shrink?
Me: Last I checked my bank account…they pay me to be a librarian.
Bob: Why do they call them “shrinks” anyway? Who thought up that one?
Me: Let’s find out…
Bob: You mean you don’t know?
Me: Nope. Wait, now I do. Says here it’s a derogatory term for psychologists, comparing them to primitive tribal leaders who would try to “shrink” the heads of their slain enemies.
Bob: Like terrorists?
Me: Well, I guess if their enemies were terrorizing them, maybe they would be terrorists. I don’t know.
Bob: Some librarian you are.
Me: I try to do my best for you. I’m sorry if I wasn’t any help.
Bob: Does your boss know you give out information on terrorism?
Me: Sure. Didn’t you read 1984? Big Brother is always watching me.
Bob: What are you talking about?
Me: Never mind.
Bob: So what - your boss knows you give out information on terrorism? You could have a hand in someone becoming a terrorist. How will you live with yourself then?
Me: Well, it’s my job. I’m sure the guy who invented the atom bomb has the same problem.
Bob: Aren’t you worried about the Patriot Act?
Me: Oh, come on. The Patriot Act is just a scare tactic. I’m not afraid. You could be from the FBI, testing me, ready to take me in on conspiracy charges. You could just be curious. Or you could be a terrorist. You could have a bomb strapped to your chest, for all I know. It could be a matter of seconds before this whole place is dust. I don’t know...I just work here.
Bob: So you don’t have Osama bin Laden’s phone number.
Me: No. I don’t think he has a phone number.
Bob: Do you have any books that would, you know, help me get in contact with him?
Me: No.

A fifty-ish woman with crooked teeth and red hair in a bun approaches the reference desk.

April: [to Bob] Would you mind keeping your voice down? I can hear you from all the way across the room. Why don’t you leave this poor girl alone?
Me: It’s okay, April. He was just going upstairs to find a book.

April waves her book.

April: Swingin’ ‘60s paperback fiction today. A romance. Hot sex scenes. Drug orgies. You know.
Me: One of those days, huh?
April: Apparently.

The man looks at me and shakes his head. April looks at the man.

April: Excuse me…

April shuffles back to her seat, her eyes close to the book.

Man: What kind of place is this?
Me: What the hell do you think it is? It’s a library.

To be continued?

Wishful Career

2005-10-18T11:33:00.000-07:00

Kinda Like a Stand-In

2005-10-18T10:50:00.000-07:00

Coming Soon...maybe?

2005-10-18T10:33:00.000-07:00

Various ramblings are steadily spilling out, nearing completion. Among the anticipated releases of aimless literary energy, you may look forward to reading...

**

Currently working on...

*What Do We Have to Hide? Government Spying in the Age of Living on Your Computer

**

In the pipeline...

*Colon Cancer and Medicinal Marijuana: a Touching Family Story

*Paradise When? What I learned from a free screening/panel discussion of an Israeli government-funded buddy movie about a charismatic pair of Palestinian suicide bombers

*Upbeat, Catchy Songs with Lyrics that Make a Half-Full Glass Empty: A Rock and Roll List (currently taking suggestions)

*My all-time favorite sentences written by Rolling Stone commentator Matt Taibbi

*Anything But This: What I Would Rather Be Doing Than Writing Boring Essays for Librarian School

What could have been a normal blog entry

2005-10-18T10:02:00.000-07:00

Things that happened lately (in order of importance...no fuck that, in order of chronology...chronicological...fuck, I can't spell after three cups of Franzia White Zinfadnel, nor do I know how to spell Zinfandel, except for the spelling s-w-e-e-t. In chronological order, aka one goddamn thing after another)

1) Showed up for work. I don't even know why I'm mentioning this, except maybe to reiterate how clueless I was to events that would come to light throughout the course of the day. Little did I know. When I got to my cozy cubicle and filled my mug with coffee and french vanilla creamer, I was all good, settled in my element for the day. It was gonna be a good one. Sure. Keep thinking like that, you optimistic past version of yourself...

2) I can't let on too many details about my job because I do work for a major media conglomerate that will not hesitate to fire me if I step outta line. But. My boss was dealing with some heavy shit today. For whatever reason, folks up on high were giving her a hard time. Alright, what I want to know is how anyone can yell at my boss. Not only is she the most competant employee at the company, she is also hands-down the nicest woman I have met in the last three months. A conventional "good heart" is frozen compared to hers.

Random thought: I get along a lot better with guys that look at my chest (yes, I am aware of this, and yes, it is really flattering to know that my mid-sized breasts are appreciated. I tend to get lost between the "I wish her boobs were bigger" wish and the "Shit, man. I could look at those all day and the little guy would be happy" male breast-perspective valley, but sometimes they get some good feedback). Wait - what was (2) again? Shit, I forgot. Alright, onward.

3) The head of our department scored us skybox V.I.P. tickets to the pre-season Clipper vs. Sonics game tomorrow night. I think they're also called BOX SEATS (I have never been in a box seat, nor did I think I would ever have a box seat experience in my lifetime. I believe it entails something along the lines of a hotel room, only instead of looking out the window into the 90 West Highway piercing some vast Iowa prairie, you're spying down the half-court line looking for Jack Nicholson, and upon realizing, "Stupid...Jack only does Laker games," you desperately search the crowd for someone like Carson Daly or [newly elected L.A. Mayor] Antonio Villaragosa). Apparently, I have been working so hard the past few months that I deserve a reward. No, more likely, the head of our department likes to finangle what he calls "goodies" from the guys upstairs, and he's very good at this. It was with the pride of a lion that he called us lowly departmental assistants into his canivorous office and told us about the Clipper game. This news actually took me back memory lane, all the way to 1991, Memorial Colesium (fuck you, Blogger. I can't spell Colleseum and you're not correcting me like Word does), when I was a BALL GIRL for the PORTLAND TRAILBLAZERS who were, at the time, the best professional sports team ever. This was the era of (cue C+C Music Factory's "The Power," dim the lights, crank up the announcer's mic) Terry Porter at point, Clyde "The Glide" Drexler in the 2-guard, Jerome Kersey at small, Buck Williams (usually giving Karl Malone something to cry about), and Kevin Duckworth at center...oh, this is a story for another time, a time of nostalgia...to be a pre-adolescent basketball fan again...to read Larry Bird's autobiography and then go out and practice my jumper...now those were the days.

4) Anyway, to get back to 2005, so much for the Clipper game. The whole time I was ducking out of the room, pacing nervously, checking my out-of-batteries phone, drinking a bottle of wine as fast as a wino, worrying about how my mom was doing. Cancer sucks ass. It ruins everything. Sometimes I'll be having a pretty good day, you know, someone will make me laugh, we'll win our soccer game, I'll get to have drinks with an old friend, I'll hear an amazing song for the first time...and then I'll think to myself, "Wow, life is pretty sweet. Too bad my mom has cancer." And then it'll just be ruined. Sucks.

5) After the Clipper game I smuggled the cheese and cracker plates out of the box with the intention of bringing it to work or to some malnourished Halloween party. But then we saw this homeless dude who wanted to clean my ride's (the VP's Lexus) windshield, so I gave him the food, in case he was hungry, or knew of anyone else who was hungry. I sure didn't. Since my mom can't eat, I've kind of lost my appetite. In a society obsessed with food and taking obesity to a heavy level, I'm just concerned with the nutrients (and coffee = wake up, alcohol = sleep) at this point. In a world full of drugs and highs and ex-boyfriends in rehab, I'm just hoping my mom's pain subsides so she doesn't have to continue being this junkie by necessity. To reiterate: cancer sucks. Don't get it if you want radiation on your ass and chemo forcing unwanted anorexia, stealing away your ability to eat and drink like a normal person.

Sellout Liberals and Action Figures

2005-10-18T09:54:00.000-07:00

This week has been long. This week has been a cartoon as slowly and deliberately drawn out as possible. Plenty of time to think, too much time to act...therefore, too many thoughts and not enough action. Not that I really need to think any more than I already do, but this week I've bombarded myself, tragically enough, with pointless thoughts that crowd in and override more important thoughts, like, say, my finances.

It seems the election is moving towards us at a snail's pace, but there is so much paranoia and urgency in the air, especially amid the thick buildup of LA smog. We're liberals here. But I can't help feeling like ours is a land of sellout liberals...liberals who preach before they practice. I should know, because I'm one of those liberals. I talk and write a good game, but I claim to not have enough time to volunteer, and my paycheck's too small to cut a check for good conscience. I'm no help to John Kerry, yet I desperately want him to win and I feel continuously guilty for failing him. I'm always tripping over my soapbox in favor of letting others in center stage..others who deserve to vent to their heart's content...others who feel like prejudging and changing the world. Who am I? Nobody. except a girl with a weblog...who just started hers today...way, way after all the other hipsters...and after at least 100 stolen songs off of Mp3 blogs, I feel I should contribute. This is a community after all, right? A conversation? An attempt to reach out and tocuh someone? It often feels quite empty, the Internet. Like a void of relentless crisscrossing wires of activity.

I've always been more of an observation and commentary person than an action figure. If I WERE an action figure, she would be shabbily dressed and anti-establishment-anti-authority. She would think too much before acting, thus not being much for instant success, leaving the other action figures to take all the credit...where credit is due, of course. She would be infinitely considerate and affectionate towards her dream man of action on sale across the aisle...and once you took her out of her box she would try to inhale as much life as possible before becoming tragically outgrown by forces beyond her control.

October 14, 2004

Trying to Personify Chemotherapy

2005-10-18T09:50:00.001-07:00

Scratch Your Itchy Conscience

2005-10-18T09:50:00.000-07:00

Cap a profit, put it in a locket. Boundless accumulation of greedy interests at play, interacting with the ebb and flow of inflation, recession, business booms, crashes in the night, leaving trails of overblown success and underblown destitution. The Hungry who don't know your recipe for success linger outside your doorstep while you debate over the perfect welcome mat. You're uncomfortable, and you should be. After all, everybody should be. Imbalance is a great fear. You can ignore it, but it won't go away. You can choose not to look into the eyes of what awaits you driving down the freeway offramp. Do you deserve your smug interior? The White Trash, the Black Trash, the Immigrant Trash, the Golden, Multicolor Grey Area Trash is all thrown away and recycled, perpetuating generations of conditioned behavior...brainwashed to serve your cause...rich, white and male, pat yourself on the back. The control is yours. Lobbyists know what's best for industries, politicians know what's best for constituencies, CEOs know what's best for their shareholders. Naive and surrounded by the privileged college campus on the hill, I used to think this was the invisible hand, guiding the capital up, keeping tit there, holding it hostage, letting it rot in the aristocracies...old crinkly delicate superiority complexes, their freeloading drug-addled offspring who wouldn't know the meaning of charity if it smacked them twice in the face. To say I abhor luxury would be redefining luxury in the face of overt poverty. Mr. Jones, you're got a long way to go before you've hit rock bottom. It's a long, slow approach to the downward spiral, as excruciatingly painful as looking a brother in the eye and telling them you can't help him when you secretly know you've just brokered a lucious deal with the devil incarnate. Insurance is a great big wheel of chance-you pay more than you'll ever spend. The Premium. You rely on being careful, holding yourself back, practicing remote caution, saving up for a rainy day, and when it rains, it pours...impulsive reaction comings spilling out onto the streets, and it feels so good to gamble, to put yourself out there in all your glory, with fear a distant memory of the day you should have died. Hold accountable the pillars of power and influence, look at the space beyond your bubble...it's struggling to create your political identity and make it happen.

October 24, 2004

Making the World Safe for Sarcasm

2005-10-18T09:46:00.000-07:00

The days of the practical joke are gone. It’s practically become extinct. April Fool’s Day at my work was (not literally) a joke, and I was very surprised by this because even though they work hard, my co-workers seriously have some of the most avid senses of humors I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. Jokes have long since lost their practicality; instead they’ve segued into the interplay of language, where they have found a safe haven in the seemly endless opportunities for irony, sarcasm, and parody.

To me, sarcasm is a way to elicit responses, rather than judge. Judging the victim leaves him/her with no defenses, especially when you’re snickering behind your trailer trash target at the local Target. Some people enjoy people-watching and condescendingly poking fun at outward appearances. I don’t. It’s like beating up someone who can’t fight back, or playing a team with a skill level way below that of your team. At least with ironic wordplay, you can sock one to the annoying asshole feeding you degrading lines at the bar—and give him a chance to respond. Plus, I’m forever fascinated by how different people will react to the truth, with a little irony on top and dressing on the side, especially those who know that I’m messing with them. Language and its meanings instantly become more interesting when the element of sarcasm is in play. Without it, humor would suffer the limitations of literal jest and what have become impractical jokes. It makes everything more fun; such pastimes as degrading yourself, making an observation about the meaning of life, writing an entire review of a really horrendous made-for-TV movie, or discussing the merits of the early movie career of Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger can be taken to new heights…or depths…depending on which way you look at it.

Sarcasm has the dynamic ability to manifest itself in many different scenarios. Here is a small list of my recurring run-ins with sarcasm. I refer to myself in second person in an effort to protect the guilty, or at least make me feel less guilty by putting the blame on “you,” thus maybe making you, the reader, feel a little bit guilty. Not going to happen, you say? Well, read on and see.

1. The other person doesn’t know you’re being sarcastic. When you start giving clues that you are messing with him/her, he/she either still doesn’t know (and will never know) or he/she gives you a “look,” as if to say, by way of facial expression, “What’s wrong with you?”
2. The other person knows you’re being sarcastic and is playing along, only you don’t know he/she is actually mocking your little charade. And you probably will never know.
3. The other person knows you’re being sarcastic and is playing along. While you’re aware of this, you’re so disappointed by your inability to dupe your victim that you decide to give up and walk away, thus creating some confusion, maybe a hint of animosity, in the other person.
4. You’re leading the other person into a maze of lies…and it’s working! He/she is either so gullible or so convinced by your flawless acting that he/she actually believes your bullshit. Once the truth is revealed and he/she realizes he/she has been had, you probably feel really good about yourself, but your victim feels pretty stupid and often resorts to self-mockery to downplay the embarrassment. You should probably watch out for any attempt at revenge.
5. You’re not being sarcastic, but the other person has become so accustomed to your frequent sarcasm than he/she thinks you are so incapable of taking conversation seriously that you can possibly be serious; therefore, he/she takes you sarcastically and you have no idea. At this point, social connection is lost and can only be regained by trying to determine who was being sarcastic and who was being serious, thus wasting time that could have been spent doing something more productive.
6. Your sarcasm content is sensitive to the other person. He/she would rather you not joke about it but is afraid to tell you when you are clearly having so much fun with it.
7. Your interpretation of the other person’s sarcasm leads to a needless argument.
8. You repeat the same blatantly sarcastic comment, trying to keep it alive as long as possible, until it might as well have died a thousand deaths, and then you repeat it again (**Please note: I have inherited this from my dad. And because my dad has never been able to stop, I don’t believe I have any hope of ridding myself of this curse). The scenario: You’re driving into an empty Denny’s parking lot around dinnertime with your dad and your sister. Your Dad says, “Wow, this Denny’s sure is packed.” (there’s laughter, not because it’s particularly funny, but because, like all of your dad’s jokes, it is so eloquently unfunny. And it’s also kind of funny that there is a Denny’s in America that is empty at 5:30 p.m., which is the unofficial suppertime for senior citizens). You say, “Damn, you’re right, it sure is.” Your Dad says, “I don’t know if they’re going to be able to seat us.” Your sister says, “Let me run in before you park and put our name on the list.” (laughing) You say, “Hurry, Dad. Now slow down so she can get out…but don’t stop.” You park, have a couple chuckles, think the joke is dead when you walk into the restaurant and your dad immediately asks the lone waitress, “You guys got enough room for us?” (chuckles all around). The waitress laughs and looks around, smiling, and says, “I don’t know, we might be able to fit you in somewhere.” Once seated, after a couple minutes of unrelated conversation, your dad returns to the empty restaurant tip again when my sister announces what she’s going to order. “Cari, I don’t know, I think they’re out of eggs.” And guess what? It’s still funny to him! And it’s funny to you and your sister because it’s still funny to him. Five minutes later, Dad: “We’re probably going to have to wait a long time for our food.” He probably joked about it yesterday at the office…either that or something else he’s repetitiously joked into the ground of the cemetery he drives by and announces for the gaz-illionth time, “Did you hear about that place?” “What?” (points) “People are just dyin’ to get in there!”
9. You incite contagious sarcasm that spreads and snowballs and ultimately gets so preposterous that everyone involved forgets what you were talking about in the first place.

October 24, 2004

Bee My Honey

2005-10-18T09:43:00.000-07:00

This is my first attempt at a graphic story. It is made of Post-It notes, staples, typewriter typeface, recycled computer paper, mechanical pencil, ball point pen, and highlighter.

The story is based upon on fictitious events that occurred in my head. Any resemblance to real or actual events is purely coincidental...or maybe you are just imagining things the same way I did.

Classified: The Myth of Secrecy

2005-10-18T09:38:00.000-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen of the National Security Agency:

I do not know where to send this letter, as I do not have a corresponding address for your headquarters. Could it be what everyone says is true, that you do not exist? Perhaps your agency does exist, only we are not allowed to talk about it. I may be breaking some unwritten law and aiding malicious terrorists by doing so, and if that’s the case, I’m terribly sorry. But can you blame me for being curiously ignorant of your unspoken power? For all I know (nothing) and for all the trust I have in my country’s leaders (none), your alleged code-breaking, terrorist-tracking methods advertised on your website are just an illusion of protection. Or are they?

But for the sake of a hopeful leap of faith, I’ll publish this as an open letter here to you. As I write, I am fueled by the optimism that someday, somehow my concerns will make their way to your organization. Please be assured that these concerns are mine and mine alone. The probability that others may share my concerns, while very high, is purely coincidental and is up to each individual to decide for him/herself, or at least until you have the power to wiretap out minds and reconfigure our freedom of thought into stone cold allegiance.

But I’m getting way ahead of myself here, NSA. Allow me to rewind.

Last December, right in the middle of the merry month of religious industry, I heard some news that has made me quite paranoid, effectively killing my holiday buzz. Straight form the reliable yet controversially biased packed pipe of the New York Times, I inhaled the disturbing reality of your domestic spying program. When I exhaled, I saw everything differently. Suddenly, I was living in a transparent world with no secrets, information overload, and the integral question we must all ask ourselves: what do we have to hide?

Thanks to the acceleration of electronic communications technology into the profit of the billable, convenient instant, it is now possible to process every transaction of our lives over the computer. We buy updates for privacy protection, scanning for viruses that can infect our hard drives, spam killer for potentially corrupt correspondence, firewalls to protect us from the flames. We trust in these services to shield us as we continue to leave our trails across the intricately networked global online economy, from car insurance deals to porn, Googling thoughtlessly from our handheld devices as spiders crawl after us, spinning us further and further into interconnected isolation.

The simulated life has taken a predictably profitable turn, and we’re all paying, not just financially, but personally. There is no vulnerable part of my existence that can’t be hacked into with today’s cutting edge worms and extracted from the vast network that tracks billions of other lives. So many reasons to be uncertain, paranoid, and increasingly more private, but we have done just the opposite in our unflinching trust in giving agents of e-commerce our most sensitive, potentially detrimental information.

This brings me, quite conveniently, to shed a speculative light on the most sensitive, potentially detrimental information hidden behind the myth of secrecy in the almighty Bush Administration. Understandably, many concerned citizens feel helpless and angry at the news that the President and his henchmen are taking an illegal piss on our civil liberties, simultaneously flipping us off with another round of distracting propaganda in support of the spying program, brainwashing half the electorate and more than half of Congress with the notion that he’s doing what’s necessary to protect our nation. But instead of concentrating on the long-nosed puppet on stage, I find it enlightening to focus on the strings the power-hungry ventriloquists are trying so desperately to keep out of our critical view.

If you look closely enough, you’ll see that the insistent, obsessive secrecy of the Bush Administration is a giant myth that must be diffused. Its inherent truths are potentially damaging to our swindled nation’s identity, but by now the smoke and mirrors have become impossible to penetrate. From torture tactics to shady reconstruction favors in the war-profiteering private sector, this wall of deception has been building ever since the big goon first set foot in office. A growing public mistrust breeds questions we never would have thought possible ten years ago. For example, are our civil liberties classified information to be thrown about and acted upon as carelessly as the intelligence gleaned to justify the Operation Iraqi Freedom?

Within the matrix of morally righteous patriotism lie the essential questions we should be asking, strategically placed so that the critical, suspicious thinkers will see the proverbial big picture haunting our society, parading around the world in its righteous isolationist costume of democracy-spreading values. It’s an act, only the stage is real, the events manufactured. Our judgment cloudy by the murky events of 9/11, with conspiracy theories sprouting from questioning classified information. We’ve been duped, and we’re currently being duped, by the greedy intoxication of those in power. We’re wandering around Oz with no hearts, brains, and courage, and Wizards ain’t gonna stop this charade until we demand to know who’s behind the curtain.

If all this speculation is true, and the Wizard orders you to spy on me, NSA, go ahead, knock yourself out. Read my emails. Listen in on my phone calls. Better yet, tap into my mind, knock yourself out. If anything I say or do offends your laws of national security, then go ahead, blacklist me. You can come by anytime, take me away, lock me up in solitary confinement, and torture me into a celebrated martyr that will only serve to hurt the reputations of the power brokers you so unquestioningly obey. I’ve got nothing better to do, and unlike Osama, I answer to no deities, at least none I know to exist as I watch a congregation thrust their faith outward without a critical eye to all things contradictory. I’m waiting for the opportunity to very publicly expose the myth of secrecy within the executive branch of our government like most actors in Hollywood are waiting for their big break

And now the time has come to inject this column with drama, if I may. If it’s come to this, we may as well all be terrorists. Our lives are on the computers, riddled with debt, overdosing on unfounded fear. While the world’s no longer as black or white and right and wrong as it used to be, there are definite winners and losers, buyers and sellers, luxurious CEOs and destitute hungry. The sides of the coin have grown more ambiguous since debris clouded the rubble of 9/11. It’s time to start looking at what’s there, to start proactively investigating the actions of our leaders, to begin taking some responsibility for their secrecy, because strangely enough, we have become accountable for everything it represents.

National Security Agency, if the mission set forth on your website has any righteous validity in a world of ambiguous villains, flawed heroes, and international law, the main code to crack is mythical secrecy, and key to cracking that code is to follow the money, the connections, and the power, from al Queda to Capitol Hill. Even in a culturally tangled world of mistrust, fragile relationships, and faulty intelligence, this method will take you straight to the top, where you’ll find that the manipulative, extreme secrecy of the Bush Administration may be putting us at risk for further terrorist attacks. In an uncertain era where we have nothing to hide, don’t we all deserve to know what our leaders are holding?

Roger & Damon: Detrimental Generosity

2005-10-18T09:35:00.000-07:00

Movies Grow Some Political Balls...and Other Timely Observations on 2005

2005-10-18T09:10:00.000-07:00

Being a professed opinionated political junkie, I’ve got to hand it to Hollywood: this past year has been a positive one for topical cinema. Not long ago, back in February, just months into President Bush’s second term in office, my cynical past self would have told you that Michael Moore’s Fahrenheit 9/11 (by espousing divisive anti-Bush conspiracy theories right before the 2004 election) had discouraged entertaining yet politically aware moviemaking for good, damning us to another year of clueless movies to go with our even more clueless President.

How pessimistic I was. Quite the contrary, fortunately this past year ushered in an audacious, spirited comeback of the timely journalistic-style film, putting an undeniable spin on continuous right-wing deception from the White House and Congress. While top Democratic movie biz players failed to deliver in campaign financing and celebrity PR efforts to defeat Bush in 2004, they are now rapidly making up lost ground, attempting to rile up the public through the movies.
You thought Bush’s rating went down because of the growing budget deficit, deliberate misleading statements, corporate cronyism, Cheney’s poor aim, and Will Ferrell’s hilarious new impression sketch? Wrong. With the moderate box office success and critical acclaim of such fare as Good Night, and Good Luck, Syriana, Munich, The Constant Gardner, and Jarhead, widely released films are starting to develop a critical conscience, and the timing couldn’t be better.

Now, more than ever before, we need our movies to challenge where we stand on the issues that affect our everyday lives, or, at the very least, help us keep an open, critical mind with respect to the powers that be. As I write this, the top dogs at our friendly local major media conglomerates are investing millions into movie products that subtly (or not-so-subtly) attack such heavyweight industries as oil, pharmaceuticals, and the faulty intelligence surrounding Operation Iraqi Freedom - not just for kicks, but because they know people will go to the theater to inadvertently experience George Clooney’s political beliefs while idealistically imagining him as our President in 2016. Unbelievable, right? Well, believe this: 2005 also brought us thoughtful biopics of troubadour/songwriter Johnny Cash (Walk the Line) and Depression-era boxer James J. Braddock (The Cinderella Man), two legendary figures whose stories frequently evoke the struggle to overcome class-based adversity.

And if that wasn’t enough, to top it all off, this year Jon Stewart becomes the first flaming liberal fake news anchor ever to host the Oscars. The Academy could have gone the Billy Crystal route again, but they didn’t. If hand-picking the bolder, more progressive Stewart flavor over safe bet Crystal or wildly irreverent Chris Rock is any indication of where movies are headed, then wow, I haven’t felt this good about political movies since 1976, and I wasn’t even alive then.

As this window of opportunity opens wider into a promising yet unpredictable 2006 and beyond, it may seem risky for the studios to artistically address some of the great injustices of our times and still turn out a decent profit, but my hope is that the execs will keep on flashing the topical greenlight anyway. Superman’s resurfaced Clark Kent might change some kid’s life by saving the world onscreen, but issue-based films have the power to explore and question the ways our own world needs to be saved, not as a simple hero solution, but as rapidly changing pieces to a bigger, more complex puzzle. Film history is stocked with entertaining, intriguing, and relevant reflections of our society that, much like Edward R. Murrow, serve to help us better understand and learn from the greater implications of a fleeting moment in time.

While I don’t predict 2006 will bring us the next Dr. Strangelove, I definitely see the political genre continuing to evolve, building on its 2005 momentum. And if you long for escapism amid the chaos, don’t worry; it still dominates for a hefty percentage of 2006 releases. You can always forget about your mounting credit card debt while immersed in the mindless, exhilarating thrill of summertime blockbusters, and of course, who needs to align with the moral majority when you’re transfixed by the most fantasmic porn your permanent tax cut can buy?

Surprising Lack of Political Balls on Brokeback

Brokeback Mountain is many things to many people. I hear movie reviewers and people I know shouting out short answers in my head. Picturesque! Heartbreaking! Sexually Arousing! Amazing! Is It Over Yet?! And then there’s the kicker: Politically Groundbreaking! And that is where I must draw the line on this reckless exaggeration of what I believed to be a mediocre film. Off the top of my head, I can think of two homo-hero movies that are more politically groundbreaking and controversial: In & Out and Philadelphia. Brokeback Mountain is a story of obsessive, sexual love as an aggressive, repressed addiction, not a comment on our current views on homosexuality and whether gays should be able to get married and (according to most conservative talk show hosts) raise little homos to dress as dazzlingly as Liberace. Anyone behind the effort to make this film into a heated political discussion is probably just afraid that the gays are taking over Hollywood. Who knows? Maybe they’re onto something.

A Suicide Note for the Living

2005-10-18T09:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Life,

Inevitably, as sure as the sun rises and sets, as sure as gravity forces our bodies as close to the soil as physically possible, there will be horrible and glorious things happening in the world tomorrow. Unfortunately, I won’t be alive to see them.

That’s right. I am retiring from the living world, intentionally interrupting my heartbeat with one final flatliner, numbing my brain to sensation in hopes that it will shut down for the good of eternity. In other words, I’m gonna die.

What’s that? Am I depressed? Well, no. I’m doing quite well, actually. I’ve got a job, a roof over my head, and a glass of wine in my hand. I can’t complain. I know that each day, each week, and each year there will be ups and downs, ebbs and flows, twists and turns. I’m well aware of the kinetic energy dancing around, transparent and happening; try as we might, we can’t control it. In the same way, I can’t control my urge to die.

There are so many reasons why I should keep living, my head spins just thinking about it. But when I think about dying, I am not afraid. In fact, I’m looking forward to it. I’ve reconciled myself with my untimely adieu. I’m not sure why, but no matter how it happens, I’m sure the act of passing will not be as dark as the living say it is. Like they know anything.

Death is projected and speculated upon in life as a loss. But what about the gain? And what about fate? Just think… By taking my life out of the chaotic ongoing population equation, my death may indirectly save thousands of lives, create the circumstances for soul mates to meet and fall in love, and do other things normally attributed to fate. In other words, my death is meant to happen. And there’s no stopping it now.

One of two quick judgments may have popped into your head: one, “She’s fucking whacked. Let her jump,” or two, “Poor girl. She just needs a hug and some attention, maybe a few ecstasy pills, and she will be fine. She will live. My intervention will save her life! I am such a good fucking person!”

Before you go off on that virtuous trip, please calm down and go save an abandoned kitten or give a crack whore some crack or something. I do not deserve to be the target for your self-righteousness. I just want to die, okay? What the hell is wrong with that? What’s that, you say? Hell? Well, hell! I don’t believe in it! I’m fucking whacked, I tell you!

But seriously, a hug would be nice. I’m really going to miss human contact. Oh wait, no I won’t. I will be dead. My body will burn, my history will remain, and everyone who is still alive can just deal with it by forgetting about me, maybe having a good cry, or if they really want to do right by me, do some celebrating.

Like I said, life is full of ups and downs. It’s accepted thinking that people who die by their own hands are selfish. When someone commits suicide, people close to them tend to blame themselves and wonder if there was anything they could have done.

This popular line of thinking can be therapuetic if it helps you cope with suicidal tragedy close to home. But when I kill myself, it won’t be a tragedy. No, it will be good riddance, indeed. To that end, I would rather people refrain from calling me a selfish person and blaming themselves. Why? Because I would have wanted it that way. As far as wondering if there was anything you could have done, let me put it this way: don’t. Enjoy my absence just as much as you would have enjoyed my presence.

Really, why is voluntary death so vilified? In a world where suicide is illegal and looked down upon with shame while heroin addicts prop up the economy of Afganistan by needling themselves to death, I am quite the controversial figure, free from the spiritual trappings of religion, no afterworld or eleventh life to call my own. I’m looking forward to pulling the plug, dying with dignity way before my time, and nothing is going to stop me. Why should someone or something else get to kill me? I've lived my life; why can’t I end it, too?

Alright, I’m not gonna prolong the inevitable and keep knockin’ on Heaven’s door here, ‘cause if Heaven turns the tables and starts knockin’ on my door, I’m not gonna let it in, because I’m gonna die before it can burst in and get all enlightened and spiritual on my cynical, realist legacy. Death is just a mere second in life. From mass murderer to shaman, you gotta respect the dead for the way they lived, not the way they died. So goodbye, life. It’s been a good one!

With Love and Respect,

Me

P.S. Cop-out clause: I’ve just realized that I’m going to have to wait until my parents die before I kill myself. After all, they created me. That would be kind of rude to just say, “Thanks for creating me, loving me, raising me, and putting me through college. Now instead of coming to visit four times a year and calling you every other night, I’m just going to die, and you’ll never see me again.” Plus, I love my parents. I could never hurt them like that. There’s this mourn that goes, “No parent should ever have to outlive/bury his child.” Well, my parents agree with this sentiment, so I’ve got to respect that. But as soon as my parents die, you know, maybe fifty years from now, when they feel like it’s time, I am going to die.

But then again, maybe this horrible, glorious apocalypto-kinetic energy will have killed us all by then.

Cartooning the Network

2005-10-18T08:53:00.000-07:00

Outside the Grocery Store

2005-10-18T08:50:00.001-07:00

Existential Moment

2005-10-18T08:50:00.000-07:00

Revenge of the Villains, Part One

2005-10-18T08:32:00.000-07:00

Roger & Damon: Going Out with a Blunt

2005-10-18T08:31:00.001-07:00

2005-10-18T08:31:00.000-07:00

Luis and the Cult of Personality

2005-10-18T08:15:00.000-07:00

Grew Up With Guns In My Hands!

2005-10-18T08:14:00.000-07:00

The Passion of the Paper Towel

2005-10-18T08:08:00.000-07:00

The Double Dose

2005-10-18T08:00:00.000-07:00

The Smoking AK-47: Chuck Norris Jokes

2005-10-18T07:49:00.000-07:00

Editor's Note: If anyone out there feels the same way about Chuck Norris that I feel about Bruce Springsteen (ie. he is your #1 lifelong hero), I am sorry to offend you with this, but I came into contact with Norris jokes one too many times, and every girl has got her breaking point, right? Unlike the Denmark newspapers' reckless disregard for a potentially violent reaction to the Prophet Muhammed turban-bomb cartoons, I sincerely care about whether I offend my audience (population: 2)...but not enough to refrain from publishing this, because that would just be fighting my identity as needy self-publishing attention whore, and we all know that's an impossible battle to win.

Plus, if someone were to dis Springsteen in any way, I would have a whole lifetime of comebacks. If you are really that big of a fan, you should feel the same kind of confidence in Norris.

**

Once upon a time, this list of Chuck Norris jokes spread throughout the Internet blogosphere like wildfire, providing millions of unproductive office workers like myself with a five-minute diversion from the long, mundane eight-hour exchange of soul for meager paycheck. While these witty morsels inevitably served their purpose of providing knee-slapping entertainment to same breed of 20-something frat pack comedian types who originally wrote them, to me they are not funny. I never laughed out loud, not even a little "hee hee..." I didn't even smile.

Perhaps my refined feminine sense of humor is immune to the pitfalls of pointless exaggeration, but the more I heard about Chuck Norris, Vin Diesel, Jack Bauer, or any variation on the predictably white-male centered chosen topic (and no, Vin, you're not black. Your choice to star in The Pacifier makes you an honorary white person - just like Will Smith), the more I began to hear the opposition voices in my head, telling me things like...

* Chuck Norris, the roundhouse kick only serves to question the merging of the words "round" and "house" to describe a maneuver that keeps a goon down for two seconds at best. You hear that whispering from the past? It's the stunt performers on [insert one of your lame-ass movies here, because it's not worth the effort to type your sorry stage name into IMDB] wondering if a mosquito had bitten them after taking a dozen of your harmless little roundhouseys.

* Chuck Norris is gay. He was an undercover contestant on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, and reportedly suggested sucking all their dicks at once - on camera.

* Chuck Norris, I once had a boyfriend also named Chuck who was a drug addict, and he told me to tell you he doesn't want you using his name anymore. He's twice your size, has a black belt in Tae Kwon Do, and even on five tabs of ex, a case of PBR, a few Sharpie inhales, and a speed-of-light ride on the merry-go-round, he could still kick your ass.

* Chuck Norris, for the love of Mao...stop trying to be all Asian. You have a mullet, and it's not even a badass white trash mullet that goes well with tight stone-washed jeans and an old Springsteen concert t-shirt with the sleeves cut off - your mullet is the one you wear with your flimsy white pajamas and dainty bare feet. And that ain't no black belt you're wearing, friend it's my long black licorice rope. Give it back, or I'll sic Bruce Lee to come back from the dead and make you cry. That's what you get for taking the "arts" out of martial arts.

* Chuck Norris, stop trying to bogart the second best MLB team name in Texas with your tired-ass re-running show. It's not even fun to make fun of anymore, and when Haley Joel Osment was on the show, I'll bet he was so creepy you had to hide from him for fear of being penetrated with those devastatingly magnetic wide eyes of his. But did you know that during the filming of AI, Jude Law was so unaffected by the Haley Joel hex that he stared the little guy down? It's true. But you, Chuck, you can't even utter the words "sixth sense" without hiding your eyes.

* Chuck Norris didn't invent water; word on the street is that he owes 78 percent (or whatever it is) of his body to the hydrogen and oxygen elements that form water molecules, and when his mother's water broke while in labor, he cried, and then he was so afraid of his tears, he cried some more. I'm pretty sure he's been crying all his life. And his tears cure cancer, you say? Tell that to my mom's tumor.

* If what the Chuck Norris Jokes say is true and Chuck Norris is Luke Skywalker's real father, Luke still lifesabered his ass, using the Force to make Chuck Norris roundhouse kick himself in the face repeatedly. And then Han Solo went and seduced Chuck Norris' wife and made Chuck Norris (still roundhouse-kicking himself in the face) watch.

* Chuck Norris, stop paying your completely unfunny fans to think up clever exaggerations about you. Face it, you're getting older, your career is dead, and the chances of those joke lists putting you back on the map are about as likely as they are to revive Vin Diesel's fast and furious box office glory. You are a fucking dinosaur to the action flick, and now you're dead to all forms of comedy, too.

* Chuck Norris, you're like James Frey on Oprah. So consumed with your own myth that even you believe it's true.

* Chuck Norris, I've suddenly become so bored writing this list about you, filing the large stack of papers on my desk seems like an action-packed episode of Days of Our Lives in comparison. Any paper cuts I suffer will surely be more painful than a roundhouse kick. Just a closing warning: if I see or hear of another one of your joke lists anywhere near my monitor, I'm going to reach into the web and deconstruct the html, and then I'm going to infiltrate your brain and lodge a recurring image of Haley Joel Osment in your dreams. Oh wait, nevermind - I've already done it.

Unlikely People Standing Next to Each Other

2005-10-18T07:41:00.000-07:00

Real Perceptive Magic

2005-10-18T07:33:00.001-07:00

Gotta Let It All Sink In

2005-10-18T07:33:00.000-07:00

Curly Hair Every Day

2005-10-18T07:32:00.000-07:00

Comic-Con/The Box Lid

2005-10-18T07:23:00.000-07:00

So this past weekend I decided to go down to San Diego for this comic book convention...well, actually, not just any comic book convention...the Comic Book Convention, a.k.a. Comic-Con. This tough decision would not have been possible without the Rational Confident Me winning a small interior disagreement over the Hopeless Manic Me. It went down kinda like this:

Rational Confident Me: "I should just go, learn from the masters...because really, what do I know about comics?"

Hopeless Manic Me: "Don't waste your time. Your comics suck. You drew better at age 12, and you're getting worse."

RCM: "That may be true, but I enjoy doing these comics way too much to allow your soul-crushing cynicism to ruin it for me."

HMM: "But you know I'm gonna win out in the end..."

RCM: "Okay, fuck you. You know what? I'm gonna go. Not only that, but I'm gonna print up some copies of a sample comic to distribute...you know, publicize, and get this site more than two readers a day, goddamnit! Plus, if there is anything for me to learn from this medium before spending increasing amounts of my time experimenting with it, then I reckon the place to absorb it is Comic-Con International."

HMM: "Fine, go ahead, but I'll be mocking you the whole time."

So I printed off 75 copies of a more polished, zine-style Real Peceptive Magic, and drove on down to San Diego, a donut-box-esque cardboard box beside me, ready to be walked around the convention and held much the same way as one of those barmaid cigarette seller chicks holds her box of packs, only I wasn't offering the welcome drunken inhale, but rather, a feeble representation of my vast and desperately lonely online creative kingdom...

RCM: "Hi. Would you like a copy of my comic?"

... and all I was asking for in return was a smile of encouragement -

HMM: "...and that they wait until your back is turned before throwing the crusty thing into the nearest trash can."

Although I didn't see any trashing going on behind me, I did get an attempted grammar/usage lesson from some grammatician guy behind some booth (anxiously waiting for fleeting opportunities to save the members of the Comic-Con public from their own villainous grammatical deficiencies):

Me: "Would you like a copy of my comic?"

Grammar Guy: "Hmmm...'Real Perceptive Magic.' Don't you mean 'Really Perceptive Magic?'"

Me (thinking): What a dick!

Me: "No, actually, the title is referring to 'real,' as opposed to 'fake.'"

GG: "Ah...okay."

Me: "But that was real good of you to point that out, man." (walks away from booth)

Anyway, looking back on the experience, I don't really care if this site gets any new readers. For me, Comic-Con was a huge success. After offing all 75 of my copies, I spent my time browsing the many indie comics I couldn't afford and buying up the ones I could (mostly from small self-published geniuses who have not yet been discovered by the snobby yet savvy Drawn & Quarterly). I came away with so many new ideas, and now they are all racing around in my head, unaware of any semblance of a finish line. Like I said, huge success.

Here is a souvenir of my uncharacteristically bold New Goo marketing effort. It took me awhile (try 4 hours) to get into the convention without paying, so during my wait (after the initially fascinating people-watching became slightly repetitive) I decided to doodle over the Fedex-Kinko's logo on my cardboard box because I was still mad at the souless corporate monopoly for confusing me with its money-grubbing copy machines (another [sad] story). After the logo had been properly defaced, I kept going...so here it is:

Storytime with Grandpa: Alcoholic Fate

2005-10-18T07:06:00.000-07:00

Ways I might answer the phone if I feel like getting fired from my new job tomorrow

2005-10-18T07:03:00.000-07:00

They're Hiring at the Circus

2005-10-18T06:58:00.000-07:00

Spiritual Journey into the Bulk Email

2005-10-18T06:38:00.000-07:00

You Don't Know My Name

2005-10-18T06:17:00.001-07:00

The Guy Who Thinks Too Much: Humor Edition

2005-10-18T06:17:00.000-07:00

Explanation for any lack in posts - 8/25/2006

2005-10-18T06:14:00.001-07:00

I am a graduate student, and school has just started. I am currently learning a new language called "HTML." Apparently it is "all the rage" on the Internet. I wouldn't know; I still can't understand it. After two days of this jibberish, I figure that learning Spanish will be easy compared to HTML.

Because of the wild, unpredictible, and demanding learning curve of HTML, I no longer possess the gobs of free time I had this past summer. I will try to post, but my visitors (Dad? I think that's it) will have to deal with a significantly lower frequency of posts. I apologize - but at the same time, this school thing is my career - the bread and butter and healthcare and college education for any offspring I may produce - for the rest of my life. Comics/writing is just a pipe dream that no one reads - well, except for good old Dad. I will continue to post when I have an idea that takes over my body, but beyond that - I gotta keep on the straight and narrow, and away from the bourbon. See you on the other side.

Instant Punk: Just Add Style

2005-10-18T06:14:00.000-07:00

The Black Void: Jeff Tweedy Live in San Diego – 2/11/06 - Part One

2005-10-18T06:10:00.000-07:00

I began my I-5 descent from LA to San Diego at 6:00 Saturday evening. After about 45 minutes in the straight jacket clutches of erratic Orange County traffic, I was sailing down the left lane of the freeway, shuffling my CDs on the highest undistorted volume, mentally fatigued but physically present, anticipating my first date with Jeff Tweedy.

As the lead singer and songwriter of the understated alt-rock mainstay band Wilco, Tweedy has earned a privileged spot in my heart as my generation’s Bruce Springsteen. Now, I do not drop the Bruce barometer carelessly, but given Tweedy’s combined lyrical intimacy, humbly self-aware attitude, and unquestionably pure artistic motives for creating and performing music, I can’t help it; the comparison is practically begging me to acknowledge it. Simply put, with no exaggeration, there is no musician out there who deserves it more.

I was pondering Tweedy's Springsteenliness as I sat in my seat at the Spreckels Theatre, feeling like a high priestess in upper echelon of the balcony, peering down at the stage being rearranged into what looked like (from my vertical vantage point) a circular cave of intimate seclusion, guitars and amps enclosing the microphone stand, awaiting the solitary performer.

Tired and jaded by a long day and the aimless chatter droning on around me, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and exhaled, ready to surrender to exhaustion. All of a sudden, I felt a jolt. My eyes opened abruptly and darted around the theatre, which was breathtakingly beautiful, transported in from another time, defiant of the trappings of modernity. Somehow its cavernous, hollowed atmosphere seemed ideal for delivering Tweedy's songs to our receptive eardrums.

As I zoned out on the surreality of it all, enjoying an especially up-close-and-personal view of the ceiling and the sculptures reflecting one another above box seats, I decided to write some lame poetry to commemorate the moment. To add some much-needed literary cred, I will break it up by titling the sections with roman numerals, the way real poets do. I also thought it might read more poetically in italics.

I.

Angels on ceiling ornate
Sculpted nymphs slay animals
Royalty resides
Ghosts of opera echo
Anticipating
Mingling with forced conversation

My nose is bleeding
But my ears they are prepared

Look up to the yellow cloudy abyss
Idols fly, nonchalant
They watch us from the past
What do they think of what we’ve become?

II.

Warming up
Prepare to confront the witnesses
Connecting effortlessly with something familiar

We’ve seen it before
We know how it moves with our thoughts

Muster up energy
Running on fumes

Realizing the stimulant of the next instant
Hiding from unconsciousness until we were meant to succumb

There’s a way to stay awake

III.

Voices merge
Eyes make contact
Common complaints float in midair
You’re just an excuse

We’re waiting for you to remind us
We don’t make any sense
Your timing ideal
Floating above my stare
Cynicism drops like gravity
I’ll get lucky again

Connecting with the world through your headaches
Your words stain the silence with its own nothingness
Your downfall is my bargain, but we’ll never make a deal

(Part Two coming soon. No poetry - I promise)

Untitled Donald Rumsfeld Comic

2005-10-18T06:02:00.000-07:00

The Guards of Time

2005-10-18T05:49:00.000-07:00

[Click Here To See Comic]

A Million Little Pieces: Everyone's a Winner!

2005-10-18T05:47:00.000-07:00

Believe it or not, this has been published online. Read it here, and while you're there, be sure to peruse the rest of the site...

Don, Dicky, & Chucky

2005-10-18T05:40:00.000-07:00

Restless Doomed Mopey Poety Guy

2005-10-18T05:33:00.000-07:00

[Click Here To See Comic]

It Goes Deeper Than a Device

2005-10-18T05:17:00.001-07:00

[Click Here To See Comic]

2005-10-18T05:17:00.000-07:00

The Drone of the Debt-Ridden Losers

2005-10-18T05:01:00.000-07:00

High on the House of Time

2005-10-18T05:00:00.000-07:00

While revelry danced with resolution and renewal, the air was tight with drama around the New York Times office this New Year’s Eve. With the nonstop controversial spotlight shining down on its normally impeccable reputation, this paper was not just “all the news that’s fit to print,” it was the news! Reporter Judith Miller’s corrupt martyr clause in her contract apparently didn’t satisfy the fix for sensation; the paper had to go out with a bang this year and suddenly publish a one-year-old story revealing the Bush Administration’s secret illegal National Security Agency domestic surveillance effort to catch terrorists.

(bear with me; this is not a mundane political tirade, I promise)

Though I wasn’t surprised about the spying, I was a bit shocked and intrigued that the trusty ol’ NYT had let this news rot until right before Congress was set to vote on renewing the Patriot Act. The aftermath backlash has been nothing short of smokin’ with predictable partisan bickering, and the Times was undoubtedly feeling the fire from the suspiciously deliberate timing of this revelation. I’m no terrorist, but if I were, I would imagine that it had to be calmer in the Afghan mountains (or wherever they’re hiding now) than in the editorial department over at the Times this New Year’s Eve.

Something drastic had to be done.

Yes, for the good of the year’s first issue, this distracting tension had to be eased somehow into productive concentration, if not right away, then at least before all the paper’s head honchos were scheduled for their daily shit-talking/editorial-writing seminar. I’m not sure who’s guilty (as they won’t let me in to investigate), but someone or something let loose some mysterious, intoxicating fumes in that office.

Either everyone inhaled the zen of abstract thinking with the zest of a third grader experiencing permanent marker high for the first time, or everybody said fuck it and smoked some really heavy duty government-sanctioned shroom-laced marijuana – not some wilted weeds off the small-time NYU dorm dealer, but the real stuff, the kind that takes your mind, crushes it into a bunch of really obvious truths, and thinks about the world in absolute awestruck take-nothing-for-granted glory.

In case you haven’t been there before, take a vicarious journey through the perspective of this trippy piece of prose known as “The House of Time.” And if you’re already high, let this time as a house reality sink in and take you for an awesome mind cruise. Then maybe, if you feel up to it, you can hit the bong again and treat yourself to another tour or two.

Anyway, here is my play-by-play of “The House of Time”:

Editorial
The House of Time
Published: January 1, 2006

Even in a good year, it can seem sometimes as though our days are numbers on a string - week after week, month after month passing in a straight chronological line through our allotted age.

I’m not exactly sure why, but right now I’m confronted with the ideal moment to exploit the unexpected humor of something that wasn’t meant for hilarity, making fun of it subtly, swiftly, and without mercy. I am not a comedienne by any amazing stretch of the word, but when I read the sentence above (go ahead, read it again), I get an urge to try to be funny. This never happens to me, so for a moment I started frantically searching my soul for reasons why I found this so amusing.

But then I had to give that up in favor of (read it again) wondering aloud, in all seriousness, the exact same thing I wondered when I first read it: what the fuck?? I mean, seriously. One moment I’m scanning an editorial of hard-hitting political relevance, the next I’m thinking about the universal nuances of life, wishing I were on top of a cliff, in space, or someplace else that induces hyper-contemplation. I know I’ve already mentioned my theory that the pipe was passed, but the mystic in me is thinking there’s something bigger, some sort of spectral apocalyptic warning screaming out from the words of this editorial to anyone who will listen.

(beginning: side note/hallucination)

Just imagining my days like “numbers on a string” has me creating a fantastic memory on Sesame Street. Big Bird is upstairs, his fluffy yellow mug poking out the window, surrounded by those familiar auburn bricks. It occurs to me for a second to wonder how a bird that goddamn big can fit in one of those tiny tenement apartments, but I bypass everything illogical about this scenario in favor of watching Bert and Ernie help B-squared string my days on a clothesline.

You can feel the eyes of a little dark-haired girl watching this drama unfold. She’s me at five years old, sitting cross-legged on a big dark green chair in front of the trusty old basement television. She’s witnessing scenes from her future self at 26 float by down the string while the Bird continues adding more, fastening them on with permanent wooden clothespins. She chants along with Big Bird and the gang, wondering whose life she’s counting down. At this moment I know my days are numbered but they’ve also just begun.

“Sorry,” I suddenly tell myself at age five. “I don’t know where that came from. You’re entitled to dream about what you’ll be doing at age 26. Hopefully your imagination is way better than what will eventually become a reality.”

Then I reach out through the TV screen and pat my freaked out five-year-old self on the head, jump onto the set, and rip all my days off the string. They hit the concrete sidewalk, where they’re eventually tossed in the garbage can with Oscar the Grouch. Big Bird is appalled. He doesn’t really understand, but then, he always was pretty clueless. He’s not really well-equipped to handle the days of my life with his “wings” anyway, as he doesn’t even know how to fly. I’m better off with Oscar.

(end: side note hallucination)

Anyway, before I continue, a small word about me and editorials: I usually don’t get past the first line of most of them because it says what they’re about right off the bat and there is usually no need to read any further. Editorials like “Global Warming is a Big Fucking Problem So Deal With It, Asshole Pussy President” will not be read by me because it would be a waste of my time, and furthermore, journalism has become so yellow and opinionated, we may as well just all make ourselves heard.

A safe estimate would count perhaps a couple dozen thousand personal accounts of the President’s handling (or according to some, lack thereof) of the world’s response to global warming. Choosing which opinion to read (and adopt) is a bit like choosing your friends; there are varying elements of your own ego and self-respect to consider.

Editorials differ from most hack opinion pieces because they’re written by the big cats (publishers, editors) that determine the news for us, so they’re strapped with a subtle combination of collective agenda and manipulative oversight. Since these individuals have enough clout to decide which stories get published now or a year later, why should they have any influential sway over my opinion on [blank] issue as well?

I skim the editorials out of habitual curiosity, but rarely do I pay them much attention. Well, at least not as much attention as I’ve paid this rare, complex editorial with a nice, creepy title like “The House of Time.” After all, who can blame me? What other editorials can boast such a kickass kickoff sentence that talks about my life measured in quantified terms, like a bunch of clothes on a clothesline inching further and further into the mortal abyss (and away from Big Bird)?

Not surprisingly, I became hooked, and this kind of hook never lets go. I found myself grappled with confusion that won’t stop grappling until I’ve figured it all out. The existential questions were pouring out of my heightened and enlightened psyche. I had to read on to find the answers.

At times like that it feels as though we were living by the calendar astronomers sometimes use, by which today is the Julian day 2453737. To envision today as 2453737 instead of Jan. 1, 2006, is to grasp immediately how welcoming, how comforting the cyclical nature of our lives really is.

Like any average stupid person in America with a really smart computer, I had to enter “Julian calendar astronomers” into a search engine on the Internet to fully grasp this sentence. Maybe I am ignorant, but I couldn’t feel adequately “welcomed” until I could envision today as 2453737. But now I can – plus, I learned something valuable about Ancient Roman history that did not involve orgies and phallic-symbols-as-architecture.

A (really) quick rundown, because just writing Julian calendar is making me feel bored and reminding me of the fact that I didn’t know what it was five minutes ago: “invented” by Julius Caesar about 45 years before Jesus broke out on the scene, the Julian calendar established fixed years of 365 ¼ days a year and…actually, unless you’re a hardcore calendar scholar, just check out this page if you really want to “grasp immediately how welcoming, how comforting the cyclical nature of our lives really is” (and no, it has nothing to do with whether you’ve accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior, and it has everything to do with Brutus. While Caesar had no idea that some idealistic Jewish cult leader would redefine the numerical year for days and days to come, more importantly, he had no idea his most trusted aide would murder him, effectively killing his impact on the house of time as well. Shakespeare understood this, which is maybe why he didn’t write any plays about the murder of Christ).

Our house of time is a circular one, full of familiar landmarks that we commemorate year after year as they come in sight again.

House of time. Circular. World round. Years. Familiar landmarks…Eiffel Tower? Pyramids? World Trade – oh shit, sorry…but actually, (tirade alert) I would argue that the World Trade Center is still a familiar landmark, because even though it’s gone, we keep coming back to it as if it still was there. Its absence has become more important than its presence. Fear of terrorists have filled the void where the World Trade Center used to be, and then there’s the lingering threat that the society of ownership will go down in flames of corruption if those in power continue to exploit the populace for their selfish profit. Sorry Mr. President, but that’s the truth stripped bare of religious ties. Actually, no, I’m not sorry, but you should be. By the way, nice public opinion polls. Try and come back from this deficit, dickface.

It is always surprising how refreshing it is to come upon New Year, how vital the idea of starting over always is. Of course there is no starting over, not really.

Well, what is it then? Are we starting over, or aren’t we? Make up your mind.

By the way, the first sentence was structured by an eighth grader who had just flunked his first big grammar/punctuation test. Any self-respecting grammar snob would tell you that there are several errors that should not have made it into a major media publication like the Times.

But the promise of the new year is not merely a metaphor or a delusion.

Examples of the promise of the new year as a metaphor:

1) Freshly washed sheets.

2) A brand-new roll of toilet paper.

3) re-virgination

Examples of the promise of a new year as a delusion:

1) I am so fucking hung over and have no recollection of what I did last night, so as of today, I am going to stop drinking.

2) This year I am going to stop believing in love/relationships. This year no assholes will “break my heart” (what the hell does that mean, anyway?). Coupledom is a profitable industry and an instrument of social control. I am above it all.

3) This year I am going to work hard for what I want and become the picture of success. And you know who takes/draws these pictures of success? I do.

Okay, so if the promise of a new year is not merely a metaphor or delusion, then what is it…exactly? Well…

We are creatures bound by our habitation on this planet to live by the inevitable circularities of light and season, no matter how abstracted or urbane our lives have become. And we are no less habituated to the cycles of promise and renewal. To live without a sense of promise is barely to live at all.

Wow. When I read this paragraph, two things come to mind.

1) To answer my question from before: essentially, according to this editorial, the promise of a new year is not merely a metaphor or delusion. It is…life itself.

2) In case you didn’t already notice, this shit is deep and bursting with enlightenment. If one were inclined to make a quick and abundant buck off the anxious-to-believe new age sect, it is quite possible to organize a religion around the basic ideas of “The House of Time,” otherwise known as the Gospel of Editorials.

Okay, now for the home stretch (for added effect to the climax, imagine Morgan Freeman narrating).

There is some strange genius in New Year. The turning of the calendar does nothing to cauterize the past. But here in the dead of winter - with most of winter well in front of us - New Year comes as a reminder of how much regeneration lies ahead. The sun will roll northward again, and the soil will warm, and whether we care to know it or not, the earth will do its best to rejuvenate itself. It may seem odd to think of this day as the token of all that. Today may feel like a momentary pause in the flow of our lives, a time to take stock. But tomorrow will be 2453738, and off we will go again.

Yes, Morgan, off we will go again, inhaling another swift, potent hit, and with it, just another day as a token of earth’s self-rejuvenation. Happy fucking New Year, you mysterious authors of “The House of Time” editorial, whoever you are, whatever you were on. If I still had my champagne, I would toast you. I don’t know where this editorial came from, but all the same, it rules. Maybe you guys do this every year. Maybe it was just a freak occurrence. I may be the only one who finds this um, slightly out of character, but I also find it strangely satisfying and profoundly eerie. Whenever I get stoned, I always worry that I am thinking the most nonsensically stoned things ever, but now I know that it’s not just paranoia; the New York Times does it, too, and that comforts me, just as sure as the cyclical nature of our lives and knowing that much regeneration lies ahead.

In War and Hurricane

2005-10-18T02:37:00.000-07:00

Advertising, Products, and Propaganda

2005-10-18T02:10:00.000-07:00

"There is a great deal of advertising that is much better than the product. When that happens, all that the good advertising will do is put you out of business faster. "

-Jerry Della Femina

I found this quote on some smart-quotes website, supposedly a haven for words of wisdom.

I found this quote because I did a search on advertising guru Jerry Della Femina, the man who said it, although I did not yet know he’d said it when I entered his name into the search engine.

I found this quote because the same advertising guru Jerry Della Femina was enlisted to help some suspect propaganda outfit called The Lincoln Group spend a $5 million Pentagon incentive to infect the Iraqi consciousness with pro-War, pro-Military messages.

I found this quote because this morning I decided to read a New York Times article titled “Quick Rise for Purveyors of Propaganda in Iraq” and I wondered who was behind this paradoxical freedom of speech in Iraq.

I found this quote because there is a great deal of advertising that is much better than the product, and when that happens, all that the good advertising will do is put you out of business faster.

I found this quote to be true.

About This Blog - Dear Editor Edition

2005-10-18T01:07:00.000-07:00

Dear Editor:

Before I submit my work to your highly reputable publication, I've got a confession to make. I've never been terribly adept at pimping my writing abilities, pitching my stories, making all the right connections, etc. Firstly, my writing abilities have never been much for prostitution, as no one gets off (in a purely capitalistic sense) in exchange for a fixed, contractual contribution to my cause. After all, I have no cause. I'm a self-employed whore with sex to sell but no clue how to sell it. Actually, scratch that; I'm not self-employed, nor am I a whore (that was just some wishful thinking to shock you to attention). According to my tax returns, I push paper for a major media conglomerate. In financial terms, my writing abilities have been useless to me, unless you count the fact that they helped me get through college with a respectable GPA, thus qualifying me for most paper-pusher jobs regardless of whether I actually absorbed any knowledge. (now where was I?) Secondly, I tend to ramble too much and often lose the point I was trying to make. There is no Lost and Found box for disorganized, irresponsible writers - only polite rejection letters. You know this because you write the rejection letters, and I know this because I am still looking for that Lost and Found box.

I don't even know why I'm writing to you. You probably won't read into what transpires within the time I'm taking to write this. Your electronics-immersed, blackberry-inhaling attention span can't handle it, and these days, attention spans are no longer spans but minute blips, and yours is likely no grand exception, given the daily clamoring of hopeful-aspiring-writer words putting the memory capacity of your computer into almost fatal overconsumption. I feel like I'm the Gladwellian tipping point, the straw that broke the camel's back (by the way, I first heard that metaphor in sixth grade while reading Tom Sawyer - it was tacked on the tail end of a lengthy string of misfortunes for the title character, and it has remained one of my favorites for its dramatic anotomical implications on an ancient, humpy, smelly animal that spits [and according to Cheney, has probably, at some time or another, cooperated with terrorists]). Who knows? I may be the one, final hit that will black out your editorial capabilities once and for all, causing you wonder why you became an editor in the first place - surely not because you wanted to edit, arranging copy and fixing mistakes before words let loose all over the world, disseminated into different languages, hitting perspectives as they stuggle to formulate under such immeasurable factors as theo-cultural pressure and imminent class warfare, inducing individuals to impulsively react to the globalized words they ingest, the ripple coming back to haunt your dreams of becoming a writer, so you think maybe you want to be that ripple someday, but then you wake up in the morning once again and you stare at these words written by these other writers, these words that could be yours if you could just bring yourself to the keyboard to type it out, this giant cosmopolitan genius within you, waiting to burst...brilliant, hilarious, insightful, exciting...

Anyway, enough about your untapped potential. This is my website, or blog, or whatever the new catch phrase is these days. Most of this shit was written back when it was a conventional blog (ie. I posted every other day; the posts had dates, times, and comments ranging from hate mail to requests for sexual favors; I actually had frequent visitors, most of whom have since moved on to bigger and better blogs), but I've written more since then, and I will continue to write more. Some sick combination of intelligent design and evolution has caused me to remain frequently alone in this room at the computer and not out causing trouble; I have no control over this - believe me, I'd love to be out at the club dominating the dance floor or playing the guitar/lead vocal role for the hottest rock band in Los Angeles, but something is keeping me here, right now, and I have no idea what it is. Call it intuiton or fate, but I just call it the way it is...every new moment calling for thoughts spilling incoherently out of my rusty nerves, the glorified expectation and the disappointed cynic coming together to make some excuse for me to make it all permanent somehow, regardless of whether I'll feel the same way tomorrow. So fuck you with your editing and your pitches and your target audience and marketing scheme and your Hollywood ending. What's hot, what's not. How to lose weight. How to fall in love. Weapons of mass destruction. Lies of manipulative seduction. Manufactured, sensational success is irrelevant when you can recognize and take advantage of the moment. Own it in a way that can't be bought, sold, valued, or corrupted. Love it with all your heart even though it's fundamentally flawed, socially paranoid, and reluctantly isolated. It's mad out there, a misunderstood sea of confusion, and there is no better time than right now to dive in and start swimming against the current.

In summation, I sincerely thank you for considering my submission for publication. Feel free to email me at the address in my profile if you have any questions.

Respectfully,
Delia True

Late Registration, Indeed

2005-10-18T01:02:00.000-07:00

Shall we set the scene? Anybody hear about this?

Can I get a “hell, yeah”? No? Well, at least allow me to explore why this statement is more than it seems through my you-can-see-the-brown-marker-lines drawing. What he’s saying here is much more than an impulsive outburst. Its repercussions should be felt far beyond the Jackson-Timberlake malfunction, not quite Public Enemy but approaching a tasteful John Lennon flavor. But even “we’re bigger than Jesus” pales in comparison to this, because it’s not about the message, people; it’s about the messenger. Hell, I could say that on TV. Reverend Al Sharpton could even say it, pulpit voice loud and booming, shaking every stone-age set of rabbit ears into distortion. But Al and I didn’t say it, and the cultural identity of the guy who did say it makes all the difference in the world.

Until recently, the post-racism, the post-homophobe, the post-sexism effects have all been melting down into a great big ignorant, indifferent pot of diversity. From the PC to the FCC, the answers are no longer as sure of themselves as right and wrong. With that said, now is the perfect time to explore some good old fashioned poverty-influenced race issues, right in tune with the most prolific and influential hip-hop artist today and his public reaction to the most catastrophic natural disaster to hit the shores of American history. There's no time like the present to put race relations back on the front burner, because after this hurricane, they are boiling over.

I know what you’re thinking: “U Can’t Touch This!” Well please, Hammer, I don’t mean to hurt ‘em. I never mean to hurt anyone with my tactless flow, but it’s out there anyway. First and foremost, beyond any ulterior motives Kanye West might have harbored in his statement, beyond the fact that I’m just a straight-up 20-something mid-lower middle (or somewhere in there) class Los Anglo girl trying to address rap and racism, the issues at hand here are passionate activism and censorship. As sure as President Bush doesn’t care about black people, I care about passionate activism and censorship. Through my eyes, these issues are color blind.

Kayne was in the midst of lending his talents to a live, televised broadcast of an all-star benefit concert to help the victims of Hurricane Katrina when he opened his mouth and went off-roading from the bland NBC-approved script. In addition to the President Bush remark, he also voiced what had become a common concern about the controversial media slants on black and white hurricane survivors. Interestingly enough, NBC cut only the Bush comment for West Coast broadcast, a move I find particularly suspect, but not too suspect, given the Administration’s close ties with General Electric, the NBC-owning, generous Bush campaign-contributing tour de force in Congressional lobbying power.

If you think about the politics of censorship, Kanye could have said anything, say, something like, “Jay-Z sucks balls” and he might not have been censored, but the Bush critique doesn’t fly as high as Janet’s shirt. The lesson here is “Don’t Mess with the President,” or more adequately, “Don’t Let Powerful, Influential Black Artists Mess with the President,” but I don’t think anyone learned anything except that they need to be even more vocal against the powers that be and continue pushing the limits of censorship to see what breaks. Although I acknowledge the network’s ownership and its right to cut anything it deems inappropriate for its viewers, NBC’s justification for censorship in this case was pretty weak and only succeeded in drawing unwanted attention to itself:

“[the benefit] was a live television event wrought with emotion," said NBC spokeswoman Rebecca Marks. "Kanye West departed from the scripted comments that were prepared for him and in no way represents the views of the networks. It would be most unfortunate if the efforts of the artists who participated and the millions of Americans who are helping those in need are overshadowed by one person's personal opinion."

Now, I didn’t have the benefit of experiencing this benefit with my own eyes, but something tells me the most “wrought with emotion” moment happened when West’s emotions overrode the teleprompter and he said, "We already realized a lot of the people that could help are at war right now, fighting another way, and they've given them permission to go down and shoot us.” The chills were so freezing; they cascaded down all kinds of spines as this truth-based outburst resonated far beyond the censors. And you know what the propagandists always say: when the truth is censored, it becomes even more powerful.

Unlike any other celebrity protest, whether it be silent (Marlon Brando’s Godfatherly replacement acceptance of his Academy Award) or way vocal (Sinead O’Connor’s totally unfunny photo rip of the Pope on SNL), West’s comments will be taken seriously, because like it or not, they are timely and politically relevant. You’ve got to say, “hell, yeah” to yourself with no inner shame or embarrasment, because if this inspirational, raging egomaniac hip-hop artist, who walks with Jesus, Nas, and Jon Brion without breaking character, can’t make you impulsively say, “hell, yeah” or even “fuck, yeah," man, sadly, I don’t know who can.

Truth is, I hope everyone listens to what Kanye West has said, especially black people, because if we're talking about President Bush, we’re talking about the same man who paid the NAACP a half-ass visit right before the 2004 election to basically say, “I’m asking for your vote.” For my two-cent vote, I don’t agree that "President Bush doesn’t care about black people"; in fact, it’s more widespread than that. The real issue here? President Bush doesn’t care about poor people. However, since Kanye West was referring to the poor people of New Orleans, the majority of whom are black, he’s right on the money, and the fact that he was speaking from the heart makes it so much more profitable.

But regardless of how his political activist career works out, he’s about to make serious bank with his new album. On the strength of masterpiece-level reviews, the guest-star-sprinkled Late Registration is set to take the number one spot on the Billboards this week, no contest. In light of recent events, the same conservative Christian kids who boycotted the Dixie Chicks yet got off on “Jesus Walks” may decide to shun this record. But if you think about it, if he was alive today, Jesus would be down there in the flood right now with those poor victims, so if that's too hot for Robertson's kids, they should probably just stay away. Even though Late Registration is rife with politics and a couple more shout-outs to Bush, it’s surprisingly passionate, enough to win over the cynics.

Since I’m ramblingly arriving at the Late Registration a bit late in the game, not a moment too soon, I’ll just highlight a couple of my observations thus far. It’s funny; “Diamonds of Sierra Leone” and “Gone” are the very same two songs that Rob Sheffield grouped under the “weird” descriptor in his five-star (five stars? Come on, man, that’s classic) Rolling Stone review:

1. “Touch the Sky” – Badly utilized Curtis Mayfield sample aside, Kanye does a terrible P. Diddy (or “Diddy” for those who did not receive his name-change announcement) impersonation (didn’t think it was possible) in the chorus. “Gotta testify, come up in the spot lookin’ extra fly, from the day I die, gonna touch the sky!” From the day I die, this just kills the song.

2. “Diamonds of Sierra Leone” – At first you’re rolling your eyes at the James Bond “Diamonds Are Forever” chorus echoing in excess. “I don’t care if Jay-Z is guesting on this one,” you think, “this is too over-the-top.” Wrong. This is the actually the most politically active song of the bunch, with Kayne racking his conscience about the diamond trade in Sierra Leone and its connection to rappers’ status symbol of choice: “Over here, its a drug trade, we die from drugs; Over there, they die from what we buy from drugs; the diamonds, the chains, the bracelets, the charmses; I thought my Jesus Piece was so harmless; 'til I seen a picture of a shorty armless.” When Jay-Z says his piece, it’s a strong argument in defense of his right as a capitalist: “I’m not a businessman, I’m a business, man. Let me do my business, damn.” When the song ends a little too abruptly, you know it's a conversation that might well continue on.

3. “Crack Music” – This fascinating look inside the crack epidemic gets really high when Kayne turns the conversation to the purity of hip-hop: “Sometimes I feel the music is the only medicine; so we cook it, cut it, measure it, bag it, sell it; the fiends cop it; nowadays they cant tell if that's that good shit; we ain't sure man; put the CD on your tongue yeah, that’s pure man.”

3. “Gone” - This has been such a favorite that it’s gained repeat status. I guess “Gone” alone can have Sheffield's five-star rating. Although I'm resistant to supporting the sample-sploitation of legendary soul musicians, here Otis Redding (my favorite), is not hung out to dry; quite the contrary, his spirit is evoked beautifully, belting out broken phrases from “It’s Too Late,” hovering over the song, supernatural yet ever-present over a choppy repetitive piano as the beat kicks in and Jon Brion’s delicately placed string arrangements accentuate the guest rappers, Consequence and Cam'Ron. Now, just left to these elements, this song would be strong, but it turns a corner into the strangely profound when, at the 3:33 mark, the instrumentation veers off the beaten path, into an ominous kind of pause where even Otis won’t follow. Kanye stutters like Jay-Z as he bursts into this drastically changed scene with some of the most intriguing self-analysis on the album: “I'm ahead of my time, sometimes years out; so the powers that be won't let me get my ideas out.”

And as Kanye West continues on about his success vs. inspiration quandary, the orchestration swelling with urgency behind him as "Gone" comes to a vanishing conclusion, his egotism becomes just another tool he can use to his advantage. For someone who’s seemingly got the whole music business at his fingertips – talented guest rappers, the best producers, Billboard, the critical establishment – Kayne West sure made a bold move on NBC. Besides overconfident, his voice is also powerful, loud, successful, and refreshingly socially conscious. Let’s hope people are listening to more than just Late Registration and notice the eerie similarity of his album title to the Bush Administration’s response to the Hurricane Katrina disaster. Can I get a "hell, yeah"? No? Didn't think so.

The Black Void: Jeff Tweedy Live in San Diego – 2/11/06 - Part Two

2005-10-18T00:40:00.000-07:00

Okay. Alright. So where was I on Part One? Lame poetry? Great - I start in on Part Two a full two weeks after the concert, my memory totally shot, and where did I leave off in Part One? Only with the most thoughtless poetry I have ever written on four hours of drunken, fitful sleep. Wow, am I disappointed in myself…Tweedy definitely deserves a better review. He gave me a phenomenal show from the bleediest of nosebleed sections, and I respond with the lame italic poetry I wrote to pass the time before the show even started. Seriously, I should have all my Wilco albums revoked for that.

But enough self-indictment. Allow me to backtrack a bit, all the way to January (by the way, the chances of this post becoming a credible, publishable concert review [as was originally intended] have evaporated, thus freeing me up to ramble incoherently, effectively turning this into a very personal account of a very public concert…thank you for your understanding). Or was it December? That was when I originally heard Tweedy was solo touring through Southern California. After trying unsuccessfully to score tickets to the LA shows (two nights) at the Henry Fonda Theatre, I looked south to San Diego for hope.

It would be difficult to convince any of my fair-weather Tweedy fan friends to make the trek, I surmised, so I decided not to bother asking anyone in favor of just going solo. As I put my credit card through the soul-crushing torment of Ticketmaster’s $12.00 processing charge, I noted that this would be my first loner concert experience since my incredibly lucky second-row view of the Smashing Pumpkins back in 1996. I wondered, perhaps a little aprehensively, feeling vulnerable in anticipation of being alone in a big theatre of snobby hipster / surfer strangers… Who would I talk to before and after the show? Who would I make eye contact with as Tweedy launches into “Airline to Heaven” and my brown peepers well up with shameless tears of joy as I secretly toast the legend of Woody Guthrie?

Then I remembered that, for the most part, I’ve been spoiled by a great tradition of live rock and roll companionship. Most of the great concerts I’ve experienced in the past fifteen years have had strong buddy associations – dating all the way back to my soccer teammate Bree at Paula Abdul/Color Me Badd (if that can be considered a great live rock and roll concert…umm, okay, let’s just pretend here) in sixth grade. What would I do, left to my own lonely devices, witnessing Tweedy’s songs, which have become mysteriously sentimental to me in the past year? There was no telling what sorts of outward emotions would come pouring out. With no one reayd on the receiving end, would I be forced to keep it all bottled inside?

Fortunately, the closer the days elapsed to February 11, the better I felt about my choice to go by myself. After all, outside of the concert world, I do a lot of things by myself. The social pressure of such loser labels frequently associated with loners does not faze me. In fact, the very same social pressure that hounded me back in high school can just kiss my ass because I have grown up to become a proud loner who happens to have a lot of close friends as well – I like it both ways: independence and dependence, and most of my friends do, too. So I prepared to hit up the elusive city of San Diego, where I know a total of three people (none of whom I know very well), and get my Tweedy nosebleed experience, merging my solo, single self into a theatre packed with couples intent on celebrating Valentine’s Day a few days early.

A bit more backstory (because you know you want it): the events leading up to the Saturday night concert were simply draining. First, as happens a lot these days, Thursday night I got caught up in writing some pointless prose and forgot to check the time until 3:30 a.m., leaving me overcaffeinated but somehow functioning for a long day of office work on Friday, after which I decided, quite appropriately, to go to the neighborhood bar with a couple friends and get bombed on three extremely strong vodka tonics, only to face the 8:15 alarm and a mind-numbing hangover for an all-day Saturday hospice volunteer training, where there was much talk of death, dying, and even more death, with a little terminal illness spirituality dynamics thrown in for good preparatory measure.

Immediately after my training, which ended at 5:30, I got in my car and started towards the freeway onramp (from the Wilshire center of Los Angeles, this is easily five miles away, with a long stoplight every ½ mile), at which point I realized that in my hungover haze, I’d forgotten to pack directions to the Spreckels Theatre, the Tweedy concert venue. So I called home for help with Internet mapping. After all the hospice discussion of death and dying, the last person I wanted to talk to was my cancer patient mom, as I was feeling especially morbid and didn’t want it to rub off on her and downturn her spirits a month before her tumor extraction surgery. But as usual, she was glad to help me out, gave excellent directions, and didn’t seem to notice my bummer mood (at least I don’t think she did, but she does have that maternal telepathy connection power over me, so there’s no telling).

By the time I got on the freeway and endured about 45 minutes of inexplicably random Orange County traffic (we went 82 mph. on average, and suddenly, without warning or explanation, down to 25), it was 7:00. The show started at 8:00, and I was easily 90 minutes away. As the hangover had drained most of my energy, I was running out of fumes the whole way down the I-5. I smoked cigarettes to stay awake, something that worked wonders for college road trips (when I actually used to smoke) but in this instance just made me feel very glad that I’ve quit (for the most part).

By the time I arrived at the Spreckels Theatre, I resembled a shaky, cracked out version of myself at 21, fresh off an all-nighter churning out a dense 12-page paper on post-structuralism theory, ready for the kind of nap where you fear your eyes will close forever (enter lame poetry here), but luckily, the lights turned down and Jeff Tweedy took the stage just before my lids hit rock bottom. Just seeing him down there, strumming his guitar, singing “Sunken Treasure,” made me completely forget about the chain of events that had brought me to a live concert featuring one of my favorite songwriters of all time. Logically, with no sleep, energy, or sanity, I should have conked out right when the lights dimmed, never to wake up until the ushers made the final rounds after the show. The fact that I suddenly willed myself wide awake for the duration of the show (and even more strangely, until 6:30 the next morning), still defies explanation. Did Tweedy bring me back to life through the power of rock and roll? Believers say yes, cynics say no, and I’m stuck somewhere between believer and cynic, so I’ll just say it’s possible. Yes, possible.

Getting back to being alone at the show - I’m not sure I would have wanted anyone there with me, at least not anyone I knew personally. Why? Well, it was an incredibly intimate show, even from my nosebleed balcony seat. I can’t do a play-by-play, as it was dark and obviously, my brain was not operating normally at the time, but certain memories rise to the surface of my internal hard drive, where they will be stored until I am very old, when I’m jamming with my acoustic in the nursing home, leading a sing-a-long of “Heavy Metal Drummer,” which was performed with groovy precision in the encore, accompanied by Glenn Kotche, Wilco’s percussionist. In addition to “Heavy Metal Drummer,” my favorite songs of the evening were (of course) “Sunken Treasure,” “Airline to Heaven” (sure enough, I pretty much shed internal tears of joy when my ears first detected the opening chords), “I Am Trying to Break Your Heart,” and “Shot in the Arm.” At first I felt a little disappointed that he didn’t play “Company in My Back,” but now I’m glad because I'm pretty sure I would have just lost it.

Favorites aside, one overarching theme permeated throughout the performance, blanketing it with the kind of feeling that stays with you like an old crush with a timeless, intoxicating aura. It stemmed from the humorous, self-depreciating between-song conversations that Tweedy conducted with us, attempting to connect to the best of his ability. At one point he remarked that he couldn’t see anyone in the theatre, just a black void in front of him…shouting song requests…echos ranging from “you rock” to “you suck.” He explained this phenomenon as “exactly what happens when I’m talking to myself.” Like everyone around me, I laughed when he said this, but at the same time I marveled that the self-reflexive intimate interaction he’d achieved with this black void was the same sort of universal intimacy he’d built with many of his fans, myself included, on such ambitious, lyrically revealing albums as Yankee Hotel Foxtrot.

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, the final two songs of the night lulled me away from the tired, burnt-out realities of my inner cynic, leaving me with the strangely attractive longing to fulfill the stimulant of the next instant. The delicate lullaby “California Stars” and its soft closing refrain, “So I'd give this world / Just to dream a dream with you / On our bed of California stars” seemed to be hinting at my own impending slumber, but no amount of foreshadowing could prepare me for the moment Tweedy stepped away from the mic and moved closer to the edge of the stage, launching into “Acuff-Rose” without the amplification support of the PA system. His voice resounded all over the black void, naked and simple, singing:

Early in the morning, sometimes late at night
Sometimes I get the feeling that everything's alright
Early in the evening, sometimes in the day
Sometimes I get the feeling everything's okay

As I stepped out into the chilly potential of what remained of my stay in San Diego, I had no idea what to expect, and above all else, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming feeling that, well, everything was okay…yeah, believe it or not, sometimes I get that feeling.

Advancement Though Life

2005-10-18T00:00:00.000-07:00

It’s time to come face to face with that scary word. Career. Careers freak me out. Just think about the most common definition of the word.

career: (1) one’s advancement through life, esp. profession.

I don’t know about you, but I have no desire to advance through life, because that implies a means to an end. When you choose or settle on a career, it turns around and consumes you. So answer me this riddle: if your career is your advancement through life, but then your career eats you for breakfast every morning, where does that leave your life?

I grew up watching my parents come home from work so relieved to be out of the daily grind that even the endless obligations of parenting seemed like vacation. Two of my post-college jobs have been with career-centric companies, where everyone on the bottom rung is always thinking higher and willing to do anything and everything to get there. Since both were in the entertainment industry, the kissing to ass ratio was off the charts, without a whole lot of love. I don’t know whether it was the freaky idea of career finality or the overtime overachieving industry norm, but I became a notorious careless underachiever at both jobs because (1) after I had learned everything there was to learn, I didn’t really care anymore and (2) there is an art to doing the expected amount of work in the least amount of time, and perfecting that art was way more interesting to me than a promotion (3) (It may also be noted that I was fired from both of these jobs).

Well, the time has come to say goodbye to my notorious careless underachieving ways, say hello to Delia the Librarian, and meet what will eventually become, technically speaking, my career, my advancement through life, the inevitable big fade into finality. But unlike the potential professions that have slapped me around ever since I was a little kid, the one I’ve chosen gives me no excuse to digress to careless underachieving. In fact, I don’t even consider it to be a career at all.

I think I first realized this my junior year of college, when I was caught in the usual one-track research trance, hunched over furious note taking on the third floor of the library, my headphones blasting nonsense house music into my ears. Suddenly, I stopped in dead sentence and looked up, looked around. Books. Words. Ideas. Above and below. Beyond the library. It wasn’t a moment of clarity but a comforting moment of confusion. I was struck by how much I don’t know and how much I have the potential to know with each moment that passes.

To me, becoming a librarian is the antithesis of a career because instead of advancing through life, I’ll be utilizing my own potential to know while helping everybody from retired spelling bee champs to retired sailors find whatever it is they want to know. It may be strangely geeky, but I’m looking forward to finding out.

Self-critical editorial time…that last sentence is such a conclusion cop-out. “I’m looking forward to finding out.” What is the point of even saying that? And I don’t know why I’m getting all over-giddy about libraries…their impact on society is not always positive, but the consequent interplay with the freedom of speech is what makes them so fascinating to me. One time I was watching a bio on John Lennon’s murderer on TV, and apparently, he spent a lot of time in the library being all delusional obsessed with the Beatles, honing in on poor John. You don’t need to hang out in a library (at least one in a city) very long before you see some real outliers (conventionally speaking = crazies, maniacs) who apparently sleep in the chair around the corner and lose themselves in books. I always wonder…what are they reading and why?

I saw some hardcore intellectual zealots today when I visited the rare book and manuscript division of the Huntington Library. While this area is closed off to the general public (might I recommend the botanical gardens, lovely this time of year), a young simpleton like me was lucky enough to get in for a tour given by a woman named Mary Robinson. Just watching Mary talk was a thrill. As she rambled on and on about the Fifth Quattro of Hamlet and earthquake precautions and old Huntington’s vision of Southern California, as she happened upon random tangents like gold mines every step of the way, I stood there, actively listening but passively in utter awe of the sheer size of her brain. I tend to tune out condescending know-it-alls, so-called experts, and ignorant people, but Mary wasn’t that way at all. She was truly, unapologetically passionate. She wanted us to know everything that she knows. That woman’s brain is a limitless library unto itself, and not only does she know where to find everything, but she’s also aware that, like everything else, her mind is always open and changing.

Good old Mary didn’t show us any rare manuscripts (and to think I had my hopes up for the Dead Sea Scrolls), but we got to see the scholars delicately flipping the pages, their eyes deftly scanning. I could see their brains expanding, running out of memory, saving repeatedly, replacing hard drives, every once in awhile doing something human like coughing or scratching their heads. I was scratching my head just observing their behavior from behind the glass, as if they were zoo animals. This was learning addiction at its most extreme. Examples of the resident study topics Mary mentioned were “the development of civil engineering during the industrial revolution” and “Gender, Race and Music in the settlement of Southern California,” explored within truckloads of material, all day, every day.

So I thought about it. Career overdrive on one hand, strict intellectual regimen on the other. If you concentrate on one or the other, you’ll miss out. World news. Books to read. Music to hear. Movies to see. Places to go. People to care about. Conversations to continue into the twilight. And if I miss out, my advancement through life will be empty and boring, no matter how much money I make or how much information I accumulate. I now come full circle to the beginning. Careers freak me out because they assume you know exactly where you’re going, advance to the top of the heap—good money, good life. I prefer to look around, find myself and get lost, make mistakes and discoveries, and aspire to a passionate brain that resembles a dilapidated library always open to the public and always under construction.

4/8/05

No Direction Home: Bob Dylan

2005-10-17T20:13:00.000-07:00

“The artist has got to be careful never really to arrive at a place where he thinks he’s at somewhere. You always have to realize that you’re constantly in a state of becoming, you know? And, uh, as long as you stay in that realm, you’ll be alright.”

-Bob Dylan

All the affluent post-hippie baby boomers chillin’ on their porches on the corner of Northampton and Malibu would have you believe that the greatest segments in the recently aired PBS documentary No Direction Home: Bob Dylan showcase the radical spirit of the ‘60s. Those geriatric counterculture “experts” - their voices shaking with nostalgia that hasn’t been stirred since Woodstock ’94 - would attribute cinematic brilliance to the way Dylan’s live rendition of “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall” pours harrowingly down on stock footage of Americans reacting to President Kennedy’s assassination. The Big Chill cast clone club might also tell you that the March on Washington footage, complete with Dylan’s performance in front of the reflecting pool intercut with Dr. King’s “I Have A Dream” speech, really takes them back - not back in time, but back to a state of mind long abandoned in favor of mortgages, Starbucks lines, lawn mowers, and hair loss/graying anxiety. Before dragging their Prozac and New Yorker subscriptions to bed, the typical geezer might score some green from his daughter’s dealer boyfriend down the block, dust off the old Blonde on Blonde vinyl magic, and get righteously stoned before CEOing the daily insurance scam in the morning.

If the above paragraph is slightly ageist in tone and overrun with sardonic yuppie stereotypes, I suppose it’s because I’m feeling a bit disenfranchised by the baby boomer-monopolized critical establishment response to No Direction Home. At less than half the age of Bob Dylan, I seem to be the only under-30 critic offering her perspective on this documentary, and you know what they used to say about trusting anyone over 30. Even though I’ve got nothing but love for my parents’ generation, let’s face it; from the Freedom Summer to Kent State, the ‘60s have always had a chaotic air of mighty, mystified social conscience that trumps the Great Depression and the Dot-Com revolution every time. You baby boomers have always utilized your age bracket for narcissistic retrospective and opportunistic marketing, but as a proud, card-carrying member of Generation Fuck-the-Alphabet, I’m not going to take that route with No Direction Home. In fact, I see this documentary as much more than just a long, strange trip down beatnik memory lane spliced with celluloid rotting on the Forrest Gump cutting floor.

To my counterculture credibility, I’m not only a big Dylan fan, but I also grew up with idealistic ‘60s history lessons pummeled into my Trivial Pursuit arsenal and came of age humming Motown and British Invasion in my sleep. I even remember wishing I could be 21 in the year 1963 instead of 2001, longing to be immersed in the now-antiquated down-with-Jim-Crow sex, drugs, and rock and roll protest era instead of a helpless TV screen-glued bystander of the replayed, redefined Manhattan skyline. But now, looking back, all I’ve really learned from the ‘60s is that political and legislative accomplishments like the Civil Rights Movement seem like vertical uphill battles in today’s socially, economically, and morally ambiguous world. Things are no longer black, white, and tie-dye psychedelic, and assassination attempts are no longer as common.

A mighty hard rain just a-fell down on New Orleans, but trying to persuade President Bush to convertible down Bourbon Street is as unlikely as getting John and Yoko out of bed for the entire year of 1969, not that any popular musicians today would stoop to political protest for fear of immediate record company disassociation. This culture is not counter unless you can count it. This generation is not mine unless I can buy and sell it, and your generation, dear baby boomers, sold out long before it got old, and now it’s about to retire and bankrupt us all.

You see, yuppies, kids like me, my generation, we grew old and jaded a long time ago, with access to the entire world on the Internet before hitting sweet sixteen and wondering if Osama’s Fan Club will be partying on the deck of Flight 666 tomorrow morning. Dylan once sang that “the times they are a-changin,” but before you lay claim to that song’s context, o wise old ones, please know that it doesn’t take a historian to figure out that the times are always a-changin’ as long as the clock’s still a-tickin’.

Instead of communists we have terrorists and identity thieves. Instead of JFK we have Tom Delay. Misfits like Lennon and Dylan were unofficially declared extinct back when Kurt Cobain pulled the trigger. Face it, we don’t have your idealism or the delusion that we have the power to make a difference - at least I don’t. From the depths of youthful cynicism and a crisis only a loaded conscience can afford, I turn to the timelessness of artistic expression for hope in a world run rampant with hurricanes, disease, corruption, and terrorists. Wait - did I say “hope” somewhere in that last sentence? Leave it to words like “hope” to screw up my act. Sigh…and it was working so well.

Speaking of acts, to get back on track to wherever it is I think I’m going, here’s one for the young people. Here’s one for the timelessness of artistic expression. And here’s one for hope…if there still is such a thing in these a-changin’ times. No Direction Home, the narrative of Bob Dylan’s public life from 1961 to 1966, is not just targeted at the young-at-heart hippie or beatnik demographic. More importantly, it aims to bulls-eye today’s old-soul youth who have way more to say than money to spend. If you don’t believe me, just watch the post-documentary interview with its filmmaker, acclaimed Oscar reject Martin Scorsese.

Had I been playing a drinking game, swigging tequila each time old Marty mentioned “young person” or “young people,” I would be too drunk to write this now, and I certainly wouldn’t be wondering why he mentioned us so often. But here I am, sober, wondering, and if you listen close enough, it’s apparent…

“Ultimately, what I think is interesting for any young person [drink] seeing the film is the development of an artist and the choice that he makes, which is a tougher choice, which is to go on your own and to keep seeing if you can pull anything further out of yourself.”

So listen up, y’all young people [and drink again]: my interpretation of this documentary takes most of its cues from the one who called all the shots. Just as my main man Scorsese puts passionate reason into each one of his films, every Scorsese fan has a passionate reason for loving his films. For me, it’s in the auteur’s connection to his protagonist. Whether subtle or strong, compassionate or violent, DeNiro or DiCaprio, there’s always a bond the audience can feel reverberate onscreen. With Dylan, it’s like a rolling stone.

Similar to his last rock and roll film, the 1978 documentary The Last Waltz, No Direction Home needs no narration, only the music and the words of those who were moved by it. If there is spiritual power in the assembly of a fascinating character study from a goldmine of evocative interviews and rare concert performances, Scorsese and his editing team have found it. Through four hours split up into two nights, (which I will refer to as Nights One and Two, a la The Godfather I and II) the Dylan saga attempts to reveal the mystery behind one of most complex performers and influential poets in American history.

As Night One opens, we’re immediately face-to-face with present-day Bob Dylan. Positioned in off-kilter close-up, his graying brown mane consuming the screen, he speaks honestly, his blue eyes occasionally piercing through the camera right at you. Dylan starts off the show by admitting that he had no ambitions in becoming a performer except to go out and “find this home that I’d left awhile back.” As fast as I can think, “What? No ambitions?!” and without missing a beat, time reverts to 1966. A weary, angry, bone-thin, chain-smoking, fuzzy-haired 25-year-old Dylan and his blues band kick into a rousing version of “Like a Rolling Stone” as though revolting against some unknown enemy. The overflowing inner fury of this performance represents the beginning of the end, a reference point to which the film frequently refers as a testament to Dylan’s remarkable artistic resilience.

After quickly mentioning his small town Minnesota origins, Night One fast-forwards through one Robert Zimmerman’s childhood and hits play when he changes his name upon his arrival on the New York folk music scene in 1961. As young Dylan struggles to score an audience and a recording contract, present-day Dylan acknowledges his literary and musical influences. Beat prose voices like Jack Kerouac, folk scenesters like Dave Von Ronk, and left wing crusaders like Woody Guthrie are all credited in the growth of a performer, songwriter, and what came to be the reluctant voice of a generation.

By the end of Night One, it’s 1963, and Dylan’s fame has climbed to the top of the stage at the Newport Folk Festival. His lyrics, filled with unanswered questions and distrust of the status quo, spread through the college student sect as the bona fide progressive gospel. Anyone listening closely to a song like “Talkin’ World War III Blues” is bound to wonder when the next H-bomb will drop. Suddenly and unintentionally, 22-year-old Bob Dylan has attracted a cult-like following as the leader of the impending youth protest movement. Devoted counterculture fans may have memorized what happens next in Night Two, but young people who don’t already know about Dylan’s mystique are in for a real man vs. society treat, and Scorsese delivers.

While Night One was a naive uprising of success, Night Two is a frustrated struggle, reminding us that even a force like Dylan is susceptible to insecurity when confronted by the relentless media circus. Instead of delving into the personal life of a public figure, Night Two aims to expose the public life of personal figure. Dylan’s best songs stand naked with emotional introspection, but his answers to press conference questions are exercises in defensive mocking disregard (Example – Q: “Do you care about what you’re singing?” Dylan [totally pissed]: “How can I answer that if you’ve got the nerve to ask me?”). As his younger self retreats further and further from his hokey “voice of a generation” label, present-day Dylan maintains that he didn’t want to supply such an unreasonable demand. “They were trying to make me an insider to some kinda trip they were on – I don’t think so,” he says deliberately, looking out at anyone who may have been on that trip.

At its core, Night Two is Dylan’s protest against what he’d become, jam-packed with never-before-seen live performances. His ascent from folk messiah to rebel-trying-to-lose-the-cause plays like a bold self-indictment, especially in the chilling solo “It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)” and a rockin’ “Maggie’s Farm” from his notorious plugged-in appearance at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. Dylan’s controversial metamorphosis into an electric guitar-slinging bluesman is met with brutal fan rejection that must be seen to be believed. At the height of Operation Boo Bob, when a British audience member calls him “Judas,” you can’t help but wonder who the Jesus is in this scenario. But at the time, in one of the best comebacks ever, Dylan confronts the taunt by calling the heckler a liar, telling his band to “play it fucking loud,” and launching into the same ferocious version of “Like a Rolling Stone” that opened Night One.

It’s easy to forget (and hard to believe) that amid this racket Bob Dylan wrote and released some of his best and most enduring music, but No Direction Home remembers, providing inside looks at Dylan in the studio from producers and session musicians. From 1963 to 1966, the three-year span depicted in Night Two, such masterpiece albums as Another Side of Bob Dylan, Bringing It All Back Home, and Highway 61 Revisited emerged. Even with the public disappointment swirling around him, Bob Dylan’s private songwriting endeavors produced timeless impressions that still impact us today.

Given that the late great Marvin Gaye claims that God wrote the personal yet political 1970 album What’s Going On through him, No Direction Home leaves me wondering: who ran Bob Dylan’s show? How did songs like “Mr. Tambourine Man” come out of this man’s brain and deep into the consciousness of millions of people? Where did it come from? I may be too young to know for sure, but after watching this documentary, I’ve got a hunch it came from a guy about my age who didn’t really have anything figured out at a time when everyone, both young and old, wanted him to have all the answers. From age 20 in 1961 to age 25 in 1966, Dylan’s life only elapsed five years, but during that time he evolved into a legend. By zooming in on this tumultuous period in America’s past, No Direction Home focuses on a young artist who refused to be categorized, limited, and defined by anyone.

In the quiet, simplistic close of his 1964 song “Restless Farewell,” he sings,

So I'll make my stand
And remain as I am
And bid farewell

and not give a damn.

As it follows the restless identity of its subject into the to-be-continued abyss like an open-ended question, No Direction Home challenges what it means to be an artist today as opposed to the ‘60s. In this post-millennium society dominated by fear, profit, and the quest for acceptance, Bob Dylan’s defiant example seems to have all but died among today’s young artists…or has it? There’s always hope for the unknown as long as the times are a-changin’.

On a line from Herzog

2005-10-17T16:12:00.000-07:00

"Two points therefore: He knew his scribbling, his letter-writing, was ridiculous. It was involuntary. His eccentricities had them in their power."

(from Herzog by Saul Bellow)

Today is but a day in the life in my body.
Today I am like Herzog (not as smart, but twice as confused)
Today we are ridiculous and involuntary.
Today my eccentricities have me in their power.

These powerful eccentricities will create word configurations full of empty, fleeting feeling.
This is what I know for sure.
The rest is up to chance.
Every time we use language we take words for granted.

I'll rearrange these words like magnets on a refridgerator.
They redefine themselves on the edge of completeness
They're at our incompetant, mysterious, impressionable mercy.
They'll never be finished.

They shed every insecurity we wear like an old coat on a confident day.
They evade social paranoia when it's preparing to ask us who we think we are.
They long for an audience when the auditorium's empty and dust forms a thin layer of carelessness on the spotlight.
They hide when all we want is to be found
They laugh in the face of fear.
but if fear had a face and words could laugh, would they find comedy?
If rejection could accept failure would it submit to death?
if hate started loving could the truth trust it?

what else?
if questions had the answers?
if the problem had the solution?
if the leaders had to follow?
if the greed started sharing?
if hunger was delicious?
if the power took some responsibility?
if sickness could heal...

what if
is but a suggestion
but what if
all these meaningful words lost their meanings
the language changed so much our minds couldn't keep up
there is an expiration date and it is approaching
Your formula contains constants constantly evolving

looking inward I find nothing
isolated suspended
at the mercy of ridiculous and involuntary powerful eccentricities

Deep down, we don't want the company.
We can't break the habit as it turns to addiction
overindulgent negligence
reluctance to move past the self
the strength to open the will to others
so open to others I will

**

Toupes & Boobs

2005-10-17T06:26:00.000-07:00

[Click Here To See Comic]

The States of Red and Blue: United by Division

2005-10-16T23:27:00.000-07:00

Dialogue containing the two words, “Red State” has reached reckless abundance in the past year. I might argue that “Red State” has become as notoriously commonplace an American geographical grouping as “Bible Belt,” “New England” and “Mormon Country.” I had all but embraced it as part of my natural speech pattern, condemning every state in the South to Redneck Christian fundamentalist-initiating faith bases, but today something in me jolted in protest. Blame it on a mind bullet if you will, but the casual toss of “Red State” into the small talk bothered me so much I was thrown back to 1865.

Before I tell you all about my savvy new time machine, first let me digress closer in recent history to the last time I was troubled by the “Red State” label. Like many defeated liberals, I remember bitterly cringing as “Red State” followed “Blue State” into the realm of ugly, fake-olive-branch purple as the newly re-elected President Bush delivered his victory speech on November 3, 2004 after receiving the conceding call from John Kerry.

After taking a break from gushing on and on about his mandate, Bush a laid a sturdy foundation of inspiring right-left, Red-Blue let’s-get-along floor plans, even though we all knew he wasn’t planning on building a house. At the time, I wanted to destroy the colors Red and Blue, or at least banish them to the French flag, preventing their assimilation into the American social fabric as the most accepted way to explain the outcome of the election. I let my country down by failing to do so.

Even in simpleton Bush-speak, the Great Big Left-Right Blue-Red Reconciliation is too easy of a case to make. Like jell-o, it’s tasty and easy to sell, conveniently divided by bold color, but it’s also deceptive and transparent. Then there’s the oft-ignored question of origin. What mechanisms are responsible for mixing this user-friendly palette on the American map in the first place? Whether you blame the media, the conservative mafia, Monica Lewinsky, or the residual effects of the blatantly divided outcome of the 2000 Bush-Gore controversy, it’s a kindergarten-style Getting to Know Your Colors treatment on state-by-state political classification.

But it’s starting to feel frightening normal, dumbed down to the lowest two denominators, pitted irreconcilably against one another, stopping political progress dead in its tracks because our democracy is bogged down by this fabricated conflict which has been shoved down the throats of every American educated enough to tell the difference between the two colors.

And we buy it, unassuming and free of skepticism because deep down, ever since Bush and Gore split us down the midsection, I think we want to be divided. Liberals passionately yank conservative chains, condescendingly critiquing from the high horse of academia, using too many words and arguments the majority of us can’t access. Conservatives revel in vilifying the liberal stranglehold on such public forms of expression as the media and the entertainment industry, holding target practice on morality-based issues. Everyone in between is contemplating the extremities of of this teeter totter, unsure of where to sit. Instead of stopping to wonder how we got to be so different in the public eye, the Blue and Red States willingly accept their labels along with the status quo.

This fate is easy to accept, but I say it’s much more complex than that, so complex it’s alarming that we’ve been painted into two colors. Like racial conflict, Blue-Red divisions are rooted in political identity subversion, formed by the acceptance of ideas perpetuated by our power structures. This brand of blind faith, the easiest means to political identity subversion, is often the most detrimental to national identity.

That the United States of America should consist of the Red and Blue States getting along like an older brother and a little sister is not only unrealistic, it’s also impossible, given our inherent diversity. Now that the damage has been done, not even Barack Obama and his empty, self-serving, “I’ve got gay friends in the Red States and country bumpkin friends in the Blue States” rhetoric cannot undo it, though I’ve got to hand it to him for trying.

The last time the United States was so fiercely divided along state lines was the Civil War. Next to this behemoth, the Red-Blue state affair is just a bothersome squabble. You want conflict? Forget the “What to do? Social Security 2050” debate. Forget “Roe versus Wade: To Uphold or Prepare for Population Explosion/Teenage Mother Boom” debate. Try Gettysburg and Antietam. Try playing poker with your enemy in the forest one night and bombing the living shit out of his bunker the next. Thanks, but no thanks. I think I’ll stay right here, safely complaining about 2005.

If anything, my spotty Civil War education taught me about national identity, and how, after enduring such a long war with bloody battles and hundreds and thousands of casualties, it is crucial for a nation to address collective objectives shared by all of its citizens, rather than dividing them along ideological, political, and social lines. Even in an increasingly more ethnically assorted country such as America, we all share common denominators like free speech and the right to vote for a representative government.

It doesn’t take a mind bullet to see that the state color separation is successfully dividing us, and whoever is dividing us could potentially conquer if we fail to see this division as what is truly is—a diversion from America’s real sickness. If you don’t know what ails this great and powerful country of ours, perhaps you should take some time and responsibility to look past the Red and Blue because the symptoms have spread to all the states, and they're out of control.

Cancer

2005-10-16T22:50:00.000-07:00

Veto the Standard of Living

2005-10-16T22:48:00.000-07:00

The National Guard kills you
Saves your life with intuition
Alternatives too pricey to buy
Too spendy for the minimum wage
you veto the standard of living
subverted into sandbags to heavy to hold
in the cold we'll reverse our stance
surprise everyone with the con
live on your marble floors
bathe in the great white fountain
it's filled with disease
but the drugs are better
you wouldn't believe the high
I'm flying over the state department
yelling how they did a good job
America takes care of her citizens
whoever want to come here can
if you want to bomb learn how
down in the street it's possible
services for the high class
wine and dine it's mighty fine
ladies, tighten your corset
gentlemen suffocate your beltlines
eat a stale crumpet
blow the rusty trumpet
it's a race to the stock market
and we're all gonna win this time
give my lotto back to the community
turn off my inner electricity
tell all the fat girls they're pretty
because the sun it's gonna kill us
machine gun the planet
its pieces dispersed into the rings of Saturn
the storms of Jupiter
I'll be in the big red spot
waiting for you as dead as I can be
the moment is alive now
crash your car and walk away
unconsciously creating the hurt inside you
the tumor is spread now
it's spreading far, it's spreading wide
you never could tell
health it's just an illusion
it's just a myth
don't belive the hype or it'll turn into a tumor
a tumor eating its way through my creator
not God but a living breathing human being
God is no human being
God doesn't get cancer
does God create cancer? 
If so can I blame God? 
Can I hate God?
What can I hate but a bunch of cells that kill?
The sickness we can't escape
in our heads in our hearts
temperature rising
body planet
from the caretaker to the undertaker
we'll all go down
see ya when I'm finally quiet
and the heavens move me like a pawn
and the rook takes the Jack of Diamonds
for a walk along the Great Wall
see ya when I'm finally sure
and the supreme court can judge
and the aching church will numb
from painkillers that make me laugh
see ya when I'm finally loved
and stitch in time saves crime
and the camera won't accept film
only underwater vibrations that electrocute mine and
yours and all of ours so we can stop the impression
that we're all gonna die and just live live live past
science into biology under the microscope we believe
we'll all wiggle out of the petrie dish and save
ourselves 40% on car insurance and vote for measure 45
and leave it all in the gutter, swimming with our own
raw sewage, oh can you feel the love tonight?

Amen to Sufjan Stevens

2005-10-16T22:30:00.000-07:00

"People see the term Christian attached to me and they think, 'OK, he must be fundamentalist Christian, and then he must be a Republican. Oh, then he must have voted for George Bush, so he must be a bigot.' It's just like one thing leads to another. I'm sure if I were to sit down with Jerry Falwell or anyone like that it would be very uncomfortable. Yet in theological terms, we worship the same God, and that's a very awkward kind of thing to reconcile with. The religious environment is a big problem, but I don't really know how to start talking about it."

-singer-songwriter Sufjan Stevens

The American media’s current spirituality boom has been a long time coming. You had hints of urgent sex-ed back during the AIDS paranoia windfall; an impeachment's worth of disapproval for Clinton’s blowjob on the conservative moral high ground; a right-wing born-again Christian in the White House; the 9/11 Muslim Patriot Act-Guantanamo backlash; the rather disturbing news that Catholic priests were actually getting off on celibacy; Delay's Schiavo euthanasia debacle; and lo and behold, the subject of spirituality has been everywhere lately, with good reason. These are challenging times, full of god-forsaken mystery working in mysterious ways.

Just when I thought the hype was dying down, Newsweek ran out of "special issue" topics and hacked out a "Spirituality 2005" issue, which focuses on the different ways in which Americans practice their beliefs, more now than ever before - at least, that’s the current trend. I yawn and wait for it to pass, because it will. No matter what’s en vogue on the fashion or video game front, faith can't be trendified - as long as people are living and dying, spirituality will always be possible. But I've said it before, and I'll say it again: this moral high ground that’s emerging from the fundamentalist elitist camp needs to sink back down into overly judgmental obscurity, hopefully to the point where the mini-percentage of the world’s Muslims who are categorized as “extremist” will no longer give the entire religion a bad name.

As the floods are vacuumed out of New Orleans and survivors keep on surviving with the help of the donation drive downpour, I’m feeling a shifting sensation of public opinion addressing class-based issues, leaving the faith to the privacy of one’s psyche, where I believe it belongs. This evening on the commute back home I heard an NPR story about a town in Mississippi where everyone’s temporarily stripped of all worth, even the wealthiest downgraded from want to need. And in this survival of the fittest, the poorest folks are dominating leadership roles, helping the community through the crisis. If that’s not a reasonable argument for burning the Estate Tax repeal and, beginning with the areas hardest hit by Katrina, addressing this rich country’s widening income gap, both on a national and international scale, I don’t know what is. Wishful, wishful thinking, full of [pat on the head] “Oh, Delia, silly girl, that’s never gonna happen” wishes, I know, but wishful thinking is how a godless citizen like me exercises her spiritual impulses, and at times like these, America’s got to acknowledge and respect all things spiritual. This I believe.

Speaking of faith-based patriotism, can you feel the flags waving in the air yet? Look around; they’re everywhere. The forces of United We Stand symbolism are growing stronger as the 4th anniversary of 9/11 approaches, on a Sunday this year. It captivates me so, I’m powerless against my next subject, folk singer-songwriter Sufjan Stevens’ latest state-o-union exploration album, Illinois.

As my ear is always to the obscure-to-commercial music criticism grindstone, Stevens has been on my radar for a long while, but nothing shot me to buying-the-album-level attention like this LA Times Magazine article from two Sundays ago. Titled, “The Soft Revolution” and written by the excellent Alec Hanely Bemis (believe me, I wouldn’t have gotten as far into the article as I did without his offhand insights), the article posed the thesis that today’s folk musicians are less concerned with drug-addled sex-n-protest anthems as they are with sober, introspective testaments of faith.

I was all but prepared to pin the article up on my wall and start throwing darts at Bemis’ persistent attempts to get Stevens to own up to his identity as a Bible-spitting, Graham-revering Christian in order to fulfill the prophecy of the article's golden thesis, but then I stopped and realized something: Stevens’ faith need not be politicized. At its conclusion, Bemis’ article ends up being all about how it's impossible to corner the dynamics of personal faith. Like Bob Dylan and Johnny Cash, who ebbed and flowed with the drug-faith tide, it’s never as simple as our stereotypes lead us to believe.

I can admit to being a little hypocritically suspicious of Stevens before reading about him in this article. Would he try and convert me? I’d heard the rumors that he was tight with JC – and I don’t buy a whole hell of a lot of “Christian Music.” If I wanted a sermon, I’d rock the nightclubby Southern Baptist parties Downtown every Sunday morning. My favorite God-evoking musicians don’t tell me what religion train to jump; however, they do provide impressions of faith, through subjective dynamics and undeniable personal impact, not necessarily adhering to one religion but respecting the listener’s capacity to believe for himself. I don’t care if Sufjan Stevens gets baptized every morning, eats a Last Supper every evening, and reenacts the Parables in his backyard; that's his business.

My business is with the music, and Illinois is a brilliant, beautifully produced album with an abundance of faith impressions, much closer in spirit to Bruce Springsteen’s character-driven Devils and Dust than anything on the current Christian Rock Radio hit list. And if old Sufjan can get me to believe that he will someday complete his “50 State Project” and record one album for each of the 50 States of the Union (Illinois is the second installment, after his home state of Michigan), his music is a more persuasive leap of faith than the Bible’s insistence that Jesus really could walk on water. Best of all – he’s publicly modest about his faith out of respect for his own privacy. Though Illinois is deeply personal (but so is the White Stripes' Get Behind Me Satan), Stevens acknowledges his fans’ right to believe what they want to believe while still finding themselves, like me, inspired by this collection and looking forward to visiting Michigan and each of the 48 states to come, especially Oregon, New York, and California.

I could delve into the album itself, but it’s late, so I’ll just leave this as an open recommendation and heap some praise on my favorite songs:

1. “Concerning the UFO Sighting Near Highland, Illinois” – This piano-and-flute piece draws you into Illinois via some strange formation in the sky. Eerily engaging, it sets the supernatural tone, because life may not be about the realism of what you see but, rather, the mystery of what you believe, full of hope and doubt, never ever absolute.

2. “John Wayne Gacy, Jr.” Want to listen to a somber ballad that somehow humanizes a legendary clowny serial killer? Think about it. This song ain’t uplifting, but call Stevens a hardcore fundamentalist Christian and I will sic the Coalition on you.

3. “Chicago” and “Casmir Pulaski Day” – These two songs are the twin masterpieces at the heart of Illinois. Played back-to-back, the transition effect improves both tracks, if that's possible. As the triumphantly unsure, aimless “Chicago” closes with Stevens repeating (George Bush’s most feared line), “I made a lot of mistakes” over and over, the death-meditating “Casmir Pulaski Day” takes over, with its soft acoustic guitar mingling with banjo, ripe with hopeful sadness and even more hopeful complication. The last verse reveals Stevens’ God as one that doesn’t just give, but also takes. Even a secular American citizen can see what this God has taketh in the past week. If I believe in anything, I believe in the power of private faith, in the most general sense of the word, be it secular, philosophical or deeply religious, from Mormon to Shaman, in the form of worship, laughter, song, or conversation, to give hope to the spirits suffering down there.

I thought I'd never say this, but...

Amen.

Katrina, Chavez, and the Cowboy King of Vacations

2005-10-16T22:29:00.000-07:00

Even the most reliable voices of President Bush criticism - John Kerry, Cindy Sheehan, Kim Jong Il, Frank Rich, Hendrik Hertzberg, Delia True - are tiny whispers now that the real threat to the Bush-Cheney ideology machine has emerged in the form of a man named Hugo Chavez, the President of Venezuela. Paired with a raging bitch of a storm named Katrina, he's basically challenging the Administration to an all-out dis battle, something most left-wing Americans can't seem to pull off effectively on a large scale forum, like, say...the New York Times.

"That government had no evacuation plan, it is incredible, the first power in the world that is so involved in Iraq... and left its own population adrift."

Hmmm? What?

"That man, the king of vacations ... the king of vacations in his ranch said nothing but, you have to flee, and didn't say how ... that cowboy, the cowboy mentality.''

Ouch. Right upside the head. That's gotta hurt. I can't wait to hear Sissy McClellan's carefully worded quick-draw comeback, but until then, I've got something to add, sort of my follow-up bitch-slap to Chavez' knockout punch.

I don't know about you, but this quote sort of rings true for me and sends me back to another time when Bush failed to heed a warning. Remember what happened four years, one red-flag intelligence memo, two towers, four planes and four deadly landings ago? Bush sure does. He evokes this memory every time he justifies the Invasion of Iraq and privacy-infringing Patriot Act. 9-11 is his only card in these days of plummeting public approval stock. Katrina was more preliminarily communicative about her potential havoc than any terrorist or invading country, but people still died. I may not have been in the muck reporting when the storm hit, but I can't help but feel they didn't have to die like that.

President Chavez has surfaced as a powerful voice of opposition from outside of our borders, and we don't necessarily have to agree with him wholeheartly to take what he has to say seriously. Like many of us Americans, he doesn't come off like an enemy of this country and its people (ie. you're either with us or against us), but, rather, an adamant critic of the Administration's ignorant, self-serving policies (most recently displayed in the Energy Bill and CAFTA passage in Congress). I appreciate Chavez challenging Bush's corporate sense of social responsibility and offering aid to our victims when so many other world leaders are either kissing ass or searching for the right lipstick.

The Venezuelan president, applauded by supporters for his self-proclaimed socialist revolution to fight poverty, has offered to send cheap fuel, humanitarian aid and relief workers to the disaster area.

From a PR standpoint, this is a nice cornering gesture, given that the U.S. relies on Venezuelan oil exports, particularly at a time like this, when Katrina's attack has prompted tapping into our precious oil reserves. But still, there's no way of knowing if Chavez is a strong progressive leader mining for anti-American support among the multinational corporation-victimized Third World, or if he's just a corrupt puppet accepting bribes to read a script for some other world superpower ready to conquer the world. Who knows what team he's on, because after all, how can we trust another country's President if we can't trust our own?

All I know for sure about Chavez is that the guy is knocking the Bush Administration loudly and clearly, and our press is translating the message: we could have done more to prepare for this hurricane. Let's just pretend for a second that Katrina was Osama bin Laden, and we knew he was coming right over for another round, this time targeting Louisiana and Mississippi. What would Bush have done? Katrina was terror of a natural variety and, unlike Al Queda, she gave us plenty of warning in advance, as in (if storms could talk, but we give them such nice names like "Katrina," "Andrew" and "Hugo" that they may as well be personified) "you overpopulate a major city on a swamp below sea level off the coast of Hurriance Central, you are just asking for me to swoop down and annihilate it." Katrina is not like Osama but the ruthless, vengeful God of Genesis, and this was the closest our pious, moral America has come to experiencing its own Great Flood.

Given the forewarning, if Bush and his cronies had taken some leadership cues from Noah, and utilizing all of our best resources, we might have been more prepared, and more lives could have been spared. But coulda, shoulda, woulda are all behind us now. You need only watch CNN for two minutes to realize that whiny political rants are insignificant when people are walking around waist-deep in chaos. So I sigh my anger away and bypass continuing yet another pointless, wasted Biblical-tinged critique of our President in favor of telepathically sending well wishes to the survivors down below the cushy comfort of Bush's Air Force One jet observation deck. I hope that through the contributions of fellow U.S. citizens, humanitarian efforts of neighboring nations, and nearby rescue and reconstruction teams, that you will drain yourselves of Katrina and recover from her merciless natural wrath.

Paying Homage to the Cuckoo's Nest

2005-10-16T22:28:00.000-07:00

I’m a big fan of the homage. Before I start going off all irresponsible-wordy-style (what else is new?), here's a dramatic two-part definition of the word:

1. Ceremonial acknowledgment by a vassal of allegiance to his lord under feudal law.
2. Special honor or respect shown or expressed publicly.

Obviously, I can’t really go for that first definition, since I don't know what the hell it means, and besides, under medieval feudal law as a 25-year-old woman I would already have seven kids all shacked up with the local blacksmith, and I definitely wouldn’t be writing this because I’d be illiterate, not that I would care anyway because my husband would probably be coming home drunk every night, leaving me with the responsibility of raising the entire nest myself. So by default, I’m going with the second definition, pledging allegiance to the special honor or respect shown publicly.

To me, the homage is priceless medication, the junkie equivalent to novacaining addictive worries and cooking up hopes and dreams in a spoon and injecting them back into the system brand new. Reaffirming my devotional respect for a song, movie, memory, or person can often sedate my nerves when I’m feeling confused, overwhelmed, and way in over my head. Even if you were to thoughtfully suggest a more conventional, socially accepted remedy, a la “Delia, you really need to sort yourself out. You should go see this guy over in Brentwood. Motherfucker handles me just like your favorite movie shrink, Dr. Berger (Judd Hirsh) from Ordinary People (Memorable quote – Berger: “What shit have you pulled? [pause] Hey, remember, I'm talking proportion here, now what shit? [pause] C'mon, you must be able to come up with at least one example. And don't give me, ‘I tried to kill myself.’ That's old turkey.”),” I would stand by the homage school of self-therapy, even if I'm the only student and there are no teachers.

I won’t go into details here (except to shout out to Portland’s finest child psychologist, Dr. Willis), but ever since I was little, I’ve always been a bit suspicious of these so-called “professionals” who want to talk about my mental state for an hour in exchange for my 40 hours of paycheck and maybe subscribe me to some happy-as-a-lamb meds that will render me incapable of feeling angry towards that girl on our rival soccer team who always tries to start shit with me for no reason and Republican congressmen who think it’s a good idea to do away with the filthy rich hatin’ Estate Tax. For your convenience, in a shorter, more compact sentence: Shrinks - they're suspect.

Now, before you put me over on Team Cruise, I wouldn’t equate my resistance to the psychological profession as anything but personal and private. I've got no lofty motives related to aliens and the human quest for self-improvement. Yes, the personal can be political, but come on - there are bigger fish to fry than the antidepressant industry and Matt Lauer. The Scientology Way, much like the Mormon Way or the Communist Way, may be the Right Way, but in this day and age, L. Ron Hubby is never going to convince the entire world that psychiatry kills and body Thetans need to start flooding out of our eyelids if we’re ever going to survive. Maybe celebrities can afford it, but ridding myself of extraterrestrial energy (or whatever) is way too expensive, so I don’t buy it, and neither do all the people around the world who bet all their money on their mental health professional of choice keeping them from becoming cranially imbalanced (see also - pessimist's terms: permanently suicidal; also, see also - layman's terms: just plain batshit crazy).

But still, what's so wrong about being a little crazy? I'm not speaking for Hitler and Osama here, but extreme hatred craziness aside, things have changed since '50s housewives would traquilize themselves into Stepford complacency and no one knew what was wrong with austisitic kids until they saw Rain Man. In a society so beautifully, detrimentally fucked up as ours, there’s no longer reason to be ashamed of such impairments as depression, bipolar disorder, OCD, and barbiturate addiction. Mental sickness is just another physical disability, a glitch on the perfect specimen (that doesn't exist), restricting for some and enlightening to others, treatable and manageable. Sickos live normal lives every day, often fitting in as if nothing is off, as commonplace as the guys playing wheelchair basketball, coexisting peacefully in our midst, only disrupting order when absolutely necessary, when the logical checks out and the nonsense takes over, we all start walking around in circles downtown shouting at the people in their heads with no hope of being locked up because thanks to latter-day Reagan-era budget restructuring, all the state mental hospitals have been nicked, leaving many homeless crazies unable to take care of themselves, wandering in and out of jail, on and off meds.

I might be wrong, but there’s one thing I know for sure about mental health: the human brain is a very heavy, complex mass of maze-like coils of, um, squishy thought activities and understanding nerve cluster DNA helix cellular configurations…and, um well, yours is probably more complex than mine, in a completely different way. No, but seriously, the only thing I know for sure about mental health is that my head hurts just thinking about it. I know there are a lot of you hoo-hahs out there who prefer discussing the intricacies of your cranium with complete yet "professional" strangers, completely removed from your normal social surroundings, and you feel better afterwards. If psychologists can help my Dad, Tony Soprano, and Conrad Jarrett battle their inner demons and finally acknowledge their inner angels, it is a great, great thing indeed. Me, personally? I don’t trust ‘em.

Even at my most critically-minded, whether of the Man or myself, I seek refuge not in the things that I think might be wrong, but in what I know is right. When I write a public display of respect to a person or a work of art, it always feels right to send that message out, regardless of whether anyone receives it. Tonight I was going to do an homage to a rock song or something of that predictable nature, but alas, predictably, I ended up going way off subject and writing this homage to mental health dynamics instead. Call me crazy, label me mad, prescribe me a straight-jacket, diagnose me as insanely affected by the phases of the lunatic moon, or just accuse me of scraping the bottom of the barrel for maniacal synonyms, but I feel much better now, and that’s worth more hours on Freud’s couch and ProZoloft candy than I could ever afford.

The Lunchtime Walk

2005-10-16T22:27:00.000-07:00

Today I was working hard in my cubicle when the phone rang. After answering and placing the caller on hold for my boss, I glanced at the clock and realized it was one o’clock, lunchtime. I looked around, expecting to have company, but it was just me this time. The group co-worker lunch outings of my old job were a thing of the past. It might not happen right away, but I could get used to being by myself. New friends might be right around the corner, so maybe now's the time to revel in my solitude. It was a beautiful day outside. I decided to go for a walk around the lot.

I grabbed my peanut butter and jelly sandwich from the fridge, and deciding it was too cold to eat, I placed it in the toaster for a couple minutes before stepping outside. It was a beautiful day, alright, if beauty can be equated with furnace-like traits. The thick valley air was baking at a higher temperature than the toaster, the sun had lit the place hotter than the most blinding lighting scheme on the lot, and the sky was buzzing bright neon blue, but I walked on anyway, taking periodical bites of my sandwich before the peanut butter sizzled and the jelly turned to liquified strawberry fructose.

I felt thirsty, not for water but for conversation. If only I’d had another movie studio lot neophyte or two walking alongside me, we would be powerless against the exchange of such commentary as, “Holy shit! Both Curly Sue and Lethal Weapon 3 were filmed on this soundstage. And Cool Hand Luke! Do you think that guy [pointing right at him] worked on the egg scene??” Instead, I kept these observations, discoveries, and hilariously tactless banter scenarios colliding into one another inside my head, where they eventually drove me nuts.

As I wandered around, through sets and mini-streets, past trailers, almost getting hit by speeding golf carts and VIP tour groups, I started to feel the energy of millions of things happening all at once, through the force of money, technology, and people, both creative and business-minded, balancing the act for the means to make more media. This place is a living, breathing organism, and here I am, free to roam like a boomerang for a precious hour, intentionally lost, bouncing around this pinball machine with no sense of belonging, not really knowing what I’m doing here, not that I ever will, because when my never-ending pile of office paperwork gets pushed towards the intersection of contracts, economics and artistic license, I’m still an intrigued, mystified movie fan at heart, so I doubt I will ever shake my curious awe of this gigantic alternate world, no matter how real it becomes.

As I learn more and more about what happens on the set and behind the scenes, I’m more deeply sworn to a secrecy so surreal that I feel like a privileged, isolated spy, only I’m not spying, I’m just working, I’m just a new girl walking around these staged, deceptive streets, out of place, out of step, and definitely out of mind. Everyone here seems contently jaded and functional, caught up in the daily grind, rushing in and out of the commissary like they’ve got someplace better to be, and all I can think about are my friends and family. I think about how much they would appreciate being here and seeing this, and as I walk alone back to my cubicle, I think about how much I would appreciate having them here with me.

Your scare tactics are worthless

2005-10-16T22:26:00.000-07:00

Bush: "We're not yet safe. Terrorists in foreign lands still hope to attack our country. They still hope to kill our citizens. The lesson of Sept. 11, 2001, is that we must confront threats before they fully materialize."

Tom Delay: "Why would you give your enemies a timetable? [Bush] doesn't fight the war on news articles or television or on polls."

My dad said that Bush also used some variation on the words "accomplish the mission" in a recent statement, which just begs for ridicule from way back on the U.S.S. Lincoln on May 1, 2003. But you know what? I'm not going to give these guys the benefit of my angry commentary.

For a voice of clarity among the deceptive madness, look no further than Mariane Pearl, the widow of Daniel Pearl, who you might recall was beheaded via videotape by Muslim extremists in Pakistan. I was listening to a NPR story about her the other day, and her bravery was something else. I felt the need to share my impression of her because we could all use a break from Cindy Sheehan.

No matter where we were or what we were doing at the time, we all felt something watching those towers fall. As Americans we all felt anger, resentment, and all sorts of bitter negative adjectives that can't do any justice. Just thinking about who could do such a thing to so many innocent people was beyond reasoning. But think about Mariane Pearl, the love of her life publically, brutally, symbolically murdered while she's pregnant with their first child. As a documentary filmmaker, journalist, and practicing Buddhist, this remarkable woman makes sense out of her personal loss in such a way that leaves me wondering what wisdom our world leaders, Cindy Sheehan's anti-war army, and everyone in between might be able to derive with a little compassion, because we can all learn something.

The powerful passages that she read from her memoir made me want to stop the car so I could stare off into space instead of on the road ahead. To paraphrase one such observation, there may not be hope for peace and a terror-free world without a more even wealth distribution. This simple yet infinitely complex sentiment was a slap in the face because I feel like a hypocrite going off to work for one of the biggest entertainment companies in the world, but still, my conscience always gets the better of me, and I could not agree more.

Exit Interview: The Dub G

2005-10-16T22:25:00.000-07:00

Christy Crunch: So Delia, tomorrow is your last day as a reality TV show tape logger at Weller Grossman Productions, aka "The Dub G."

Delia True: Why, yes it is.

CC: Are you sad?

DT: Um, yes and no. Yes, because I’m gonna miss my people. Colorful, creative, open-minded personalities coming and going, voicing their opinions, biding their time in 9-6 timecodes, headphones on head, remote controls in hand, plugged into realness too staged to be anywhere but on TV. As long as they showed up every day, I could stay sane, even after transcribing the tenth straight identical BBQ with Bobby Flay grilling demonstration.

Like superheroes, my co-workers had dimension I had not seen in previous, more career-focused work environments. Being a tape logger was just a front for untapped potential. After being caged in the “Logger Row” microcosm all day under the watchful eye of upper management drive-bys, at night they dispersed, pursuing this untapped potential to its fullest. Calling this “following their dreams” would pile unnecessary cheese on the reality of everything accomplished: stand-up comedy, improv, poetry, short films, film discussion zines, screenplays, movie reviews, talent agenting their cute offspring for TV commercials, reading political nonfiction, running a marathon, acting, rapping, tanning, and typing, of course, we were all typing for seven months we were all just typing, logging tape, tape loggers until the next six o’clock hit.

CC: You finished now?

DT: Uh, yeah. I guess.

CC: You got a little carried away.

DT: So? What can I say? I'm a sentimental girl.

CC: Well, you didn’t answer the second part of that question, the ‘no’ answer of, ‘are you sad?’

DT: Oh yeah, I said ‘yes and no,’ that’s right.

CC: So why are you...not sad? Why are you happy to be out of the tape logger game?

DT: You have to ask? You’ve obviously never transcribed videotapes for seven straight months, typing for eight hours a day and then going home and writing for several additional hours almost every night. My hands are tired. This new job description is basically "heavy filing (so heavy you can't carry it)" but shit, at this point I will enthusiastically trade corporate paper cuts for freelance carpal tunnel syndrome.

Our typing taps into an alternate reality

2005-10-16T22:24:00.000-07:00

“The computer is restructuring our current economy of writing. It is changing the cultural status of writing as well as the method of producing books. It is changing the relationship of the author to the text and of both author and text to the reader.”

from The Writing Space: The Computer, Hypertext and the History of Writing by Jay David Bolter

I'm venturing back to the land of academia, where at long last I will once again embrace the textbook, abide by the syllabus, make the grades...this time without the excessive drinking. I know this sounds like tons of fun to you, so I decided to share the love. When I came across this quote in the midst of some preliminarily assigned informational scientific reading (which was, quite honestly, putting me to sleep five hours before my bedtime), I didn't keep reading. No, I stopped, looked around, allowed the quote to marinate for awhile, and then, wondering if I was feeling additional delayed effects of last June's bong hit, I felt powerless against the pull of the keyboard, so I found the nearest friendly computer and started to type.

I probably should have read myself to sleep that night. Yes, I should have kept riding the upright academic tide instead of taking a wrong turn towards loco, meditating on the nature of the written word like a little kid looking to find a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow (okay, the whole Santa and Tooth Fairy myths were fine because they didn't entice us to actually go anywhere, but I can remember annoying my poor mom about this elusive pot and longing to leave my elementary school grounds in search for either shiny riches or what I so often saw on the box of magically delicious Lucky Charms).

But since this quote calls into question the blogging method to which I am so dedicated, I felt the need to comment. After all, I know some of you bloggers and like-minded type-artists often take moments out of your busy lives to drop by this manic depressive reading room. The least I can do to show my appreciation is post this rambling mess here, where it undoubtedly belongs, so that you, too, may devote way too much thought to the type-writing dynamic.

**

Writing and computers. Computers and writing. Keys and fingers. Speed and accuracy. Communication. Discussion. Emotions. Our typing taps into an alternate reality. Parchment & quill, typewriter, diaries, these ancient methods have all but expired, too much bother for our instant gratifications, ancestors of our scribbling handwriting fury, with messy strikethroughs, arrows, mistakes showing the process, building blocks finite and linear. Complex wiring simplifies our wordplay, less deliberate and more impulsive. The inherent shyness of hesitation is gone when my fingertips glide across the keyboard, improvising letters, cutting and pasting, manipulating language, deleting the assembly, destroying any evidence that I may not have known what I am doing. But do we ever really know what we are doing, typing away like we’re going somewhere, like people may read our impressions as expressions of worth and value in this disseminated global empire?

We must type the expression of our impressions to exist. We must type what we see and hear to subsist. Heavy typing, electrical hum, light chatter. Everybody’s going about the daily ritual, perpetuated by hours and minutes elapsing, moving right along with our muscles, working and living, knowing that this is the body we’re stuck in, and it’s growing. We’re either in slow-motion or fast-forward, the concept of real time just as much of a illusory convention as grammar and musical notes, organized on the desktop, stored on the hard drive, eating away at our life expectancies. Progress and decay somehow compromise while I contemplate my inert activity, flushed with anticipation of turning the corner, hard and fast, eyes open and mouth closed, silent.

The weather is balmy, warm yet cloudy, air conditioning blasting indoors like an arctic wind tunnel, freezing paranoid thoughts in the comfort we take for granted. We’re just sitting at the computers, computing our computations. Our technological function is one big How-To manual, an intimidating gang of instructions that we don’t always follow, now or never, but the next time I find that place where it’s now or never, I’m gonna choose never. ‘Now’ will always be behind your shoulder, enabling you to move on and improvise the next act. The word ‘never’ cuts like a knife into the English language, providing dramatic ultimatum, almost cinematic in its function, its grand negativity devastating. Now will never be ever-present. Kiss it goodbye like it will never last, because maybe that’s the one thing you know for sure, and a heavy reliance on the word, ‘maybe’ indicates uncertainty, a reluctance to be sure of myself, a resistance to the kind of unwavering, stubborn confidence that can hit you like an arrow to the heel. This resistence is a strength, a respect for everything we don't know, everything we will someday find out.

The thinkers ponder the truth, philosophies and theories and analysis beckon the discussion forward like someday it's gonna mean something. Has the text changed us? Or have we changed the text? We look down and see paragraphs of permanence and know that our only folly is kept inside, waiting to emerge. Look around, these texts are everywhere, transforming language, audio visual light vibrations, attracting our senses and eliciting cranial responses, making us laugh, cry, smile, want to kill ourselves, want to talk about it until the sun comes up or the energy runs out and there's nothing to do except just observe how now could maybe someday become never and give thanks for impressions of expression that never would have been possible without the act of you typing thoughts...generated, computed, and priceless.