[03 Feb 2006|10:13am] "Get Along, Little Cowpoke, Get Along..." Some friends and I enjoyed a night out on Wednesday, and treated ourselves to a movie. We sat through the 134-minute “Brokeback Mountain” which, you may have heard, is a touching and melodramatic film about two rugged cowboys in the rugged mountains of Wyoming getting rugged with each other. Not so surprisingly, we didn’t take any male dates along, not that we could have been allowed in the theater with kicking and screaming homophobes tagging along. From a more visual standpoint, it can be said that this movie was filmed in a glorified soft-porn kind of manner, with special emphasis on breathtaking scenery… particularly the “Marlboro Man” poses, tight-fittin’ moose-knuckled Wranglers, and a bounty of voyeuristic camera shots depicting finely hewn naked cowboy buttocks. You go, Cletus! Skewer my mudflaps, cowpoke! All in all, I give it 8 out of 10 meaty cattle prods. 2 zaps| Something to add?

[01 Feb 2006|10:14am] [ mood | Pseudo-enamoured ] [ music | Ani Defranco - "Come Away From It" ] Just in time for Valentine’s Day! An Inner Polemic on Love Well, a small eternity has passed since I’ve written, and for this transgression I suppose I must do penance and self-flagellate gratuitously. (Hand me that cat o’ nines and let’s whip up a good time!) Nevertheless, so much has changed these past weeks, and equally has stayed the same. The changes which are happening are most profoundly under the surface - you know that place - down inside the labyrinths of the soul, where things are dark, unfamiliar and confusing, but infinitely more exciting. I have had to introspect in an effort to determine what or who is to blame for these recent sub-corporeal metamorphoses, and the answer may very well have surfaced but I truly intend to keep the details nestled comfortably in the shadows of secrecy, transparent to others, as it is and will remain a personal decadence of mine. My concession is to nurture this furtive pleasure, as people are wont to indulge in – acts which would normally mortify them to be caught doing in the presence of someone… like watching Jerry Springer, or singing Julie Andrews songs in the shower, or standing in front of the mirror with their penis tucked between their legs, you know - just to see how they might look like as a woman. But I digress. The current meditation is that I believe I'm both in love and in hate, in utter synchronicity - I am intrigued yet also bored - and the lines between these all seem rather blurry. The contradictions weave serpentine through heart and mind; love entices but is undoubtedly despised, for it represents weakness. Historically love plays the transient. Upon arriving it is barely welcome but remains, like an overstayed guest, who each time leaves a generous pourboire. Despite all the bittersweet irony entwined, I will self-diagnose my condition as the brain being in love. Conversely, I suppose, this also means that the heart has affectedly earned a degree of intelligence, which is certainly rather amusing to consider, isn’t it? What an odd mutation! No surprise that my unforgiving consciousness finds fault in this, and have fantasized of a fate most befitting to such a disfigured heart, which is to have it gutted, stuffed, and put on display in a tacky little roadside museum. Years of accumulated wisdom in matters of emotion have taught me that it is acceptable if not preferable to love (or be loved) with carefully measured distance. It is the “thinker’s” love… the “smart” love… which so far has kept me sane and in balance – a choice which does not so much demand reliance on another nor does it impose an unmanageable quantity of personal sacrifice in relation to emotion. Then again, it also does not allow for those deep joys or episodes of despair associated with embracing or losing impassioned love. In other terms, my brain keeps my heart dosed with plenty of Prozac. So, that being said, leaves a person to wonder whatever happened to that “cut-your-ear-off-or-guzzle-hemlock” kind of devotion? Ah, I suppose that somewhere else in this wide world it must be filling asylums and grave plots by the thousands. UNDER (perpetual) CONSTRUCTION 1 zap| Something to add?

[23 Oct 2005|03:05pm] [ mood | Fatigued ] [ music | Dvorak ] The Big Smoke For the first time in many frenzied months, I was able to lie in bed for a breath or two this morning and fixedly reflect on the dream state from which I had just been relegated. Last night I dreamt of a friend - a former coworker - with whom I have had no contact in well over a decade, but whose character was as clear and recognizable in my subconscious as if not a day had passed since our last conversation. Usually this kind of unexplained nostalgic visual “somnamble” is unsettling to me. I have often wondered if the intent of its presence is to serve as the metaphysical harbinger of bad or at least dramatic news in regard to that person’s life. At any rate… inexplicably, one hapless neurogram sparked, illuminating the memory of a tragic episode from the past, cultivated by this friend - one which had long since been shelved in a dusty corner of my mind. The provocative, leggy blonde that she was, my colleague had the professionally advantageous yet ethically controvertible habit of seducing customers – men, primarily – and in particular, kindly, older, dolorous, tenderhearted, lonely, or profoundly gullible men. She often talked lightly of this propensity, saying it was her societal contribution – a charity of sorts – which she bequeathed to the less assuming specimens of the respective gender, and that the money which she earned in the process was not to be considered spoils from self-indulgent behavior, but rather a means of subsidizing her efforts to continue giving pleasure to others - bringing smiles, joy, rejuvenation and feelings of self-worth to those men who likely would otherwise never know the company of a beautiful woman. She shifted angles on her logic often when we talked of this. I played the devil’s advocate many times, while she rationalized her intentions in any number of ways – so passionately at times that her tone became sublimely demeaning… even arrogant… like philanthropic subterfuge. I recall it was necessary to tread carefully in attempting to implore her to ponder alternate viewpoints in regard to ethics and motivation, as this friend had suffered terribly in a difficult upbringing and was not very receptive to (or more accurately, she was wholly terrified of) any sort of contemplation or discourse involving converse morality, exclusivity, intense self-examination and paternal/pedophiliac demystification. As the outwardly spoiled daughter of a troubled man who, in conjunction with his countless friends, violated the poor child’s innocence repeatedly throughout her youth, she suffered from profoundly skewed, self-deprecating viewpoints on sexuality and interpersonal relations. In retrospect, I would not have been all too surprised if her troubles were augmented by a mild form of trauma-induced schizophrenia or manic-depression, because there were occasions when her thoughts became irrational, her behavior incorrigible, and her moods unbearably sour. It was her modus operandi to entice the man with flirtations and kindness, intelligence, compassion, unabashed honesty, concern for his best interests, empathy, and her full attention, and would do so in a way that seemed so candid and exclusive to him. He in turn would be so overwhelmed that he was privileged to have gained her interest. As a result, more often than not, the unwitting male would become instantly smitten by her, by hope – at even the mere prospect of possibly capturing her love, partaking of her salacity or availing himself to satisfying her deepest passions… whatever his desire, she would help him fulfill it. She, the Samaritan, the seraph… the panacea… the sweet and caring altruist who could not forsake him. As I often tried to impart to her up until this time, at least in my perception, the roles would then become indelibly reversed: She now the hunter, the predator under the guise of a vessel of pleasure… and he, the victim. I remember one such man, in his early to mid-50’s… graying a bit, of Italian or Sicilian decent, with a pooch belly and perpetually sad countenance. He had a good job – had his own business, if I am not mistaken – and with a wife and children at home… was loved and respected by his peers. It cannot be determined just exactly how happy or unhappy his home life was, but at least it was apparent that he was deeply dissatisfied and disillusioned with some aspect of his life. He happened upon my friend one day… she, the ray of sunshine with a brilliant smile, bubbling with optimism, so sanguine, so intelligent and playful… a blonde-haired angel towering above him in all her glory. He was instantly enchanted but never once uttered a word about the depth of his feelings for her. She at least knew he was infatuated with her beauty and charm, and from time to time he would pay her a visit, send her flowers now and then, buy her a little gift… outwardly nothing any different from a dozen of her other male suitors. After their visits, he would go home to his wife and family, and this went on for some weeks, perhaps a month or two. To my friend, it was charity as usual, believing that she was gifting him with cherished memories to carry through his days, to keep him warm on chilly nights, or perhaps it was inspiring him in his lovemaking at home… she really didn’t know, and in all honestly gave no thought to it at all, at least outside of the time they spent together. When not fervently serving the needs of her benefactor, her thoughts most of the time were turned inward, to herself and her own pursuits of pleasure, intent on perpetuating good feelings for herself and for the men she chose… always intent on ensuring the next “fix” of wanton philanthropy, in order to refuel herself on heart and soul food, to carry her onward toward her next mission. Thus is the vicious cycle of suffering for the insatiable. So it happened that this sweet Italian with the good job, the wife and children, and the affections of a brilliant, long-legged Samaritan “courtesan” who believed she was doing a fantastic and beautiful thing for a nice, sad little man… threw himself from a bridge into the icy waters of the Niagara River one cold spring day. I suppose you can speculate on how others looked upon my friend after that day. The charitable intent which she so vigilantly defended with all of her being just seemed to vaporize into thin air. It wasn’t long afterward that she quit her job, and within a year after that I had heard she had turned to Christian fanaticism. A few years after that, I had heard she had a husband, a set of twins, and no doubt a different outlook on herself. Of course you could object and say that this was an exceptional case… that there was no way to know the depth of this man’s despair. Whereas that may be true, how many desperate men will throw themselves off bridges, in the figurative or literal sense, steep for years in misery and self-doubt, sustain irreparable damage to the soul, simply for being the naïve victims of someone else’s big smoke paradox? Something on which I will no doubt continue to ruminate during the coming days, I suppose. Moo. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Just for fun, thought I would give one of these silly quizzes a go. Um, is anyone really surprised by the "revelation"...? - - - - - - - - - - - - - - What Advanced Degree Should You Get? You Should Get a PhD in Liberal Arts (like political science, literature, or philosophy) You're a great thinker and a true philosopher. You'd make a talented professor or writer. Something to add?

[18 Oct 2005|12:41am] [ music | , The Sound of ] THINGS WHICH WILL KEEP US AMUSED (sung to the tune of “My Favorite Things”) Poetic drummers who smell like fried chicken Poseur goth girlies who think they are wiccan 2 horney Norsemen who slurp up the booze These are the things which will keep us amused. Islamic doctors critiquing male strippers Men who try shaving with women’s hair clippers Pathetic young women who like being used These are the things which still keep us amused. Flatulent hiccups while perching on noses People with breath that will curl up your toeses Jobless delinquents who cheat and abuse These are the things which will keep us amused. Bald Chinese waiters who like 2-girl action Guys from online who’ve got fatal attraction Neighbors with windows to give us prime views So many things which will keep us amused. Arrogant schmucks who think people are cattle bore us to tears with their narcissist prattle then strip and lie on the floor for a snooze. How could these things not keep someone amused? (to be continued...) Something to add?

[12 Oct 2005|11:27pm] [ mood | Mildly Amused ] [ music | REM - Day Sleeper ] "Holy Jesus! What are these goddamn animals?!"         A smattering of golf applause as another aggravating workday winds down, and I've decided to stay awake long enough to watch the day blending itself seamlessly and homogeneously into another. In reference to my place of employment, I think Paul Simon summed it up so precisely in a song - "Someone told me it's all happening at the zoo..." You can just SMELL it when you walk in the door each morning, too- the pungent stench of pretense and carefully oiled oxfords fills the nostrils immediately. And then, we must not forget "The Bats" - those most vile vermin! They hang upside down from their cubicle and office walls, occasionally emitting a squeak or chirp's worth of pointless ad lib bat banter between themselves. Everything seems quite sleepy and serene, until suddenly one of them is startled into frenzied flight by an angry personal phone call, an email or gross misinterpretation of reality, then in a flurry swoops down on the nearest unwitting victim to relieve them of their sanity and lifeblood. Thus, our workplace we have aptly dubbed "Bat Country", making reference to a phrase uttered by the hallucinating narrator Raoul Duke in Hunter S. Thompson's book Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Had a fantastic dinner tonight; dirty rice and Cajun Angels, which are, for those who are Bayou-cuisine incognizant, shrimp wrapped in bacon strips and gratuitously seasoned with a variety of Creole staple spices. We ate so much that now nou malad! Before preparing the epiceries, we made a quick stop at the grocery store. As we were walking out of the store, my friend blurted out, "Oh, god! Someone smells like gerbils!" For all practical purposes, it would appear to be Rodent Wednesday in this neighborhood, and the whole of it reeks like a fetid hamster cage. Not exactly news. Welcome to our world. Buy the ticket, take the ride, and keep your hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times... Something to add?

[10 Oct 2005|11:29pm] [ mood | addled ] [ music | Francis Dunnery - My Own Reality ] Sweet Surrender...? In the interest of pondering whether one man's saint might be another man's sinner. My friend and coworker confided to me recently ... a fear she never dared share with anyone before. She decided the time had come for mankind to see the truth unveiled. She contends that, up until his deeply ironic and 'velocitous' headfirst rendezvous with the wilderness he fought so diligently to save, John Denver was an underground cult leader who ruthlessly brainwashed his victims through whimsical tunes about wild horses, eagles and deep sea divers. She insists that his perky campire songs infiltrated the hearts of the pure with messages of sin, hedonism and debauchery. She admits that he horrifies her and makes her feel dirty, and contends that despite his outward masquerade as a warm, sunny, tree-hugging goodwill-monger with a Xanax smile, he was in all truth a vessel of evil, intent on enslaving the souls of his fans to do his vile bidding, and that he represented nothing more than the embodiment of self-serving malevolence. Perhaps I'm playing "Denver's advocate" here but, I guess I just never saw him as a nefarious folk singing diablo, however I imagine there's a real possibility some scaly capitalists somewhere, desperately clinging to their political contingencies, certainly might have. At any rate, can't say that I'm ready to exorcise my cd collection just yet, but thanks for the heads-up. 2 zaps| Something to add?

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