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Wednesday, June 17, 2009 

Category: Pets and Animals
Smokey does a weird thing lately.  Is it cute or perverted?  I can't figure it out. 


3:11 AM 
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Friday, March 13, 2009 

Category: Writing and Poetry
10:00 AM 
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Thursday, December 25, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry

"Everybody, I love you. 

Everybody, I do."

CSN&Y said it first, but I felt compelled to repeat.

I've written only four blogs since 5-8-08, and I sincerely apologize to the two of you that read them.  Life is too fast to catch accurately in blogs.  Blogs are too fast to catch accurately in life.  I've written a handful of abortions since, but nothing that escaped the draft section of my yahoo email account.  So much, too much to say, so I avoided, even though much has happened in this boy's Leonardo DiCaprio movie. 

Write now, here I am, sitting alone in the deadly of X-mas night.  I miss a lot of people, and some of you know who you are. 

Hello again.  Call me.

Smokey is here, steadfast and furry as always.  My other bedmate is across the state, plucking and rubbing strings for progressive religious folk in celebration of the Big Baby Jesus. 

What do I do when alone and thinking of a woman? 

Right.

What do I do when alone and thinking?

Write.

What do I do when alone?

"I can't tell you, but I know that it's mine."

The year has seen the death of many things in my life, mostly electronics and autos, though a relationship here and there.  My high school sweetheart deleted me from her myspace friends (which I just found out by logging in after months), not long after she told me the live-in boyfriend she was unsure about finally pooped the question.  Nice.  I'm sure there's a War song appropriate to the situation.  Low Rider?  I really thought we were better than that...I know I am.  So are you.

I've logged a lot of travel hours this year, with an upcoming trip to a chalet in the mountains of...Tennessee?  Well, apparently, they have chalets there, and we're going.  Two days after we get back, we're going back to Cali for a week of fine dining and hotels, all expenses paid.  Who would have thought smoking bushes and going to work in your underwear could lead to such extravagance?  Me.

This is my 100th blog on this profile.

"It has been a long war; it has been a tough war." 

I really can't wait for ever, because now is just write.

Smokey just told me it's time to go to bed.  So much love!

10:11 PM 
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Tuesday, September 16, 2008 

Category: Music

"I am not frightened of dying.  I need time to do, but I don't mind.  Why should I be frightened of dying?  There's no reason for it.  We all have to go some time."

I'll See You on the Dark Side of the Moon

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Beyond the Infinite



Pink Floyd's Richard Wright: 1943-2008

by Robin Hilton

Pink Floyd fans have long argued over which band member was the most important. Some say it was Syd Barrett, the founding member who gave the group its name and guided the then-unknown band in maniacally imaginative directions. Others argue that it's Roger Waters, the bassist who took over as lead songwriter after Barrett left the band in 1968; Waters led Pink Floyd through its most successful period. Then there are the David Gilmour fans, who say that the lead guitarist was most responsible for Pink Floyd's widely influential and groundbreaking sound. But for me, the heart and soul of Pink Floyd was always keyboardist Richard Wright, who died today at age 65.

I first heard the music of Pink Floyd, thanks to an older brother, when I was in elementary school in the 1970s. The album was Dark Side of the Moon. All these years later, I can still vividly remember listening to the record on headphones, with my eyes popping at the mindblowing sound I heard. Dark Side showed me that music could be so much more than the standard three-chord pop dreck on the radio. It could be transporting.

Of all the incredible sounds on Dark Side of the Moon -- and there are many -- it was Richard Wright's simple and beautifully elegant piano and organ that struck me the most. One of the songs he wrote for that album was the hypnotic and poignant "Us and Them."

While Wright's contemporaries -- keyboardists like Rick Wakeman of Yes or Keith Emerson of Emerson, Lake and Palmer -- were focused more on synthesizers as a driving (and often brash) force in music, Wright chose a more restrained style. He loved what a simple organ or piano line could bring to a song. His tasteful mix of jazz and neoclassical forms proved to be the perfect complement to the blues- and folk-flavored psychedelic rock of his bandmates. It's not that Wright didn't love synthesizers; some of his best work was largely synth-based. (Check out Wish You Were Here for proof.) But Wright's voice was always one of calm and control. It's one of the reasons the band rarely allowed extended jams during live shows: The songs were composed with such precise melodies, they didn't really lend themselves to free-form improvisations. Wright had a lot to do with that.

Richard Wright inspired me to be a musician. My parents forced me to take piano lessons when I was 6 and finally allowed me to quit when I was 9 because I loathed it so much. Wright made me want to return to the keyboard. More than 30 years later, the music I play and love today is shaped greatly by his music and what he brought to Pink Floyd.

When Waters and Wright left Pink Floyd and the band more or less fell apart for good in the mid-'80s, Gilmour and drummer Nick Mason soldiered on with the largely forgettable 1987 album A Momentary Lapse of Reason. It was obvious to most longtime fans that Waters' lyrics were no longer steering the ship. But for me, the most glaring omission was Wright's piano and organ. When the regrouped Pink Floyd returned in 1994 with The Division Bell, Waters was still gone, but Wright had returned -- and the band's new music was noticeably improved.

Like any Pink Floyd fan, I've long hoped the band would tour again. I'm not ashamed -- okay, it's a little embarrassing -- to say that I got misty-eyed when Waters, Gilmour, Mason and Wright reunited briefly in 2005 for a Live 8 performance. It sparked a lot of rumors and speculation that Pink Floyd would finally hit the road again. But now, with Wright's death, those hopes have come to an end.

Wright wrote my all-time favorite Pink Floyd song, one with a title suited to commemorate his passing. I'd like to think he's playing now in the "Great Gig in the Sky."
Currently listening:
Dark Side Of The Moon
By Pink Floyd
Release date: 1990-10-25
4:20 AM 
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Monday, August 18, 2008 

Category: Life
Currently listening:
Sleepless
By Kate Rusby
Release date: 1999-08-17
3:11 AM 
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Tuesday, July 01, 2008 

Category: Movies, TV, Celebrities
Every night in July we'll be screening films by Woody Allen. Screening times vary but will generally run from 9PM to Midnight each night. A brief history lesson precedes each film, and a lengthy discussion follows.  There will also be an endless supply of cheese popcorn, sweetmeats, and iced tea.  Everyone reading this is invited, no reservations or ticket fees necessary—just show up with a hankering for some neurotic fun.*

Tuesday, July 1: What's New, Pussycat? (1965)
Wednesday, July 2: Casino Royale (1967)
Thursday, July 3: Take the Money and Run (1969)
Friday, July 4: What's Up, Tiger Lily? (1966)
Saturday, July 5: Bananas (1971) / Play It Again, Sam (1972)**
Sunday, July 6: Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex, *But Were Afraid to Ask (1972)
Monday, July 7: Sleeper (1973)
Tuesday, July 8: Love and Death (1975) / Annie Hall (1977)**
Wednesday, July 9: Interiors (1978) / Manhattan (1979)**
Thursday, July 10: Stardust Memories (1980)
Friday, July 11: A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy (1982)
Saturday, July 12: Zelig (1983)
Sunday, July 13: Broadway Danny Rose (1984)
Monday, July 14: The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985)
Tuesday, July 15: Hannah and Her Sisters (1986)
Wednesday, July 16: Radio Days (1987)
Thursday, July 17: September (1987)
Friday, July 18: Another Woman (1988)
Saturday, July 19: Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989)
Sunday, July 20: Alice (1990)
Monday, July 21: Shadows and Fog (1992)
Tuesday, July 22: Husbands and Wives (1992) / Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993)^*
Wednesday, July 23: Don't Drink the Water (1994)
Thursday, July 24: Bullets Over Broadway (1994) /
Friday, July 25: Mighty Aphrodite (1995) / Meetin' WA (1986)~*
Saturday, July 26: Everyone Says I Love You (1996)^* / Deconstructing Harry (1997)
Sunday, July 27: Celebrity (1998)
Monday, July 28: Sweet and Lowdown (1999)
Tuesday, July 29: Small Time Crooks (2000) / The Curse of the Jade Scorpion (2001) / Hollywood Ending (2002) / Anything Else (2003)****
Wednesday, July 30: Melinda and Melinda (2004) / Match Point (2005) / Scoop (2006)***
Thursday, July 31: Cassandra's Dream (2007)  


* Dates and times subject to change.
** Double feature.
*** Triple feature.
**** Quadruple feature.
^* Rescheduled; to be delivered.
~* Documentary on Woody by Jean-Luc Godard.
3:11 PM 
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Monday, April 28, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
    It's been thirteen years since we parted.  I always knew I loved you better than the rest, but after it ended, I had no inclination to relive the past.  Still, I see you often, talk about you with friends, but I despair in the thought that I'll never know you as intimately as I once did.  People will never see us together, how glorious and young and full of hope we both were.  Even in your advanced years, you were always young.  And me—well, now I'm old and not as forgetful as I wish.  Forgetful is the best way to survive, as memories become too heavy to carry without the help of those that share them.
    Thirteen years—nearly half my life, give or take.  I remember the times we flirted briefly, made plans to be together, only to find something new to distract us, me with my dreams and words, and you with younger, more ambitious replacements.  How they tried to win your favor, far more than I ever would.  Perhaps, our parting need not weigh so heavy on my mind.  Perhaps, love and life have reminded me continuously that facticity is not to be questioned, only accepted.  As a large part of my life, you can be no more.
    My friends speak of you, mention how well you're doing, how powerful, charming, perfectly beautiful.  They speak of the hours of enjoyment you give them, in detailed stories about aspects of your personality that I knew more intimately than they ever will.  I knew you.  I lived you.  It's always hard noticeably losing life.
    Sometimes, I hear people disparage you and feel the need to fight passionately in your defense.  But, you've given me no reason, no need.  You've proven that you don't need me to support you in any way.  You never did.  You never gave me anything for which I didn't have to work; all I ever really did was love you and cheerfully took the joy you provided with reverence and gratitude.  I loved how we looked together, and everything you gave me.  Everyone loved to watch us together, and my family loved you above all others.  There was no death when I was in you, for anyone anywhere.  But, when it became too much work to be with you, I walked away and turned you into a memory.
    I walked into "adulthood" without you, diminished, shaken, not myself.  Sex with easy women, hard women, beautiful women—'im perfect surrogates for you.  I convinced myself a few times I was capable of loving the best ones as much as I did you, but lied more to myself than I ever could to them.  While I'm truer than anyone I've ever met, no one lies better.  Maybe they never knew they were nothing more than accessories to my own vanity and feelings of emptiness.  But, I think they did.  I wanted to be with them no more than thirty percent of the time; I wanted to be with you every waking moment.  Oh, how I tried to make love without you, but failed miserably each time.  Maybe, I'm not as good at lying as I thought.  
    Now I have trouble around you.  When I see you, I want to be with you, feeling the joy, the excitement, the tension.  Watching you from afar is worse than not seeing you at all.  I remember the years I avoided you, and I learned a lot about life.  When I realized that life was harder without you in it, even in the smallest, most pathetic capacity, I decided to let you back in.  It was far from the same, but it felt sweetly nostalgic and comfortable.  When you did well, I took joy, though not the same as when we were together.  The pain of being nothing more than a casual observer was too hard to shake.  But, where once I was too weak to be with you, too weak to be without you, I must reject you now.  I must reject you.  I must reject your lies, your promises, your usurpation of my attention, your indifference to my existence.  If I can. 
    There is so much more I need to say to you, but I've wasted far too much life on you when there's so much more out there.  You can never understand; no one I share words with can either, or cares not to.  No matter.  Just because I've met no one with an imagination large enough to see beyond, I can always take solace in the poem a friend gave me before he died:

Going Out

I need to go out—
Not out then into, but out.  

Feel the elements—
Stars and infinity, too.

No ceiling will do—
Just ground to air to space, out.

    I will go out.  I will take my love to a place it's never been, my strength, my socially obsolete masculinity, my antiquated (classical) taste.  I will take everything and go out, in a way that only prophetic poets and poetic prophets understand.  I will go out and leave you behind, throw away the memories, belittle those that praise or disparage you and your ideals, remember who I was before I lost you, dismiss those afraid of the rain, blind to the sky, condescend to all competitors.  I will go out and revisit the self I was—singular, focused, virile, participating, not an emasculated spectator.  And, you will be nowhere to be found in my new life, heart, or mind when I finally decide to come back in.  
    You've haunted my dreams for thirteen years, long enough.  I still reach out for you only to realize anew that you're not there; and on the occasions that you are, it never really means anything to either of us, but somehow I still come out damaged.  I'm just tired of the superfluous games.  But, my heart, not a day has gone by that I haven't thought of you and the joy you gave me all those years ago.  You were my greatest and purest love, baseball, but I'll neither play nor miss you again. 
3:11 AM 
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Saturday, April 19, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
    Diego stopped by tonight, unannounced.  That makes two days in a row.  He's not my friend, so I figure it's not my responsibility to make him understand that it's not good etiquette to stop by someone's house unannounced.  He needs to know, though.
    Janx was taking a shower when Diego showed, just like the day before.  I felt obligated to let him in, at least until the person he came to see got out of the shower.  Unlike Diego, I believe in etiquette.  Only when he entered the house did I notice the plastic bag he carried, with the unmistakable outline of a bottle inside it.  Hmm.
    I had to make inane small talk, pretending that he wasn't interrupting me, not ruining my night, my plans, my train of thought.  But, he was.  He told me something about a tomato, as I stole glances of the Red Sox game playing on the laptop.  All I wanted to do is finish the movie I had been editing, to steal a few voiceover lines from Janx, to finish the short story I started Sunday after a fifteen minute car ride that took two hours.  I had so many plans for tonight, but none involved Diego.
    He talked about my cat, marveled at his size, complimented him on his beauty (anyone who knows and cares to get on my good side does this—Diego is masterful in bullshitting), and I yessed a lot and waited for Janx to finish his shower.  Diego yelled a couple times towards the bathroom, though nothing rude or coarse, simply trying to coax Janx out to see his guest.  Ellsbury tripled to center, but I missed it paying the obligatory eye contact to Diego while he told me a story about the "whore" he was "banging."
    "You got to see this," he said to me.  He took his cell phone from his pocket and scrolled through some pictures.  "She takes pictures of herself and sends them to me.  Here look at this one."
    He showed me the phone, and on the screen were the low-hanging breasts of a middle-aged Puerto Rican woman, with brown nipples the size of boloney slices.  In this modern world of casual voyeurism, this unfortunately was not the first time I'd seen amateur nudity via cell phone.  "Here, look at this one."
    Finally, Janx came out of the bathroom, wet and shivering like a shaved rabbit.  My respite from the Diego onslaught was short lived, as soon he produced a bottle of tequila from his plastic bag and graciously offered shots.  Now, this was finally some etiquette I could respect, though I still had other plans.  
    One, two, Janx dropped out, three, four, five, six shots apiece.  Maybe it's my weak will, or desire to keep on the good side of the ex-convict in my living room, but I kept pace shot for shot.  Janx shriveled into his laptop and the statistics from his day's fantasy league.  Diego sat on the arm of the love seat and pontificated about life as Diego.  The shit he'd seen.  The whores he banged.  The sharpened pencils he carries in his pocket just in case.  He's not afraid to slap someone down.  
    He told me about prison, the time he fought a giant black man who seemed impervious to his punches, until he pulled out his pencils and chased him into a cadre of his fellow Mexican soldiers.  They stomped the black man down, and Diego reflected on the useful injustice of racism.  When David Ortiz came up with the bases loaded, I couldn't pretend to listen anymore.  As luck had it, Diego played fantasy baseball and had Big Papi on his team.  Lo and behold, Papi hit a grand slam and we celebrated with a shot.  
    One hour of the unannounced visit stretched into two, then three.  In between stories of his softball glory and his dissatisfaction at work, he almost exclusively talked about his whores, and the sweet love and respect he had for Jaclyn, whose husband only recently died.  They both had teenage sons, with hers doing time on a burglary rap.  To him, she was different from his whores and he showed me a picture he kept in his wallet.  "She's the only one I've ever really l—"  He stopped himself before any cracks showed.
    He mentioned an older woman who used to give him money, bought him an entertainment center, paid off a grand in parking tickets for him, only to disappear up to one of the Carolinas.  He suspected she was smoking crack again.  Diego didn't do drugs; he wouldn't even have a beer.  Tequila was his only vice.  Oh, and whores, but to him, that was more of a hobby.
    Diego recalled a time he was in a store and a married girl gave him the eye.  He approached her and the next details escape me.  I'm not sure if they had sex, only made out, or what, but he suddenly got serious.  "Let me tell you something, man, and I'm being completely serious.  Women love tattoos.  I asked this girl why she chose me and she said my tattoos got her hot.  I got tattoos all over, man, my back, my arms, up and down my legs.  All the girls love tattoos, man.  I'm serious."
    I thought about it for a moment, still adamant in my opposition to body art.  I just couldn't picture Einstein getting a tattoo.  Isaac Newton, maybe.  They just seem superfluous, not indicative of anything I am or represent, the ultimate statement of strained decadence.  Ironically, they seem too conformist for me these days, bought and sold by a commodifying society with more fashion sense than common.  But, they still spoke of a rebellion against early modern Western culture's rejection of its tribal roots.  But, if they helped a violently ignorant oaf like Diego get laid—  How much tequila did I drink anyway?
    Diego told us about Chewbacca.  She was one of his whores, who got her name for her resemblance to everyone's favorite wookie.  If memory serves, it was her mammary served up on his cell phone.  He explained how she would sit on one end of his sectional and he on the other, and he would tell her to play with herself.  And, she kindly obliged.  She also promised him her booty one time, and he took her up on the offer.  He laughed when he told us the story of her going to work the next day walking funny and having to sit down gingerly everywhere she went.  All her coworkers knew what happened, and Diego admitted with a little despair that she never again offered her booty.
    "Damn, man, I do want some pussy now," he said not too long after recollecting his unromantic anal escapade with Chewbacca.  He dialed a number, and I turned my attention back to the game, which by this point the Sox had blown wide open.  I looked at the windows I had up on the laptop: a document with a script, a movie editing program with a recently shot movie, the website from work, the game.  There were so many things, so many things that involved no interaction with other humans, so many things that seemed like a good idea just a few hours prior, but now seemed pale.  The alcohol was winning; Diego was winning.  I thought about getting a tattoo.
    "Yeah," Diego said into the phone.  "What are you doing?  Where are you?"  He snapped his fingers at Janx and me and put the phone on speaker.  I was barely listening, but he was soon asking her why she didn't have a three-way or four-way with some guys she was with.  She sounded too normal to be so oblivious.  Maybe she was just lonely.
    "I want some pussy," he said.  There was a pause of a few seconds.
    "Okay," she replied, in an almost disaffected tone.
    "And, you said you were going to make me dinner?"
    "Okay, I'll bring you something."
    "Anything I want?"
    "Okay."
    "I want some lasagna and garlic bread.  You gonna bring me lasagna and some garlic bread?"
    "Sure, I'll bring it."
    "And then we're gonna fuck all night long."
    "All right."
    "When you coming over?"
    "In about thirty minutes."
    "Don't forget the lasagna."
    Click.
    "Now, that's a whore," he said to us.  
    "It's not everyday that a woman brings you lasagna, dude," said Janx.
    I said nothing.  I hated the world at that moment, but I had no idea why.  Was it for losing three hours of my life from an ambushing by a roommate's coworker?  Was it this poor woman whose dignity was as non-existent as the god she probably thanked for her existence?  Was it witnessing such low character and humanity and pretending to approve for cordiality's sake?  Was it the fact that Diego had a woman driving over to his house with dinner and marathon sex all because he asked?  After three-tenths of a second filled with these thoughts, I concluded that it was nothing more than realizing my life was not my life.  My life was empty of a singular focus, devoid of assurance, certainty, simplicity—all of which Diego had in spades.  All I had to keep me warm were my ethics, my values, lofty standards, ideals and resonating memories of affection.  Thoughts make flimsy blankets.  And, even though every ounce of my being knew otherwise, at that moment, it felt like Diego was indeed winning a game I never played.
    He left, but before he went, I joined him in a final shot for the road.  To my amazement, we polished off three-quarters of his liter of tequila and I was far from drunk, only awake.  I hit the point where I wanted to be with the masses, loud, obnoxious, virile, unapologetically alive.  But, I had other plans. 
3:11 AM 
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Saturday, April 05, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Spencer sat in the hospital room
like he did every Wednesday.  
He chose Wednesday because he knew
Rhonda had her church group on Wednesdays.  
He had nothing to say to Rhonda,
and wished to avoid her altogether.  
She blamed him for what happened to Julie, and sometimes
he agreed.  It was a guilt that he never managed to overcome,
especially on Wednesdays.

"I miss hearing you talk," he said to Julie.  "I miss a lot of things these days."

Almost three months after she fell into the coma,
Julie’s dreams kept her in the world of the living, if barely.  
As Spencer sat next to her bed, he never realized
the possibility of the separate reality that existed in her mind,
or the part he played in it, transmuting, transferring,
all her unresolved, unrequited, and unrepentant love.  
All he could know was his own existence and his own thoughts,
which these days betrayed him more often than not.  

"Julie, I love you.  I’ll always love you.  But…"

Her eyelids pulsed—an action missed by Spencer whose own eyes focused on the smooth skin of her upper arm where it emerged from the hospital gown.  Unbeknownst to him, Julie flew in a purple sky with the sea below her.  She never felt such freedom before, such life.  The dark ocean, which caused her anxiety in the other life, beckoned her until she dove like a swan towards the abyss. 

"I have to go," he said.  "It’s too hard for me to keep coming here, seeing you like this, knowing you’ll never be the same—we’ll never be the same.  I’m sorry, but I just…"

She never felt the water as her body pierced the waves; the only sensation she felt was a warm pressure emanating from her teeth, as if an unseen force pulled her by her incisors.  Headlong into the darkness, she noticed the stars on the ocean floor and found it strange she missed them before.  This was where life began.
3:11 PM 
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Tuesday, April 01, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
    Some dAys in life are no doubt better than others; but some days are life-changing and magnificent!  Today was as if a door oPened up and showed me that everything I’ve done to this point was wRong, and any success I enjoyed was nothing but dumb luck.  The only good thing is that it took me to this point where everythIng could come together.
    First off: I got a real job!  I put in appLications a few weeks back and heard nothing.  Until today, that is.  The job for which I applied had already been filled, but I was oFfered an opening position in the marketing department, which from what the lady told me involves mostly cOntent writing and figuring out ways to boost the web presence of the cOmpany.  Now, normally, I would be extremely averse to marketing, but I’ve realized that advertising is a necessary part of modern existence and I need to have a real job.  The job doesn’t pay that well, but it offers medicaL and dental and will finally allow me to feel the satisfaction of an office job.
    The other amazing thing is that I’ve met someone.  I never would have thought anyone could find love online, but I did!  About a month ago, I joined a popular online dating site, and met this woman named Susan.  I normally don’t go for women with kids, but her kid’S are both young and cute and Susan seemed really nice.  So, we met a few times and hit it off.  She’s so unlike the women I usually go for, and she’s got a really good, simple take on the world.  When I’m with her, I don’t care about any of the things that usually get to me, and everything in the world seems innocent and peaceful.  I even love her kids, Andy and Petra, though I hope she doesn’t make me change any more diapers.  The only drawback is that she lives in Polk County, and right now I only get to see her on the weekenDs; but the irony is that my new job is in Clermont, so I’ll be better off staying with her and her kids than driving forty-five minutes to and from work twice a day.  We’ve already talked about it, and I’ll be moving there this summer, maybe earlier.  I can’t wait!
    And, one more life-altering realization that I’ve come to, probably because of all the other great things that have happened, is that I’m no writer.  I guess I liked writing because I like to hear myself tAlk, even though I have nothing to say.  Honestly, writers tend to be pretentious, superficial, arrogant, and most of the time liars.  I never liked being called a "writer," and after serious consideration, I realize that I never was and never will be.  There’re so many good writers out there anyway, that I doubt I would ever be able to create anything of any lasting worth.  I’m not good at grammar and I make tons of typos, anyway.  I’m happy just being with a loving family and having stability in my life.  This is what all people should strive for, because the world would be a much better place if we were all practical and learned to dream small.  You gotta love daYs like these!
8:01 PM 
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Wednesday, March 26, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
(this here’s a pomOVIEe ’bout everynothing!)
Traveling for tradition
Of Jesus dying for the Easter Bunny,
Being productive the whole way,
Free in spirit of the surrounding plague.

Deliberate spontaneity,
On the way to a high school home,
Manifested in a partially-charged
Panasonic digital camcorder.

After nEineGHty MiLnutEs,
Of thirty minutes’ business,
(it’s so freeing to be a passenger!)
The last half hour’s full devotion fell
Faithfully to something filmic.

An impromptu nature
Prevented better preparation,
And the camera died,
After fifteen minutes of shooting.

The first game of the season
Provided the editing opportunity,
Waiting all the time
For the six o’clock hour to come
(it came without!).

Got the win! Got the film!
Slept like a cat on the couch.
Now, plenty of time for working free
And waiting for the next six a.m.

3:11 AM 
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Friday, March 21, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
Fighting Fat and Despair

By Rance Manderson

Must Do Moves

It’s time to lose your belly flab and your existential angst, by turbo charging your toning routine with the most effective, body-shaping exercises of all time. They’re the secret weapons of top Pilates instructor and existentialist philosopher, Soren Kierkegaard, author of Either/Or and Repetition. Pull out individual moves to target trouble zones or do the entire routine 2 to 3 times a week for a head-to-toe body makeover. Either way, Kierkegaard promises these moves will transform your body without squandering a millisecond of your workout time.

Best Butt Move



"The Chair Pose works so well because it asks you to sit all the way back into those buttocks muscles, and then hold yourself in a suspended squat," says Kierkegaard of his favorite butt toner. Stand tall with feet together, then bend knees to lower towards the floor, pressing thighs firmly together. Hold when thighs are near parallel to floor for four deep breaths then stand back up to start. Repeat 2 to 5 times.

Best Thigh Move



Kierkegaard says the Standing Leg Lift is like two exercises in one because it targets the entire hip and thigh area of the standing leg as well as the outer thigh of the moving leg. Stand tall with feet hip-width apart. Bend both knees 2 to 3 inches. As you straighten knees, lift right leg up and out to side until you feel the muscles of right outer hip engage. Repeat 8 to 15 times on each side.

Best Back Move



Bent Over Rows are the perfect back toner because, Kierkegaard says, they attack bra overhang, improve posture and tone the entire mid-back. As a bonus, it also sculpts shoulders and arms. Hold a dumbbell in each hand. Stand or sit in a chair and lean forward so that torso is at a 45 degree angle with the floor; turn palms in, extend arms straight down. Pull dumbbells upward by bending arms until elbows are at waist level. Slowly lower to start. Do 8 to 15 repetitions.

Best Chest Move



"Each time you do Yoga Push Ups, you ask your chest muscles to support your body weight," Kierkegaard says. "Do them consistently and you get fast results." Bend your elbows and place palms on the floor a bit to the side and in front of shoulders. Straighten arms and lift body to balance on palms and toes. Press elbows into sides of torso. Bend elbows to lower body 2 to 3 inches. Press back to start. Repeat 4 to 10 times.

Best Calf Move



Of his pick for chiseling the calves, Kierkegaard says, "Releves are deceptively simple yet highly effective." Stand tall with feet hip-width apart (or wider), hands up and out to the side, on hips, or lightly holding onto a chair, not illusions, for support. Remaining tall, lift heels up off floor. Hold a moment then lower to start. Repeat 8 to 15 times.

Best Arm Move



Do your arm extensions lying down, Kierkegaard advises. "It ensures no other muscles get involved but those in the back of the arm." Hold a dumbbell in each hand then lie on your back on floor or bench. With palms facing in, straight arms up over shoulders. Keeping upper body still, lower forearms until dumbbells are along side of ears. Kick weight back up to start. Repeat 8 to 15 times.

Best Shoulder Move



The best move to get tank-top-worthy definition in your shoulders? According to Kierkegaard it’s the Holding Plank. "It pushes you to work against your own body weight," he says. (This move is even more intense when you do immediately before or after a set of Yoga Push Ups.) Bend your elbows and place palms on the floor directly under your shoulders. Straighten arms and lift body to balance on palms and toes. Hold for deep four breathes. Sit back on heels for a moment to rest then repeat. Do 2 to 5 times.

Best Ab Move



According to Kierkegaard, Criss-cross is the quintessential Pilates ab sculptor because it strongly challenges all aspects of the core at once. Lie on back with left knee bent towards chest and right leg extended up off floor. Place hands behind head. Curl head, neck, and shoulders up off floor. Rotate from middle so that right shoulder is pointing towards left knee. Hold one breath then slowly rotate to other side by bending right knee and extending left leg as left elbow moves towards right knee. Continue alternating to complete set. Repeat 6 to 8 times on each side.

"Leap to Health"

Soren Kierkegaard believes that anyone who practices these simple moves a few times a week, while also abandoning all belief in God, will immediately see the kind of results that lead to a healthier, happier life.  With summer just around the corner, rather than spending a fortune on expensive exercise equipment, gym fees, and religious donantions, simply buy barbells, a book on nineteenth-century philosophy, and make some time for authentic self-improvement!
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Friday, March 14, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
    Might be partially coded and lacking first person pronouns, but the late night hour begged for company in a way not to be ignored.  Could be working on projects for money or for a portfolio, but the full day provided bounty all around, and complicated plainspeak in the electronic present seems the best way to express appreciation.
    Work, sure.  Always.  Half-hearted, at best, though competently passionless.  Seems too much like a waste these days.  Abandoned the pace of February for a week or so, but getting it back incrementally.  More work, passionate work, inspired work is necessary…for everyone…always.  Idealism makes the slightest imperfection in anything chaotic; pragmatists say, "Fuck it."  Some seek the center, but always think right.  Or left.  The only two options for these people, who believe in the attainment of unique perfection.  Spent an hour or two pondering perfection without pursuing it, perhaps a ponderance by proxy.  Now with the contemplation complete, the pursuit begins anew.  "Positive energy will attract positive energy" — the title of Ashley Alexandra Dupre’s former myspace blog, which got hundreds of thousands of hits in the hours between 6:30 and 9:00, March 10, 2008, seven months after she posted it.  The news.
    All the news is deadly.  Twenty-two-year-old whores with myspace pages becoming news.  And, today’s headline: "Severed digits give hope to families of workers kidnapped in Iraq."  Really?  Okay.  Hope is good.  And, AOL’s second top sports story: "World Series Champ Has New Flame—Star Is Dating Penthouse Pet of Year."  Click on the story to learn about Clay Buchholz (on a strange note, the Microsoft spellchecker recognizes "Buchholz" but not "Kubrick" or "Kiekegaard") and how he’s coming up.  The kid whose pitched less major league games than he’s got fingers on his pitching hand is having his dating habits touted as the second most important AOL sports story at this very moment.  Everybody now:  Clay!  Buchholz!  He’s a smart guy.  And, on that, time for a fantasy moment:
    V, Lowell is cool.  Great pick.  The thing about fantasy is that you end up rooting for the guys you have on your team, and to a homer (the sports media’s term for a people that only root for their home team) it’s hard for a Bostonian to root against Lowell.  A trade might be in order, though the Nuclear Bombers are a team of which even an idealist could be satisfied.  
    J, how could you not pick up Jack Wilson?  Sometimes, it’s okay to be a homer.  But, the shape of the ball never matters; the point is always the same.  
    B, good commissioning.  Still have a couple suggestions: Only three P per day, not six; get rid of H/9 and add total strikeouts (also, negative categories like BB and losses keep people honest and non-gimmicky); would also add another Util spot to the lineup and add SO.  Just suggestions, from limited experience.  The season looks good, whether baseball or real life.  Time to kick things into top gear.  Good luck getting LOST.
    F, you don’t read this, but how the hell do you always get first pick?
    But, despite what you hear, reality is so much better than fantasy.  Reality deserves praise—the reality that lives within the fantasy and without it.
    J, simply amazing, inspiring, deserved.  Never enough adjectives for you.
    The camera—so good to have, tested and working to perfection.  Can film and upload and feel satisfied with the score.  The camera bag is a little feminine, but the entire package is Tony the Tiger.  From now on, life will be filmed.  There will be movies.
    Woody Allen is seventy-five percent complete.  The latest shipment includes eight more of his movies, and a few more for an unbelievably low price.  Why do discounts add joy to purchases?  Because they just do.  Time for an all-night, neurotic, existential fest.
    The wedding invite finally arrived, and appears to be a good time waiting.  "And Guest" would be nice to find, but what cool person wants to go to San Francisco for the weekend in late May to drink and see the sights paying for nothing more than a plane ticket?  Eyes and ears are open.  Can’t wait.
    (Here’s where sleep took over and required a posting seven hours after the bulk of these words were written.) Now that it’s morning, there’s a lot to be done.  Wish to take today off, but need to finish working for money.  Renewed zeal makes it easier.  Sometimes Friday is just as good as Monday. 
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Wednesday, March 12, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
    Finished with the day’s work, enjoying a simple lunch and my daily ration of television, a strange thing occurred.  It started with the loud noise of a muffler-less car racing down the street, which through the miniblinds looked like nothing but a yellow streak moving past.  Shortly thereafter, about the same time I finished lunch, I caught the form of a person in my front yard through the same blinds.  I made out that it was a girl with a small backpack, and figured it to be nothing more than a schoolgirl taking a shortcut to somewhere.  I finished the last bites of lunch, swallowed a few sips of iced tea, and thought little of it.
    A few moments later, I heard the gate to my fence opening clumsily.  Now with reason to investigate, I went to put my dishes in the sink, which was already overloaded with yesterday’s dishes, and I saw a pretty young woman awkwardly squeezing through the wooden gate.  I wondered if she was going to steal something, and why neither of the cats seemed concerned.  Wishing her not to see me watching, I walked out of the kitchen and turned off the television.  I then went into the laundry room, but failed to see her walking in the backyard and the bikes appeared safe.  What a strange thing, I thought.  It’s not everyday that young women come to the house unexpected, or uninvited, regardless of what her designs were.  
    Still perplexed by her appearance, I set forth to do the dishes.  Upon returning to the window above the kitchen sink, I saw the young woman sitting on the ground against the inside of my fence sobbing.  This is not what I expected to see on a Wednesday afternoon at three thirty-three.  
    Emotions and questions ran through my mind, and the muffler-less car zoomed back down the road.  Parting the blinds in the front to get a better look, I saw that it was a neighbor’s yellow truck, which for all intents and purposes had no reason to take the route he did, as the street he lives on is closer to the entrance of the neighborhood than mine.  Being acutely aware of my surroundings, I figured out immediately that the sobbing girl and he were in the throes of a domestic dispute.
    My intuition never to get involved in the matters of lovers ensued, remembering that even police are most cautious of domestic troubles.  Strong passions and a lack of reason usually rule the day in such instances.  However, I could not get past the fact that there was a girl, seated on the fallen leaves next to an old empty plastic bucket of cat litter in my backyard crying.  Should I get involved, soothe her, invite her in for a drink and a talk?  These questions were coupled with the pile of dishes on the counter and in the sink.  What would she think of such a mess?  I figured that she needed some time alone, but I felt an unbelievably strong compulsion to nurse her back to happiness.
    Almost instinctively, I began picking up messes around the house, tidying up, occasionally hearing the yellow truck drive by.  I never liked the guy anyway, and our relationship consisted of nothing but notes every now and then from him telling me not to park my car over the invisible line that separates our yards.  I always thought him a douche, and would pay him dirty looks each time I drove by and he was washing his truck with no shirt on, apparently to show the world the his beloved tribal tattoos on his flabby biceps.  But, by inviting his girlfriend in, even if she declined, was nothing more than becoming a part of his life, which I really didn’t want to be.  Still, she cried.
    I couldn’t do the dishes without alerting her to my presence, with the window being right above the sink.  So, I picked up and organized, until every other room looked presentable to new company.  I fetched a handkerchief, grabbed my smokes, and put on my flip-flops.  I decided to go out through the backdoor and approach her as delicately as I could.  I had it all figured out, and would open with, "Excuse me, miss.  Are you okay?"  Of course, I realized the stupidity of such an obvious question, but I wanted to keep it simple for her.  I would then invite her in, ask her to excuse the mess in the kitchen, and offer her a drink of water, or maybe a shot of liquor.  I wouldn’t ask her any more questions other than what she needed.  
    It was probably only ten minutes from the time she squeezed through my gate to the time I finally put on my sandals.  Paying one last look out of the kitchen window before I went outside, she was gone.  
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Wednesday, March 05, 2008 

Category: Writing and Poetry
    Is everything.  
    Multitudes of confident dictators shape personal destinies, misconstruing.  
    Required by administrator; lost money otherwise.  They wanted the history of the thing, the context of the history, the truth closest to the truth.  Why is Dali worth remembering?  Contextually proper answers available only by the passionate or the privileged.  At times, we all fit the bill.  
    Imagination lives outside context.  
    And, why is _______ ______ worth forgetting?  Contextually proper question for the same esoteric few.  They write the context; "they" bend it.  Never "me."  But, "it" remains for us.  
    "…conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal."
    Really?  
    1929.  The crash.  A dream was born in Atlanta; a Dick recently stroked was born in Mount Vernon, New York.  Joyce still banned; the Millers in Paris practicing geometry—isosceles; a thirty-year-old expatriate bid adieu to guns.  A decade removed from the great conflagration to end all conflagrations, a generation lost.  The flu killed scores of millions.  War in Afghanistan.  Art, creation, voices loud and pertinent.  Relief to be!  Futurists abounded.  Germany boiled.  The world displaced its fear with blind joy (the wolf snuck in unseen).  We remember because he noticed.



    The Great Masturbator.  Reality, sir, reality.  More hunger, more vision, more value than current times can muster.  Exploding everywhere in thought.  America, where is your spirit?  We remember because he noticed.



    Trompe l'oeil.  Really?  Stand back.  Stilled missed it?  Two ma knee hax hair. 
    I got your letter today.  I really don't know what to say to something like that.  I'm sorry to hear about Steven.  When did it happen?
    2008.
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Jason



Last Updated: 7/2/2009

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Gender: Male
Status: Married
Age: 102
Sign: Virgo

City: WINTER PARK
State: Florida
Country: US
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