It has been an extremely trying month, both days of it; a mensis horriblus in layman's terms. Everything is all mixed up. We are heading to hand in a hellbasket I tell you. Something must be done about something.
Thank the Founding Fathers for this well-deserved long July 4th weekend to help us forget about the trials and tribulations being trumpeted from the webtops. There's still that annoying oil spill in the Gulf that refuses to pause even as I put pencil to paper. And more troubling, last week's Supreme Court decision that allows every man, woman, and fetus the right to own a handgun upon conception. (In an apparent oversight, stem cells were left out of the ruling.) Couple that with last month's passage of a short-sighted and discriminatory illegal immigrant bill in Arizona, drug cartel murders along the Mexican border, Lindsay Lohan's imminent arrest on probation violations and a hurricane that nearly missed slamming into the Texas coast yesterday. The Haitains never had it so hard.
Here I sit with only 39 minutes left before logging off my computer and leaving work for a three-day bender. As an American, I have the distinct privilege of carrying on with a relatively care-free existence while occasionally pondering how to solve world hunger armed with just my iPhone, car keys, a paper-clip and a sense for what the modern man wears in a beachside resort after 8pm.
The advent of the 24 hour news cycle has exposed us to strife throughout the globe, condensed and captured within the confines of a 15” LCD screen. The world is at once smaller yet more treacherous. The charwoman in Leeds may as well be cleaning the house across the street for all we know, so much have our boundaries been erased. When I was a kid, all you had to do was buy the world a Coke, and smiling hippies in pre-Stella McCartney era peasant-skirts would be grasping hands swaying from the hilltops. The halcyon days are indeed in danger of extinction, so here are my ten recommendations to help start us on the path to singing in perfect harmony:
1) The BP “environmental catastrophe” in the gulf needs to be resolved. Plugging the oil well will only be the start in a decades-long cleanup. But it will be the end of the beginning at least. (Contrary to popular belief, BP does not now nor will it ever stand for "bitch, please.")
2) Apple needs to embrace Adobe Flash. Period. Why can't we all just get along?.
3) Congress must end Don't Ask Don't Tell immediately. Much like desegregating the troops in the 50's, gays in the military should be addressed as a civil rights issue, and it is.
4) Immigration reform must occur this year. We cannot deport 11 million people and conversely, we cannot sustain the current untenable path to citizenship. Si se puede.
5) Lady Gaga must perish from the earth, forever and ever, amen.
6) Replace high fructose corn syrup with sugar. In everything. In moderation.
7) People should be required to read at least one book a month, a paper one with pages that can be turned manually.
8) Watch more Wheel of Fortune and less Housewives of New Jersey.
9) Gays should gain the right to get married, in the eyes of the law and the Crate & Barrel gift registry.
10) And finally: End the wars. Iran, Afghanistan. Iron Chef.
With the two minutes I have left, I'd like to buy more time, Pat.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Saturday, April 3, 2010
beg, borrow, still....
I do not condone begging, panhandling, imploring handouts, or any general anxiousness that infringes upon my person in general. There, I've said it. In my last writing assignment, I was accused of hiding the crux of my story in the closing graf. However, I gather here today to not bury my leads, but rather to praise them.
Today on my way to the coffeehouse I was accosted by no less than three vagrants who were essentially attempting to tax me with representation. There was the war veteran – I didn't ask which war and he didn't tell me -- who commenced to cleaning my front windshield with the expectation of some small gratuity in exchange for services rendered. Instead, I asked to see an operator's permit which he said he conveniently left at home. However, I seriously doubt that when pressed he would have been able to give said address of any domicile cardboard or otherwise.
Then there was the female amputee who stood at the corner of 51st and IH-35 unabashedly holding a sign that said “ON MY LAST LEG.” Now any advertiser worth their salt would know better than to neglect to include a call to action.
I was tempted to offer my freelance writing services to her, pro bono of course, with a 15% cut of the profits but thought better of it. She needed something more along the lines of “GENTLEMEN PREFER L'EGG, DONATE TO A GOOD FLAWS.” (The grammatical error was wholly intentional and added to elicit sympathy.)
I dissemble.
Lastly, there was an amiable enough fellow who appeared to want to throw his body in the path of my moving vehicle in order to secure payment from GEICO. As I approached the intersection and mouthed the words “no insurance,” so that he could clearly see my lips move he thought better of it and stepped back onto the median.
Times may be hard, but I find it difficult to wrap my brain around the notion that anyone would want to stand in the hot sun for 8 hours and degrade themselves by asking for a handout. I personally sit in a dark cubicle for 8 hours and degrade myself and ask for a handout every two weeks, but that is neither here nor there.
My mother was right: People are starving in Africa and might I add, closer to home.
After several unsuccessful attempts to ban public solicitation by the Austin City Council, it looks as if we are indeed headed down a slippery slope that leads to the Mumbai-ization of our fine city. This does not bode well for Austin, or San Francisco, or Peoria or Trenton for that matter. The ACLU would be better served fighting for the rights of the franchised if you ask me.
I am seriously tempted to scout the nearest intersection and solicit donations for that iPad that was just released today. You see, I am short of funds and can think of no other way to bridge the gap between my current lack of monetization and the object of my affection. All that I can offer are words, words and more words. And perhaps the occasional windshield cleaning or two.
Today on my way to the coffeehouse I was accosted by no less than three vagrants who were essentially attempting to tax me with representation. There was the war veteran – I didn't ask which war and he didn't tell me -- who commenced to cleaning my front windshield with the expectation of some small gratuity in exchange for services rendered. Instead, I asked to see an operator's permit which he said he conveniently left at home. However, I seriously doubt that when pressed he would have been able to give said address of any domicile cardboard or otherwise.
Then there was the female amputee who stood at the corner of 51st and IH-35 unabashedly holding a sign that said “ON MY LAST LEG.” Now any advertiser worth their salt would know better than to neglect to include a call to action.
I was tempted to offer my freelance writing services to her, pro bono of course, with a 15% cut of the profits but thought better of it. She needed something more along the lines of “GENTLEMEN PREFER L'EGG, DONATE TO A GOOD FLAWS.” (The grammatical error was wholly intentional and added to elicit sympathy.)
I dissemble.
Lastly, there was an amiable enough fellow who appeared to want to throw his body in the path of my moving vehicle in order to secure payment from GEICO. As I approached the intersection and mouthed the words “no insurance,” so that he could clearly see my lips move he thought better of it and stepped back onto the median.
Times may be hard, but I find it difficult to wrap my brain around the notion that anyone would want to stand in the hot sun for 8 hours and degrade themselves by asking for a handout. I personally sit in a dark cubicle for 8 hours and degrade myself and ask for a handout every two weeks, but that is neither here nor there.
My mother was right: People are starving in Africa and might I add, closer to home.
After several unsuccessful attempts to ban public solicitation by the Austin City Council, it looks as if we are indeed headed down a slippery slope that leads to the Mumbai-ization of our fine city. This does not bode well for Austin, or San Francisco, or Peoria or Trenton for that matter. The ACLU would be better served fighting for the rights of the franchised if you ask me.
I am seriously tempted to scout the nearest intersection and solicit donations for that iPad that was just released today. You see, I am short of funds and can think of no other way to bridge the gap between my current lack of monetization and the object of my affection. All that I can offer are words, words and more words. And perhaps the occasional windshield cleaning or two.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
writing to hear myself write
I have decided to put pen to paper and blog again. This has been no self-imposed exile. It has been imposed upon me. I am not staging a comeback, but merely reestablishing residency. Work obligations and necessary distractions have prevented me from fulfilling the duties for which a byline requires.
These opening sentences are not however the beginnings that justify the means. And this entry should not be taken as said attempt at blogging as I have not fully made up my mind what topic I want to use for my debut, my coming out, my Sweet 41.
I have been plagued by wrongthink and false starts, and the consequences have been reams of blank pages and unused kilobytes.
I have saved a tree but lost the forest. Etcetera, etc..
But fear not for I feel a blog coming on. Once I can get past this little music festival called SXSW (which will never catch on; I give it two years, tops) and that nagging little virus called spring fever, I have every confidence that I can put actions into words. I have utterly convinced myself of éclat and the fact that you have read this far means that I have convinced you as well.
I shall triumphantly return to the notepad with the weight of those before me like Maugham and Proust and Seuss squarely on my shoulders, helping me to forge my way back into literary society.
My cotillion begins right this very minute, and the band can strike up once I finish this sente....
These opening sentences are not however the beginnings that justify the means. And this entry should not be taken as said attempt at blogging as I have not fully made up my mind what topic I want to use for my debut, my coming out, my Sweet 41.
I have been plagued by wrongthink and false starts, and the consequences have been reams of blank pages and unused kilobytes.
I have saved a tree but lost the forest. Etcetera, etc..
But fear not for I feel a blog coming on. Once I can get past this little music festival called SXSW (which will never catch on; I give it two years, tops) and that nagging little virus called spring fever, I have every confidence that I can put actions into words. I have utterly convinced myself of éclat and the fact that you have read this far means that I have convinced you as well.
I shall triumphantly return to the notepad with the weight of those before me like Maugham and Proust and Seuss squarely on my shoulders, helping me to forge my way back into literary society.
My cotillion begins right this very minute, and the band can strike up once I finish this sente....
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
histories of events yet to occur
A dollar will fetch 100 yen on the streets of Yamatotakada and $500 will grant you the deed to Park Place. Everything has a price.
The cost is not always readily apparent but the purchase is evident.
Every word, decision, action or lack thereof involves a trade, an unspoken exchange that may be monetary but oftentimes doesn't involve currency. The piper must be paid, and he may not accept VISA.
I am constantly admonished by friends and coworkers about my diet, with dire warnings of arterial atherosclerosis, ventricular hypertrophy and a host of other ailments and taints not uttered in polite company by those who would choose to eat organic quinoa claiming that it tastes just as good. The price to be paid for that triple cheeseburger is heart disease. I know it, and my doctor knows it although all of my recent vital signs point to the contrary.
A carnivore once promised his vegetarian friends that he would very much like to visit them in the hospital when they are dying from nothing. We all make choices in life and must live with the consequences. The proverbial bed is made.
An interesting theory put forth by the ancient teachings of The Kabbalah proffers a sort of pay it forward concept called the "Butterfly Effect." In essence, a butterfly's flapping wings, or a car door slamming in Brazil can disturb the airflow enough to create a gust of wind in Manhattan, or a hurricane in the gulf. Similarly, that off-handed remark made by your boss which caused you to gripe at a waiter at lunch who later went home and argued with his wife who consequently decided to leave him germinated that morning even before your first cup of coffee. In this sense, everything we do eventually comes back to us in one form or another. Viewed conversely, we are all interconnected, each one of us affecting the other whether in the next room, across the street, or a continent away.
Absorbing this knowledge and taking responsibility for the plight of our fellow man is more than just a slogan from Madison Avenue. It is merely the first step in a process that makes us more self aware of our linked destinies and shared futures, a religion of reciprocity, if you will.
There is much I have learned about human interaction these past few months, and much I have yet to learn. Much of it I would have gladly avoided in hindsight, and none of it would I have traded for not having experienced it. Much is written in books, but more is learned through the living. The expense for all of this knowledge is still to be determined, but the compensation must be made.
But first, let me digest that hamburger.
The cost is not always readily apparent but the purchase is evident.
Every word, decision, action or lack thereof involves a trade, an unspoken exchange that may be monetary but oftentimes doesn't involve currency. The piper must be paid, and he may not accept VISA.
I am constantly admonished by friends and coworkers about my diet, with dire warnings of arterial atherosclerosis, ventricular hypertrophy and a host of other ailments and taints not uttered in polite company by those who would choose to eat organic quinoa claiming that it tastes just as good. The price to be paid for that triple cheeseburger is heart disease. I know it, and my doctor knows it although all of my recent vital signs point to the contrary.
A carnivore once promised his vegetarian friends that he would very much like to visit them in the hospital when they are dying from nothing. We all make choices in life and must live with the consequences. The proverbial bed is made.
An interesting theory put forth by the ancient teachings of The Kabbalah proffers a sort of pay it forward concept called the "Butterfly Effect." In essence, a butterfly's flapping wings, or a car door slamming in Brazil can disturb the airflow enough to create a gust of wind in Manhattan, or a hurricane in the gulf. Similarly, that off-handed remark made by your boss which caused you to gripe at a waiter at lunch who later went home and argued with his wife who consequently decided to leave him germinated that morning even before your first cup of coffee. In this sense, everything we do eventually comes back to us in one form or another. Viewed conversely, we are all interconnected, each one of us affecting the other whether in the next room, across the street, or a continent away.
Absorbing this knowledge and taking responsibility for the plight of our fellow man is more than just a slogan from Madison Avenue. It is merely the first step in a process that makes us more self aware of our linked destinies and shared futures, a religion of reciprocity, if you will.
There is much I have learned about human interaction these past few months, and much I have yet to learn. Much of it I would have gladly avoided in hindsight, and none of it would I have traded for not having experienced it. Much is written in books, but more is learned through the living. The expense for all of this knowledge is still to be determined, but the compensation must be made.
But first, let me digest that hamburger.
Monday, September 21, 2009
the Wintour of our content
Attempting to define style is much like trying to draw blood from a rolling vein. Physiologically, we know it's just under the skin but in the operating theater of reality, it can prove elusive. Fashion is triage, and there has been no greater reference book on female anatomy than Vogue.
Helmed by the indomitable Anna Wintour, she of the disproportionate sunglasses and precision-cut page boy, Vogue has become the go-to source for all things couture and coat rack for over 100 years, lending credence to the adage that beauty lies not in the eye of the beholder, rather in the eyeliner of the beholden.
If Anna says that blue is the new black, or that bouclé is so very last season, then it is. It simply is. Mortals can get no closer to God on earth, a fashion deity that deems something is so true that the apostles must purchase the monthly gospel while standing in checkout lines at the local A&P with a cart filled with a few groceries and dreams that would certainly put them over the 15-item limit; women who fantasize that with the right cloak, and cut, and powder and paint, that they too can emerge from the chrysalis as the next Sienna Miller, or Halle Berry, or heaven forbid something goes horribly wrong, Jennifer Aniston.
In R.J. Cutler's "The September Issue," a behind-the-scenes frockumentary on the publication of Vogue's largest issue ever, a behemoth that clocks in at 844 pages, online fashion director Candy Pratts Price makes a bold yet telling assessment when she proclaims that "September is the January of fashion."
The rules have been brought forth down from the Condé Nast publishing mountain, and much like the minor 26 second difference between the Gregorian Calendar and an actual solar year, we count seasons based on magazine covers and photo spreads rather than what we actually see roaming the streets on a day-to-day basis. Life imitates artifice.
When a woman purchases Vogue, she isn't purchasing reality, she is buying a lifestyle, a piece of a dream, an unattainable perfection documented twelve times a year at $5.95 a pop.
Who needs the definition of style when there it is staring back at us from the nearest coffee table, checkout stand, or waiting room at the doctor's office? Perhaps when it comes to phlebotomy we're a lot better off taking our chances with Anna.
Helmed by the indomitable Anna Wintour, she of the disproportionate sunglasses and precision-cut page boy, Vogue has become the go-to source for all things couture and coat rack for over 100 years, lending credence to the adage that beauty lies not in the eye of the beholder, rather in the eyeliner of the beholden.
If Anna says that blue is the new black, or that bouclé is so very last season, then it is. It simply is. Mortals can get no closer to God on earth, a fashion deity that deems something is so true that the apostles must purchase the monthly gospel while standing in checkout lines at the local A&P with a cart filled with a few groceries and dreams that would certainly put them over the 15-item limit; women who fantasize that with the right cloak, and cut, and powder and paint, that they too can emerge from the chrysalis as the next Sienna Miller, or Halle Berry, or heaven forbid something goes horribly wrong, Jennifer Aniston.
In R.J. Cutler's "The September Issue," a behind-the-scenes frockumentary on the publication of Vogue's largest issue ever, a behemoth that clocks in at 844 pages, online fashion director Candy Pratts Price makes a bold yet telling assessment when she proclaims that "September is the January of fashion."
The rules have been brought forth down from the Condé Nast publishing mountain, and much like the minor 26 second difference between the Gregorian Calendar and an actual solar year, we count seasons based on magazine covers and photo spreads rather than what we actually see roaming the streets on a day-to-day basis. Life imitates artifice.
When a woman purchases Vogue, she isn't purchasing reality, she is buying a lifestyle, a piece of a dream, an unattainable perfection documented twelve times a year at $5.95 a pop.
Who needs the definition of style when there it is staring back at us from the nearest coffee table, checkout stand, or waiting room at the doctor's office? Perhaps when it comes to phlebotomy we're a lot better off taking our chances with Anna.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
clocks
Day, n. A period of twenty-four hours, mostly misspent. ~Ambrose Bierce
Once upon a time, there was time. Seconds and minutes and hours counted by hatch marks on the wrists of those now passing years in timeless cemeteries. It is a concept at once elusive and obvious, hurtling each of us toward a destiny that can only be recounted in hindsight.
I am constantly reminded of time whenever I look in the mirror. Or when I feel an ache that wasn't there the day before. Or when I see the children of friends who look exactly as I remember their parents looking just a few years prior. Or perhaps longer than that.
They say that time is what prevents everything from happening at once, and I am inclined to believe this. Time is not something that passes us by, rather it is static, a permanent sign post stuck in concrete. Time stays... we go.
Addresses change, lovers uncouple, hairlines recede but time remains constant. Sometimes I wish I could retrieve some of that constance and have back many of those wasted hours, a do-over if you will. I want to change my mind and do things differently, and take the other fork in the road and make a decision that leads to a different outcome. I want to miss that elevator and meet someone else on the stairwell, and find myself in a different city with different friends and a different house with another name on the mortgage. To go back and tell a loved one that they were indeed a loved one before it was too late. Or, make amends for something that hadn't happened yet.
These are the tricks of time. It is an illusory mechanism that calculates the distance between cause and effect. Whether I will fully understand my actions as measured by the clock is not for me to tell. The present is the moment that just passed, and the future waits in the next sentence.
Time won't give me time.
Once upon a time, there was time. Seconds and minutes and hours counted by hatch marks on the wrists of those now passing years in timeless cemeteries. It is a concept at once elusive and obvious, hurtling each of us toward a destiny that can only be recounted in hindsight.
I am constantly reminded of time whenever I look in the mirror. Or when I feel an ache that wasn't there the day before. Or when I see the children of friends who look exactly as I remember their parents looking just a few years prior. Or perhaps longer than that.
They say that time is what prevents everything from happening at once, and I am inclined to believe this. Time is not something that passes us by, rather it is static, a permanent sign post stuck in concrete. Time stays... we go.
Addresses change, lovers uncouple, hairlines recede but time remains constant. Sometimes I wish I could retrieve some of that constance and have back many of those wasted hours, a do-over if you will. I want to change my mind and do things differently, and take the other fork in the road and make a decision that leads to a different outcome. I want to miss that elevator and meet someone else on the stairwell, and find myself in a different city with different friends and a different house with another name on the mortgage. To go back and tell a loved one that they were indeed a loved one before it was too late. Or, make amends for something that hadn't happened yet.
These are the tricks of time. It is an illusory mechanism that calculates the distance between cause and effect. Whether I will fully understand my actions as measured by the clock is not for me to tell. The present is the moment that just passed, and the future waits in the next sentence.
Time won't give me time.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
empty calories
If one stands on a paper plate long enough, he rightfully begins to fancy himself an entrée at a picnic. But whether that turns out to be barbecued chicken or potato salad is all a matter of conjecture. Personally, I prefer a tender rack of pork ribs seasoned just so with a tangy sauce and a hint of cinnamon but it's a lot of effort for very little meat.
Read into this what you will and I will write into it, wholly subscribing to the manifesto that the words will seek their own level and create meaning where a blank page, or screen existed mere moments before. I never met an empty space or jigger that couldn't be filled with something or other.
A friend just this minute after reading my lead paragraph commented that I am the kind of person who would design an outfit around a shoe or accessory or seek out an event in need of cause.
This in turn made me begin to ponder exactly how long I could get away with writing about nothing in particular, rambling on towards an illogical conclusion built upon a faulty premise that never existed in the first place. Was I becoming the literary equivalent of a Seinfeld episode; a box of Cracker-Jacks without the prize? Allow me to get 25 words in edgewise; there truly is a grain of substance in this shell of a story, but whether it will yield a pearl has yet to be determined.
While I was originally going to speak about personal virtues, and moral dilemmas, and intestinal fortitude I instead got sidetracked by the process rather than the subject matter.
True, much has happened since my last foray onto the fields of Gettys-blurb, and much will occur in the years four-score hence, but this is neither the time nor the consecrated ground to spill all the impertinent details of the day-to-day.
Life is indeed a buffet, a picnic, a portable feast I've heard it called.
Sometimes what you put on your plate is fulfilling. Sometimes it gives you indigestion. And yes, sometimes the menu flat out chooses you.
Seconds anyone?
Read into this what you will and I will write into it, wholly subscribing to the manifesto that the words will seek their own level and create meaning where a blank page, or screen existed mere moments before. I never met an empty space or jigger that couldn't be filled with something or other.
A friend just this minute after reading my lead paragraph commented that I am the kind of person who would design an outfit around a shoe or accessory or seek out an event in need of cause.
This in turn made me begin to ponder exactly how long I could get away with writing about nothing in particular, rambling on towards an illogical conclusion built upon a faulty premise that never existed in the first place. Was I becoming the literary equivalent of a Seinfeld episode; a box of Cracker-Jacks without the prize? Allow me to get 25 words in edgewise; there truly is a grain of substance in this shell of a story, but whether it will yield a pearl has yet to be determined.
While I was originally going to speak about personal virtues, and moral dilemmas, and intestinal fortitude I instead got sidetracked by the process rather than the subject matter.
True, much has happened since my last foray onto the fields of Gettys-blurb, and much will occur in the years four-score hence, but this is neither the time nor the consecrated ground to spill all the impertinent details of the day-to-day.
Life is indeed a buffet, a picnic, a portable feast I've heard it called.
Sometimes what you put on your plate is fulfilling. Sometimes it gives you indigestion. And yes, sometimes the menu flat out chooses you.
Seconds anyone?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
