Why You're Here:

You've said to yourself, "beauty walks a razor's edge, someday I'll make it mine."

You've often thought about what it would have been like to drop acid with Groucho Marx.

You know that until you measure it, an electron is everywhere, and your mind reels at the implications.

You'd like to get drunk on the wine from my sweet, sweet mind grapes.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

Lotta Dust to Knock Off

Jenn and I are moved in to our new digs in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Well, moved in to the extent that our stuff is here, but it looks like a bomb went off). Been a hectic week, dealing with a novice landlord trying to nickel and dime us, but on the flipside we've moved on to homeownership which brings new problems but no more of that bullshit. Hopefully this woman will see the light and we'll see all of the security deposit. If she doesn't, I will crush her in small claims court and make her wish she'd sold the place instead of renting it.

Moving coincided with some very nice weather (finally!), and some kick ass food. Top of the list was the best cookies and cream ice cream I've ever had as well the best grilled corn. Both places are a stone's throw from us (a stone thrown from our roof perhaps, but still), as well as more restaurants and bars than I can shake a stick at--and I can shake a stick with the best of them.

There's a low profile bar at the end of the block in what was a pierogi factory. The building in which we live used to be a bakery. Gentrification overdrive, sure, but I'm looking out our window across the street at the still-active U.S. Rubber Supply Co. -- "If it's made of Rubber we have it".

Finally, our favorite pint-sized cat, Piper, nearly gave Jenn a heart attack last night and me one this afternoon. With the doors open while moving stuff in she made a run for it last night, but I got a hold of her out on the street. Today while furniture was being delivered I noticed Piper was nowhere to be found. Calling her name and searching high and low inside and out, looking in drawers, on top of cabinets, you name it--I didn't flush her out or find her. I feared the worst.

Four hours later she saunters into the living room like "what? you lookin' for me?"

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming, which is me firing off posts with a vengence reminiscent of Popeye Doyle's return visit to the Hotel Du Tangier in French Connection 2 (the most underrated sequel of all time, you know).

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Tuesday, June 23, 2009

My Kinda Funny

Apologies if you've seen this particular version of this internet meme, but damn if I didn't spit take (see here for a delightfully deconstructed spit take) the first time I saw it in a comment thread. Whenever it pops up I still fucking laugh.

I'm tempted to break down why it's so awesome, but that would require a level of hubris I don't yet possess. (Though if you don't get the Christmas reference it's not nearly as funny, so here ya go. Victory or Death, indeed.)

Finally, in connection with this topic I want to share with you one of the formative images in my life. On a trip to Washington, D.C. in 1993 I saw a statue in a museum (can't remember which) depicting a seated George Washington. Sounds unremarkable, right? Ah, but this one was marble, oversized, and was basically Washington's head atop a body I can only describe as that of a Greek god. I devoured Greek mythology as a young lad and I also had a deep reverence for our founding fathers; clearly, this conflation blew my mind up. Myth meeting reality and merging into some sort of super-myth.

Sure, it's easy to relegate what we learned about America's origins into the dustbin of names and places foisted on us through rote memorization in a ham-handed attempt at a civic-minded socialization that passes for education. And it's just as easy to think that those same people and events have been mythologized all out of proportion by almost-dead white dudes who make their living writing books about long-dead white dudes. And it's even easier to think we can minimize the importance of such events and people because everybody back then was a misogynist/racist/native-murdering cretin. What makes me sad is that even though all of the above is true, it truly misses the point.

But I'm not going to tell you what the point is, because I keep my patriotism quite close to my vest, for it is deeply held and, I believe, deeply considered. Hard to get across in type, far harder to do in conversation. As it is for so many things, you can't know where to go if you don't know what to make of where you've been. Sometimes I just think Americans miss the entire point of being American.

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Eastbound and Down

Eastbound and down, loaded up and truckin'
We're gonna do what they say can't be done
We've got a long way to go, and a short time to get there
I'm eastbound just watch ol' bandit run.



I recently discovered the title of my current favorite tv show comes from the theme to Smokey and the Bandit, performed by Jerry Reed, co-star of the movie and a country star in his own right.

This pleases me greatly. Can I get a "Kenny Fuckin' Powers"?



Amen.

Anyway, whatever happened to movie-specific theme songs? Granted, the director of S&tB, Hal Needham, complained to Jerry Reed that he didn't have any music for the movie so Mr. Reed turned around and cranked out 3 songs. That's not your everyday situation, of course.

Still, think about it: with all the cross-promoting synergy sell-out multi-platform hoo-hah in the world today, how is this not happening? Hell, bands put their songs in commercials all the time. What's stopping some band from writing a catchy tune to accompany the latest Will Farrell/Judd Apatow/Ben Stiller high-concept formulaic clusterfuck of a comedy?

Nothing but a failure of imagination.

P.S. The plot of S&tB involves driving from Georgia to Texas and back in record time with a load of Coors--which, back in the '70s, was illegal because Coors' higher alcohol content beer was illegal east of Texas. Who needed it? Two dudes in mustard yellow suits. Man was I born too late.

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Monday, June 22, 2009

Quick Hit: Why So Serious? Edition

The Dark Knight hit HBO last week. Since seeing it in the theater I've watched it in its entirety twice and seen lots of scenes lots of times. My conclusion is this:

The movie--though very good--is not as good as everybody thought.

But Heath Ledger's Joker was actually better than everybody thought.

Put that in your Bat-Pipe and Bat-Smoke it! Snoochie Boochies, Bluntman!




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Sunday, June 21, 2009

A Page From My Brother's Playbook

It's clear to me now that, like my brother, I have--though to a much smaller degree--a desire to impose my will on:

a) all who cross my path, and
b) all who have yet to.



Right now, James is on a fishing boat (not right outside of Delacroix, sadly) off the coast of Alaska so I can't ask his permission, but I'm sure he'd permit me to engage in what he likes to call Imposition of Will.

This has been bubbling up in some of my more recent posts. I've let you know I'll be providing a primer for following English soccer. And also an ongoing...introduction? indoctrination? indoctriduction? to the Grateful Dead. I'm sure there will be more to come.

What compels me to do this?

The stuff I like kicks ass, and if you don't know about it you should. Do I want everybody to? Of course not. Do I want everybody reading this blog to dig what I think you should dig? Of course. It makes me right and it makes your lives better. Everybody wins!

You may now get on the good foot. The choice is up to you:






or




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A Limb

I'm going out on one.

If you'll all take a look to my left and your right, you'll see a new gadget which allows me to see who follows this blog...well, to state that more accurately, it allows me to see anybody who chooses to identify themselves as one who follows my blog.

At first I wasn't sure I was this vain and insecure, but then I remembered that I was.

I hold out absolutely no hope that it will be anything but a terrible void (or a pale facsimile of my friends list on Facebook, which is pretty much the same thing) which will reflect back my own emptiness. So I'll be scouring the Googlenets to find a plug-in to accompany it that will play the sound of crickets, or tumbleweeds. 'Cause then it would be funny.

As you were.

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Saturday, June 20, 2009

People Forget Or They Just Don't Know

And I aim to fix that.

The greatest band ever--no, the greatest thing ever--is the Grateful Dead. Shit, even I forget sometimes. Shame on me. But my (cl)aim is true. And I'm fonna tell you how. And why. Because if I don't, nobody else will. I feel like Homer (not the one who says "D'oh" but the one who wrote the Iliad and the Odyssey), for I seek to transfer that which is aural and oral (not to mention visual) into the written word.Now this is gonna take some time, dig. Don't expect it all here, now. It could take months or even years. Actually, it should take a long time. For the moment, allow me to slap you in the face with something that your brain will want to call hyperbole but I will show you is fact: the Grateful Dead are as good as or better than the following: Seinfeld, The Howard Stern Show, Bob Marley, Star Wars, Michael Jordan, Star Trek, beer, The Simpsons, no traffic on the 405, Pink Floyd, Tiger Woods, the Moon landing, Kobe's alley oop to Shaq in the 4th quarter against Portland in game 7 of the Western Conference Finals (but not better than Kirk Gibson's home run), Godfather I and II, the movies John Hughes directed from 1984 through 1989, Barack Obama, The A-Team (when you watched in 4th grade, not now), Babe Ruth, television, Television, The Wire (I've only seen the first season so far, but some things I just know, ok?), Sprinkles cupcakes, In 'N' Out Double Double Animal Style, and Zachary's Pizza.

I know I've left a lot of things off this list, but that's probably just some stuff you care about that means nothing to me. Just know that I dialed back the hyperbole a little bit in the previous paragraph, because truthfully the Grateful Dead is better than all of those things. Combined. Then squared. Then multiplied by pi carried to as many places as Mike Brown has memorized (that's a lot of places. like 3.14159265358979 many places).

Also, I didn't want to blow your mind. That's their job:








Not mine.

Mark my words: when I'm done with you, you're either gonna agree with me or wish you did.

Believe it.

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Thursday, June 18, 2009

A Bookmark

Pieces of ribbon tied to eye-level tree branches. Breadcrumbs. GPS. Not taking all of the pot with me. What are things I can use to get back to where I was (apologies for the carson/karnak ripoff)?

The above-mentioned items are good choices for the physical world. But what about the metaphysical? The life of the mind? For all the rabbit holes I've ducked into, I always come out somewhere new, yet I manage to forget where I started. A bit too much flow-surrendering, perhaps? Can I impose a bit more direction to my investigations?

This blog should help me with that. I'll be revisiting some of the lightning bolts I've managed to catch and transcribe over the past year or two. Some of them are more fully-formed than others; most will require a trip or two back down some old rabbit holes.

For now, I offer these. Can objectivity and subjectivity ever be the same thing? Are they, in fact, always the same thing? To what degree is a distinction between them valuable? And if they are the same thing, what of it?

I know I've got you all frozen in white-knuckled anticipation, so stay tuned, sportsfans.

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25 Years and Repo Man's Still Intense

Which is no surprise, of course, because the life of a repo man's always intense.



This movie is in my top 5 favorites. Not what I think the 5 best movies are, mind. But my favorites. That is, their idiosyncracies align with my idiosyncracies. Also important, a favorite is a movie that, for whatever reasons, I have seen so many times its very existence becomes enmeshed with mine.

Like Tracy Walters' "plate of shrimp" monologue (part of which is shown in the above trailer). It helped me tie together threads of my emerging self-knowledge that were coalescing just below my consciousness.

Anyway, Repo Man has a dynamite soundtrack. Early '80s L.A. punk crossed with some eerie chilled-out Latin-inflected rockabilly-type shit. Like this:




Also, keep an eye out for the dude who played Frankie in the last season or two of The A-Team.

Finally, what are my other 4 favorites? Hmm. Ferris Bueller's Day Off is a stone cold lock (It's also a SCL for my list of perfect movies. Rushmore (also under consideration for the perfect list). Ok, that's 3. Hmm. Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. And Jules et Jim. Which narrowly--and I mean narrowly--edges out City of Lost Children for the coveted French-film-that-makes-me- seem-cooler-than-I-am slot. So that's the 5. For today, anyway. But lists are stupid, am I right? Lemme give you my top 5 reasons lists are stupid, wakka wakka!

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Your Morning Freshness



Ah, Eric the King, Eric Cantona.

His career ended just as I was becoming aware of English soccer. His strength, precision, and what I can only call a compelling arrogance are something that I have yet to see from another footballer. For you David Beckham fans out there, he wore number 7 at Manchester United because Cantona, his idol, did.

During the 2006 World Cup Cantona did a series of ads for Nike, wherein he sported a beard and shoulder-length hair. So did I during that time, and I received more than a few comparisons to him from patrons of The Fox and Hounds. Needless to say, that pleased me greatly. And the comparison took on another dimension when I scored THAT goal for Barton Hall FC--my collar was popped, like his, and--at least in my mind--after scoring I turned to survey the mere mortals who were lucky to share the same pitch with me. But seriously, that goal was the greatest moment of my life and likely always will be. Even if I were to have a child. Or become president. Or find out I won the lottery while aboard a spaceship piloted by a resurrected Bob Marley.

In the coming weeks, watch this space for a primer on following club soccer in Europe, with a focus on England. Can't wait for August, when the season starts up. I didn't play it much growing up, and I was a rabid fan of the big 3 American sports, but I now feel it's the most rewarding sport to follow.

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Sunday, June 14, 2009

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009 NBA Champions! We love it!

Much respect to the Magic, the first playoff team to have to face three 60+ win teams, but boy did the Lake Show finish this in style.

Lakers' fifteenth. Kobe and DFish's fourth. Phil's fourth Laker and 10th overall (that "X" hat is hard as nails. I already have my man DDubs keeping his eyes peeled for one for me).

Point of emphasis: Doug Collins' didn't do shit with MJ and Del Harris didn't do shit with Shaq AND Kobe, so yes, Phil Jackson is god. I mean, just look at him. Listen to him. You're enraptured by the beatific glow he omits. You know it's true. Man, if I were still in L.A. I'd go to the parade with my homemade Red Auerbach effigy, whereupon I'd stick a cigar up its ass and light it on fire. Smoke that ya crusty bum! Phil beat you and he did it with the Lakers--that's gotta sting. May he continue to dance on your grave!

Point of emphasis: Derek Fisher will never be in the Hall of Fame. But he will be the first non-member to have his jersey hang in the rafters at Staples, mark my words.

So nice to see the 'Show finish things off with a fully committed defensive performance. Four blocks from both Pau and Kobe. Dwight Howard, 11 pts.

Though they weren't always a delight to watch this season (which still sounds crazy to say about a team that won 65 games, but it's true), when they were on, they were molten magma. The fast break transition game. Pau's silky inside-out side post consistency. Kobe from any spot on the floor with an "I'm not touching you!" hand in his face. Coast-to-coast L.O., yo. BurglAriza swooping into passing lanes and sparking runs. Derek Fisher slinging those from-the-hip, rainmaking threes (and delivering titanic forearm shivers!). Luke Walton refusing to stop pointing at a teammate after he scores, regardless whether that player was involved in the play (a trademark gesture used by the Threepeat team that Kobe and Fish appear to have left in the past). Josh Powell eating up regular season minutes with 15-foot jumpers. Shannon Brown emerging from the bench to drain threes and suck the air out of the Staples Center crowd with fast-forward-like dunksplosions. Andrew Bynum showing flashes of future freshness right now. Sasha slinging bricks from start to finish, whining and flopping about in the process. Vlad Rad digging a hole that led straight to Charlotte. Jordan Farmar carrying the mercurial Bench Mob on his shoulders and surviving a mid-playoff loss of mojo.

This team's got the talent, the coach, the GM and the owner to catch and overtake Boston's 17 banners. That is a tall, TALL task. But such are the trials of the Los Angeles Lakers, for they are sporting royalty, the avatar of the city they represent. They are a repository of goodwill, a tie that binds the far reaches of Southern California to its center, stretching back into our youth and out into our lives.

We love it.








........so, is Chad Billingsley gonna be the Senior Circuit's All-Star starter? Can't wait to see the Blue Crew take on the Mets out at Flushing Meadows July 7-8-9.


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Friday, June 12, 2009

Depression Is A Tough Bitch

Depression's been hounding me since my early twenties; clinically diagnosed (the result of Jennifer finally forcing me to deal with it) at 27. I've spent long stretches pursuing the talking cure and long stretches taking different medications. I've had short stretches of progress followed by long stretches of frustration and setbacks.

I don't make this post so I can work anything out for myself--though who knows, maybe I will. At this point I have a pretty clear-headed understanding of my situation. That said, it's still with me and, to varying degrees, may always be. I'm writing about this to give people I know some insight into my actions and behavior over, well, the past decade. Perhaps readers who don't know me might gain insight into someone they know who's in the same boat.

What compels me to do this, and to do it now? Distance, for one. Both geographically and emotionally. I never really let anyone know how much trouble I was in, or how much pain I was in. As close as I ever was to anybody back in Los Angeles, I never discussed my "problems." I wasn't going to burden anybody else, or waste anybody else's time with my bullshit. Everybody's got problems, who cares about mine? I certainly wasn't going to ask anybody for help--I was perfecting my own fucked up strain of martyrdom that was undetectable to anybody but me. And as my time in Los Angeles grew shorter and shorter there was no way I was going to start opening up--Johnny Funtime had to be the life of the party and keep the lights turned on and the stereo cranked to 11. And now I'm gone, and finding it way easier to express myself with the written word. A chickenshit approach, perhaps, but they do use that for fertilizer, don't they? Let's see if something sprouts up, shall we?

I always thought my tight-lipp-edness was for everybody's else's benefit. Not true. That was just me building a wall, brick by brick, to keep everybody out, or at least at a distance I could handle. I still haven't nailed down what it is I'm protecting myself from, and why (though I have some ideas, of course). But I'm starting to realize that the "what" and "why" don't really matter. I have to at least stop with the masonry. Then maybe I can move on to demolition. That makes metaphorical sense, but what do I really mean?

To start with, I've got engage with the people I care about. Now that I'm so far away it would be really easy to let the walls climb higher.
Man, I can it feel happening even as I write this...hell, I can feel it happening despite the fact that I'm writing this.

Them: "How're things going out there?"
Me: "Fine. You know...[dissembling, noncommittal, mealy-mouthed nonsense].
The Me Trapped Inside My Head: "Actually, I'm feeling [REDACTED]."

I owe the people I care about more than that. And since I'm unable/unwilling to give it to them, I just avoid contact altogether, because I know how easy it is to retreat: into my head, into my marriage, into the apartment--places that are safe, places where the demands are familiar and so are the results.
I almost looked forward to that upon arrival here, and pretty much announced it when I started this blog and jokingly said "now I can keep everybody in the loop and I don't have to talk to anybody." It's been six weeks and I still feel that way even though I know I shouldn't.

Grrrr....frustration's setting in. The more I write the further away I'm getting--I can't get the thoughts to come out in the effortlessly tossed-off, diamond-cut prose that you're used to.

I've strayed from the purpose of today's post--a bit of insight into clinical depression. Even now, this many years down the line, even while I'm on a combination of medications that are working very well for me, I still am susceptible to its vague but vice-like grip. Having been through the ringer so many times, I notice the onset more quickly, and I'm more quickly aware of being lost in its fog. So I've got that going for me, which is nice. And I even kinda sorta know how to break out of it now. But what's it like being "in it"?

sigh....

I imagine it's like an aging world class athlete's frustration: the brain knows what to do but the body just won't respond. It's paralyzing. The dark thoughts flex their considerable muscles and crowd out and choke the pencil-necked confident thoughts (those confident thoughts sure do have moxie, and, truth be told, they have an undefeated record. How do I know? The worms would be playing pinochle on my snout.) Can I pile on another metaphor? It's like stepping on the gas and the brake at the same time. If I merely sat in the car and did nothing, there'd be no frustration or confusion at going nowhere.

I know I need to get out of bed, shower, and get on with the day. I have a list of things that I need to do today, tomorrow, next week. But I don't. I can't
? I won't? Which is it? Why is it? I guess it feels like a horrible admixture of the two--definitely worse than either alone. But it's often something that people not suffering from depression want to focus on, as if the answers would release its grip. But I've found that's mostly beside the point.

Why? Because I know if I just string together a few tiny, tiny "accomplishments" I can break its grip. I know it because that is how it always happens. This current bout started yesterday in the morning (note: I started this post about a week ago and let it marinate), I recognized it about mid-day, and, in the evening, discussed it with Jennifer. And it's in those discussions that the frustrations arise, for me and for her. She reiterates what I need to do, I respond with "I know, I know" and she says "you say 'I know' but you need to hear it because you're not doing it." Knowing what I need to do and failing to do it just makes the fog...foggier.

Lord, do I want to spare us both from this stupid dance. The exchange above is a sweet, sweet gift compared to what I've subjected her to over the course of our relationship. It's taken hard work on both our parts and a colossal amount of patience and love from her.

But even though I know, and she knows, what I need to do, it still took until well into the afternoon today (the day after I started writing this post) to bust through it. And I have to keep at it, gotta string together the small victories.

Maybe turn it into a winning streak.

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Thursday, June 11, 2009

That's Some Weak Faux-Outrage If You Ask Me

To which David Letterman responds brilliantly:



It's a longish clip but stick with it.

In moments like this, I think back to that great Simpsons Halloween segment where all the billboards and giant store mascots come to life and go on a rampage. The only way to stop them? Ignore them. Jon & Kate, Octomom, Sarah Palin, Sean Hannity, Heidi & Spencer, the current incarnation of the Republican Party. Fucking opium for our masses, man. So many bigger fish to fry and this is what's clogging up our rapidly atrophying attention spans?

It's enough to make a man consider moving off the grid to stockpile weapons and ammunition while simultaneously recruiting and indoctrinating like-minded people in preparation for a bloody and suicidal attack on a select group of assholes who've got it coming (the above-named people or groups are way too small-time for consideration on said list, for the record...well, Sean Hannity might be on it just to make me smile).
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Thought for the Day

We're coming up on the 40th anniversary of the first lunar landing, July 20, 1969. This impending anniversary prompts today's Thought for the Day:

We got to the moon with analog technology.

This will never cease to blow my mind. More important, though, is that it's beginning to make me sad in a way that I'm not yet able to articulate.

If I try to make my point with specific examples I'll get thrown off track trying to explain and justify them. If I try to distill my point I'll end up making a watery generalization. Perhaps I can come at this from another direction.

I can describe how it makes me feel. As I said above, sad. But it's more specific than that. Hurt, let down. Abandoned, betrayed. Confused, too.

I grew up very aware of our space program. My grandfather was vice president and general counsel for Rockwell International, which, in an earlier incarnation, was North American Aviation (Rockwell's constituent parts were sold off in the '90s, and its aerospace arm is now part of Boeing). North American built the Apollo lunar module, and Rockwell built the engines for the Space Shuttle. Hell, Rockwell was the largest NASA contractor (not to mention the largest defense contractor) when I was a kid. Needless to say, the space program was a BIG fucking deal in my house.

So, these men, these titans of industry, these members of the greatest generation, trim and confident in their Brooks Brothers suits, knowing nothing in life but to be legit, perched a few exceptional men (an inordinate amount of whom were left handed, let's not forget) at the very tip-top of unfathomable tons of newly conjured alloys and ludicrously volatile fuel in order to beat gravity and beat the godless communists to the moon.

Romantic as hell, ain't it? A nation's ambition writ large, symbolized by its flag planted firmly in that eerie pale grey dust, the result of hard work by its best and brightest.

These days, what have we got to show for our countless billions of military-industrial complex dollars? Not to put too fine a point on it, but a giant fucked-up shit-hole breeding ground for terrorists nestled right next to an ancient conflict involving a country we've got to support and sitting on top of the bulk of the world's most precious resource. Pretty much the opposite of romantic.

So what do we have to show from this glorious digital age? A ton of shit that occupies us, entertains us, distracts us, fragments us, allows us to hole up and distance ourselves from any and all realities, gives us access to so much information that none of it matters.

I can only imagine what it must have been like to have seen for the first time those images of the Earth from the Moon. I know in my life I've seen nothing so revelatory.

_________________________

I know landing on the Moon was pretty awesome, but here's another perspective that I quite enjoy:




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Wednesday, June 10, 2009

The Search for Inspirato

"Warning: If you want your asses blown out, stay in the room."

(Language NSFW.)



So, ten days off. WTF is up? I foolishly thought if I wasn't compelled to write something, I should wait until I was. Bzzzt! Wrong answer. That just made it easy to fall into a non-writing habit. I could tell myself I held back because I want to bring you nothing less than my best. "I could 23-skiddoo you a song. I could zipadeedoodah you a song. But that would be false. It would be wrong."

Wrong again! "You've got to manufacture inspirato!"
Translation: Push yourself to keep working. But don't force it.
Application: My overall mental state

After several years of pursuing the "talking cure," aka psychotherapy, I came to understand that even if I dug and dug into my past to try to figure out root causes for my fucked-upedness, there was no brass ring to reach for which, if grabbed, would release me from...well, [REDACTED]. Instead, I wasn't going to feel any better unless I started acting and thinking differently.

Ok, but what about the "don't force it" part? Yeah, I guess I was leaning far too heavily on that part since I last posted. But it's only part of the equation, and I'm responsible for balancing said equation. How? Confidence in my skillz, such that if I just sit down and start slamming the keys I can guide this thing home to awesomeville--every fucking time. Of course this is by no means my default setting. And like I said above, why that's the case is--for now--beside the point.

So, how does this navel-gazing affect you, dear reader? Good question! More posts, more frequently. Everybody wins.
________________________

Finally, apropos of nothing: one day I hope to be enough of a cool customer to engage with a dangerous stranger on horseback in the desert in the following manner:

Sherif Ali: What is your name?
T.E. Lawrence: My name is for my friends.

Consider this my recommendation that you watch Lawrence of Arabia. An absolute fucking masterpiece. There would be no John Williams without Maurice Jarre's stunning score. There would be no awesome scenes in the desert in Star Wars or Raiders of the Lost Ark without David Lean's ambition and vision. And I wish I could continue this "and there would be no...." construction with regard to Peter O'Toole's performance, but I don't think anybody's ever been as good as he was in the action/adventure/gentleman/scholar/statesman/iconoclast role of a lifetime. Maybe that's because there's never been a role as good as that one!



Start it raunchy, finish it classy, that's what I always say.
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