That's what I've been saying, mopes!
I was in an office. My office. My new office. Boxes to be unpacked still. Office across from the men's room.Then I woke up because I had compressed a nerve so severely that my arm was dead from shoulder down. It seems everything's dying in July.
I remember using the urinal at some point (always dangerous when dreaming). Some underling asking of he can work late or something. I saw my reflection and I wore a suit. I halso had some lightweight body armor -- you know in case I get shot at.
On one hand I remember being a little out of sorts while still feeling my way around the New Situation of office life. On the other, I recall mourning the death of my arts career.
At some point I was in my office when my client Meg White (of the White Stripes) visited. Everything was normal I suppose until I realized that I was trying to impress Meg White. You know, "Uh, I play drums too, you know?" And all hoping she'd ask me more about my music and such.
Meg White, WTF?
But dang if you're Bill Walsh, Ingmar Bergman, Tom Snyder, Marvin Zindler, or Michel Serrault. Because you're dead. J.K. even killed off Harry Potter's sorry ass. But, dead happens and all. What can you do, right?
We feel bad for Robin Roberts. But, hell if you're Michael Vick. Or, damn bloody hell if you're Tony "snitches-get-stitches" Taylor. Oh, shit, what if you were Johnny Boy Roberts? Zing! Or, Tad "Big Porkin'" Stevens. Ha! Or, even two-bit celebs like Lindsay or Britney or Nicole (three of the melt-down quadruplets). And, there's Tim Donaghy. July...damn you!
Well, if you were W, you would have had a public colonoscopy this month (only to find your administration drooping around your ankles when you stood back up). If you were Big Uncle Dick Cheney, you'd have had your rrrrrobot batteries changed and would have had to turn over the Real Presidency over to your retarded step-nephew, Georgie, for two hours. Or, if you were Al(ibi) Gonzales, you would have been called a liar (well, you are, right?).
[I see Alberto G. as one anchor on the indictment scale to come and Uncle D as the other].
If you were Hillary everyone would have looked at your tits. Everybody all mock shock and jimmied-up outrage. Hey people, take a look, Barack Obama is black too!
If you were to be anyone this July, it would have been either Rupert Murdoch or Kevin Federline. Both will begin August in a better place than they were in July.
The Boston Celtics did OK too.
Here comes August!
Like, what, I wouldn't've gotten accepted? Well, I didn't get into Stanford...well, I didn't apply to Stanford, though. Generally, I know likely outcomes. I'm cool like that.
Now what, Chuck?
There were photos of my grandmother's parents and her deceased siblings; growing up in Gonzalez, Texas (east of San Antonio, basically) in the 1930s and '40s. Miserable looking rural conditions that were understandably escapable. Frailties. Poverty. Blackness. The South. But there were the good times too: trip to Tijuana. Nights on the town, dressed and posed. Friends.
There were photos of my more immediate family too. My mother by a pool. My dad in a pretty hip suit. This was 1950s and '60s-era Los Angeles. My nutty aunt and my incredible uncle. My uncle's alcoholic father. My dead grandfather. [My bi-racial parents in 60s. I guess I never admired their bravery, if you can all it that] History and context. Moments. Spaces.
I guess my birth is kind of the zero-point here. I was as fascinated by the before birth images as I definitely was of the post birth pictures.
You know the stuff:
Forth grade class photos (1974-1975 school year, Mrs Ahlstrom). I can remember a handful of kids names. Tim Hatch. Tim Seal. Jeffery Pollack. Stephanie (one of the twins). Manny. Denise.From time-to-time I would borrow (steal) a picture or two from my grandmother's picture box. I'm pretty glad I did, too, because after my grandmother died, I have no idea where those pictures went. "Where is 'picture box?'" I might have said as a child. I still have some of those borrowed pictures. I have two photo albums where I've stored these images along with others collected through my mid-20s.
1976 Claremont National Little League Bears (same year as the film The Bad News Bears and, yep, we had a girl pitcher - Lorna Christen - and an alcoholic manager). Lorna's about the only name I remember from that losing enterprise.
There's me on a horse with a set of twin boys. For some reason, I'm making the thumb/forefinger pistol gesture. I guess someone had asked me to do that. Looks like I'm fiver or six so that would be 1970/'71-ish. I have absolutely no idea who these boys are. I wonder if they are alive.
There's a picture of me with a Very Bad Santa circa 1970.
Random SCV shots. 1985-1987.
Pictures of me with friends: Nancy, Lisa, Tim, Big Dave Wave, Mark, Rene, McKenzie. A shot or two with my father, my grandmother, and step siblings whom I hardly know. College and graduate school.
Eras and places: Three Mile Island, Vegas, etc. It's all et cetera.
Most of this stuff is horrible photography too. But, it serves its purpose. But, I've always loved good photography too. As a middle-school kid I'd go to the public library and check out (and check out) the large-format fine art photography books. Plus, there was nudity in those books and no one cared if a kid was looking at it. It was art, dammit!
I've always liked to look at photographs and that whole "...worth a thousand words" crap actually makes a lot of sense; then and now. Because...in those old photos from my grandmother's picture box and in my back history photo album set and in the blurry memories of large-format fine art photography books, I've always noticed -- aside from the ostensible subjects -- an enormous and fascination world of Other Shit. Middlespaces.
I always wondered who else was present at shoots, but not pictured. I wondered who was taking/making the image. There were always background information - cars, celebrations, litter, strangers, relatives, and buildings that no longer exist. Riveting shit. Te unanswered questions.
And I've always had this interest in the stillness (or not) of still images. I can see the same scene in video and have no interest. Video serves a specific purpose, but stop all molecules and I can gain a perspective on contexts, a keener perspective. So, for as long as I can remember I have taken a shit load of pictures. I am not a photographer. I just like to take pictures. Occasionally I will present imagery in some form (framed, uploaded, or arranged in some context and on rare occasion, with some explanation).
I am neither perfect nor technical. But, I know what I'm doing.
The idea that adults should be playing with their kids is a modern invention -- and not necessarily a good one
By Christopher Shea | July 15, 2007 | Boston Globe
WHAT COULD BE more natural than a mother down on the rec-room floor, playing with her 3-year-old amid puzzles, finger-puppets, and Thomas the Tank Engine trains? Look -- now she's conducting a conversation between a stuffed shark and Nemo, the
A "natural" scene? Actually, parent-child play of this sort has been virtually unheard of throughout human history, according to the anthropologist David Lancy. And three-fourths of the world's current population would still find that mother's behavior kind of dotty.
Mica Pollock, an associate professor at Harvard's Graduate School of Education, says it's one thing to encourage low-income parents to read to their kids or tell them stories. But "it's a huge and dangerous overstatement to say that low-income parents don't stimulate their children." In fact, some research, she says, suggests that the approach used by some low-income parents teaches virtues such as patience and adaptability better than more freewheeling parenting styles.
And let's not idealize middle-class kids: "Some of those children are being raised to be spoiled, demanding, requiring constant adult attention, and inclined to argue with their parents," Pollock says.
But, how they were friends was what was baffling to me. I’ve heard about bus friends being exclusive of home friends. Even the girl has school friends that are exclusive of home friends. I guess we have our work friends that are mutual of our private life friends. I paused my music but left my headphones on so I could hear them.
But here they were, four boys, median age 15 perhaps. They were (I’m giving them these names, OK?):
David (not “Dave) and Daniel (never “Danny”): Unrelated, yet two boys so cookie-cutter identical teenage PacSun meets American Eagle, short hair, republican family, sheltered, mainstream America. These two will do just enough to make good grades to get into a “good state school” and a lucky legacy at a top-tier. University of Maryland and Duke. They will become archrivals because of basketball. These are our future frat-rats, doctors, and investment analysts. One may become a deputy director at the U.S. Department of Commerce. They will drink plenty of alcohol and try cocaine. They will never know how to please women but will marry and have lots of kids and live on half-acre lots. They will have affairs and repress homosexual thoughts. They will always have ideas about how the world could work better yet will never act upon any notion that could challenge the status quo. They claim to like football. One or both may be on the JV squad right now. Will definitely play intramurals in college. Forever insecure but moneyed. Periods of mopish behavior. Prized possessions of the future: BMW. Rolex (“it’s not a watch, it’s a time-piece”).Rowin was different. Karbutt was typical throwaway third child of an unhappy couple (or two). David and Daniel were CNN, the standardization and sanitization of America. Where David and Daniel wore clothing that appeared to be the offspring of American Eagle and Pacific Sun in a mid-air collision over the Westfield Shoppingtown (tm) headquarters in L.A. Karbutt wore something generic, forgettable, old, and wrinkled. Clean enough though. Rowin wore a t-shirt emblazoned with “REHAB is for quitters.”
“Karbutt” (it’s a nickname, a conjunction for Carl has a big butt): The teetering borderline outcast. Scruffy, church-on-Easter, problems-at-home, confused to the ways of the world, inexperienced, positive even his brightest thoughts are incorrect, suburban mid-cast (not entirely an outcast, never entirely in the ingroup). Destined for lower middle-class existence (poverty disguised as credit card debt) and loneliness. May father children but never marry. Karbutt will be just fine at reading meters for the gas company or painting. He will develop a lifelong smoking addiction and may spend some time on antidepressants. Gets dangerous with marijuana use is prone to creepiness with the ladies. Karbutt will forever be Karbutt. He will spend some time in jail for violating probation on a misdemeanor rap. He will occasionally tell people he went to college but will say things like, “Where? Uh, Cal State Berkeley.” Forever insecure but poor. Mope. Prized possession of the future: Used Harley with a bad something-or-other.
Rowin: And, most curiously, I think of this fella as “the Canadian.” I seriously doubt he is a national of our fine neighbor to the north. But, he just felt like a snowback. What can I say, Rowin will someday discover his supernatural powers. Quietly confident. He will remain a happy virgin throughout high school but will just as happily bed down all the women in his mid-sized mid-prestige university out west (Grinnell?). Rowin will be expert at cunnilingus (“it’s the nose, I guess” he’ll say) simply through trial and error. Rowin will be voted “funniest classman” three years running. Rowin will have killer jokes about his huge nose. Rowin MUST have a guitar playing older brother and an art school older sister. He adores his mother and father, cooking with one and, interchangeably, building shit with the other. His grades are solid and he thinks most institutions are bogus. He will either own his own business (working from he’ll call with tremendous irony, “the crib”) or cash out of the “tech industry” at 30 and open a chain of childcare centers. He will forever be smarter than everyone else but won’t bother to take the SAT. Rowin will graduate from college in six years because that’s what worked best. He will love long and intensely. Rowin will cry. He will have two kids and “raise ‘em like my parents raised me.” He may become active on the city council of Madison, Wisconsin or Santa Cruz, California. Rowin will discover bicycling at the age of 40. Prized possession for the future: An old t-shirt that says: “REHAB is for quitters”.
Rowin’s hair was kind of Steve Nash ’04. Floppy, bowl-ish, fine, unaffected. His ears were covered as if he were wearing a knitted cap. Karbutt was probably due for a shampoo and hasn’t ever had a proper cut. D&D? Short hair, cut over the ears, tapered and razor finished. Carson Daly? Was that his name?
Karbutt agreed with everything offered in the conversation. Daniel and David discussed some football. They discussed the AT&T Congressional golf tournament (“You know, Tiger’s tournament?”). One of them offered some Red Sox information. Oh, and one suggested mentioned Harry Potter. Karbutt indicated that even though he has yet to complete one Harry Potter book, he’s seen three of the movies. Rowin independently offered that the guys should read Fight Club even if they’ve seen the movie because, “it’s so much better.” Speaing of Fight Club, “Brad Pitt was hot in that” he supremely offered. “Eeewww!!” came from the other boys. Rowin had just expressed an opinion on the physical attributes of a man. For shame! Rowin didn’t care and may have said it for shock value. It was hard to tell.
Karbutt said that he had never been to a concert. David and/or Daniel offered that thay had been to something that I’m forgetting about maybe at Nissan Center or somewhere. “Oh!” said Rowin, “I’ve been to like 30 Hootie and the Blowfish shows.” Even I was like, WTF? with that. Daniel and/or David inquired if that band was still together. Rowin assured them that they were touring right now. “How do you know?” someone asked. “My uncle’s the bass player. I don’t really like their music, but it’s fun to tour. I don’t even know if they like the music anymore.” [Note: Rowin’s uncle is apparently Dan Felber of Bethesda, Maryland; Seneca Valley High School in Germantown, Maryland; and, University of South Carolina.]
D&D joked about “rolling papers” and European travel. Karbutt’s never been anywhere and probably didn’t get the reference to “rolling papers.” Rowin laughed along but the look in his eyes was more past that situation. He knows he doesn’t have to front.
When Rowin went to the bathroom, he stopped, picked up something and asked me – an adult for god's sake! – if these were my sunglasses. God bless his incredible existence.
Hopefully things will shift so that someday Rowin can be our president – of the planet! Neither democrat nor republican. Neither USA or EU. Rowin's world.
It caught my attention because it's called: The Greatest Gadget of All Time Tournament.
Right? So, what the hell? I'll do it, there's gadgets, and there's the opportunity to opine. As a positive combination, it's like 9 out of 10.
Just to reinforce what I'm talking about, it's a bracket thing. Pairs competing head-to-head, single-elimination, winner take all. Like 64 gadgets in four divisions, a final four, etc.
But also to reinforce what I'm talking about, it's about gadgets. Sony's first Walkman (tm). The TeeVee. iPod. Etc. Oh, and Mattel's Football. I still have mine (I & II). I can still juke for the bighouse. If I remember, I'll dig it out.
But, that's not the point of the post. I just got excited. You know, gadgets and opinion.
Here's what's rad. And, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts. In fact, the road to...you can quote me here...the road to perfection is illuminated by the light of your instincts. OK, don't quote me, but get this. I'm doing my head-to-head comparisons. I'm picking the Walkman over the Mac Plus and such and I'm like in the final four. I have to pick, for example because I don't remember, the electric toothbrush vs. the remote control (which I chose as the ultimate gadget). Anyway, I end up having to pick between the Fender Telecaster and the Hitachi Magic Wand. Damn, life is perfect.
Dog vs. Cat. Man vs. Woman. Pirate vs. Priest. What could be more opposite? Anchors on scales.
But, today – and this is happening more often – I was so slow. If I were a spy, I would have been assassinated. Had I been a gangster, I’d’ve been “taken out.” Completely unawares too. Just nothing. Poof!
I had this “paperwork” I needed to drop off at an office. Easy task this since I’d been there before so there wasn’t this whole need to have the pupils open wide. But the organization where I was leaving this envelope was still closed at 8:40 a.m. I thought they opened at 8:30 else I’d’ve come at another time.
I took the elevator up to the 2nd floor. Really, if there were stairs, I probably wouldn’t have used ‘em. Too much effort. Like, what, you actually think, take stairs, recycle, or smile in strange situations? What. Ever.
So, the situation is already a bit goofy. I’m thinking that I don’t really want to bring this paperwork back. Nor do I want to mail it. Who mails? I’m here already (next I’ll be writing checks). But, I didn’t know how long to wait.
Now, there were some “workers” or “movers” working (or moving) in the suite next door to the place I was going. I had no reason to interact with them though and didn’t believe it feasible that they would know the hours of the place I’m visiting. I let them do their work or moving or whatever uninterrupted. I’m cool like that. Plus I didn’t want to be the doofus standing there and those guys knowing that it was closed for the week or something.
A mail slot! I see a basket on the other side! Hurray! I’ll. Drop. This. Paperwork. In. This. Slot. And my job is done. I can go to the grocery store. I can leave this hell. I am pardoned from the prison. See, I’m already a move ahead with the grocery store in mind. I’m cool like that.
I drop. Envelope lands right in the basket. Middle. Swish. I turn. I walk to the elevator door. It’s open. There’s some cardboard shit all over the place. Some box scribbling. The movers must be using this elevator. Whatever. It’ll come back.
I entered the elevator and one of the movers/workers says something. “Pardon me?” I say. He repeats, slowly and loudly like he’s talking to a slow, foreign child, “Can you read?” He probably could have signed this if I were a deaf, slow, foreign child.
Flummoxed! But, here’s my chance to totally burn this dude with a rad response. I’ll put him out with my witty retort. I can epically scorch this guy, this low life, this commoner; this fool who would dare cross my path. Here goes: “Can I read? That’s just…really…insulting!” See? I told him.
Well, I really didn’t get into the dynamics of information dense overload, selected information processing, or the focus mechanics of someone with a 150 IQ. “Can I read? What are you talking about?!” I’m going nowhere at this point. All I can do is look angry, perhaps disappointed.
He says something, blah blah, about what’s written in bold marker on the cardboard. “Sorry, that’s why we wrote that there” he says with a slight smile. “Can I read? That’s just insulting!” I say this for the third time as I slinked down the other elevator – the one without the shit written in marker on cardboard.
I was wicked pissed too. Probably mostly pissed at myself even though I were wishing for gang>mob>cop connections to posse up with me and go teach Jeb how to read, indeed. But, it was my own damn fault. I was off my game. Out of focus. I very well should have noticed the largely, boldly written note + smiley-face plea to leave the moving guys’ elevator put. I should totally have noticed that. My bad! By huge bad.
But, I was pissed. I kept repeating, “Can I read?” over and over for about an hour. I was mad at somebody else because I slipped. Not at all situation aware or conscious.
Maybe I can’t read.
From Rich (trademarked and copyrights to him):
"Update on million dollar ideas"
1) YouTube Live. YouTube site exclusively for live feeds. This willSo, if you decide to do it, Rich thought of it first and residuals are due (through me, I take a cut for posting). Investors contact us here at the middlespace laboratories.
suck when it's used for losers boradcasting their entire lives but
will be awesome when the next World Trade Center blows up.
Oh for shame.
"The [NBA] league is ruined."You get it, right?
"There's a pall cast over the game."
Uh, hello? Am I just plain wrong here? Is it bad that I believe this was the best thing that's happened to professional sports in my lifetime? Seriously, think of it....
How much closer will everyone watch all the games now? Every moment will be scrutinized and under suspicious. The regular season will have newfound significance. Every call? For the next four or five seasons, every call will be profoundly important.
C'mon? What could be better than a crooked ref being investigated by the FBI? What could rule more than that?
1. The mob is involved. This becomes real-life Sopranos. Reality Sports TeeVee.Rules, dude!
2. Donaghy is preparing to cooperate with federal investigators (after indictment)
3. Other refs and perhaps players may be involved
4. What about other sports? NCAA?
Not only does this make a better-than-Watergate scandal, but the current federal administration must be exhaling huge sighs of relief at the new, fresh, and juicy cover it has for the next few months. Brilliant.
And to think I had given up on the silly old NBA. Don Stearn (and Karl Rove) are secretly smiling.
Don't get me wrong, gambling and money are serious addictions and people get plenty injured over them. But, what more compelling a story line, huh?
Maybe I had been particularly primed to listen since I had just listened to one of J-Son’s 2001 piece called Track 01. I didn’t make that track – OK, I can claim co-producer since I advised and styled the recording and mix of the vocals, but whatever, that’s not important. What’s important is I heard Butterpump today.
It came on. I listened. I was in the car.
One Fine Ride came out in, what, ’99? That was ages ago; pop/commercial music-wise, it was a million years back:
RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE The Battle of Los AngelesButterpump couldn’t have made any sense in 1999. To audiences? Nope. To us? Barely.
THE ROOTS Things Fall Apart
NINE INCH NAILS The Fragile
It’s striking how much I enjoyed listening to the song. It’s quite a complex and somewhat psychologically demented journey. I recall thinking, “My god, what the hell is this?!”
Then. Then! Two tracks later, Tunneldump – from the same record – came on. If Butterpump is “demented” then Tunneldump is “insanity.” Blasted out! And, synchronized to weird maximums. That drumming? I recall thinking, “My god, what the hell is this?!”
It was almost as if I couldn’t get enough. Oh shuffle gods, thank you.
It’s called a “record” for a reason. It’s a memory stamp of a time/place/era. It’s a blurry photograph of our past. Forever it will mean something to someone. Aging can be sweet. Records or future gifts, creation is a way to mark territory; like urine on a fire hydrant.
I guess the lesson I’m trying to express is: Even if it makes little sense, even if your project seems a bit silly, do it. It may make some sense – someday.
"Want to make millions of dollars?"
So, if you decide to do it, Rich thought of it first and residuals are due (through me, I take a cut for posting).Televised Celebrity Strip Poker.Millions of dollars.I give it 5 years before someone else figures it out and does it.
The oddest thing is when the ex-husband visits - to pick up or drop off one or more of the boys - he parks in the driveway in a manner which blocks the sidewalk. Well, that's irksome because: 1) there are plenty of places to park; 2) people actually use interpretation of New Urbanism. [But, remember, Ty.the sidewalks here. Strollers, kids on little bikes, scooters, the elderly out for a stroll, etc. all have to go around the car and into the street to walk. It's a thing with me. A little thing, but irky since it violates my "Urbanism" probably refers to there being cars somewhere, jerk. Noted.] But, and you agree, it's just clueless and a bit rude to send an old lady in a wheelchair into the street when your Lexus is parked over the sidewalk.
I guess Martha and familly are all on some sort of vacation of combination of vacations because Martha's house on our quiet little street has been rather active lately (now that I'm a haus frau, I notice more shit).
Teen-agers, dammit! Teen-agers!! I don't think I was such a pain in the ass during the 14-19 years. I'm sure I was though. But, man, what kind of old man have I become? The house-sitting god daughter (whatever the fuck that is) has had, uh, some friends over. Oh, and she parks blocking the sidewalk which is irksome (see above).
OK, so I didn't want to become one of those people. The self-serving, passive-aggressive asshole, old-man, HOA committee member, Mr. Pinch, motherfucker deserving a good old-fashioned TPing or ass whipping. Not in my back yard, don't walk on the grass, and hey, you can't paint your trim that color!
But, I did it. I don't know why. But, I did it. Last night, we had unseasonably mild July weather. So, the windows were open. God bless me, right? But, god daughter house sitter and retarded friends were making all kinds of racket out on the street (the public street). Boys and girls in and out, loud, stupid, maybe a little high or crunk, smoking, laughing, and just being kids. Kids and kid drama.
But they were so god awful typical. All dressed in, basically, uniforms befitting their stature and rank. A goddamn army of 18 year-old (oh yeah, the US Army is basically 18 too) fake skater/princesses. But, so typical. Maybe if they were geeks or art kids...naw, the geeks and art kids know better; they've never felt entitled like these goofs.
I tolerated the distraction to our peaceful community the best I could all weekend. I was an annoying kid once. Bren will be an annoying kid too. I'm still 'bout half annoying kid. But, fuck if it didn't get on my last old ass man nerve when I'm finally starting to doze off and the goddamn fucking loud ass look-at-me car stereo start up. On Sunday night even.
Two things to note:
- I also don't want to be one of those afraid-of-my shadow and teenager suburban fraidy cats that will allow these punks/pukes to dominate the paradigm whilst I hide in my air-conditioned mini-manse. Nope. That ain't gonna happen. And, I do know my neighbors, I know people saw me not only confront these varmints, but shut the whole thing down. I feel they were proud if not in awe. People gotta talk.
- Also, I don't want some paradigm changing kids to then begin to feel that they are unaccountable and unnoticed. This is not going to become their new posse crib or whatever the kids say about that sort of thing. Sorry, bitches, MY half-million dollar turf. Not yours. Shut. Up!
Oh God. I walked out the door. Walked across the street. Fired up the flashlight. I shouted, "Hey!" way too goddamn loud. It got quiet way too quickly. I pop the bright ass beam of light into the face of the god daughter. "Guys, c'mon! What are you doing? Take the noise somewhere else, like inside." I was the Hart Street RA all of a sudden.
Now, I'm simultaneously listening to myself and wonder who the fuck I was anymore? The god daughter immediately begins, "Oh, you're a neighbor. I'm so sorry. My bad!" If she would have stopped at "sorry" I probably would have just said thanks and moped back home. But, "my bad?" Speak English motherfucker. "My bad?" That's how you talk now? Stolen, abused language now. You're now Snoop Dogg. You're not even Chris Tucker.
"My bad?" I repeat. "Yeah, my bad. Sorry" is what I hear.
So, I begin: "Martha's not going to be happy; especially if someone calls the cops." What am I saying. Is it valuable lesson time? "Martha's not going to be happy." I repeated. Jesus, what was that? It was so weak, I repeated it. God daughter says, "I know. I know. My bad." Church lady lecture.
"Nice try" is all I can get out as more confused than angry or anything make my way back home. I don't even know what "nice try" even meant in that context.
Well, it got quiet, which was good. If I were a kid there, I would have totally laughed at this guy. I might have even said, "hey, why dont' you shut up, old man." But, I really killed my brand as the cool/guy dad. I guess I'm glad Bren didn't have to witness this embarrassment.
I feel I should apologize to god daughter and ask for a do-over.
What would I do over? Probably approach the entire situation with more measure and helpfullness. Rather than shut it down, warn of consequences (having police called, ass whipped, etc.). "Hey guys, you're gonna get in trouble...." What?! It's that pandering, entitling responsibility-sharing that makes this happen. Just shut up, kids. How's that?
Naw. Fuck them. I did what I did and I remain the goddamn sheriff. I learned 'em. Go away from me with your noise, teen-agers. Old guys rule, OK?
Note: I see there was a morning after "talking to." Ha!
Oh, so that's where he left them. After six and a half years of being history's very worst president, George W. Bush finally reclaimed his magical powers. They were apparently found up his ass. I guess we will now see him unite rather than divide because he's a compassionate conservative.
Even worse, Dick Cheney was actually driving the mother ship of democracy for two hours and five minutes. God help us all.
Other funny things from the article:
- "First lady Laura Bush was in Midland, Texas, celebrating her mother's birthday. The president spoke with her on the phone before and after the colonoscopy." Mommy?! What, is he Reagan now?
- "Bush was asleep but responsive during the colon check." Uh, 'cuz he's generally awake but unresponsive normally, right? Then, shit, leave him asleep.
- What's the first thing you do after a colonoscopy? Have breakfast with the mob: "Afterward the examination, Bush ate breakfast with chief of staff Joshua Bolten, White House counsel Fred Fielding and national security adviser Stephen Hadley."
By DEB RIECHMANN
The Associated Press
Saturday, July 21, 2007; 11:40 AM
CAMP DAVID, Md. -- Doctors removed five small polyps from President Bush's colon on Saturday after he temporarily transferred the powers of his office for two hours to Vice President Dick Cheney under the rarely invoked 25th Amendment.
So, how do you kill a blog? Yeah, I think “Middlespace Live” as a blog is dead. Well, blogging is dead, but I’m Mr. Dead Blog.
I mean, I never attempted to write a blog. Blogs are retarded. Blogs are gay. I don’t care enough about my life to fucking web log (the verb). It’s not that I don’t care about my life. You know me, I LOVE my life. Viva Ty! Sorry. What I mean is, shit, I don’t have “bloggy” adventures. No sex. No drugs. No groupies. No drunken takedowns. No suicide attempts. No heroin. More sandals than scandals. Yawn. I’m a middle-aged unemployed black man. That ain’t special. That’s nothing. I only got into this thing because I was feeling particularly obstinate. I’ve been posting to this silly ass thing for five years.
On July 18, 2002, I posted this fruity poem [clicky]. WTF, huh? I guess there was a reason. But, other than self-serving, self-mythologizing boredom-induced idle-time-on-my-hands, I'm not sure what it was.
It’s not like a web log is going to reveal all the truths. A moderately cautious individual does not post the actual trials and tribulations about ones inner-life on the intenets. You’ll get stories, but you’re not getting anything close to truths. Nowhere. Mostly. And, frankly, I’m tiring of the mock-seriousness of “blogging.” Who the fuck cares, right? Opinions and hyperbole. So what to do?
And, most of my trials and tribulations occur in my head. I’m nutty as a bag of trail mix. I don’t text message (I guess if Edson does, maybe I should too). I’m shy and demanding. I play baseball with the Bren. I bore myself. I watch Hell’s Kitchen, donkeys!
While I ponder what to do with “Middlespace Live” here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you a classic dippy blog-like dilemma:
Dear Web Log,See? So bloggy, right? I puke in my mouth for you all everywhere. I never tell people that I have a goddamn blog or that “I have to go blog that” or any dumb crybaby shit like that. But, I just write stuff down. Put up some images sometimes and move on. I mean it’s just electronic masturbation or whatever.
Oh what should I do? Life is so unfair!!!! I had my interview with the professional photography school admissions counselor yesterday and IT WENT LIKE SO WELL! She is recommending that my application proceed, etc. Bottom line is I’ll probably get accepted. But, here’s the problem: is it worth $21,000? Is it worth the purchase of nearly 3 grand of equipment and books to take a nine-month certificate program?
I could save $21,000 and just buy the equipment and books and start booking gigs.
Oh, diary! What’s a pretty girl like me to do?
But, and you knew there was a “but,” but I kind of like doing it. Not in a recreational drug kind of way [have I ever mentioned recreational drugs on my “blog” ever?], but in a finding-my-voice therapeutic sort of paradigm.
Eggh! How wishy-washy bloggy of me to be all should I or shouldn’t I blog. I mean people are dying in Darfur but what should I do about professional photography school? I mean, Paris Hilton bought a surfboard. See? I’m getting on my own damn nerves now.
While I continue to ponder, here’s a nother tidbit.
Sketch of Lyrics From Toward the End of My Notebook
Yeah! Shit motherfucking yeah!
Dave Wave sent me this ill fucking mix
It’s a town full of a title of a song
Hostages to perceptions
Mo sounds like a junky
Just play a 9-stroke roll here
And I’ll make you famous
An insecure mope for sure.
[An aside: Sorry, I had to cut out for a minute because I’m listening to Jimi and just had to sample the opening beats to Little Miss Lover for a project. See? Life is sheer hell I tell you. Speaking of which, I just made this loop in like four minutes. How did we make music in the prehistoric times of the mid 90s? Jesus what was that? Also, why isn’t there just ass loads of totally kick ass music all over the place given how easy it is to make music nowadays? Oh, most people don’t have a talented cell within their entire beings, that’s why.]
[Another aside: Fuck, they sell Icky Thump at the Starbucks. Well, OK, to be honest, Starbucks can sell my music too. Speaking of which, if you are listening out there Hyundai Corporation of America. You have a good car, but your brand is awful. You can use some of my music for your ads. Rich says it OK too. For free er for real cheap. Just call me (“c-c-c-call me!”). NO problem.]Where was I? Oh yeah, this god forsaken blog… Oh, diary, what to do? And, then there’s the other one. The bastard stepchild that is RhinoSnort. Are there any others? How the hell would I know?
One solution is to kill RhinoSnort and get back to one quality blog. Did I just use the phrase “one quality blog”? Dear God in heaven what am I saying? That’s it, I’m out!
You’re on you own here, people. [clicky]
"I was just trying to get it up there close, I wanted to get it up where I would have an easy second putt. Lo and behold, it falls in."
- Tiger Woods after sinking 90 foot putt for birdie at the 2007 British Open
What a great summer! Visited with Mark and family then Rich and Sistine visited. Quality times. All BFF all the time. Now it’s all back to the grind before the girl starts kindergarten. Quality times.
Summer reading list recs to date (in chronological order):
Summer music list recs to date (in chronological order):
On Working. Time for “money getting.” [<-- that means "a job"] It’s time. Time to refill Ty’s Ye Olde Keep Money Bag (Keep Money Bag and the slogan “Workers Have Their Birthdays > Always When They Have Them” is a trademark of BMH Industries of America).
[Note to self: I really wonder if anyone (who knows me) is still surprised at the depth of my selfishness? Naw, nothing to drain my brain over. I really wonder if anyone (who knows me) is still surprised at the depth of my kookiness? Naw, nothing to drain the cabeza cauliflower over]Sam Eig. I’ve been studying up on local history though. That’s like my biggest thing right now. It all started with the question to my self about who the hell Sam Eig of “Sam Eig Highway” was, anyway.
Sam Eig, the developer, the titular father of the Washington/Maryland suburbs (and what an accomplishment, ‘eh?) was singularly responsible for clearing out the great gorilla colonies of Montgomery. The legend of Sam Eig and the great silverbacks of Montgomery had been basically buried until I discovered some dusty texts in the county archive.
Apparently, there was an effort to introduce gorilla colonies as inexpensive labor. It didn’t take, but there were colonies of feral gorillas throughout the colonies until Sam Eig executed his vision.
Here's an excerpt of the story:
Here's an excerpt of the song:Samuel Eig and the Great Silverbacks of Montgomery
You could almost feel their steely eyes upon you traveled throughout the county. Sam Eig had a vision. And contrary to the sanitized legend of a vision of Sam caring “for the community and its young people,” his vision really centered on creating massive personal wealth.
Eig decided that “Townhouses as far as the eye could see” could be realized in greater Montgomery – except for one fact – the silverback gorillas.
“I declare ‘tis us or them!” Roared Eig to the gathered in old town Bethesda in 1732.
[to be continued]
Two Beaver PondSteely eyes looking out at me
The sliverback gorillas of Montgomery
Sam Eig declared "It is them or us!"
His declaration proclamation sparked the rush
Sam Eig was the man who knew this wasn't funny
And he also was a man that like a lot of money
He saw condo after condo for a far as you could see
But the only implement was living in the trees
[to be continued]
Bren: Look, the Capital! My mommy works by there.Kids these days.
Alex: Does the president live there?
Bren: No, the president lives in the White House.
Jass: The president is not a smart man. He has never been smart.
Alex: And, he's a liar. He's my president and he's a liar.
Jass: He's not smart and he lies.
Alex: But, he's my president.
Bren: But he's our president.
Ty: Look! A puppy!
Ty: Good question and an even better observation. Yeah, drums. Historic and forever. The first instrument and such. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Drums. Drums...yawn. I've played drums since 7th grade (1977 - that's thirty years!).
So, let's pose this question: how 'bout the guitar though?!
Try that on the drums. Plus you pretty much have to wear shoes to play the drums. Socks are too slippery for the pedals. Also, that's not a very loud guitar (it's not plugged into anything). But, that's the beauty of the guitar. You can rock out (with your cock out) any time you want. "Air guitar" is a billion dollar industry. Who plays "air drums"?
Just a guess. - Ty
The tip of Mt. Fuji is the top of Japan.[copyright RPW and for reference purposes only]
Can you stretch that thing out like a rubber band?
What people don't know so what we have to sing.
The answer's yes. You can do anything.
So eye of the storm is generally misused. Same with “down town.” As in basketball’s “he’s shooting from down town!” for a long shot. Wouldn’t that be the suburbs? Down town, under the basket, is where the action is. The violence, action, crowding, and hustle of down town happen in the lane; under the basket. That’s down town. A three point shot is “from the suburbs!” So people misuse eye of the storm and down town equally.
Anyway, It’s the calm. It’s the break. It’s the moment of quick reflection. The eye of the storm is a breath before the next beating.
So, here I am: the eye of the storm; a moment of quick reflection.
I’ve been breaking ass with the album and with the book obviously. Both going well, I guess. Hard work (like the presidency). I’m still posting pictures to rhinosnort, but the better shots are being reserved for the book. Most will be unused and reposted to rhinosnot. So, we’ll see. It’s a great experience working with Christine too. Her work pushes my work and hopefully my work pushes her work. Seeing is believing ﬂ whatever that means.
The album, brutally exhausting. But, found a great engineer to help out wit mixing and mastering. Frank did the recording, mixing and mastering of radiomakesmemad. It will be good working with him again. And, since Jason is living in his house until his September move to SF, that may escalate the insurgency to another level (if he even simply offers a modest suggestion, it’ll change things). And, trying to get Dave Wave involved somehow, but haven’t figured that out yet (and I don’t have to right now since I’m in the eye of the storm).
Aside from that, there’s helping friends build cribs; there’s driving around post-op neighbors, and there’s the baseline elements of life that take up most of the available time. As Kim said yesterday, “Thank goodness you’re unemployed, Ty.” Else I’d get nothing done.
I’m considering this nine-month certificate photography program. It looks swell, but I’m feeling that I haven’t figured out what the down side is. Yet. I’m sure something just won’t work (like it’s a program for 14 year-olds or something). I’m sure there’s tons I can/will learn. Serious shit to improve my work. But, I can’t get over the hunch that I’d be paying $21,000 for a (valuable) line on my vita. I have an “admissions interview” next week.
[Speaking of 14 year-olds, I received a text message from my Massachusetts friend, Dan. Dan has to be the last person to get a mobile phone. He’s a highly intelligent 60, ultra-liberal, ex-hippie in Newsburyport. He looks to be 35, max. Just a few months ago, he was all “cell phones are completely unnecessary!” Adamant, was Dan. Then a fucking text message. So I called him (on his new cellie) and bitched him out for being a 14 year-old girl from two years ago with that text messaging. His reply, “It’s cool, man!”But, I realized this morning that I can take a break from art. A very short break. Like, this morning from 10 until noon or something. My historic problem with breaks, or even worse, artistic lulls, has been the fear of “getting it back.” I figure that if there was nothing there, artistically, then that was it. It was over. Time to get a cubicle somewhere and mail it in.
Then he sends me this this morning, "I'm glad you are so fond of text messaging. What about voice messaging (not voice mail, leaving a message, but sending a voice message)! I just learned today I can record voice messages and plop them into your voice mailbox, for a small fee, of course. (Actually, the fee was a bit obscure – same as text messaging plus a "data" charge.) This is not a bad feature, actually, particularly for reaching a bunch of people, say if you were sending 10 people directions to your house -- one message, 10 recipients." WTF?!]
I’ve learned though that lulls are normal and necessary. Breaks should be embraced (so I have another hour of break). So, I’ll take it. Today. For now, before the eye passes.
Alright, I have to go buy groceries for my neighbor. Jesus!
I want to do that! [make pictures like this, not walk a hyena in Nigeria]. I mean will you just look at that?
We now have an engineer on board, and we now have a wild card.
Now we just need a monster. Something epic. Ha!
They offer a program called, "Professional Photography Certificate." Humm.... I'm in their system now and will visit for a chat next Thursday.
It's a full-time, nine month program, 19 modules from Photographic Seeing to Portraiture II. It actually looks like a decent program.
But, what do I get out of it (and the $21,000)? Am I then a certified professional photographer? Do I put that on my card? Can I then open a business, or, more specifically a practice? I'd actually like to do that, but $21,000?
I would like to learn some stuff...but here's my question for you: Does this help me?
I'm less concerned with the photos I take than dismayed with the photographic opportunities I miss. The close calls are killer whether accidental or just plain neglect.
Worst than being completely out of position in a speeding car is realizing hours later that, shit!, that was a great shot.
Just killer city.
"Don't be a Hostage to a perception."-Denise Higgs
But, what the fuck is wrong with people who get goddamn Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck on their leg. What are they being paid by Disney (tm) for ad space? They are, what, so in love with a goddamn weak cartoon character that they want it with them forever? What, they identify so much with Donald goddamn Duck that they become Donald Duck.
I actually saw people with both Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck tattoos. I see them every week when I take the girl to gymnastics. They are parents -- from different families. With Disney (tm) fucking tattoos. I see them every week and cannot stop hating on them.
What. The. Fuck?
Tomorrow, I'm going to ask one of 'em what gives. They get a pass if it involves heroin, prostitution, or prison time.
- New York Times, TodayMy point is, I've been saying this for like 10 years. But, I never used the word "looms," I'm all like, "Health care should be the biggest issue in the coming election." I'm pretty sure I've uttered it before the 2000, 2002, 2004, 2006, and 2008 elections.
I think the NYT is reading my mind now.
Yep. That's Christine in the blue #40.
"My Casio fx-7000G. From 10th grade. I still have it. I'm holding it in my hand right now. It needs batteries, but it's here. Not only could you program in formulas, you could program in text and write all the equations and other answers in your calculator before the test. Who needs the graphing function?Oh, and it made that 55378008 (BOOBLESS) joke obsolete."
Let's start with a list:
- iPhone ("...rounded up and made to work in a Chinese toothpaste factory." - Dave)
- Segway ("...soon-to-be-recalled-again 12 m.p.h. glorified moped that makes anyone who rides it look like a complete tool." - Wonkette)
- Democrats ("...the Washington Generals. - Rich)
- Michael Moore
- Gasoline internal combustion engine
- Interleague baseball
I'll call this category, "Bank!" Bunk (phoney) and rank (shitty). Bank. "Dude, the Segway is fucking bank."
"Those dumb "I'm a Mac" commercials were the beginning of the end for Apple. There are those of us who don't want what everyone else wants, because we know everyone else is a dumb-shit. I'm going on record right now saying anyone who pays $600 for a cellphone that also allows you to watch dogs skateboard on YouTube should be rounded up and made to work in a Chinese toothpaste factory.
The iphone is not cool. The HP-34C programmable calculator is.
Why? Because I was the only one who had one, and while everyone else in math class was toiling away at the quadratic equation, I just programmed the HP and plugged in the numbers. That's cool. And, yes, nerdy. And now being a computer nerd is popular because the devices are so slick and easy to use, even the dumb-shits want one."
"What are the democrats gonna do? Nothing!"
This is what 6 1/2 years of the Bush presidency boil down to. And these bozo's expect me to still vote for them? - RW
[True, but I'm voting for Hillary (or Obama) just to annoy a conservative.] -Ty
Meanwhile, the Republican's have been a more effective minority party (blocking nearly EVERYTHING in the Senate) in 6 months than the Democrats were in 12 years. - RW
[True, truly pathetic.] - Ty
Fucking losers. I hate the democrats. Give me a real team to root for. Not the Washington Generals. - RW
[Or the Washington Wizards, Redskins, or Nationals; all losers.] - Ty
Do you agree with Pres. Bush that 30 months in federal prison is excessive for telling a lie?8.3%
No2260 total responses
"Not a lot of things amaze me about the smirking chimp, but the Scooter Libby commutation, I have to admit, was a surprise. The King truly is in a world of his own -- which, unfortunately, impacts our world and the worlds of everyone else on the planet."To spare you long, boring, and complex analysis, I offer two simple things:
- Duh! What does he have to lose? Credibility? Poll points? The '08 election? Nope. Nothing to lose. He could have pardoned Libby then hung himself and let Cheney become president and declare Libby as vice. What are the democrats gonna do? Nothing!
- It plays to the base. Uh, what's left of the base.
5. Here's the thing about the White Stripes: so not every record is as good as the previous one, and not every song is going to be "Fell in Love With a Girl." But ten or twenty years from now, when your kids are going through your old shit and listening to the music you listened to, the White Stripes are going to be the band your kids are going to love, because that stuff is still going to sound great in 2078 or whenever it is. I'm telling you now: your kids are not going to be digging into your Alien Ant Farm trove.Ha, no shit! [clicky, but the rest isn't as funny]
6. The other band your kids are going to be really into: The Wu-Tang Clan. That shit will still rule in 3408. In fact, sometimes I think it traveled back in time from 3408.
27. I hear people say Jack White looks like this, Jack White looks like that — you know what Jack White looks like? A rock star. I'm tired of bands where the guys all dress like they're going to brunch with their girlfriends' parents.
Hells motherfuckin' yeah!
So be it:
"The Constitution gives the President the power of clemency to be used when he deems it to be warranted. It is my judgment that a commutation of the prison term in Mr. Libby's case is an appropriate exercise of this power."You see, Scooter was never going to see the inside of the jail. No way. Alls he had to say was, "Remind Georgie boy that I ain't no snitch...as long as I remain in my comfy manse."
And he's free....just like I thought.
Scooter is to power as Paris is to money.