Shotgun Diplomacy

As I mentioned in my previous post, I've been staying more abreast of current events lately. I didn't much mean to; it's just that the daily paper is a cost free way of alleviating the mind numbing boredom endemic to my job. But, perhaps not surprisingly, reading about what's going on in the world has given me a lot more to talk about.

Take, for example, the current fashion of toting guns to presidential speeches. No shit, when I saw the picture of some ignorant cracker with a 9mm pistol strapped to his hip, an assault rifle slung over his shoulder and a sign that said something about "watering the tree of liberty", I had to restrain the urge to laugh. I wanted to because the fucker looked so patently ridiculous. I didn't, however, because such behavior really isn't funny.

Now, long hair and radical beliefs aside, I am definitely NOT against gun ownership. Once upon a time, this country's right to exist was ensured not by a professional army but by a determined group of armed civilians. While the likelihood of such a thing being necessary twice is fairly low, I do not think that (especially in these dark times) laying down our arms is particularly prudent. Besides, I think I've made it clear that I believe an individual should have the right to defend their home, family and interests with deadly force if the need arises.

However, I ALSO feel that a citizen who chooses to arm himself is by default held to a higher standard of maturity and responsibility. A gun is not a status symbol or a source of amusement. It is a tool of deadly force and should be treated as such. Walking around with an AR-15 over your shoulder, just because you can, daring someone to "make something of it" is not the action of an adult. Such is the act of a child, a spoiled and selfish one at that.

I won't bother talking about how such antics interfere with the democratic process or create a security risk for our president. The mainstream press has already covered such ground with at least as much eloquence as I could muster. But here are another few reasons why such behavior is monumentally stupid:

-it does wonders for Gun Control, Inc. Think about it. If these people get edgy at the mere THOUGHT of private firearm ownership, imagine how they're going to feel about the sight of some asshole walking down a public street, hatted up like he's off to a Soldier of Fortune photo op. And imagine what gun-control fence sitters are going to think. Hell, I'm for gun ownership and it made ME nervous.

-it's an offense to polite society. Unless the Taliban staged some kind of invasion, there's no justifiable reason to be openly carrying guns on a public street. A firearm is a dangerous object, and accidents can and do happen.

-it makes the country look bad. Come on, we already look like a nation of ignorant, trigger-happy cowboys. Do we, as a country, truly want to make that worse? If these fuckwads really loved this nation, they'd actually give a shit about what their actions do to its reputation.

-it's a safety hazard. This one should be obvious but I'll list it anyway. A gun in an open topped holster can be stolen, and it can fall out and go off by accident. And it did not appear to me that those packing heat were paying too much mind to either concern. Yes, police carry guns in a similar fashion. But they are trained. These men, I'm going to assume from their lax behavior, weren't.

I could go on, but what's the point? Put simply, such behavior is irresponsible and stupid. Those engaging in it should cease and desist, else their right to keep and bear arms evaporate in a flurry of well meaning (and perhaps well deserved) paranoia.

In other words, the idiotic few need to stop making the rest of us look bad.

Is it a crime to love my country?

Hello once again, my devoted readership. It's been a good while since I last checked in with anything meaningful (financial contractions caused me to have to shut down my home Internet) so I'll do my best.

I've been reading the paper a lot these past few weeks,as well as listening to the beer-infused rants of the customers around me while at work. There's a good deal of anger going around; two unpopular wars, an explosive health care debate, and an economic situation that's less attractive than a tavern commode. People are angry, bitter and cynical. Even the sunday funnies are, well...not.

A lot of this resonates with me as well; I work two jobs in order to barely support myself, have friends risking their necks in Iraq, and tend to view our current health care system as a polite form of legalized piracy. Occasionally, I succumb to the black humors so prevalent in this modern age. And I've done my fair share of bitching about it.

But most of the time I'm happy to be here.

Seriously, I'm pleased and proud to be an American. Why? For the sunny side of the reasons I just discussed. So I have to work two low-paying jobs; so what? Those jobs keep me in food to eat, a roof over my head and the occasional bit of fun. There are many in other countries that would sell their soul to be able to make such a claim. So our health care system sucks; so what? It doesn't leave us to die in the street of diseases humanity learned to fix before WWII. Can the common inhabitant of Peshawar or Calcutta say the same? So our young men are dying in wars we aren't 100% sure about. Tragic, but at least they volunteered for the job. The child-soldiers in Burma likely wished they were so fortunate.

Another example; about a year ago I was harassed on the streets of Seattle by a young man extolling the virtues of Communism. Seriously; he attempted to press a pamphlet on me with the zeal of a street-corner evangelist and did not leave me alone until I threatened him with bodily harm (to whit, I adopted a cheesy redneck drawl and mumbled something about shooting folks like him where I was from. Stereotypes can occasionally be useful). The incident stuck in my head; it was only after I got home that I realized what bothered me about the confrontation.

In the countries that practiced the form of government he was praising, the young man with the Che Guavra t-shirt and the black birth control glasses would have likely been beaten, jailed or killed for being critical to the established powers-that-be. Only in America is the freedom to do such a thing woven into the most elemental fabric of our legal code.

The point that "things are always worse somewhere else so we should be grateful for what we DO have" is a well worn one, and I understand that. But in the dark times that currently assail us, it is also something we should remember.

Love of country is like love of anything else; it's never perfect and sometimes drives you up the wall, but it's also something you appreciate in the good times. Like all other love, it should never be blind, just accepting of imperfection. I know America is a nation with blood on its hands and skeletons in its closet, but I challenge anyone to find a country that is bereft of such things. Of all the places I could be living, I'd say I fucking well lucked out.

Despite the flaws, I love my country.

Technology is cool!

>Well, this will be a short entry, as I am speaking to you via my phone. I just wanted to make a brief comment about how technology certainly has come a long fucking way since I was born. I mean, really, some days it really boggles my mind. When I was 16, cell phones were enormous bricks that you couldn't fit in your pocket. Now, they are semi-intelligent postage stamps that allow
a person to write entries in an electronic journal that can potentially be read by millions.

Oh, and they'll correct your spelling while you do it.

Seriously, I love this little gadget. If I can find the oral sex and cooking applications, I may give up girls entirely.

Gay Marriage: Let it Be

Recently, the perennial topic of gay marriage hit the news again, with President Obama's new bill (and the negative reactions it drew). As always, I was torn between the desire to laugh and to tear my hair out. Watching this issue unfold has always baffled me: Haven't we learned from history?

Let me explain. For years, it was illegal for members of different races to intermarry. Blacks couldn't marry whites. Yes, there were actual LAWS on the books that prevented it (the last ones being finally struck down in the early eighties). During the 50s and 60s, the argument against interracial marriage was that it would be a socially destructive force, that it would lead to irrepressible moral turpitude and society would crumble.

Flash forward forty years or so. Interracial couples happen with regularity (my own sister, in fact, is married to a black man) and the social destruction prophesied by the conservative racists hasn't come to pass. Personally, I think my black brother-in-law makes a damn fine father.

But, to raise another point, do the arguments against sound the least bit familiar?

There is no argument against homosexual marriage that makes the least bit of sense. None at all. Like it or lump it, marriage is a LEGAL CONTRACT between two people. and the law is supposed to be blind to matters of race, color, creed, or personal belief in this country.

If a Catholic priest does not wish to perform a homosexual wedding, that is certainly his right. This country supports freedom of religion. But marriages can be performed by court commissioners (mine was) and there is NO REASON WHATSOEVER for them to be able to refuse. And there is ALSO no reason why the leaders of this country should take this freedom away from the tax-paying homosexual citizens who live here.

In disallowing the right of marriage to a certain segment of the population, we create in that segment a second-class citizen. He or she does not have the same rights and freedoms as another, for an arbitrary, unchangeable reason. Speaking as an American, I find this totally unacceptable, and morally reprehensible.

To all those who speak against the right of homosexuals to marry, I say this; you are betraying your country. You are eroding the principals of liberty and equality upon which this nation was founded, and you are doing it for no good reason.

Grow up.

The Slow Death of Rock

Has anyone else noticed a trend in music lately?

No band sticks around longer than a few months. This month's cock-of-the-walk is next month's feather duster; no musical act seems to be able to acquire the dependable longevity of their ancestors. I asked myself; where is this generation's Bruce Springsteen? Who's going to take up the "we're gonna do this forever" banner once the Rolling Stones finally kick the bucket? Nobody, if the music industry continues as it has been. Especially with the rise of the Internet.

Now, I am the first person to champion living in a more connected world. Heck, I'm communicating to my readership with it. But being able to send a message to every computer-equipped person in the human sphere has caused one problem; it no longer takes any time at all for a musical group to get discovered.

Think about this for a minute. Back in rock's early days, bands had to suffer the painful vetting process of the live club circut. To get discovered they had to get out and play, in front of rude drunks; if they sucked, people knew it, and they either got better or got the hell out of music.

To put this in perspective, Black Sabbath guitarist Tony Iommi's response as to what was the biggest factor in his band's success: "We had a job as the house band in this little blues club in Switzerland...we played five and six hour sets, three nights a week. That really tightened us up."

Now, with the advent of the Internet all that isn't necessary, and in skipping that step bands skip the vital maturation process of playing live on the road for small stakes. Now, the first catchy ditty that any group churns out is flung out into the world market, without regard for things like artistic merit. As soon as a band fails to make another one, they are shed from a label's roster without regard to artistic growth. If they manage to make several good songs (never mind albums, a single's good enough), but their career starts to show any kind of irregularity, the artist releases a "Greatest Hits" album and fades into obscurity.

And people wonder why dependable hitmakers are no longer showing up.

In another perspective-making example, consider Aerosmith. These days everyone knows who they are, but when they began their musical careers, their first single failed to chart. Instead of being dropped, the band toured live for a few months and kept on the label's roster. The song was released again, whereupon it became a hit.

The song in question? The ballad "Dream On". Interesting that a staple of classic rock radio tanked its first time around.

The music industry has caused its own troubles by turning the entire music scene into a production line; make the hit, that's all that counts. Artistic merit and maturity has gone by the wayside, and labels no longer nurture artists who just need a little seasoning. (Another interesting note: Bruce Springsteen took three albums to attain anything like the mega-fame he possesses now.) The industry also doesn't want to take a chance on anything that doesn't sell well, no matter how interesting or potentially influencing it might be. The prog-metal group Queensryche is a good example; their album sales hardly cracked the million-mark until late in their career, but their album Operation: Mindcrime is cited as an important influence by many current bands. In today's music industry, they simply wouldn't have been given a chance.

What's the solution? I'm not really sure. We can't take music off the internet, we can't make the record labels sign bands that don't sell many albums but make damn good music. But I wanted to call attention to the seriousness of the situation before rock-n-roll simply collapses under its own bloated weight. Don't laugh, without some kind of change, it'll happen in our lifetime.

And a world without meaningful music is not a world I want to live in.

Not Your Father's Anti-Racist Rant

I hate niggers. Faggots and beaners also piss me off real good.

Wow, I can smell the outrage from here at that line. I can hear the indrawn breath of a million indignant social activists as they prepare to verbally eviscerate me for uttering it. “How dare you” they all want to scream. How dare I, indeed? A middle class Anglo-boy (blond and blue-eyed, no less) shouting racial slurs? For the liberal shark, blood has most definitely hit the water. Well, hold your mud for a few and let me finish. If after I’m through you still think I deserved to be crucified, I will, like Jesus before me, willingly raise my hands to the cross. But now that I have your attention, let me begin.

I am not a racist. I want to make that clear right now. I judge all individuals as people; I let superficial concerns like the presence or absence of pigment have as little say in who I like and dislike as I’m able to. I dislike being judged almost as much as eating Brussels sprouts or drinking Canadian whisky, so I do it as little as possible. I hate racism, it makes me coldly furious. Over the next few paragraphs you’ll see just how much.

More to the point, I am related to a black man (I personally don’t like the term “African-American”; it sounds like they just got off a boat from Kenya or wherever). The relation is by marriage, to be sure, but in my family once you’re in you’re in. My ”brother from another mother” is one of my favorite people. He’s a charming, relaxed dude who is awesome to hang out with; getting drunk with him is especially enjoyable. He’s a loving husband to his wife, an attentive father to my infant nephew. He’s a hardworking, productive member of society and in all ways a pretty fine example of humanity. And I’d fucking well black-bag anyone who tried to say anything nasty about his marriage to my Caucasian sister.

I also voted for Barack Obama. I know, that’s not a radical display of racial tolerance, but I really respect his intelligence, his willpower, and his message. For the first time ever, I saw a politician who gave a speech that could stir me. I liked the fact that he owned up to having once been a cokehead without a blink. I applauded his refusal to play dirty political games when Sarah Palin’s teenaged daughter became pregnant. And I laughed myself silly when he said “of course I smoked pot. And I inhaled, frequently; that was the point” at a press conference. When was the last time a politician said something like that to his constituents? Truly, I wish they were all so goddamned witty. C-SPAN might actually be worth watching.

Oh, and I didn’t vote for him because he was black, or biracial, or whatever. I voted for him because I liked what came out of his mouth. In other words, I judged him not on the color of his skin but by the content of his character.

Most importantly, I recognize that the black American toils under a small mountain of inequities that he does not deserve to shoulder. His antecedents were owned like cattle; his parents were beaten and lynched by bedsheet-wearing hillbillies (and sadly, this hasn’t stopped happening). And in this time, there are still people who view him as inferior and untrustworthy. Which is why I have a good deal of respect for people like Obama and my brother; they have risen above the unjust bullshit and found success, wealth and happiness.

This is also why I want to put a bullet between the eyes of the thugged-out, gun-toting, crack dealing tar baby who thinks putting spinners on his ’95 Corolla makes him cool like Tupac. I want to take a truncheon and hit him in his trash-talking pie hole so he spews blood and broken teeth like a miniature Mount Saint Helens. I want to strangle him with his cheap-ass 14 karat chain (taking a moment to stick the stupid little Kalashnikov replica dangling from it through his eyeball like the swizzle stick in an olive; you know…for flavor). Bad enough that he and others like him are helping to cause the violence and social distortion that have turned our cities into dangerous jungles. White people, of course, also do their fair share in this department. But he’s also setting the clock on Afro-Caucasian race relations back ten years with every admission to the local lockup for theft, rape and murder. People like that are a reason why my brother has been maligned for the color of his skin. And I despise them for it.

In the same vein, I’d like to storm a trailer park and whack out the gap-toothed, meth-addled cracker bitch who feeds her eight berjillion kids on the government dole, so that upright Southerners like my aunt and uncle could wave the Confederate flag with pride. I’d choke the Oxy-snorting Lummi wastrel in my casino to death with his own greasy ponytail, thus allowing the Native American success stories I know to get the respect they deserve. And if I still hadn’t gotten arrested, I’d roll up on my block and blow away all the vatos who spend their time smoking mota and listening to their polka music instead of getting a job and keeping their fucking kids out of the road. That would be for the benefit of the hard working, family-oriented Hispanic carpenters my father feels blessed to employ.

Oh, and while I’m on the subject, the piece of airy-fairy queer bait that pinches my ass and expects to get away with it in the name of “tolerance” is in for a rude surprise. If a girl has the right to kick me in the man-bits if I try to cop a feel, then you will get a taste of my pimp hand, sweetie. Suck all the cock you want, with my blessing; I for one love blow jobs and wouldn’t stand in the way of anyone’s chance to receive (or provide) one. If some homophobic frat boy throws a punch at you because you “dared” kiss your boyfriend in public, I’ll be there to stop him (with a stiff left hook if necessary). Just do me a favor; go home, wash off the mascara, stiffen up that wrist and keep your hands off the straights, please. The rest of the homosexual population (including my gay friends, who have complained to me of this very thing) would appreciate it if you didn’t shove your proclivities up the world’s collective bunghole. Who knows, it might even make your life a little easier. Ignore me at your peril; make a grab for any part of my anatomy without permission and it’ll be my fist rebounding off your well-coiffed skull.

Ok, maybe it’s not such a good idea for me to own a gun.

Seriously, though; I hope my point is plain. Every stereotype-generating fuckhead in this world causes problems not only for themselves but those of his group that don’t do so. The fact that stereotypes exist is a dark, sad chapter in the book of human nature. But in time, they will become less prevalent and damning if a certain segment of the populace would stop perpetuating them by example. Though he never speaks of it, I can see in my brother’s eyes the occasional flash of bitter anger that comes of being thought inferior for an arbitrary reason, and I get pissed off all over again at those who perpetuate this infamy against him. He should not have to suffer for their sins, but he does. It makes me sad. It makes me angry. And it makes me want to reach for a baseball bat.

To be sure, people who use stereotypes to define their human relationships must shoulder a share of the blame. Fundamentalist Christians who think every gay male is a depraved, sex-crazed man-whore deserve a bonking with a Bible (preferably an unabridged one, they might learn something). Police officers who automatically assume the black they see driving a Mercedes jacked it from a white man should get terminated and incarcerated on the grounds of simple stupidity (hopefully they’ll get buggered a bit and also learn something).

But they, and others of their ilk, in all their arrogance and ignorance, are not the whole story.

Enough ink has been put to paper about the evils of the “Anglo-Saxon majority” to fill an Olympic-sized swimming pool. Taking a poke at the white man’s insensitivity to the minority condition is one of the easiest intellectual sports one can engage in; it is sure to find an audience, and no one (not even me) can say we don’t somewhat deserve the verbal drubbing. But still, nothing changes and the Anglo majority just gets tired of being pilloried. And as a member of that majority, I am fucking sick of taking all the blame.

With this essay, I take a good hard swing at the face of human prejudice. I make no apologies for the language it uses or the tone it takes. I accept full responsibility for the results. Racism and intolerance have crushed the dreams, spilled the blood and raped the human spirit of countless millions; in choosing to tackle the subject, I will not glaze over the ugliness with sugary prose. A straight-up double shot of from-the-heart street preaching honors the victims and their sacrifices with far more honesty than any amount of kid-gloved euphemistic bullshit. In the passion I feel and the eloquence I possess lie the power to change the world; I cannot in good conscience ignore the social responsibility inherent in deciding to employ them.

If the stream of gory vitriol you read in the opening paragraphs made you wince, good. If you are outraged, indignant and a little nauseated by my descriptions of bloodshed and my casual use of racial slurs, that is wonderful. I intended it so. That sick feeling in the pit of your stomach means that you have not forfeited your essential humanity to a cruel and unjust world. It means you still care about your fellow humans, though they may be imperfect, and that warms my heart more than words can convey. I would shake your hand and congratulate you on emerging from life’s fiery crucible with your idealism intact.

On the other hand, if you were amused by all the evocative violence and are thinking, “Yeah, shoot the niggers, what a great idea, that’ll fix things” then here’s what you should do. Come find me. No, really. We’ll have a drink together and you can tell me exactly why you think we should go a-hunting. And then I’ll chain your stupid ass to the tree in my backyard, cut myself a good stiff switch and whip you soundly about the derriere until you learn humility, maturity and respect for the agony of the oppressed. It would be no less than you deserve.

But enough with the cheap-seats posturing. Without further ado, I shall come to the point.

Ending intolerance in this world will take time, patience, temperance and empathy on the part of all. It will take peaceful discourse and a strong desire for change. But it will also take a hefty measure of good sense, and most importantly cooperation. The Anglo and the Negro must both take a long honest look at their souls, shed the undesirable elements of their respective cultures and lay down the grudges of the past. If the ebony and the ivory really mean to coexist, then they must both make some sacrifices and grow the hell up. The time has come for the narrow minded, judgmental WASP to leave us be, but so too the selfish shortsighted Negro in whose mind the inequities of the past give him cart blanche to behave as he pleases in the present. The alcoholic redskin, the gangbanging vato and the flouncing fairy need to take a hike as well. After such a session of painful social housecleaning, we would have peace instead of armistice, and acceptance in place of mere tolerance.

I hope the wastrels and losers I’ve placed in my imagined crosshairs (and you know who you are) will change their ways peaceably and of their own will. I hope that those who share their skin color or belief structure will help them, for their own sake as much as everyone else’s. And I hope those who judge with a single look will see the error of their ways and learn better. My barometer for success will be when racist jokes stop amusing us.

Because at that point, they’ll no longer even be occasionally true.

In closing, I love people. But I have no respect for niggers. And I think I’ve done a good job in explaining why. If you still believe I deserve to be crucified for my ideals, I bow my head and peacefully await your nails and thorny crown. To keep the integrity of my position demands nothing less.

A Slight Inconvenience

I saw a man die recently. Seriously, I did. And it is tough to say which was worse; watching some poor guy croak, or watching the reactions of everyone else.

It happened at work. Now, I work in a bar/casino; we have a small casino pit, a poker room, and a cocktail bar. The unfortunate was playing poker (irony of ironies, he had just won a hand) when he started breathing hard and collapsed. Another player jumped in to provide CPR, and I as Security staff kept anyone who wasn’t helping out of their way. So, I had a front row seat to the action.

Not to mention a front row seat to everyone else ignoring it.

Seriously, I looked over to the casino tables (less than fifteen feet away, mind you) to see people still placing bets at Spanish 21 and Pai Gow Poker. The poker players were watching, concerned, but I could see some of them looking at one of the unused tables and quietly wondering among themselves if a new game could be started. I’m not even kidding.

Well, things went from bad to worse. The EMTs showed up and began their work, producing the arcane tools of their trade and stripping this unnamed gambler of his dignity as quickly as they stripped him of most of his clothing. I watched his skin turn paler and paler, and that’s when it happened. His body just gave up.

The EMTs didn’t stop working, nor did anyone else react, but I was up close and personal and I saw it. It’s difficult to put into words the difference that came over the scene, but there was one. For just an instant, everyone was quiet. Everyone who was looking saw it too. His body sagged, relaxed, seemed to flatten out. My stomach did a little flip-flop as I realized I’d just witnessed his transition from “person” to “corpse”. It was quick, it was subtle, but it was THERE. That irrational, gibbering part of me yearned for some kind of release; screaming, puking, something like that. But I was on-duty and had to keep the situation together. I looked around for someone reacting. No one was. Everyone simply moved away from that primal moment; no one in the room wanted to face it.

For those of you who have never seen it, death is not dignified. It is not stately. It is not peaceful, serene or even mystical. It is ugly, visceral, disturbing at some level that I am not prepared to discuss; not because I don’t want to, but because I lack the words. I don’t think they exist, in any language. One minute the man was there, present, a human being battling his body’s betrayal. The next he was not. Just like that.

But all around me, life went on. People kept gambling, drinking, listening to the juke box, ordering food (something I’m really NOT sure I’d do in a place where a man was in the process of dying) as the EMTs continued trying to resuscitate him. Even the pace of their work had changed, however; instead of quick, they were operating with the measured pace of people going through the motions. They too, I suspect, knew that he was gone. But their training meant that they had to try. And my job description meant I had to watch.

After forty-five minutes, the technicians began packing up. They covered his face with a sheet and collected their instruments. By this time, police had arrived (any time someone dies, no matter what the situation, the police have to make certain that foul play is not involved). I was giving a statement to the officer, so it took me a minute to realize that the EMT vehicle had left without taking the body. It was another hour and a half before the man’s corpse was taken away.

During that time, I had to stand guard, to make sure no one desecrated/messed with the corpse or possessions. (The mere fact that this was a worry speaks volumes about our society’s value system.) I had to smell the stench of death, watch the man’s bare limbs turn gray, then greenish, and more to the point watch a casino full of gamblers completely ignore his presence. Once again, I am not joking or exaggerating. People had to be warned not to trip on him.

I could go on about the mass of tangled legality that caused a corpse to be left on our poker room floor, but the upshot was this; since the man had no ID, the paramedics wouldn’t have known who to bill for the ambulance ride. Same with the Medical Examiner; he didn’t come either. So they did their work in public eating establishment and left the poor bastard lying there. The responding police officer was quite offended at the situation, and so was I. Other than the cook (who walked out of the restaurant mid-shift and never returned to work), and a waitress (who was so distraught she couldn’t get drink orders straight) no one else seemed to care. Everyone worked mightily to ignore it.

Eventually, we managed to get a private funeral home to come collect the body. Eventually, things went back to normal. It was determined that there was no foul play and that we as a restaurant/bar were not responsible (he didn’t have anything to eat or drink). But I will never ever forget that day.

In ancient times, death was a big deal. When someone passed away, the family would prepare the body for funeral services (usually burial, sometimes cremation) and do all the work themselves. Shrines were erected, tombstones etched, services performed. People were able to move past their own selfish fear of death to show some respect, courtesy and love by washing, dressing and in some cases providing for their deceased family member (look at the Egyptian mummification ritual for a good example).

So, to see the death of a man reduced to a minor inconvenience, a passing piece of interest (note; it was less than two months ago and no one talks about it where I work, even though we were all outraged about it when it happened) was disturbing in the extreme. And I came to one other conclusion.

Death scares us. It frightens us on a deep, primal level we do not even fully understand. No one wants to be near it. Oh, we’ll watch a million movie murders and not blink (maybe wince a bit if the celluloid demise is particularly gruesome) but put any normal person in a room with somebody dying and they’ll close up and pretend it’s not happening. “I’m glad it’s not me” was what was running through my head, followed by “wow, what a shitty thing to think”. My brain kept churning out dark humor and wandering away, wanting to be anywhere but where I was. The fact that someday, that was going to be me was not a thought I cared to be faced with.

To the common patron who attempted to save his life, I salute you. To those who make fighting the specter of Death their business and calling, I name you much braver than I. For most of us, facing death is something we’d rather avoid.

I know I would.

Wearing Us Down

I was recently at a get-together( I don't call it a "party"; no booze, no bad behavior, sorry but it's my definition) with some friends, which I found highly enjoyable. We talked, played Rock Band (which I mostly watched except for some off-key chorus help...I can't sing) drank too much caffeine, and talked about silly shit that made us laugh our asses off. After cuddling with some cute girls, I ended up out on the porch giving one of said cute girls a backrub while having the standard party spiral of unfocused conversation. Perhaps inevitably, the conversation drifted to relationships.

Well, the girl in question was a newly-minted adult; she'd just turned 18 (note to readers; I was NOT trying to score, so don't even think it) and talked a bit of some of the boyfriends she'd had. I listened to her experiences, and the talk just made me, well...sad.

Listening to the tales of self-absorbed, immature boyfriends (note; it didn't come across as a play for sympathy, just communication of information), I was struck by a thought; no wonder people are so cynical. Our young lives are never quite what we hope them to be, our first relationships (sexual or otherwise) often extreme disappointments. And with each passing failed attempt, we grow more and more cynical, and in some cases bitter, self-absorbed and manipulative. And then the cycle perpetuates itself. With each passing breakup and betrayal, we lose that much more of our "relationship idealism" and pass the emotional scar tissue off as "wisdom".

I most emphatically disagree.

What are we being "wise" about? Learning to mistrust the advances of strangers, simply because they ARE strangers? Automatically assuming the worst of our fellow humans? Assigning superficial, selfish motives to what could be acts of genuine kindness, simply because others have behaved in such a fashion in the past? If that is wisdom, then give me a bit more ignorance.

Of course, a certain measure of this is necessary to our survival; it is a sad but very true fact of human nature that a good portion of the species IS out for its own good, that a lot of people ARE just looking to get laid, and placing trust in strangers is sometimes really NOT a good idea.

But I think we go too far.

In closing, I don't wonder too much why there are so many empty, cynical people in this world. It is their lives that make them so. I try not to be counted among them, but it is often a struggle.

Remember that old phrase, "Practice random acts of kindness"? Well, I live by it, or try to. Like giving that teenage girl a backrub and listening to some of her problems (WITHOUT designs on her virtue) was one. A small, debatable act, but an act of kindness nonetheless. So paying attention to a cute girl with problems doesn't make me a saint.

I'd like to think it doesn't make me a sinner.

Why I Like Country Music

I like country music. I really, honestly do. These days, with all the genre-bending tunes coming off the internet, radio and MTV (When MTV actually, you know, plays music videos), it’s hard to file your musical tastes by type anymore. When you ask people what they like to listen to, this is what most people say (ok, almost every person born north of the Mason-Dixon Line says):

“Oh, just about anything. Except country, of course.”

What the hell? How did America’s second-best musical export (after rock and roll; fuck you, Paul McCartney, we got there first, deal with it) become the red-headed stepchild of the musical family?

I guess maybe it isn’t true everywhere. I hang out with the fantasy/gamer/nerd crowd a lot, and they have about as much in common with pickup trucks and beer halls as Travis Tritt has with Ninja Scroll. But damn, a group that seems to like finding the appeal in the unlikely (a lot of them listen to Journey, and how much sense does that make?) categorically condemning an entire genre of music? My supposition is that none of them have ever actually listened to any of the good stuff.

To be sure, there are some shitty country musicians out there. Every musical genre (hell, every style period) has its wannabes, its really-shouldn’ts, its pretty poseurs and its that-just-plain-sucks-who-gave-this-asshole-a-shot musical wankers. But there is some good stuff out there; I know, I listen to it. So, here’s a bit of background…

Historically speaking, country music’s pedigree comes from Scots-Irish settlers fleeing famine and war to settle in the American Appalachians. They brought their songs with them; tunes depicting the simple loves, losses, and life of a farmer and working man (starting to sound vaguely familiar?) They sung them to the accompaniment of fiddles, pipes and occasionally accordions (again, remind you of anything?). As these settlers spread, they picked up other influences; blues from the Delta, mariachi and classical Spanish guitar work from the south of Texas. Thus, the sound and feel of what we now call “country” (in Bob Dylan’s day, when the hippies got hold of it, people called it “folk”) music was born. You can even hear the similarities in New-Age Celtic themed music; If you don’t believe me, play Lorenna McKennit’s “All Soul’s Night” and Steve Earle’s “Copperhead Road” back-to-back and tell me they don’t spring from the same source.

And there’s some good music to be found if you know where to look. I’m not going to tell you to move to Houston, buy a huge Stetson and a five-pound belt buckle with a “Bud Light FOREVER” logo on it (I don’t own either and personally like living where it rains once in a while), but take a deep breath and actually listen to some country for a change.

Country music is the voice of the common man. I mean the real common man; the flawed but noble beer-drinking pickup driving working stiff. His wants are simple, his problems easy to understand. And personally, listening to someone lament his lost wife or anorexic wallet (or terrible hangover, who hasn’t been there) resonates with me a lot more than some anorexic combed-over hipster fuck making neo-darkwave protest tunes about starving Somalis. And if one more teenaged pop-tart writes a song about her high school boyfriend and even ATTEMPTS to make it sound like it matters to the world, I’ll put her in a Texas cage match with Bonnie Raitt and gleefully watch Ms. New Thing get her plastic ass firmly kicked.

Don’t condemn something you’ve only nibbled on; get into the meat of it and then decide if it’s not for you. Just stop slamming one of my musical genres please, unless you want me to do more of the same. I’ve heard plenty of metal / pop / techno / emo / hip-hop / whatever musicians that scream “I suck, please shoot me” whenever they open their pie holes to “sing”. But I like parts of all those musical styles. I give everything a fair shake before dismissing it. And so should you. Who knows, you might find something you really like that you never knew existed.

Personal Note: All this support and brotherly love does not mean I’m against the idea of forming a posse and lynching Billy Ray Cyrus. Hell, I’ll drive the getaway car. I like championing some pretty weird causes, but some things are beyond the fucking pale. “Achy Breaky Heart” indeed…

My Favorite Albums

Ok, so today I’m reaching for a subject. But, a lot of my posts lately have been serious and angry; I like breaking the monotony occasionally. I thought reviewing some of my favorite albums might give my readership some ideas about what moves me and maybe might introduce you all to some tunes that you might not otherwise have tried.

I’m largely skipping Greatest Hits compilations; though I own a good many of them (a lot of music fans hate the concept, I don’t; I feel they’re a useful introduction to a band) I don’t really consider them “albums”. The song list usually wasn’t put together by the band, but rather by a producer, record exec or the pop charts (questionable sources at best). So, here they are, sort of in order of importance.

Jimmy Buffett, “Songs You Know by Heart” (1982): Ok, after my little speech about Greatest Hits compilations this one might seem disingenuous, but I include it because, well…damn it, I’ve listened to this album since before my balls dropped and I still love it. Buffett has a gift for writing songs you can empathize with; stuff about ordinary guys and gals, funny situations and the poignancy that real living often deals out to us. That, and the laid-back, sun soaked tunes are the best background music for chilling out that I’ve ever found. If you’re doing some serious nothing, this is your soundtrack. And “Why Don’t We Get Drunk (and Screw)” is the best pickup song EVER.

Queensryche, “Operation: Mindcrime” (1988): Written during the first Bush administration, the themes of alienation and paranoia still ring true today. Done at the apex of Queensryche’s skill and talent (Chris DeGarmo had yet to walk off with the riffs and Geoff Tate’s amazing operatic wail was still in peak form), this album is a biting piece of American political commentary wrapped up in a creepy, nihilistic rock opera about drugs and amoral skullfuckery. It’ll make you question your beliefs almost as much as bang your head. If you even remotely like 80s thrash, pick this album up and give it a listen.

Concrete Blonde, “Bloodletting” (1990): Most Goth music is reserved and antiseptically dreary (VNV nation, Cruxshadows, et. al); the artists drone on about themes of angst and depression with a stone-faced mien. Not so Concrete Blonde. Dark, edgy blues riffs grind and moan under Napolitano’s velvety alto, and gentle acoustic guitars chime in here and there to underscore the themes of lost love and faithless friends (subjects usually best confronted with a stiff drink in a dark room). Listening to this album, I can almost smell the smoke and taste the cheap tequila that inspired it.

AC/DC, “Back In Black” (1980): Ok, so I’ve heard it way too fucking much now that I work in a bar. But since I can’t stop singing along every time “Have a Drink on Me” comes on, I guess this album still counts among my favorites. Unapologetically brainless, cheerfully violent and blatantly sexual, this is one of hard rock’s finest hours. It was the first serious rock album I ever owned, and it would probably be one of the last I’d discard if some cruel soul forced me to vet my CD collection. If you want to leave your intellect on the seat next to you, just crank this fucker up and rock the hell out. Oh, and it also is great music to knock boots to.

Fleetwood Mac, “Rumours” (1977): We all know the songs on this album; you hear then every damn day on Muzak stations in supermarkets and dentist’s offices. They massive, shameless overexposure doesn’t change the fact that this is a soft-rock masterpiece. Under all the schmaltz and string arrangements, there is perhaps the greatest collection of bitter anti-love songs ever penned (listen to the lyrics of “The Chain” or “Gold Dust Woman” sometime if you think I’m wrong). Linkin Park could learn a thing or two about subtlety from listening to these guys.

Sisters of Mercy, “Floodland” (1987): These days the genre of Goth-rock is as dead as its purveyors tried to appear to be (Evanescence: Good try, but not quite). Such a shame; now, it’s all limp-wristed techno and atonal screamo (two genres I’m not especially fond of). But back in the day, this was the shit. Though Eldritch and Co. occasionally come off like the dark side of Phil Collins, licking Whidbey’s off of tattooed cleavage to “This Corrosion” remains one of my most smile-inducing teenage memories. Warning; smoking a spliff and falling asleep with “Colours” playing on repeat is a good way to have really weird dreams, especially if you do it in a cemetery (long story).

Led Zeppelin, “II” (1969): Though most people prefer the “symbols” album (also called IV, Zoso and a host of other names) this one is my favorite slice of Zep. I will forever be grateful to the Plant-obsessed hippie chick who introduced me to this album (though her personality annoyed the shit out of me). I play it whenever I need either a boost of energy (“Living Loving Maid”, “Ramble On”) or a good chill-out moment (“Thank You”). And “Whole Lotta Love”, of course, when I’m about to go looking to get laid. No, I didn’t boink the hippie chick.

Atmosphere, “Seven’s Travels” (2003): Rap was never one of my favorite genres (except for a little mid-90s West Coast hip hop now and then from my weed-smoking days), but this guy makes hip-hop literate and relevant. He doesn’t brag; he confesses. His intricate screeds of tortured poetry (set to icy jazz samples and wistful acoustic guitar) and snarky commentary about fame and fortune (check out the songs “National Disgrace” and “Reflections”) make him one of my favorite rappers. And this album contains the best song (“Lift Her Pull Her”) about a slowly disintegrating, never-should-have-taken-this-long relationship that’s been conceived yet.

Black Sabbath, “Paranoid” (1971): Often imitated but never duplicated (go learn some Robert Johnson, you cock-rocking ripoff artists!), Black Sabbath basically invented stoner metal; this is their shining moment. Tony Iommi scrapes the mucky bottom of the blues barrel with his guitar playing, his Gibson SG vomiting up the most toxic, addictive sludge imaginable (fuck, the riff from “Electric Funeral”, played at high volume, sounds downright cancerous). Today, the songs are a little dated to shock, but imagine the look on some proper British lady’s face (circa 1972 or so) when she heard “War Pigs” coming out of her son’s bedroom. Though many since have sounded ominous and dark, none have pulled off the skanky undertone that Sabbath managed here. And no one, NO ONE, is crazier than Ozzy. Period.

Monster Magnet, “Powertrip” (1998): As can be seen from the other entries on this list, I like the old stuff. These guys do a good job of sounding like the musical heroes of yore, while still managing to come off as new. Monster Magnet wasn’t afraid to dip into rock’s roots; sex, loudness and string-bent riffs. “See You in Hell” in particular is my favorite; it sounds like someone replaced the Doobie Brothers’ doobies with a crack pipe. Listening to this CD makes you feel like you’re 12 feet tall (with a dick to match) and ready to take on anything. Oh, and for the ladies, you can dance to some of it.

Whitesnake, “Slip of the Tongue” (1984): Oh boy, I can hear the smothered snickers from here. Does anyone still like Whitesnake (legitimately, not ironically; tight-panted hipster snarks need not apply) anymore? Other than me? Ah well, fuck you all, I do. This big slice of hair-metal cheese is best appreciated when inebriated and aroused, preferably with a pretty girl in your lap who’s not averse to having her neck chewed on. Just don’t listen to “Wings of the Storm” while driving unless you like speeding tickets.

Guns n’ Roses, “Appetite for Destruction” (1987): Ok, so most anyone who even casually likes hair metal likes this album. I do too. Sue me; it’s popular because it kicks ass. Maybe these days Axl Rose just needs to go away (at least he finally finished “Chinese Democracy”…and boy, did it suck); still, this perfect fusion of glammy sleaze and punk attitude more than occasionally finds its way onto my stereo.

Kid Rock, “Devil Without a Cause” (1998): So this entire album is one big ego-trip. Who gives a fuck? It’s an AWESOME one. This is rap-metal the way it should have been done all along; no protesting, no whining, no angst, no bullshit. Kid’s machine-gun delivery, cheerful fuck-you braggadocio and old-school rock riffs (with occasional dips into funk and laid-back blues territory) make this one of the best party albums of the decade. The middle finger on the front of the CD says it all. Now if he’d just stop trying to be the Second Coming of Skynyrd…

As you can see, I like a lot of older music. I guess the days when the whole album actually had to be good are gone (with a few notable exceptions; more on this to come). It does occasionally make me sad that the only music I really connect with was made when I was only 2 feet tall (or, in some cases, before I was born). I suppose it means I’m getting old.

Oh well, I still like it loud. Guess that means I haven’t grown up yet.

Parenthood

Parenting certainly has taken a dive these past few years. I look at the next generation of kids coming into adulthood, and with a few notable exceptions I don’t see much to recommend it over mine. (For that matter, I don’t see much in mine to recommend it over the previous one). What happened? Did parents start to suck worse? And who is to blame?

On the last two, here are my answers; yes, and look in a mirror.

These days, children are raised by impersonal media sources. They get their education from television, the Internet, magazines and their companions (who likely got theirs from the aforementioned sources). Parents would rather let their kids vegetate in front of World of Warcraft or American Idol than spend the time to get to know them; after all, parenting is hard work, a full-time job that does not pay. And, unless they are unbelievably lucky, said parents have to have another job to pay all the bills.

Now, I’ve never been a parent. But an experience I had when I was young forever shaped my view of child-rearing. When I was about thirteen, hunting pigeons in my dad’s warehouse, I came across a motherless squab (baby pigeon). I wasn’t hard-hearted enough to kill it, so instead I took it home and endeavored to raise it. (The fact that it was probably motherless due to my pellet gun was an irony I would not fully appreciate until adulthood.) My parents allowed me to, on the condition that I do the work. And holy crap, was it work.

Baby birds, for those of you who don’t know, need to eat about once every forty-five minutes. Good thing it was summertime or I’d never have managed it. Still, I had to take this small, delicate, helpless creature everywhere I went, endure its constant peeping for food and attention, endure occasional mockery from the other kids, and constantly wash bird shit out of my clothes. He got sick; I worried, powerless, until he got better. Once the little peeper crawled out of the portable “nest” I had built and I spent thirty frantic minutes looking for him.

But the little guy grew up and fledged; I remember teaching him to fly, or trying to (birds do fly instinctively but need a little push in the right direction; I guess defying gravity is nerve-racking even if evolution equipped you for it). I recall bursting with pride when he did finally figure it out. I figured he’d fly off and make a life for himself or something.

But that wasn’t the end of the story. The little guy (I named him Peavy, after the log-turning tool I’d found him under…don’t ask me why) didn’t want to go. He hung around the house, and as winter approached my dad and I took out a window in my room and replaced it with a wooden box and door; so he could have some shelter and come into my room if he wished. It made my room a good deal colder, but I didn’t mind. He’d come in while I was doing my homework, coo softly and beak my hair. Occasionally, he’d crap on me (pigeons aren’t really careful about where they drop their load, though he became more conscientious after a while). At dinner time, he’d sit on the table next to my plate and pick bits of food off my fork. He even followed me to school one day and sat on the windowsill of my classroom (much to the interest of the other kids, and for one glorious day I was the coolest kid in class).

I could go on, but I think you get the idea; Peavy became a part of our family. Even my parents enjoyed having him around. I loved having a pet that was so attached to me. So, imagine my utter shock and horror when Peavy was eaten by a red-tailed hawk less than twenty feet from me one cold January day. I still miss him.

As I grew up, the metaphor for parenting was inescapable. Infants are helpless and require constant care; constant care means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not”. They get sick, and you have no idea how to help, and have to frantically research childhood ailments or place a panicked call to the local doctor to find out what to do. Often, you take them to the doctor and wait, powerless and scared, until a stranger pronounces your offspring healthy again. Or they won’t, and you’ll suffer a lifetime of guilt wondering what you could have done differently.

They grow up, and you have to teach them things you barely understand yourself. You have moments of bursting pride when they learn. You have moments of aggravation when they don’t. They make messes and break things (Peavy ruined more than one dinner by shitting in it, until my mother banned him from the kitchen). They cause you to have to completely readjust your life. And sometimes, despite all your hard work, love and endless care, God or Fate deals them a bum card and they are snatched from you anyhow. And I can only imagine the complex horror of watching them grow up to be someone you don’t actually like.

I looked at my experience with Peavy, and asked myself; did I want to go through a similar experience with a child of my own blood? The answer was, and still is, a most emphatic hell no. I think everyone should have to do what I did if they want to raise a child (more detail on this in another entry).

A lot of people who decide to be parents don’t understand the level of total commitment being a good one requires. As I said before, “total” means “all the fucking time whether you want to or not, whether it’s convenient or not, whether it’s cool or not”. You never truly take a break from being a mother or a father. You can desert your duty, but it will forever remain an unfinished piece of business with your name on it. I think that’s why there are so many shitty parents in this world; because parenting is hard fucking work with no clear right answers. And that’s why we’re all to blame for it.

Society just doesn’t respect parents. Are there any sitcoms depicting happy, well adjusted families? Not in my experience. We’d rather watch shows about families more fucked up than ours because it makes us feel better than observe those that are more stable and take lessons. Women would rather keep their girlish figures than grow great with child (and considering the prevailing attitudes on female beauty and its importance, I can’t be too angry with them). Men would rather go drink with their friends and play Xbox than take kids to the park or change diapers (and again, considering the values of our time I don’t blame them either). For those who do it, and do it well, I heartily salute you.

But just because it’s hard does not mean parents should get a free pass or any sympathy for screwing it up. Theirs is the most important job there is; preparing the next generation for survival and prosperity in a cruel, unjust, and fucked-up world. It’s an awesome responsibility, the level of which should be self-evident to anyone with an IQ greater than a freeway speed limit but, sadly, it doesn’t seem to be.

So all you parents, get out there and learn; do not allow others to take up this most sacred of tasks on your behalf unless you wish to part with your offspring. If you’re not ready, condoms are free, birth control is readily available, and if those don’t appeal watch porn and scratch your biochemical itch all by your lonesome. I’ve been a very sexually active male for almost a decade and a half, and I have never knocked someone up so I know it’s possible. And if you already have made a boo-boo and don’t want to be a parent, put your child up for adoption and be smarter next time. I’m not joking; there are plenty of people out there who were cursed with infertility who’d love a shot at child rearing.

In other words, do not take it lightly. A baby is not a toy that stays warm and makes cute noises; it is a *life*. And *you* are responsible for its care and development. So, roll up your sleeves and get to work. We, as your fellow humans, are counting on you, and so is the next generation.

A Sad State of Affairs

At work today, I decided to flip through the paper in a moment of boredom. I don’t normally read the paper; it’s usually full of news I’d rather not read about. I know, it is indeed a head-in-the-sand tactic of the worst order, but I have enough reasons to be depressed that I don’t need to add more to the list. But I was bored; really, really bored. And I figured, come on, the news can’t be bad all the time.

Boy, was I wrong. The first article I encountered was a piece about a late-term abortion doctor being gunned down in a church. Look it up, and if you aren’t shocked and horrified, you aren’t fucking human.

Now, I’m not going to tackle the morality of abortions (not in this post, anyway) or the surgeons who perform them. But Jesus Christ must be spinning in his grave like an F1 racer’s driveshaft as he beholds this latest infamy of mankind. Shooting a 67 year old husband and father? Gunning down a DOCTOR, someone committed to the health and safety of his fellow humans, over what amounts to a debatable point? Doing it during a CHURCH SERVICE, right in fucking front of the image of the man who preached universal love and peaceful tolerance? In full view of families and children, including this poor man’s WIFE? The fact that this sick fuck committed cold-blooded murder, profaning a house of God in the process, and did it in the name of the “pro-life” movement makes this event so savagely ironic I don’t know where to start.

Whoever is responsible for this atrocity needs his head examined. Maybe we can find out what mental loose wire caused him to commit this vile crime, so that no person need be subject to its precursors ever again. Fortunately, from the article I read it sounds like they caught the bastard. Good. I hope that the guilty party is punished to the fullest extent of the law.

I am ordinarily a firm believer in the death penalty; humanity’s true monsters do not deserve to be fed and housed on the tax money provided by law-abiding citizens. In committing the most heinous of crimes, they have made themselves the enemy of their fellow man, and as such they forfeit their rights to life. It should be done as humanely as possible, with as much brevity and respect as can be managed. But I believe it should be done.

However, in this fucker’s case, I’ll make a BIG exception.

He DESERVES incarceration. A long, dreary stretch in the nastiest armpit of a prison as can be found. Marion, Illinois perhaps (I’ve heard that place is a real shithole). And most definitely NOT in solitary confinement; put him in with the rest of the hardened felons and tattoo his crime across his fucking forehead. Hopefully, he would spend the rest of his life being horribly ass-raped by the biggest (take that either way) and most sadistic career cons in the joint. A long, slow, humiliating death from abuse and neglect (if the prison guards have any sense of justice, they’ll just let it happen) is way more poetically appropriate for this waste of skin who felt justified in blowing blood and brains all over a church foyer. And there should be doctors there to keep him healthy, so that he both lives a long time and maybe, possibly grows to respect the service they provide. I’d gladly pay extra on my tax bill just so this can happen; shit, any Hells Angels or New York mafiosi who end up shagging his pink ass can send me a letter. I’ll send you a carton of Marlboros for your service to your country. Two if you give him herpes.

Anyone who even dares to suggest that commission of this murder made the killer a hero or a martyr should join him. Whatever twisted social group that spawned this horrible atrocity should be taken to task for it (and hopefully silenced) as well. Such vicious and selfish thinking should not be allowed to spread.

I’ll climb off my soap box now. I’ll calm down, put my outrage aside and let the wheels of justice turn (hopefully swiftly and surely). But I hope this is a wake-up call to militant, self-righteous “true believers” everywhere who are willing to kill over points of conjecture.

You aren’t helping.

Young Enough Not to Care

A wasted youth is better by far than a wise and productive old age.
-Meat Loaf, “Everything Louder Than Everything Else”


I hang out in the gamer-anime-nerd-freak crowd and sometimes, I’m really surprised by it. Ok, so that social group has a reputation for emotional repression. But, I remember the days when being the balls-to-the-wall “freak” was cool and accepted. The other evening, at an all-night iHOP coffee grind (a gamer institution if ever there was one) we got round to trading funny stories. As everyone started dragging out their "I can't believe I actually did this" tales, I found that mine were some of the only ones that sounded in the least risky. What the hell, I thought. I wasn't THAT dangerous and street as a teenager...was I?

I guess it’s a question of time and place; when I rolled into this scene (in the mid-90s, for some of you as distant as the Precambrian Period) Anne Rice was still trendy, clove cigarettes were the thing and being a gamer-geek didn’t mean you had an aversion to bacchanalia. “Emo” was called “Goth”, long hair and trench coats were the fashion, free love and the occult the order of the day. Indeed, when I started hanging with the crowd, such rowdy behavior was par for the course. So, being teen-aged and impressionable, I grew my hair out, stuck a cig in my mouth and went with the flow. And what a flow it was.

The freaks of my youth didn’t throw keggers; they threw wild bashes that would make Bluto and Bacchus both sit up and shout “ok, what the fuck is going ON over there?” Hard alcohol, nudity, fire-breathing, sword fighting (usually with foam weapons but NOT always), casual semi-public lovemaking, and philosophical rambling all combined into a series of hazy, crazy nights. Hardly anyone got sick or hurt (though there was the occasional injury, accident, or trip to the hospital for stitches and stomach pumping); people mostly just had a good time and dealt with the hangovers. I still remember my first serious gamer-party; within an hour I was making out with a twenty-year old sex kitten sporting a tongue piercing, blue hair and a tattoo, thinking I’d died and gone to heaven.

Sometimes I miss being sixteen and easily amused.

I can recall, with wistful clarity, being shown the proper way to imbibe Whidbey’s Liqueur; off an attractive female’s nipple or stomach. I also remember, with somewhat less clarity, on another occasion drinking “spodi” (a flammable and potentially lethal combination of diced fruit and strong spirits left to macerate in a trash can for several days) until I passed out. I greeted the cold dawn that day wearing nothing more than leather pants (that weren’t mine) and a hickey collection; as to the origins of both, don’t ask me, I’m still not sure.

I had bad times, I had good times. I screwed some women, kissed some boys (deciding that such probably wasn't my thing), did some drugs and had awesome intoxicant-drenched adventures in an era when being a hard-drinking, chain-smoking freak was not yet the anachronism it currently seems to be. I never once got horribly injured or arrested (though my grades suffered and I scraped through some horrific morning-afters) and I learned a little something about the seamy side of life. Also, I came away with some great stories to tell in my old age should I ever, you know, decide to grow up. Someday, if I’m really drunk and sitting at my computer, I’ll do a post about the six hits of gelatin LSD, the ten foot alien, and the woman known as “Aleena, the Potato Queen” (word to the wise; no matter how much I may advocate youthful misbehavior, do yourself a favor and never EVER drop acid at a sci-fi convention).

But that, dear reader, is why the current generation of teenage gamers make me more than a little sad. Oh, they’re good kids; they are fun to be around and just as bright and bushy-tailed about the RPG cosa nostra as I once was. I try and listen to their “unique” character concepts and in-game braggadocio with as much interest as I can muster; I remember being 17 and thinking I was pushing the boundaries of gamer-dom, and I know that learning you really aren’t is something that only comes with time. Besides, if I actually take a moment to listen, I find that more often than not they are indeed being insightful, unique and creative. Just because I’m a jaded old gamer-carcass doesn’t mean that I have to be an egotistical prick about it (as so many gone-to-seed roleplayers I know tend to be; more on this in another post).

But these bright, loveable kids just aren’t taking any risks. These days, I sit and tell stories of my “misspent” youth (only exaggerating a little when pleasantly drunk), and I either have a rapt audience of wide-eyed youngsters, or a bunch of said youngsters giving me the “oh, bullshit” look. (That thing with the Potato Queen really happened, I swear). My life can’t have POSSIBLY been that interesting, unless everyone else’s suddenly became boring by comparison. And considering I steered clear of more than I tried, that fact is a little depressing.

Now, before anyone bristles at my glib romanticizing of drug use, rampant alcohol consumption, and casual sex, listen to this. I am fully aware that I could have been hurt doing what I did. I could have caught AIDS from one of those girls I so casually bedded, or made a trip to the hospital (or a six foot hole) from a bad reaction to the drugs I did. I could have been arrested, or saddled with a child. One of those freakazoids who I partied with could have knocked me unconscious and cut my kidneys out for sale on the black market, or simply buggered me, taken my wallet and left me in a ditch. And I DID do a bunch of puking in the bushes (though not as much as some), got horribly grounded and had to deal with more than one scary situation. A thousand bad things could have potentially happened to me, and more than a few did.

But I am still here.

I’m still mostly healthy, with all my mental and physical faculties intact. I am not a father or a felon, and the only scarring I suffered from my youth was a bad high school GPA and some parent-child fighting (and you’ll have some of that no matter HOW good you are). I came out of my freak time without any addictions (except to cigarettes, stay away from those WHATEVER you decide) or serious life-altering consequences. And, I consider my life fully enriched by my shenanigans; having felt the joyous adrenaline of saying “Oh my god I can’t believe I just DID that and got AWAY with it” more than makes up for the pain of having occasionally, well…not.

Life is risk, and risk makes you feel alive; ignore that fact at your peril. Youth is the TIME for indiscretion. Waiting until you are older just means that you are behaving badly when people (children, spouses, employers) are depending on you. And the midlife crisis happens because you look back at 40 and think, “damn, I missed out; I’ve spent my whole life being good and now I’m bored, I want to play”. By then, it’s usually too fucking late. You have a mortgage, kids, a good job and a body that’s not up to the things you want to put it through. And outlandish, childish, hedonistic behavior causes people to shake their heads in disgust because you are, at that point, “old enough to know better”.

So if you’ve gotten an invite to a party that involves things that aren’t EXACTLY legal, aren’t EXACTLY healthy, and aren’t EXACTLY safe, take it if you think you can come home intact. I’m not advocating anyone to go smoke crack with five-dollar whores, or shoot up in alleyways, have rampant unprotected sex with animals (I’m not merely being hyperbolic; some sub-groups of homo sapiens constitute a lower form of life). Just get a little crazy, confront the risks with a hefty measure of good sense and you don’t have much to fear. Remember, though, that you are taking a risk and that there always is a chance that you can get seriously messed up. And even if you don’t suffer permanent damage, chances are it will hurt a bit, but that’s ok. A serious, stomach-shredding, head-pounding oh-my-god-its 3am-where-am-I-FUCK-these-pants-aren’t-my-pants hangover is something I think everyone should endure; it at least imparts upon one a gut-level respect for the power of controlled substances.

Here’s a bit of hard-won advice. When choosing to be daring, make sure you do a good cost-benefit analysis, educate yourself on potential consequences and NEVER let anyone make important choices on your behalf (remember; your friends don’t have to live with the fallout from drinking/smoking/fucking that, you do). If you are informed, perceptive and somewhat careful, you should get through with nothing more than a headache and a colorful anecdote. And if the damage is permanent, learn the lesson Fate is handing you and take your scar as a badge of honor; it was earned in an error of commission.

Hopefully, when you do decide to settle down, you can have some “been there, done that” wisdom to impart to your children when THEY start getting into their OWN trouble. The fact that my parents misbehaved, lived to tell about it, and gave me a no-BS rundown on drugs and alcohol is the reason I survived my bad behavior mostly intact.

Pleasurable stupidity can hurt. But, you only get one chance to be young enough not to care.

Take it.

(Note: I wrote this while polishing off a half-full bottle of Captain Morgan’s and staying up all night, in case anyone questions my Hedon-cred.)

Shut Up & Dance!

I recently set out to throw a party at my house; I invited some friends, threw some steaks on the grill and grabbed a bunch of good booze. It’s something I do fairly regularly; I like having a good time and sharing the experience with others. We also threw some good, danceable music on the stereo (not techno but some booty-shaking old-school soul and funk, I like it) and people started tapping their toes and politely bopping their heads. But, very few actually danced.

Now, make no mistake; I’m white. When it comes to dancing, I’m incredibly white. I have very little rhythm, no mastery of moves (except for breakdancing, and not all that well; yes I can hear you laughing at me, you girl-pants-wearing emo fuckwad) and almost no timing. I look like a coked up chimpanzee in the midst of an epileptic seizure, and I can’t for the life of me imagine why that’s sexy or cool. But, after several shots of whiskey and a good meal, I got up and shook my ass with the few who were brave enough to join me. I’m sure I looked patently ridiculous (as always), but in no time flat, I had the prettiest girl at the party joining me in some bumping and grinding. She looked sexy; I didn’t much care what I looked like, shaking my angular derriere to Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” was pretty damn entertaining. The hot chick dancing with me was just the icing on the cake.

When I looked over, there were a bunch of guys on the couch watching me with amusement and barely concealed jealousy. I could plainly see the source; the pretty girl was touching me and not them. And it got me to wondering; why don’t more guys do this?

Dancing is good for you. It’s exercise that isn’t mindlessly repetitive. It gets your heart rate up, releases endorphins and causes pretty women to grind their hips on yours. Believe me, if I were a little chunkier than I’d like, slacking my belt while a hot chick rubs herself on me sounds like a small slice of heaven. So what’s the hold-up?

“I can’t dance,” people say when I ask. “I’ll look stupid” say others. Well, I’ve seen what I look like while dancing, and let’s just say I won’t be tearing up Broadway or giving Michael Flatley a run for his money anytime soon. I won’t even have B-boys saying “chill move” or “that’s fucking DOPE!” if I hit the dance floor. Most likely, they’d just laugh. Personally, I don’t give a fuck.

And that’s why I can dance. Getting your freak on at a party involves literally not caring about appearance, just working up a sweat and having a good time. Usually, girls like to dance (and they have the unfair but ultimately pleasurable advantage of tits and hips to shake, we men unfortunately do not) and are collectively put out by the fact that guys don’t. At the risk of giving away one of my prime advantages (my willingness to look silly with an audience has caused more than one pair of panties to eventually evaporate) I’m going to give the guys in the audience a homework assignment.

Wait until you have the house to yourself. Or, just lock the door to your room if that’s what it takes. Find the most irrepressibly white music you can that still has a good beat (“She’s A Lady” by Tom Jones is a good choice…really). Clear some space if you can. Play the music, as loud as the sensibilities of your neighbors will allow. Now, start flailing. Move to the beat. Get your fucking freak on. I’m serious, it’s fun.

Remember that scene in “Risky Business” (A movie probably before the time of most of you; go watch it) where a teenaged Tom Cruise dances like a ninja mutant stripper around his house (in his undies no less) to Bob Seger? Yeah, it was silly. Yeah, we all laughed. But look how much fun he was having. So, try it yourself. And the next time you are at a party, and some good tunes come on, simply do the same thing. Keep your pants on, of course; tighty whities are not sexy. If you need a little push onto the dance floor, a couple shots of tequila will do the trick. It’s called “liquid courage” for a reason.

Not looking like an idiot when you dance is as simple as not worrying about looking like an idiot. Even if some people laugh at you (and they will, because some people are assholes), most will secretly be wishing they could be as secure in themselves as you appear to be. I think maybe that’s why women like men who are willing to throw a few moves out there. Nothing says good things like confidence, and confidence means not giving too much of a fuck about the opinions of people you’ve never met and who, at the end of the day, don’t really matter.

So the next time you hear something that makes you tap your toe, and there’s booze and hot chicks involved, don’t stop there. Just dance like nobody’s watching. You might be surprised at the result.

Booze Porn

Recently, I read Anthony Bourdain’s book The Nasty Bits. It’s a treatise on his experiences working in the restaurant world, interspersed with his philosophical ramblings about the nature of food, fame and life itself. It’s sometimes vague, intermittently vivid, occasionally profound and always from the heart. And, its part of what inspired me to begin writing again. If I ever meet him, I’ll thank him profusely for shaking me out of my stupor.

In reading his book, I was introduced to the concept of “food porn”. This is a rich, sensual, adjective-sprinkled narrative about the simple pleasures of eating good food, written in an erotic style normally reserved for pleasures involving more sweat and nudity. They are wonderful to read if you are possessed of any imagination and/or appreciation of a fine meal. (Personal note: Before I die, I’m going to eat sushi at Masa’s. After reading Bourdain’s description, I simply must know if it is as good as he says it is.)

As I read his book, several things occurred to me. The first was that it was pretty damn cool. The second, that I could easily do something similar if I tried. And the third, well…if we have food porn, why not booze porn?

I am a whiskey drinker. I love whiskey, Scotch and bourbon in all its myriad forms. Well, except Canadian; to my mind the Canadians understand whiskey about as well as street mutts understand gourmet cooking. I am not a peat-sniffing single malt snob either; I love Maker’s Mark, Jim Beam, Jack Daniels and Bushmill’s with equal intensity. Hell, I’ve even had my Wild Turkey/Southern Comfort binges; blaring Poison from my iPod and careening precariously around my living room, bottle clenched in my fist, hair flying about my face like a latter-day Viking. Sometimes I even scream out, “I am a GOLDEN GOD!” at the top of my lungs for no particular reason. It’s something every white boy should do at least once.

But sometimes, if you want a truly transcendent experience, you have to part with some cash and go upscale. Here’s how I do it.

I take a pilgrimage down to Usce’s, a convivial Dublin-themed pub in the middle of the understated liveliness that is downtown Bellingham. I try to come during off-peak hours; the ceilings are high and echoing, and the Friday night college crowd churns out a fairly consistent roar. I like to see people having a good time, but if I want to get deafened I’ll purchase tickets to an Iron Maiden show instead.

I also try and time my arrival for when the owner is working the bar; she’s an elegant woman, with charming laugh lines on her cheeks and a delicate grace to her movements. She pours fine Scotch the way I think it should be poured; slowly, reverently, generously, and with the knowing smile of one that understands the worth of what she’s serving. I stand at the bar, and patiently wait my turn. I don’t usually have to order; she, like all successful barmaids down through history, remembers me and my tastes. (Glenmorangie 18 year, straight up, and a glass of water.) I hand her my twenty bucks (a princely sum for me to part with in my income bracket) and watch her work her magic. She hands me my ticket to bliss, and I search for an empty corner table.

I don’t sit at the bar; I usually try to sit as far away from everyone else as possible. I’m not antisocial, but I believe that sensual indulgence of any form is best done in as much privacy as can be managed. My favorite table is by the window; from there, I can watch the often rain-soaked Northwestern night, observe the passage of humanity through a protective veil of smoked glass, and generally not get bothered.

While searching for a seat, I take a couple of good swigs from my water glass to clear the flavor residue of tobacco, food and whatever off my palate. It’s one good piece of advice for anyone who wants to try wine, scotch or anything else with a complicated evolving flavor; your tongue is about to be overburdened enough, so give it a fresh start. Once seated, I set the water aside and begin seducing the whiskey in front of me.

I cradle the glass and admire the sight of that somber amber hue. I hold it up to the light and marvel at the shades of gold, umber and rich chocolate. At this point I can just make out the faint fragrances that waft up from it. Like admiring the body of a woman as she sheds her clothes before you make love, it is part of the whole experience and shouldn’t be skipped.

I don’t bother taking a sniff over the glass. Good Scotch is surprisingly volatile; you’ll be breathing it almost as much as you’ll be drinking it, and the cradling of the glass in my hand warms it enough that I can perceive the scent without extra effort. (Second piece of advice; with Scotch, don't let it sit too long, or the flavor will go flat.) Besides, sticking my schnoz in the snifter feels pretentious. And it’s my glass.

Nothing compares to that first sip. I take a small one, not enough to swallow; it vanishes on my tongue like a dream in the light of day, leaving behind a riot of flavor. Honey, cream, anise, smoke, cold Highland air and rich earth hold hands on my palate and sing bawdy songs. The wood comes on next; sharp, intense, almost bitter but not quite unpleasant. The sensations are as different as can be, but somehow they all get along. .

The next sips are deeper, so I can feel the warmth in my chest, spreading slowly through my muscles (“like the wings of an angel” as a poetically inclined fellow Scotch drinker once put it) and gently sweeping aside the tensions of everyday life. As the glass gets lighter, the problems and cares of existence fade into the background, and I stop trying so hard to enjoy it and just let it happen.

The buzz from a glass of good highland Scotch is a singular pleasure; it is warm, philosophical, relaxing and utterly sublime. As I drink, my mind begins to wander away from the glass in front of me, and I let it. I picture the journey of this whiskey from its origins in lichen-crusted mountains to its terminal arrival in my small Northwest town. I imagine the grain, the wood, the peat, the blending and the mixing of all those elements and the passage of years required. My meanderings are probably more fanciful than accurate, but I care not. They please me.

I drink until the glass is gone; too soon but probably just soon enough, it is. My head is suffused with a wonderful glow, and I finish the other half of my water before the wonderful tastes on my tongue can turn sour. I carry my glasses back to the bar and hand my earthbound angel of a barmaid a five-spot (note to readers; if you can’t afford to tip, and tip well, drink at home). I am rewarded with another of her warm smiles, and I step out onto the sidewalk for a smoke.

I smoke a pipe most days; it’s healthier, cheaper and more pleasant to bystanders than cigarettes. I load a pinch of vanilla Cavendish into my beat-up briar, lean up against the wall, light up and ruminate. The noise fades to a pleasant hum, punctuated by the occasional passing car, and I give my mind free reign to go on a walkabout. Some of my best creative notions have resulted this way.

As the glow begins to wear off, the thoughts often turn sad. I think of old friends I haven’t seen in years and lovers long gone. I observe the stars on their heavenly courses, and wonder if the woolgathering of my poetic soul matters to anyone but me. I watch the puffs of smoke from my pipe climb up to greet the moon, and I like to imagine that someone up there is listening, watching, and smiling. By the time the pinch in my pipe is burnt to ash, my head is clear, my day measurably improved.

You may be wondering why I do this, why I would spend what amounts to a large chunk of my discretionary income on such a transitory pleasure. Well, if you are, then turn in your humanity badge right this instant. Give it to someone who’ll make better use of it. God, Fate or evolution gave us our five senses and a soul with which to enjoy their input. I intend to take full advantage of the fact, and you should too.

As to why I drink my favorite Scotch in a bar (when, for the price of six glasses I could buy a bottle and have it whenever I want), the bar is part of the experience. And something that rarified should be an occasional treat, not an everyday pleasure. Besides, if I drank at home, I wouldn’t have an elegant, Hepburn-esque beauty to pour it for me. And to me, watching her do it is a pleasure worth paying a premium for. Someday, if I ever make it big, I’ll buy a bottle to celebrate. And I’ll invite that lovely woman over so I can pour for her.

Enjoy yourself. Try it sometime. It doesn’t have to be fine Scotch; hell, it doesn’t have to be alcoholic at all. Just get yourself the best of your chosen indulgence, and revel in the experience, all aspects of it. Seize that transitory moment, open yourself to it. You’re selling your soul short if you do not, once in a while, live.

I Demand Satisfaction

I miss the days of pistols at dawn.

I’m not usually a historical romantic; I like living in the modern age. I like cutting-edge medicine, supermarkets, hygiene, Habeas Corpus and the Internet. A lot of gamer/fantasy dorks are all “man, I wish I could live in (insert historical period they have a hard-on for here)”. I want to laugh at them and say, “Have fun getting lockjaw from a shaving cut, you daffy bitch.” Usually I just settle for a smirk and a change of subject.

But some aspects of history actually do resonate with me; for example, the concept of duels.

Quick anecdote; once, I got into a heated argument with someone I know. (I don’t call this person a “friend”, for many reasons.) At the height of said argument, I ordered him out of my house. When he refused, and remained standing in my kitchen, I uttered the following words…

“Get out of my house or I’ll fucking kill you.”

At that moment, everything stopped. He, and everyone else in the room, stared at me. From the expressions on their faces, you’d think I’d announced my intention to fornicate with a dead goat. I stopped too; after all, suddenly I’d gone from aggrieved party to crazy man. I hadn’t even yelled the phrase; it had been a simple (if heated) declaration of the facts at hand. Hell, I was casting about for some kind of lethal implement to do the bastard in with before I noticed all the social awkwardness around me. For an instant, I actually felt guilty and ashamed. Before the incident could progress to mayhem, the individual left. Everyone, even my wife at the time, gave me the cross-eyed look one reserves for psychotics and mumbling bus station lunatics, and I knew I’d crossed a social line.

It got me to thinking; why was what I had done so terrible? Was this not my house? I paid for it, did the upkeep, held the deed. Why should some self-centered jerk-off have the right to stand in my property against my wishes? And most importantly, why should a call to the authorities be my only recourse? Why was it such a taboo to resort to lethality to protect my interests?

It got me to considering other things; why was violence in the defense of one’s principles such a bad thing? When did a man (or woman) lose the right to uphold his beliefs with applied force? When did we become such a cowardly race, dependent upon a certain class of people (police, military) to do our killing for us?

It wasn’t always so. As recently as a century ago (give or take a decade), a man had the right to “call out” someone who had offended him in word or deed; he could challenge the individual to a lethal contest (using swords, pistols, or some other portable instrument of death) and the matter would be decided there and then. No police, no courts, no litigation, just two parties settling their grievances in a quick, direct fashion. As recently as a few decades ago, it was acceptable for two people to “take it outside” and address their philosophical disagreement with fists and feet. As recently as my own childhood, it was kosher for children on the playground to do the same without too much trouble.

Unfortunately, all that has gone by the wayside. Even threatening violence (no matter what the provocation) is a crime; I have even seen newspaper articles describing grade-schoolers taken to court for schoolyard brawls. I see people filing lawsuits over drunken insults made in bars. I think all this is a terrible travesty. I think it makes us into a bunch of fucking sissies.

Now, I know some of you are probably shaking your heads at my naïveté. I’m sure a few of you are probably horrified at my willingness to end another’s life simply because he refused to leave my home. Before your moral outrage takes firm root, let me explain why I feel I know what I’m talking about.

I work as a bouncer. In that occupation, I am at the forefront of human miscommunication. I have seen a lot of potential violence in the line of duty (seeing as it is my job to prevent it). I have so far managed to defuse all situations I’ve been placed in with simple words; I’ve never had to slug anyone, or wrestle anyone out the door. But I see the kinds of people that start shit in bars, and I think to myself; these dickwads could use a good ass-beating.

While most people who try to pick fights in a bar are (let’s face it) stupid, they aren’t universally so. They know that the person who initiates combat is the one held legally responsible for it. So, they try to cause the other party to be the aggressor, secure in the knowledge that if they manage that feat, they can have a fight without too much legal trouble. These people try such behavior with me, quite often. They yell, hurl insults, spit on me, shove me and generally try to get my goat. I don’t rise to the bait, but it’s a tooth-grinding exercise in patience.

That is why I miss the days of dueling. Despite all the problems it caused (e.g. people getting killed over stupid shit, manufactured conflicts to get rid of political enemies, bullying, etc.), the specter of a lethal or painful response to asinine behavior did have a singular consequence.

It made people a hell of a lot more polite and respectful.

Think about it; if broken bones and splintered teeth were the consequences for shooting your mouth off, you’d keep a civil tongue in your head. If a man could shank you for calling him a liar (without suffering jail time), you wouldn’t do it unless it really mattered. If a woman could legally punt your man-jewels into your sinus cavity for grabbing her ass, you’d keep your hands to yourself. And if someone could shoot you dead for remaining in his house one instant longer than he desired you to, you would leave right fucking quick when ordered.

For my part, I don’t often threaten violence. A lot of people like to do it over trivial matters but I do not. Mortal combat makes for a big hammer, but I don’t see too many nails in my path. I save force or the threat of it only for those principles which matter to me most; my life, the lives of my family and friends, the sanctity of my home and the honor of my word.

Maybe we can’t go back to the age of pistols at dawn, but it would be nice if the concept of spilling or shedding blood over deeply-held beliefs wasn’t anathema to our societal values. I believe that the ability of a person to defend themselves with force would create a new level of maturity and social responsibility. It would certainly toughen us all up and get us in shape (or cause those who are too lazy to do so to keep their mouths firmly shut). A whole class of asshole, the trash-talking gasbag, would disappear overnight. I love that image, but I’m fairly sure it is never going to come about.

I’m sure that many of you believe this to be a flight of ill-conceived, alcohol-induced fancy. I’m equally worried that some asshole is going to test me on this one day, just to see if I’m serious. If you are that asshole, I caution you that this is NOT the case. I am in the process of securing my right to bear arms; I live in a state with concealed carry laws. I’m not an easy person to provoke but it can and will happen eventually, if someone is really serious about it. So if you track me down for the purpose of starting some shit just to see if I really mean all this, be aware that you may well hear the phrase, “On your mark, sir” cross my lips.

At that point, you’d best draw, or run. Because I will demand satisfaction.

I Want a Tank

(I shouldn't have to say it, but this is a piece of WHIMSY, please take it as such.)

I want to own a tank. A real, honest-to-God modern battle tank of the M1 Abrams variety. I want to park that fucker in my front yard; I want to operate it as my primary vehicle. Just imagine, if you will, the kind of freedom that would result from driving a lethal instrument of war around town.

No one would ever cut you off. No one would dare to carjack you (unless they also had a tank, but since we don’t live in fucking Serbia that’s not likely) and people would be REALLY NERVOUS about pitching you shit when you park funny. I mean, imagine the possibilities.

Myself, I’d blow up or run over vehicles that annoy me. Examples; “tricked out” mid-80s K-cars with spoilers and spinners would get shat out the back of my tank with extreme prejudice. Rich, snooty hippies driving Priuses; DONE. Pedestrians that step off the fucking curb without looking; SEE YA! Sleep-deprived, meth-addled truckers who aren’t paying attention; WAKE UP, BITCH! Even pulling into the drive-thru at Burger King would suddenly take on a whole new dimension. After all, at that point would you really NEED to wait in line?

Why, I’d even paint my tank Day-Glo green so no one could claim they didn’t see me coming. With, perhaps, a big shark’s mouth painted on the front and some fuzzy dice hanging off the cannon barrel. Maybe I’d even call up the folks at “Pimp my Ride” and see what they could do with it. It would be worth the look on their faces when they showed up.

Maybe if everyone drove tanks, people would have more respect for the rules of the road. I mean, picture it; if someone could touch off a 105mm cannon for offending them, you’d be more likely to be polite and keep your own garden. If pedestrians could get mowed down by machine gun fire, they wouldn’t be so eager to step out in front of you, causing you to slam on your brakes and get rear-ended by the asshole behind you.

Of course, I don’t really want EVERYone to drive a tank. Just me. I like the idea of being king of the fucking road, and having armor piercing cannon and .50 caliber machine guns at my disposal would definitely grant me monarchal status. Who HASN’T dreamed of possessing a rocket launcher or high-powered cannon for the moment when some trophy wife in her whale-like SUV does a felony-stop impersonation because she’s too busy yakking on her cell-phone to watch where she’s fucking going? I have. Who HASN’T wanted to simply run over the dickhead in the dual-wheeled truck who takes up double-digit parking spaces because he can’t wait to catch the fishing gear sale at Big Five? I have.

And don’t fucking lie to me, you have too.

Why Actors Self-Destruct

ow many times have you read about an actor destroying himself? Probably, if you even glance at the headlines of the supermarket tabloids, you see it quite often. Did you ever wonder why?

I never do. For, in my own small way, I am one of those people.

Now, I probably should explain. For the last 12 years of my life, I have engaged in a hobby referred to as Live-Action Role-Playing (hereafter acronymed into “LARP”). It is a combination of theater and role-playing games, where the participants dress in costumes and act out their characters instead of sitting around a table rolling dice. A sort of “Let’s Pretend” for the people who never grew out of it.

People have said that I’m good at it. The jury’s still out as far as I’m concerned; I’m self-aware (and perhaps humble enough) to admit that I have no idea if this is true or not, but enough people have told me such that I am willing to say it’s at least partially true. Just the other week I was praised for my ability to change characters as easily as another might change clothes; I had indeed done this but was not aware that the effect was so easily noticed. So, I started to wonder why this was so. (Danger, danger, another blog entry in the making!)

I am a student and admirer of the school of acting called “the Method”. For those of you who don’t know, “method” acting is projecting your own memory of an emotion through the filter of a character. If your character is supposed to be angry, you call upon a time when you were angry, and use that raw emotion to fuel your acting. I instinctively was drawn to this type of character presentation (indeed, I thought I’d discovered something new until my high school drama teacher told me otherwise) and have refined the technique over the years. I’m no Robert DeNiro, but I’d like to think I’ve done well for myself.

So, the other week when people were commenting on my ability and gushing praise about it, I started to wonder; what made me so good? Why was my emotional portrayal better than someone else’s? What gave me the ability to shed one persona and take on another with the ease that others shed clothing and don another set? After some pondering, I realized my gift lay in my emotions.

Compared to some people, I’ve been through a lot. I’m not trying to claim my life has been shit or that I have a right to some sympathy, just that I’ve seen and done a lot interesting stuff that many people (particularly sheltered, socially nervous gamers) have not tried. I’ve seen the peaks of ecstasy (in one case, literally). I’ve been angry enough to kill a man. I’ve been down and depressed enough to kill myself. In that agony and ecstasy, I draw my strength as an actor.

Example; the session of LARP that I referred to in the beginning of this post, I had to play two characters. Without going into too much detail (you don’t need an explanation of Werewolf the Apocalypse to understand the point I’m getting to), here’s a basic rundown. The first character was a bitter old soldier-type who was returning to his old comrades after a long absence, who was not greeted with the warmth he expected. He’d made some questionable decisions when he led this group of fighters, and after some time had passed and the stories had gotten garbled, people viewed him as the bad guy. (Whether this was a correct opinion or not is somewhat beyond the scope of this post.) Since he had risked his life to lead them, and had suffered to protect the sacred ground they all defended, he felt misrepresented and maligned. He was bitter. He lashed out. He took refuge in bitter cynicism and bleak depression. But at the core of it all, he was indignant about being judged by people no better than he was.

Now, I’ve been there in my own life. I have felt those emotions. When the moment came to portray my character’s reaction to this situation, I drew on that life experience. I projected that feeling of anger/hurt/betrayal through the construct of an old soldier who had seen more war than he could really handle. Sure, I screamed and yelled (anger is an easy emotion to portray) but it carried the timbre of pain; someone who is taking refuge in anger but really just wants to cry. After that character’s defiant exit, I switched personae.

The second was a calm, disciplined warrior, faithful to both his cause and his religion, who had chosen to do what was right because it was right, not because someone else told him to. This persona was more of a challenge for me; I am not by nature a faithful or religious person, and here was someone who believed in his faith down to the marrow of his bones. Despite all that the world had thrown at him (and without getting into too much detail, believe that it was a lot) he believed that his deity would come through for him.

The characters that my first persona despised, the second liked. I went from projecting venom at these characters to giving a gentle nod of respect. I have believed in things strongly before; I have had faith (and in my recent life, my faith in the all-powerful is stronger than it once was). I drew on this conviction and portrayed it to the group at large.

The point I’m getting to is that to make a character work, you have to bring your heart into it. They have to feel as you do; they must have a heart or they are not believable people. Some people talk of “getting out of your own skin” when you act, but I vehemently disagree. You have to get deeper into yourself to make your character believable. To act, you must bare your soul to your audience.

This is why actors are self-destructive; they are searching for the muse of emotion. They must know how it feels to experience the agony and the ecstasy. They must know love, and they must know betrayal. They must be the hero and the villain. To be an actor is to be curious about every facet of the human condition; every experience, every pain, every pleasure becomes a color in the palette of an actor’s ability. And this (I can tell you even from my own relatively limited experience) is not easy to do if you want to retain your sanity. For the other half of the equation is the ability to come back to yourself once you are done acting.

Not everyone can do it. And not everyone can do it all the time. Some can get out but not in, and some just can’t handle the strain and implode from the constant risk-taking their perspective demands. And some are just plain unlucky, and the risks they take end up killing them.

I wouldn’t say that it’s a conscious decision on an actor’s part to place themselves in risky situations just to be better at characterization. It’s an instinct, a state of mind, a perspective. Some people have it and some don’t. Whether I do or do not is definitely open to debate, but it’s how I do what I do and I don’t plan on changing anytime soon. I enjoy having a large body of experience and emotion to draw on when I act, and I think it’s worth the price.