We live among monsters. None of us could survive unless we were one of them. Like Snow White's nemesis we are each the fairest of them all. "Gospel according to Tony Day, if I had a girl, he'd take away." David Bowie.
Conscience, remorse, regret. Definitive monster-like characteristics identifiable in every reflection, yet denied by the full head of receding hair, the crow's feet that become laugh lines and the darkness behind a pair of eyes given sway to a once brilliant blue that reflected an innocence wrenched away when we became like everybody else.
There was a time when personal ambitions, inherent responsibilities and self awareness were innocent discoveries of a maturing child, a naive pubescent and a grieving adult. The mysteries of life gave way to unreasonable platitudes: "Life isn't fair." "That's the way it is."
"No way," we retorted as children.
"Bullshit," we responded as adolescents.
"Fuck!" was the only response we had left for the inevitable truth as adults. And at that point we didn't care if our parents were uncomfortable with that language or not. It was a relief to inspire an incense for the betrayal.
My personal bitch, you could have lied to me well into my adulthood and stringed me along throughout my eulogy. No one would have been the worse for wear.
But monsters do not reside in closets alone. They live and breathe in the light of day. And all good parents provide such armor as it takes to survive the onslaught. And even though, my naiveté lasts still well into adulthood and even now I cling to bits and pieces of the fear, I find myself responding "No way" when I read a child has exploded himself in a suicide bombing, or "Bullshit" when I discover a man may seriously think seventy-two virgins await a murderer in Heaven, and "Fuck" when I realize this is more horror than one should have to deal with.
I have come to understand now that only good monsters live in closets, because the world outside is unbearable to them and only fit for the monsters that can tolerate the mirror.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Monday, February 20, 2012
Shortcuts Are the Products of Great Minds
While many argue that necessity is the mother of invention, I contest that laziness is the precursor of all genius. There are no idle hands or minds when it comes to the Devils workshop.
For years we've been sweeping dirt under the rug, dumping trash into a neighbor's receptacle, purchasing school essays on-line, buying fast-food, stealing cable, pissing in dark alleys, stealing social security checks from aged neighbors (okay, maybe that last one was just me) and the list goes on and on. These are not criminal or lazy activities as often labeled-these are shortcuts to a better life.
From the time of cavemen, foreplay was little more than the raising of a fist and took substantially less than twenty minutes. Over time, women discovered ways of delaying gratification by offering similar means toward the same end. One has to wonder now whether the hand came before the vagina? My understanding is that Eve used to pose that same question to Adam as some good natured ribbing.
But in this day and age we see things like breaking into an opponent's campaign headquarters, fudging the numbers on electoral ballots, trading drugs for guns then guns for hostages, manipulating numbers in banking transactions so it creates a win-win for the winners. All pure genius for the winners-and don't we all imagine ourselves as winners?
In all honesty, would you take those same shortcuts if you could get away with it? Most of us just aren't smart enough. And in the boardrooms around the world they echo that same sentiment, "most people couldn't find their ass with a piece of toilet paper." Pure genius at work.
Semantics is one of the most effective tools available to the lazy and one of the least used by hardworking people. Firstly, to be labeled 'hardworking' is no feather in your cap unless you are incorrigibly lazy. Semantics. To lift a finger for anything that does not further one's station in life is definitely a sign of average or below intelligence. A MENSA candidate you are not. To convince others that you are too busy to be bothered is the Holy Grail of genius. Though you have accomplished nothing, they will beg for your time.
A sure sign of a hardworking idiot-anyone who offers free advice. Free advice is worth every penny you paid for it and will likely, if heeded, cost you more than you ever imagined in the long run. No lazy genius has the time or the energy to ponder the aspects of any job beyond his own purveyance let alone figure out the wit and wisdom it would take for you to be a happier person. By the way, this is not free advice, it was either entertain myself with some legitimate sarcasm or do my laundry. I ran the idea past my editor. She said run with it as she dumped in my second load.
Though I grow bored with this diversion (my genius is begging me to stop) I must add a single observance: trees are some of the oldest living things on this planet and for the life of me I've never seen one move to any benefit. Does it get smarter or lazier than that?
For years we've been sweeping dirt under the rug, dumping trash into a neighbor's receptacle, purchasing school essays on-line, buying fast-food, stealing cable, pissing in dark alleys, stealing social security checks from aged neighbors (okay, maybe that last one was just me) and the list goes on and on. These are not criminal or lazy activities as often labeled-these are shortcuts to a better life.
From the time of cavemen, foreplay was little more than the raising of a fist and took substantially less than twenty minutes. Over time, women discovered ways of delaying gratification by offering similar means toward the same end. One has to wonder now whether the hand came before the vagina? My understanding is that Eve used to pose that same question to Adam as some good natured ribbing.
But in this day and age we see things like breaking into an opponent's campaign headquarters, fudging the numbers on electoral ballots, trading drugs for guns then guns for hostages, manipulating numbers in banking transactions so it creates a win-win for the winners. All pure genius for the winners-and don't we all imagine ourselves as winners?
In all honesty, would you take those same shortcuts if you could get away with it? Most of us just aren't smart enough. And in the boardrooms around the world they echo that same sentiment, "most people couldn't find their ass with a piece of toilet paper." Pure genius at work.
Semantics is one of the most effective tools available to the lazy and one of the least used by hardworking people. Firstly, to be labeled 'hardworking' is no feather in your cap unless you are incorrigibly lazy. Semantics. To lift a finger for anything that does not further one's station in life is definitely a sign of average or below intelligence. A MENSA candidate you are not. To convince others that you are too busy to be bothered is the Holy Grail of genius. Though you have accomplished nothing, they will beg for your time.
A sure sign of a hardworking idiot-anyone who offers free advice. Free advice is worth every penny you paid for it and will likely, if heeded, cost you more than you ever imagined in the long run. No lazy genius has the time or the energy to ponder the aspects of any job beyond his own purveyance let alone figure out the wit and wisdom it would take for you to be a happier person. By the way, this is not free advice, it was either entertain myself with some legitimate sarcasm or do my laundry. I ran the idea past my editor. She said run with it as she dumped in my second load.
Though I grow bored with this diversion (my genius is begging me to stop) I must add a single observance: trees are some of the oldest living things on this planet and for the life of me I've never seen one move to any benefit. Does it get smarter or lazier than that?
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Fart That Made The Cigarette Viable
Today I stood in a movie line because a friend ask me to. Normally I avoid all lines at all cost; life is simply too short and I have yet to find something at the end of any line too valuable to pass up. It is not so much that I have a thousand things to do, as we all find ourselves wanton for time, it is more to address the issue that waiting is most frequently sands through the hour glass that may never be recaptured. Granted, a certain portion of my day is allotted to quiet time, however, meditation within earshot of a thousand conversations about absolutely nothing is impossible.
As my frustration simmered, I decided it was time for a smoke. Yes, I still smoke in spite of the warnings. If I listened to every warning offered me, I would still be on hands and knees without the personal ambition to wipe my own ass without specific instructions. Sometimes desires outweigh sensibilities and I am not one to rain on other's parades, so why indeed would I rain on my own?
So this chick in front of me was so outraged at this obvious affront to her well tuned regurgitation of current advertising spiel she let me have it with both barrels.
"Do you mind not smoking around me? Do you know second hand smoke is just as dangerous as smoking directly?" she asked.
"I had heard that," I responded, "But I have yet to find a legitimate study that makes it conclusive. Do you remember where you got that information?"
"Ask anybody. They'll tell you." she said.
"I prefer to hear directly from a qualified professional who has done first-hand and quantifiable research, preferably a blind study not financed by special interests. Forgive me if I don't take your word for it, or the word of a well-payed advertising agency for a fanatically closed-minded group with an axe to grind." I said. "Besides, those farts you've been squeaking out over the last half hour are far more toxic than this cigarette."
Somehow I had blurted that out without passion or rancor. Its tone was simply matter of fact that I, and others, had suffered this inconsideration for some length of time and opted, out of sympathy and our own consideration, to forego the embarrassment of confrontation.
"Well, I never." she said with a blush rising in her face as she turned away.
"Sweetheart, we are right behind you and my friend and I can attest that you have. I am not sure what you have been eating since the 1960's, but I can assure you it is far more offense than the smell of burning leaves. Besides, methane is not only toxic-it is also flammable. You really shouldn't be doing that next to a lit cigarette." I warned.
"I was born in 1985." she said with an affront.
"I would definitely get that checked then. I believe we have some Mastodon meat involved here." I retorted.
And that was the end of the issue. I am afraid the ah-ahs to my responses from the surrounding crowd left little doubt as to the malodorous source.
Personally, I have grown accustomed to the smell of cigarette smoke over the years-even before I smoked myself. Like incense, it has a soothing quality for me. On the other hand, I can remember a fart from decades ago from which I may never recover.
In the U.S. we have about 60 million smokers among 300 million people; all 300 million fart, most without regard for second-hand exposure.
Many are unaware that there are 250 million sheep in New Zealand that have created such a level of methane release into the atmosphere that scientists have attributed that release as partially responsible for the destruction of the ozone. I got that from the Wall Street Journal, circa 1998.
By the way, I have been known to hold an exhale of smoke in until I am well out of someone's face, and a fart until I am well out of someone's olfactory range. Yet, one must never forget-consideration is a two-way street.
"Live as if you will die tomorrow. Learn as if you will live forever." Mahatma Gandhi.
As my frustration simmered, I decided it was time for a smoke. Yes, I still smoke in spite of the warnings. If I listened to every warning offered me, I would still be on hands and knees without the personal ambition to wipe my own ass without specific instructions. Sometimes desires outweigh sensibilities and I am not one to rain on other's parades, so why indeed would I rain on my own?
So this chick in front of me was so outraged at this obvious affront to her well tuned regurgitation of current advertising spiel she let me have it with both barrels.
"Do you mind not smoking around me? Do you know second hand smoke is just as dangerous as smoking directly?" she asked.
"I had heard that," I responded, "But I have yet to find a legitimate study that makes it conclusive. Do you remember where you got that information?"
"Ask anybody. They'll tell you." she said.
"I prefer to hear directly from a qualified professional who has done first-hand and quantifiable research, preferably a blind study not financed by special interests. Forgive me if I don't take your word for it, or the word of a well-payed advertising agency for a fanatically closed-minded group with an axe to grind." I said. "Besides, those farts you've been squeaking out over the last half hour are far more toxic than this cigarette."
Somehow I had blurted that out without passion or rancor. Its tone was simply matter of fact that I, and others, had suffered this inconsideration for some length of time and opted, out of sympathy and our own consideration, to forego the embarrassment of confrontation.
"Well, I never." she said with a blush rising in her face as she turned away.
"Sweetheart, we are right behind you and my friend and I can attest that you have. I am not sure what you have been eating since the 1960's, but I can assure you it is far more offense than the smell of burning leaves. Besides, methane is not only toxic-it is also flammable. You really shouldn't be doing that next to a lit cigarette." I warned.
"I was born in 1985." she said with an affront.
"I would definitely get that checked then. I believe we have some Mastodon meat involved here." I retorted.
And that was the end of the issue. I am afraid the ah-ahs to my responses from the surrounding crowd left little doubt as to the malodorous source.
Personally, I have grown accustomed to the smell of cigarette smoke over the years-even before I smoked myself. Like incense, it has a soothing quality for me. On the other hand, I can remember a fart from decades ago from which I may never recover.
In the U.S. we have about 60 million smokers among 300 million people; all 300 million fart, most without regard for second-hand exposure.
Many are unaware that there are 250 million sheep in New Zealand that have created such a level of methane release into the atmosphere that scientists have attributed that release as partially responsible for the destruction of the ozone. I got that from the Wall Street Journal, circa 1998.
By the way, I have been known to hold an exhale of smoke in until I am well out of someone's face, and a fart until I am well out of someone's olfactory range. Yet, one must never forget-consideration is a two-way street.
"Live as if you will die tomorrow. Learn as if you will live forever." Mahatma Gandhi.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Daylight Savings Time
It seems we will enjoy daylight savings time this year as early as March 11th. Personally, it couldn't come soon enough. In a cruel twist of fate, 2012 is also a leap year, making the 11th one more day out of reach. Every silver lining has a cloud.
Ironically, when I am working, I lose little or no productivity during the early darkness, yet, when I have no demands on my time, the dusk brings a sense of waning ambition. Not so for this once ardent young man with a feverish libido. "I loved the night life. I loved to bogie..." Then, things actually never got started until the Sun went down.
As a budding pubescent, I realized it was difficult to get my hands under the sweater of a 'skate-date' until we moved from the warming fire and into the chill of its shadows. But I was willing to brave that chill for another fire I had only just begun to understand.
Perhaps it is that diminishing libido that makes the shadows a little colder now and the cold a little darker? After all, there a few late night diversions more satisfying than groping in the dark in the most familiar of places. Just ask the couples who gave birth nine months after the black out in New York. So few of the younger guys were looking for a pick-up game at the time; while the old men cursed the darkness. For them, the familiar places were just too damned well traveled.
There is something about Spring and Summer that rejuvenates even the most jaded of spirits. The world seems both fresh and new. Ambition is at its peak and DST is indeed the light at the end of the tunnel.
As always, men seek to fill holes (no pun intended). Punxsutawney Phil is history. In what is now one of the newest and most cherished February rituals: the Sports Illustrated release of the Swimsuit Edition.
So sit back and relax. Get into your easy chair, unwrap the new SI and throw another log on the fire. Daylight is just around the corner.
"A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal."
Oscar Wilde
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