This evening in Austin, the University of Kansas attended an event in a very large stadium designed for American football. KU sent a troop of a hundred or so, presumably on a plane with a lot of equipment on a bus, maybe? I don’t know the logistics of this fiasco. I can’t imagine the team and the gear are on the same shipment, because I can’t imagine how any consistency in plan or execution is possible with this club.
I don’t fault the kids. The first and most obvious failure is the lack of a strength and conditioning program. These are 17-22 year old kids, who I believe are for the most part doing what they are told to do. “They just manhandled us.” The explanation from Turner Gill in an interview with Nate Bukaty.
“I do like the fight of our defensive players, it was good to see those guys on the defensive end fighting.”
“We didn’t expect to have that kind of performance.”
“We’re just not hitting on all cylinders in all phases.”
“You’ve just got to keep working.”
Announcer Bob Davis suggested that a positive was the lack of an utter and complete meltdown in the third quarter just after the half. I’m getting the vanilla version of the post-game pressers. I’m sure the guy is going to be roasted by any and every reporter in attendance, because what happened tonight was absolutely astounding.
It sounds bad that the Hawks had 3 first downs. The first one came on a personal foul penalty against Texas for roughing the passer. The third of the first downs was against a largely fourth-team defense in the fourth quarter. The Jayhawks kept a large percentage of their first-teamers in the entire game. They were all whipped against everyone they played.
This isn’t a good Texas team. In Austin, they consider their version of the Longhorns horrendous. The last two home conference victories in football are now both against Kansas, the previous one in 2009, when the Big XII had divisions and such…
Rich Baldinger repeatedly cited elementary-school level football fundamentals as massive failures of practically the entire team. Brandon Bourbon led the team in total yards with 23, outgaining the entire offense. At least he led the team in fumbles. Coach Gill helplessly challenged the obvious fumble. (It was the second of the three first downs.)
This was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. I know what bad Kansas football looks like. It’s never quite looked like this. They are as bafflingly devoid of direction and aspiration as any collective I’ve seen. I feel awful for those kids, a great many of which had talent at one point. They’re pretty much collectively broken right now. They’re a joke across the country, much less on their own campus. It’s a horrible situation for a high-profile kid. (Relatively high-profile, I suppose.)
The TV announcers for the Jayhawk Network were pretty good, all things considered. Each made it a point that they’d never seen anything quite like what they were watching. Baldinger thought the lights were too bright.
The Athletic Department is getting their money’s worth, I hear. I’ve read the contract, and I would propose that the staff could quite possibly be fired at this point for not doing the job. I think it could be taken to court, in fact. The guaranteed contract continuously makes assumptions that there will be actual football competitions, it appears. I’m pretty sure this is utter incompetence from the top down. There is too much blame to be spread on this mess.
It’s got to be cleaned up. They have to start cleaning, and the sooner the better. If I wake up, and the strength and conditioning coach John Williams is still at his post, I’ll be disgusted. This was fucking horrible. I couldn’t sleep last weekend after watching the K-State mess. I kept checking the news outlets for word of HCTG’s firing. It never happened. It has to happen. He’s killing a program he’s already killed. He’s got to be stopped.
Vic Shealy’s on the air now. He either sounds legitimately shaken, or like he’s Beavis/Butthead’s neighbor.
This is the guy, by the way, that has the Jayhawks playing in a defensive scheme that they quite clearly can’t perform in. We’re dropping shit out of linebacking corps and mixing in a bunch of stupid ass blitz schemes that don’t work because they never draw an effective mismatch, or even an even-man advantage. With three guys up front. It’s not even an attempt at competition the way it’s currently schemed. I can’t listen to this guy right now, because it’s pretty clear he can’t evaluate what the hell is going on. It’s tough being handcuffed by a strength program that’s making players weaker and a conditioning program that neither emphasizes speed nor endurance. We can’t lose sight of that, Jayhawks. I keep telling myself this can’t get worse. I’m wrong a lot.
Chuck Long is coming up. This is due to be a painfully long rant of this very uncomfortable moment in time. I want to remember this.
I want to remember this because I remember the Orange Bowl. Somehow, a team that won the Orange Bowl 46 months ago has become the worst Kansas football team I’ve ever seen. “I wish it was better, but hey, life goes on,” Chuck Long. More Chuck below:
“We had a tough night.”
“They just manhandled us. They just totally manhandled us. They played great, and I just felt like they were smothering us all night.”
“I’m hoping tonight’s just a hiccup, and not a pattern. But they just manhandled us, and we couldn’t get anything going.”
Again, Chuck is imprisoned by a team that is getting slower, weaker, and less in shape. They’ve still got to play a third of a football season. I’m baffled that the staff feels on any level that there could possibly be a recovery at this point. He’s being questioned with kid gloves a bit about the Hawks “hurry up” offense they’re still employing, and about the wear it might be placing on the defense. He’s kind of sidestepped this one. Turner Gill has previously stated, “That’s how we play.”
Saturday, October 29, 2011
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Better to have loved and lost...
Sometimes things were just meant to be. Willie never knew true love in his life. Until today.
Oh sure, Willie flirted with danger in the past. But this new feeling that ravaged his heart was different. This one was…dangerous.
'I should have saved that video to the hard drive,' thought Willie.
Now, Willie’s head might not have been fully in the game. He’d spent all night bouncing from hellhole to hellhole up and down Pointz Avenue, but something was missing. At about two thirty this morning, Willie first saw Kat.
He could tell she’d been out a bit too long as well. He checked the rumpled cape and the sexy belt, apparently crafted from championship flags from decades past. And she saw Willie as well. “Have you ever made a Molotov cocktail?” Kat inquired.
By day Kat worked as an ambassador for environmental causes. Anonymity was the tool this vixen employed to maintain her passion for her more legendary pursuits…arson.
Willie by day was the proud face of resilient and proud Midwesterners. He even had a little respect built up with lots of time and work in the face of adversity. But this morning, Willie felt like a manwhore. And Kat was looking like a somewhat acceptable receptacle. But this morning, no one told Kat that Willie was a deaf-mute who played a mean air guitar, so he answered her question about incendiaries with a passive shrug. It was an ominous sign of things to come.
Kat was feeling naughty, like so many young lovers caught up in the passion of lust. She biblically rent a piece of the 1956 Big 6 Swimming Championship Banner that was covering her ass, and browsed for vehicles. Willie was fixated on her newly bare rump, so he didn’t immediately notice her removal of the cap on an old Pinto’s fuel tank. “Is that tail real,” she asked him.
Again, a lustily dumbfounded Willie again shrugged, but it didn’t much matter. In a flash, EkoKat had ripped off Willie’s tail, to find its construction to be that of a semi-flexible plastic tubular. “Perfect.” She admired only briefly her work, and began stripping clean the material off Willie’s tail. “Find a bottle—In that dumpster over there. You’ve got one too.” Kat started inserting the newly minted hosing from Willie’s now bared ass, and she promptly began siphoning into a spent jug of vodka she’d previously spent on her nightly bender.
Willie just thought she looked hot. Hell, the bandana-thing with the eyeholes made out of an old band uniform was every bit as good as a paper sack. He remembered many nights he just wished the woman he was with had a mask. ‘Cape good tarp make handy me fat girl,’ was quite exactly the thought roaming Willie’s mind that wonderfully passionate moment. WW had already made up his mind he was going to get fucked by EcoKat, no matter what happened.
Kat was just getting the fuel to start the process of leaving her mouth and entering that jug. She spit the liquid that gathered in her mouth, and spent the vapor from her lungs. She coughed a little, and thought, ‘not so bad. A lot worse later, I’m sure…’ She wasn’t real impressed with Willie so far. ‘Kinda dumb, but he might be fun,’ she thought. “Have you found a bottle yet?” Willie was just admiring her work, and she knew it. But she also knew he would do what she said, and she smiled as he turned to look into one of the restaurant’s disposal units at the back door of the pub. “I don’t have all day!” she notified, and Willie hastened his search. He found a plastic house brand and rushed it over to his new love.
Willie still didn’t realize what she was doing. ‘butt bend like hair strong fuck,’ he thought. When he handed her the bottle, she queried, “The lid?” Willie had left the thing capped. ‘booze no why want no booze oh well,’ he thought while uncapping the thing on her behalf. She seized it from him and transferred the fuel to the new vessel. While soaking up the gas collecting at the bases of the bottles from the exchange, Willie was all over it. ‘should touch wait willie hair wow big like’ and so forth bounced about the mache-space.
It was hours before Willie realized what had happened. He woke up, and his outfit was just ripped to shit. He remembered the first fire. Kat had constructed the couple of bombs and chucked them in the first recycling bin they could find. It seemed to Willie they did that all night long. And it seemed Willie had gotten his wish. They agreed to part, just as quickly as they’d met.
Ten months later, Willie got a call from EcoKat, and she said, “We need to talk.” Willie thought they had a mutual understanding. She hung up and a half hour later showed up at the door. She had given birth to pretty much what you would expect. Willie did not invite the pair in, and at long last, he was able to capture his voice:
“I want you to leave here, disappear, put that thing in a bag and chuck it in the Kaw,” he offered her his only known words, hopefully shutting the door on this spawn and his chosen mate’s still-masked face.
Oh sure, Willie flirted with danger in the past. But this new feeling that ravaged his heart was different. This one was…dangerous.
'I should have saved that video to the hard drive,' thought Willie.
Now, Willie’s head might not have been fully in the game. He’d spent all night bouncing from hellhole to hellhole up and down Pointz Avenue, but something was missing. At about two thirty this morning, Willie first saw Kat.
He could tell she’d been out a bit too long as well. He checked the rumpled cape and the sexy belt, apparently crafted from championship flags from decades past. And she saw Willie as well. “Have you ever made a Molotov cocktail?” Kat inquired.
By day Kat worked as an ambassador for environmental causes. Anonymity was the tool this vixen employed to maintain her passion for her more legendary pursuits…arson.
Willie by day was the proud face of resilient and proud Midwesterners. He even had a little respect built up with lots of time and work in the face of adversity. But this morning, Willie felt like a manwhore. And Kat was looking like a somewhat acceptable receptacle. But this morning, no one told Kat that Willie was a deaf-mute who played a mean air guitar, so he answered her question about incendiaries with a passive shrug. It was an ominous sign of things to come.
Kat was feeling naughty, like so many young lovers caught up in the passion of lust. She biblically rent a piece of the 1956 Big 6 Swimming Championship Banner that was covering her ass, and browsed for vehicles. Willie was fixated on her newly bare rump, so he didn’t immediately notice her removal of the cap on an old Pinto’s fuel tank. “Is that tail real,” she asked him.
Again, a lustily dumbfounded Willie again shrugged, but it didn’t much matter. In a flash, EkoKat had ripped off Willie’s tail, to find its construction to be that of a semi-flexible plastic tubular. “Perfect.” She admired only briefly her work, and began stripping clean the material off Willie’s tail. “Find a bottle—In that dumpster over there. You’ve got one too.” Kat started inserting the newly minted hosing from Willie’s now bared ass, and she promptly began siphoning into a spent jug of vodka she’d previously spent on her nightly bender.
Willie just thought she looked hot. Hell, the bandana-thing with the eyeholes made out of an old band uniform was every bit as good as a paper sack. He remembered many nights he just wished the woman he was with had a mask. ‘Cape good tarp make handy me fat girl,’ was quite exactly the thought roaming Willie’s mind that wonderfully passionate moment. WW had already made up his mind he was going to get fucked by EcoKat, no matter what happened.
Kat was just getting the fuel to start the process of leaving her mouth and entering that jug. She spit the liquid that gathered in her mouth, and spent the vapor from her lungs. She coughed a little, and thought, ‘not so bad. A lot worse later, I’m sure…’ She wasn’t real impressed with Willie so far. ‘Kinda dumb, but he might be fun,’ she thought. “Have you found a bottle yet?” Willie was just admiring her work, and she knew it. But she also knew he would do what she said, and she smiled as he turned to look into one of the restaurant’s disposal units at the back door of the pub. “I don’t have all day!” she notified, and Willie hastened his search. He found a plastic house brand and rushed it over to his new love.
Willie still didn’t realize what she was doing. ‘butt bend like hair strong fuck,’ he thought. When he handed her the bottle, she queried, “The lid?” Willie had left the thing capped. ‘booze no why want no booze oh well,’ he thought while uncapping the thing on her behalf. She seized it from him and transferred the fuel to the new vessel. While soaking up the gas collecting at the bases of the bottles from the exchange, Willie was all over it. ‘should touch wait willie hair wow big like’ and so forth bounced about the mache-space.
It was hours before Willie realized what had happened. He woke up, and his outfit was just ripped to shit. He remembered the first fire. Kat had constructed the couple of bombs and chucked them in the first recycling bin they could find. It seemed to Willie they did that all night long. And it seemed Willie had gotten his wish. They agreed to part, just as quickly as they’d met.
Ten months later, Willie got a call from EcoKat, and she said, “We need to talk.” Willie thought they had a mutual understanding. She hung up and a half hour later showed up at the door. She had given birth to pretty much what you would expect. Willie did not invite the pair in, and at long last, he was able to capture his voice:
“I want you to leave here, disappear, put that thing in a bag and chuck it in the Kaw,” he offered her his only known words, hopefully shutting the door on this spawn and his chosen mate’s still-masked face.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Fed Funds Skewers
The next time someone asks how I've been sleeping lately, I'm going to send them a link to this.
The main component of this vision, I guess, was the engineering/design contest which required a rolling desk with a computer/driver at the navigation wheel designed for mobile food preparation. This was some sort of big damned deal. For whatever reason, government grants became available that were available for use in a public feeding program, but the make table had to serve a couple of functions. One was to control the two differing cable systems in Pat Long’s (the current President of Baker University, I think?) cartoon viewing room, the other function was for one person sitting at an easy chair with a computer (controlled primarily by a joystick), flanked by enormous speakers (all of which have been placed on enormous greased casters) that would automatically move itself down the make-table setup, while blasting a variety of Sousa’s patriotic selections.
The make-table for the winning design utilized a system of capturing various foods hanging down at a less than uniform height off the floor. This roving table/PA system would roam around with a pair of “Federal Funds Skewers”—they were probably fifteen foot long sharpened metal poles on which the various foods would be targeted and impaled for preparation for the eventual heating for human consumption. The idea was that the electronics on the roving mechanism would somehow electronically overheat perfectly to the point that the assembled foods on the massive skewers would be fit for consumption. I’m going to say that Brian Boyle masterminded the winning design of this food prep unit, because he was there, he was the only one wearing a chef’s outfit besides the oriental judge I didn’t know, and he would talk endlessly about the need for “more onions!” as an answer to whatever question was asked of him regarding the winning design.
Configuration of the cable boxes essential to something to appease a couple of groups in the old Baker gymnasium, where Pat Long was never seen, but was always “just down the hall.” At least that’s what her messenger told me. The people in this room under the so-called watch of Ms. Long were somehow put in charge of the musical selections at the time of the food prep. This didn’t make sense, but then again, the fact that I was asked by the judge of the event to determine if any of the previous three presidential tickets were better than the future republican ticket of Ricky Martin and George Michael, and Carl Butell was there to remind me that we hadn’t yet pulled off something that bad. “Well, we’ll see, though. This outfit might get the job done,” CB told me this while giving me a thumbs-up for my suggestion that the Mondale-Ferraro ticket was still worse, although that ticket was well outside the parameters of the three previous tickets required for analysis by the unknown Japanese chef/design competition judge.
On one stage at the center of the vision was a community musical/buffet where the choreographed unwinding of electrical cords was performed in concert with the food preparation. This made things somewhat logistically difficult on a rotating disc/stage. There were several items dangling from the ceiling besides food, the most concerning to me were the massive electrical components necessary to power the mobile make table. The winning design was similar to a San Francisco cable car, and the make-table was hooked to that overhead electronic power source at the same time I was asked by the Iron Chef organizer to man one of the fifteen-foot metal skewers. This, I was told, was essential to the success of the operation.
The very stupid mother/father conflict: **ed. note: In real life, it’s been a difficult week around here, but almost all of it was without noticeable conflict. To make matters worse, for some reason, I read Ryan LeFebre’s autobiography this weekend, in which he blamed his folks’ separation at a very young age for most of his struggles as an adult.** It (this dream conflict) came down to a misunderstanding over ergonomics with the winning design for the chair driving the food prep assembly. The mother/father conflict, which I guess was necessitated in this dream by my reading a very silly book, resulted in lots of flipping off of both my folks, which is more than a little uncharacteristic of me, and much more strange that they would reciprocate. I was offended that neither understood my wiring diagram for Ms. Long’s cable setup. (My wiring concept was all fouled up, but I was trying to talk politics with Carl Butell at the same time Ms. Long would send me messengers informing me that the current design was inadequate. At the same time, these adults gathered in that one room were acting quite a lot like children in their demand for cartoon viewing options very quickly. It was a high-stress deal, for a dream.
The actual capture of the food on these skewers was an agonizing process. I must have been about to wake up at this point, because things were getting dumb, even by the dumb level previously established in the dream. One crawfish had been missed in my prepration of a Fed Funds skewer, and it got trampled by me and/or Kyle Trendel in the process of assembly. I didn’t even know there were crawfish in the initial make table or the finished hanging foods variety show that was suspended over the massive rotating concrete disc on which we were required to assemble these foods. I was too busy trying to avoid massive amounts of onion scattered amongst the heavy-duty electrical cords on the ground. The fatal flaw of the selected design was, again, the utilization of overhead lines for powering the mobile unit. None of this mattered to the judge of the competition, who pulled me aside and asked me, “What is wrong with this picture?”
To be perfectly fair, it would have been quite easy to describe what was right with the picture. But I was being asked by this oriental guy I’d never met exactly what was wrong with foods prepared using a mobile device powered by overhead lines designed to stab food dangling amongst the lines with what amounted to fifteen foot lightning rods. I told him that all things considered, it looked pretty good.
“Crawfish,” the judge told me. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, so he grabbed me by the arm and led me to the one trampled crawfish on the now highly electrocuted floor of the prep disc. “This is perfectly unacceptable,” he said.
“If there’s one thing you’re right about. That’s it,” I agreed.
For whatever reason, Tina Lawyer was in the room where the cable boxes had to be properly assembled? And she must have had some sort of big damned emotional connection to the crawfish, because this brought her out of the cartoon room to publically melt down over the loss of one crawfish. There were many others in that room…those people didn’t do very much but criticize various cartoons. There weren’t any kids that I remember in the dream, except all the ones handling the live power cords, which were also sourced by the overhead cable-car power assembly...it was a very stupid setup.
After this whole mess had taken place, Jill Boyle showed up and gave Brian an ultimatum. “It’s either cross-country skiing with me, or you can keep making salad with your friends.” She was all dressed up in winter gear, and was even walking around the auditorium with skis and poles. And goggles. Brian hemmed and hawed over the choice, but finally, and it appeared agonizing to him, he made a decision. “Folks, I’m going skiing with salad,” he said, and started to get ready for a pretty hot hike with a lot of gear. It was very much still summer in this dream.
Thankfully, I woke up after that decision was made.
The main component of this vision, I guess, was the engineering/design contest which required a rolling desk with a computer/driver at the navigation wheel designed for mobile food preparation. This was some sort of big damned deal. For whatever reason, government grants became available that were available for use in a public feeding program, but the make table had to serve a couple of functions. One was to control the two differing cable systems in Pat Long’s (the current President of Baker University, I think?) cartoon viewing room, the other function was for one person sitting at an easy chair with a computer (controlled primarily by a joystick), flanked by enormous speakers (all of which have been placed on enormous greased casters) that would automatically move itself down the make-table setup, while blasting a variety of Sousa’s patriotic selections.
The make-table for the winning design utilized a system of capturing various foods hanging down at a less than uniform height off the floor. This roving table/PA system would roam around with a pair of “Federal Funds Skewers”—they were probably fifteen foot long sharpened metal poles on which the various foods would be targeted and impaled for preparation for the eventual heating for human consumption. The idea was that the electronics on the roving mechanism would somehow electronically overheat perfectly to the point that the assembled foods on the massive skewers would be fit for consumption. I’m going to say that Brian Boyle masterminded the winning design of this food prep unit, because he was there, he was the only one wearing a chef’s outfit besides the oriental judge I didn’t know, and he would talk endlessly about the need for “more onions!” as an answer to whatever question was asked of him regarding the winning design.
Configuration of the cable boxes essential to something to appease a couple of groups in the old Baker gymnasium, where Pat Long was never seen, but was always “just down the hall.” At least that’s what her messenger told me. The people in this room under the so-called watch of Ms. Long were somehow put in charge of the musical selections at the time of the food prep. This didn’t make sense, but then again, the fact that I was asked by the judge of the event to determine if any of the previous three presidential tickets were better than the future republican ticket of Ricky Martin and George Michael, and Carl Butell was there to remind me that we hadn’t yet pulled off something that bad. “Well, we’ll see, though. This outfit might get the job done,” CB told me this while giving me a thumbs-up for my suggestion that the Mondale-Ferraro ticket was still worse, although that ticket was well outside the parameters of the three previous tickets required for analysis by the unknown Japanese chef/design competition judge.
On one stage at the center of the vision was a community musical/buffet where the choreographed unwinding of electrical cords was performed in concert with the food preparation. This made things somewhat logistically difficult on a rotating disc/stage. There were several items dangling from the ceiling besides food, the most concerning to me were the massive electrical components necessary to power the mobile make table. The winning design was similar to a San Francisco cable car, and the make-table was hooked to that overhead electronic power source at the same time I was asked by the Iron Chef organizer to man one of the fifteen-foot metal skewers. This, I was told, was essential to the success of the operation.
The very stupid mother/father conflict: **ed. note: In real life, it’s been a difficult week around here, but almost all of it was without noticeable conflict. To make matters worse, for some reason, I read Ryan LeFebre’s autobiography this weekend, in which he blamed his folks’ separation at a very young age for most of his struggles as an adult.** It (this dream conflict) came down to a misunderstanding over ergonomics with the winning design for the chair driving the food prep assembly. The mother/father conflict, which I guess was necessitated in this dream by my reading a very silly book, resulted in lots of flipping off of both my folks, which is more than a little uncharacteristic of me, and much more strange that they would reciprocate. I was offended that neither understood my wiring diagram for Ms. Long’s cable setup. (My wiring concept was all fouled up, but I was trying to talk politics with Carl Butell at the same time Ms. Long would send me messengers informing me that the current design was inadequate. At the same time, these adults gathered in that one room were acting quite a lot like children in their demand for cartoon viewing options very quickly. It was a high-stress deal, for a dream.
The actual capture of the food on these skewers was an agonizing process. I must have been about to wake up at this point, because things were getting dumb, even by the dumb level previously established in the dream. One crawfish had been missed in my prepration of a Fed Funds skewer, and it got trampled by me and/or Kyle Trendel in the process of assembly. I didn’t even know there were crawfish in the initial make table or the finished hanging foods variety show that was suspended over the massive rotating concrete disc on which we were required to assemble these foods. I was too busy trying to avoid massive amounts of onion scattered amongst the heavy-duty electrical cords on the ground. The fatal flaw of the selected design was, again, the utilization of overhead lines for powering the mobile unit. None of this mattered to the judge of the competition, who pulled me aside and asked me, “What is wrong with this picture?”
To be perfectly fair, it would have been quite easy to describe what was right with the picture. But I was being asked by this oriental guy I’d never met exactly what was wrong with foods prepared using a mobile device powered by overhead lines designed to stab food dangling amongst the lines with what amounted to fifteen foot lightning rods. I told him that all things considered, it looked pretty good.
“Crawfish,” the judge told me. I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, so he grabbed me by the arm and led me to the one trampled crawfish on the now highly electrocuted floor of the prep disc. “This is perfectly unacceptable,” he said.
“If there’s one thing you’re right about. That’s it,” I agreed.
For whatever reason, Tina Lawyer was in the room where the cable boxes had to be properly assembled? And she must have had some sort of big damned emotional connection to the crawfish, because this brought her out of the cartoon room to publically melt down over the loss of one crawfish. There were many others in that room…those people didn’t do very much but criticize various cartoons. There weren’t any kids that I remember in the dream, except all the ones handling the live power cords, which were also sourced by the overhead cable-car power assembly...it was a very stupid setup.
After this whole mess had taken place, Jill Boyle showed up and gave Brian an ultimatum. “It’s either cross-country skiing with me, or you can keep making salad with your friends.” She was all dressed up in winter gear, and was even walking around the auditorium with skis and poles. And goggles. Brian hemmed and hawed over the choice, but finally, and it appeared agonizing to him, he made a decision. “Folks, I’m going skiing with salad,” he said, and started to get ready for a pretty hot hike with a lot of gear. It was very much still summer in this dream.
Thankfully, I woke up after that decision was made.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
A Letter to Hal
July 2, 2011
Mr. Hal Linden
Jewish National Fund National Office
42 East 69th Street
New York, NY 10021
Mr. Linden:
It has recently come to my attention that you’re the national spokesperson for the American Jewish National Fund. The course of events that led me to contact you about my marathon training and the possibility of fundraising for your organization are as follows:
1) After a recent trip to my periodontist, I recklessly downloaded marathon training instructions, and found some guy named Hal Higdon offered sets of rather detailed and rigorous training information at no charge. However, once I was actually running the routes, I found myself inadvertently cursing you, because I could not remember Mr. Higdon’s name. Of course, this problem is exclusively my own, but I’ve known a great number of people to mess up even my name. I knew in my heart none of this was your doing, and I hope you can forgive me for the misappropriation of my own pain and bad decision making.
2) After about four or five training sessions of knowingly, but still wrongly cursing you for my ills, I discovered that possibly things happen for a reason. I made a few google searches of you and marathon training, and discovered only a whole lot more of Mr. Higdon, and quite a bit of information about the Jewish National Fund. The more I read about the works and history of the organization, the more impressed I became. The conservation and planting programs in Palestine intrigued me most. I was also influenced positively by the JNF’s public infrastructure programs in concert with land management. Very impressive, and this is quite positively a time-tested and proven approach.
Now, I’m still following Higdon’s training regimen. He’s a SOB. But I realize it’s not Higdon’s fault that I used to down over a half-gallon of vodka every day and ruined myself so thoroughly and completely that I felt a marathon might be a sound reclamation project for myself. I told my periodontist I was going to quit smoking by running a marathon…So, I’m in this situation presented to you now.
Would you be interested at all in providing some periodic marathon training and/or life advice through this insane journey of mine? I would be happy to sign a waiver removing you and the JNF from any and all liability from taking your advice. I’m running in the Minneapolis half-marathon in August, and the Atlanta marathon in October, if I survive the training regimen. I figure there is an outside shot this has the possibility for humor. And some good. I might be able to raise a little bit of money in the process. That I’m doing anything at all is likely more than most would expect from a fat, lazy, out of shape, chain-smoking non-denominational with a bad attitude. Judging exclusively from your career in acting, I believe you might have a pretty good sense of humor?
Best Regards,
Slade Dillon
slade@specialtylumbersolutions.com
Mr. Hal Linden
Jewish National Fund National Office
42 East 69th Street
New York, NY 10021
Mr. Linden:
It has recently come to my attention that you’re the national spokesperson for the American Jewish National Fund. The course of events that led me to contact you about my marathon training and the possibility of fundraising for your organization are as follows:
1) After a recent trip to my periodontist, I recklessly downloaded marathon training instructions, and found some guy named Hal Higdon offered sets of rather detailed and rigorous training information at no charge. However, once I was actually running the routes, I found myself inadvertently cursing you, because I could not remember Mr. Higdon’s name. Of course, this problem is exclusively my own, but I’ve known a great number of people to mess up even my name. I knew in my heart none of this was your doing, and I hope you can forgive me for the misappropriation of my own pain and bad decision making.
2) After about four or five training sessions of knowingly, but still wrongly cursing you for my ills, I discovered that possibly things happen for a reason. I made a few google searches of you and marathon training, and discovered only a whole lot more of Mr. Higdon, and quite a bit of information about the Jewish National Fund. The more I read about the works and history of the organization, the more impressed I became. The conservation and planting programs in Palestine intrigued me most. I was also influenced positively by the JNF’s public infrastructure programs in concert with land management. Very impressive, and this is quite positively a time-tested and proven approach.
Now, I’m still following Higdon’s training regimen. He’s a SOB. But I realize it’s not Higdon’s fault that I used to down over a half-gallon of vodka every day and ruined myself so thoroughly and completely that I felt a marathon might be a sound reclamation project for myself. I told my periodontist I was going to quit smoking by running a marathon…So, I’m in this situation presented to you now.
Would you be interested at all in providing some periodic marathon training and/or life advice through this insane journey of mine? I would be happy to sign a waiver removing you and the JNF from any and all liability from taking your advice. I’m running in the Minneapolis half-marathon in August, and the Atlanta marathon in October, if I survive the training regimen. I figure there is an outside shot this has the possibility for humor. And some good. I might be able to raise a little bit of money in the process. That I’m doing anything at all is likely more than most would expect from a fat, lazy, out of shape, chain-smoking non-denominational with a bad attitude. Judging exclusively from your career in acting, I believe you might have a pretty good sense of humor?
Best Regards,
Slade Dillon
slade@specialtylumbersolutions.com
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Telemarketers, Part I
I was brushing my teeth yesterday when the phone rang. The caller ID read: “MAXIMUM SECURITY” so I picked up the call quite cautiously.
“Hello?” I asked.
“The reason I’m making this call today is to let you know the importance of protecting your…”the man began, and I interrupted.
“Just so you know where I’m coming from right now, I don’t have any locks on this house.”
A slight pause, and the reply, “Well, don’t you want to insure that you and your loved ones are protected from…” he kept saying something, but again, a rude interruption.
“Not at all. I wish someone would come in here and haul away every single thing I’ve got.”
“Oh, my goodness!” The man was genuinely disgusted and shaken up. I didn’t anticipate this. “Well, good luck,” he told me. I hung up. I continued brushing my teeth.
“Hello?” I asked.
“The reason I’m making this call today is to let you know the importance of protecting your…”the man began, and I interrupted.
“Just so you know where I’m coming from right now, I don’t have any locks on this house.”
A slight pause, and the reply, “Well, don’t you want to insure that you and your loved ones are protected from…” he kept saying something, but again, a rude interruption.
“Not at all. I wish someone would come in here and haul away every single thing I’ve got.”
“Oh, my goodness!” The man was genuinely disgusted and shaken up. I didn’t anticipate this. “Well, good luck,” he told me. I hung up. I continued brushing my teeth.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
The Smokescreen
You should know what you’re getting into before getting on the phone with me. I haven’t touched a drink in over a couple of years. I went to 30-day treatments twice—once in June of 2006, and most recently in June-July of 2009. I didn’t complete the 30-day cycle in 2009. Got kicked out of the treatment facility twice in 2009, and was able to talk them into keeping me around the first time, but not the second. I was forced to leave after around 25 days, and they required me to go directly to a halfway house, or they would not have re-admitted me. (I had to negotiate with the director of the clinic terms upon which they would re-admit me at that time. I didn’t think it would be possible to go any period of time at all with sobriety. At that point, the longest I’d gone without a drink was about 100 days.) It was determined in 2009 by the clinicians that I was really a lost cause because of my inability to pinpoint and control the anger issues. I’m starting to think they were right.
I don’t have any idea what to say about all that—if I could effectively control the anger, I’m certain I would have done so by now. It’s not enjoyable. There is no pleasure in being the angriest person I’ve ever met. When I was drunk, it was impossible to pinpoint exactly what the source of the anger might be, so I didn’t much worry about all that in the treatment environment. I find now, it’s still impossible to pinpoint. The last trip I took to Valley Hope in Halstead was just a way to clean my mind, and to try and detox in an environment that was medically monitored. I had DTs for almost a week after checking into that clinic. I think this is quite rare…No one else that came or went during my time down there was shaking and trembling like myself…Then again, no one else down there was drinking well upwards of a half-gallon of vodka every day, either. Funk likes to say I was almost dead at that point—he may be right, but I’m afraid he might have been off the mark there a bit. If I had the money to continue to do so, I would have had a hell of a lot left in me. I fear I still do.
The one thing I’m absolutely sure of is that the alcohol won’t make the anger go away. I would be drunk right now if I were somehow convinced that were the case. So, I’ve got that going for me. I save some money. Unfortunately, I don’t feel I’ve made any headway at all in addressing the real issues that are quite obviously still there. I don’t expect you or anyone else to be able to figure this out, either. I’ve certainly shared this with many, many others. I’ve spent a lot of money in this pursuit over the years, and it’s netted me nothing but less money. So I’ve suspended seeking the help of professionals. Maybe a bad move, but they aren’t going to tell me anything I don’t already know. Or at least the previous six or seven professionals I’ve talked with didn’t…
The only thing I got out of the treatment experience of 06 was the most miserable relationship I’ve ever experienced in my life. I think there might have been some good times, but I sure as hell can’t remember what those were. So, I didn’t follow any advice from that 2006 experience, and I would consider it an absolute waste of time except that I was given some clear-cut indications of actions that were quite obviously ineffective in terms of dealing with myself and others. The net result of that experience is that I stay 100% away from women completely. I still hate the entire concept of women. This isn’t at all fair to the one or two percent of women who might possibly be worth a damn, but oh, well. I know with absolute certainty I’m not worth a damn either, so I figure all is fair there. They stay the fuck away from me, and I leave them alone. At least I’m not making another individual miserable.
There are some positives to come from not being drunk. I’m not so totally blinded at all times by the underlying anger issue that it’s impossible to rationally evaluate the entire picture. I started a business with a friend of mine a couple of years back, and I’ve been able to work full-time at this endeavor since the start of this year. We’re not getting rich or anything, but we’re able to pay the bills. (To be fair, I’m doing this ONLY because I’ve rendered myself through my previous behaviors to be completely unemployable. I’d been self-employed in construction for nearly a decade prior to starting this business, and it doesn’t appear employers have much faith to hire a person like me during severe economic downturns. Again, I did this to myself, I get it, and I’m okay with it. I just thought it should be noted here.)
I’m able to keep appointments I’ve made. To most people, this wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but to me it is. This is probably my most impressive achievement over the past two years. (I’ve made a deal with myself that no drinking may occur while I’m still in debt. In a period of two years time from today, I’m scheduled to be completely debt free, so I guess I’d better go shopping for a fucking houseboat or something…) I don’t know what legitimacy these “deals with self” carry, because they nullify themselves immediately upon drunkenness. But so far, this one, and it’s the only one I’ve really made, has worked.
When I got out of the recent treatment of ’09, I stated before they required me to live in a halfway house. I did that. I lived in Hearthstone, an outfit in downtown Lawrence. I hated every second of it, but that’s not the point. I would gladly do it again if I was in the same situation. It provided structure. I didn’t like that structure, of course, and I suppose that was part of the learning curve. Another requirement of Valley Hope for my eventual readmission was the attendance of 90 meetings in 90 days. So I did that too.
There is a little shithole of an Alano Club in downtown Lawrence, 311 E. 9th. You might know of it. When I was living at Hearthstone, a morning weekday meeting was getting started there. I was coerced by one of the other residents of the house to lead one of these newly started morning meetings, and I finally agreed to do so, only so I could quit being asked to do the task. Within two weeks, every other person who was on the board to lead those meetings had relapsed, and I was stuck sitting around Hearthstone with a key to the club. I figured my choice was to suspend operations of that morning meeting, or to continue to unlock the club every fucking day in the hopes that some other people would eventually become involved on some level and hopefully lead some meetings…
What happened there is at least somewhat remarkable. For starters, I’m not drunk right now. So that’s something. There was a very small nucleus of people that began attending those meetings with almost no clean time, and today I can count at least five people with between two and three years sobriety today. This was very much a blind leading the blind phenomenon. I can’t explain any of that, because none of us knew what the hell we were doing, and I still don’t. In any event, for more than a few people now, the result has been some level of continued sobriety. I’ve even made a few friends through this process. Another benefit, in some circles. (River City, the home group of that club, probably has the highest rate of relapse of any group in the state of Kansas. The percentage of homeless and indigent attendees is very high. Consequently, the rate of true mental illnesses unrelated to alcoholism is also high. I have no way to explain what has happened in that little group, except that it has happened. I chose that group, or maybe that group chose me, primarily because I knew the odds of seeing an attractive woman in one of those meetings was exceedingly low.)
I unlocked that club every single weekday for almost four months. After only a couple of months, I had to move out of Hearthstone because I had another set of bills to pay for the family farm, where I still live. I didn’t think it was necessarily a good decision at the time to move out of there, but I figured I’d sink or swim. I didn’t know I’d be stuck in one of those survival floats for a couple of years…
So, over time, I had to cut back on attending that meeting daily. I don’t live in Lawrence. I have to work. So now, I go to the Wednesday morning 7am, the same one I signed on to back in August of ’09. There are three or four others who go in there and usually get the doors unlocked on time, I am told. I go to the meeting here in Baldwin as well. It is held every Saturday night, and when I first started going there, there were three old guys with over 35 years each sitting at that table every week. One has since passed, and I’m sure the others will kick off at some point along the way…how it goes…
It’s possible I’m very close to spiritually flatlined. Others speak often of praying, letting go and letting god, etc. etc. etc. I don’t do that stuff. It’s not because of reluctance to do so, I don’t think. It could be a fundamental breakdown with my entire construct of god. Maybe it shows. God doesn’t balance my checkbook. The only thing that I know has kept me sober for any period of time was the realization that I was willing to accept any change in the state of my affairs, good or bad. I had gotten to the point of indifference on what exactly that change may be. I’ve read the Bible. Good story. I’ve read the Koran. Same thing. Studied Buddhism, Confucianism, Communism, Capitalism, and every other thing you could imagine, including virtually every bit of approved literature provided by AA. I’ve read most of the stuff provided by NA as well, but my issue is not, nor has it ever been, with drugs not named alcohol. I’ve certainly done virtually every drug available, but that wasn’t what was making my life a fucking mess. So I’ve settled in with the AA. It’s the only thing that has worked.
I have no problem separating spirituality from organized religion. Then again, I’m not sure either has any role whatsoever in my life today. I don’t know where to start to affect a change here. I don’t know that I have the ability to fully embrace the spiritual aspect at all. I have thought from time to time through observation of the events occurring so fluidly in others’ lives that this would eventually sink in. It has not. I don’t believe it is due to reluctance on my part to actively pursue or embrace it. Then again, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. The pursuit here is supposed to be spiritual growth, I’m told. I guess I’ve left myself quite a bit of room for that.
I don’t mean to be dismal, but I felt these were important points. It’s quite likely nothing written above has any relevance at all. I try to help others, but I’m so fucked up in the head, I don’t know what service I could possibly be to anyone on an individual level. I don’t have the ability to help myself. There’s even a guy who selected me to sponsor him. I told him straight up that he couldn’t make a worse choice, and that I really couldn’t do anything helpful at all except to share with him what I had done to avoid drinking in certain circumstances. Even that isn’t too damned helpful. I usually tell him I didn’t drink. It’s the dumbest fucking answer anyone in duress could ever hope to hear, but so far, he hasn’t made me drunk, and I guess I haven’t made him drunk yet either. He now has over a half a year…but it’s not at all because of anything I’ve said or done.
I apologize for this long-winded response to a request for a phone call. If you choose to read it, great, and if not, I can’t blame you. I thought a little background was important. I’m way more fucked up than Funk could ever imagine if he’s casually mentioned in passing that I’m doing “okay,” or “much better.” It’s a smokescreen I’ve built so people who care for me on some level will quit fucking worrying. I’m so tired of being a continual burden to others. A very strong argument can be made that I’ve made no progress whatsoever, except to possibly build a foundation for eventual improvement. I hope it is possible.
Congratulations on 3 ½ years sober. I have no idea on earth how you’ve done it. If you consider yourself “happy, joyous, and/or free,” I really don’t know how you’ve done it. From what I hear from Funk, however, it’s readily apparent you’re doing a hell of a lot better than me, so I thought I’d seek you out. At this writing, I find myself much more open and willing to suggestions and practical applications to live an effective life than at any point I can remember.
Slade
I don’t have any idea what to say about all that—if I could effectively control the anger, I’m certain I would have done so by now. It’s not enjoyable. There is no pleasure in being the angriest person I’ve ever met. When I was drunk, it was impossible to pinpoint exactly what the source of the anger might be, so I didn’t much worry about all that in the treatment environment. I find now, it’s still impossible to pinpoint. The last trip I took to Valley Hope in Halstead was just a way to clean my mind, and to try and detox in an environment that was medically monitored. I had DTs for almost a week after checking into that clinic. I think this is quite rare…No one else that came or went during my time down there was shaking and trembling like myself…Then again, no one else down there was drinking well upwards of a half-gallon of vodka every day, either. Funk likes to say I was almost dead at that point—he may be right, but I’m afraid he might have been off the mark there a bit. If I had the money to continue to do so, I would have had a hell of a lot left in me. I fear I still do.
The one thing I’m absolutely sure of is that the alcohol won’t make the anger go away. I would be drunk right now if I were somehow convinced that were the case. So, I’ve got that going for me. I save some money. Unfortunately, I don’t feel I’ve made any headway at all in addressing the real issues that are quite obviously still there. I don’t expect you or anyone else to be able to figure this out, either. I’ve certainly shared this with many, many others. I’ve spent a lot of money in this pursuit over the years, and it’s netted me nothing but less money. So I’ve suspended seeking the help of professionals. Maybe a bad move, but they aren’t going to tell me anything I don’t already know. Or at least the previous six or seven professionals I’ve talked with didn’t…
The only thing I got out of the treatment experience of 06 was the most miserable relationship I’ve ever experienced in my life. I think there might have been some good times, but I sure as hell can’t remember what those were. So, I didn’t follow any advice from that 2006 experience, and I would consider it an absolute waste of time except that I was given some clear-cut indications of actions that were quite obviously ineffective in terms of dealing with myself and others. The net result of that experience is that I stay 100% away from women completely. I still hate the entire concept of women. This isn’t at all fair to the one or two percent of women who might possibly be worth a damn, but oh, well. I know with absolute certainty I’m not worth a damn either, so I figure all is fair there. They stay the fuck away from me, and I leave them alone. At least I’m not making another individual miserable.
There are some positives to come from not being drunk. I’m not so totally blinded at all times by the underlying anger issue that it’s impossible to rationally evaluate the entire picture. I started a business with a friend of mine a couple of years back, and I’ve been able to work full-time at this endeavor since the start of this year. We’re not getting rich or anything, but we’re able to pay the bills. (To be fair, I’m doing this ONLY because I’ve rendered myself through my previous behaviors to be completely unemployable. I’d been self-employed in construction for nearly a decade prior to starting this business, and it doesn’t appear employers have much faith to hire a person like me during severe economic downturns. Again, I did this to myself, I get it, and I’m okay with it. I just thought it should be noted here.)
I’m able to keep appointments I’ve made. To most people, this wouldn’t seem like a big deal, but to me it is. This is probably my most impressive achievement over the past two years. (I’ve made a deal with myself that no drinking may occur while I’m still in debt. In a period of two years time from today, I’m scheduled to be completely debt free, so I guess I’d better go shopping for a fucking houseboat or something…) I don’t know what legitimacy these “deals with self” carry, because they nullify themselves immediately upon drunkenness. But so far, this one, and it’s the only one I’ve really made, has worked.
When I got out of the recent treatment of ’09, I stated before they required me to live in a halfway house. I did that. I lived in Hearthstone, an outfit in downtown Lawrence. I hated every second of it, but that’s not the point. I would gladly do it again if I was in the same situation. It provided structure. I didn’t like that structure, of course, and I suppose that was part of the learning curve. Another requirement of Valley Hope for my eventual readmission was the attendance of 90 meetings in 90 days. So I did that too.
There is a little shithole of an Alano Club in downtown Lawrence, 311 E. 9th. You might know of it. When I was living at Hearthstone, a morning weekday meeting was getting started there. I was coerced by one of the other residents of the house to lead one of these newly started morning meetings, and I finally agreed to do so, only so I could quit being asked to do the task. Within two weeks, every other person who was on the board to lead those meetings had relapsed, and I was stuck sitting around Hearthstone with a key to the club. I figured my choice was to suspend operations of that morning meeting, or to continue to unlock the club every fucking day in the hopes that some other people would eventually become involved on some level and hopefully lead some meetings…
What happened there is at least somewhat remarkable. For starters, I’m not drunk right now. So that’s something. There was a very small nucleus of people that began attending those meetings with almost no clean time, and today I can count at least five people with between two and three years sobriety today. This was very much a blind leading the blind phenomenon. I can’t explain any of that, because none of us knew what the hell we were doing, and I still don’t. In any event, for more than a few people now, the result has been some level of continued sobriety. I’ve even made a few friends through this process. Another benefit, in some circles. (River City, the home group of that club, probably has the highest rate of relapse of any group in the state of Kansas. The percentage of homeless and indigent attendees is very high. Consequently, the rate of true mental illnesses unrelated to alcoholism is also high. I have no way to explain what has happened in that little group, except that it has happened. I chose that group, or maybe that group chose me, primarily because I knew the odds of seeing an attractive woman in one of those meetings was exceedingly low.)
I unlocked that club every single weekday for almost four months. After only a couple of months, I had to move out of Hearthstone because I had another set of bills to pay for the family farm, where I still live. I didn’t think it was necessarily a good decision at the time to move out of there, but I figured I’d sink or swim. I didn’t know I’d be stuck in one of those survival floats for a couple of years…
So, over time, I had to cut back on attending that meeting daily. I don’t live in Lawrence. I have to work. So now, I go to the Wednesday morning 7am, the same one I signed on to back in August of ’09. There are three or four others who go in there and usually get the doors unlocked on time, I am told. I go to the meeting here in Baldwin as well. It is held every Saturday night, and when I first started going there, there were three old guys with over 35 years each sitting at that table every week. One has since passed, and I’m sure the others will kick off at some point along the way…how it goes…
It’s possible I’m very close to spiritually flatlined. Others speak often of praying, letting go and letting god, etc. etc. etc. I don’t do that stuff. It’s not because of reluctance to do so, I don’t think. It could be a fundamental breakdown with my entire construct of god. Maybe it shows. God doesn’t balance my checkbook. The only thing that I know has kept me sober for any period of time was the realization that I was willing to accept any change in the state of my affairs, good or bad. I had gotten to the point of indifference on what exactly that change may be. I’ve read the Bible. Good story. I’ve read the Koran. Same thing. Studied Buddhism, Confucianism, Communism, Capitalism, and every other thing you could imagine, including virtually every bit of approved literature provided by AA. I’ve read most of the stuff provided by NA as well, but my issue is not, nor has it ever been, with drugs not named alcohol. I’ve certainly done virtually every drug available, but that wasn’t what was making my life a fucking mess. So I’ve settled in with the AA. It’s the only thing that has worked.
I have no problem separating spirituality from organized religion. Then again, I’m not sure either has any role whatsoever in my life today. I don’t know where to start to affect a change here. I don’t know that I have the ability to fully embrace the spiritual aspect at all. I have thought from time to time through observation of the events occurring so fluidly in others’ lives that this would eventually sink in. It has not. I don’t believe it is due to reluctance on my part to actively pursue or embrace it. Then again, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. The pursuit here is supposed to be spiritual growth, I’m told. I guess I’ve left myself quite a bit of room for that.
I don’t mean to be dismal, but I felt these were important points. It’s quite likely nothing written above has any relevance at all. I try to help others, but I’m so fucked up in the head, I don’t know what service I could possibly be to anyone on an individual level. I don’t have the ability to help myself. There’s even a guy who selected me to sponsor him. I told him straight up that he couldn’t make a worse choice, and that I really couldn’t do anything helpful at all except to share with him what I had done to avoid drinking in certain circumstances. Even that isn’t too damned helpful. I usually tell him I didn’t drink. It’s the dumbest fucking answer anyone in duress could ever hope to hear, but so far, he hasn’t made me drunk, and I guess I haven’t made him drunk yet either. He now has over a half a year…but it’s not at all because of anything I’ve said or done.
I apologize for this long-winded response to a request for a phone call. If you choose to read it, great, and if not, I can’t blame you. I thought a little background was important. I’m way more fucked up than Funk could ever imagine if he’s casually mentioned in passing that I’m doing “okay,” or “much better.” It’s a smokescreen I’ve built so people who care for me on some level will quit fucking worrying. I’m so tired of being a continual burden to others. A very strong argument can be made that I’ve made no progress whatsoever, except to possibly build a foundation for eventual improvement. I hope it is possible.
Congratulations on 3 ½ years sober. I have no idea on earth how you’ve done it. If you consider yourself “happy, joyous, and/or free,” I really don’t know how you’ve done it. From what I hear from Funk, however, it’s readily apparent you’re doing a hell of a lot better than me, so I thought I’d seek you out. At this writing, I find myself much more open and willing to suggestions and practical applications to live an effective life than at any point I can remember.
Slade
Sunday, June 5, 2011
The Brilliance: An Overdue Retrospective
Ed. note: Sometimes, when I mow the lawn, I have to shift focus entirely away from the task at hand, and occasionally, an alternative reality is created. I mowed the lawn this week.
There are times when humanity’s quest for greatness seems entirely shortsighted. Individuals can either accomplish and contribute, or choose not to. Confronted with unassuming hyperbole, one can only sit back and admire the splendor of inspiration in action. I have experienced the pleasure of knowing one of the great literary minds of our generation, the unnecessarily humble Burke McCray.
My first encounter with Mr. McCray was at college. In the then-fetid Gamma-Omicron chapter house of Kappa Sigma, Burke’s literary fires were stewed by the dismal alcohol- and drug-crazed actions and ramblings of the residents. McCray was unshaken, even solidified, by this seeming lunacy in his midst. Though many others insisted on the spotlight, Burke was always there, learning, laughing, loving. Living. Quietly, he was building the bedrock of his literary career.
Destination: Columbia, MO. Undaunted by the lack of a prize in Mathematics, McCray sharply stated in 1991: "Those Swedes don't know a proper iteration from a hole in the ground."
Burke often told me, “I know I will win the Nobel Prize, but I can’t decide if I prefer Mathematics or Literature.” This initially startled me on many levels, but his multi-faceted and well-honed talents still lacked focus. The Maths continue to pay the bills for Mr. McCray, but it is long past due that someone state a case for the redirection of the rest of his life’s efforts. There, I said it: Burke McCray, it is time for you to pour yourself back into your poetry. You owe this debt of your talents to society.
While his peers were out on a near-nightly basis chasing the ladies around town at the local pubs, McCray was resolutely focused on more important endeavors. Not the Maths he had long-since conquered and continues to contribute to daily, and certainly not the writing—Burke has been known to mull and create his masterpieces in their entirely, at one setting—he simply doesn’t have the time for what he considers pure subjectivity. This focus that drove young McCray was simple: He strove daily to have the best ass anyone had ever seen.
This complex dichotomy of focus is a stunning example of the tormented genius lying so long dormant underneath his logical exterior. Inside, a burning desire of posterior greatness still taunts his sanity. Just last summer on the way to the golf course, Burke felt compelled to ask me, “Does my ass look too big in these shorts?”
I had just enough confidence in my sexuality and superior pride in the Brilliance of his middle-aged ass to honestly answer him, “You and I both know you’ve still got the best ass I’ve ever seen. Stop it. Just stop...” I knew the high-stakes nature of Burke’s true passion. If he even has a hint of thought that his ass is going downhill, he will produce nothing but morbid depression, lifelong disappointment, and emotional impotence.
Yes, it’s that important.
Certainly, any fool can come up with a Haiku. Strictly speaking, their topic is limited by definition to nature. However, in the early nineties, a renegade troop of avant-garde haikuists were staking residence in Lawrence. By nearly any measure, 1992 Lawrence was the renegade haiku capital of the free world. (A long-since vanquished group from the Shansi Region of China was violently banished to Tibet in that awful winter of 1993. The “Broken Flower Revolution” would have to wait for another daring generation.) Where once peaceful and soothing five-seven-fives lined our conventional literary guides, these young souls focused on jagged and cutting-edge works delving in to nearly every form of the human experience.
McCray stayed above this fray. Many whiskey-soaked nights with our notebooks and pens of our little club would not be suffered by Burke. “I’m going to the gym. Just me and my Brilliance. I’ll look over what you guys come up with in the morning,” he would tell the aspiring artists. (ed. Note: This remark above is not overt narcissism. The ever humble McCray attempted to patent his own ass under the catchy trade name “Brilliance” in 1991. He has since softened his efforts to monopolize usage of the word brilliance, in addition to the well formed asses on third parties, focusing again solely on his own ass. The name stuck.)
If one of the young authors could impress McCray, a publishing contract was almost sure to follow. He’d been (and remains) highly solicited by the great publishing houses of the day, and had many contacts in the industry. To this day, the shrewd negotiator McCray has left entirely unpublished the collected volumes of his works. I asked when he was planning on a compilation, and he told me quite bluntly last year, “I’m waiting to select the right charity for the proceeds.” His social consciousness and utter selflessness delineate starkly his asscination, and paints an unsettling portrait of McCray: The most elusive and baffling artist living today.
At last summers’ golf outing, I asked McCray if he was still baking. He won the 1990 & 1991 KU Pastryfests going away. His croissants ruled the roost among Jayhawks early in his collegiate career, but he became bored with this endeavor when he discovered his passion for highly selective muscle toning. Furthermore, the rest of the students on campus still had a chance at the competition once he dropped out, saving Pastryfest from certain destruction. His efforts so monopolized the affairs of ’90 and ’91 there was legitimate concern that the entrant pool would be completely depleted by any further competitive baking on his part. So he stopped. Just like that.
A well-drizzled Bundt, McCray's contemporary vision of Brilliance.
But he still, to this day, takes enormous pride in his cakes. A two-layer affair sprinkled liberally with gold leaf, methamphetamine, and whipped cream cleared the award banquet in ’90, while in ’91 his “Puffydoughs” took home the prize. (Burke’s pet name for his remarkably popular jelly-filled doughnuts laced with crack cocaine.) Though he never partook of his award-winning creations, one could not discount the positive effects of the Puffydoughs, or the ravenous cravings of fans thereof. “I started making them as a specialty order,” McCray explained to me the night of the ’91 award banquet. “I just give the people what they want.” Well, Burke, it’s time to walk the walk. The public demands more poetry.
That same little group of Avant-Garde Haikuists (AGH to those in the know) was having difficulties during that long winter of 1992. Restless and lacking focus, they knew their group would either grow or die. The pressures of maintaining academic schedules, social activities and the literary requirements were taking its toll on the AGH. It was suggested during one of these late night meetings that a contest, similar to the art competition staged by the AGA in 1991 could serve as a proper model to refocus the group. We were struggling, and we knew it. Ever the humanist, McCray entered the singular and now-famous masterpiece that permanently chiseled his name at the apex of any list of Great American Poets:
“My ass is so soft.
It reminds me of Bundt cake.
God, I love Bundt cake.”
Predictably, this entry proved to be the demise of the AGH. Why even bother anymore? We had been blinded by McCray’s illumination of several inalienable truths. This man who had so successfully walked the line between “too firm” and “not enough cushion” for his entire life summed up the drive of his entire personal experience. This compelling struggle of a man so burdened by multiple greatnesses is perfectly expressed in these immortally structured three lines. Many of us who have been in the shadow of McCray’s greatness for so long are now left wondering why the reluctant Burke McCray feels the continuing need to shield the public from the remainder of his collection.
Symbolically, I waited until the seventeenth hole of our golf outing to ask Burke the question that has been on our collective minds for a score of years. “Tell me what you write about, Burke.” As we all know by now, McCray’s only public work remains the popularly titled “Me, My Ass, and I” (McCray thought titling his work was pretentious, but the fragments of the AGH simply referred to the Brilliance as MMAI. Sadly, what was left of the AGH was further splintered in 1993 by MMAAI apologists and the defiant MMAaI societies.)
“I write about my butt,” he said. I am unashamed to say I had tears welling in my eyes anticipating what I had hoped was still the case after so many years. I finally broke down, and he brought me back from my abyss with a warm embrace.
Bawling, I blathered, “What else is there? Tell me you haven’t changed?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that. A man has to have focus in today’s world,” he explained, untucking his shirt. He turned away from me and lifted his polo halfway up his back. Sure as shit, Burke had commissioned on his back’s canvas an elegantly crafted tramp stamp of a meticulously formed Bundt cake. A pair of cupid’s quivers at the base of the cake imprint suggested arrows directed at each cheek. “Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked. Reassured at the purity of this fantastic artist’s vision, I had seen quite enough.
Not since collegiate showers had I been so close to Burke’s ass. Sure, he’s settling down a bit. The cakes and pastries he prepares for his family today are practically devoid of narcotics. The haikus have become tamer over the years. Reverence of his own ass and the toils spent creating this personal Brilliance still rule his life. But today, I can see he’s matured so much as a man, and quite obviously, as an Assist.
The time has come, Mr. McCray. Please, we beg of you, share the rest of your collected works. The public demands it. Your ass deserves it.
There are times when humanity’s quest for greatness seems entirely shortsighted. Individuals can either accomplish and contribute, or choose not to. Confronted with unassuming hyperbole, one can only sit back and admire the splendor of inspiration in action. I have experienced the pleasure of knowing one of the great literary minds of our generation, the unnecessarily humble Burke McCray.
My first encounter with Mr. McCray was at college. In the then-fetid Gamma-Omicron chapter house of Kappa Sigma, Burke’s literary fires were stewed by the dismal alcohol- and drug-crazed actions and ramblings of the residents. McCray was unshaken, even solidified, by this seeming lunacy in his midst. Though many others insisted on the spotlight, Burke was always there, learning, laughing, loving. Living. Quietly, he was building the bedrock of his literary career.
Burke often told me, “I know I will win the Nobel Prize, but I can’t decide if I prefer Mathematics or Literature.” This initially startled me on many levels, but his multi-faceted and well-honed talents still lacked focus. The Maths continue to pay the bills for Mr. McCray, but it is long past due that someone state a case for the redirection of the rest of his life’s efforts. There, I said it: Burke McCray, it is time for you to pour yourself back into your poetry. You owe this debt of your talents to society.
While his peers were out on a near-nightly basis chasing the ladies around town at the local pubs, McCray was resolutely focused on more important endeavors. Not the Maths he had long-since conquered and continues to contribute to daily, and certainly not the writing—Burke has been known to mull and create his masterpieces in their entirely, at one setting—he simply doesn’t have the time for what he considers pure subjectivity. This focus that drove young McCray was simple: He strove daily to have the best ass anyone had ever seen.
This complex dichotomy of focus is a stunning example of the tormented genius lying so long dormant underneath his logical exterior. Inside, a burning desire of posterior greatness still taunts his sanity. Just last summer on the way to the golf course, Burke felt compelled to ask me, “Does my ass look too big in these shorts?”
I had just enough confidence in my sexuality and superior pride in the Brilliance of his middle-aged ass to honestly answer him, “You and I both know you’ve still got the best ass I’ve ever seen. Stop it. Just stop...” I knew the high-stakes nature of Burke’s true passion. If he even has a hint of thought that his ass is going downhill, he will produce nothing but morbid depression, lifelong disappointment, and emotional impotence.
Yes, it’s that important.
Certainly, any fool can come up with a Haiku. Strictly speaking, their topic is limited by definition to nature. However, in the early nineties, a renegade troop of avant-garde haikuists were staking residence in Lawrence. By nearly any measure, 1992 Lawrence was the renegade haiku capital of the free world. (A long-since vanquished group from the Shansi Region of China was violently banished to Tibet in that awful winter of 1993. The “Broken Flower Revolution” would have to wait for another daring generation.) Where once peaceful and soothing five-seven-fives lined our conventional literary guides, these young souls focused on jagged and cutting-edge works delving in to nearly every form of the human experience.
McCray stayed above this fray. Many whiskey-soaked nights with our notebooks and pens of our little club would not be suffered by Burke. “I’m going to the gym. Just me and my Brilliance. I’ll look over what you guys come up with in the morning,” he would tell the aspiring artists. (ed. Note: This remark above is not overt narcissism. The ever humble McCray attempted to patent his own ass under the catchy trade name “Brilliance” in 1991. He has since softened his efforts to monopolize usage of the word brilliance, in addition to the well formed asses on third parties, focusing again solely on his own ass. The name stuck.)
If one of the young authors could impress McCray, a publishing contract was almost sure to follow. He’d been (and remains) highly solicited by the great publishing houses of the day, and had many contacts in the industry. To this day, the shrewd negotiator McCray has left entirely unpublished the collected volumes of his works. I asked when he was planning on a compilation, and he told me quite bluntly last year, “I’m waiting to select the right charity for the proceeds.” His social consciousness and utter selflessness delineate starkly his asscination, and paints an unsettling portrait of McCray: The most elusive and baffling artist living today.
At last summers’ golf outing, I asked McCray if he was still baking. He won the 1990 & 1991 KU Pastryfests going away. His croissants ruled the roost among Jayhawks early in his collegiate career, but he became bored with this endeavor when he discovered his passion for highly selective muscle toning. Furthermore, the rest of the students on campus still had a chance at the competition once he dropped out, saving Pastryfest from certain destruction. His efforts so monopolized the affairs of ’90 and ’91 there was legitimate concern that the entrant pool would be completely depleted by any further competitive baking on his part. So he stopped. Just like that.
But he still, to this day, takes enormous pride in his cakes. A two-layer affair sprinkled liberally with gold leaf, methamphetamine, and whipped cream cleared the award banquet in ’90, while in ’91 his “Puffydoughs” took home the prize. (Burke’s pet name for his remarkably popular jelly-filled doughnuts laced with crack cocaine.) Though he never partook of his award-winning creations, one could not discount the positive effects of the Puffydoughs, or the ravenous cravings of fans thereof. “I started making them as a specialty order,” McCray explained to me the night of the ’91 award banquet. “I just give the people what they want.” Well, Burke, it’s time to walk the walk. The public demands more poetry.
That same little group of Avant-Garde Haikuists (AGH to those in the know) was having difficulties during that long winter of 1992. Restless and lacking focus, they knew their group would either grow or die. The pressures of maintaining academic schedules, social activities and the literary requirements were taking its toll on the AGH. It was suggested during one of these late night meetings that a contest, similar to the art competition staged by the AGA in 1991 could serve as a proper model to refocus the group. We were struggling, and we knew it. Ever the humanist, McCray entered the singular and now-famous masterpiece that permanently chiseled his name at the apex of any list of Great American Poets:
“My ass is so soft.
It reminds me of Bundt cake.
God, I love Bundt cake.”
Predictably, this entry proved to be the demise of the AGH. Why even bother anymore? We had been blinded by McCray’s illumination of several inalienable truths. This man who had so successfully walked the line between “too firm” and “not enough cushion” for his entire life summed up the drive of his entire personal experience. This compelling struggle of a man so burdened by multiple greatnesses is perfectly expressed in these immortally structured three lines. Many of us who have been in the shadow of McCray’s greatness for so long are now left wondering why the reluctant Burke McCray feels the continuing need to shield the public from the remainder of his collection.
Symbolically, I waited until the seventeenth hole of our golf outing to ask Burke the question that has been on our collective minds for a score of years. “Tell me what you write about, Burke.” As we all know by now, McCray’s only public work remains the popularly titled “Me, My Ass, and I” (McCray thought titling his work was pretentious, but the fragments of the AGH simply referred to the Brilliance as MMAI. Sadly, what was left of the AGH was further splintered in 1993 by MMAAI apologists and the defiant MMAaI societies.)
“I write about my butt,” he said. I am unashamed to say I had tears welling in my eyes anticipating what I had hoped was still the case after so many years. I finally broke down, and he brought me back from my abyss with a warm embrace.
Bawling, I blathered, “What else is there? Tell me you haven’t changed?”
“You know I wouldn’t do that. A man has to have focus in today’s world,” he explained, untucking his shirt. He turned away from me and lifted his polo halfway up his back. Sure as shit, Burke had commissioned on his back’s canvas an elegantly crafted tramp stamp of a meticulously formed Bundt cake. A pair of cupid’s quivers at the base of the cake imprint suggested arrows directed at each cheek. “Would you like to see the rest of it?” he asked. Reassured at the purity of this fantastic artist’s vision, I had seen quite enough.
Not since collegiate showers had I been so close to Burke’s ass. Sure, he’s settling down a bit. The cakes and pastries he prepares for his family today are practically devoid of narcotics. The haikus have become tamer over the years. Reverence of his own ass and the toils spent creating this personal Brilliance still rule his life. But today, I can see he’s matured so much as a man, and quite obviously, as an Assist.
The time has come, Mr. McCray. Please, we beg of you, share the rest of your collected works. The public demands it. Your ass deserves it.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Night Fever
Saturday, the Kansas City Royals played the Texas Rangers on Fox regional. I don’t take the Fox KC’s ridiculous subscription package for the torture of getting the daily baseball games. They just aren’t very good yet. And yet always seems promise somewhere in the distant, hopeless future. Royals fans over time come to notice odd things.
Another AL umpire exhibits the long-term effects of exposure to the Royals.
Not things like jumping at the wall to have the ball bounce harmlessly off the warning track for a ground-rule double on a sure out (my guess—Joey Gathaway? Gathright? It might have been Emil Brown. Or the outfield collectively running back toward the dugout in obvious celebration of an inning-ending second out. Or the top player currently in the organization being unable for some time when we drafted him to get a suitable prescription eyeglass/contact lens. Royals fans are used to stuff like this.
I take my Royals on the radio. In KC (and Lawrence, and Topeka, etc. etc.) the Royals are available on AM radio only. I could get the MLB package, and I’m still highly considering it so I can listen to some actual baseball this year. But I have this team on the radio, and I don’t even have a decent AM receiver. They simply aren’t quite worth even that modest investment.
Friday evening, I saw a guy I went to school with out at the golf club. We briefly (no more than ten minutes) wasted time talking about this baseball team. I think we both had just a little bit of hope that things will improve. The Royals would really have to trip over the bar if there is a failure of accomplishment. They’ve finished last or next to last every year since the strike, except 95 and 03. This in a five-team division. They only have to beat three teams to finish second, and they can’t do that in their best years. “I’ve been to see them five times this year,” he tells me.
“You’re a better man than me. I’ve been…twice…I think. But…what are you going to do?” I rhetorically ask. I honestly can’t remember if I’ve been once or twice, but I know the trip(s) have been quite forgettable. It’s something I just catalogue away in my mind. Maybe women who have been through the much more serious and miserable trauma as rape sometimes do the same thing as a coping skill…I cannot speak to that, and the comparison shouldn’t even be made, except that I am able to completely dispose of the bad after some period of time. It takes something truly ridiculous or outstanding to grab my attention as a Royals fan.
Our man O'Sullivan in a much slimmer era. The down side: The chain here is at a career-high 5% total body mass.
The game came on, and I was immediately horrified. We had Sean O’Sullivan on the mound, and he was wearing something I’d describe as a dog collar with a miniature oriental throwing star attached at the front. The Bee Gees would have deemed it tacky and excessive in 1977. But Sean O’Sullivan is out there testing the fucking fashion water on semi-national TV.
I text a friend: “Does O’Sullivan always wear that sweet-ass medallion when he’s pitching? This is much harder to watch than to listen to.” The answer: “Yes, he does.”
I found this very hard to believe. The guy’s already substantially overweight, (He looks to me that he’s packed on about 40 pounds since his spring training photos) and he’s dragging around about five pounds of scrap metal around his neck. That can’t be good for the body or soul. I’m not in shape—I get that. I’m in arguably the worst shape of my life. Smoke a couple of packs a day, drink about three pots of coffee, and exercise almost none has been my daily personal prescription for several months. I’m 39 damned years old, pathetically out of shape, and I can tell by looking at the guy I’m in better shape than the 23-year old O’Sullivan, who is being compensated to professionally play a game.
I don’t get the fat ballplayer phenomenon. It’s not just a Kansas City thing, though we seem to be better plagued than most locales. I think a lot of them just decide that if they suck, they might as well be a fatass. Curious decision making from a professional athlete. I don’t care at all what they look like, if they can do the job they’re being paid to do. More often than not, a ballplayer that looks like Terry Forster pitches a lot like Terry Forster.
And if the guy was mowing down batters, he could be wearing a fucking ball gag for all I care. If that’s what it takes to get you in the state of mind, well…so be it. But I’d be pretty critical of some asshole wearing a ball gag when he’s giving up homer after homer after homer.
It’s not all his fault. O’Sullivan is a sinkerballer, and entirely dependent upon the low strike call. And more than one decision has been made by multiple people to allow him to do what he does. If he can’t get that call, he can’t force ground balls. Or he walks a hell of a lot of people trying to win an implied argument with an umpire. Either way, there will be trouble with O’Sullivan when that low strike isn’t available to him. And last night it wasn’t. And he was pitching against the Texas Rangers, AL Representative in the World Series last year.
So it appears that he’s not getting the low call, and it appears he’s going to get shelled. I kept the game on for a good part of the lower half of the first. A couple of smashes later, and the first run coming across was enough for me. This thing was written in stone. I started to do something else, and I got the game going on the radio again, with the TV off. Something piqued my interest in the top of the second, and I turned the game back on. It seems the Royals were acting like they might be able to score or something. Already forgotten what it was they were trying to do in that instance, but I don’t think they got it done.
It was a gloomy day—some weird mix of spit and fog and rain all day. I’d been considering going for a run, but I was so sore I don’t know if I would have made it. I’ll never know. I’d gone running for the previous couple of days, and I just couldn’t go very far. Can’t get my legs under me quite yet. I’m in tremendously bad shape, and I know it, but I’m working on it. I even walked to the end of the lane, but the weather was just bad enough that I turned and came back an hour or so before the game.
So, anyhow, the game’s back on the TV for whatever reason, and I’ve got the pleasure to watch O’Sullivan give up about a 400-foot blast to get the Rangers going. Sean O’Sullivan doesn’t miss bats. His whole game is predicated at him throwing the ball at a bad part of the bat. Weird game plan for a young righthander, but…whatever.
So I watch the ball fly violently out of THE Texas Ranger Ballpark at Arlingon, and I screamed something that sounded like, “FUCK!” and grabbed the golf clubs and a hat. If I wasn’t going to run, I’d go out in the miserable conditions to do something to ensure I would look a little less like Sean O’Sullivan as a person. I can’t change the past, but I went out to do a little something about the future.
I got to the car, and SOS had already given up a second homer. The game was turned automatically to the station carrying the games, so when I started the vehicle, I was treated to a Texas celebration. By the end of the round, a third consecutive homer had been hit by the Rangers, and O’Sullivan had given up ten runs.
Lose the chain, man. Lose the chain.
“Well done, sir.”—The B’s G take a break from stuffing trousers and watching cricket to mesmerize themselves with Sean O'Sullivan's true style in action.
Another AL umpire exhibits the long-term effects of exposure to the Royals.
Not things like jumping at the wall to have the ball bounce harmlessly off the warning track for a ground-rule double on a sure out (my guess—Joey Gathaway? Gathright? It might have been Emil Brown. Or the outfield collectively running back toward the dugout in obvious celebration of an inning-ending second out. Or the top player currently in the organization being unable for some time when we drafted him to get a suitable prescription eyeglass/contact lens. Royals fans are used to stuff like this.
I take my Royals on the radio. In KC (and Lawrence, and Topeka, etc. etc.) the Royals are available on AM radio only. I could get the MLB package, and I’m still highly considering it so I can listen to some actual baseball this year. But I have this team on the radio, and I don’t even have a decent AM receiver. They simply aren’t quite worth even that modest investment.
Friday evening, I saw a guy I went to school with out at the golf club. We briefly (no more than ten minutes) wasted time talking about this baseball team. I think we both had just a little bit of hope that things will improve. The Royals would really have to trip over the bar if there is a failure of accomplishment. They’ve finished last or next to last every year since the strike, except 95 and 03. This in a five-team division. They only have to beat three teams to finish second, and they can’t do that in their best years. “I’ve been to see them five times this year,” he tells me.
“You’re a better man than me. I’ve been…twice…I think. But…what are you going to do?” I rhetorically ask. I honestly can’t remember if I’ve been once or twice, but I know the trip(s) have been quite forgettable. It’s something I just catalogue away in my mind. Maybe women who have been through the much more serious and miserable trauma as rape sometimes do the same thing as a coping skill…I cannot speak to that, and the comparison shouldn’t even be made, except that I am able to completely dispose of the bad after some period of time. It takes something truly ridiculous or outstanding to grab my attention as a Royals fan.
Our man O'Sullivan in a much slimmer era. The down side: The chain here is at a career-high 5% total body mass.
The game came on, and I was immediately horrified. We had Sean O’Sullivan on the mound, and he was wearing something I’d describe as a dog collar with a miniature oriental throwing star attached at the front. The Bee Gees would have deemed it tacky and excessive in 1977. But Sean O’Sullivan is out there testing the fucking fashion water on semi-national TV.
I text a friend: “Does O’Sullivan always wear that sweet-ass medallion when he’s pitching? This is much harder to watch than to listen to.” The answer: “Yes, he does.”
I found this very hard to believe. The guy’s already substantially overweight, (He looks to me that he’s packed on about 40 pounds since his spring training photos) and he’s dragging around about five pounds of scrap metal around his neck. That can’t be good for the body or soul. I’m not in shape—I get that. I’m in arguably the worst shape of my life. Smoke a couple of packs a day, drink about three pots of coffee, and exercise almost none has been my daily personal prescription for several months. I’m 39 damned years old, pathetically out of shape, and I can tell by looking at the guy I’m in better shape than the 23-year old O’Sullivan, who is being compensated to professionally play a game.
I don’t get the fat ballplayer phenomenon. It’s not just a Kansas City thing, though we seem to be better plagued than most locales. I think a lot of them just decide that if they suck, they might as well be a fatass. Curious decision making from a professional athlete. I don’t care at all what they look like, if they can do the job they’re being paid to do. More often than not, a ballplayer that looks like Terry Forster pitches a lot like Terry Forster.
And if the guy was mowing down batters, he could be wearing a fucking ball gag for all I care. If that’s what it takes to get you in the state of mind, well…so be it. But I’d be pretty critical of some asshole wearing a ball gag when he’s giving up homer after homer after homer.
It’s not all his fault. O’Sullivan is a sinkerballer, and entirely dependent upon the low strike call. And more than one decision has been made by multiple people to allow him to do what he does. If he can’t get that call, he can’t force ground balls. Or he walks a hell of a lot of people trying to win an implied argument with an umpire. Either way, there will be trouble with O’Sullivan when that low strike isn’t available to him. And last night it wasn’t. And he was pitching against the Texas Rangers, AL Representative in the World Series last year.
So it appears that he’s not getting the low call, and it appears he’s going to get shelled. I kept the game on for a good part of the lower half of the first. A couple of smashes later, and the first run coming across was enough for me. This thing was written in stone. I started to do something else, and I got the game going on the radio again, with the TV off. Something piqued my interest in the top of the second, and I turned the game back on. It seems the Royals were acting like they might be able to score or something. Already forgotten what it was they were trying to do in that instance, but I don’t think they got it done.
It was a gloomy day—some weird mix of spit and fog and rain all day. I’d been considering going for a run, but I was so sore I don’t know if I would have made it. I’ll never know. I’d gone running for the previous couple of days, and I just couldn’t go very far. Can’t get my legs under me quite yet. I’m in tremendously bad shape, and I know it, but I’m working on it. I even walked to the end of the lane, but the weather was just bad enough that I turned and came back an hour or so before the game.
So, anyhow, the game’s back on the TV for whatever reason, and I’ve got the pleasure to watch O’Sullivan give up about a 400-foot blast to get the Rangers going. Sean O’Sullivan doesn’t miss bats. His whole game is predicated at him throwing the ball at a bad part of the bat. Weird game plan for a young righthander, but…whatever.
So I watch the ball fly violently out of THE Texas Ranger Ballpark at Arlingon, and I screamed something that sounded like, “FUCK!” and grabbed the golf clubs and a hat. If I wasn’t going to run, I’d go out in the miserable conditions to do something to ensure I would look a little less like Sean O’Sullivan as a person. I can’t change the past, but I went out to do a little something about the future.
I got to the car, and SOS had already given up a second homer. The game was turned automatically to the station carrying the games, so when I started the vehicle, I was treated to a Texas celebration. By the end of the round, a third consecutive homer had been hit by the Rangers, and O’Sullivan had given up ten runs.
Lose the chain, man. Lose the chain.
“Well done, sir.”—The B’s G take a break from stuffing trousers and watching cricket to mesmerize themselves with Sean O'Sullivan's true style in action.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The Long Form
Sometimes, it’s good to have a little hope. I hope every day that our country can get over its petty differences and illogical discourses about things that don’t matter. It would be nice if we could collectively agree to disagree on certain issues, and get on with the heart of the subject matter.
I’ve read some news today that is one hundred percent predictable, and highly discouraging. There is a substantial element of the population that simply refuses to admit/believe that Barack Obama was born in the United States of America.
The President, amidst some understandable confusion at the trading deadline.
If you would like a list of issues with which one might take objection with the man, the following is a start:
1) Increased governmental mandates of health care requirements
2) Budgets that do not reflect the dire state of the country’s finances
3) Sluggish employment gains
4) Failure to achieve meaningful and productive collaboration among the legislative branches.
5) Inability to break down inter-party lines for effective negotiation
6) Perhaps he plays too much golf.
7) He is a Democrat (for you non-Democrats out there)
8) He is not a Republican (for you Republicans out there)
9) He is a Hawaiian (for those who hate Hawaii)
10) He is part-Kenyan (for those who hate Kenyans)
11) Plummeting dollar against world currencies
12) Continuing wars abroad
13) Nothing near a balanced budget
14) He is a Chicago White Sox fan.
15) He is not fat.
16) He is tall.
17) He has a beautiful wife, who happens to be the First Lady.
18) He is not British Royalty.
19) He has a Blackberry.
20) He is a government employee.
21) Massive trade imbalances
22) Rising commodity prices
Some of these reasons for dissatisfaction are stupid. They are, however, legitimate statements of occurrence. And I could list hundreds more.
There are many reasons I am neither a registered Republican nor Democrat. The easiest summation is that they are equally driven to cater to the wildest elements to solidify their voting bases. Right now, it looks to me that the Democrats are simply clueless, while the Republicans (at least a very large percentage thereof) are batshit crazy.
Okay, we might be getting somewhere now. Unfortunately, over 50% of fucking Republicans who might stumble upon this issue will notice I have not included anywhere on the list “He is not an American.” Temper your disappointment and confusion for a while, and think about why this might be the case.
When Obama was inaugurated, the following were Supreme Court Justices of the United States:
Appointed by Ford:
John Paul Stevens
Appointed by Reagan:
Antonin Scalia
Anthony M. Kennedy
Appointed by GHW Bush:
Clarence Thomas
David H Souter
Appointed by Clinton:
Ruth Bader Ginsberg
Stephen G Breyer
Appointed by GW Bush:
John G Roberts
Samuel Anthony Alito, Jr.
I’ll make an assumption here that Supreme Court Justices are at least as reasonable as the general population, and that they probably have demonstrated some history of better than average judgment in their judicial careers. That’s keeping the bar pretty low, but bear with me here, you feisty Republicrats…
Somehow, these nine men and women, seven of whom were appointed under Republican administrations, were duped into thinking Barack Obama is an American citizen. That has to sit very poorly among those convinced otherwise.
I guess it’s getting a lot harder these days for people to simply state they hate him because he is Black.
I’ve read some news today that is one hundred percent predictable, and highly discouraging. There is a substantial element of the population that simply refuses to admit/believe that Barack Obama was born in the United States of America.
The President, amidst some understandable confusion at the trading deadline.
If you would like a list of issues with which one might take objection with the man, the following is a start:
1) Increased governmental mandates of health care requirements
2) Budgets that do not reflect the dire state of the country’s finances
3) Sluggish employment gains
4) Failure to achieve meaningful and productive collaboration among the legislative branches.
5) Inability to break down inter-party lines for effective negotiation
6) Perhaps he plays too much golf.
7) He is a Democrat (for you non-Democrats out there)
8) He is not a Republican (for you Republicans out there)
9) He is a Hawaiian (for those who hate Hawaii)
10) He is part-Kenyan (for those who hate Kenyans)
11) Plummeting dollar against world currencies
12) Continuing wars abroad
13) Nothing near a balanced budget
14) He is a Chicago White Sox fan.
15) He is not fat.
16) He is tall.
17) He has a beautiful wife, who happens to be the First Lady.
18) He is not British Royalty.
19) He has a Blackberry.
20) He is a government employee.
21) Massive trade imbalances
22) Rising commodity prices
Some of these reasons for dissatisfaction are stupid. They are, however, legitimate statements of occurrence. And I could list hundreds more.
There are many reasons I am neither a registered Republican nor Democrat. The easiest summation is that they are equally driven to cater to the wildest elements to solidify their voting bases. Right now, it looks to me that the Democrats are simply clueless, while the Republicans (at least a very large percentage thereof) are batshit crazy.
Okay, we might be getting somewhere now. Unfortunately, over 50% of fucking Republicans who might stumble upon this issue will notice I have not included anywhere on the list “He is not an American.” Temper your disappointment and confusion for a while, and think about why this might be the case.
When Obama was inaugurated, the following were Supreme Court Justices of the United States:
Appointed by Ford:
John Paul Stevens
Appointed by Reagan:
Antonin Scalia
Anthony M. Kennedy
Appointed by GHW Bush:
Clarence Thomas
David H Souter
Appointed by Clinton:
Ruth Bader Ginsberg
Stephen G Breyer
Appointed by GW Bush:
John G Roberts
Samuel Anthony Alito, Jr.
I’ll make an assumption here that Supreme Court Justices are at least as reasonable as the general population, and that they probably have demonstrated some history of better than average judgment in their judicial careers. That’s keeping the bar pretty low, but bear with me here, you feisty Republicrats…
Somehow, these nine men and women, seven of whom were appointed under Republican administrations, were duped into thinking Barack Obama is an American citizen. That has to sit very poorly among those convinced otherwise.
I guess it’s getting a lot harder these days for people to simply state they hate him because he is Black.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Quarrels Sproutin' Spring Lovin'
On Sunday, I was as angry as I’d been in a very long time. There was no reason for it—I had nothing in the world that should upset me in the manner I found myself bent. It was horribly juvenile. I am not at all proud of it. There wasn’t even any other person involved—this thing was entirely some sort of damned statement about myself.
The day started cold. That already had me off kilter. Just feeding Patty the Barncat got me off to a bad start with her. I just acted like the weather was her fault. So I’d come inside, shaking, because I didn’t have the common sense to put on a coat. Wind was whipping out of the north about twenty, and it was about 45 degrees. Had to be the cats’ fault.
So I took it out on Nala. For a while, she was scolded for normal and everyday events in her life. She has free reign of windowsills with impunity here. But not Sunday. All of a sudden, that cat with a brain the size of a walnut should be able to figure out I’m busy there. These papers I’ve got stewn everywhere are monumentally more important than the other random sets of papers thrown all over the living room.
Truth be told, she didn’t have any business on those stacks of paperwork either. Somehow, in my negligence to tend to very basic business matters, the cat is to blame. I guess I should cut her pay. Reduce her Vet Care, or something. I was looking for some serious changes around this place, and it quite obviously was all about the cat.
And somehow, in the moment, I couldn’t at all figure out what it was that was upsetting to me. When you’re caught in the middle of something like that it’s so easy to get blinded and start bouncing off the walls. That’s where I was this weekend.
Everything seems to come full circle. While I was busy being an intolerant boob to myself all day Sunday, the mechanically significant others of my life were conspiring against me. The vehicles were outside grumbling about my ingratitude and negligence. By Monday morning, each had conspired to have electrical issues.
The tractors got in on the fun as well. I figured I’d at least get some mowing done, or maybe cut up some hedge that was down on a fencerow. But neither tractor would start. Some dumbass (guess who) had left the gas turned on in the 600, and the tank has a leak that’s just slow enough to drain a tank over a few weeks time. But it still wouldn’t start with the gas…I flooded it. Somehow, I’d flooded the Jubilee as well. I’ll never figure out how a fellow goes about being unable to start two different tractors, which are normally in good working order, through his own incompetence.
The chainsaws were another issue. The Poulan 1950 hadn’t been started in about four years at least. I think I had it fired up in 06 or 07…Can’t remember…and it might have been 02 or 03 since I’ve personally used it. So it’s in about fifty pieces now. The Stihl seems completely seized up to me at the moment. Flywheel no fly. That thing is going to be in about 150 pieces very soon…And it may not come back.
Today, as I was being chauffeured around town by my mother, grabbing parts here and dropping off batteries for charge or exchange there and etc…I had to get a spark plug. Bad service can be a great business model if I am your customer. There is one woman who works at the hardware store who is great—knows where everything is, and is very helpful. Another woman is this one’s polar opposite. She is mean, doesn’t know shit, and wouldn’t help you if she did. So…after a few years, everyone in town knows who to go to in the hardware store. I roamed every aisle looking for that plug…then I saw her. My new lime green love…
There were Poulans on sale for $99.99. There was a display model, and one that was still boxed up. I grabbed the boxed one, threw it on the ground, and went to check out. I got to the counter, and the helpful woman waited on me. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Do you have any sparkplugs?” I asked.
“Yeah. Let me run and get you one.” She literally ran. She was back in under a minute with the proper item. It was 4.99, I think. “Do you still want this?” she pointed at the saw.
“I’d better. This might be the only thing I do right today.”
The day started cold. That already had me off kilter. Just feeding Patty the Barncat got me off to a bad start with her. I just acted like the weather was her fault. So I’d come inside, shaking, because I didn’t have the common sense to put on a coat. Wind was whipping out of the north about twenty, and it was about 45 degrees. Had to be the cats’ fault.
So I took it out on Nala. For a while, she was scolded for normal and everyday events in her life. She has free reign of windowsills with impunity here. But not Sunday. All of a sudden, that cat with a brain the size of a walnut should be able to figure out I’m busy there. These papers I’ve got stewn everywhere are monumentally more important than the other random sets of papers thrown all over the living room.
Truth be told, she didn’t have any business on those stacks of paperwork either. Somehow, in my negligence to tend to very basic business matters, the cat is to blame. I guess I should cut her pay. Reduce her Vet Care, or something. I was looking for some serious changes around this place, and it quite obviously was all about the cat.
And somehow, in the moment, I couldn’t at all figure out what it was that was upsetting to me. When you’re caught in the middle of something like that it’s so easy to get blinded and start bouncing off the walls. That’s where I was this weekend.
Everything seems to come full circle. While I was busy being an intolerant boob to myself all day Sunday, the mechanically significant others of my life were conspiring against me. The vehicles were outside grumbling about my ingratitude and negligence. By Monday morning, each had conspired to have electrical issues.
The tractors got in on the fun as well. I figured I’d at least get some mowing done, or maybe cut up some hedge that was down on a fencerow. But neither tractor would start. Some dumbass (guess who) had left the gas turned on in the 600, and the tank has a leak that’s just slow enough to drain a tank over a few weeks time. But it still wouldn’t start with the gas…I flooded it. Somehow, I’d flooded the Jubilee as well. I’ll never figure out how a fellow goes about being unable to start two different tractors, which are normally in good working order, through his own incompetence.
The chainsaws were another issue. The Poulan 1950 hadn’t been started in about four years at least. I think I had it fired up in 06 or 07…Can’t remember…and it might have been 02 or 03 since I’ve personally used it. So it’s in about fifty pieces now. The Stihl seems completely seized up to me at the moment. Flywheel no fly. That thing is going to be in about 150 pieces very soon…And it may not come back.
Today, as I was being chauffeured around town by my mother, grabbing parts here and dropping off batteries for charge or exchange there and etc…I had to get a spark plug. Bad service can be a great business model if I am your customer. There is one woman who works at the hardware store who is great—knows where everything is, and is very helpful. Another woman is this one’s polar opposite. She is mean, doesn’t know shit, and wouldn’t help you if she did. So…after a few years, everyone in town knows who to go to in the hardware store. I roamed every aisle looking for that plug…then I saw her. My new lime green love…
There were Poulans on sale for $99.99. There was a display model, and one that was still boxed up. I grabbed the boxed one, threw it on the ground, and went to check out. I got to the counter, and the helpful woman waited on me. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Do you have any sparkplugs?” I asked.
“Yeah. Let me run and get you one.” She literally ran. She was back in under a minute with the proper item. It was 4.99, I think. “Do you still want this?” she pointed at the saw.
“I’d better. This might be the only thing I do right today.”
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Fun with SMS, Part IV: The Royals in April
The Royals were winning earlier in the year, but I had a bad feeling about one day’s game, in which we started Kyle Davies. The 2011 Kansas City Royals could well have the worst starting rotation in the history of Major League Baseball, and that's saying something because the Royals field a team every year. The following texts were all sent to my brother. We can bet once a week, $5 only, and the loser of the bet may challenge that week's winner to a second bet that week to make the money back. Going back to opening day of last year, I have now lost $85 consecutively in all bets concerning the Kansas City Royals, and there is no end in sight. Monthly updates will follow.
“Just bed dad 5 bucks that SOB hiram fails to complete four innings. My royal hate continues to affect my pocketbook. Can’t stand this suckstick.” 4/13/11 10:51a.m.
“HATE HATE HATE” 4/13/11 11:16 a.m.
“I didn’t do enough research to prevent making a bad bet on that no-passion assbag davies. Just listen. He’ll go about 4.2, 8 runs.” 4/13/11 11:21a.m.
After the team victory, another to Travis:
“HATE HATE I still f-in HATE! HATE!” 4/13/11 5:12 p.m.
“It would be nice if hochevar could offend davies’ honor. Hiram, being a dipshit from Georgia, would challenge to a duel. Two shots, two down is my dream.” 4/15/11 6:12 p.m.
“Good point. I don’t need either killed-if they blew the shit off each others’ right arm I would be satisfied. I’d pay 500 bucks to watch. Plus parking.” 4/15/11 6:15 pm
“Don’t allow yourself to think luke is making progress if he looks good. The m’s are a AAAA team, and he should be dragged amongst wild horses if he looks bad. Let’s bet something on his performance. I want to fortify my discontentment with this ass sack by losing money. Name the bet. I’ll probably take it.” 4/15/11 6:36 p.m.
“He’s fucking awful. About 95 pitches, a couple more strikes than balls. The mariners are that bad. We get one run off felix tomorrow, we’ll beat them. 4/15/11 8:00 pm
“He’s much better than hiram, but he’s dogshit buried in a plastic bag.” 04/15/11 9:00 pm
“Soria cannot throw a strike at all these days.” 04/15/11 10:00 pm
Don't worry about me, folks. Life's not all about baseball.
“If I were to break the law, I would shoot out one tire a night on the local ice cream van. Stalk the SOB.” 04/18/11 4:18 pm
After the bet on Sean O’ Sullivan’s start: Travis and I set the over/under on innings pitched at 4. I didn’t win.
“Damn.” 04/21/11 8:10 pm.
“I will not bet on francis. Mentally prepare for me to try to wager against the worst pitcher in history tomorrow. I’m already down five on hiram this year.” 04/22/11 3:13 pm
Somehow, and I will go to my grave wondering how it happened, I lost this bet as well:
“Over under on WHIP, including hit batsmen for davies tonight. Season is 1.95. I would take over at 2, if you agreed.” 04/23/11 5:38 pm.
“I would like to bet that hochevar will fail to make it through the lineup three times. This year he averages 26 3/5 batters per start.” 04/26/11 4:55 pm.
In the middle of Hochevar “facing” the lineup for a futile attempt at a fourth time.
“Hochevar is a motherfucker.” 04/26/11 8:08 pm.
“I should start betting against francis.” 04/27/11 6:42 pm.
At one point this April, left fielder Alex Gordon had a 20 game hitting streak. That was before I bet it would go 21.
“Dad hates yost too. I suspect Gordon is getting sick of the losing. I’ll bet five bucks he hits tonight. If you are trying to get money out of me-your chance-“ 04/27/11 6:49 pm.
“Official game only. I think i messed up here. We’re stalling. This thing could easily end after 4 1/2… Gordon o fer with a walk or two.” 04/27/11 6:57 pm.
“I Am petrified at davies’ future performance since I am prevented from gambling against it. He won’t make it out of the first.” 04/28/11 2:00 pm. I was right about this one. Davies shit gasoline all over the personal bonfire that is his statline with this one. 4 homers, a whole bunch of runs. I lost track, and turned the game off.
“It would be nice if davies was forced to go 9 tonight. I will root for whatever team he pitches against, including the yanks, for the rest of his short career.” 04/28/11 7:15 pm
Finally, distraction and desperation:
“Wanted to bet butell 150 bucks on game tonight but he would not. Have not taken a proper shit since easter. Had one piece of ham. Tasted like a salt lick. Just bought two huge burritos from kwik shop, though not hungry. Something will change here.” 04/29/11 10:37 pm.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Junkbox
I’ve still got a hotmail account. It’s quaint, and it doesn’t work very well. Sometimes, it doesn’t work at all. Other times, this silly signature thing I imported from photobucket or something like it attaches various ridiculous ads to outbound emails. This is foolish. It’s tricky, though. I cannot see the ads in a Firefox browser, but they appear after they’ve been sent in the IE browser. The thing might behave completely differently in Chrome and Safari. Haven’t checked that out yet.
One of the benefits of a hotmail account is that the junk box is frequently tantalizing. The spam blocker apparently works well enough to block out my own outgoing shit, but it allows unknown or unwanted content to appear somewhere else, even within the system. I think I could delete that whole signature phenomenon, but I’m still having fun with it. Someone out there is making money off my personal emails. Love it.
In my junk box exists a world unknown to me, with seemingly limitless possibilities. A Nigerian millionaire (hasn’t this been played out already?!? Like fifteen years ago?) still is richer than I could ever imagine, and he’s still willing to share his abundances with me. I just have to donate $50 to free up some escrow funds, and I’ll be titled to tropical islands which I can name after myself, if I’m feeling narcissistic, or maybe after the cat…Nala Island…I could FedEx the unwanted barn cats down there, and they could create their own government. Such an idealist…
Also, there are the Eastern European women. They love me! They’re sure of it—they just haven’t met me yet. In their world, the deal would be sealed once they just hooked up with me—they’re right around the corner! These bitches are on every block!!! Why aren’t they at the grocery store? They have pictures, (that prove most certainly that pictures exist, even if they have been photoshopped)—those women exist! There isn’t much of a language barrier at all. I don’t know how they became fluent in English so quickly…the Asian girls are a little slower with the proper English.
But no matter how my day is going in the inbox, I’ve got that delirious wonderworld that is the junk box to fall back on. Sadly, it’s about as interesting as it gets around here. I guess I could crank up the realism by giving these fools an audience and replying to the mail. All I require out of them is a credit card number. As long as he’s paying, I surely wouldn’t miss out on my dinner date with Oksana down at the Starbucks in Junction City.
One of the benefits of a hotmail account is that the junk box is frequently tantalizing. The spam blocker apparently works well enough to block out my own outgoing shit, but it allows unknown or unwanted content to appear somewhere else, even within the system. I think I could delete that whole signature phenomenon, but I’m still having fun with it. Someone out there is making money off my personal emails. Love it.
In my junk box exists a world unknown to me, with seemingly limitless possibilities. A Nigerian millionaire (hasn’t this been played out already?!? Like fifteen years ago?) still is richer than I could ever imagine, and he’s still willing to share his abundances with me. I just have to donate $50 to free up some escrow funds, and I’ll be titled to tropical islands which I can name after myself, if I’m feeling narcissistic, or maybe after the cat…Nala Island…I could FedEx the unwanted barn cats down there, and they could create their own government. Such an idealist…
Also, there are the Eastern European women. They love me! They’re sure of it—they just haven’t met me yet. In their world, the deal would be sealed once they just hooked up with me—they’re right around the corner! These bitches are on every block!!! Why aren’t they at the grocery store? They have pictures, (that prove most certainly that pictures exist, even if they have been photoshopped)—those women exist! There isn’t much of a language barrier at all. I don’t know how they became fluent in English so quickly…the Asian girls are a little slower with the proper English.
But no matter how my day is going in the inbox, I’ve got that delirious wonderworld that is the junk box to fall back on. Sadly, it’s about as interesting as it gets around here. I guess I could crank up the realism by giving these fools an audience and replying to the mail. All I require out of them is a credit card number. As long as he’s paying, I surely wouldn’t miss out on my dinner date with Oksana down at the Starbucks in Junction City.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Schloss Tegal Redux
Okay, this whole thing is a misspent New Year’s Eve mystery. Now, I went to bed hungry last night. That seems to have drudged up some repeated food-related themes such as the parties involved, the locations, and my motives involved here. I hope you remember Greasy Rick, the cook from the Kappa Sig house at KU. He was in a two man industrial band that made noises similar to whales mating/dying, and called it music. In the dream, he has disappeared, and it’s apparently some sort of a big damned deal. In my world, he’s been gone since 1992, and I’ve never even bothered to look in the Pitch to see if he’s still publicly torturing anyone. But he’s gone, and the following is a quest for food, and the circumstances surrounding the mysterious disappearance/death of Rick from Schloss Tegal
This mess starts in Paul Wilson’s basement (I had in high school stopped by Paul’s on NYE to see if he wanted to do something, but he was making French fries. Pau was not in the dream, but the fry daddy, uncleaned, was in the kitchen. No fries.) Anyway, in the basement, there is a hell of a racket that sounded every bit as bad as Schloss Tegal. It was nothing at all like the original band, which was just two guys abusing their instruments and the audience. This thing had probably 35 people involved, including a full orchestra. They were all high schoolers, except for Erick Sibert, who was the drummer, and the band’s spiritual leader. After every song, he would slap the cymbals, stand and yell, “Schloss Tegal!” and turn and urinate on the wall. This repeated itself for what seemed to be a very long time.
Jason Loevell was definitely involved with the creative direction of the band, (he was at the sound board) which was nothing at all like rick intended—brass and electronic sections, etc. Jason seemed to think that eating while playing their instruments was a good way to fine-tune the process, and all the woodwinds and brass instruments were gummed up with chewed up cake. Jason referred to “that bastard Lofwall” several times there at the sound board telling me how Ian wouldn’t pay any attention to the finer details, and that Lofwall’s tribute band was doomed to failure because of this.
Now, Brian Boyle was a sometimes tour-guide for me for the dream, but he was recruiting some guy that looked like Heath Burgess on a p90x regimen gone way over the top—the recruit was pissed, and was always dripping with sweat and looking for a workout, while clinging to his football cleats but was hanging out with Boyle a lot. Boyle would occasionally grab me and say, “isn’t this awesome?” or “we should check out Lofwall’s party!” but I would always ask him about appetizers. There were never appetizers available, but we kept looking anyway.
There were four women playing cards by the stairwell in this basement, and when I approached that table to ask about food, one woman replied. It was Jen Letner, suggesting silk NFL logo undergarments as Xmas gifts. I asked her if they were edible, and before I knew it, I was at JC Penny digging through bargain bins for NFL sanctioned products. An old girlfriend of mine was working at the store, or something…I don’t know how she got there, but I decided to only buy items destined to piss her off, like some Speedos with John Elway’s image posted on the front. I wore those for the remainder of the dream to get her out of it, and it worked...
Before long, I was at an art studio in downtown Baldwin that I was told was Matt Kirby’s—but there was only a bunch of burnt up canvases, no artists—they were all at Lofwall’s jam, I was told by Walt Faber, the only person there. I asked Walt if he had any food ready to go, but he said, “they’re all at Lofwall’s party, Lucky!”
Teddy Madl was not present, but he was sorely missed. Traffic was a nightmare. Every time I tried to get from one point to another from here on out was a logistical nightmare, though it may have had much more to do with me wearing nothing but John Elway speedos in the middle of winter than anything else.
I got back to Paul’s, and the band was still playing, Sibert was still pissing, and Linda Niehoff was putting away x-mas decorations, to find that santa had left remnant of cake in the boxes. Unfortunately, the cake looked like it had been regurgitated, so I didn’t try to eat any of it, and I put away tinsel, garland, and a bunch of shit into these boxes, and loaded the boxes on buses that were parked outside Paul’s place. She told me that Lofwall’s party was “Sweeet!”
There were a lot of people over at Wilson’s, and it was getting late. There was a campground set up out back on some train tracks. The tents were all on metal-wheeled axes, but the track only went down to a wooded creekbed and back to the porch of Wilson’s house. None of the other homes of Santa Fe Drive were around. I was outside smoking when John Hulce, local law enforcement, showed up. He asked me if I had seen Lofwall, or had been to his party, and I told Hulce I would be there instantly if they had anything to eat, and if I could find it. Hulce then began beating the shit out of the garage door with a mag light, trying to break into Wilson’s house. I asked Hulce why he didn’t just use the open doors like everyone else, and he told me, “This is a matter of law enforcement.” I left him alone, and boarded one of the many busses parked out on the street.
Everyone on the bus was singing old Queen songs for preparation of transit. “Fat Bottom Girls” was a big crowd pleaser, along with numerous board games with many missing pieces to pass the time. Traffic remained at a virtual standstill...an old beat up pickup was coming down the road, and I flagged it down to get a ride.
The fellow inside was just some stereotypical old farmer. I didn’t know the guy, but he immediately started questioning my relationship with Jason Flory. I told him I didn’t really know much, since we’d barely talked to each other for twenty years or so, but the farmer laid out what in his mind Jason had been doing to hurt the dunkard community. The farmer took me on a lengthy drive around western douglas county, and it turns out that the Corps of Engineers decided to merge Lone Star and Clinton Lakes. (A logistical nightmare, since they are in different watersheds, but they got it done.) It was a hell of a long conversation over shit I didn’t care about at all—I couldn’t possibly care less if those dunkards are smoking weed or trafficking drugs, who wore panties or who didn’t, but this farmer was certainly hung up on it. He finally became convinced that I really didn’t know or care what he was talking about, and once I knew he didn’t have any food, I got dropped off back in town.
When I got back to Paul’s, there was Tim Lawrence, and he was showing me his solution to the growing traffic dilemma in Baldwin. He had taken rough plans drawn up by Travis Franklin, and had produced a red speedster that Lawrence had modified with fancy windshield wipers. I noticed the thing didn’t have a floorboard or motor, and Tim reminded me that it would never run out of gas, either.
I got inside, and Hulce was asking a battery of irrelevant questions to anyone who would talk to him, and Jill Boyle was breaking up the card game, suggesting someone had to look after the kids.
I ended up down at Baker, and Tony Brown was kind of running the show down there. By this time, everyone in town was wondering how this sort of mess could have happened in the first place, and Tony was happy to provide the answers. His solution was to explain how things were “about to be explained,” and he was giving something of a mass tour of campus, leading people from room to room, and building to building. “The answer is right in here,” he would tell a group, and lead whomever he’d culled off into an empty room before turning out the lights and locking the door behind them.
I guess I was the last group, and we were herded into another dark room, where Bonnie Butell-Huntoon’s conclusion piped in over the speakers was provided. It wasn’t relevant to critical thinking at all, but semantics. And I awoke after what seemed like hours of her instruction on diagramming nonsensical sentences. Never found Lofwall, and I’m still hungry.
This mess starts in Paul Wilson’s basement (I had in high school stopped by Paul’s on NYE to see if he wanted to do something, but he was making French fries. Pau was not in the dream, but the fry daddy, uncleaned, was in the kitchen. No fries.) Anyway, in the basement, there is a hell of a racket that sounded every bit as bad as Schloss Tegal. It was nothing at all like the original band, which was just two guys abusing their instruments and the audience. This thing had probably 35 people involved, including a full orchestra. They were all high schoolers, except for Erick Sibert, who was the drummer, and the band’s spiritual leader. After every song, he would slap the cymbals, stand and yell, “Schloss Tegal!” and turn and urinate on the wall. This repeated itself for what seemed to be a very long time.
Jason Loevell was definitely involved with the creative direction of the band, (he was at the sound board) which was nothing at all like rick intended—brass and electronic sections, etc. Jason seemed to think that eating while playing their instruments was a good way to fine-tune the process, and all the woodwinds and brass instruments were gummed up with chewed up cake. Jason referred to “that bastard Lofwall” several times there at the sound board telling me how Ian wouldn’t pay any attention to the finer details, and that Lofwall’s tribute band was doomed to failure because of this.
Now, Brian Boyle was a sometimes tour-guide for me for the dream, but he was recruiting some guy that looked like Heath Burgess on a p90x regimen gone way over the top—the recruit was pissed, and was always dripping with sweat and looking for a workout, while clinging to his football cleats but was hanging out with Boyle a lot. Boyle would occasionally grab me and say, “isn’t this awesome?” or “we should check out Lofwall’s party!” but I would always ask him about appetizers. There were never appetizers available, but we kept looking anyway.
There were four women playing cards by the stairwell in this basement, and when I approached that table to ask about food, one woman replied. It was Jen Letner, suggesting silk NFL logo undergarments as Xmas gifts. I asked her if they were edible, and before I knew it, I was at JC Penny digging through bargain bins for NFL sanctioned products. An old girlfriend of mine was working at the store, or something…I don’t know how she got there, but I decided to only buy items destined to piss her off, like some Speedos with John Elway’s image posted on the front. I wore those for the remainder of the dream to get her out of it, and it worked...
Before long, I was at an art studio in downtown Baldwin that I was told was Matt Kirby’s—but there was only a bunch of burnt up canvases, no artists—they were all at Lofwall’s jam, I was told by Walt Faber, the only person there. I asked Walt if he had any food ready to go, but he said, “they’re all at Lofwall’s party, Lucky!”
Teddy Madl was not present, but he was sorely missed. Traffic was a nightmare. Every time I tried to get from one point to another from here on out was a logistical nightmare, though it may have had much more to do with me wearing nothing but John Elway speedos in the middle of winter than anything else.
I got back to Paul’s, and the band was still playing, Sibert was still pissing, and Linda Niehoff was putting away x-mas decorations, to find that santa had left remnant of cake in the boxes. Unfortunately, the cake looked like it had been regurgitated, so I didn’t try to eat any of it, and I put away tinsel, garland, and a bunch of shit into these boxes, and loaded the boxes on buses that were parked outside Paul’s place. She told me that Lofwall’s party was “Sweeet!”
There were a lot of people over at Wilson’s, and it was getting late. There was a campground set up out back on some train tracks. The tents were all on metal-wheeled axes, but the track only went down to a wooded creekbed and back to the porch of Wilson’s house. None of the other homes of Santa Fe Drive were around. I was outside smoking when John Hulce, local law enforcement, showed up. He asked me if I had seen Lofwall, or had been to his party, and I told Hulce I would be there instantly if they had anything to eat, and if I could find it. Hulce then began beating the shit out of the garage door with a mag light, trying to break into Wilson’s house. I asked Hulce why he didn’t just use the open doors like everyone else, and he told me, “This is a matter of law enforcement.” I left him alone, and boarded one of the many busses parked out on the street.
Everyone on the bus was singing old Queen songs for preparation of transit. “Fat Bottom Girls” was a big crowd pleaser, along with numerous board games with many missing pieces to pass the time. Traffic remained at a virtual standstill...an old beat up pickup was coming down the road, and I flagged it down to get a ride.
The fellow inside was just some stereotypical old farmer. I didn’t know the guy, but he immediately started questioning my relationship with Jason Flory. I told him I didn’t really know much, since we’d barely talked to each other for twenty years or so, but the farmer laid out what in his mind Jason had been doing to hurt the dunkard community. The farmer took me on a lengthy drive around western douglas county, and it turns out that the Corps of Engineers decided to merge Lone Star and Clinton Lakes. (A logistical nightmare, since they are in different watersheds, but they got it done.) It was a hell of a long conversation over shit I didn’t care about at all—I couldn’t possibly care less if those dunkards are smoking weed or trafficking drugs, who wore panties or who didn’t, but this farmer was certainly hung up on it. He finally became convinced that I really didn’t know or care what he was talking about, and once I knew he didn’t have any food, I got dropped off back in town.
When I got back to Paul’s, there was Tim Lawrence, and he was showing me his solution to the growing traffic dilemma in Baldwin. He had taken rough plans drawn up by Travis Franklin, and had produced a red speedster that Lawrence had modified with fancy windshield wipers. I noticed the thing didn’t have a floorboard or motor, and Tim reminded me that it would never run out of gas, either.
I got inside, and Hulce was asking a battery of irrelevant questions to anyone who would talk to him, and Jill Boyle was breaking up the card game, suggesting someone had to look after the kids.
I ended up down at Baker, and Tony Brown was kind of running the show down there. By this time, everyone in town was wondering how this sort of mess could have happened in the first place, and Tony was happy to provide the answers. His solution was to explain how things were “about to be explained,” and he was giving something of a mass tour of campus, leading people from room to room, and building to building. “The answer is right in here,” he would tell a group, and lead whomever he’d culled off into an empty room before turning out the lights and locking the door behind them.
I guess I was the last group, and we were herded into another dark room, where Bonnie Butell-Huntoon’s conclusion piped in over the speakers was provided. It wasn’t relevant to critical thinking at all, but semantics. And I awoke after what seemed like hours of her instruction on diagramming nonsensical sentences. Never found Lofwall, and I’m still hungry.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Plastic, Not Paper, Please
Everyone gets junk mail. Few people are likely to form decisions based on the timing and receipt of such notices. Whenever I get something in the mail from the Arbor Day Foundation, The Nature Conservancy, or some other similar group, I politely issue a check for the minimum amount required on their demand form, and then I circle a date on my calendar by which point I have to burn some serious plastic.
I’m not talking just plastic, either. I make sure I’ve got plenty of Styrofoam in there too. Anything essentially biodegradable—anything that will tear a fucking huge hole in the ozone layer—because I’ve gotten to the point I can’t stand winter. After the coldest March on record, and another seven month winter, I’m in no mood to hear about global warming anymore. This little rock needs my help.
So, as the other members and subscribers to these magazines sip their fucking hot tea and wear their Birkenstocks bitching about how Republicans and Democrats are ruining the world, I’ll be out there on the front lines doing something about this nonsense.
I’ve discovered that my Granddad liked to bury tires out by the old pond. I’ll bet that shit will burn pretty damned hot for a while…
I’m not talking just plastic, either. I make sure I’ve got plenty of Styrofoam in there too. Anything essentially biodegradable—anything that will tear a fucking huge hole in the ozone layer—because I’ve gotten to the point I can’t stand winter. After the coldest March on record, and another seven month winter, I’m in no mood to hear about global warming anymore. This little rock needs my help.
So, as the other members and subscribers to these magazines sip their fucking hot tea and wear their Birkenstocks bitching about how Republicans and Democrats are ruining the world, I’ll be out there on the front lines doing something about this nonsense.
I’ve discovered that my Granddad liked to bury tires out by the old pond. I’ll bet that shit will burn pretty damned hot for a while…
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Al Jazeera English Jammed
I know that people in this country don't give a damn about what's going on across the street, much less in world affairs, but here's what's going on in the "Home of the Free?"
At this moment, Al Jazeera English is jammed. Won't load. Tunisia fell, Egypt fell, Libya is hell on wheels out of control, and there is no available Arab perspective available to a truth-seeking American.
Last fall, Wikileaks was jammed. By our government.
Great stuff these days, this censorship.
At this moment, Al Jazeera English is jammed. Won't load. Tunisia fell, Egypt fell, Libya is hell on wheels out of control, and there is no available Arab perspective available to a truth-seeking American.
Last fall, Wikileaks was jammed. By our government.
Great stuff these days, this censorship.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Freud's Retirement Decision
This was awesome:
The dream began, predictably, with Douglas County giving all delinquent tax properties to the homeless. I think this inadvertently caused many or all the conflicts to follow. I wasn't involved in any way with that situation--I just showed up in the dream, and it was that way. And had been for some time.
This homeless guy named KH, who actually exists, and in the dream was wearing the exact same outfit he's been wearing for the past four months was the first person I talked to. I was walking downtown Lawrence, and he asked me if I'd like to check out his new pad. I told him I thought that was encouraging news, and I followed him to a building I had never been in across the street from the old Love Garden. It was one of those "1/2" numbered properties with apartments upstairs. When we got up to the facility, it was noticeably run about like one would expect a homeless-operated enterprise to be run. Tents and shanties were set up inside, but there were some shitty furnishings and just enough appliances available that they could burn the place down. Even though these people had homes, they had done everything they could to maintain a homeless type environment, except that they had an outstanding library. The collection of rare books they had there was incredible! (It should be noted that the homeless have a great appreciation for public libraries.)
I got to know the fellow who was kind of financing the ongoing operations of this homeless pad, who I'd never met--but he looked like SL, and I told him so, but he assured me he wasn't Scott and didn't know SL. He was probably right. Too tall--and the guy was a lot more interested in purchasing some high-end electronics than doing much to remedy the obvious situations facing this nest of shittiness. I suggested that he maybe pay the taxes on the place before the electronics were purchased, and he reminded me that was the only obvious way for a rival homeless outfit to gain control of the property. He then melted down, crying, and ran out of the building while some folk singers started a fire in the middle of the living area with some of those rare books, and singing hippie songs around that fire. I thought it was a good time to leave.
On my way out to the street, TM (becoming a sweet recurring character in my dreams) was trying unsuccessfully to direct traffic in the middle of Mass Street where no intersection existed. He tried to explain what he was doing, but I told him to go home, and he did. That was easy to fix.
BH was doing some laundry in the La Familia Restaurant, and told me about his new strategies to pick up college chicks. "Bleach. It's all about bleach." I was intrigued about how this was working out for a married guy with two little girls, but he assured me he had a couple of hours before any of that mattered. Very un-BH like. But I let him be, because I had to attend the American Legion Meeting, and I told BH I would get back with him later.
I was tired by the time of the AL meeting, so I rolled out a cot and got situated for a nap before the meeting really got underway. I couldn't get settled with this procedural nonsense going on, and finally, things came to a head because there was some non-legionnaire laying in a cot sleeping during the middle of the meeting. My patriotism was never called into question or anything--the debate started between MJ and AC over whether sleeping was generally allowed during the meetings, but it quickly devolved into a heated discussion over the merits of the Korean conflict vs. World War II. That got the Vietnam vets pissy, and the gulf war vets were getting way out of hand, but MJ and AC started fistfighting over the Korea/WWII thing. You wouldn't know it by looking at those guys, but in a dream setting they are tremendous technical fighters. AC is a lot cheaper, however. That's where BB1 got involved. I didn't know he was even in the room, but he appeared wearing a boxing referee's outfit, and told the boys to "Keep it clean." By this time, there were fights all over the room, and some jackass I didn't know hit me over the head with a beer bottle. BB1 suggested rare map donations to the homeless for kindling, and that whole situation resolved itself.
I saw KH in the streets outside, and she was walking around town looking for BH, and BB2 was with her. He had strangely developed some sort of massive cocaine problem. He was looking for BH for both legal advice and an 8-ball. KH tried to tell her that BH was way more into sedatives, and that he would be very unlikely to help. I got kicked out of a dance club that was downtown--probably some new morph of the old last call site, where DJ SA was spinning discs. It should be noted that BB2 got us kicked out there by grabbing SA's mike and making a public appeal for "Lots of Acid and Ecstacy." Strange behavior there...
But when we got to the now-abandoned public library, things came to a head between BB2 and BH over the lack of any volume of drugs available to get everyone through the weekend. So, BH stole my car, and told everyone he was going to go "fix it."
Then, I picked a fight with a short fat dude that was in the AL meeting because I didn't like the way he was looking at me.
Hey, it beats watching TV, I guess...not quite as violent though.
Slade
The dream began, predictably, with Douglas County giving all delinquent tax properties to the homeless. I think this inadvertently caused many or all the conflicts to follow. I wasn't involved in any way with that situation--I just showed up in the dream, and it was that way. And had been for some time.
This homeless guy named KH, who actually exists, and in the dream was wearing the exact same outfit he's been wearing for the past four months was the first person I talked to. I was walking downtown Lawrence, and he asked me if I'd like to check out his new pad. I told him I thought that was encouraging news, and I followed him to a building I had never been in across the street from the old Love Garden. It was one of those "1/2" numbered properties with apartments upstairs. When we got up to the facility, it was noticeably run about like one would expect a homeless-operated enterprise to be run. Tents and shanties were set up inside, but there were some shitty furnishings and just enough appliances available that they could burn the place down. Even though these people had homes, they had done everything they could to maintain a homeless type environment, except that they had an outstanding library. The collection of rare books they had there was incredible! (It should be noted that the homeless have a great appreciation for public libraries.)
I got to know the fellow who was kind of financing the ongoing operations of this homeless pad, who I'd never met--but he looked like SL, and I told him so, but he assured me he wasn't Scott and didn't know SL. He was probably right. Too tall--and the guy was a lot more interested in purchasing some high-end electronics than doing much to remedy the obvious situations facing this nest of shittiness. I suggested that he maybe pay the taxes on the place before the electronics were purchased, and he reminded me that was the only obvious way for a rival homeless outfit to gain control of the property. He then melted down, crying, and ran out of the building while some folk singers started a fire in the middle of the living area with some of those rare books, and singing hippie songs around that fire. I thought it was a good time to leave.
On my way out to the street, TM (becoming a sweet recurring character in my dreams) was trying unsuccessfully to direct traffic in the middle of Mass Street where no intersection existed. He tried to explain what he was doing, but I told him to go home, and he did. That was easy to fix.
BH was doing some laundry in the La Familia Restaurant, and told me about his new strategies to pick up college chicks. "Bleach. It's all about bleach." I was intrigued about how this was working out for a married guy with two little girls, but he assured me he had a couple of hours before any of that mattered. Very un-BH like. But I let him be, because I had to attend the American Legion Meeting, and I told BH I would get back with him later.
I was tired by the time of the AL meeting, so I rolled out a cot and got situated for a nap before the meeting really got underway. I couldn't get settled with this procedural nonsense going on, and finally, things came to a head because there was some non-legionnaire laying in a cot sleeping during the middle of the meeting. My patriotism was never called into question or anything--the debate started between MJ and AC over whether sleeping was generally allowed during the meetings, but it quickly devolved into a heated discussion over the merits of the Korean conflict vs. World War II. That got the Vietnam vets pissy, and the gulf war vets were getting way out of hand, but MJ and AC started fistfighting over the Korea/WWII thing. You wouldn't know it by looking at those guys, but in a dream setting they are tremendous technical fighters. AC is a lot cheaper, however. That's where BB1 got involved. I didn't know he was even in the room, but he appeared wearing a boxing referee's outfit, and told the boys to "Keep it clean." By this time, there were fights all over the room, and some jackass I didn't know hit me over the head with a beer bottle. BB1 suggested rare map donations to the homeless for kindling, and that whole situation resolved itself.
I saw KH in the streets outside, and she was walking around town looking for BH, and BB2 was with her. He had strangely developed some sort of massive cocaine problem. He was looking for BH for both legal advice and an 8-ball. KH tried to tell her that BH was way more into sedatives, and that he would be very unlikely to help. I got kicked out of a dance club that was downtown--probably some new morph of the old last call site, where DJ SA was spinning discs. It should be noted that BB2 got us kicked out there by grabbing SA's mike and making a public appeal for "Lots of Acid and Ecstacy." Strange behavior there...
But when we got to the now-abandoned public library, things came to a head between BB2 and BH over the lack of any volume of drugs available to get everyone through the weekend. So, BH stole my car, and told everyone he was going to go "fix it."
Then, I picked a fight with a short fat dude that was in the AL meeting because I didn't like the way he was looking at me.
Hey, it beats watching TV, I guess...not quite as violent though.
Slade
Friday, February 4, 2011
Fun With SMS, Part III
J: Hey what up this is jeremy from waverly you remember me 7:43 pm
S: No, but i'm a fellow who used to drink and drug like keith richards on vacation so i suppose anything is possible. Doubt it tho.. 7:47 pm
J: Is this tyler 7:51 pm
S: Most of the time, yeah. Tyler Durden. 9:39 pm
S: No, but i'm a fellow who used to drink and drug like keith richards on vacation so i suppose anything is possible. Doubt it tho.. 7:47 pm
J: Is this tyler 7:51 pm
S: Most of the time, yeah. Tyler Durden. 9:39 pm
ASS out of U and ME
One of the main issues I’ve always had with the theories of economics are the assumptions. All the social sciences make assumptions, to some degree. Be it statistical analysis, demographic data, or whatever other practical devices these social scientists apply, assumptions are made. The introduction of these assumptions leads inevitably to a common conclusion: The possibility for error is quite real, and at times measurable.
So I was a terrible social scientist. I took four different sections on probability and statistics at KU. It kind of interested me then, and it still does today. The probability—finding the likelihood of an event taking place, and statistics—the application of such data—are important for studying the likelihood of events in everyday life for the social scientist. But assumptions are to be made in these fields.
I could handle the pure math of the studies, but I’d miss those questions on the homework and tests where ridiculous (or not) assumptions were made. As a mathematician, I’d rip apart the sample group before I ever got to ask the set any one of a series of questions. I was hung up on the goddamned assumption.
And so it goes in everyday life. I suppose this is why the sociologist, psychologist, and (to a much lesser extent, in my opinion) the economist throw around assumptions like beads off a Mardi Gras float.
One assumption I’m going to start making is that people are afraid to pick up the goddamned phone. I don’t know why the hell a person would ever call me, make an inquiry, have me reply with a wish to speak a little further about the situation, and then get too busy to pick up the goddamned phone to discuss the situation at hand.
Wild behavior in irrational worlds. That’s our experience on planet Earth. All the communication devices, toys, technologies and tricks available to anyone, anytime of day. And people don’t use them.
Simple shit I’m talking here. A two minute phone call, and at least one person could be feeling a hell of a lot less stupid right now.
But I made an assumption that someone would have a lick of common sense. (Them—Or me? Not sure anymore…) My bad.
So I was a terrible social scientist. I took four different sections on probability and statistics at KU. It kind of interested me then, and it still does today. The probability—finding the likelihood of an event taking place, and statistics—the application of such data—are important for studying the likelihood of events in everyday life for the social scientist. But assumptions are to be made in these fields.
I could handle the pure math of the studies, but I’d miss those questions on the homework and tests where ridiculous (or not) assumptions were made. As a mathematician, I’d rip apart the sample group before I ever got to ask the set any one of a series of questions. I was hung up on the goddamned assumption.
And so it goes in everyday life. I suppose this is why the sociologist, psychologist, and (to a much lesser extent, in my opinion) the economist throw around assumptions like beads off a Mardi Gras float.
One assumption I’m going to start making is that people are afraid to pick up the goddamned phone. I don’t know why the hell a person would ever call me, make an inquiry, have me reply with a wish to speak a little further about the situation, and then get too busy to pick up the goddamned phone to discuss the situation at hand.
Wild behavior in irrational worlds. That’s our experience on planet Earth. All the communication devices, toys, technologies and tricks available to anyone, anytime of day. And people don’t use them.
Simple shit I’m talking here. A two minute phone call, and at least one person could be feeling a hell of a lot less stupid right now.
But I made an assumption that someone would have a lick of common sense. (Them—Or me? Not sure anymore…) My bad.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Autobots v. Replicants
Part of what I do with my time is to travel to Lawrence once a week to open up the local AA hall for a meeting. It’s early in the morning, and frequently, I’m the first one there. For several months, there’s been a fellow usually waiting at the door. This in itself isn’t so unusual—I’m usually rolling in right at the meeting time—but the guy, we’ll call him K. has been there nearly every week for several months.
A lot of homeless people come to this gathering, especially during the winter. The reasons are obvious. We have heat. We have coffee. Hell, we have chairs. It’s an improvement, generally speaking. Quite often during the late summer and fall months K. and myself were the only ones in attendance, so I got to ask some questions of the guy.
My first observation of K. was that he was at the least above average intelligence. That didn’t surprise me at all, and I consider it a given that most people who can’t deal with themselves or others as it relates to addiction have this quality. It further seemed to me that the fellow had the capacity to work, and he had the ability to understand a line of reasoning in a constructive way. The context of the situation must be considered here: Most homeless persons have failed one or more of these tests by this point, leading naturally to their homeless nature. Those cases are easily understood.
I started asking K. about the logistics of homelessness. This all started back when the weather was nice, and I was essentially sleeping outdoors myself. (On the screened-in porch. I do have screens. And a roof.) “So, K., tell me a little about your camp.”
K. went on to tell me how he’d hooked up a working plumbing system at their camp (pumping water from the Kansas River, an on-site purification system, and waste delivery back), rigged up a makeshift shelter with a metal roof out of scrap materials he’d found around town, and how he’d tapped into the power lines to provide the camp with electricity. Hell, it sounded as good as a home, to hear him tell it!
“But don’t you miss having a home?” I’d ask the fellow.
“Not really. I don’t know what else I’d have that I don’t already get.”
And so it was. I’d found a motherfucker who simply preferred being homeless to having a home. The guy certainly wasn’t criminally insane—he just didn’t need the hassle. So I thought for a very long time.
Over the holidays, K. went out and got himself all drunked up. He’s come back to the club since that event, and is again a regular at the morning meetings. And one day, K. started talking about the events that led up to his drunkenness. “I probably would have been all right if it weren’t for those Autobots,” he explained to those in attendance.
He went on to explain that the Autobots, when they delivered him to their ship, had very different views about drinking, drug abuse, and domestic violence than the other people gathered there in the room. And the Replicants—he couldn’t really even tell if they were Replicants at all, or Autobots in disguise, but they certainly had their own ship. He could probably handle the Autobots without the Replicants, or vice versa. But both at the same time seemed like a real bitch to K.
They talk to him all the time. The only way to shut them up is to do what they say. And he’s not making this shit up. Autobots and Replicants are as real to K. as the sunrise and sunset to everybody else staggering around this rock.
Okay. This makes sense now. Schizophrenia can be a real bitch. Sometimes a person needs a helpful reminder of the very simplest of things for which we can be grateful.
A lot of homeless people come to this gathering, especially during the winter. The reasons are obvious. We have heat. We have coffee. Hell, we have chairs. It’s an improvement, generally speaking. Quite often during the late summer and fall months K. and myself were the only ones in attendance, so I got to ask some questions of the guy.
My first observation of K. was that he was at the least above average intelligence. That didn’t surprise me at all, and I consider it a given that most people who can’t deal with themselves or others as it relates to addiction have this quality. It further seemed to me that the fellow had the capacity to work, and he had the ability to understand a line of reasoning in a constructive way. The context of the situation must be considered here: Most homeless persons have failed one or more of these tests by this point, leading naturally to their homeless nature. Those cases are easily understood.
I started asking K. about the logistics of homelessness. This all started back when the weather was nice, and I was essentially sleeping outdoors myself. (On the screened-in porch. I do have screens. And a roof.) “So, K., tell me a little about your camp.”
K. went on to tell me how he’d hooked up a working plumbing system at their camp (pumping water from the Kansas River, an on-site purification system, and waste delivery back), rigged up a makeshift shelter with a metal roof out of scrap materials he’d found around town, and how he’d tapped into the power lines to provide the camp with electricity. Hell, it sounded as good as a home, to hear him tell it!
“But don’t you miss having a home?” I’d ask the fellow.
“Not really. I don’t know what else I’d have that I don’t already get.”
And so it was. I’d found a motherfucker who simply preferred being homeless to having a home. The guy certainly wasn’t criminally insane—he just didn’t need the hassle. So I thought for a very long time.
Over the holidays, K. went out and got himself all drunked up. He’s come back to the club since that event, and is again a regular at the morning meetings. And one day, K. started talking about the events that led up to his drunkenness. “I probably would have been all right if it weren’t for those Autobots,” he explained to those in attendance.
He went on to explain that the Autobots, when they delivered him to their ship, had very different views about drinking, drug abuse, and domestic violence than the other people gathered there in the room. And the Replicants—he couldn’t really even tell if they were Replicants at all, or Autobots in disguise, but they certainly had their own ship. He could probably handle the Autobots without the Replicants, or vice versa. But both at the same time seemed like a real bitch to K.
They talk to him all the time. The only way to shut them up is to do what they say. And he’s not making this shit up. Autobots and Replicants are as real to K. as the sunrise and sunset to everybody else staggering around this rock.
Okay. This makes sense now. Schizophrenia can be a real bitch. Sometimes a person needs a helpful reminder of the very simplest of things for which we can be grateful.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Answer to Why
Tim:
Perhaps some of what I was trying to convey was lost due to my inability to stop yelling on the phone. Sorry about all that, but I was just this morning asking myself a stupid question that started with “Why.”
“Why did I take that advice?” was my question just before you had called--and I still, just today, took unsolicited and poor counsel from someone who has less knowledge on the subject than myself. And so I was angry. At me.
It’s been my experience that 99% of all anger is self-directed. There are outward projections of anger all the time—but almost all of it is misdirected. I don’t discount that 1% of anger that is rightly directed toward injustice. That happens, and such is life. It’s an acceptable risk to the human experience.
“How do you get over that anger?” you asked. I think my advice was to stay the hell out of the situation. I should also add that you should never take any advice from a person who doesn’t know shit about the subject. It’s poor policy on a personal and professional level. No one wins—not even the person doling out piss-poor advice. Part of the problem here, obviously, is that the people giving out piss-poor advice aren’t usually aware they’re doing so. You’re fortunate here to be dealing with me, as I’m not an authority on any subject at all. I don’t know shit. I still don’t have anything like a handle on my temper, but I’m not sure that’s even an anger thing right now. Maybe that’s more a cabin fever thing.
Now, I really don’t even know your situation, but I think you know how I would handle/not handle it. Even the most optimistic outsider would assume rightly that my means of coping are pretty shitty on a personal level. I’m okay with that for the moment, but I’m working at it constantly. For good reason.
And, I’ve demonstrated through a very concrete example of my experience just today that resulted in listening to advice.
That being said, maybe we can move on to the “Why.”
As a word, “why” doesn’t fucking cut it for me any longer. There is almost never a right answer, or even if there is a right answer, it can nearly always be disputed. I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHY. If you wanted to know the number one reason I haven’t had a drink in a year and a half, I think I can tell you this: It wasn’t to impress myself. Or my friends and family. I’ve tried to do that for my entire life and been an utter failure at virtually everything I’ve touched. The main reason I’ve been able to stick to and accomplish any fucking goal in my life to this date was to ignore that one fucking word: WHY. Now, if you’re sitting there asking yourself, “Why does he think that,” or “Why is he telling me this,” just stop reading right now. Lost cause. That fucking word, “why” can almost always be substituted with “how” and the result is a concrete blueprint for a general understanding of almost any situation.
And you might notice I said “situation” above. I don’t have any problems. Problems are for mathematics, and they imply a unique solution. In life outside of the applied sciences and mathematical fields, a unique solution is rarely a qualifier for the questions one faces on a daily basis. Substitution of situation for problem in language and application on a daily basis is another coping skill—This is the reason I asked you to make a pro and con listing. The pro/con list helps to gain an understanding of any situation exactly as it relates to you in the moment. When I look at similar assessments in my life, I try to select the path that least shits all over those around me for whom I have some mutual concern. This works in business, and in life. It’s good policy.
So, I guess what I’m saying is that I think that you probably need a new dose of semantics. Then again, you should never take unsolicited advice.
Perhaps some of what I was trying to convey was lost due to my inability to stop yelling on the phone. Sorry about all that, but I was just this morning asking myself a stupid question that started with “Why.”
“Why did I take that advice?” was my question just before you had called--and I still, just today, took unsolicited and poor counsel from someone who has less knowledge on the subject than myself. And so I was angry. At me.
It’s been my experience that 99% of all anger is self-directed. There are outward projections of anger all the time—but almost all of it is misdirected. I don’t discount that 1% of anger that is rightly directed toward injustice. That happens, and such is life. It’s an acceptable risk to the human experience.
“How do you get over that anger?” you asked. I think my advice was to stay the hell out of the situation. I should also add that you should never take any advice from a person who doesn’t know shit about the subject. It’s poor policy on a personal and professional level. No one wins—not even the person doling out piss-poor advice. Part of the problem here, obviously, is that the people giving out piss-poor advice aren’t usually aware they’re doing so. You’re fortunate here to be dealing with me, as I’m not an authority on any subject at all. I don’t know shit. I still don’t have anything like a handle on my temper, but I’m not sure that’s even an anger thing right now. Maybe that’s more a cabin fever thing.
Now, I really don’t even know your situation, but I think you know how I would handle/not handle it. Even the most optimistic outsider would assume rightly that my means of coping are pretty shitty on a personal level. I’m okay with that for the moment, but I’m working at it constantly. For good reason.
And, I’ve demonstrated through a very concrete example of my experience just today that resulted in listening to advice.
That being said, maybe we can move on to the “Why.”
As a word, “why” doesn’t fucking cut it for me any longer. There is almost never a right answer, or even if there is a right answer, it can nearly always be disputed. I DON’T FUCKING CARE WHY. If you wanted to know the number one reason I haven’t had a drink in a year and a half, I think I can tell you this: It wasn’t to impress myself. Or my friends and family. I’ve tried to do that for my entire life and been an utter failure at virtually everything I’ve touched. The main reason I’ve been able to stick to and accomplish any fucking goal in my life to this date was to ignore that one fucking word: WHY. Now, if you’re sitting there asking yourself, “Why does he think that,” or “Why is he telling me this,” just stop reading right now. Lost cause. That fucking word, “why” can almost always be substituted with “how” and the result is a concrete blueprint for a general understanding of almost any situation.
And you might notice I said “situation” above. I don’t have any problems. Problems are for mathematics, and they imply a unique solution. In life outside of the applied sciences and mathematical fields, a unique solution is rarely a qualifier for the questions one faces on a daily basis. Substitution of situation for problem in language and application on a daily basis is another coping skill—This is the reason I asked you to make a pro and con listing. The pro/con list helps to gain an understanding of any situation exactly as it relates to you in the moment. When I look at similar assessments in my life, I try to select the path that least shits all over those around me for whom I have some mutual concern. This works in business, and in life. It’s good policy.
So, I guess what I’m saying is that I think that you probably need a new dose of semantics. Then again, you should never take unsolicited advice.
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