My Tender Lumplings, my world has been shaken. My very sense of reality is in a state of flux. Everything I have ever know, my beliefs and faiths, my hopes and fears, have been ripped from me and twisted into something new and foreign and ugly. Though I am managing to hold on for the moment I don't know how much longer this facade of normalcy will hold.
What has caused this you ask? How could anything shake me, your humble narrator, who has shown nothing though all these years but a seemingly rock steady foundation of character. What could possibly reduce this lighthouse of perception, who's beam of truthful light illuminates the way for wisdom seekers through the rocky shores of deception that the world has laid in their paths. Well, a ship of unsought knowledge has escaped my beam and crashed itself upon my reef.
There was a discussion at work yesterday about astrology. I've never really bought into it much though I admit that I think people born under certain signs can, and do, have similar traits. Not that a Gemini can't have the traits of, say, a Libra. But I understand a lot of what they are saying. Sort of the same with any ancient beliefs, I think they have some good bit and some bits that are just crazy shit. I guess what I'm saying is that I may not buy everything they believe in but I respect the old ways enough not to just write it all off as crap. I mean, the great pyramids are laid out in the form of constellation, they are. And Stonehenge is aligned with the stars. So the ancient peoples believed there was something there. Aliens? Who knows. But back to astrology and birth signs. I learned, or rather, realized through our talk at work a rather disturbing fact. I have know for a long time that my birth sign is Taurus. And Chinese restaurant place mats have been telling me for years that based on the year of my birth my sign is the Rooster.
So, does this mean my entire life has been one long Cock and Bull story?
Have I just been some outlandishly over-exaggerated tale? Is the story of my life the living equivalent of a extravagant fabrication? Not a lie, per se, but a highly embellished form of the truth? I am seriously concerned here. If I am really just the protagonist (or, horror, a bit player?) in someones elaborate fiction, then what is it all for? Do the stars control me? Am I not that master of my own will? My own destiny? Some would say, no, I'm not. These are the people who believe in destiny and fate and all that crap. How THOSE people can even get out of bed in the morning is a mystery to me.
Of course I'm not controlled by the stars or aliens or God or anything else. Do I believe there is a energy, a power, bigger than us all that runs through the fabric of reality and binds us all? The Force, so to speak? Yes, but it can't make you fly or have mind powers, and it doesn't control you. My dearies, we have to make our own fate. We decide our own path and if it is the wrong one, well, we deal with that when it happens. Until next time...
Friday, July 26, 2013
Thursday, July 25, 2013
The Four Eyed Couch Potato: or the joys of being a middle aged slacker.
As I was walking down the hall at work today there were two guys standing having a conversation. As I passed them, I didn't say a thing not wanting to interrupt, one of them pointed at me and said to the other guy "that fella ain't right". What? Now, I know both of these guys and they know me pretty well, so it doesn't surprise me that they would say something. And I'm not really disputing the claim. It's just that it was unexpected and sort of out of no where. All I had done was walk by, staring at the one guy (the speaker) with my creepiest wide-eyed unblinking stalker gaze. What's wrong with that?
But he was right. I, your humble narrator, am not right. Not at all, Dearies. I would say that about 8 out of 10 times, that is about four fifths of the time, I am not doing anything that is at all right. Probably as much at 82.7% of the time whatever I happen to be doing is something that no good can come from. That isn't to say that I am actively pursuing some endeavor that is in some way criminal or morally reprehensible. It may well be that through my inaction I am not doing good simply by not doing anything at all.
Why am I like this? I don't know. I'm not especially lazy. In fact, being "not right" is very hard sometimes. It takes a lot of time and effort to pull off wrongness. It's sort of the same thing as when Dolly Parton said "it takes a lot of money to look this cheap" when talking about her wardrobe. If I refocused this effort on doing good deeds and achieving personal and professional goals, I could be president or something. Wouldn't that be a hoot, me in the oval office. Things would be a little different around here.
Of course this means that 17.2% of the time I am being responsible and doing honest productive things. But in the grand scheme of things that is not much time at all. What is that, about 4 hours a day? About half the time I spend at work? Or am I splitting it up like two hours a day or working at work and another two doing things I need to do at home? Either way it ends up being that I spend much more time on my screwing around and being goofy activities than I do on anything else. And I'm really fine with that. Because, at the end of the day, I have fun.
So, no, I ain't right. But I'm not always wrong. But I am happy.
Until next time my Tender Lumplings...
But he was right. I, your humble narrator, am not right. Not at all, Dearies. I would say that about 8 out of 10 times, that is about four fifths of the time, I am not doing anything that is at all right. Probably as much at 82.7% of the time whatever I happen to be doing is something that no good can come from. That isn't to say that I am actively pursuing some endeavor that is in some way criminal or morally reprehensible. It may well be that through my inaction I am not doing good simply by not doing anything at all.
Why am I like this? I don't know. I'm not especially lazy. In fact, being "not right" is very hard sometimes. It takes a lot of time and effort to pull off wrongness. It's sort of the same thing as when Dolly Parton said "it takes a lot of money to look this cheap" when talking about her wardrobe. If I refocused this effort on doing good deeds and achieving personal and professional goals, I could be president or something. Wouldn't that be a hoot, me in the oval office. Things would be a little different around here.
Of course this means that 17.2% of the time I am being responsible and doing honest productive things. But in the grand scheme of things that is not much time at all. What is that, about 4 hours a day? About half the time I spend at work? Or am I splitting it up like two hours a day or working at work and another two doing things I need to do at home? Either way it ends up being that I spend much more time on my screwing around and being goofy activities than I do on anything else. And I'm really fine with that. Because, at the end of the day, I have fun.
So, no, I ain't right. But I'm not always wrong. But I am happy.
Until next time my Tender Lumplings...
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Insanity For Fun and Profit
I have been having a problem lately, my Tender Lumplings. I had an idea for a really good blog entry about a week ago and I didn't get the chance to write it. Nature and life conspired to blog block me at every chance and I just couldn't get it done. And now, of course, I can't remember what it was about. I'm sure it will return to me, I hope it does, I think you would have enjoyed it but for now I will have to deal with other topics.
So what shall we discuss today then, hmmm? How about the human brain. That dense mass of gooey gray matter that, arguably, makes up our entire selves. Nothing happens anywhere except in our brains. We believe we see things miles away. We believe we smell things. We believe we can hear train whistles blow from around the bend of the tracks. But do we? Really? All those things are just a flash of an electrical synapse in the depths of our brain. We only know what our brain tells us. We cannot have any other source of information. We don't see or feel or hear anything really. Our brain just tells us we do and we believe it.
But what if you brain starts lying to you?
I've been reading a book about psychopaths. No, it is not just a big book of stories about serial killers. ( I have read that book though and it is pretty good. You all know of my fascination with that subject. But now having read about what some psychopaths have done I want to read about why they did it.) This book looks at the way a psychopath's brain works and shows that being a psychopath, or having certain psychopathic traits, is not always a bad thing. Few psychopaths become violent and in some areas being a ruthless, self serving, cold hearted and charismatic person is an absolute boon. Think of the world of business, the stock market, the military and politics. There is no place for emotion in those worlds.
The good news is that from what I've read I can say with certainty that I am not a psychopath. But I do have a few of their traits. But after thinking about it for I while I have decided that I only exhibit those traits for my own amusement. I am now officially announcing that I am a Recreational Psychopath. Because I actually have emotions and feel things I can never be a true psychopath, but I can pretend. I can lie, manipulate, appear to show no empathy or sympathy at all and be a complete narcissistic bastard but all for my own amusement. And it is that pleasure I take from my bad behavior that proves I'm not a psychopath. Stupid emotions ruin everything.
This all goes against my hindu training. It's all about compassion and selflessness. That's great and all but sometimes, my Dearies, you have to have a little fun. Until next time...
So what shall we discuss today then, hmmm? How about the human brain. That dense mass of gooey gray matter that, arguably, makes up our entire selves. Nothing happens anywhere except in our brains. We believe we see things miles away. We believe we smell things. We believe we can hear train whistles blow from around the bend of the tracks. But do we? Really? All those things are just a flash of an electrical synapse in the depths of our brain. We only know what our brain tells us. We cannot have any other source of information. We don't see or feel or hear anything really. Our brain just tells us we do and we believe it.
But what if you brain starts lying to you?
I've been reading a book about psychopaths. No, it is not just a big book of stories about serial killers. ( I have read that book though and it is pretty good. You all know of my fascination with that subject. But now having read about what some psychopaths have done I want to read about why they did it.) This book looks at the way a psychopath's brain works and shows that being a psychopath, or having certain psychopathic traits, is not always a bad thing. Few psychopaths become violent and in some areas being a ruthless, self serving, cold hearted and charismatic person is an absolute boon. Think of the world of business, the stock market, the military and politics. There is no place for emotion in those worlds.
The good news is that from what I've read I can say with certainty that I am not a psychopath. But I do have a few of their traits. But after thinking about it for I while I have decided that I only exhibit those traits for my own amusement. I am now officially announcing that I am a Recreational Psychopath. Because I actually have emotions and feel things I can never be a true psychopath, but I can pretend. I can lie, manipulate, appear to show no empathy or sympathy at all and be a complete narcissistic bastard but all for my own amusement. And it is that pleasure I take from my bad behavior that proves I'm not a psychopath. Stupid emotions ruin everything.
This all goes against my hindu training. It's all about compassion and selflessness. That's great and all but sometimes, my Dearies, you have to have a little fun. Until next time...
Thursday, June 13, 2013
IF YOU ASK ME TO BLOG, THIS IS WHAT YOU GET.
Well, today I was chastised for not blogging often enough. I am heartily sorry, by Tender Lumplings, for not providing enough of my cutting insight into the human condition which I deliver with my unique brand of wit and style. I have said before it isn't easy to do this everyday. So I don't even try. But, yes, going months between posts is a bit extreme also.
So I will offer up this brief entry to appease my throngs of fans world wide (yes, that is directed at you person in Latvia).
Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury and Iain Banks are dead. That is a fact that, unfortunately, cannot be changed. There are no replacements for them. And given that we as a species are quickly forgetting how to write and read, thanks in no small way to the Internet, TV and cell phones (I will never text anyone), I'm starting to think that there never will be any more great authors. While I mourn my fallen idols, I don't really feel that bad about there being no one to take their places. Why should anyone try to write a masterpiece if no one is going to be able to read it?
Most of the bookstores and music store are closed or will be soon. In a while the only place to get an actual book or a CD will be in some dusty little shop stuck in a rundown strip mall. A place that smells of old paper and mold where you have to move the fat old cat off the stack of paperbacks you want to go through. Sitting behind the counter with a tatty sweater vest and bifocals will be a grey man listening to a flat black disc with grooves in it that makes noise when you set a needle on it. You'll know his name, my Dearies. He is me.
Maybe I'm just getting old. I don't like new TV shows. I don't get the new style of comedy that passes for hip these days. Most new music I find boring and lacking in originality, style, focus and, most of all, musicianship. People don't even play instruments anymore, they don't even try.
But, you know, it's OK. I don't need new music or TV or "books". Because although they may no longer be among us, the so called living, I still have Kurt and Ray and Iain. And all the other great authors, artists and musicians who are gone. I have their books and albums and therefore part of their souls. I can feel my soul is richer for it.
So I will offer up this brief entry to appease my throngs of fans world wide (yes, that is directed at you person in Latvia).
Kurt Vonnegut, Ray Bradbury and Iain Banks are dead. That is a fact that, unfortunately, cannot be changed. There are no replacements for them. And given that we as a species are quickly forgetting how to write and read, thanks in no small way to the Internet, TV and cell phones (I will never text anyone), I'm starting to think that there never will be any more great authors. While I mourn my fallen idols, I don't really feel that bad about there being no one to take their places. Why should anyone try to write a masterpiece if no one is going to be able to read it?
Most of the bookstores and music store are closed or will be soon. In a while the only place to get an actual book or a CD will be in some dusty little shop stuck in a rundown strip mall. A place that smells of old paper and mold where you have to move the fat old cat off the stack of paperbacks you want to go through. Sitting behind the counter with a tatty sweater vest and bifocals will be a grey man listening to a flat black disc with grooves in it that makes noise when you set a needle on it. You'll know his name, my Dearies. He is me.
Maybe I'm just getting old. I don't like new TV shows. I don't get the new style of comedy that passes for hip these days. Most new music I find boring and lacking in originality, style, focus and, most of all, musicianship. People don't even play instruments anymore, they don't even try.
But, you know, it's OK. I don't need new music or TV or "books". Because although they may no longer be among us, the so called living, I still have Kurt and Ray and Iain. And all the other great authors, artists and musicians who are gone. I have their books and albums and therefore part of their souls. I can feel my soul is richer for it.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
A Dark And Stormy Night: The Backyard
It was a bright spring day in early April, oddly warm for a part of the country where winter usually keeps a firm grip on the landscape well into May. The flowers in the garden were taking full advantage of the anomalous weather and had begun to bloom. Reds and yellows cascaded over the rough rock walls that lined the walkway from the main house down to the many levels of the tiered patios. Even the myriad small creatures that lived in the woods just beyond the lawns had started to peek from their slumbering holes and began to frolic in the warm morning sun.
The sun rose toward the summit of the sky and the heat increased. Children appeared and the expansive lawn became a medieval field of games. There were great jousting tournaments with broomsticks as steeds and lances. The crack of yardstick swords floated across the grass as mighty duals were fought. The air was filled with cries of victory and celebratory laughter until the afternoon grew too hot and the competitors retired to the house for lemonade and to revel in the days events.
Clouds shaded the landscape as the evening approached and the flowers grew weary of sunbathing. They slowly folded their delicate petals into themselves and slumbered. The forest creatures, there bellies now full of nuts and clover, returned to their holes, saying furry prayers to whatever gods they believed in, that tomorrow would come and be as glorious as today. Lights began to glow in the house and soft music played until, hours later, the windows gradually grew dark there too. The warmth of the day evaporated into the cool night, only the soil beneath the grass holding on to a small bit of heat.
Late, when all was quiet, the night creatures came out to hunt.
The sun rose toward the summit of the sky and the heat increased. Children appeared and the expansive lawn became a medieval field of games. There were great jousting tournaments with broomsticks as steeds and lances. The crack of yardstick swords floated across the grass as mighty duals were fought. The air was filled with cries of victory and celebratory laughter until the afternoon grew too hot and the competitors retired to the house for lemonade and to revel in the days events.
Clouds shaded the landscape as the evening approached and the flowers grew weary of sunbathing. They slowly folded their delicate petals into themselves and slumbered. The forest creatures, there bellies now full of nuts and clover, returned to their holes, saying furry prayers to whatever gods they believed in, that tomorrow would come and be as glorious as today. Lights began to glow in the house and soft music played until, hours later, the windows gradually grew dark there too. The warmth of the day evaporated into the cool night, only the soil beneath the grass holding on to a small bit of heat.
Late, when all was quiet, the night creatures came out to hunt.
Watering Your Hard To Reach Plants (Open Letter #1)
OPEN LETTER TO THE INFOMERCIAL VOICE OVER GUY.
I have been watching television for a long time: nearly my entire life and professionally for nearly twenty years now. In all that time one thing, well, many things have been consistant, but the one I am talking about now is the voice of the guy who reads the phone number at the end of an infomercial. It has been the same voice for as long as I can remember. Who is this guy? How has he cornered the market on infomercial voice over for, Christ, more years than I can imagine. At least thirty-five or forty. I have a few ideas about this.
The first is the obvious: the guy has a great voice, he is very good at what he does and everyone wants to use him for their commercials. If he started in his twenties he would only be sixty or so now and that is not that old. It all makes perfect sense and is completely possible. Boring!
Maybe, the guy is the mastermind behind all infomercial products. He pre-recorded all those bits for the end of the infomercials years ago, making up product names on the spot, and has actually been dead for years. You see the script for the end of those things is always the same. “Call 1-800-###-#### now to order your (insert product) for only $19.99. Act now and receive a second (product name) just pay separate shipping and handling. Have your credit card ready and call 1-800-###-#####. That’s 1-800-###-#####.” Or some variation of that. I think the guy recorded hundreds of these things and then years later someone had to invent a product to fit the name he made up. And then they got the phone company to assign the phone number the dude made up as well. My only proof of this particular scenario is the fact that the voice in question is only ever reading the bit at the end of the commercial. The actual infomercial uses a different voice.
And why is everything $19.99.
Still, who is this guy? I had a theory for a while that it was a man named Danny Breen. He is an actor and comedian that was on Not Necessarily the News, a sketch comedy show on HBO in the 80’s. He has the voice for sure and I haven’t seen him on TV since that show. He could be recording these things in his home, collecting a check and living it up. NNTN was an Americanized version of a BBC show called Not the Nine O’clock News. It had Rowan Atkinson on it. It was very funny but only ran a few years. Two things the American series was not.
I’m sure the first of my theories is the right one. And if you want some really good comments about infomercials, look up the Mitch Hedberg bit about four easy payments. Classic. Take care my Tender Lumplings.
I have been watching television for a long time: nearly my entire life and professionally for nearly twenty years now. In all that time one thing, well, many things have been consistant, but the one I am talking about now is the voice of the guy who reads the phone number at the end of an infomercial. It has been the same voice for as long as I can remember. Who is this guy? How has he cornered the market on infomercial voice over for, Christ, more years than I can imagine. At least thirty-five or forty. I have a few ideas about this.
The first is the obvious: the guy has a great voice, he is very good at what he does and everyone wants to use him for their commercials. If he started in his twenties he would only be sixty or so now and that is not that old. It all makes perfect sense and is completely possible. Boring!
Maybe, the guy is the mastermind behind all infomercial products. He pre-recorded all those bits for the end of the infomercials years ago, making up product names on the spot, and has actually been dead for years. You see the script for the end of those things is always the same. “Call 1-800-###-#### now to order your (insert product) for only $19.99. Act now and receive a second (product name) just pay separate shipping and handling. Have your credit card ready and call 1-800-###-#####. That’s 1-800-###-#####.” Or some variation of that. I think the guy recorded hundreds of these things and then years later someone had to invent a product to fit the name he made up. And then they got the phone company to assign the phone number the dude made up as well. My only proof of this particular scenario is the fact that the voice in question is only ever reading the bit at the end of the commercial. The actual infomercial uses a different voice.
And why is everything $19.99.
Still, who is this guy? I had a theory for a while that it was a man named Danny Breen. He is an actor and comedian that was on Not Necessarily the News, a sketch comedy show on HBO in the 80’s. He has the voice for sure and I haven’t seen him on TV since that show. He could be recording these things in his home, collecting a check and living it up. NNTN was an Americanized version of a BBC show called Not the Nine O’clock News. It had Rowan Atkinson on it. It was very funny but only ran a few years. Two things the American series was not.
I’m sure the first of my theories is the right one. And if you want some really good comments about infomercials, look up the Mitch Hedberg bit about four easy payments. Classic. Take care my Tender Lumplings.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Open Letter letter opener (aka a butter knife)
Well my Tender Lumplings it seems 2013 is well on it's way. January passed without incident and February is upon us. Big things are afoot already for this year, big plans and a couple of little trips already booked. It would seem this is going to be a musical year, at least the first bit of it. Tickets have been bought for concerts and I have already been to one bar to see a couple of bands play. I do so love live music. I would really like to play live myself again sometime and I may. Someday.
I am also in the mood to write again. Not just here for you my dearies, but other things. Maybe I'll attempt it again. I gave it up for a while, figuring nothing would come of it. And nothing did so I guess I was right. But now I may try again. What has me in the mood you ask? Well, I'll tell you. I've been reading a book or two about one of my heroes, one Mr. Kurt Vonnegut. Seems that though he was a great writer he was also a very bad writer. I'll explain.
He spent nearly twenty-five years without a successful career as a writer. From the time he came home from the war, until he published Slaughterhouse Five in 1969, he struggled to support himself and his family with writing. He didn't support them actually. He sold a couple of books that were not big hits. He sold a lot of short stories but they didn't pay very well. He had to take all sorts of other jobs. He even opened a Saab dealership. Not that is desperation if I ever heard it. And he was bad for taking forever to finish stories. So, even though what he wrote was genius, he was not very good at the actual writing part.
And neither am I. I am terrible at making myself write. Even when I want to I find some reason not too. The main reason being I know that when I do make myself write, it sure as heck isn't going to turn out to be a work of genius when it is done. At least Mr. Vonnegut had that to look forward to when his stories were finished (though he probably wouldn't have said his work was genius either, but it was).
One of the books I've been reading is a collection of letters Vonnegut wrote during his life to friends, family and other people. Even some to companies and newspapers. This has gotten me to thinking about this blog and how I can use it.
Now the blog is, in it's own way, a sort of open letter. Anyone can read it and it is usually a way for someone to set forth their ideas and opinions. That is just what I've been doing. And most of my entries have had some sort of theme or topic to each one. But I have never really formally addressed them to anyone. That is about to change. The next few (or maybe several, we'll see how this goes) posts will be address, openly, to someone or something and then I will go about letting everyone know what I think. I may not always be critical of the topic, I may be very supportive. Or I may rip them a new one. Again, we shall see.
So, stay tuned my dear Lumplings for my next post. And if you know anyone in the Hawaiian Pineapple Growers Association, let them know they are in for it. Until then...
I am also in the mood to write again. Not just here for you my dearies, but other things. Maybe I'll attempt it again. I gave it up for a while, figuring nothing would come of it. And nothing did so I guess I was right. But now I may try again. What has me in the mood you ask? Well, I'll tell you. I've been reading a book or two about one of my heroes, one Mr. Kurt Vonnegut. Seems that though he was a great writer he was also a very bad writer. I'll explain.
He spent nearly twenty-five years without a successful career as a writer. From the time he came home from the war, until he published Slaughterhouse Five in 1969, he struggled to support himself and his family with writing. He didn't support them actually. He sold a couple of books that were not big hits. He sold a lot of short stories but they didn't pay very well. He had to take all sorts of other jobs. He even opened a Saab dealership. Not that is desperation if I ever heard it. And he was bad for taking forever to finish stories. So, even though what he wrote was genius, he was not very good at the actual writing part.
And neither am I. I am terrible at making myself write. Even when I want to I find some reason not too. The main reason being I know that when I do make myself write, it sure as heck isn't going to turn out to be a work of genius when it is done. At least Mr. Vonnegut had that to look forward to when his stories were finished (though he probably wouldn't have said his work was genius either, but it was).
One of the books I've been reading is a collection of letters Vonnegut wrote during his life to friends, family and other people. Even some to companies and newspapers. This has gotten me to thinking about this blog and how I can use it.
Now the blog is, in it's own way, a sort of open letter. Anyone can read it and it is usually a way for someone to set forth their ideas and opinions. That is just what I've been doing. And most of my entries have had some sort of theme or topic to each one. But I have never really formally addressed them to anyone. That is about to change. The next few (or maybe several, we'll see how this goes) posts will be address, openly, to someone or something and then I will go about letting everyone know what I think. I may not always be critical of the topic, I may be very supportive. Or I may rip them a new one. Again, we shall see.
So, stay tuned my dear Lumplings for my next post. And if you know anyone in the Hawaiian Pineapple Growers Association, let them know they are in for it. Until then...
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