It's official. I had a MUCH better time at Beethoven's 9th than I did at the Crue concert (see blog 131). Turns out row CC isn't three rows back from the front, it's actually THE front row! I know it's not the best seat in the house, my neck still hurts and I had a bass-heavy mix since I was basically sitting right in front of the Cellos and Violas. The best seats in the house, sound wise, are probably ten to twenty rows back from where I was because then you get a sense of the full sound of the orchestra blended with the natural ambiance of the concert hall.
But what an experience! Being front and center is a singular experience. I don't think I'll ever sit that close again (if I can help it) but I recommend all classical music fans try it at least once. One of the unique things about being that close is being able to really see the mechanics of the orchestra. What I mean is, you can see every page turn, every facial expression, every bit of technique. I could even see the horsehairs on the 2nd violinist's bow fray away in the passion of the performance. And being that close, you really get a sense of the individual instruments before they blend into one sound further out into the concert hall. Again, not ideal for hearing the sound of the orchestra as a whole, but a fascinating experience nevertheless.
And the music! I think of the movie Contact where Jodie Foster meets the "alien" (who takes the form of her father...boo, weak) and the alien says something like, "You're an interesting species, an interesting mix. You're capable of such beautiful dreams. . ." This music, it's almost inconceivable that such sounds could be the work of one man - a deaf one at that. And an orchestra is a beautiful metaphor for what can happen when different people come together to create something wonderful.
See, another thing you get to see when you sit up in the front row is the uniqueness of the individual performers. From further back everyone is dressed in black dresses and tuxedos. Closer up, you see that some of the women are wearing tuxes as well and some of the men are wearing dresses (not). I could see that one of the violinists' pants were old and a bit frayed - not ratty, just well worn. And the age mix was interesting as well. There were instrumentalists who looked like they were still in college and others who may have been retired from whatever career they pursued in order to keep playing music. Being the Honolulu Symphony, there were also lots of different ethnicities represented.
What I'm getting at is, there were all these different people - different just based on their appearance, multiply that by what different lives they must all lead away from the orchestra - and yet these differences are set aside for the sake of this amazing music. What an example for the rest of the world, for our nation, for the body of Christ. Call it naive idealism, but what would life on planet earth be like if we were to, if only for a season, work together towards some common good? I think of those disaster-from-space movies like Armageddon or Deep Impact or Independence Day or Signs. Faced with global annihilation, people put their petty differences aside to fight the comet or the asteroid or the aliens. Like Sting sang, while still in the Police, "one world is enough for all of us."
During the intermission I was reading about Beethoven's 9th symphony in the program and it said that this was not just an Ode to Joy, but also a celebration or tribute to the brotherhood of all mankind. And I guess he succeeded because look at me going on about all of us getting along.
You know, I was just thinking (still thinking, after all that?), I'm no expert in eschatology (Biblical study of the end-times) but I wonder if the message of Revelations, with it's horrors of the antichrist and tribulation, is a warning for the rest of us that if we can't get our shit together in peace then God's going to rain down fury from heaven and won't we feel stupid then for not being able to settle our differences civilly? I mean the terror of a species-ending object from space crashing into the earth is nothing compared to the wrath of God unleashed.
I don't know. All I know is, I had a kick ass time at the concert. Don't get me wrong, I still love rock music. If Sheryl Crow had been playing on the same night, you'd better bet I would have been there instead of at the orchestra. I mention Sheryl Crow because out of all the concerts I've been to (not that I've been to a lot, Hawaii is NOT a tour stop for most bands), Sheryl's was my favorite by far. Would I say that her concert was better than tonight's? Hard to say. They both touched places deep in my heart, just different places or in different ways.
Anyway, I'm working the early shift at work tomorrow and so I'd better get to sleep.
If I don't write before then, let me take this opportunity to wish all of you a happy new year full of good luck and joy.
Friday, December 30, 2005
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
136. embarrassing stories
Originally posted this as a response to Leigh Nash's blog (see her MySpace page).
I was a sophomore in college and it was finals week. One of my classes was a Survey of Philosophy (Phil 100) and because the final was scheduled for the last day of school, the prof offered the option to take the final earlier in the week in the Philosophy department library. So I get to there and all the seats around the table have been taken. So I take one of the seats around the edge of the room but there's no table to write on so I sit cross-legged and put the blue book in my lap.
Anyway, this is a philosophy class so of course the final is short essay style. I'm writing away and making good progress when I get that feeling. You know that feeling where you need to fart and you know it and it's one of those where you know it's not going back up from whence it came no matter how long you hold it in? Yeah, that's the feeling I had. So I'm in the philosophy department library with maybe twenty five to thirty other students working on their essays and as you can imagine, it's dead, still, granite silence.
Okay, so you know that feeling when you know you have to fart but you think it's going to be a silent one? Well that's what I thought but in a room where a pin drop would have sounded like an avalanche, my otherwise tiny, high-pitched "pweeeeesssst" rang out across the room like a bottle rocket. Again, this is a philosophy final and so the room didn't explode with laughter. That would have been a relief, instead the room stayed silent but the tension in the air was volatile. One little chuckle or snort and everyone would have been rolling. Everyone wanted to laugh, you could taste it in the air, but everyone held it in.
Anticlimactic, I know and so I share another...
I can't remember what I was doing that night, maybe I was driving home from a gig with my band. Anyway, it's late and I'm driving home and it's one of those drives where you're right on the edge of falling asleep and the only thing keeping you awake are those plastic bumps dividing the lanes that you keep drifting into. But I'm almost home so I keep going. I don't know how, but I finally make it home. I pull into the garage, turn off the engine, turn off the lights, put my head back into the headrest and succumb.
I don't know how long I was out but I wake up with a jolt! I still have my hands on the steering wheel and I'm thinking that I'm still on the road driving (because I'd caught myself dozing a dozen times that night). So my first instinct is to slam on the brakes. I'm mashing the brake pedal to the floor but I'm confused because it doesn't feel like I'm slowing down. And then I notice that it's pitch black out my window and I start thinking that I've driven over a cliff and I'm free-falling into space. I'm out of my mind, thinking I'm going to die when I realize that my car lights are off. I flip them on and I swear I see the back of my garage rushing up to meet the front of my car - see, in my head, I'm still thinking that I'm speeding down the road out of control or flying through the air off a cliff and so when I see the back of my garage, I'm thinking that I'm traveling at some ungodly speed and I'm about to crash through the back wall. And so I start slamming on the brakes again and I'm putting my arms up in front of my face to shield myself from the inevitable chaos of glass and sheet metal. . .
And then I figure it out. I remember making it home and falling asleep in the car seat. I turn the lights back off, get out and go to bed but now I'm so wired, I can't sleep and I'm too tired to laugh at myself, until the next day when I tell my friends what happened. From then on, it's been one of the funniest things that ever happened to me.
I was a sophomore in college and it was finals week. One of my classes was a Survey of Philosophy (Phil 100) and because the final was scheduled for the last day of school, the prof offered the option to take the final earlier in the week in the Philosophy department library. So I get to there and all the seats around the table have been taken. So I take one of the seats around the edge of the room but there's no table to write on so I sit cross-legged and put the blue book in my lap.
Anyway, this is a philosophy class so of course the final is short essay style. I'm writing away and making good progress when I get that feeling. You know that feeling where you need to fart and you know it and it's one of those where you know it's not going back up from whence it came no matter how long you hold it in? Yeah, that's the feeling I had. So I'm in the philosophy department library with maybe twenty five to thirty other students working on their essays and as you can imagine, it's dead, still, granite silence.
Okay, so you know that feeling when you know you have to fart but you think it's going to be a silent one? Well that's what I thought but in a room where a pin drop would have sounded like an avalanche, my otherwise tiny, high-pitched "pweeeeesssst" rang out across the room like a bottle rocket. Again, this is a philosophy final and so the room didn't explode with laughter. That would have been a relief, instead the room stayed silent but the tension in the air was volatile. One little chuckle or snort and everyone would have been rolling. Everyone wanted to laugh, you could taste it in the air, but everyone held it in.
Anticlimactic, I know and so I share another...
I can't remember what I was doing that night, maybe I was driving home from a gig with my band. Anyway, it's late and I'm driving home and it's one of those drives where you're right on the edge of falling asleep and the only thing keeping you awake are those plastic bumps dividing the lanes that you keep drifting into. But I'm almost home so I keep going. I don't know how, but I finally make it home. I pull into the garage, turn off the engine, turn off the lights, put my head back into the headrest and succumb.
I don't know how long I was out but I wake up with a jolt! I still have my hands on the steering wheel and I'm thinking that I'm still on the road driving (because I'd caught myself dozing a dozen times that night). So my first instinct is to slam on the brakes. I'm mashing the brake pedal to the floor but I'm confused because it doesn't feel like I'm slowing down. And then I notice that it's pitch black out my window and I start thinking that I've driven over a cliff and I'm free-falling into space. I'm out of my mind, thinking I'm going to die when I realize that my car lights are off. I flip them on and I swear I see the back of my garage rushing up to meet the front of my car - see, in my head, I'm still thinking that I'm speeding down the road out of control or flying through the air off a cliff and so when I see the back of my garage, I'm thinking that I'm traveling at some ungodly speed and I'm about to crash through the back wall. And so I start slamming on the brakes again and I'm putting my arms up in front of my face to shield myself from the inevitable chaos of glass and sheet metal. . .
And then I figure it out. I remember making it home and falling asleep in the car seat. I turn the lights back off, get out and go to bed but now I'm so wired, I can't sleep and I'm too tired to laugh at myself, until the next day when I tell my friends what happened. From then on, it's been one of the funniest things that ever happened to me.
Monday, December 26, 2005
135. love, beautiful and true
Being single as long as I have, it's hard to not feel a little bit envious, a little bit jealous, a little bit sorry for myself when I see a good friend hook up with someone who's just right for them. But earlier this year, my good friend Rocky fell in love with Alice, but because they were in the mainland, I didn't get that tinge of jealousy mentioned above.
But this Christmas they came back to Hawaii and I'm not sure how to explain it except to say that they just looked so happy, so purely, blissfully, truly in love that I couldn't help but be stoked for them both. (I don't know if you remember this Alice, but) I used to see Alice at the Starbucks near my workplace and she always seemed to be brooding, like there was a cloud over her head and it was always raining. But now, with Rocky, she seems free and buoyant. And Rocky has pretty much always been a positive guy and so the difference isn't as obvious, but it manifests in his song-writing. Even his guitar playing, which has always been drop-dead amazing, is imbued with new energy and fire and the sickest solos this side of John Scofield or Stevie Ray Hendrix.
I'm so glad for them both.
Oh, and not to turn this blog back to me, but you can actually find a little story thing I wrote for Rocky while he was still in Hawaii and Alice was in California. I wrote it the last night he played at Kapono's before moving up to Cali and you can find it here at my LoneTomato Sauce blog.
It was great seeing them while they were here. They fly back this week and I wish them traveling mercies and God speed.
But this Christmas they came back to Hawaii and I'm not sure how to explain it except to say that they just looked so happy, so purely, blissfully, truly in love that I couldn't help but be stoked for them both. (I don't know if you remember this Alice, but) I used to see Alice at the Starbucks near my workplace and she always seemed to be brooding, like there was a cloud over her head and it was always raining. But now, with Rocky, she seems free and buoyant. And Rocky has pretty much always been a positive guy and so the difference isn't as obvious, but it manifests in his song-writing. Even his guitar playing, which has always been drop-dead amazing, is imbued with new energy and fire and the sickest solos this side of John Scofield or Stevie Ray Hendrix.
I'm so glad for them both.
Oh, and not to turn this blog back to me, but you can actually find a little story thing I wrote for Rocky while he was still in Hawaii and Alice was in California. I wrote it the last night he played at Kapono's before moving up to Cali and you can find it here at my LoneTomato Sauce blog.
It was great seeing them while they were here. They fly back this week and I wish them traveling mercies and God speed.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
134. by popular demand...
...actually, no one even asked for it, but in a shameless act of self-promotion I am announcing that I've created a space for my little short story things and my futile attempts at poetry.
It's called the LoneTomato Sauce.
In addition, the bits and pieces I wrote for National Novel Writing Month can be found at http://anonycity.blogspot.com/.
I'm going to try to find out more about publishing options starting in 2006 (one of my resolutions...more to come) so read them for free while you can!
And tell your friends.
It's called the LoneTomato Sauce.
In addition, the bits and pieces I wrote for National Novel Writing Month can be found at http://anonycity.blogspot.com/.
I'm going to try to find out more about publishing options starting in 2006 (one of my resolutions...more to come) so read them for free while you can!
And tell your friends.
Saturday, December 24, 2005
133. breakfast in the new year
The end of the year is always a strange time for me. There's an odd feeling of unease that's diffuse, vague, and as imprecise as it is incessant. I know part of it has to do with the reasons I hate the Christmas season (see blog 125), but there's something more, something hovering over those other, more definable reasons. Maybe it's because their sum is greater than their parts, but I don't think that's it.
Actually, I just had a thought. Christmas is a time of sharing. Now I consider myself a pretty generous person year 'round, so you'd think this would be a tremendous time for me, but I think the thing that troubles me about this time of year is the fact that giving is obligatory rather than spontaneous, extemporaneous, unexpected. Maybe this makes me some kind of purist when it comes to generosity, but the idea of giving someone a gift because it's expected of you is distasteful to me. And the fact that it saturates the air this time of year makes it that much more uncomfortable.
Anyway, I'm writing on the eve of Christmas and I just thought I'd share some annual rituals that I have this time of year. Tonight I'll attend the candle light service at Central Union Church. I'm not sure how many years I've been attending this service - for the last two or three I know, and a few other times before that. It's a beautiful service in a beautiful church full of beautiful people. It's about as formal as church services get in Hawaii, you even see a few suits in the congregation. Unlike most guys I know, I like dressing up. Now I don't wear a suit (I don't own one...not one that fits anyway), but I wear something nice (don me now my gay aparel) and I tuck my shirt into my slacks (shirt in slacks equals formal, shirt outside equals informal). It feels like a date even though I'm going by myself. The church is close to my house and so I walk there and back (weather permitting) and the walk is a nice way to be alone even though there lurks the unmentioned danger of drunk drivers in the subtext.
And then there's Christmas morning. There's really no ritual or tradition for me here except that of opening presents. I don't know what your Christmases are like, but it seems like every year I'm getting fewer and fewer wrapped presents. I mean I still get presents, but only a few of them are wrapped. Anyway, what wrapped presents I have, I save until Christmas morning and I open them upon waking. I know as an adult that there's no point in waiting until Christmas morning but it's something I'm pretty anal about. It's not something I impose on people I give presents to, if they want to open their present as soon as I give it to them, that's their evil right.
Then there are the New Years things. First of all is New Year's Eve at my very good friend, Luke's house, deep in Kalihi Valley. So deep in fact, that back when illegal ariel fireworks were easy to come by, family and friends would amass a formidable arsenal of shells and spinning, sparkly, airborne things that are the bane of Hawaii firefighters. There's only one road into and out of the street were Luke's house lies, and the cops never make it back that far. I remember one year, we had so many strings of firecrackers that after a while, the only ones we bothered to string up were the 100,000s. We had so many 10,000s and 50,000s, that we left them coiled up and lit them just like that. They unleashed the most glorious, wall of noise and light I've ever experienced - a riot of red firecracker paper and spent gunpowder smoke. Shit-eating grins all around. The neighbors thought us mad. Those were good times.
One last year end ritual. I started doing it the year after I graduated from high school so this will be the sixteenth year in a row that I've done it. After champagne and good luck mochi soup at Luke's, I drive out to Sandy Beach, park my car, set my alarm and then try to catch some sleep. I get up around 6:30 AM either by alarm clock or aching back. If it's not raining, I pick out some spot in the sand, think about the year that's past and about the one to come, and I wait for the sun to come up. Sometimes I take a random selection of old journals with me and review thoughts from years past, sometimes I take my guitar, sometimes I write. Most times I'm too tired to give a shit and I wonder why the hell I started doing it, but it's something I do and I'm too stubborn about it to stop.
I remember when I started doing this, I'd be pretty much by myself. Every year though, more and more people would be out there when I woke up. Some of them look like they're a part of some church group - they're all dressed in white and they hold hands, gather in a circle, and slit the throat of a goat before throwing it in the ocean (I'm kidding of course...they don't hold hands). And then there are the Asians who do those funny stretching exercises that they teach in Japan and China and, I suspect, elsewhere in the Far East. And then there are the jerks who come to fire off the last of their whistling bottle rockets with report. Assholes. Don't they see there are other people here trying to have a moment?
And then there's me, glad Christmas is over, wondering about what the coming year will bring, reveling in the possibilities, brushing the sand off my ass.
Oh, and one more thing. Most of the restaurants are closed, but I can always count on Jack In The Box to be open. That first meal of the year is always a tasty one indeed.
Actually, I just had a thought. Christmas is a time of sharing. Now I consider myself a pretty generous person year 'round, so you'd think this would be a tremendous time for me, but I think the thing that troubles me about this time of year is the fact that giving is obligatory rather than spontaneous, extemporaneous, unexpected. Maybe this makes me some kind of purist when it comes to generosity, but the idea of giving someone a gift because it's expected of you is distasteful to me. And the fact that it saturates the air this time of year makes it that much more uncomfortable.
Anyway, I'm writing on the eve of Christmas and I just thought I'd share some annual rituals that I have this time of year. Tonight I'll attend the candle light service at Central Union Church. I'm not sure how many years I've been attending this service - for the last two or three I know, and a few other times before that. It's a beautiful service in a beautiful church full of beautiful people. It's about as formal as church services get in Hawaii, you even see a few suits in the congregation. Unlike most guys I know, I like dressing up. Now I don't wear a suit (I don't own one...not one that fits anyway), but I wear something nice (don me now my gay aparel) and I tuck my shirt into my slacks (shirt in slacks equals formal, shirt outside equals informal). It feels like a date even though I'm going by myself. The church is close to my house and so I walk there and back (weather permitting) and the walk is a nice way to be alone even though there lurks the unmentioned danger of drunk drivers in the subtext.
And then there's Christmas morning. There's really no ritual or tradition for me here except that of opening presents. I don't know what your Christmases are like, but it seems like every year I'm getting fewer and fewer wrapped presents. I mean I still get presents, but only a few of them are wrapped. Anyway, what wrapped presents I have, I save until Christmas morning and I open them upon waking. I know as an adult that there's no point in waiting until Christmas morning but it's something I'm pretty anal about. It's not something I impose on people I give presents to, if they want to open their present as soon as I give it to them, that's their evil right.
Then there are the New Years things. First of all is New Year's Eve at my very good friend, Luke's house, deep in Kalihi Valley. So deep in fact, that back when illegal ariel fireworks were easy to come by, family and friends would amass a formidable arsenal of shells and spinning, sparkly, airborne things that are the bane of Hawaii firefighters. There's only one road into and out of the street were Luke's house lies, and the cops never make it back that far. I remember one year, we had so many strings of firecrackers that after a while, the only ones we bothered to string up were the 100,000s. We had so many 10,000s and 50,000s, that we left them coiled up and lit them just like that. They unleashed the most glorious, wall of noise and light I've ever experienced - a riot of red firecracker paper and spent gunpowder smoke. Shit-eating grins all around. The neighbors thought us mad. Those were good times.
One last year end ritual. I started doing it the year after I graduated from high school so this will be the sixteenth year in a row that I've done it. After champagne and good luck mochi soup at Luke's, I drive out to Sandy Beach, park my car, set my alarm and then try to catch some sleep. I get up around 6:30 AM either by alarm clock or aching back. If it's not raining, I pick out some spot in the sand, think about the year that's past and about the one to come, and I wait for the sun to come up. Sometimes I take a random selection of old journals with me and review thoughts from years past, sometimes I take my guitar, sometimes I write. Most times I'm too tired to give a shit and I wonder why the hell I started doing it, but it's something I do and I'm too stubborn about it to stop.
I remember when I started doing this, I'd be pretty much by myself. Every year though, more and more people would be out there when I woke up. Some of them look like they're a part of some church group - they're all dressed in white and they hold hands, gather in a circle, and slit the throat of a goat before throwing it in the ocean (I'm kidding of course...they don't hold hands). And then there are the Asians who do those funny stretching exercises that they teach in Japan and China and, I suspect, elsewhere in the Far East. And then there are the jerks who come to fire off the last of their whistling bottle rockets with report. Assholes. Don't they see there are other people here trying to have a moment?
And then there's me, glad Christmas is over, wondering about what the coming year will bring, reveling in the possibilities, brushing the sand off my ass.
Oh, and one more thing. Most of the restaurants are closed, but I can always count on Jack In The Box to be open. That first meal of the year is always a tasty one indeed.
Tuesday, December 20, 2005
132. less than a week until Christmas...
...until Christmas is over. And not a moment too soon.
I'm in a really pissy mood, not just because of Christmas but also because of that stupid game called Chess. Truth be told, the game isn't stupid, it's stupid players like me who end up pushing all the wrong pieces at the wrong time and end up getting wiped off the board in a manner not unlike watching a pit bull trouncing a chihuahua. It's embarrassing and frustrating and the worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself.
This happens all the time. I decide to take up chess again (hey, it beats channel surfing, couch potato) and it starts out so innocently. One game every other night - sometimes I win, most times I lose. And then I start getting better again (once I've dusted the cobwebs off) and I start winning a bit more than I lose. And then obsession takes over. I'm playing three, four, five games every night. And I get a bit better still. And then I'm playing right after I get home from work and then after dinner and then again before bed.
And then something strange happens. I don't know if it's because of over-confidence or neurosis, or the fact that I'm so wrapped up in the game that I'm not just playing for fun anymore - I've got my self-esteem tied into it. Whatever it is, I start playing like shit. It's like every piece I move ends up evaporating off of the board. And it kills me because I know I can play better than that. And so I play some more and it's like the more I play, the worse I get. It's like I can hear the pieces groan when I move them - I can see them calling their insurance agents, on their little wooden cell phones, making sure their policy is paid up so their spouse will have something to live on after I've cast them onto some vulnerable square, sealing their doom.
I don't know how many games I've played tonight but I lost just about every one of them. A couple of those losses were to players who were obviously better than me but for most of those games, I should have at least been able to put up a good fight. And the few games I did win were to players who were new to the game. Savoring a victory like that is like feeling superior to the roach you just smashed under your slipper. At one point my rating actually got down BELOW 1100. That's like Koko the gorilla level chess. That's like third grade reading level chess. That's like a Geo Metro entering NASCAR.
This has happened to me before. Chess has sunk its teeth into these dendrites and neurons in the past, twisting them into sickly, obsessive knots. This has happened to me before and I know what I must do to repair. I've got to put the stupid game down and let it rest. Even though the skills I've sharpened will go rusty and dull again, I have to stop playing for a while - just walk away and remember, once again, that most really good chess players are neurotic, annoying, and tell bad jokes. They have bad manners, bad complexion, and bad breath because they have bad gums because they'd rather study variations on variations of obscure openings than brush their teeth. I don't want to end up like them. Besides, I bet they don't play drums in a really kick-ass rock band like I do, so there!
Okay, I feel better already.
Great. Now back to building my self-esteem through my blog count.
I'm in a really pissy mood, not just because of Christmas but also because of that stupid game called Chess. Truth be told, the game isn't stupid, it's stupid players like me who end up pushing all the wrong pieces at the wrong time and end up getting wiped off the board in a manner not unlike watching a pit bull trouncing a chihuahua. It's embarrassing and frustrating and the worst part is, I have no one to blame but myself.
This happens all the time. I decide to take up chess again (hey, it beats channel surfing, couch potato) and it starts out so innocently. One game every other night - sometimes I win, most times I lose. And then I start getting better again (once I've dusted the cobwebs off) and I start winning a bit more than I lose. And then obsession takes over. I'm playing three, four, five games every night. And I get a bit better still. And then I'm playing right after I get home from work and then after dinner and then again before bed.
And then something strange happens. I don't know if it's because of over-confidence or neurosis, or the fact that I'm so wrapped up in the game that I'm not just playing for fun anymore - I've got my self-esteem tied into it. Whatever it is, I start playing like shit. It's like every piece I move ends up evaporating off of the board. And it kills me because I know I can play better than that. And so I play some more and it's like the more I play, the worse I get. It's like I can hear the pieces groan when I move them - I can see them calling their insurance agents, on their little wooden cell phones, making sure their policy is paid up so their spouse will have something to live on after I've cast them onto some vulnerable square, sealing their doom.
I don't know how many games I've played tonight but I lost just about every one of them. A couple of those losses were to players who were obviously better than me but for most of those games, I should have at least been able to put up a good fight. And the few games I did win were to players who were new to the game. Savoring a victory like that is like feeling superior to the roach you just smashed under your slipper. At one point my rating actually got down BELOW 1100. That's like Koko the gorilla level chess. That's like third grade reading level chess. That's like a Geo Metro entering NASCAR.
This has happened to me before. Chess has sunk its teeth into these dendrites and neurons in the past, twisting them into sickly, obsessive knots. This has happened to me before and I know what I must do to repair. I've got to put the stupid game down and let it rest. Even though the skills I've sharpened will go rusty and dull again, I have to stop playing for a while - just walk away and remember, once again, that most really good chess players are neurotic, annoying, and tell bad jokes. They have bad manners, bad complexion, and bad breath because they have bad gums because they'd rather study variations on variations of obscure openings than brush their teeth. I don't want to end up like them. Besides, I bet they don't play drums in a really kick-ass rock band like I do, so there!
Okay, I feel better already.
Great. Now back to building my self-esteem through my blog count.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
131. old fart
The Crue concert was...underwhelming. The mix was awful, of course part of that is the Blaisdell Arena - I've never heard a band sound good in there, even Toto (back when Jeff Porcaro was still alive) - but I don't think the room was the only problem. The bass was muddy beyond belief, the toms on the drum kit all sounded alike, couldn't hear the cymbals, couldn't hear any of the bass lines, sounded like he was just playing one note all night. The vocals were usually buried in the mix. Only thing that really sounded great was the guitar.
Now the fact that I can remember this much about the mix should say something about the performance aspect of the show. The Crue used be known for the most in-your-face, cram-it-down-their-throat, take-no-prisoners shows of the 80's. Although they swore a lot and tried to get the audience worked up, their stage presence left much to be desired. I give a pass to Mick Mars who's performing with a painful bone-fusing disease but even the healthy guys in the band looked like they were reading off a script rather than rocking off the cuff.
Sadly, even Tommy Lee was not what he used to be. I mean, he was still the most entertaining of the four, but his stick twirling wasn't nearly as crisp and a lot of his athletic drumming style was hidden behind a monster kick drum.
Now here's the thing that's got me worried. I think I'm going to have a better time at the Beethoven concert later this month than I did at the Crue show. Crap! Doesn't that basically make me certifiably old? And it's not just these concerts - I got a 30% off coupon from Borders and my first thought was, "ooh, I'm going to pick up Stravinsky's Firebird Suite!" And while I was there I also bought a copy of Handel's Messiah. What's happening to me?
Maybe being single this long, I've become the male equivalent of those old maids with a house full of cats. I believe term for women like that is spinster. Is there term like that for males?
Of course I'm being facetious. I know I'm not (that) old. Besides, age is a social construct. Still, I'm going to be 34 in two months which is one year away from 35. I didn't care about turning 25 or even turning 30, but for some reason the thought of being 35 freaks me out. Age may be a social construct, but I happen to live in that society and so am subject to its perceptions.
That's okay, I'm a rock-n-roll drummer which comes with a license for perpetual adolescence.
Now the fact that I can remember this much about the mix should say something about the performance aspect of the show. The Crue used be known for the most in-your-face, cram-it-down-their-throat, take-no-prisoners shows of the 80's. Although they swore a lot and tried to get the audience worked up, their stage presence left much to be desired. I give a pass to Mick Mars who's performing with a painful bone-fusing disease but even the healthy guys in the band looked like they were reading off a script rather than rocking off the cuff.
Sadly, even Tommy Lee was not what he used to be. I mean, he was still the most entertaining of the four, but his stick twirling wasn't nearly as crisp and a lot of his athletic drumming style was hidden behind a monster kick drum.
Now here's the thing that's got me worried. I think I'm going to have a better time at the Beethoven concert later this month than I did at the Crue show. Crap! Doesn't that basically make me certifiably old? And it's not just these concerts - I got a 30% off coupon from Borders and my first thought was, "ooh, I'm going to pick up Stravinsky's Firebird Suite!" And while I was there I also bought a copy of Handel's Messiah. What's happening to me?
Maybe being single this long, I've become the male equivalent of those old maids with a house full of cats. I believe term for women like that is spinster. Is there term like that for males?
Of course I'm being facetious. I know I'm not (that) old. Besides, age is a social construct. Still, I'm going to be 34 in two months which is one year away from 35. I didn't care about turning 25 or even turning 30, but for some reason the thought of being 35 freaks me out. Age may be a social construct, but I happen to live in that society and so am subject to its perceptions.
That's okay, I'm a rock-n-roll drummer which comes with a license for perpetual adolescence.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
130. going to see the Crue!!...and Beethoven
Motley Crue was my first big concert back in 1990. I remember the year because the concert was on the same day as my last day in high school. It was an amazing show then and I'm thinking it'll be just as mind-blowing (if not moreso) tonight.
Tommy Lee is one of my favorite drummers. His kick drum sound is obscene and nobody twirls sticks like he does (although I try). I've got seats up in the loges (front row, upper level) so the view should be amazing...I can't wait to relive a bit of the '80s.
Later this month (12/29 to be exact) I'll be listening to Beethoven's 9th Symphony. I got amazing seats for this show as well - four rows back, near the middle. I guess this means I'll be staring at the conductor's ass the whole night, but I'll also be able to soak up the sound of the orchestra up close and personal. Remember that Memorex commercial where the guy is sitting on his couch and the music is blowing his hair back? That's going to be me.
You know, I just thought of something. Beethoven's 9th ends with a couple solo singers blowing their lungs out. I hope I don't get hit with their spray.
Tommy Lee is one of my favorite drummers. His kick drum sound is obscene and nobody twirls sticks like he does (although I try). I've got seats up in the loges (front row, upper level) so the view should be amazing...I can't wait to relive a bit of the '80s.
Later this month (12/29 to be exact) I'll be listening to Beethoven's 9th Symphony. I got amazing seats for this show as well - four rows back, near the middle. I guess this means I'll be staring at the conductor's ass the whole night, but I'll also be able to soak up the sound of the orchestra up close and personal. Remember that Memorex commercial where the guy is sitting on his couch and the music is blowing his hair back? That's going to be me.
You know, I just thought of something. Beethoven's 9th ends with a couple solo singers blowing their lungs out. I hope I don't get hit with their spray.
Monday, December 12, 2005
129. the hard work of happiness
It takes vigilance, discipline. It takes speed - squashing negative thoughts as they appear. Sometimes it takes ingenuity - finding a way to think of something else, something other than what's frustrating or humiliating or just plain depressing.
It takes prayer and for me (for whom prayer never came easy), prayer takes the form of stubbornly repeating the phrase, "Lord, I need you, please help me." The way I do it, it's the equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ear and yelling, "la la la la la," the way you do when you don't want to pay attention to someone. I don't know if what I do even counts as prayer, but sometimes it's all I can do to keep the hounds at bay.
It takes a good book. I'm in the middle of two right now: Tooth and Claw: and Other Stories by T.C. Boyle and The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell.
It takes good music. I'm on a classical music binge. Frequently played works on my iPod: Dvorak: Symphony no. 9 "From the New World" and the stunningly, amazingly beautiful Beethoven's 9th Symphony.
It takes a good game of chess, although I'm not doing very well. I'm back down to 1181 (blah).
They don't tell you happiness is hard work, but it is, but I'm working at it. I wouldn't say I'm exactly happy, but it's something better than where I was earlier in the week, and I suppose that's a start. Hanging on to this positive start is like trying to climb a greased pole - it takes tenacity, and grip, and hope. It's like salmon swimming upstream, soldiers trying to storm the beach at Normandy, butterflies building a storm by flapping their wings. It seems impossible but it's been done.
God give me strength.
It takes prayer and for me (for whom prayer never came easy), prayer takes the form of stubbornly repeating the phrase, "Lord, I need you, please help me." The way I do it, it's the equivalent of sticking my fingers in my ear and yelling, "la la la la la," the way you do when you don't want to pay attention to someone. I don't know if what I do even counts as prayer, but sometimes it's all I can do to keep the hounds at bay.
It takes a good book. I'm in the middle of two right now: Tooth and Claw: and Other Stories by T.C. Boyle and The Hero With A Thousand Faces by Joseph Campbell.
It takes good music. I'm on a classical music binge. Frequently played works on my iPod: Dvorak: Symphony no. 9 "From the New World" and the stunningly, amazingly beautiful Beethoven's 9th Symphony.
It takes a good game of chess, although I'm not doing very well. I'm back down to 1181 (blah).
They don't tell you happiness is hard work, but it is, but I'm working at it. I wouldn't say I'm exactly happy, but it's something better than where I was earlier in the week, and I suppose that's a start. Hanging on to this positive start is like trying to climb a greased pole - it takes tenacity, and grip, and hope. It's like salmon swimming upstream, soldiers trying to storm the beach at Normandy, butterflies building a storm by flapping their wings. It seems impossible but it's been done.
God give me strength.
Sunday, December 11, 2005
128. random thought
We are, all of us, writers of history - we write for our children.
Will they wonder at what fools we were or will they marvel at our bravery and ingenuity?
Will they wonder at what fools we were or will they marvel at our bravery and ingenuity?
127. personal reminders
I don't have mood swings. A swing implies a transition from one state to another. Remember that game Asteroids? You fly this little spaceship (actually a triangle) around the screen trying to blast polygons. If you fly past one edge of the screen, you reappear on the opposite side. Well if good mood is the left side of the screen and bad mood is the right side, then my spaceship stays near the edges and warps between the two.
Anyway, I'm getting really tired of it...and that's kind of pissing me off, which kind of contradicts what I want to write about...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
There's this book by Dennis Prager called, Happiness Is A Serious Problem. I read about half of it before it got stolen along with the rest of my backpack (along with my treasured Etymotic Research ER4P earphones...pricey bastards, but the sound is oh so choice). Anyway, one of Prager's arguments in the book is, "Not only do we have the right to be happy, we have an obligation to be happy. Our happiness has an effect on the lives of everyone around us—it provides them with a positive enviroment in which to thrive and to be happy themselves." And I've been thinking about this last bit lately.
I used to do my best to smile and act okay even when I wasn't okay. Even around my closest friends, I'd only let them know I was in a shitty mood if I went to them for help. I mean if they just came out and asked me, I'd usually say I was okay (fyi...in Randall's dictionary, "okay" or "all right," usually means "shitty." If I'm doing well, I say, "I'm good" or "I'm fine." If I say, "I'm doing great," that usually means I have a date scheduled or I just won a kick ass game of chess). However, lately I've been just wearing my emotions on my sleeve. I didn't make an effort to smile if I didn't feel like it. I didn't make witty jokes or try to disguise my bad mood with pleasant small talk. I wore my long face where everyone could see.
It wasn't a conscious decision, I was just tired of politely pretending. I didn't do it to elicit a response or to see what would happen, but the effect that had on my friends was striking. Just as Prager states in his quote about his book, "our [mood] has an effect on the lives of everyone around us. . ." And I don't know if it was just my imagination, but it seemed like my bad vibes were having an effect on those around me. It seemed to make those around me uneasy, queasy, awkward. This, of course, made me feel even worse for passing my melancholy around like the flu.
Anyway, I have to say that I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. I mean, it's such bullshit. What the hell do I have the right to complain about? What an ungrateful bastard I am. Me being moody and depressed all the time makes about as much sense as a billionaire on welfare. It's an insult to those who love and care for me and it's spitting in the face of God who's gifted me with talent and knowledge and good looks and a healthy serving of humility. That and an astonishingly large penis (I wish...well no, actually I don't. Something like that would be such a pain in the ass (no pun intended) to keep stuffing in your underwear).
Back in June I had some breakthroughs and I need to go back and review what I had learned (see blog 34 and 36). There were two key things that I realized back then:
1. God really is a good and loving God.
See, up until then, I had this mistaken notion that God was plotting against me - that he was constantly setting me up for failure like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown after promising to hold it steady. But that's not the God that's described in the Bible and unless I'm willing to say that the Bible is wrong on this point, I had better discard this old, incorrect view of God.
Now let me qualify this just a bit, so people don't misunderstand (like I did). God is God and can do whatever he wants. He is a good and loving God, but he's not a sugar-daddy. Just as a real father would be cruel and inept if he blindly gave his children everything they wanted - feeding them candy breakfast, lunch, and dinner - so would our Heavenly Father be if he answered every prayer and showered us with blessings only. "May you get what you wish for," goes the old Chinese Curse.
2. Every day is a new day, the past has passed.
I used to think I was cursed. I thought that I was genetically predisposed to turning women off. Back in blog 36 I phrased it this way: ". . .perhaps through some genetic defect, instead of releasing come-hither pheromones when attracted to a female, my body released a subtle, toxic go-yonder scent that made it impossible to hold the attention of anyone I was remotely attracted to."
But then I came to understand that there is no curse, that every day is a new day with new possibilities.
I need to go back and review. The days, weeks, months after I wrote those blogs were some of the best times I've had in a very long time. And then I lost it, I forgot, I got wrapped up in (with?) my own shit and lost sight of what I had learned.
I'll close with this quote from the great, John Milton (I have a BA in English Literature and if you don't refer to Milton as "the great," they ask for your degree back). The quote goes like this:
"The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven."
I need to get back to the business of making "heaven of Hell." And my life ain't nowhere near hell so it shouldn't be that hard.
Anyway, I'm getting really tired of it...and that's kind of pissing me off, which kind of contradicts what I want to write about...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
There's this book by Dennis Prager called, Happiness Is A Serious Problem. I read about half of it before it got stolen along with the rest of my backpack (along with my treasured Etymotic Research ER4P earphones...pricey bastards, but the sound is oh so choice). Anyway, one of Prager's arguments in the book is, "Not only do we have the right to be happy, we have an obligation to be happy. Our happiness has an effect on the lives of everyone around us—it provides them with a positive enviroment in which to thrive and to be happy themselves." And I've been thinking about this last bit lately.
I used to do my best to smile and act okay even when I wasn't okay. Even around my closest friends, I'd only let them know I was in a shitty mood if I went to them for help. I mean if they just came out and asked me, I'd usually say I was okay (fyi...in Randall's dictionary, "okay" or "all right," usually means "shitty." If I'm doing well, I say, "I'm good" or "I'm fine." If I say, "I'm doing great," that usually means I have a date scheduled or I just won a kick ass game of chess). However, lately I've been just wearing my emotions on my sleeve. I didn't make an effort to smile if I didn't feel like it. I didn't make witty jokes or try to disguise my bad mood with pleasant small talk. I wore my long face where everyone could see.
It wasn't a conscious decision, I was just tired of politely pretending. I didn't do it to elicit a response or to see what would happen, but the effect that had on my friends was striking. Just as Prager states in his quote about his book, "our [mood] has an effect on the lives of everyone around us. . ." And I don't know if it was just my imagination, but it seemed like my bad vibes were having an effect on those around me. It seemed to make those around me uneasy, queasy, awkward. This, of course, made me feel even worse for passing my melancholy around like the flu.
Anyway, I have to say that I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired. I mean, it's such bullshit. What the hell do I have the right to complain about? What an ungrateful bastard I am. Me being moody and depressed all the time makes about as much sense as a billionaire on welfare. It's an insult to those who love and care for me and it's spitting in the face of God who's gifted me with talent and knowledge and good looks and a healthy serving of humility. That and an astonishingly large penis (I wish...well no, actually I don't. Something like that would be such a pain in the ass (no pun intended) to keep stuffing in your underwear).
Back in June I had some breakthroughs and I need to go back and review what I had learned (see blog 34 and 36). There were two key things that I realized back then:
1. God really is a good and loving God.
See, up until then, I had this mistaken notion that God was plotting against me - that he was constantly setting me up for failure like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown after promising to hold it steady. But that's not the God that's described in the Bible and unless I'm willing to say that the Bible is wrong on this point, I had better discard this old, incorrect view of God.
Now let me qualify this just a bit, so people don't misunderstand (like I did). God is God and can do whatever he wants. He is a good and loving God, but he's not a sugar-daddy. Just as a real father would be cruel and inept if he blindly gave his children everything they wanted - feeding them candy breakfast, lunch, and dinner - so would our Heavenly Father be if he answered every prayer and showered us with blessings only. "May you get what you wish for," goes the old Chinese Curse.
2. Every day is a new day, the past has passed.
I used to think I was cursed. I thought that I was genetically predisposed to turning women off. Back in blog 36 I phrased it this way: ". . .perhaps through some genetic defect, instead of releasing come-hither pheromones when attracted to a female, my body released a subtle, toxic go-yonder scent that made it impossible to hold the attention of anyone I was remotely attracted to."
But then I came to understand that there is no curse, that every day is a new day with new possibilities.
I need to go back and review. The days, weeks, months after I wrote those blogs were some of the best times I've had in a very long time. And then I lost it, I forgot, I got wrapped up in (with?) my own shit and lost sight of what I had learned.
I'll close with this quote from the great, John Milton (I have a BA in English Literature and if you don't refer to Milton as "the great," they ask for your degree back). The quote goes like this:
"The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make heaven of Hell, and a hell of Heaven."
I need to get back to the business of making "heaven of Hell." And my life ain't nowhere near hell so it shouldn't be that hard.
Friday, December 09, 2005
126. can't catch 22
Just to prepare you, I've got a lot on my mind so this blog may take some abrupt turns. Please observe the "fasten seat-belt" sign.
So I don't know if you've seen it but A&E TV has been playing the made-for-TV-movie, "Knights Of the South Bronx" over and over this week. I like chess (even though I suck at it...current Yahoo Chess rating: 1254) and so I watched it one time through even though it wears it's melodramatic heart proudly on its sleeve.
Anyway, it's not really about chess (for really great chess movies I recommend "Searching For Bobby Fischer" and the harder to find, "The Luzhin Defense" starring the lovely Emily Watson and a very young John Turturro). It's about a teacher trying to do a good deed which turns into a big deal and costs him more than he bargained for although everything works out in the end (made-for-TV, remember?)
So I'm watching this movie and I can't believe it, I'm bawling like a little baby. But not at the end, because who didn't see that coming? It's at some of the bits in the middle like when a mother decides to turn her crack habit around after her daughter wins a small chess tournament trophy. Or when the wife of the chess teacher agrees to letting her husband keep teaching at this school even if it means a huge pay cut and lifestyle adjustment - she comes to this decision after seeing how his work is reaching this one kid who keeps getting beat up by thugs. Or when a wealthy philanthropist (is there another kind?) donates the funds needed to send the chess team to the Nationals.
That kind of selfless love kills me - I mean it crumples me into a little ball like so much soiled hamster-cage newspaper (and wasn't that a lovely image?) - because it amazes me that that kind of love exists. And a part of me wonders just how much truth there was in those plot elements because in this selfish, cynical world, that kind of selfless, generous love seems about as believable as Julia Roberts marrying Lyle Lovett...and staying married. It just doesn't compute.
Now, there are lots of stories about generosity, but I think the thing that tweaks me so hard about this movie is how the chess teacher, David MacEnulty, wanted to do this good thing and it actually made a difference. So often, good intentions just pave the road to hell. They go unnoticed and they don't seem to make a dent - they seem futile and naive instead. Not to equate my meager life with what MacEnulty did, but I've seen far too much of my generosity evaporate into thin air. Poof, gone.
See, here's the thing. Nice guys get shat upon. It's happened to me and I've seen it happen to friends of mine whom I would categorize as nice guys. And here's the screwed up bit about that. Being nice, good, honorable, kind - it requires a vulnerability. You stick your neck out then get stabbed in the back. That happens a couple times and you start thickening up your skin, you start being less vulnerable, you stop giving even though you want to because they really do take a mile when you hand out an inch. And what began as kindness ends up as fear and distrust and an unwillingness to risk.
There's a poem thing floating around the internet as spam. Part of it contains the line, "love like you've never been hurt before." Some people read that and think warm, fuzzy thoughts. I read that and I wince, I guard, I wonder what sick brand of masochism would suggest such a thing.
Recoiling from the possibility of love becomes a Pavlovian response. He rang his bell and his dogs drooled. I see the possibility of love and I recoil in fear. Maybe I do miss out on possibilities because of that, and maybe 22 just can't be caught - I don't ask her out because I'm afraid of being hurt which causes another kind of hurt which gets associated with pursuing love which means the next time I want to ask someone out I won't because I'm just as, if not more, afraid.
In the end, on some theoretical level, I know that God is in control and he knows me and my fear. I believe he's got a plan to work around the complications and whether that means a relationship falls into my lap or he takes me through the long process of working through this fear, God will pull me through. I say this is theory because as I've said before, God is God and can do whatever he wants. Maybe he just wants me to toughen up, bite the bullet, make that leap of faith. But I can't just yet, and besides, there's really nowhere to leap to right now.
I'll end with these lyrics by Karla Bonoff from her amazing song, "If He's Ever Near" (gender adjusted for my situation):
And love's so hard to find
I guess I'll just give up trying
But I hope I'll know her
I hope I'll know her
If she's ever near
So I don't know if you've seen it but A&E TV has been playing the made-for-TV-movie, "Knights Of the South Bronx" over and over this week. I like chess (even though I suck at it...current Yahoo Chess rating: 1254) and so I watched it one time through even though it wears it's melodramatic heart proudly on its sleeve.
Anyway, it's not really about chess (for really great chess movies I recommend "Searching For Bobby Fischer" and the harder to find, "The Luzhin Defense" starring the lovely Emily Watson and a very young John Turturro). It's about a teacher trying to do a good deed which turns into a big deal and costs him more than he bargained for although everything works out in the end (made-for-TV, remember?)
So I'm watching this movie and I can't believe it, I'm bawling like a little baby. But not at the end, because who didn't see that coming? It's at some of the bits in the middle like when a mother decides to turn her crack habit around after her daughter wins a small chess tournament trophy. Or when the wife of the chess teacher agrees to letting her husband keep teaching at this school even if it means a huge pay cut and lifestyle adjustment - she comes to this decision after seeing how his work is reaching this one kid who keeps getting beat up by thugs. Or when a wealthy philanthropist (is there another kind?) donates the funds needed to send the chess team to the Nationals.
That kind of selfless love kills me - I mean it crumples me into a little ball like so much soiled hamster-cage newspaper (and wasn't that a lovely image?) - because it amazes me that that kind of love exists. And a part of me wonders just how much truth there was in those plot elements because in this selfish, cynical world, that kind of selfless, generous love seems about as believable as Julia Roberts marrying Lyle Lovett...and staying married. It just doesn't compute.
Now, there are lots of stories about generosity, but I think the thing that tweaks me so hard about this movie is how the chess teacher, David MacEnulty, wanted to do this good thing and it actually made a difference. So often, good intentions just pave the road to hell. They go unnoticed and they don't seem to make a dent - they seem futile and naive instead. Not to equate my meager life with what MacEnulty did, but I've seen far too much of my generosity evaporate into thin air. Poof, gone.
See, here's the thing. Nice guys get shat upon. It's happened to me and I've seen it happen to friends of mine whom I would categorize as nice guys. And here's the screwed up bit about that. Being nice, good, honorable, kind - it requires a vulnerability. You stick your neck out then get stabbed in the back. That happens a couple times and you start thickening up your skin, you start being less vulnerable, you stop giving even though you want to because they really do take a mile when you hand out an inch. And what began as kindness ends up as fear and distrust and an unwillingness to risk.
There's a poem thing floating around the internet as spam. Part of it contains the line, "love like you've never been hurt before." Some people read that and think warm, fuzzy thoughts. I read that and I wince, I guard, I wonder what sick brand of masochism would suggest such a thing.
Recoiling from the possibility of love becomes a Pavlovian response. He rang his bell and his dogs drooled. I see the possibility of love and I recoil in fear. Maybe I do miss out on possibilities because of that, and maybe 22 just can't be caught - I don't ask her out because I'm afraid of being hurt which causes another kind of hurt which gets associated with pursuing love which means the next time I want to ask someone out I won't because I'm just as, if not more, afraid.
In the end, on some theoretical level, I know that God is in control and he knows me and my fear. I believe he's got a plan to work around the complications and whether that means a relationship falls into my lap or he takes me through the long process of working through this fear, God will pull me through. I say this is theory because as I've said before, God is God and can do whatever he wants. Maybe he just wants me to toughen up, bite the bullet, make that leap of faith. But I can't just yet, and besides, there's really nowhere to leap to right now.
I'll end with these lyrics by Karla Bonoff from her amazing song, "If He's Ever Near" (gender adjusted for my situation):
And love's so hard to find
I guess I'll just give up trying
But I hope I'll know her
I hope I'll know her
If she's ever near
Thursday, December 08, 2005
125. bah humbug, aka 10 reasons Randall hates Christmas
I won't mince words. I hate Christmas - the season, the holiday, not the event it celebrates.
I hate Christmas because...
10. normal, everyday shoppers turn into animal assholes.
9. traffic in a ten mile radius around any important shopping center becomes a nightmare.
8. mindlessly cheery, cheesy, annoying, repetitive, asinine Christmas songs.
7. this is the worst time of year to be single. Valentine's Day is one day of misery. Christmas time is at least a month of commercials with lovey-fucking-dovey couples giving one another diamonds and cars and chocolates. Makes me want to take up Buddhism and hide myself away in a monastery until January rolls around.
6. I'm a pretty generous person year-round but this time of year, for some reason I only want to buy stuff for myself...which is why I'm currently loading up my 30Gig Video iPod with songs.
5. the sun comes up later, which means it's darker when I wake up, which means it's harder to get up, which means I'll probably be grouchy the rest of the day.
4. the sun goes down earlier, which means it's easier for me to make excuses not to run, which means I'm not keeping my fitness up, which means I'm not losing weight, which means I won't be able to impress chicks, which means I'll be single for the rest of my life, which means I'll never be able to buy that special someone a diamond, which means no one will ever know me well enough to buy me something that only someone who truly knows and understands me would buy, which means I'll die old and alone and no one will remember me. Good thing I have my iPod to keep me company.
3. mediocre school bands and choirs at the mall playing mediocre arrangements on mediocre instruments.
2. Salvation Army bell ringers. I have nothing against charity. I have lots against the clang of bells designed to vibrate the fillings in your teeth. And it's not like putting money in the can makes the noise go away, it encourages them and they start beating that damn bell louder. And never mind that you already gave at some other store, that won't stop the next bell ringer from giving you that "cheap-ass, selfish bastard" look when you walk on by.
And the number one reason Randall hates Christmas...
1. All I've ever wanted for Christmas is someone special to share it with, and every year it's another reminder of how single I am.
I hate Christmas because...
10. normal, everyday shoppers turn into animal assholes.
9. traffic in a ten mile radius around any important shopping center becomes a nightmare.
8. mindlessly cheery, cheesy, annoying, repetitive, asinine Christmas songs.
7. this is the worst time of year to be single. Valentine's Day is one day of misery. Christmas time is at least a month of commercials with lovey-fucking-dovey couples giving one another diamonds and cars and chocolates. Makes me want to take up Buddhism and hide myself away in a monastery until January rolls around.
6. I'm a pretty generous person year-round but this time of year, for some reason I only want to buy stuff for myself...which is why I'm currently loading up my 30Gig Video iPod with songs.
5. the sun comes up later, which means it's darker when I wake up, which means it's harder to get up, which means I'll probably be grouchy the rest of the day.
4. the sun goes down earlier, which means it's easier for me to make excuses not to run, which means I'm not keeping my fitness up, which means I'm not losing weight, which means I won't be able to impress chicks, which means I'll be single for the rest of my life, which means I'll never be able to buy that special someone a diamond, which means no one will ever know me well enough to buy me something that only someone who truly knows and understands me would buy, which means I'll die old and alone and no one will remember me. Good thing I have my iPod to keep me company.
3. mediocre school bands and choirs at the mall playing mediocre arrangements on mediocre instruments.
2. Salvation Army bell ringers. I have nothing against charity. I have lots against the clang of bells designed to vibrate the fillings in your teeth. And it's not like putting money in the can makes the noise go away, it encourages them and they start beating that damn bell louder. And never mind that you already gave at some other store, that won't stop the next bell ringer from giving you that "cheap-ass, selfish bastard" look when you walk on by.
And the number one reason Randall hates Christmas...
1. All I've ever wanted for Christmas is someone special to share it with, and every year it's another reminder of how single I am.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
124. on empathy and faith
Empathy is stupid. It's a burden, a curse. It's a monkey on your back that just won't let up.
It's not an easy thing to feel this ache to help, to comfort, to heal but to not be able to. I suppose one can pray but so often, prayer seems to have so little reach. You speak it into the air and where does it go? What does it do? How is it supposed to work? And even after the, "amen," the ache is still there.
Better the selfish bliss of ignorance, to not know, to not comprehend, to not care. Better to wonder why they can't just get over it. Better to pity than to burn for resolution, to seek after some solution, whatever the cost.
To make another's pain one's own, to hear it echo in your own heart (a ping, tart and tang), to yearn for justice and redemption. What use are these when there's nothing you can do?
And a prayer seems like so small a thing, yet faith (the mustard size of it) can amplify, multiply its use. Faith, the evidence and substance of it, can be the only hope one can hold on to. And where do you place this faith? In the One who can turn water into wine, the One who declares that those who mourn will be comforted. In the One who wove the fabric of space and time in ten dimensions, confounding Mensa minds and atom smashers alike.
...but all that said, I still think empathy sucks.
It's not an easy thing to feel this ache to help, to comfort, to heal but to not be able to. I suppose one can pray but so often, prayer seems to have so little reach. You speak it into the air and where does it go? What does it do? How is it supposed to work? And even after the, "amen," the ache is still there.
Better the selfish bliss of ignorance, to not know, to not comprehend, to not care. Better to wonder why they can't just get over it. Better to pity than to burn for resolution, to seek after some solution, whatever the cost.
To make another's pain one's own, to hear it echo in your own heart (a ping, tart and tang), to yearn for justice and redemption. What use are these when there's nothing you can do?
And a prayer seems like so small a thing, yet faith (the mustard size of it) can amplify, multiply its use. Faith, the evidence and substance of it, can be the only hope one can hold on to. And where do you place this faith? In the One who can turn water into wine, the One who declares that those who mourn will be comforted. In the One who wove the fabric of space and time in ten dimensions, confounding Mensa minds and atom smashers alike.
...but all that said, I still think empathy sucks.
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