October 17, 2007

I wanna kick someone's face in.

Or I wannna read the minds of strangers until I find the one guy who wishes someone would hug him, right then, right there, because he's so lonely he could blow apart. Then I want to hug him.

Or get on my bike and ride. On and on and on, dehydrated, lost, until I collapse in a corn field, anywhere.

Or do everything I've ever wanted to accomplish, all at once, in some cathartic burst of energy, and never worry about ambition again.

Or turn off the part of my brain that anticipates negative consequences and fly blind.

Or line up every person who's never met me that I'm trying to impress, in my imagination, and scream at them "FUCK OFF." One after another. 

I want no more careful cautious and damage control. No more fucking invisible audience. I want to offend someone and get some real pleasure out of it.

I want to be stupid and selfish, the way that I actually am, but in the open, honest, a narcissim performed. No more implication. Outright assertion.

I do not want to acknowledge the thought and let it go. I do not want the middle way. I want every edge, all of them, all at once.

I want the end of want, the end of wish, the end of "it'd be nice," and "in a different world."

It all ends tomorrow. But tonight?

I want. 

Business has been perilously poor on some recent days. Money woes can't occupy space in my head 'cause they don't pay rent. Beside, someone else's doing plenty of worrying for me, so I don't have to. My significant other obsesses constantly about money and voices her concerns to all who'll listen. It's becoming really, really, really boring.

No matter how much I try to get her to think in terms of quarterly or monthly results, my suggestions fall on deaf ears. Slow days turn into nightmares of endurance for myself and the staff. Busy days are spent lamenting over yesterday's lack of patrons. I believe it's a self-help group which coined the phrase, "If you've got one foot in tomorrow and one foot in yesterday, you're pissing all over today. Well, my cranky, concerned companion isn't buying it.

There's light at the end of the tunnel, however, and thank God it ain't a train. I know that she's been pleasant, happy and content before; the last time she lapsed into a human quagmire of unpleasantness she sought help from a doctor after I and many of her friends and relatives suggested she do so. The doctor cured the cause and therefore alleviated the symptoms.

Now, the problem of late is one with a simple solution. Her hormones are doing somersaults. I can see and almost feel her suffering; it's similar to my knowledge and experience with the all-consuming discomfort of a junkie in withdrawal. Well, a naturopathic solution was prescribed, and she and I are going to have to wait a month or two just to see if this particular solution is effective. Patience is one of the virtues I possess that I cherish the most. I'm willing to give it a wait. Understandably, she's of a different opinion and wants results yesterday. She'll have to take responsibility for having chosen alternative medicine over a more conventional sure thing.

The conventional quick fix increases slightly a woman's chance of suffering breast cancer. I was the one who mentioned this risk when she asked if she should see a doctor about getting the prescription hormones that have been so effective for one of our workers and also her sister. I felt selfish when I had thoughts of trying to get her to obtain a second opinion by way of ending her suffering (and mine) in one fell swoop.

On a better note, I and a great singer who's also a good friend have decided to have a baby together. Yours truly is executive producer. That title evokes in some people's minds thoughts of big, flashy offices, big cigars and even bigger cars, and lots of parties.

In reality, it means that I put up a whole bunch of money to pay for the musicians, the studio time (if you think lawyers bill a lot by the hour, try hiring a studio owned or staffed by a reputable recording engineer), the licensing of the music itself, permission to put a SoundScan "fingerprint" on the disc (to measure radio play), the cover/booklet art, the manufacture of the disc and the four-color separations and printing therefor, and finally, initial distribution of the disc. Additionally, I'm going to have to sell the disc to an American label.

My friend, who is a Filipino-American, has succeeded with three out of four discs in his country of origin, with distribution extending to Hawaii, as well. These were pop releases, however. I am funding his first venture into the world of jazz. He's good, and we're pretty sure that his label in Hawaii will take over manufacture and distribution there and in the Phillipines. Getting good distribution in the continental United States is an entirely different matter. Amazon.com charges a fortune and is hit-or-miss. CD Baby offers a more profitable deal, but is nowhere near as well-known. A well-established label with a vast distribution network is gonna be the only way to go.

What the heck, the worst-case scenario is that I end up with only an initial run of nearly 300 CDs that cost me $37 each to make (and a fat tax deduction). The best-case scenario is that my cup runneth over and the resulting feather in my producer's cap will cause my chapeau to be noticed by other artists and perhaps other labels. We're moving ahead rapidly and will know in time for Christmas whether or not Santa Claus gives me one form of carbon in my stocking or a more delightful one altogether.

I am already rehearsing my Grammy acceptance speech.

Leaves were falling
just like embers
In colors red and gold
they set us on fire
Burning just like a moonbeam
in our eyes

Somebody said they saw me
swinging the world by the tail
Bouncing over a white cloud.
Killing the Blues

Excerpt from my man John Prine’s fine tune called “Killing the Blues”.

I always enjoy this time of year. It’s when the air turns crisp during the evening and each morning when you wake up you’re greeted with a thin layer of frost on the car. It’s that time when you can start to see your breath come out in little puffs of steam as it clashes with the chill of the morning air.

It’s also when the trees begin to start shedding their leaves. They gather in the yard and cover the grass like a multi-colored carpet and feel good under your feet until they’re whisked away by the breeze or a rake. But, before they do, there’s those couple of days when they begin to turn color and seem to hang on to their branches like they were clinging to life itself. For all I know, maybe they are.

For a sports junkie like myself it’s almost like paradise. The golf course is picturesque and unlike the dog days of summer when you’re sweating your keister off and praying for the eighteenth hole to get there, the temperature makes it seem a bit like what heaven must seem like. Nobody complains about their scores anymore, they’re just happy to be out there playing. The college football season is in full swing and each week seems to offer up a fair share of surprises as the underdogs begin to take their toll on the top ranked teams in the country. Meanwhile, the pro’s are starting to sort out which teams might be favored to make it to the Super Bowl.

Then, there’s the Fall Classic, the World Series of Baseball. Even though my beloved New York Mets pulled one of the biggest chokes of all time, I’m still looking forward to watching the play-offs and rooting for The Tribe and their legion of long suffering fans to finally get the monkey off their backs and pop the corks on some champagne bottles.

Hockey has already started, college and pro basketball are just around the corner.

Anna’s soccer season is winding down. After watching her play for the last six or seven years, I’m always amazed at the progress she’s made. When she first started, it was like watching a herd of little girls chasing the ball up and down the field as they bunched up and formed into tight packs. Naturally there were always one or two who at that age were more interested in cloud formations, picking dandelions or chasing butterflies but for those who stuck with it, well, they’ve learned the game. Of course they still have a long way to go but the friendships that have been formed during their healthy competition will probably last through high school and into college.

Speaking of Anna, she turns thirteen this weekend and maybe, after everything I’ve written about that’s the real reason behind my happiness. See, all those other things, the leaves, the sports, the changing of the seasons, in terms of my interest, they’ll probably wane over time.

Even though she doesn’t hug me in that little kid way the way she used to. Even though she doesn’t like me hovering over her like what they’re referring to on the news as “helicopter parents" and even though she’d rather spend time alone in her room or out with her friends than with yours truly, she remains the constant.

Happy Birthday kiddo!

Your pops loves you.

Some mornings, driving to work feels like I'm taking my life and putting it into danger. The greater Atlanta area is notorious for bad traffic, and it lives up to that fully every morning. The commute to work is only nine miles, but depending on what time I leave, it can take me anywhere from fifteen minutes to a half hour to make the trek. It amazes me how some people drive around the metro area. Granted, I'm no saint, but blatantly cutting off a dump truck is just asking for disaster. By the time I get to work, my nerves are pretty well shot. You would think I would be able to sit down and organize my thoughts for the day, however, that is not the case.

I work in an office environment, which means I have my own personal fabric covered box, also known as a cubicle. As such, I'm subject to hearing things, smelling things and dealing with things on a normal basis. The one thing, though, that really drives me nuts is when someone sneaks up on you, while you're focused on work, and begins to talk to you. It either takes you by surprise, or else angers you, and in the course of ten seconds, you need to compose yourself and engage in conversation. Couple this with the morning commute stress, and sometimes it's enough to make me very upset. I haven't lashed out, nor have I ever been rude to this person, but there are times I really wish I could do that. I have told the person that sneaking up on someone is not generally good, but they have yet to get the message.

The afternoon commute is about ten times worse than the morning commute, but it's usually the same sorts of antics from drivers in the area. What makes everything worthwhile, though, is coming home to my family, kicking off my shoes and finally relaxing. It's a good feeling indeed.

It is tough to spend long times without contact of friends to let them know how things are going in your life. Being a man of means who would not be sent to the harsh work camps when the time comes I am busy being industrious unlike bulk of everything2 website users who are drug users and communists although I have friends here who I keep informed due to their possession of portfolios. With that said in so many words I have update of activities that will be useful to those who aren't on welfare which should be done away with in order to make way for work camps in which the lazy poor can be forced to work eighteen hour days under horrible conditions, beaten regularly with (a) Lead pipes, (b) baseball bat, (c) empty wine bottle.

I could not be happier about developments on the political front even though I could if some things were changed. One of those things I want changed is voting rights which I want restricted. By restricted I mean that only persons who have voted correctly in the last four or five elections would retain voting eligibility. Those who have voted for the wrong candidates and the wrong propositions and so forth would lose their right to vote indefinitely, paving the way for greater democracy and freedom by eliminating for example lunatics like Joe Biden being in the government. Now there is an example of a candidate for the harsh work camps I've spoken of. Imagine the absolute ecstasy of being able to turn on the television and watching good freedom loving Americans repeatedly bashing lunatic Joe Biden in the head with a wine bottle and forcing him to shovel a mixure of human feces and soy beans into an orange barrel. God bless America pretty soon.

One of the things in the political world I am very elation oriented about is the big lead that my friend Ron Paul has taken in the Republican party primary races. Some of the polls I've seen have him twenty points ahead of the rest of the pack including that weird bald mayor who barely speaks English and always seems to have sunflower seeds in his mouth (although sunflower seeds are delicious) and that lefty in disguise from the known communist state of Massachusetts who belongs to a weird religious cult of some kind. Recently there was excitable talk about this other candidate entering the race, a decent seeming fellow who looks an awful lot like Frankenstein which keeps anyone from supporting him. Imagine having summit meetings with the lesser nations of the world (all of them) and having to send Frankenstein to meet with them. We would lose our foothold as masters of this world for sure unless he had a good looking Secretary of State to send in his place but still people would be impacted because the president is always on television leading the nation and not so many people would stay tuned in if the president looked like Frankenstein and they could watch Nickelodeon or VH1.

Hopefully Ron Paul will maintain his twenty-plus point lead over the pack through the primary season and become the nominee to run against Democratic Party front runner lunatic Joe Biden. I wrote to Ron Paul recently in part to suggest a cabinet post assignment for myself but also to commend him on his support of the right to bear arms and to push him to also support the right to fire arms in order to "thin out the herd" so to speak. I also included a nice anecodote about how when I moved to Wichita, Kansas a few years ago and since my four dogs did not want to go on such a long ride I took them behind my house and put them out of their misery, something that would have been more difficult to do if Democrats took away my guns because then I would have had to have put them down using a baseball bat or empty wine bottle. It was all in good faith but still no word back from Ron Paul. I assume with all his travelling about and what the Democrats have done to screw up the postal service my letter may have gotten hung up somewhere along the line. It contained good ideas.

Well, I have to go for now being a busy industrious man. Being a fully tenured professor of ethics in the Maryland University System sure can be taxing at times and you know what I always say, "No new taxes!" (that was humor).