30.6.10

To Rule Mankind and Make The World Obey...

I don't watch TV, really. Most of the shows I like get canceled early into their run, and I have a deep distrust of commercials, do to my fear that my last dying thoughts will be the jingle for "Chicken Tonight". This is a bit rough when trying to make conversation. I can deal with "have you ever seen" well enough, but "did you catch" is just a prelude to a 'no'.

The only thing that has saved me from total television hermitage has been the DVD seasons. No commercial breaks, no hoping in vein for your favorite rerun, just your TV Shows when you want to watch them. MST3K has another box set out next month. I've now seen every episode of "Kolchack: The Night Stalker" and the ill-advised reboot. And then there's HBO.

My exposure to HBO in my youth was limited to my parents occasionally reminding me they had it before I was born - the point being that they could afford it before they had me. So I had figured that I had ruined everything or it had been one bloody expensive channel.

To this day, I'm not sure which was the case...what was I talking about? Right! HBO!

Brilliant channel, really - they tend to get out of the shows way and let their creators tell their story and then stop. No dragging it out for nine unfunny seasons of "comedy" or dull, lifeless drama (so long as you don't count the middle seasons of most long run series). And I'm slowly catching up on the marvels they have done up for themselves. Having gone through "The Wire" (one season too long, but a great ending), I have started in on "Rome".

I've only seen a few episodes here and there, and thanks to the influence of my brother, I had a good enough understanding of the history of Rome to bound from episode on to five and not be too far off in guessing the year it takes place in.

Which is all well and good, but now that I'm neck deep in season one, I must say I've missed a bloody lot. Everything about the series is perfect, like "I, Claudius" having a lucid moment during a meth binge. And it has Ian McNeice, one of my favorite character actors (seriously, no one oozes austerity and decay like Ian McNeice). There's only two seasons, though.

Amazing show.

24.6.10

Little, Tiny Hairs Growin' Outta Mah Face...

There's something tragic in the shaving ritual. Most guys do it in the morning, bleary eyed and facing another eight hours of selling their time. If you look outside, you can imagine all the other things you could be doing - even if it's just laundry - and it seems so stupid that you're in your skivvies, looking at your reflection, removing the growth that happened while you slept just so people don't look at you like you have some form of social stigma like alcoholism or a love of sweet, sweet heroin.

Then you put a bladed instrument, preferably razor sharp, to your throat and slowly, gently, mow it down. It only takes a pound of pressure to break human skin, and there you are, not completely wake, running what is really just a modified knife over a fairly important area of blood flow and removing it's natural protection while facing the prospect of spending a good chunk of the day doing something stressful.

I can't be the only one who has gotten worried about an ill-timed sneeze resulting in sudden decapitation.

Which brings me to this - I recently picked up a shaving cream with menthol in it by mistake. I used to smoke menthol cigarettes, which still taste like your licking an ashtray but have a hint of mostly useless "refreshing" mint. They always seemed like a little bit of a lie to me, like sugar based toothpaste - your lungs are still going black and to top it off an Andes mint just shit on your tongue. The idea of applying this to body care and grooming doesn't seem to make a lick of sense, until I actually used it.

Now, as a caveat, I have to tell you that this is not my first run in with menthol additions to cleaning products. when I visited my brother while he was teaching, I bought a body wash that said it had menthol in it. It was like scrubbing with horseradish - every pore opened up and my nostrils attempted to shut themselves (and given their Judd Nelson-like state of being, they made a pretty good go of it). Then there was the after effect of having what might have been on the level of a physical rebirth - all pain and the feeling of your body being engulfed in fire - of being able to breath perfectly in a city where you can only see three feet in front of you at sea level because the smog is that thick. Sure, I was glad to be alive - the shower had been life affirming (chanting "I don't want to die" while washing your particulars will really make you rethink where you're going) but I was in the wrong place for such an awakening.

Now, though, I have this can of shave cream and my razor. I lathered my cheeks, caught the scent, and felt a part of me recoil. Then I covered the area under my nose. For a second I looked into the eyes of my reflection, and saw the advice Be very, very careful. Because shaving is one of those things you don't want to do while crying. It smears the cream, which makes you want to do it faster, which will cause you to either have razor burn or minor lacerations. And with the location of the tear ducts, this will make you look like you either have herpes or were going for that Glasgow smile that people seem to be digging these days, respectively.

Then there is the worry of cutting yourself anywhere else - which goes from the fear of an accidental suicide to the sudden terror of know that the menthol could now, nightmare like, get into your blood stream like the white blood cell version of the SS. Even the good bacteria rounded up in the colon and bladder ghettos to be expelled.

So, maybe all of this is part of the vampire fad. "Edward, man, you look like a slaughter house - *sniff sniff* - and did an Andes mint give you a Cleveland Steamer?"

23.6.10

Names Are Like Shark Fins...

The following is meant as observation only - the events depicted did not lessen the overall lovely time I had.

While attending Nicole & Mark's house warming party this past weekend, I came to the conclusion that people named Justin(e) and I will just never get along. Before I had about a 50% chance of getting along with them - but recent years have proven that my track record with those names has just plummeted into the negatives. There seems to be a distinct personality clash - between my own moodiness (which I will explain in a moment) and their...I don't know, a part of me wants to call it reserved nature, another part of me wants to say "pretentiousness without the grasping qualities that might make them great". But that latter definition also requires some explanation - so let's start with that.

For the most part, I'm cool with pretentious artists. I'll let a musician, painter, writer, director, whatever, slide by with complaints about modern life, a consensus world view, the soul crushing blandness of the everyday - if they are trying to depict not just those problems, but why they are problems and the potential for better. That's the "grasping quality" I actually like about those nigh-on insufferable people, and view it as fuel for their work while making bits written about them impossibly boring. Even if I do not share their views, or hope for different solutions, I can still enjoy their work and have respect for them even if they aren't my cuppa.

When the pretension falls from critics, however, that's when I begin to have a problem. This happens every now and then, and for me, it usually takes the form of Rex Reed, film critic for the New York Observer, and is probably best put into view by his take on the movies of 2008. His top film? The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Mine: The Dark Knight. While I don't think either will age that well (for as great a character as the Joker is, his plan doesn't hold up to repeat viewings), I doubt I'll ever watch Button again. I didn't like it that much when it was Forrest Gump, and while the digital effects are astounding, I could feel indifference settling into my bones. My enjoyment of something equally stupid and smart (serious, the Joker's plan does not hold up to repeat viewings) versus something that in my view brought little new to an already overloaded table and failed to get a "huh" out of me.

Now that I've set this up, it seems as though I'm about the thrash the Justin(e)s of the world - not yet. All the pieces must be put into their starting positions.

My own moodiness is not in the "always sullen" vein it once was. It's no reached a level where people think I'm bi-polar...is the triggering mechanism were a light switch in a room where an unpopular kid is trying to throw a rave (quiet, I had a lonely childhood). For the most part, I have a leash on it, and can choose varying degrees of either depending upon company, but for the most part my public persona is either one of detached observation or grabbing life by the hand and running through the sprinklers. I can see where either would rankle others, hence my willingness to alter.

There are some, though, for whom there is no pleasing. First impressions are important, I know, just as every impression after that - but I only really get good around number seven. Pat of this is because I've moved beyond fretting over looking like a fool. I'm a writer who can't spell - a story teller who always prefers the spoken word to writing - if I wasn't okay with making a fool out of myself, how the hell could I cope with others pointing it out?

Which is why I tend to avoid parties - it's all new people, which I like. But it's meeting new people, which is down right bowel shaking for me. It's when I think detached observation is called for, but nothing kills a party atmosphere faster than someone standing in the corner with a facial expression you'd warn the stewardess about during the per-flight explanation of emergency exits. Also, I have a fear of getting sick and a taste for steampunk, so my methods of avoiding spreading airborne toxins is slightly less than subtle. But, in doing my best to entertain and be entertained by the lovely people I met, I kept hearing remarks from a fellow who just seemed to be...adverse to me. "That's a lot of energy," he'd say during one of my rants. When Stephen M. and I reunited for the first time in five years, and continued our flickering friendly combat of pop-cultural commentary, there was a muttered "Jesus, now there's two of them" - he being already versed in Stephen's antics and taste, which are kindred to my own when surrounded by the mostly urbane sensibilities that the party engendered.

Once the party died down, and we were left with the last stragglers, the hosts, and the last of the beer, Justin appeared ready to puke - this isn't hyperbole, he had been pounding drinks throughout the day and into the current wee small hour of the morning - while the rambunctious of us grilled one another on matters like State Capitals and and the map of Canada. When the time came to leave, I shook hands with those who remained, and Justin said good bye with a "Sean, it was a shame I had to meet you". Nicole apologized for him, but the comment was accepted without rancor (intended or not - the fellow was drunk). There's just some people you will never mesh with, and that's part of life. What can you do?

I'm fine playing the part of the fool, and laughing while others laugh at/with me because, fuck it, I think it's funny, too. Others don't, or can't and it's fine - because that's them, and they probably won't change so it's not worth bitching about unless you can make it entertaining, as I hope this has been to some extent.

And I'll be running into him again at a clam bake in July! When I start re-enacting scenes from the Muppet Show with crabs, I think he might deck me. So, at least I know what's coming. You gotta give me that.

18.6.10

The Touble With 'You'...

My house has a visitor. You. Obviously not you the reader, but 'You' the cat. Currently, You is making its home under our deck, and our attempts to catch it have usually ended in MASC (mutually assured slapstick comedy) of people in varying degrees of out of shapeness - be it dad's inability to move beyond a cantering limp, my own smoke addled lungs, or [deleted due to fear of mother taking comment the wrong way], or You's problem with spatial relationships - oh, sure, the little bugger can slip through a crack in the deck, but get it near a fence and I'm pretty sure it'll be concussed in five seconds.

We've guessed it's age at about six weeks, and I've named it 'You' because of my affection for the Discworld books...and also because it' probably the only nice thing I've said while chasing it (names of 'Fucker,' 'bastard,' and 'whore-spawned piece of shit - we're trying to help!' were ruled out en mass). Also, the family has taken to leaving out cat food (for kitten ages!) and either water or milk in an animal traveling box. All of this in the vague hope that at some point the cat's head will be so over taken by the concept of a meal that it won't notice one of us flipping the box up right and closing the lid.

Yeah - we're not very good at this. We're dog people by nature - literally, the only one of us that can't stand cats (dad) is also the only one who isn't allergic to them. The rest of us like them well enough - or, as is my case, have a standing detente with feline kind - but have trouble breathing around them, our eyes get watery, and we die. If it weren't for the fact that we taking it upon ourselves to protect little things, we would just leave the food out of a weird sense of pity. But as it stands we're warding off owls, hawks, foxes, and our own dogs in hope that we can catch You and it to a vet, or at least keep You alive during the summer months because sweet Maria it's hot if you're wearing a fur coat.

It's the dogs that worry me most, frankly - they're greyhounds, trained with factory like efficiency to chase after small furry things. And they're good enough to occasionally catch birds, let alone turning my back yard into a bunny abattoir. So, I'm thinking that unless You has got claws like Wolverine, and the placidity of a moose staring down a Mack truck, I'm not making it's odds out to be that good.

Then there's the other question, that of "What in the hell are we going to do with You?". Even though I'll admit to growing fond of the thing, we can't keep it. Our new tenants have expressed an interest in You, (wonder how they'll react to the name) but beyond supplying the occasional tin of Fancy Feast, they aren't really taking part in the grand quest we've undertaken for You. Yeah, yeah - it makes sense, what with You living on our side of the house, but my point still stands.

But hopefully I'll have some pictures of You, or maybe even have a picture of me and You by the end of the Summer. Hopefully the poor bastard gets wise. Or I have a fear that this time next year there will be a mess of Yous romping through the yard, in which case I'll be herding cats.

Which some how fits in eerily well with my life.

17.6.10

Dérive...

Well, that served it's purpose. Normally I'd put a link for the word "that", but the link is gone, the chairs are on the tables and the locks are on the door. "More things change," I guess - even with the strides I've made towards being an adult, I still can let myself have a bridge to the past without longing to burn the bastard to the [water or ground or whatever they've built the bridge over]. The problem, of course, in that we live on a spheroid, so you can only get so far before you're right back where you started wondering who would be dumb enough to burn the only bridge out of town.

So, here I am, my cyber-wanderlust having brought me this far. Another blog, another fresh start, another...whatever. To be totally frank for a moment, I've grown more and more exhausted lately - mentally I mean. Well, put "for about two years" in place of "lately". I'm tired of the irony, the bile, and the snark and the generally pointless mean-spirited nature of...pretty much everything. I'm sick of only having one mode, and I'm sick of having little to show for it. So I've organized some changes, took some chances, and basically tried to unplug myself and let the mental reboot happen. Pull the car over. Fuck this. I'll walk.

I'm turning into a Social Distortion song, and I keep thinking that maybe this time it might work - all of the effort will pay off. People will get the hints I drop, and I'll get theirs', and life can be a bit more smooth. It's probably bugger all, but it's a nice dream. As usual, I have no idea how this will go, or if it will go at all, but screw it - a plan is a list of things that don't happen. But what the hell else am I going to do while I try to unwind after a day at the cube farm?

Which also brings up another point: If you've been reading "Skipping Rocks on the Lethe," you may have noticed two things - one, it has tapered off recently, and two, like EOE, it is no longer there. No, I haven't abandoned it - but if you're gonna burn a bridge, you gotta burn the whole damn thing. It should be back up at some point in the next two week, where I'll be finishing up the first meta-arc. Between adapting to the new work schedule (ha!) and some other projects I'm working on, I haven't been keeping up the pace I had hoped for.

And away we go...