blogagog-blog1

[blogagog-blog1]

Fear: Pt 2

Read Fear Pt. 1 To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong. - Joseph Chilton Pearce

Okay, I need to be serious for a second. Before going any further, I wanted to share something that I think is infinitely important and we should all take note of.

...Fear was back from his piss break in like, 10 seconds. And you know what they say: He who pees quick, got a small - sorry, what was that, ref? Game on in 3, 2, 1...now? Okay. 

Let’s go, bitch.

Ourselves.

I’m acutely aware of the first instance where fear sashayed in and said “Stop what you’re doin��� cuz I’m about to ruin.”1 After realising my love of music was more than the average appreciation of a pretty tune, I borrowed a classical guitar and learned the My First Rock Tunes™ Starter Pack: Cranberries’ ‘Zombie’, Nirvana’s ‘Come As You Are’ etc. By the time I finally got an electric, I was into insane guitarists like Eric Johnson and Steve Vai. This may have been...unfortunate. See, this was right around the time ol’ depression started poking around, and at this stage, I literally had no idea what was wrong with me. So the rampant self doubt just seemed like logic: the quantum leap from the beginner I was to these guys was clearly one I’d never accomplish. And so the guit’ had to sit.

Fast forward to today. I’m a pretty shit guitarist as far as real players go, but having been forced in the past bit to play in order to create my own music, I can do things I couldn’t dream of a year ago. Imagine if I’d started 15 years ago. Even 6 years ago...but at that point, the stance was: “Welp, it’s too late now.”

There’s that one famous quote: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.” Speaking solely for myself, I find that to be the biggest load of hippo poo ever written. What we are afraid of, Ms. Williamson,2 is falling flat on our faces and proving beyond a shadow of a doubt (instead of just having a strong suspicion) that we absolutely suck at the things most important to us.

I was trying to think of a metaphor, and for some reason, this (admittedly ridiculous) scenario popped into my head. Bear with me here. Imagine you’re 10 years old, and you see old footage of Jane Goodall on TV - just kicking it with the chimps. They’re signing amongst themselves about the tastiest banana strains, the best poop-throwing techniques and whatnot. Suddenly you have an epiphany: that’s what you want to do with your life. You dive into every primatology book you can find, you volunteer at the zoo - nothing can stop you, man. And then you attend your first kids’ ethology class - and you have no idea what’s going on. The other kids seem fine - but you’re just sucking up a storm. And then your Dad, whose words are immediately considered fact cuz, you know, you’re 10, mentions: “Oh wait, did nobody tell you? Chimpanzees fucking hate people with red hair. (Or named Theodore, or whatever applies to you.) So, that’s not going to work.”

Now, the fact is your Dad just wants you to be a doctor so you’ll be loaded and take care of him when he’s decrepit. But you don’t have any reason to doubt him, and since you’re pretty sure this is a done deal, why would you go through the pain of trying anyway? 

Or worse yet, maybe your Dad isn’t even telling you straight up - he’s whispering it in your ears when you’re asleep (Jesus Christ - your Dad is an ASSHOLE, dude). So now you’ve got this subconscious fear of failing at your Goodall-Goals - and although it never sits right, you’ve gone ahead and convinced yourself you’re dying to go to medical school and primatology was just a passing kid’s fancy. What I’m getting at is, you can dismiss some random hater telling you you’re going to suck. The voice in your head that you rely on daily to operate is harder to ignore - especially when it’s dropping the doubt bombs subconsciously.

Is there something you’re really passionate about? I don’t mean you like it oodles and bunches and arms-held-wide “diiiis much” - I mean it’s inexorably intertwined with fibre of your existence. If so, imagine diving head first into it and discovering, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that you’re Absolutely No Good at it. That’s the underlying fear - how exactly do you reconcile that and move on?

Here’s the thing though. If you look around, that pretty much never happens. The folks who turn their passions into successes tell us over and over that after being useless at the beginning (just like us normies!), they told self-doubt to suck it and kept it trucking with absolute focus and belief. The majority of those who gave it their all and didn’t find outrageous success did have a great chapter of their life, which was hopefully followed by a different but equally sweet one. And sure, maybe circumstances derail deserving people sometimes. But the human (and kitty cat) condition of being afraid to put our toes in the water derails us a hell of a lot more.

But I’ve always tried to make the best of fear, because without fears, there’s no art. - Tracie Bennett

                                 Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck. I’m doing it but fuuuuuuck.

Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream. - Paulo Coelho3

Most of the time, though, getting stuck in a questioning-your-qualities quagmire (bam. my alliteration game is lit af4) doesn’t have anything to do with some lofty goal. The challenge most of us face is simply being able to get out of our own way and experience - I mean really experience - life.  

We all know someone who is - well, stuck. Stuck in a dead-end job they hate, stuck in a relationship with an undeserving douche, or just stuck in neutral across the board. They’re bemoaning their current lot in life and you’re tearing your hair out pointing out all the moves they can make with the potential they have. Nothing crazy or overwhelming - just that small first step to get things moving. So if you can see it, and they can see it, what’s the prob, Bob?

This, I think, is a chance to out the annoyingly unblinking Fear (I’m starting to think this prick doesn’t have eyelids) on another one of his sneaky li’l techniques. Sure...when you’re just plain stuck, it’s depressing. Sure, you hate the fact that this is your life. But it’s a shitty life that you know. It sucks, but it’s nothing to be afraid of. This  new existence that these baby steps are supposed to bring - now that’s scary. What if, at some point, the Curb driver taking you through this new life (cuz it’s weird and unknown, so there’s no Uber or Lyft) drops you off in some fresh hell without so much as a Maps-enabled iPod? Without the tools to deal or road map to get out, there won’t be much to do except curl up in a fetal position and wait for your imminent demise. No siree, I’ll stick with my current conundrum. Final answer Regis, thankyouverymuch.

I honestly think this can be harder to push past than the fear of shooting for the stars. I know someone properly stuck in that place, and it’s heartbreaking how much of a struggle it is. And while I throw up in my mouth a little every time I get anywhere close to banal, overused bullshit or condescending platitudes, there’s no way around it: the only way to start moving out of this one is with those clichéd as Christ ‘small steps.’ If you know someone in that spot, and truly want to help, be prepared to be around and do some lifting. Because your feet can get heavy, man.

People have a hard time letting go of their suffering. Out of a fear of the unknown, they prefer suffering that is familiar. - That Nhat Hanh

I like when people compare or equate Fear with the devil. Mostly because I think a concept attributed to the latter 100% applies to the former as well. 

“The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.” 

Fear-The-Fuckface isn’t any less sneaky - in fact, I’d argue he’s more so. Sure, he’s loud and proud when it comes to us being terrified of spiders, air travel and Willem Dafoe. But when he’s doing the real nitty gritty of putting our lives on pause and trying to break us at our core, he slips on his Groucho Marx glasses and moustache to stay incognito. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, the trick is to recognise him and know that once we act, there ain’t shit he can do. I, for one, can assure you he’s real. He and his stupid face are staring me down right now. That’s okay. We got one more to go.

I just realised that when I initially pictured Fear in my mind yesterday, he bore a passing resemblance to Digital Underground’s Shock G. Swear to God. And in a rare bout of perfection, a search for a picture of him brought up this.

I have nothing against Marianne Williamson. She seems like an exceptional human being that has helped millions - I just really hate that quote. Of course, she’s the one that wasn’t afraid to write and publish ten works that have sold over 3,000,000 copies, so maybe I should shut the fuck up.

I’m aware I used this quote already. But it applies here too, and I do what I want, bruh.

Don’t ever say “ay-eff” to me in real life instead of “as fuck.” I will literally slap you.

[blogagog-blog1]

Fear: Pt 1

The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown. - H.P. Lovecraft

Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. The fearful are caught as often as the bold. - Helen Keller

I couldn’t tell you how long I stared out the window trying to figure out how to start this one. It was a minute.1  Eventually, I figured this would be as appropriate a way as any: I was scared shitless to write this post.

That isn’t to say I’m not avoiding eye contact with Fear every time I’m about to hit ‘post’ (or say “what up” to a crowd before starting a set, or try to talk to a particularly awesome new person). And he’s a real dick about it too: sitting innocently, cross-legged and with his chin on his palms, conveniently posted up behind everybody where only I can see him: “You know you gon’ fuck up, right? I mean, I know it, and you know it, and everybody here knows it. But by all means...go ahead, buddy. I’ve been waiting my entire timeless existence for the biggest train wreck in history and I’m pretty sure this is finally it. Bon chance, mon ami!ˆ" 

This one’s a real doozy though. Me and buddy are sitting at a table in the middle of the room across from each other, everybody’s watching, and there is most definitely eye contact. In fact, it’s pretty much a game of who blinks first. And I hear he wins a lot more than he loses.

Others.

I’m pretty bad at maintaining relationships. I’m talking spectacularly, John-Mayer-and-Taylor-Swift-giving-up-arguing-about-who’s-worse-and-saying-Yo-Somebody-Give-That-Guy-A-Medal bad. I’m not saying I’m a shitty person who consistently does shitty things. I’m choosy about who I get close to  - mostly because I care a lot. I’m constantly concerned with people’s happiness, and think I’m pretty good at showing emotions and that I care. That is, of course, until there’s anything to be afraid of.

There’ve been just a handful of romantic relationships in my life where the thought “Wow..this might be my last” has crossed my mind. As in a wee, Donald Trump hand-sized handful. Likely the most serious one, admittedly full of challenges out of both our control, ended with her summarizing she didn’t believe I’d do what was necessary for it to work. I was bitter like caraili,2 man. Because I had All These Plans™ that were specifically geared to making it work. Things that I was Definitely Starting Soon.™ 

And then my friend told me about a conversation she had with said lady after the fact. The friend spoke about my fear of fully committing to anything truly important to me out of fear of failing. I had not once talked about this with the friend, who I hadn’t been close to all that long. But we’re a lot alike, so I guess she saw it in me. And then I saw it in everything. F’rinstance, I saw it in platonic relationships too. I move a lot, so there’s distance - especially from the oldest, closest friends. It’s theoretically pretty easy to maintain long distance friendships what with the interwebs and the Snaptalks and the WhosApps and whatnot (you whipper--snappers get off my lawn *feeble Mr. Burns fist shake*) - but with the tag team of Fear and a sometimes-depressive mind assuring you those friends have better things to do...well. Self fulfilling prophecies are a thing, G. 

And be it friend or lover (I know, it’s a stupid hippie word. It fit, okay), someone who doesn’t treat you how you’re supposed to be treated is basically an inside operative planting an IED aimed at the next good thing that comes along. Last good (read: great) thing I experienced went to shit because, despite overwhelming evidence to the contrary, one perceived slight similar to crappy things in my past triggered a seemingly out of nowhere reaction.3  And by the time you figure out what’s happened, it’s too late to prove the fear-fuckup isn’t just an undesirable personality trait. The Catch-22? You’re frozen into inaction by fear of failing to prove otherwise. Well played, Mr. F. 

So is there a solution? You bet, and it’s easy as 1, 2, 3:

Keep eyeballing Fear,

Learn to notice when you fucking up is actually him trying to trip you up, 

Kick him in the face.4

Well lookit that. Neither of us have blinked yet. However, Fear and I just agreed on a bathroom break. We’re not done with this, though. Not by a long shot. Brb.

Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream. - Paulo Coelho

We are afraid to care to much, for fear that the other person does not care at all. - Eleanor Roosevelt

Fear: False Evidence Appearing Real. - Some cheesy asshole.5 But in this case, he has a point.

”Wait, I thought he said he didn’t know how long it was?” “He means 'a minute’ in the cool black people way. Not literally, stupid.” ”OOOH. Gotcha.”

 Bitter Melon. Karela. Bitter Gourd. Yeah B, my posts are a muh fuhin culinary class too. 

This is clearly a euphemism for ‘acting like a lunatic.’

So yeah, I’m talking about working on conscious self awareness - maybe it’s meditation, maybe CBT, or perhaps just not being such a space cadet. Just a heads up: I’m unlikely to provide many of these more measured clarifications. Hopefully as we become best friends, my colloquial/somewhat juvenile manner of expression works as well for you as it does for me.

Remember that asshole in all the YouTube ads talking about how he prefers his books over his Lamborghini and other ‘materialistic’ things? Probably that guy.

Fear Pt. 2

Illustration by Kyle Cummings https://seekyledraw.tumblr.com/

[blogagog-blog1]

When it rains...

The topic has changed Due to a day that rained, and rained, and rained Until it poured And now, again, You look so bored. Illustration by Kyle Cummings www.seekyledraw.tumblr.com

[blogagog-blog1]

Thursday July 6, 2017

I haven’t written in 5 years. And I know why. 

But I’m not going to be getting into it nearly as much as I thought I would be in this post. 

That’s not because I’m pussying out (fair guess, though), because I’m embarrassed about it (which I am) or because I’m attempting to block it out (although that is my usual M.O.).

No, it’s because that very same last post, from April 2012, laid out exactly the fears and shortcomings I had planned to cop to tonight. Laid it out - and ended with me inferring I was about to do better. Like the fella once said, ain’t that a kick in the head?

There’s that old saying: “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”1 Well, doing some brief historical forensics, it would appear I’m the real-word Mad Hatter, The Joker, and Patrick Bateman rolled into one.2  

Here’s the thing though - there’s two types of people that adhere to this (completely inaccurate) definition of insanity: those who keep doing the same thing out of a stubborn belief that they’re in the right and “this time will be different,” and those that have no fucking idea they’re hamster-wheeling their way through life right up until their little hamster heart gives out and they drop to the wood shavings. Guess which one I’ve been?

I should probably modify that. I (and undoubtedly a veritable legion of other schmucks) are often not consciously aware of the repeating patterns in our lives which become the molds for the shit-sandwiches that are our respective existences. Sometimes it’s a lack of self-awareness, sometimes it’s denial - usually, though, it’s a wee bit from column A, a smidgen from column B. But being totally oblivious and not aware on some level there’s a Groundhog Day vibe going on - pretty improbable.3 

And here’s where the running punt in the gonads lies for this particular schmuck. That aforementioned post - you guessed it - explicitly talks about having made the promising move of finally, categorically owning up to things. K, I don’t care who you are and how enlightened your new-age, zen-as-fudge batty is - nobody likes delving into their fatal flaws and worst shortcomings. So if you’re wired to do pretty much the opposite, it’s a pretty big deal when you finally do. Yet, up until tonight, I had no recollection of writing this stuff. I mean...damn, Yosemite Sam. 

Well, I’m a little tired of the Groundhog Day motif. Love the movie, hate the personal experience. So here’s what’s up. First, I re-read the shit out of that old stuff. It may be uncomfortable to read, and mortifying to admit the lost opportunity for change - but all that is a lot less painful/disastrous than heading down the same rocky road yet another time. These tires, these shocks - and if we can fuck off with the car metaphors for a second, this soul - are getting pretty shredded. 

Second, I’m really, actually, non-full-of-shit-ly going to start writing again. It’s a lot harder to forget the life-changing, infinitely important discoveries you’ve made when you’re re-visiting the place they live daily. With the Zimbabwean Weblog God Balooba as my witness, it’s on both like Donkey Kong and Asian Porn on a Monday morn.4 Time to stop being one of those kids my boy Scrubious Pip talks about “that love being writers more than they love writing.”

The third one is a big one. And that’s sharing this all with you dicks. I’ve taken all (read: the few) posts I made on my Blogspot (look it up, young bucks; I believe it was created in the Neolithic Period) blog starting in 200-effing-8 and posted them below, titled by date. I even lifted the emo-ass original blog title and artwork. Ah, but fer why? Well, it’s not hubris, and it sure-as-shootin’ ain’t nostalgia. Context? Indirectly, maybe.5 Nah homie - this is about accountability. 

It’s out there now. There’s no hiding from the content, which in my very first post I dotishly pointed out I was unlikely to share with anyone else (a pledge that, unlike most I make, I stuck to). And, maybe more importantly, no hiding from the pledge to keep writing. So scroll right down to the bottom and get your chronological-order, bottom-to-top read on. 

Look, I promise this tumblr won’t all be about me, how and when I’ve dropped the ball, and how depression and its effects figure into my (and millions of other people’s) life. 

But it has to start that way. So I can get a good grip on that ball again.

Oh, one more thing. That whole “if you don’t use it, you lose it” business - totally true. I’m not the writer I used to be: it doesn’t come quite as easily, nor does the choice of subject matter. But I’m already better at it than I was at the beginning of this spiel. And I’ll be better still tomorrow - when, by the way, I already know what I’ll be talking your ears (eyes) off about. Lookit that.

So....

See you tomorrow. 

The attribution of which, incidentally, to Albert Einstein is total bullshit. Apparently, it’ from a goddamn AA pamphlet. Still makes a good soundbite, but feels way more 12 step-y now, don’t it?

Except, you know. Without all the tea parties and homicides.

And infinitely less hilarious. How would Bill Murray have had us rolling in the aisles without having been aware he was in an infinite loop and blowing people’s minds with his apparent psychic abilities? Further proof: self-awareness ftw.

Let’s just accept the latter is a thing so we can move on.

F’rinstance, you might run across the first known mention of the African Weblog deity Balooba. Whose name, undoubtedly purely through coincidence and in no way related to the author’s nationality, sounds a lot like the Baluba tribe referenced in a super fucked-up calypso about cannibalism and eating white women raw. Which, in turn, was probably inspired by a real-life fucked-up military incident in the Congo that devolved into fanciful tale of cannibalism from which the Irish pejorative term ‘Balooba’ stemmed. See, we’ll laugh, we’ll cry - and we’ll also learn.    

[blogagog-blog1]

TUESDAY, APRIL 24, 2012

I'm not dead yet - but maybe somebody loves me. (It’ll make sense later.)

I'll look at the date of my last post after I'm done writing this one, and kick my ass accordingly.1 For now, I'm just going to be happy I'll be hearing keys clickety-clacking for the next thirty minutes to an hour.2 See that? That's some bonafide, honest-to-Jeebus, glass-half-full shit there, ladies and germs. I'm not going to pretend I've suddenly morphed into a perennial ray of sunshine overnight - but I feel like I'm putting something together that needs to be acknowledged so I can take the next step: putting my finger on exactly what it is. I'm not all that great of a detective; I think it's best to call in the deerstalker-hatted, pipe-puffing, film-noir version of myself to solve the mystery (I know I’m juxtaposing two totally different time periods. Shuttup. It's my story.)

Excellent decision, and I shall bring my trusted sidekick along as well. First, Balooba (Remember Balooba, the Zimbabwean God of Web Logs? Well he’s Detective Me’s Watson. Cuz I'm just that money), let's look at the subject's baser past nature - the things that required the alleged change currently taking place.

Observation 1 - The subject has been coasting for years.

Here's the thing - despite appearances, I don't think I've 100% invested myself or put my heart and soul into anything for a long time. There've been challenges, sure. But contrary to what I may have said, thought or led others (and myself) to believe at the time, they were rough roads, not roadblocks. There are a lot of things I could have accomplished and a lot of relationships that could have enriched my life.

Observation 2 - It would appear the subject had a hard time differentiating the creative and destructive elements of his life.

I don't mean creative like the decoration of my bedroom. I mean positive, ‘creationary’ elements. (Sure, I could have just used that word to begin with. But then how would I mention my delightful boudoir?) Long story short, at one time there was a large portion of a city that knew who I was; if not in person, then by reputation. Reputation being: that motherfucker parties HARD. "Golly, he's fun!" Shit like that. That and being in a moderately successful band got the big fish in a small pond syndrome going. That'd be all and well if it was balanced with fiery musical passion and work ethic in tandem with solid interpersonal relationships both platonic and romantic. Again, despite pretences otherwise, that wasn't quite the case.

Observation 3 - The subject appears to have noted the dire straits he was in and fled his surroundings. While a frank assessment and subsequent re-tooling of his life was never done by the subject, improvements were initially seen. Of late, those seem to have waned, and in latter days, seemed all but non-existent.

So waddup wid dat, G? Negativity in action and lack thereof. Negativity of thought and mood. Some very minus-sign kind of times - the kinds I was pretty sure were over and done with. And I gotta watch that shit. Subject ain't as resilient as he used to be, yo.

But the thing about it is - well, let me not steal the thunder from the me with the stupid hat.

Fuck you, bro. This hat isn't stupid. This hat is cool. (Twinkie if you can name the 90's teen movie reference.) And we are all quite aware you didn't finish the sentence because you don't have my immeasurable deductive skills. Isn't that right, my dear Balooba? (Balooba says whatever “True dat” is in Shona or Ndebele.) And Balooba does not lie. If I may continue, I think we were abotu to move on to the changes I have noted:

Observation 1 - The subject is able to concur with, and further, discuss the aforementioned shortcomings.

I'm not sure I've ever said categorically that the above were true. I've certainly been aware they were on varying levels but can't say I fully stated, even to myself , that they were all things under my control. Regardless of external forces and douchebag/douchebaguette (ha...bread insult. I'm going to make it a thing) bit players, the end result falls squarely on my shoulders. And I'm okay with that.

Observation 2 - The subject is typing these words right now.

I'm writing. I really enjoy writing. But for extended periods of time, it seems I don't enjoy anything enough to start it. Or maybe it's I would enjoy it if I started. That's more likely. So the plan is pretty much to not stop. God, I'm brilliant. Also, I just saw a kid with no arms ripping drums. So, if I don't start pushing at my instruments with the fear of not getting anywhere, punch me in the dick.

Observation 3 - Things are happening.

This is hard to explain.

First of all, I always feel like things that happened in the past were more meaningful. College was more meaningful than now. My life in high school (not high school itself, that shit sucked) felt more meaningful when I was in college. Conversely, the life I'm living at any given moment feels like...existing.

I know there were moments that, at the time, just knocked me out. I remember the first time I sat close to a guy playing the electric guitar. And the first time I got to try it, and step on the stomp pedal and hear it distort. I'm not exaggerating, it was like magic. Not figuratively; it was like being in the presence of Dumbledore or some shit.

I can't remember the last time I've felt that - what may or may not have been love ranks up there, but that involves hormones, pre-programmed reproductive instincts and my wiener so it clearly has an unfair advantage.

But in the past few days I felt something. I know The Band is awesome and Leonard Cohen is supposed to be. Previously though, my basic attitude would be: "Cool hit songs. Cool other song I heard in passing. Where's my beer?" But for some reason (possibly reading Neil Strauss' interviews in Everyone Loves You When You're Dead) I listened to compilations of both.

I'm excited to hear more of The Band, but Leonard Cohen - well, he kind of knocked me out. I'm pretty sure I've tried him before outside of what I know and it didn't do much, if anything for me. This time around - well, I'm writing, aren't I?

Indeed you are. We can then deduce, my dear Balooba, that -

Alright, shut your piehole, hat boy, you're done.

Another thing is this. When I was younger, I really believed in serendipity. I loved the idea of fate. And most of the time, it felt like fate was on my side. How I made my musical connections, how I met people - they all seemed like such outlandishly improbably coincidences, it was easy to see an aura of pre-destiny. But understandably, fate got tired of hooking me up and me fucking it up, so it kicked rocks and left me languishing for it's helping hand. (Yeah, I dig alliterations [or near-alliterations, depending on who your English teacher was]).

I was pretty low, man. And what I've read in the past couple days was what I needed to read. The music I heard was what I needed to hear. A few hours ago, I randomly checked out this guy's blog. I didn't know he was a writer. And Goddamn if half his blog wasn't the exact stuff I needed to remind myself of. Funnily enough, he's more of an acquaintance than a friend. But he's someone I respect musically and increasingly in terms of personality - so maybe we'll give the old 'there're kindred spirits not thousands of miles away, it's not too late to make lasting friends' thing a go.

In the epilogue of Everyone Loves You.. Strauss surprised me by sharing what he'd learned in 20 years of writing and interviewing. And it was sort of exactly what I needed to hear:

1)Let go of the past. 2)Fame won't make you feel any better about yourself. 3)The secret to happiness is balance. 4)Fix your issues now, because the older you get, the worse they become. 5)Derive your self-esteem from within, not from others' opinions. 6)Say yes to new things. 7)Live in truth. 8)Never say never. 9)Trust your instincts 10)Be happy with what you have.

and...

11) Everyone loves you when you're dead.

On which he expands: "Because when you're dead, your happiness and accomplishments are no longer a threat to their belief system and self-esteem. You've been appropriately punished."

Well, cool. At some point, everyone's going to love me. So for now, maybe I should concentrate on loving myself instead. 

If this Strauss character is to be believed, the world will catch up eventually.

The date of my last post was a picture on March 14. The date of my last writing was two months earlier. As promised, my ass has been been kicked to suit.

It was over two hours - the sun's up. As it should be whenever I'm done writing.

[blogagog-blog1]

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 14, 2012

                                                             Almost.

[blogagog-blog1]

TUESDAY, JANUARY 17, 2012

...You lean into the wind To feel it on your face; You stand inside a blizzard to hide that you're living in an empty space. You run into a hurricane to swirl with the crowded world that, in it,  you expect to find. But after the fact, left barely intact you find it all, the same. Little purpose, Even less to call on, to trust, to hate, to blame. And not one, not one - on which to hang your name. You lean into the wind.

[blogagog-blog1]

THURSDAY, MARCH 25, 2010

You're a sad collection of skin and bone. Your flesh eloped with your mind, sick and tired, from you leaving your heart at home.

Painting: Kyle Cummings www.seekyledraw.tumblr.com

[blogagog-blog1]

THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 2010

I should sleep. Thought: I wish that I could do my thinking; my reflecting; my ‘figuring out’ while I'm asleep. It's not that I'm too lazy to do it while awake. Well, I'm pretty lazy, but that's not the main reason. For one, there's just too much shit going on. I have the internet and cable, so with all that porn and the infinite number of multi-channel Fresh Prince reruns, there's eighty percent of my day gone right there.1 Factor in sporadic snacking, a couple shits, trying to get laid and time lost due to Canada's extremely lax marijuana legislation - there goes Monday. 

Of course, that's bullshit. I'm not strapped into a chair with my eyelids pinned back A Clockwork Orange style3 being forced to waste my time on the opiate of the masses and its scion. The fact is I do all that shit for the same reason most of us do. It’s so that I don't have to think.

Listen, there are two reasons why anybody wants to think (for the purposes of this article, thinking refers to deep, searching thought, not passing thoughts, such as “You know what would be cool? A Doberman with crab pinchers. Cuz then it would sound the same as ‘Doberman Pinscher’, but make way more sense.” And really, who wouldn’t want to be thinking that?)

If we’re talking about ruminating on life and reflecting on one’s self, there’s a very simple correlation. The love of doing this is directly proportionate to how sweet your life is.

If you’re homeless, losing your nose due to syphilis and just got pissed on in your sleep by a stray dog, chances are thinking about life isn’t really a treasured divertissement.

Conversely, you know those playboys with no need to work, a mansion at twenty years old bought with their inheritance and innumerable bitches?4 And you know how said bitches gush about how deep said playboys are when they notice Paris (or Paulo or whatever the fuck millionaire ‘P’ name) is staring dreamily across the ocean from the port side of his yacht? Well, he isn’t. Deep, I mean. It’s actually just one thought cycling lazily through his brain: “Man. My life is the tits.”

Then there’s intellectual thinking. Philosophy, geometry, rocket science, the physical paradox of how Pamela Anderson stayed vertical at her biggest tit size, whatever. The fact is, that shit is hard. There are people who do it because they’re good at it and it makes them a lot of money…but they still don’t want to, technically. The people who want to and will gladly do it on their own time are the crazy motherfuckers who enjoy it.

If I was to do some ruminating right now, I’d be trying to figure out why I broke the heart of one of the nicest girls of our specie, my impossibility to be satisfied with anything and the massive hypocrisy of that fact considering how exceptionally flawed I am. Who the fuck wants to think about that?

The problem, obviously, is that the only way to address and hopefully fix issues like that is to (drum roll) think about them. This is a carbon copy of the past, it's happened before; there's a ghost in the machine somewhere waiting to show it's ugly mug. But I’ve managed to condition my mind, like some serious Manchurian Candidate shit. No code sentences though, I have that bitch on lock down 24/7. And it's only directive is to never, ever become self aware.

I don’t know if the irony of this discourse is lost on you, but it’s not lost on me: I’m going on and on about this shortcoming in what’s basically a diary, but still not actually delving into it attempting to come up with a solution.

And I’m not going to today. Tomorrow for sure.5

It’s seven a.m. I should sleep.

But then I’d be doing myself a solid, and I sure don’t owe that asshole any favours.

I should sleep.

Just kidding. 2

Not really.

Yeah, Lost straight up punked that shit.

Their words, not mine. Reality TV has taught us they may not have any black friends, but they love to talk ‘street.’

This is an absolute lie. If this footnote is a disappointing surprise, you haven’t been paying attention.

[blogagog-blog1]

SATURDAY, JANUARY 30, 2010

What up, Chuck?

I'd like to be Chuck Klosterman.

Everybody does. Or the rhymee name Chuck. Or Nick Hornsby. Or Douglas Adams...you get the idea. Either someone so fucking 'I want what he's on' weird he instantly becomes interesting, or so mind numbingly normal but obsessed with minutiae that taking a shit becomes a metaphor for the meaning of life.

Which makes that person instantly interesting.

I'm not though. And more likely than not, neither are you. Of course, just like everyone else, I tell myself I am. "Dude," I whisper conspiratorially to myself, "if people could see into your mind, they'd be totally blown away by how deep and different you are." Self nods confidently. I nod back. Then we sit around and do fuck all.

In a deep and different way, of course.

There's one thing I give myself a little bit of credit for though. It's that I only try to convince myself what an unusual genius in hiding I am. If you want to be assured that someone is a douchebag with the personality of a brick of rat cheese (because personally, I figure being two things like marble cheese must count for some kind of personality, right?) all you have to look out for is this:

"I'm not your regular girl."

OR, which makes me want to straight up get to fisticuffs with a motherfucker:

"I'm totally crazy!"

FUCK you. If you're crazy, you don't know you're fucking crazy. I assure you David Koresh didn't squeal 'tee hee, I'm so crazy!' when he was having sex with one of his wives' 12 year old daughter or explaining to his followers why it's cool that Jesus is shooting at ATF agents with an automatic rifle.

See?? This started off trying to be somewhat introspective and balanced, and within a couple paragraphs has regressed into a bitch fest. And that's okay. Because I like bitching. It keeps my complexion flawless and helps me maintain a rock hard erection.

...with which, incidentally, I'd like to mushroom slap anyone who ever answers the question 'what music do you listen to?' with 'everything'. Or, worse yet, 'everything except country'. For realsies? When's the last time you took in some Indian Classical, Native Afghani music, or a sweet Korean Pop LP? I hope you choke on a moon-pie, asshole. And WITHOUT FAIL, 90% of these people will follow up this claim with a list that consists of the official TheoryOfANickelCreed collection of bands.

Well, that's not fair. They'll throw in Jay-Z to show they're down with the blacks and Coldplay to show they've got a heart and want your love.

The funny thing is, why do people not let their opposite-of-freak flag fly? God knows there're a lot more people listening to 'This is how you remind me' right now than Shakespeare My Butt (which I'd like to pretend I'm listening to because I'm the king of knowing random Canadian alt-rock, but I can't even remember how I heard about Lowest of the Low. 18 years after they released the album. What has two thumbs and a finger on the pulse of underground music? This guy.)

Any frigging way. My point is if you love singing along to Chad Kroeger's 'I gargle gravel' voice, you're part of a huge majority, and could probably throw a thousand-person house party in your town of one thousand, five hundred, where only the Nickelback discography was played and everybody would have a great old time.

Two decades ago, you came to school and tried to get kids to listen to the latest Dinosaur Jr. album, you were likely to get punched in the dick and called a fag. A year later, Nirvana blows up and the dick-puncher kid is trying to convince the punchee that he had Bleach when it came out two years ago.

And I personally think that the music shift might be the best example of how all this 'I'm deeper and more interesting that you' crap started. After two decades of mostly horseshit, good interesting, real music became the norm. Or was at least readily accessible. And resulted in two of the three groups that don't live off mainstream radio/channels that play music videos1:

1) The kids who really did buy Bleach when it came out. Because now Dick Puncher is wearing their favourite bands' t-shirts, and that's a huge 'Oh no he di-int' right there. Because for some reason when decent music becomes mainstream, it doesn't mean that mainstream has gotten good. It means that that previously enjoyable music has become shit. And what music-nerd wants to be surrounded by the Neanderthals that beat them up that morning when they go to a concert at night? So now they've got to get really esoteric, like indie-dance-pop-dubstep-with-a-sitar esoteric. Phew...crisis averted, and I really love this Swedish guy with a Casio keyboard making fart noises. I swear.

2) The kids who lucked out into growing up in a time where making good music was rewarded. When rapping about politically-charged material over jazz-influenced hip hop got you a Grammy, as opposed to relegated to the bargain bin. They were spoiled in the best possible way. So when they heard Snoop (having missed the initial salvo of gangsta rap), their reaction probably was 'Man, this is great - hip hop is so varied! I just hope it's not all taken over by some tool with gold teeth that relies on shitty beats and sounding like a retard fucking...ah shit.'

Be it Master P that fucked your shit up, or Sean Kingston that defiled your ears after enjoying Buju, or Hedley that raped your ear drums, if you're one of those kids, you're going to be wondering when Satan got control of the airwaves. Then you find out that the music is still there, it's just in hiding. Natural reaction, you search out more of it, shit gets weirder and weirder and boom, you're off the beaten path. Good for you, but it doesn't make you the Wiz of Wonderful.

And then there's the third group. And this one is crazy. They're the group that...wait for it...just likes that sort of music. Their inner dialogue goes something like this: "You prefer Miley Cyrus...well, okay, you're a tool, but this is what I like. Whatever."

That's it. That's the end of their story. Because they aren't out to prove anything by it. Some of them wear Nikes and American Apparel clothes. Some of them like the movie 'Patch Adams'. And some of them can listen to a well written pop song and not shit on it for being in tune and in 4/4 timing.

You can draw parallels with movies, books, whatever - right up to the personality traits that they present to you. I can say with absolute confidence that the most interesting people I've met don't ram all these incredibly interesting/quirky qualities down my throat. It is what it is.

And, with apologies to sailors with freakishly muscled biceps everywhere, I yam what I yam.

While I'm not an absolute tool, I'm not the kitty's titty either. I'm not wildly brilliant, nor am I blessed with the razor wit of some of my literary/comedic/social heroes. I don't like the vomit inducing shit that 's on the radio these days, but I'm by no means a guru that will change your life by passing my iTunes library unto you.

But I get by. I like to bitch, and I do it with passion, so people tend to be entertained by it. I get to have sex with girls that are out of my league because I'm in a band, I have cool hair, and I'm pretty fun. I get to go out with girls that are way too nice for me because I'm in a band, I have cool hair, I'm pretty fun, and they think they can fix my bad habits and solve my problems (they can't). I've got a good grasp of the English language, I enjoy writing, and you know what? I'm not bad at it at all.

But I'm no Chuck Klosterman.

Anyone who writes (or enjoys talking) about the state of music has a special reason to hate MTV: they've taken away the use of their name as an identifier for a type of music listener, resulting in the inelegant sentence this footnote is referencing. Now, all watching MTV signifies is you enjoy reality (read: horribly scripted) shows chronicling the transformation of shitty automobiles into public eyesores, guys dating mothers to infer which housewife's daughter they'd like to fuck and impossibly rich young people non-ironically dealing with their inconsequential 'problems'.You could argue, probably with some success, that such viewing predicates poor musical taste. However, it's dicey. Because I bet sometimes even Prince needs to take in a little 16 and Pregnant.

[blogagog-blog1]

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 4, 2008

What the fuck is this blog about?

Honestly, I don't know yet. 

The title refers to the diametrically opposed moods I have the joy of experiencing due to clinical depression. Bipolar II? Cyclothymia? Couldn't tell you, too cool to go back and get re-diagnosed. Oh, for the good old days of Dysthymia.

Fucked up thing is, I'm known as 'that fun guy we love to see out'. I am, as they say, Zee Life Of Zee Party. How that shit happens isn't hard to figure out at all (and if it is I'm sure we'll talk about it later) but the end result remains. There's not much of an option to sit and talk about deeper things with the people I find I've become surrounded with - the template of whom is generally a guy who wants to see you double fisting beers while hitting on hot, shallow ladies. Or a hot shallow lady who wants to see the same thing...or a whole different type of fisting. So I guess that's a reason to start one of these.

Secondly, I used to write a lot. And well. Really well. But one of the ways the raging, random, no-pants synapse dance going on in my and in thousands of other peoples' heads gets off is fucking your enjoyment of anything. So I've stopped for years. Fiction, commentary, songs; everything.

Which is pretty unfortunate, since it probably would've helped a lot. The whole disorder creates a pretty funny cycle, how it actually keeps you from doing the things that would actually help. Not ha-ha funny, more of a kind of put-your-life-in-danger funny. Nyuk, nyuk.

So here's my attempt at writing again.

I sincerely doubt I'm even going to tell anyone about or direct anyone to this blog. If, by some insidious act of Balooba, the Zimbabwean web log God, someone happens to stumble onto it, couple things.

Anything good I say about myself isn't arrogance. Far from it, it's me trying to remember things I actually liked about myself. I need to remember those, soon.

If I somehow manage to be honest - both in terms of sticking to the truth and being non-omissive - about the shit I've done and that I've seen, a judgmental person could have a field day looking down on me. I couldn't give a shit. If that's you, your mother wears army boots and her breasts are cock-eyed.

So. If there ever is a 'you', I'll see you later. If you remains to be just me, then I'm doing this for you so you...or you're doing this for me...shit. Either way, you better show you some goddam respect and gratitude, you.

Just a little pronoun humour there. It's all the rage in Africa right now.

Just ask Balooba.