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Friday, February 10th, 2006
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6:21 am - Dilettante's Melodrama
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"Everyone had always said that John would be a preacher when he grew up, just like his father. It had been said so often that John, without ever thinking about it, had come to believe it himself." -James Baldwin
A bulletin board questionaire this morning had me thinking about James Baldwin. That quote has a lot more to it than, I suspect, Baldwin intended. For me, at least, it opens a door to an entire roomful of luggage and dusty boxes waiting to be opened. I also recall a bit of poetry from some forgotten author, which went loosely: "If a man is discovered to be a fiddle player, why, fiddle he must for all his life." (I wish I could recall the correct wording and author. If you know, fire off an e-mail to blutwulf@qx.net and clue me in.)
I was to be an "artist." I suppose everyone expected me to live in an attic in Tuscany where I'd work in oils for all my days. The only unbegrudged money spent on me as a youth, and the only parental support I ever recieved was related to this envisioned future of mine. Indeed, It had been said so often that Jim, without ever thinking about it, had come to believe it himself.
I still carry the scars of this. I yearn tragically for talent. I pine for hours, staring at everyone's works from Alma-Tadema to Vermeer. I cannot shake the passion for it. If you place a photo of a paintbrush before me, I will become dazed and useless for hours. At work, I have to carefully avoid running across references/visuals which are overly aesthetic, lest I waste my hours surfing the web and looking at paintings.
As a child, every pore of me was "future painter." Even the damned toys they got me were related. Remember "Masterpeice," that Milton Bradley game? It introduced me to Hopper. I can recall the first time I met them all. I met Gainesborough on my grandmother's wall. I re-created "Blue Boy" with a ball-point pen for her. I met Millet when I was painting some pastoral scene on the wall of our school back in 6'th grade. The teacher had found me a painting of a grain field, hoping I could glean some inspiration from it. She had no idea how fertile the soil, nor robust the seed. (The last two sentences are a masterpiece of metaphor, if I do say so myself, especially when you consider that "The Gleaners" was the Millet painting she had found. Hyuk hyuk.)
But... But... But I simply lack the talent to match my passion. I wonder if my family and friends know that I have done fewer than 30 paintings in my 42 years? I wonder if they realize the dedication and cash required to crank out one or two a month until one can proudly claim to be talented?
I realized when I was in 8'th grade that I wanted to be an engineer. Electronics appealed to that part of me which screamed for order, logic, reason, and aesthetic form meeting purpose. However, I had been conditioned to seek a paintbrush instead. Thus began my 8-year nightmare battle with gaining control of my life.
This battle was not against physical foes. If you ask my family and friends, not one of them will admit any of the above, and certainly not one will admit that they fought with me in those 8 years. That is because they didn't. What I was fighting was the spectres created in a lifetime of conditioning. I was fighting myself.
It was not easy forsaking that which was "right." To this day, I mourn the ass-whipping I gave it. I occasionally go through a phase wherein I dig my supplies out from the closet and knock off 3 or 4 Bob Ross style smearings to give my wife and mother. I still obsess on art, and still have all of the passion for it. However, I was successful in my 8-year battle, and now have a mental block rlated to it. That is, my obsession always snaps itself. The longest it lasts is a few hours, and these spells happen only every few months.
How sad is it that I was successful in manufacturing a roadblock to passion?
Whenever I get pulled under by the passion, I claw my way back to the surface by reminding myself: painters are a dime a dozen... one out of 20 people you meet paints better than you... there is no income from this; remember your family patriarch status... grow up... get your head out... face reality... what are you going to do? be a painter?
So I won. I could shake it off. Man, I tell you... "Victory" was sweet. I played guitar. I always felt a similar passion for music, and finally could pursue it. Computer Science evolved to the point that it replaced my passion for the order of electronics. Thus, I pursued it, and to this day I am employed in I/T.
Do you know what a Phyrric victory is? You see, my "victory" came with baggage.
Whenever I play music, the enjoyment and progress is roadblocked. It seems that I am always reminding myself: musicians are a dime a dozen... one out of 20 people you meet plays better than you... there is no income from this; remember your family patriarch status... grow up... get your head out... face reality... what are you going to do? be a musician?
Whenever I work in comp sci I am always reminding myself: software engineers are a dime a dozen... one out of 20 people you meet codes better than you... there is no future in this; remember your family patriarch status... grow up... get your head out... face reality... what are you going to do? move to India?
Yeah, I won.
current mood:  crushed
current music: Green Grass and High Tides - The Outlaws
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| Monday, January 16th, 2006
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8:14 am - The Grandkids of The Day
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I like the occasional swirling of the cesspit of public dialogue. Sometimes a stick will be swirled through the soup, and interesting, amusing, depressing, or otherwise noatable chuncks will roil to the surface. The media's penchant for agitating the cesspit is the only redeeming quality of the sensationalistic and money-grubbing swine. They are right; if they roil it enough, people will find chunks to behold.
So anyway, the public dialogue surrounding Roas Parks and her December 1'st anniversary of civil disobedience caused all manner of items to swirl to the surface. One of the more notable was the "ah, yes, I had forgotten about that black soldier who was killed a month before Rosa's protest" moment. If you don't remember, a U.S. soldier boarded the bus accidentally from the front (must have felt like a man, citizen, etc., and forgotten where he was at). He told Cletus the Deputy to piss off, and took a bullet. Frankly, I feel his sacrifice was as meaningful as any military death in a fight for American best interests. The man needs lionized more. I cannot even recall his name. It should be as well-known as Rosa Parks'.
But think about that for a minute. I am only 42, and can recall my childhood in Burkeburnette, Texas. This was from about '69 to '75. We had just moved from New Jersey and New York to Texas. It was, how does one say, a wee bit of culture shock. Anyway, as recently as that, it was common to see/hear black people treated like dirt. Burkeburnette had "Soul City," which was the black side of town. Routinely, I'd listen to the adults around me denigrate black people. If it was this open and free to publicly ridicule and mistreat blacks in 1970, I can only imagine what it must have been like a decade earlier.
Fast forward to today. I work with people of virtually every race, no matter how you like to subdivide. This is a peer relationship. Is racism dead?
No. From what I can tell, and from closed conversations, it is alive and kicking. It has simply become a private thing, with unspoken rules among the white elitists. Sounds like a bad plot from a bad movie, eh? But think about it... You know exactly what I am talking about. You have one or more friends who you know are racist pigs, but who only ever reveal this in private, around only whites. You know many who, while you wouldn't call them "racist pigs," are certainly racist. Does it matter if they never genuinely act on it? That is a moot question, because they DO act on it every time they sputter their moronic shit in conversations. They perpetuate the ignorance. Trust me - if they confide their level of racism to you, their children are reaping wholsale levels from them.
But, I am still left with a slight degree of elation. It is indeed getting better. The day before yesterday, blacks were being killed for being "uppity." Yesterday, they were treated openly like dirt. Today, the government has made phenomenal leaps, and white America has gone to ground with its bigotry, keeping it secret for the most part. Tomorrow, hopefully, fewer will harbor that secret.
It is still an unconscious and unspoken thing, mind you. Nobody is planning and organizing bigotry on a national level, but the effects of closed bigotry end up with a net-result of still fewer opportunities and more obstacles for minorities. But nothing to compare to the open obstacles of yesteryear.
The time-honored cycle of "sit down, shut up, and grow up" looks to be a 50 year plan in America. I have to be honest and say that 30 years ago I would have bet it would have taken 100 years.
current mood:  calm
current music: None
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| Wednesday, December 28th, 2005
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6:53 am - Terrorism No Longer Nascent
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Lets go back to the last century. Relatively few people had TOW missiles and AK-47s. Generally, the world saw a population which had access to uninspiring materiel of war. For the most part, the impoverished were illiterate and armed with rakes, shovels, and the like. Only the militaries had access to military-grade weaponry, and the remainder had more pedestrian sidearms. That is, the Swahili has spears, the army had cannon, and the average Joe had a rifle or pistol. If the impoverished wanted to wage warfare upon the civilized state, they did so through impotent means. Rarely, you could find instances of the common man attempting to blow up British Parliament, but for the most part the illiterate and impoverished were impotent.
Historically, the illiterate and impoverished were more eyesore than threat. That has changed.
In the poorest nations on Earth, in the poorest slum of that poorest nation, you can find people who are not only literate, but who are, say, PC literate as well. The Earth, as a population, has grown up. The poorest are no longer overwhelmingly neolithic tribes scratching out a life. They are mud hut dwelling impoverished people who can oftentimes read, and who are sophisticated far beyond the standards of even the 1950s.
This segment of the planet's population are armed not only with literacy and occasional electronic communication, but they are armed with 30 year old materiel of war. Now, back in 1875, a modest military outfit could easily handle an insurgency of flintlock-and-bow-wielding rabble. Older materiel mattered back then. Now, though, the rabble have AK-47s. They have M-16s. Still, a modest modern military can handle the rabble, but it is now painful. More painful is the geurrilla tactics of terror.
Yesteryear's eyesores are armed well enough to cause significacnt damage today. Also, they have access to such quaint information such as, say, combining table sugar with solidox, or powdered rust with powdered aluminum, or even feul oil and fertilizer. The "3'rd Worlders" of today have access, means, and ability to produce profound effects on the more developed peoples. Tomorrow, access to nuclear or biological weaponry will be the standard. This is unavoidable. The world groaned when the bow and atlatyl use spread, and the world groaned when steel spread, and the world groaned when gunpowder spread, and the world groaned when... you get the point. It is unavoidable that within 100 years the average high-schooler can build a significant bio-weapon in his mamma's kitchen (did I say 100 years? Right...).
Pretty tenuous spot, eh? Suddenly the forgotten eyesore of the population can bite. Since there is no means of preventing the spread of knowledge, and there is no means of preventing geurilla attacks from rapidly advancing 3'rd Worlders, what in the Hell can one do?
Probably the silliest waste of time, resources, and life is a "War on Terror." That is, a "war" wherein you try to kill the bad guys. All you will accomplish is dicking around until they get nukes. They will. What good is there in generating stronger racial hatreds until then?
The only reasonable solution to terrorism is to elevate that hitherto unsightly portion of the planet's population. You can no longer depend on removing their means of terror. You can only address their reasons for terror. How? Hell if I know. But let's look at this... Why is it that I am no threat to ever become a terrorist? What makes Blutwulf a non-factor in the whole thing? For that matter, why is there no threat of you committing a terrorist act on, say, Spain? What about you is different than the terrorists? Answer that, and you have your solution. Pretty please, answer better than religion or skin color. I bet money that it has something to do with hope, or what you imagine you can actually gain in life.
current mood: busy
current music: While You See a Chance - Steve Winwood
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| Saturday, December 24th, 2005
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5:17 am - Christmas Eve
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Bah, humbug. Whatever. You know... I am sitting here in pain. After a week, my left shoulder still aches as sore as a toothache because of the fall I took on the pavement when I slipped on ice. It twisted pretty badly. For a while, my sinus infection "drowned out" the pain in the shoulder, but that has cleared up just enough that I get loud doses of both.
I got a promotion at work, with a 15% pay increase. The increase is more than the total I made in my 20's. I suppose I should be happy about that, but it, like anything else, is tainted. It was not a "reward" for the shit I have been put through for the last year. It is a "make-up" for the shit I was put through for he past 5 years. I'm still waiting on the past year's merit increase.
Everything sucks. My wife is upstairs, in bed sick. My daughter is in another town, my son in yet another. I'll get to see the grandkids this weekend, and give them my feeble gifts. Mrs. Blutwulf's ovarian cancer last spring and her heart attack a few months ago have left Paw Paw just a little BROKE. Whatever. 6 months from now, who'll remember?
Bah. Humbug. I even woke up at FOUR this morning because I quit smoking a month or two ago. Every night I wake up from 3 to 5, my body crying for nicotine. How fucking pathetic is that? Its like Bilbo and the One Ring, desperately longing for that which he knows he cannot have.
But... But waking up at 4 gave me an excuse to go out for Krispy Kreme doughnuts, eh? There was no ice on the car or roads at all, either. I put on my Levi jacket, left my shirt untucked, and just hopped in the car and went up the hill to buy some. I bought a dozen, and they were less than an hour old. The deliveryman had just left.
When I got home, I made a pot of coffee and cleaned up the living room. When the coffee finished, I grabbed a couple of doughnuts (classic and chocolate iced custard-filled), a cup of coffee, and put on a copy of "Smokin' O.P.'s" by The Bob Seger System (one of The Great albums of the 70's). Sitting there eating Krispy Kremes, sipping decaf, and listening to old Bob Seger, it occurred to me: things ain't so bad.
I get to see my grandkids this weekend. I'll be giving them presents. I am making a massive Christmas feast today. My wife is getting better. Hell, I got a raise, and a bigger office. My shoulder aches, but the pavement took damage because I am ten feet tall, I walk forty-seven mile of barbed wire, and have a suitcase covered with rattlesnake hide. Tell me now... who do you love?
Merry Christmas, World, and God bless Bob Seger and Krispy Kreme.
current mood: accomplished
current music: Who Do You Love - Bob Seger System
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| Tuesday, November 8th, 2005
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7:51 am - War on "Terrorism?"
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A soldier (until proving himself otherwise) is someone to admire. Steeped in a tradition of honor, training, and service, a soldier is something one can wholly accept as the life for himself or his son. A soldier, apart from martial training, is trained in values deeply-rooted in pragmatism that has been molded by rigidly-defined forms of authority, conduct, and responsibility.
A soldier does not detonate hand-made bombs amongst defenseless civilians for the sole purpose of terrorizing the women and children who are his victims. A soldier understands that there are other soldiers trained to produce better materiel, who follow their own traditions of craft. A soldier will only use the bomb to effect a concrete gain, transcending the artless, cowardly, and limited gains afforded by terrorizing unarmed civilians. Assault upon the defenseless is a near-final tactic, used only when a concrete gain more tenuous than a few days' fear.
The resurgents in Iraq are not soldiers. Perhaps at some point in their lives some of them were, but the thinly-defined goals and poorly effected assaults upon the defenseless have removed all doubt. They are common rabble, no more honorable or worthy of respect than destructive vandals in an inner-city youth gang filled with unintelligent and beligerent criminals. It is in the best interests of non-terrorists to see them all put down like the beasts they are.
They are not revolutionaries, for a revolutionary does not soil his own bedding. A revolutionary has a goal of effecting the governance of their choice, and will work with far more tools than the deaths of those he wishes to govern. Revolutionaries work in concert; they are not a collection of a handful of distinct groups and thousands of detached profiteers/looters. The fact that one or more of the discernable groups has a genuine agenda in no way elevates the remainder of the rabble to soldier-like status.
It is absurd to ever utter a phrase such as "war on terror." War cannot be waged on ideology, unless one waxes poetic and chooses to view "war" in a propagandist's light. Warfare is waged upon soldiers and the infrastructure supporting them. Law enforcement is waged upon criminals. Terrorism is waged upon the unarmed. Murder is waged upon those who are undeservedly killed through your actions.
In a time of declared war, the Executive Branch gains impressive powers to effect change. The spirit of this caveat is to, of course, better enable American success in warfare.
Perhaps I am incorrect, but I am reasonably certain that the U.S. Constitution is neither poetry, nor does it view "war" in a propagandist's light. In spite of this, Congress approved an act of War, and granted to the Executive Branch all war-related powers.
Until someone reasonably illustrates how protecting a foreign state from criminal insurgency is indeed "war," I can only regard the current administration as murderers of U.S. soldiers, who deserve far better than the deaths they are recieving. They fight for America - not for the current pack of tax-fattened hyenas who are in a position to abuse their service, and who are in that position through domestic propaganda mills.
If the goal were American annexation of Iraq, to be governed under its flag, then the soldiers' deaths would not be murder. If the goal is to create justification for abuse of domestic powers, then the current executive branch is accountable for dishonoring and murdering U.S. soldiers.
current mood: complacent
current music: Santa Claus Wants Some Lovin'
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| Thursday, November 3rd, 2005
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5:35 am - Long and Winding Road
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Well, I just popped in and read my post previous to this. How... singular.
Since making that post, my wife has had a heart attack. About a month ago, while I was at work, in a meeting in my office, the phone rang. It was her. She was crying, and said she'd just called 9-11. I told her I'd be there asap. She dressed, locked the door, and waited on the ambulance on the porch. I mean... my God... who in the Hell does that? Crying and dying, she dressed in loose clothes that had no snaps or buttons, and then locked the door and waited on the porch.
I was in an altered state of consciousness on the drive home. Jesus Christ, it was a 15 minute-drive, and she was having a heart attack. Of course, the enormity of it was slamming at my mind: "she could be dead by the time you get there." I wanted to scream. I felt so impotent at that moment. I have an ego the size of Detroit, but in that drive I was completely useless and coudn't change a damned thing. I floored it, though, and made it home in about 10 minutes.
The ambulance was coming out, around the final turn, as I was going in. Its lights were on, but there was no siren. Was this good or bad? It didn't seem to be moving a whole lot faster than normal. I wanted to vomit. I did a U-turn and pulled in behind it.
In the window I saw her little head. I couldn't see her face, but seeing her made everything worse. It is hard to explain. The previous 15 minutes of panic and horrible thoughts had been beaten back. That is, you lie to yourself, you try to "best-case-scenario" everything, and you dodge ugly pictures. Seeing her head, for an instant, made it all slam in without any hindrance. I almost lost it. My baby was dead.
Then... her head moved. It rolled left to right. This was a mannerism she has when she is in pain; it was not a bump in the road. I've seen it a million times before. Suddenly, most of the adrenaline cut off, and I got my mind back under control.
Then, I learned a lesson in ambulance driving. Even thought they never went more than 5 miles per hour over the speed limit, they only dropped below the speed limit a handful of times - none more than, say, 10 mph below. They had the lights on, and hit the siren at every intersection. I lacked this, and lost them after about 2 intersections. But by then I knew which hospital to which they were driving.
This is getting long-winded. I'll stop here, and probably will cover it a bit more in my next posting.
current mood:  contemplative
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| Wednesday, September 14th, 2005
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6:08 am - Smokin'
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My wife and I are trying to quit again. It looks like she may be doing it, this time. I am down to a pack a day, and she is down to two or three random cigarettes whenever she breaks down. Three weeks ago, we both burned through about 2.5 to 3 packs a day each.
I started when I was 11. We were all at that "experimentation" age wherein we wanted to taste forbidden fruit, etc. Instead of grabbing girls' boobs, which provides much more reward, we decided to Be Smokers. How's that for failed experimentation planning? When your 11 year old son seems to be in a mood for forbidden fruit, have him sneak a porno tape into his VCR, or something.
My mother was smoking some brand at the time called "Lemon Twists." You have to remember that a year or two earlier cigarette commercials still played on television, and I can remember sitcom stars hawking some brand in each episode of their show as a bumper commercial.
Much like today, wherein you have people reviled for uttering the blasphemy of "global warming," back then you were ridiculed if you indicated that smoking was terribly unhealthy. Pseudointellectuals and tobacco companies carried on at great length trying to minimalize the danger of smoking. Today, of course, the under-30 crowd mocks anyone who smoked back in the day, but it was a different time. No lie, just like science and medicine are attacked today, they were doing it then. Deliberate lies and egregious cronyism are nothing new. So, grandpa smoked. He had heard of the danger, but he had also heard mockery of the danger. (The fact that the mockery was from "science" funded by tobacco companies is why you see the lawsuits today. People today don't understand this.)
Whatever. I was never one to be taken in by sophistry. I knew the damned things were unhealthy, and pretty much ignored the tobacco companies. Thus, this is 100% my fault. The habit became an addiction, and now, 30+ years later, I am a doomed man.
Unless I quit. We're not talking nerve tissue. If I quit today, I greatly increase the chance of my little alveoli and other badly spelled doodads healing.
It is brutal.
current mood: calm
current music: None
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| Friday, September 9th, 2005
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6:10 am - Yet More Katrina
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Well, the lunacy of those thousands of miles from New Orleans has grown. Actually, "grown more focused" is a better term. It seems that the notion of those who hadn't evacuated are all morons has become a frequent refrain, and now speculation as to why those people are so moronic is the next stage in a diseased public dialogue.
Imagine my surprise when people began justifying their narrow-sighted bigotries. The simple reality is that many humans walking about are in a constant search for self-validation and "evidence" supporting their belief in their own superiority. How can they feel superior unless they can show those who are inferior, right?
The fact that the overwhelming majority of those who hadn't evacuated are among the poorest of citizenry has apparently sunk in. But rather than backpedaling and revising their moronic assertions, the "internet royalty" have adapted by the classic, "yes, yes, but... but..." approach to minimalizing the indemnification of poverty and have begun to attack their targets with what they imagine are reasonable arguments indicting them for being poor.
It seems that if one is poor, then one is manifestly lazy and wanting the State to support them. Are there examples of people who indeed are such? Of course. There are also lesbian biker nuns. However, does a handful of cases lend credence to one's indictment of the whole? Of the most?
A recent bulletin board post I read saw the author irrationally indict 20% of New Orleans' population as being lazy welfare abusers. He couldn't understand why those people didn't approach life the same way he did. The difference between how he grew up and how most of them grew up is lost on him. The difference between the opportunities afforded to him and opportunities afforded to them are lost on him. The fact that these differences are external to him and them is lost on him.
It is a textbook example of the classic, "let them eat cake" arrogance. Much as it never occurred to Marie that possibly her poor had no fucking cake, the "internet royalty" cannot see past their own infrastructure supporting them.
Perhaps I am the one who is missing something? I do admit that I have no idea why I should regard myself as intellectually superior or having more cosmic worth than a poor person. I do admit that I fail to understand why I am better than them, or why I should regard them as a disease.
current mood: cold
current music: None
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| Friday, September 2nd, 2005
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5:04 pm - Looters
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Ah, the looters in New Orleans.
By now, you've seen your own share of reports about the looting (unless they are caucasians who "find" food). What bothers me is the number of people who are sitting in their non-New Orleans homes and filled with a "by God" moment as they say, "Hell yeah! They gonna shoot the looters on sight!"
What is the emotional appeal for people who get a boner at the idea of the authorities killing people for stealing?
Look... They can have the shit. These are not looters in New York during a 12-hour power outage. The city ain't gonna be back tomorrow. Let them loot all they want. They are not "looting," really; they are "scavenging a ruined wasteland." These businesses have zero hope of selling the merchandise anyway. When disaster relief funding comes through, the looted business is going to be covered. There was a bit of inclement weather, remember? What does the business owner lose? Who are the authorities protecting? If some opportunistic loser squirrels away a room filled with car CD players and jewelry, let them. They'll eventually get the reward reserved for those sorts of people anyway.
Besides, you can always hope that he/she will die of thirst or disease in the next couple of weeks, eh? Perhaps not as good a woodie you'd get if you saw them get blasted on your glass teat, but still good, right? Isn't that what you're wanting? To hear of "them" being put in their place for not being "you?"
current mood: gloomy
current music: Some Country Shit My Wife is Playing
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5:51 am - Katrina Survivors
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Listen to this shit:
"The officials ordered everyone to evacuate well in advance because they knew it was going to be bad and that they knew they wouldn't have the resources to help everyone. Of course over 80% of the people listened and left. Now the remaining 20% that ignored the officials and decided they were smarter than the experts are criticizing the officials for not doing enough while simultaneously shooting at the people trying to help them. Frickin brilliant."
That's from some pseudointellectual gimp on a bulletin board. The guy is probably wondering why the last 20% didn't hop in the BMWs their mammas bough them so they could drive up to stay in their family's guest housing in the Hamptons. I am starting to hear the rhetoric more and more from tools (the same crowd who have their asses wiped by mamma or their husband) who imagine that the victims brought it on themselves. Their argument is that they were morons for staying. It is the same bleating crowd who have absolutely no grasp of a reality that doesn't provide for someone or someones to take care of their goofy asses.
Was there a small percentage who had the means but considered themselves bulletproof? Of course. However, the overwhelming majority of those who stayed are rank poor. They are people who had no way and no place to escape to. That is the case in any evacuation. Frankly, I have doubts that 80% actually managed to get out. That is a surprisingly high percentage of the population who had both means and a place to go.
These people are victims of a major hurricane. They are suffering, and have lost family and friends. I would like to see one of these moronic posters dropped in front of a single victim so they can tell the victim how stupid they are. I am given to wonder if the above poster would look at some man who has lost his wife and child and explain that it was due to the man being stupid.
This is one of the new uglies of the intarweb. We are all familiar with the "internet badasses" who are tough guys in a text box, but the people who indict other from the comfort of their Dell in their air-conditioned home and who imagine that they are somehow superior to... well... it turns out that they are almost always proclaiming themselves superior to the poor or ethnic... these people are the new "internet royalty."
There are many in any city who have no known family or friends outside of that city. There are many who have only a few in the city. There are many who are tourists, and whose nearest family, friend, or car are thousands of miles away.
Another gem:
"OK, I understand I made a blanket statement, I am sure that there may be perfectly good reasons for staying in a house below sea level during a storm 2 factors over what the levies could handle, like maybe they wanted to loot WAL*MART for that cool pair of sneakers, rape the women and pillage hospitals for narcotics afterwards or something."
The above classic from someone 2000 miles away from New Orleans, who typed it while her husband the professional pilot was probably out making enough to put a pool in their yard. The possibility that the victims lack an infrastructure to provide for their own Dell at which to sit and imagine their own superiority never occurs to her.
The anarchy among the victims is understandable. Desperate people do desperate things. The ugliness of people who are against the wall is only ugly from the balcony overlooking the street. What turns my stomache is the ugliness of taken-care-of airheads who sit in their comfortable homes, unaffected by the tragedy, who pass judgement on those they imagine are less worthy than themselves.
current mood:  cranky
current music: None
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| Monday, August 29th, 2005
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6:01 am - Parentheses
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Man, I feel like someone has taken a pillowcase filled with doorknobs and beaten me with it. Sleep last night did nothing to help. I can't figure out why I am tired. It is not like I dig ditches for a living.
I had to effectively work all weekend. We moved a database from one server to its new home over the weekend. Although I will never use the name of the business for whom I work - or even my job title - in this blog, I will say that the database is a bit larger than you imagine. It was the production data warehouse for our enterprise-level storage. The ODS for this sort of thing can be big. As in 10+ hours to load data from the previous days' work from all the feeding databases. We have a vendor model for I/T support where I work, and 3 different companies were involved directly, plus 2 more indirectly. It is always impressive when the project managers get things completed. The weekend was a "win."
(You are gripped with interest, I can tell.)
Anyway, without the boring details, I had to drive in to my office both on Saturday and Sunday. Later on Sunday I was able to connect from home, but I had already lost my "parentheses."
What do I mean by "parentheses?" Roger Zelazny once remarked that sleep's ability to enclose each day by parentheses is what makes us able to endure life. That is, if we're able to turn days into discrete packets of life, we can mentally catalog things as past, way past, ahead, etc. Something that happened three days ago is enormously more endurable than something which happened today. It is not a function of hours. The fact that you slept 2 times puts it securely in the past. Sometimes, one sleep is all that is needed to embed something in the past.
By working Saturday and Sunday, even if it was only a few hours each session, I have effectively been working 7 days straight and about to put in the 8'th. I am salaried, so I can't bitch. Not that I would, really; this move was needed. I cannot take a vacation day because we're about to roll out a major change.
*sigh Nose to the grindstone, and shit. I have 2 critical projects that I need to have done ASAP. One had better be complete today, or I'll probably lose the trust of an entire department. The sort of work I do requires the trust of my internal customers. My success for 5 years is pretty amazing when you consider my demeanor.
current mood:  tired
current music: Garbage Truck - Outside in the lane
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| Friday, August 26th, 2005
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4:34 am - A Moist Towelette, Please
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I made it, yesterday.
It was an almost sublime experience as the day progressed. We use an instant-messaging tool at work, and I monitored the chatter among a few guys who were scattered in buildings all over the plant site. Before too long, my window started populating with things like: "They got Security Guards on the door," or "Here comes #275 now... First one... It is John," or "unbelievable... they laid off Joe."
Security was not needed. Nobody freaked out. Relatively soon, the gossip mills had sounded the "all clear" message and we popped back out of our dens. It strikes me that it was a lot less than the 275. When all was done, I only know of about 7 people it affected. Of course, I don't know all of the thousands who work there.
Anyway, I had a conversation with a friend who claimed that it is "extremely shitty" of a company to lay off people. That struck me as an odd notion. It has never occurred to me to think ill of a company which has to lay off people. For instance, are they shitty if you interview and they don't hire you? Are you shitty if you ever quit?
current mood:  blank
current music: None
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| Thursday, August 25th, 2005
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5:44 am - Mene Mene Tekul Upharsin
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Well, today is the day of the layoff announcement at work. I survived 2001, and it is hoped that I'll survive 2005.
Although it has been 7 or 8 years since my hiring, I am still unused to working in Corporate America. Layoffs and the plots from Dilbert comic strips were things in the newspapers for me most of my life. Like everyone else, I had my preconcieved notions about layoffs and the practice/process of how it creeps along.
I have yet to experience the business I work for as being "Evil Overlords," or any of the negativistic images one normally associates with a layoff. Hell, I eat lunch and smoke an occasional cigarette with most of the crowd who'll be doing the processing. The business I work for isn't capriciously tossing out people with no plan or reason.
Everyone was offered a decent package to opt out voluntarily, first. You know, some people a few years from retirement jumped at this bridging for a lucrative early retirement. There were a few not ready for retirement anyway who took the option as a bundled nest egg for a move they were planning anyway. These voluntary exits reduced the number of forced layoffs. I am not sure what it is reduced to at this point, but I will be surprised if they have to do a forced layoff of over 225 people. That is out of a little over 4000 where I work.
The forced layoff won't exactly be a lottery. Although the criteria wasn't disseminated to the employee base, a few managers I have talked with indicated that some business areas were "fat." That is, they had more employees than needed. So I get the impression that this layoff will be a pretty straightforward reduction in headcount for some areas.
Of course I am troubled. I could be one laid off, right? But as I sit here typing this, it occurs to me that what bothers me most is the dread of talking to those who do get it. If it is me, sure, I'll be upset. But it will almost certainly be a few friends. It will certainly rip up the emotions of a few managers I am friends whith who'll have to do their job. For that matter, I have at least one friend in management who is on the bubble.
So am I a wonderful guy for worrying more about others than myself? Now, now. We know me. No, I suppose I am just more troubled by what is "definite." It is definite that I will see friends today in a lot of hurt and pain. It is only a "maybe" that I'll get it.
How do I talk to someone who has just gotten news like that? I'll find myself wanting to show them that I empathize, and that I feel bad for them, but I have a pretty dispassionate exterior. In 42 years I have learned that I come across as not caring, even though I lost sleep over the whole thing last night. I gave up trying to act differently to make a better show of it.
I think I'll hide in my office all day until it is over. It would be best for all, and spare everyone's feelings. Sometimes, being a Blutwulf robs one of the ability to help others carry an emotional burden, and it is best to not add to it.
current mood: dirty
current music: Old and Wise - Alan Parsons Project
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| Tuesday, August 23rd, 2005
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5:52 am - Support?
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With the Cindy Sheehan goings-on in the news, the notion of "support" has bubbled again to the surface of the public's disased cesspit of a dialogue. She is the person who started a campaign to get Bush to account for her percieved misuse of her son. This accounting was rapidly pigeonholed as an "antiwar" crusade by the media, and now we have have in Bush's hometown two groups facing off. The "antiwar" crowd, and the "prowar" crowd.
Neither want to be labeled, as such, of course. The antiwar crowd will tell you that they would be supportive of a Just War. The prowar crowd will tell you that they are not supporters of "war" per se; they're not supporters of war for simple warfare's sake. They're lying, mind you.
What makes me snerk my morning coffee is the rhetoric from those who feel they have a need to fight Sheehan's demand for accountability. What the fuck? What in the HELL is wrong with demanding accountability of our elected officials? Why in the world would someone be upset at another asking an elected official to justify an action? Why on Earth would we block them?
Manifestly, those in the "prowar" crowd who are fighting Sheehan are neo-con dipshits who have divorced themselves from reason. They have absolutely no valid reason for resisiting a fellow citizen's demand for accountability. Hell, it is in their best interests to allow the demands. They should get in line and make their own demands.
Yet, they fabricate a justification. Naturally, they are not inclined to say something like, "Errrum... Bush is going to run off all the black people and homos, woman, please don't make waves because I am terribly fretful over their existence and would prefer it if we let him." Instead, they attempt (and fail)to use some sophistic nonsense about "support for the troops."
Do they imagine that the troops get to pick their battles? At issue is the decision to invade and garrison Iraq. Did military personnel look at the White House and tell the White House they were invading? Or was it the other way around?
Demanding accountability of our pocket-lining, term-elected officials IS support of the troops. It is the greatest support we can give them. Demanding that our elected officials not misue and that they account for the use of the military is the best way American citizenry can support the soldiers. Demanding accountability of the White House in NO WAY diminishes the sacrifice of the soldiers, and in no way dishonors them. Stepping up to the plate and fighting for the troops is honoring them.
The prowar crowd "supporting the troops" are actually supporting only the current administration. They have become almost comedic in their desperate bigotries and lack of reasoning.
current mood: bitchy
current music: None
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| Friday, August 19th, 2005
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10:37 pm - To Be a Rock and Not to Roll
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Music is an odd beast. Thanks to mass media in the 20'th century, humans get their music complete with personality.
In the 40's and 50's, the love of a song came with (or influenced by) the love for the artist performing it. This phenomenon happened earlier, but with post-war movies, it really took hold. Later, in the 60's and 70's, our music came to us with album cover art, and the mystique/appeal of the artist(s).
Ideally, we'd all love songs the way we love Beethoven's 9'th without bothering to kow anything other than "he's a dead old European composer." The song would be what mattered, and we'd hope that the local symphony performs it well. Alas, we rarely get an opportunity to embrace just the song.
My personal experience (your results may vary) saw a young Blutwulf in awe and enamored with these 70's giants like Zeppelin and Bad Company. Jimmy Page was posessed of some mystical quality. Robert Plant sang with the voice of one who was handing out verities. I loved it. It shaped me. When Head East went down for the last time, when Gary Wright hopped on the Dream Weaver train, when Zeppelin offered no quarter, and when Major Tom sent word to his wife, I ate it like candy.
But then, I was younger than them. I viewed what they offered as some higher station... some higher order of understanding. "When all are one and one is all." "Move me onto any black square; use me any time you want." "A gathering of angels appeared above my head." Even at the time I knew that the lyrics were not exactly Byron, but I allowed that they were the attempts of those who were more hip to life than myself.
As I grew older, it became more and more difficult to be enamored with the musings of people younger than me. As arrogant as it sounds, what does some 23 year old kid have to offer me by way of teaching me about life? When I was 17, the 30 year olds had what I at the time saw as enlightenment. Now, though, I really have little use for even a 50 year old's notions of life.
The phenomenon described in the last paragraph is the key reason why as people get older, they listen to fewer and fewer new acts. For me to like a new act, they have to not come across to me as trying to offer some deep meaning. Interesting arrangement/music is a plus, and whimsical lyrics help. But the days of me finding a new Kansas are over.
The fault is in me, I suppose. But this guilty shame is mitigated by the fact that it happens to us all. Or not. It did me. The piper has lead me to reason. All are one, and one is all, and this bird you cannot change.
current mood: sad
current music: "Pinnacle" by Kansas
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| Tuesday, August 16th, 2005
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7:21 am - SteppenBlutWolfen
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Ages ago, I read Hesse's "Steppenwolf" novel. At the time, I was an 18-year-old kid who wanted to be able to say that he'd read it. You know, for all those "cool points" one gets for reading nonmainstream 20'th century European literature. So I could get babes by the truckload. So I could feel that I had further objectified my justifications for feeling intellectually superior to my peers. You know the drill.
The book, though, is really for an older crowd. Pot smoking, pretentious kids will like it because of the imagery, and many might claim to like it in order to gain those cool points, chicks, ego boosts, and wonderful alllusions to use in their own crappy writings. But, like I said, the actual substance behnd the writing is for an older crowd who will be able to identify with the thing.
I suppose what I am saying is that while I perhaps read the thing in an orgy of pretense in my youth, it has come to my attention that I think more and more of the book now, as I age. The element I am talking about is the loss of touch with the paradigms that enable us to go through life. A cheap example is: when you're a kid, policemen are noble, look out for you and are above reproach, whereas when you're older, you view them as just guys with jobs they probably shouldn't have considering their emotional baggage. Or something like that.
I'll try to come up with a few examples that serve better than that, though. I don't mean the commonly-butchered sacred cows pop psychologists carry on about. I am talking fundamental notions of what "is" and what "should be."
current mood: contemplative
current music: Zakk Wylde
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| Friday, August 12th, 2005
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6:05 am - Job Stress
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It was almost bizarre the other morning when my manager at work sent me to the Medical Department to get clearance for work. He was concerned that I threatened "postal" snapping, etc.
I didn't, of course. If work started sucking enough, I'd just quit. I have a long and distinguished list of jobs I've quit for less. I am not the most social person walking, and as non-materialistic as you could ask for. Me "going postal" is absurd. It'd take too much investment of caring.
However, he did it. Ostensibly, it was because of a joke I made with him. Outside of context, and scrutinized with a liberal reading of company policy, he was correct for sending me to Medical. However... However... For five years he and I have made jokes with each other. Yes, I know everyone says this, but I am talking wildly ribald locker-room humor, here. We always had an unspoken agreement that we'd never do it in front of others (except one or two other friends). It was classic "guy banter," really. Well, this joke I made (the subject line of a manifestly over-the-top joke was "postal") was between us as well.
Yet this time, for some reason, he decided to Be a Manager.
I would give a lot to know why. If someone else had seen it, I could understand. Of COURSE he'd have to do it. But if he did it purely of his own reaction, I am given to wonder why he didn't come talk to me first. He laughed and said that he knows I am not postal. He said he told Medical that I am not. Yet he sent me nonetheless.
If he was merely covering his ass, then that indicates that someone else must have known about the e-mail (it was one word: "aaaaarrrrggghh"). If he could laugh about the notion, and tell me that he knows I am no threat, why else would he go through the dance? If someone else DID know, and he was simply doing his job, then I'd of course, agree with him and not be terribly upset.
If nobody else knew about the e-mail, then something prompted him to do it. Perhaps he was not being honest when he laughed off the idea of me being postal? Maybe he is actually concerned? If so, then again, of course, I'd agree with him and not be upset.
If he took this upon himself under no scrutiny of others and with an understanding that I am not postal, then I cannot imagine why he would do it. LIke I said before, waiting 5 years to suddenly become Managerial over private humor is odd. I'd like to talk with him about this, but he is a rather intransigent sort, and we are both buried with work right now. Perhaps later next week.
Meanwhile, I get to labor in a career marred by a black mark on my permanent record which I in no way deserved. Yay.
current mood:  curious
current music: None
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| Monday, August 1st, 2005
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1:27 pm - Boltoned and Locked
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Well, they appointed Bolton, today. The current administration waited until a Senate recess, and then played a loophole to get their boy in. At least Bolton's credibility and reputation didn't take a ding in the confirmation, eh?
Jesus, how fucking ridiculous is this administration becoming? I'd like to meet the decision-makers behind this pack of weenies. A) They have found the ultimate front men, who apparently lack anything resembling integrity, and B) they make Goebbles and his bunch look like high-schoolers. Rove is awe-inspiring in his audacity. I'd like to learn about the others. If only to better focus my disgust. You see... when all the humorous accolades are done, we are talking about my nation.
How complacent we have become to sit and idly accept an administration who, in spite of manifest lack of prudence, boldly and unashamedly plans and effects a placement while the Senate recesses? This same administration systematically strikes down and vetoes any legislation which the God Salesmen deem counter-Christian. In a single generation, we'll all get to sit on the sidelines as other nations bypass us in medical and biological research.
Did I say complacent? Hell, no, many of us are clamoring for it. Granted, the number of ridiculous cretins who actually purchased a "W. The President" sticker for their pickup or SUV are dropping. (What the Hell is up with that sticker?)
Jesus Christ... These people have turned him into some sort of messiah. What is it they imagine he is offering them? Let's forget that they have, apparently, no notion of who/what the office of President means. Let's forget that they have no understanding of the party system, etc. These idiots are all imagining that he will heroically provide them with something. We know what it is. I may have mentioned it before.
So, by extension, andything He says, does, thumbs-up/thumbs-down, etc., is Good. W will do whatever it takes to protect us from those uppity ethnic types, and the homos. All we have to do is turn a blind eye to the administration's rape of our nation.
Fucking rednecks.
current mood: cranky
current music: Trail of Dead
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| Wednesday, July 20th, 2005
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8:50 pm - A One-Scene Play
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Lunch at Coleridge's
The setting: "Coleridge's Last," a smallish cafe permanently on the edge of going out of business, the walls festooned with ambience, and where the employees are on a first-name basis with the regulars. Our play's primary cast sits about a table, eating their lunch.
The cast:
Jon: His name is really John. However, he is an anglophile, and enamored with British art rock from the late 60's. He dresses in sandals, bell-bottoms, and has John Lennon's round glasses.
Russel: Russel is softly overweight; one might call it round baby fat. He has patchy and soft hairs on his jowls that he never shaves because he imagines it hides his ugliness. He plays tabletop AD&D.
Clifford: Clifford wears a European-cut jacket. He rode his bicycle to the cafe from his apartment near campus. He graduated two years ago.
Shallot: Yes, her name is really Charlotte.
Blutwulf: The waiter/owner. A pimple-faced bitter old man.
Scene One
Clifford: What are you eating?
Shallot: Do they have balsamic vinegar?
Russel: Yeah, they have salads. I am getting their Okra platter.
Jon: That sounds good. I wish they had scones.
Clifford: I'll get the open-faced roast beef.
Jon: (disappointed that nobody asked what a scone is) That sounds good, yeah. I'll get that.
Shallot: (disappointed nobody was impressed with her ability to name specific vinegars) Me too.
Russel: I don't want to go back to work. We should all blow off for the afternoon.
Shallot: I wish I could, but I have a project due by the end of the week.
Clifford: What is the project?
Shallot: I am designing a dress for the Andersons' event.
Jon: They got you guys to do it? Do you design, there?
Shallot: Well, we have to design the alterations.
Clifford: Who are the Andersons?
Shallot: (Glad that she is cool enough to know who the Andersons are, and happy to leave the fact that she only does alterations) You haven't heard of them?
Clifford: (hiding the sting of the realization that she is apparently one up on him... quickly, he ripostes) Should I? Are they patrons?
Shallot: I'd say. Aren't they?
Clifford: No, not at the gallery or at the University's department. (he calmly dismisses all things Anderson as beneath him in the calculated manner of dipping a breadstick into garlic butter)
Russel: Well, I'm not going back to work.
Jon: Where you going?
Russel: Back home.
Clifford: Which game? (pulls off a well-practiced condescending smile and head duck he saw in a movie once)
Russel: Not a game. I am in the middle of a book. (deliberately, he doesn't name it, hoping someone will ask)
Shallot: What book?
Russel: "Babbage."
(The group had all heard of it, but none knew enough about it to lie and pretend that they'd read it.)
Clifford: We should all go see a movie.
(Unspoken, they all knew that the question of a movie in no way referenced a new movie at a modern theater.)
Jon: What's on at the "Krisko" this weekend?
(The Krisko is an aging theater downtown near campus that shows cult classics and other movies catering to the 'different' crowd.)
Shallot: Rocky Hurrah, Pricess Monoyoke, and Life of Brain.
Jon: Oooh, yeah, let's watch Life of Brain.
Blutwulf: (approaching table) You gays have never seen Life of Brain?
Russel: Well, yeah. I have seen breasts before, too, but have no problem seeing them again and again.
Blutwulf: Yeah, well I doubt that. What do you guys want today?
Shallot: I am not a guy.
Blutwulf: No, you're not. You're the only girl in a clique filled with nerds. You're quite popular. The lack of competition must be great, eh?
Shallot: Wh.. wh...
Jon: Do you have scones?
Blutwulf: Yes.
Jon: You do?
Blutwulf: Yes.
Jon: I... they're not on the menu...
Blutwulf: I'll make you a couple. A buck each. What kind do you want?
Jon: (Not sure what 'kind' to name) Hmmm. Let me think.
Blutwulf: Lemon?
Jon: Yes, yes... That sounds good.
Blutwulf: Tea with that?
Jon: No, I'm good. Coke.
Blutwulf: Coke and scones. Gotcha. And you? (looks at Clifford)
Clifford: How's the open-faced roast beef sandwich?
Blutwulf: It is a lot like a roast beef sandwich laid open on a plate with a little gravy on it. Not unlike the one you had last week.
Clifford: Yeah, that and a Coke. I forgot I even had it last week. I have been busy at the gallery.
Blutwulf: Which gallery?
Clifford: The Slowo. (Acts as if it isn't the only serious gallery in the city)
Blutwulf: Oh, you work there?
Clifford: Acquisitions.
Blutwulf: Yes, yes, 'acquisitions' we must, but what do you do there?
Clifford: I am in the acquisitions department.
Blutwulf: They have departments? They only have... what... seven employees.
Russel: He unloads the deliveries and sets things up.
Clifford: You guys laugh, but there is a degree of though to the exhibit designs.
Blutwulf: Do you do the thought, or does your 'department' head?
Clifford: She lets me, occasionally.
Blutwulf: Mom's are like that. What do you want? (looking at Russel)
Russel: Can I get the okra platter?
Blutwulf: I guess. What do you want to drink? Goat's piss?
Russel: Ha ha, no, a Coke.
Blutwulf: And for m'lady? (looks at Shallot)
Shallot: (tries to lighten up and get over her fluster) Lets' see... (looks at menu) What kind of salads do you have?
Blutwulf: Whatever kind you want.
Shallot: Can I get a Mediterranean Almond with Balsamic Vinegar?
Blutwulf: You sure can. What to drink?
Shallot: Water, please. What kind do you have?
Blutwulf: Until last week, we had imported 'tap' water. However, we now have bottles of stuff that have blue labels.
Shallot: Oooh, I don't like Dysani.
Blutwulf: I can scare up some Perrier.
Shallot: How does it taste?
Blutwulf: The pretentious dorks of yore swore by it. It has bubbles, and is pronounced differently than it is spelled.
Shallot: I suppose I'll have that.
(Blutwulf leaves)
Shallot: Thanks for taking up for my honor, guys.
Jon: He was only joking. Probably jealous.
Russel: Probably kills him that we're sitting with one of the hottest girls to come here.
Shallot: What ever.
Clifford: He's a bastard, but he has good food, here.
Russel: (Inwardly disappointed that Shallot didn't leap into his pants when he complimented her) I think he used to be somthing to do with the school.
Jon: Blutwulf? No, I was talking to him about music the other day, and he hadn't ever heard of Kleimann or The Pastry Does. Blutwulf listens to Zeppelin and mainstream stuff. He doesn't know much about music.
Clifford: I saw him at the gallery once, but it was for 2-D representational.
Shallot: Ah.
Clifford: Probably just hates college students. One of those guys he has seen an endless parade of students arrive, leave, and achieve their dreams. Feel bad for the guy, almost. I wonder what he used to want to be?
Russel: Ask him.
(Blutwulf returns)
Blutwulf: Let's see... Mediterranean Almond salad with Balsamic venegar for you... Fix your blouse, I can see your tits... Scones for you... Open-faced roast beef for you... and an okra platter for you. Want a bib with that okra, or are you going to add to the collection already on your shirt?
Russel: Ha ha, you kidder.
Clifford: He's right, Russel, that Metallica tee shirt is nasty.
Russel: Fuck you guys. It is the Metallica Metal up your Ass shirt. You don't see these.
Blutwulf: Yes, your esoteric tastes extend toward a band who has sold close to 100 million albums. I am kidding about the shirt. I still have a Styx concert shirt.
(Brief silence)
Clifford: So, Blutwulf... What sort of work did you used to do?
Blutwulf: I worked at a McDonald's.
Shallot: I always wondered what it is like working there.
Blutwulf: Sure you have.
Clifford: Ah, and that led to your own restaurant?
Blutwulf: No, I worked there 6 months when I was a kid.
Jon: Do you think DeYoung's keyboard work was on par with Rick Wakeman's?
(Brief silence)
Blutwulf: Oh, the Styx reference earlier. Er... No, Wakeman was more original. Possibly better fundamentals.
Jon: You liked Yes?
Blutwulf: On of my favorite bands.
Jon: I love them. I have all of their albums. Did you like The Moody Blues?
Blutwulf: 'Did' I? I still do. This stuff isn't 'retro' to me, John. It is contemporary.
Jon: Oh, I don't like it simply as a fashion statement.
Blutwulf: I hope not now after a few years. I'd imagine that it has endeared itself to you.
Jon: I didn't start listening to it just because I wanted to 'be' a Yes fan.
Blutwulf: I did.
Jon: What?
Blutwulf: At first, all of the music I bought was because I'd 'heard of them' from people whose opinions I trusted or wanted to embrace. After time, of course, I developed my own tastes. But that doesn't erase the fact that I bought my first Boston album because of the cover art or that I bought my first Yes album because a friend loved 'Starship Troopers.'
Jon: I...
Blutwulf: What? You think tastes are genetic? They are environmental like anything else.
Shallot: Did you study psychology?
Blutwulf: I think I had 2 classes in school.
Clifford: Aha, you went to college?
Blutwulf: I dropped out a couple of times. I didn't finish.
Shallot: What did you study?
Blutwulf: How to fix the same salad I fix anyone, drop a handful of smoked almonds in, use perfectly normal vinegar, and overcharge.
Shallot: Ha ha. What?
Blutwulf: I am kidding. You are a clothes designer?
Shallot: Yes, I...
Clifford: No, wait a second. We were all just wondering what you used to be.
Blutwulf: Younger.
Clifford: Whatever.
Blutwulf: No, really. I was.
Clifford: *sigh
Blutwulf: Clifford, if you need a new jacket, I can get you one.
Clifford: What is wrong with this one? I like it.
Blutwulf: It is old. It is threadbare.
Clifford: I like it.
Blutwulf: Come on. For five bucks I can get you another unusual European thing 20 years out-of-style at the Salvation Army. Hey, maybe I can even get you a genuine wool British Officer's greatcoat.
Jon: Ha ha. ...where?
Clifford: You know what? Fuck you, Blutwulf. You think anyone who isn't broken down and who hasn't surrendered to the Norm is some sort of kid just trying to 'be different.'
Blutwulf: Pretty much, yeah.
Clifford: Have fun with the restaurant. You'll never have any idea what it is like to work in a gallery, boutique, bank, or... where do you work, Russel?
Russel: Wendy's.
Clifford: Whatever. Blutwulf, you know what? I think you probably hate anyone who is still young and who tries to follow their genuine desires rather than grinding out a bleak existence like you.
Blutwulf: Is it your desire to work at your mamma's fucking gallery, boy? Or has it been your dream for years to fucking produce art? You know goddamned well that you want your shit hanging in there, rather than spending your time hanging other people's stuff. Charlotte here spent 15 years growing up dreaming of being a designer. She couldn't make herself leave fucking town to do it. Jon St. Brit over there is lucky they let him keep his pony tail at the bank and that a certain degree of bohemian eccentricity is expected in a 23-year-old... They'll only make allowances a few more years, John... And Conan the Russel can't quit Wendy's for fear that a real job would cut into his goddamned D&D time.
Clifford: I do pro...
Blutwulf: None of you pretentious little gimps are without talent. Every one of you are smart, talented, and have tastes which delve into esoterica. However, at some point every one of you surrendered and gave the fuck up. Every one of you saw that it was easier to pursue 'being different' rather than you actual dream. You are pathetic liars. At least I am honest in my failure, kid. I am not impressed at all with your way-cool uniqueness. I have seen it all before. You think I didn't have a fucking poster of Einstein in my dorm room? You think I didn't swear up and down that my piece of shit typewriter was a 'classic?' Do you tools imagine that you invented pretentiousness? You think you're the first to give up and settle for being 'different?'
Russel: Ah, you admit you were pretentious!
Blutwulf: Yeah, close to the time I was at McDonald's. Grow up, kids. Stop being so 'different' and do what you know you love. ...but I guess you are, eh?
Shallot: Are we ready to leave?
Blutwulf: Free food. I'll pick up the ticket.
Shallot: You don't have to.
Blutwulf: I will. Have fun at the Krisko. Drink an imported beer your peers have never heard of on me.
Clifford: Let's go.
current mood: contemplative
current music: Embarrassingly, the Rascals
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(comment on this)
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| Tuesday, July 5th, 2005
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9:56 am
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About 3, possibly 4 years ago, when I had only started trolling these Inny Boards, I used to love arguing with a guy named "Aldrin" on a bulletin board. He was the consummate Conservative scumbag, complete with xenophobia tainted with elitism and a mamma who wiped his ass for him until he reached mid-adulthood.
Anyway, the only time we ever agreed on something was a 4'th of July post I made that first year. It was a trite holiday post wherein I took the easy bit of citing all of America's relatively minor flaws, America's national debates, and America's occasional wart, and pointed out that not one of these people will be dragged into a soccer field and executed for it.
At the time, the post was accurate.
Something has happened the past 10 years in America. The polarization of moral ethos has been with us for quite some time, but in the past 10 years it has become a stark and palpable thing. It reached its ugliest point during Bush's re-election campaign.
One element is the advent of the almost sports-like celebrity adulation. That, combined with the "fun" of spin, has created an environment wherein Jeffrey Dahmer could be presented as a gourmet chef.
I don't mean to say that the proverbial wool could be pulled over our eyes. What I mean is that the Dahmer supporters could say, with straight faces, that Dahmer is a gourmet chef. They could counter any argument with spin, all the while knowing that they were deliberately spinning. It has become a game for even the average American in his backyard to practice spin and one of the rules of the game is that, amazingly, we're all supposed to not discount it as spin. Otherwise, our own spin would lose purchase.
The architects of this overwhelmingly puissant political tool (that is, those who increased the scope to its present state of damned near every swinging dick you meet) are currently enjoying their second term in the executive branch.
I hate to imagine what it would be like right now if Bush were allowed to run for a 3'rd term. Karl Rove would not be relaxing and plundering as he is now. Instead, he would be going even further into the slime of his craft. To get the second term, Rove had to sell Bush as the best hope for a caucasian, Christian, and homosexual-free country. To get a 3'rd, they'd have to deliver an uncomfortable degree.
Anyway, my post a few years ago was accurate at the time. However, the modern climate is such that if an anonymously-voted Constitutional amendment were offered, relegating all non-whites to second-class citizenship, I have no doubt it would pass with greater than a 60% margin.
Public executions for entertainment (spun as something else, of course) is not unimagineable.
Happy 4'th of July. When you bigoted rednecks are through with our country, please give it back in the shape it was in when you took it.
current mood: discontent
current music: Stinkfinger - Jim Reed
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