Do You Feel Lucky?

(and feel free to comment! My older posts are certainly no less relevant to the burning concerns of the day.)

Friday, July 31, 2009

Moving Day!

Moving day! Moving day, and probably again in another couple months, too.

I love it! I LOVE CHANGE! I love taking stock. All the going through stuff to see what to throw out, what to shred, what to burn...

It's good to take a little personal inventory every now and again.

Chapter and Verse

Commend your burdens to the care of the Lord, for His hands already hold them all.

- Anonymous 2:11-12

...

No actually, I came up with that one myself.

Albeit, hardly a very original sentiment.

Time to Cut 'n' Color!

When I was a kid and we'd go up in pairs in the summertime to spend 2 weeks with grandmom and grandpop, when grandmom's soaps came on ("Like sands through the hourglass..."), with their provocative subject-matter, grandmom would say, "okay, time to cut and color!" and she'd put out all these crayons and scissors and colored construction paper in the dining room (well away from the living room) and I'd trace shapes and cut-out green Incredible Hulks with penciled-on abs and crappy-looking brown Millennium Falcons and such.

In such humble ways are great artists made.

I could totally hear the plot developments from the other room, though. Sometimes the subtle echoes of that angst might creep into my work. I had no idea of the implications of what was being discussed, of course - but there was no mistaking the drama.

Out-Of-Context-Comments #18: Why Would Anyone Want to Die?

I quite agree: why WOULD anyone want to die?

I have even told people, quite seriously: leave me plugged in. There might be something going on in there! I know I can't signal, they say I'm a vegetable, well wheel me out into the sun then, at least. Don't be in such a hurry to unplug the juice, let me cool, cut me open and find out what was wrong with me.

I'm holding onto my secrets.

Thursday, July 30, 2009

Creepin' Me Out, Maaaan...

I'm not one of those guys who likes to pick up a pair of women's undergarments and surreptitiously feel the fabric, rubbing it between thumb and fingers. I'm not one of those guys. I mean, unless I'm buying it. As a gift! You want to test the feel. It's a quality control issue.

I'm also not the kind of guy who wigs out on women's shoes, either. I mean, I've known some women with some really awesome, cute, or adorable shoes! You know. They go in for that, some of them! And I might gaze at an empty pair of a girl's canvas sneaks, when she's gone and I'm missing her, and it might make me think of her, in a way that would be fond. But I'm not going to abscond with a pair, for trophy purposes - or whatever these people do. I'm not one of those people.

I don't really get morbidly into specific non-erotic body parts either. I mean technically, yeah, arguably if I did...then, to me at least, they would be erotic. But they're not. And I don't.

Shit. I don't even like to talk about that kind of stuff! I mean, if that's what people are into? FINE BY THEM! But for me personally, it's a little creepy. For me? Yeah.

A little.

Laundromat #2

You know what? I don't get how people can do clothes at home. Unless they have like, 4 washing machines and 2 giant dryers. Right? How can you? Unless you just, really, really like to be doing laundry. Constantly. You would never, ever, ever stop doing laundry. There would always be a load going, and a load drying, and a load to fold. You are enslaved to keep the pipeline moving and feed the machines, feed the machines. They want clothes, clothes and can never stop, because the demand is too high to take a break for more than a day or two.

Well, shit. I need more horsepower than that. I want to process my wash in parallel, for greatest efficiency!

Maybe it's just my love of procrastination talking, but I much prefer the laundromat. You can wait until everything decent you have to wear is dirty, and then show up in the stupidest-looking outfit you can possibly manage out of whatever odds and ends #1, are clean, and #2, don't need to be cleaned for upcoming use. Then it's like, LAUNDRY SAFARI! Drag your huge big expandable laundry carrier to the car, to the place, out again and start filling up machines with soap, clothes, and quarters.

It only takes like an hour and a half, tops. It's kind of fun while you're doing it! And then you're DONE WITH IT.

And everything you own is clean.

Ahhh.

Laundromat Thought #1

Something about going to the laundromat makes the world seem awash in dimes and nickels.

Wednesday, July 29, 2009

Thought of the Day, Lightly Compromised

Everything's a trade-off, and nothing's worth it.

My Coerced Covers Concept Album

Let's say I was an industry magnate, a titan of the music biz. And let's say I could pretty much get any superstar act out there to kow tow to whatever whim I wished to dish out upon them, via a combination of my own indomitable force of irresistible will and/or the appealingly ebullient wheedling appeals of my top-flight underlings. Here's what I'd do: I'd come up with some trumped-up noble benefit cause, and I'd use that as the excuse to strongarm a hand-picked exquisite contingent of whoever I wanted to cover the songs that I want them to cover whether they want to or not.

And it'd go a little something like thiiiiiiis:

1. Biz Markie - "I Want Your Sex" (George Michael)
2. The Cure - "Touched By The Hand Of God" (New Order)
3. New Order - "Brass In Pocket" (Pretenders)
4. Pretenders - "Gone Shootin'" (AC/DC)
5. AC/DC - "This Corrosion" (Sisters of Mercy)
6. Sisters of Mercy - "Pretty In Pink" (Psychedelic Furs)
7. Psychedelic Furs - "Please Please Please Let Me Let Me Let Me Get What I Want (This Time)" (The Smiths) - MANDATORY UPTEMPO VERSION
8. R.E.M. - "I Touch Myself" (Divinyls)
9. Morrissey - "We Are The World" (U.S.A. For Africa)
10. Jenny Lewis - "Bet She's Not Your Girlfriend" (Pet Shop Boys)
11. Pet Shop Boys - "Throw Your Arms Around Me" (Hunters & Collectors)
12. Jarvis Cocker - "Where Everybody Knows Your Name" (the theme from "Cheers")

Some of these seem like a natural match, some REALLY DON'T. But I needn't even mention that there is a certain artistic integrity there, to be expected. Each of these acts is pretty much top-notch chock with professionalism. With the exception of the Psychedelic Furs, they'd each have free creative latitude as far as strip down / gussy up, rock it out or ballad it back in, and basically tweak the bits that need tweaking to best convey their take on the essence of the song - all while doing it in way that's also true to the sound and nature of the band or artist. The point is: they're all professionals. If they're going to do something, they're going to do it UP. No jokey half-assed half-step efforts.

Because, given the right amount of all-out effort, some of these could conceivably be mind-blowers.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

What about Hamlet?

Anybody else love that one? Hamlet? Shakespeare? You know, "My will, not all the world's: And for my means, I'll husband them so well, they shall go far with little." Hamlet! It's a play.

Anyhow, I do, but I have to say. If I was Hamlet...that'd been one damn short play. And world literature would be the poorer! So all things considered, good thing. Good thing for me and the world, that I wasn't born into a life of pampered Danish privilege as a fictional character, only to have my blessed little rot-spoiled world shook by some gaunt vision crying for filial vengeance.

Shit, it'd been one damn short play, even if I was Ophelia.

Just Precisely How Loud Can You Crank This?

"Sick Muse" - Metric



"everybody everybody just wanna fall in love

...everybody everybody just wanna play the lead,"

Stupid Happy

I want to lighten the mood a bit. And why do I never do that? Must I always bring only the snide, the absurd and the woebegotten? Must everything here be either bad from life, or else fiction? Can't I let a little light in from real life, where there is often ample to be had?

I guess what I mostly do in here is vent. Vent creativity sometimes, vent bile. Vent whining. Vent nonsense, most of the time - I have to vent that. You can't bottle that stuff up! But for some reason I usually don't feel as much need to vent what is pleasant. So my apologies for that.

But hello, y'all! I am stupid happy. I have been for weeks, in fact, despite work is hectic as all get-out and various other unimportant distractions; I'm happy. And as far as I can see I will be for the foreseeable future, now. And I'm smart enough to feel gratitude where gratitude is due, which is to the whole wide world as far as I'm concerned but most especially to the big G above, the Lord, yes, the one you of the Enlightenment rationalist mindset might be apt to call the Deity, but we all know it like a Muslim that there is only one, that there can only one, after all: no, not the Highlander silly but the one who sits On High Itself and goes by "God." Or as I like to personally identify: Mr. Christ Jesus. Himself himself.

That guy's all good. And it's about time I put out some big ups to the main force for infinite sweetness, the designer of all this strangeness and charm who put it all together natural without leaving so much as an invisible pinky-print, and who after all has been looking out for me a dang long time.

Wow. Thank God.

I say, hey, even y'all atheists can thank God a little sometimes. Right? It's harmless right!?? Harmless fun!

It would almost have to be harmless, under that scenario. Who's it gonna hurt?

~peer-pressure voice~

"It'll make you
feel good...good..."

"You Will Make Me Call Your Name...

...and I'll Shout It to the Blue Summer Sky..."

I Dislike the Term "Poetry Slam."

I dislike the term "Poetry Slam." It sounds like it ought to be some sort of metaphysical Dennys Menu Item.

Or for those with lighter appetites, try the Haiku Slam - only $1.99!

Mistakenly Perfect Thought of the Day

I try to err on the side of perfection.

Thought of Whenever I Get to It

I'm actually good at doing anything that doesn't inspire procrastination.

Tips for Honest People, Not Knowing Who to Trust

Here's a tip for all you honest people, who agonize over who to believe and who not to trust. This is what I do: trust EVERYBODY. Believe that everything anyone tells you is their best and honest truth. Just don't give anybody any money.

This totally frees you up! You can believe in everyone, without restriction, and boy does it feel so good. Anybody can tell you anything, and you can just feel the freedom and release of assuming that they are being honest. That assumption doesn't require any action or investment on your part! I believe everyone, and it never costs me anything just to believe people - because I don't give people money whether they're honest or not.

Does this attitude seem ungenerous? Stingy, perhaps? Well let's think it through. What are my obligations? Does the fact that a person is being honest create an obligation in me to pay them? Just because somebody's being honest, does that mean okay, I need to give them five hundred dollars for that? I mean, shit. Ordinary basic honesty is a bare minimum requirement, isn't it? It doesn't mean a fat cash payout.

I'm not a miser or anything. Any of my ex-girlfriends will tell you I'm the most generous person I know - primarily because I could really care less about money. But I have priorities. I'm kind of old-fashioned like that. I believe that my obligations are first: to those to whom I am bound by ties of love or family. I have to provide for that, first, last, and always. When there's not enough to go around, when I know I'm behind where I need to be, just to meet those existing commitments, well shit - there can be no question of diverting surplus funds; there is no surplus. I don't take from blood, or take from love, to give to some person just because they have an absolutely, perfectly, truthful and moving sob story. I swallow it whole, mind you! I absolutely believe they are being truthful. I always have. But if it's not extra and above what I already know my kith and kin need, then that money's not mine to give. It is allocated.

If I were a tycoon I'm sure I'd be a pretty soft touch. I hope to get there, someday. It'd be nice to be a soft touch! I also have some crazy investment schemes I'd love to sink some funds into. But in the meantime, I have to put first things first.

People get all wrapped up in being taken advantage of, and they whine about not knowing who to trust. I find this one simple rule takes care of all that moaning and hand-wringing. And next thing you know: you are free to trust the world! To be a blithely trusting pollyanna.

Like me!

Once Again, the Devil's Advocate

If one person I barely know tells me I'm a sadistic bastard, and twenty people, in my life, who actually know me, tell me I'm way too nice to people all the time, I go ask the twenty people how come I'm such a sadistic bastard.

But you know, though...I'm just fucking with them. When I do that.

Methought of the Dayest

Methinks thou dost methinks too much.

So Sick of the Latest Bands

I tell you I am so sick of the latest bands. Who do they think they are, for one thing? It's not like they've accomplished anything yet, and already they've left behind what was so good about them.

Discursive Deck's last mix tape was a joke. What was that, retro-nostalgia for acid house? And the guest MC spot by Dragonsoy - she is so pathetic! Why does everybody want her to rap on their middle eight? She barely even rhymes! Yeah, I know - that's part of the joke. The other part of the joke is that it's not funny.

Back Alley Colossus was a great idea, and I'm the first to admit it - in fact, I was. But now, the posturing has gone beyond fun to presumptuous. Guitar solos? Even as irony, that palls and galls. Besides, they need another guitarist to cover with some convincing counterpoint, if Stephane's going to keep missing that many notes.

Oh, so Pretend Pilgrim has an album now? A wax album? How avant-droll. Whatever message that's supposed to send, they should have taken the advice of their own album title instead: Operation Stay Home And Sulk would have been a far better idea than that set they played at the release party. Even their "manager" looked embarrassed (hi, Janes!).

And St. Cynicism's "One Foot In The Sky" - a CD Single? What the f? Who spiked the gin rickeys at Spurlocks with nostalgia-for-forgotten-formats juice? Since when are MP3's not sufficient? And why are people still even hanging out at Spurlocks! That place has not had so much as a shimmer of mirage-cool left to it since Paulo left, and you fucking know it, Cynthia! Quit haunting the upper deck lounge like a psychowaif revenant, and clean that fake-cry mascara off your dumb stupid cowface! That was my place, that was my look, and you ruined them both with your disingenuous ingenue routine!. They named the band Disingenue after you, you bitch, did you know that?

Ingenuisance would have been better.

Disingenue. Another once-great band that nothing but sucks now, ever since their bassist was such a dick to me after their infamous Pre-Halloween gig at Whyhouse. Yeah, Bradt, they couldn't kick you out fast enough could they? Serves you right!

Sons of Hunger are still awesome. I can't stay mad at those girls.

Superman Has to Have Some Kind of Eating Disorder

Superman's super taste-buds must make eating crazy for him. I mean, all his super-senses, really. His microscopic vision - he can literally see the germs crawling over everything, all over his ham-steak or whatever he's about to chaw his Kryptonian jaws down around. He strikes me as a ham-steak kind of guy.

But any time he's about to eat anything, he can smell any miniscule taints, when he digs in and starts chewing he can taste all of the infinitesimal parts per billion of human skin cells and dust and hair particles, and evaporated sweat and worse than that probably! It's amazing he can choke down a meal!

But then let's take a step back and think of it in his terms, though, folks. Because: he knows. He knows that this stuff can't hurt him. It might be a little gross to contemplate, maybe. But he's secure in the knowledge that his super-human immune system can delete anything potentially malicious right out of existence. He's not worried about the teeny weenie beasties crawling on his ham-steak!

And therein lies the lesson for you and me! Because guess what? Our immune systems can handle it too. We're pretty powerful. Sure there are some nasty germ villains, far stronger than ordinary mortal germs, who can take us down if we let them get a toehold in our Fortress of Intestinal Fortitude. You know the infamous roll call of that Rogue's Gallery: Trichinosis Man. Ms. Salmonella. Dr. Campylobacter Jejuni.

But aside from the big guys, the heavy hitters, the legion of doom so to speak - for the most part, 99.999% of the dudes camped out in microscale campsites on the surface of our food - our immune system is plenty powerful enough to deal with that threat. And if we still feel a little creeped out, just by the fact that they're there, well...a quick surreptitious blast of the ol' heat vision will take care of the problem nicely.

Hope you like that ham-steak crispy!

Thought of the Day: the Truth Value of Where Volubility Intersects Dead-On Accuracy, As Expressed In Nickels

I tell you, if I had a nickel for every time I was right, I would just never stop talking.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Thought of the Brain, on my Mind, of my Soul

I think the mind could best be described as how much the brain perceives of our soul.

Stalker Pt.2: Some Housecleaning, Some Closure

So anyway, I was dumb to try to explain. And dumb to post the original post, in retrospect, since all it did was encourage her and feed her self-deceit. But I don't feel bad about trying. For one moment there, she seemed to be really, truly questioning her delusion. She even said that maybe she'd been mistaken about our connection (about it being more than 1-way). I had to at least try to reach out, if she was being sincere about questioning the delusion in which she seems to have unreachably imprisoned herself. But no. She wasn't being sincere. Nothing I say will dent the dome of her invincible lies. Still. At least now I know that it was just another lie, another part of her game - just a trick, just to get me to try. To get me to reach out. So: a lost cause; and I'll leave her to St. Jude.

So where that leaves me:

I've figured out how to hide the junk folder her messages go to in my InBox, so I no longer even need to see the e-mails piling up. Cool!

I went over to her blog and deleted all my comments there. Not fun. Now I have to do the same to her comments in my blog, here, but it's hard to work up enthusiasm for such an extensive task.

It seems ridiculous to me, but as many comments as she's left here, she found it impossible to believe that anybody I know would grow curious about her rather odd affect, and while browsing my blog, click to find their way from mine to hers. She can't believe that's possible - even though the fact that she's excoriated by name several of my commenter's blogs shows that she's got a firm grasp of the concepts involved (and I fervently hope she isn't bugging any of you good folks - I am so sorry, if so!!)! But no, there are no coincidences in the mind of a monomaniac: she obsessively monitors her page views, and if anyone clicks on any post that seems mildly suspicious (in her mind), she knows for a fact that it is either me, or someone I have tasked to "check up on her." I should note, she made that accusation even before I 'outed' her here! In her clouded mind, I have a network of people working for me all up and down California, in Pennsylvania and New Jersey, even in Canada!

I feel like The Shadow. Except to be The Shadow, you have to be able to laugh.

Anyway, I'm not stupid. I know that me deleting her comments will not work. I mean, she will never run out of coincidences to pin on me! Anything she can interpret as reinforcing this imagined link, she will so interpret it. And no amount of me telling her I'm not interested will get her to realize how pathetic it is and how disturbing it is that she keeps after me. She professes to believe I have never stopped reading her blog, that I've not only been following it closely, I have even been "answering back" to her posts with mine. As proof, she states I posted about birds, and I posted about rain, shortly after she did. I haven't even seen her bird post or her rain post but take a look at my post on birdwatching and see if you can twist it into a romantic message of any kind! Goodness. The rain post was romantic, but it was certainly not for her. I suppose she believes she's stolen it, but one can't steal the rain. It rains, as they say, on the just and the unjust alike. My sweetie knows who it was meant for, because I read it to her aloud and she liked it!

So well, oh well. From now on, my stalker will have to content herself with interacting with her phantom version of me. Since that's all she's been doing for the most part for months, apart from my few ill-advised replies, it ought to pose no hardship. The phantom me sounds like a real riot.

So! Dear readers! I post this update for two reasons! One! In case some of you are ever dealing with the same thing - and lord, I hope it never happens, it's the most frustrating situation I've ever been involved in, low-drama as I try to live - but if you ever find yourself on the receiving end of someone who will not stop coming for you no matter what you say, it is not wrong to ask for help! Do blow the whistle, and do ask for help. But it is wrong to keep replying to the stalker. Don't do it. They love the interaction, even if it is all negative. They love to be abused. They say "it's good to be fighting again!" (a direct quote!)

The second reason is more personal. I want to thank all those of you who responded to my previous cry for help: some in comments, some in e-mails, some in both. Your reassurances and advice have not fallen on deaf ears, and I thank you all so much. I agree with almost everybody's advice to just not contact her at all anymore. Like I said, it was a mistake for me to try that one last time - but I could only have known in hindsight that it was a mistake. I wouldn't have known unless I tried.

Oh well.

If anybody out there is so inclined, by all means please send a little prayer up, care of St. Jude, for all the lost causes.

I already sent mine. One from me is all she gets.

I Dress In Blue.

I was shopping for shirts the other day and something odd was brought to my attention by my conscious mind: you know, I really only seem to buy blue shirts! It's not deliberate, I'm not consciously going for the color. It's just that people seem to make a lot of shirts in blue, where the cut and design appeals to me.

I have way too many of these blue shirts already. I'm wearing blue practically every day.

Maybe I can't break the cycle on my own. Maybe I'm waiting for somebody to come right out and tell me I don't look good in blue. With my coloration one might think I'd look better on golds, ambers, deep greens. But anyone who tells me I don't look good in blue had better look again, because I look GREAT.

Of course, I can take the shirt off and I still look great. So what's it really going to prove?

The Communion of Saints

Now, before we go further, let's consider what prayer is and what a saint is.

A lot of people think of "prayer" and "worship" as pretty much interchangeable. Modern usage pretty much restricts the word prayer to an appeal to the Deity, but in the past this was hardly so. In olden times, the word might be used in the context of a son making a plea to his father, a serf making a plea to his feudal lord, even a man making a plea to his neighbor. Really prayer is nothing but an appeal, a plea for help. To our modern ears, it has become inextricably linked with the idea of "worship," perhaps. But perhaps this is because in our day and age, we are too proud to beg any power on earth for anything - not when we feel so entitled to so much already.

A prayer is a plea for help.

What is a "saint"? A saint isn't somebody with the papers on earth, who has been investigated by the pope squad and knighted as a saint by worldly powers, and that's what makes them a saint. Naw. A saint is anybody who is right now in heaven with God. Every one of those people is a saint! Even the angels, like St. Michael. The rubber-stamp from the pope squad is pure publicity for down here. They go around getting the goods on only the highest-profile ones, they investigate, they bring in the devil's advocate, and then when they think they've found one who is the real deal, they say "I dub thee St. Thisenthat!" and hold 'em out as examples. But that person was already a saint, before they got the rubber stamp. They were a saint by virtue of the fact that when they died, they went straight to heaven.

People do need examples. People need to believe it's possible to live a godly life in this morass of bilge and filth which I at least find so wonderfully compelling and beautiful to live in (seriously - life's pretty awesome, but then, I'm not living in the middle ages either).

So, a prayer is a plea for help. A saint is anyone now living in heaven, in communion with God. Mostly, we're talking human souls who died and went straight to heaven. But we also are in communion with God. More on that in a moment.

In humbler times, when we'd pray to our neighbors, our relatives, our rulers - not as worship, just as plea for help (and I should note that even the word "worship" then was not restricted to the Deity as it is now! It indicated a more general sort of homage) - it was considered the most natural thing on earth that those of us who'd gone on, humans who were kind and gentle and loving, whose lives inspired us, would look back kindly on us and want to help as well.

And people believed in the power of prayer. They weren't shy about it. If they had something they needed supernatural assistance for, they would get all their relatives praying, too! "Please pray to God, on my behalf, for the sake of little Timmy's knee!" And really, to those of simple faith, humble faith - what could be more natural than to ask those who have gone on, who have shown us ways to be good, who have sought God and found God and who call to us look back upon us kindly - ask them, too! "St. Kneesius, please ask God on my behalf, for help with little Timmy's knee."

It's quite lovely, really. There is one problem with it. The same problem there is with scripture or with law: 1. Where God is concerned, people love intermediaries. They are fearful of dealing direct with God. They are uncomfortable with God, so they build up barriers between them and God. People feel easier about interacting with law, or with scripture*, or with other intermediaries, rather than addressing themselves directly to God. This is a universal weakness. It is just more comfortable for most people to deal with something they feel they can get a handle on. The saints were misused for this purpose, just as law and scripture have been misused: as a comfort barrier, as something to interpose between. Not as a means to God, but as an end to interact with, instead of God.

As I said, it is a misuse. All good tools can be misused, but that does not mean they are bad tools. Basically anyone who believes in heaven but denies the communion of saints is doing one or a combination of the following things:
1. They assert that there are no humans who have gone to heaven, or
2. They deny that those now in heaven can care for our plight, or
3. They deny the power of prayer.

Point 1, I concede is theoretically possible. Maybe everyone waits for judgment day. But it doesn't seem like most of those people who'd argue against the communion of saints would advance that argument, necessarily. Without that argument, they just come off looking like a dick if they rely on points 2 or 3.

I say that properly understood, the communion of saints is a beautiful and true concept that holds out such hope for us all, such reassurance. The dead are not dead, but alive in God's light - such as we hope to be, when we pass on. The dead are not apart from us, but rather are part of our living communion with each other. The communion of saints is nothing but the continuation of the one Body of Christ that we are all a part of, right here on earth.

All you atheists excluded, of course. Only insofar as you wish to be. That's not really my call - no offense.

Discrete Thought of the Day

It's interesting to me that while "discrete individual" is a redundancy, "discreet individual" is so very, very far from being so.

Luckily, I'm pretty well set up in both areas!

Saturday, July 25, 2009

Once Again, Victimized by Social Norms and an Opportunistic Capitalist Fashion Industry

So I've got all these undershirts. A pack of crews, a pack of vees, and a pack of tanks. I bought them like, three weeks ago. They're still in the packages, like avant-consumerist throw pillows transparently depicting pristine undershirts done up in thick cellowrap. A tidy comment on something, probably something pretty shallow that reflects on us all.

What the hell am I going to do with all these undershirts? Why did I buy these? When am I ever going to get a chance to wear undershirts? I don't wear undershirts.

I guess I thought I needed them or something. To pass amongst the social elite. But what good would that even do me?

They're selling an image, that's what it is. And here I come: signing up like a sheep bleating for the saving crook of conformity, hooked by the neck, rounded up and directed by herd into the shearing bins to be shorn of whatever native dignity I'd managed to grow back since last time, and then fitted with a wifebeater.

Actually, a shorn sheep would probably look kind of awesome in one of those.

Kickass TV Show Pitch: SISSY & THE BITCH

This show is a period piece, set in the early 1980s. The theme song is early 80's awesomeness to the max. No words, just theme. A montage of action plays under the opening narration:

SISSY: "Hi, I'm Sissy. And this is The Bitch. We're just a couple of good ol' boys, making our way in a tough Southern world where there's not a lotta room for faggots. But we don't let other people's intolerance get us down. We rise ourselves above it. Me and The Bitch travel from town to town like Jesus, helping people and getting into adventures. And maybe, just maybe, sometimes we might open up some people's eyes just a little bit."

THE BITCH: "One eye at a time."

These are two big, beefy dudes, all denim and cut-off tees or gas-station embroidered-name vests and the like. They travel in a tricked-out, jacked-up truck with a bold and distinctive paint job. Sissy wears a beautiful cowboy hat, the Bitch wears a bright orange mesh baseball cap, frequently backwards. The Bitch has a RIGHTEOUS 'stache.

All of the affection Sissy & The Bitch display for each other is indistinguishable from normal, straight macho male bonding - high fives, dude-halfhugs, and most especially their banter where they deftly gay-bait each other in exactly the same mocking/friendly tone hetero dudes use to accuse each other of being fags - except that since S & the B are gay, it adds an interesting twist, plus it's a clear case of them empowering themselves.

Even though they're completely butch, and never exhibit the slightest gay tendency, within the conceit of the show each town they come across is immediately/instinctively hostile and prejudiced towards the two homosexuals. But as each week's local crisis comes to a head, the townspeople (or maybe just one or two folks) turn in desperation to the only ones who it seems can help: Sissy & The Bitch.

By the end of each episode, everyone has learned an important lesson. Even the worst homophobes in town have seen the light, back slappingly thanking S & The B for what they done, asking them why can't they stay on in town.

But the road must go on for...Sissy & The Bitch.

Saturday Lazy Day Confusions

The house is a mess, so I'm going to go out and deal with it. I'll deal with it the only way I know how: I'm going to head downtown and get some breakfast. And I'm fucking STARVING, so I'll bring my camera, maybe, except I still need to buy that memory chip so I can take more then 20 or so pictures. Maybe I'll bring it for that express purpose!

And then take pictures.

I also need to swing by Streetlight and pick up an album by a band. Better write that one down.

By the time I get back, the house will have achieved a certain order.

The hope of being someday understood.

Some few lone seekers go through the archives, pensive sifting, reading with deep intent, striving to know those whose unknown lives have gone before. Today, untold numbers sit going through their unknown lives, busily writing them down in hopes that someday, someone will come along and understand.

A Medal

Everyone always says, "whattya want, a MEDAL?" - like it's something absurd, to want a medal! Who doesn't want a medal? I'm talking about a physical object, designed and manufactured, possibly by hand, possibly using gigantic machines calibrated by hand, crafted specifically to award to you.

An amulet of recognition; unexpected, protested, but undeniably - even you have to admit it - deserved. Well-earned. Someone has officially decreed you did something awesome. Officially and prestigiously, they decree it in the presentation of the medal. They decree it wordlessly. It is the gleam of medal itself that speaks. Everyone there knows, you most of all, what this medal means.

You take it.

Grinning, looking side-of-the-eye, head down, abashed. The crowed is wowed and hushed, or maybe there is no crowd - just a photographer and a small, select handful of personages. <i>You are in a deeply-stained walnut study in a historical public home,</i> for the honor. Cameras blink

- silent flashes.

You don't even know what to say. But you mumble something, which comes out brilliant, every choice and dulcet syllable catching in every ear within shot, because of your mumbling. Even the deef ol' codger positively festooned with medals of his own bursts out in stifled laughter at the aptness of your remark! And how well its wit reflects on you. Look at him. He's nodding his head exaggeratedly, eyes squinched, smile wide trying not to laugh. He has lived your moment himself, many times, and in mirth you sense he has finally grown wise enough and ready to pass the torch.

You take it.

It is a hard token, heavy in the hand.

Of some considerable heft just to look at, even.

A big round flat cartoon coin, with something shiny, intricate and substantial stamped into each side - a different design on each side! Both meaningful, but not the same meaning.

Different, complementary meanings.

In later years, you will reflect that the meaning on the outward side is clearly meant for others' eyes, to instruct and inspire, but the medal's inward-facing side (its true obverse, you'll later grow to feel) is stamped with what seems almost a private message, deeply-meant. For your heart only - a message from the medal to you.

They bring you the medal on a cushion, lifting it off for you (a ridiculous pang - you want that cushion, too!); the ribbon partially unfurls. You stifle an involuntary blush, but your sigh escapes in a breathless gasp you can't quite stifle. The ribbon is of more than one color - a bold deep, shiny green across the right 2/3rds, and with a thin, gold stripe separating off the left third of purest royal blue. And the specific colors! - and the pattern! - itself, it would mean something heraldic, but since you've remained scrupulously unstudied in such vain, bloodstained pursuits you can only gawp. The question mark over your head, the dazzled wonder in your eyes, are audible to everyone in view. The whole thing would now mean something heraldic - the individual design elements of both sides of the medal would mean, would tell - each element individually and all taken together as well, would tell. You, yourself -

With the assistance of guiding hands, smoothing and fussing - lift the medal over your head. And it settles heavily on your shoulders. Falls perfectly over your sun center. Everyone steps back.

As your breath catches and you grin, and blink, somehow almost overcome with relief.

Honestly.

Who the FUCK does not want a medal!??

Friday, July 24, 2009

OK I'll Bite: What's Up with the Ancient Antipodean Fixation Lately?

It's Th' Dudes! "Walking In Light" 1979.

"I'm not drunk, I'm blind!"

Hm. This video is disorientingly lame. But what a neat tune!

I mean yeah, sure. It's a bit reminiscent of somebody trying to rip off the Stones only with even more synthy crap going on. But so what? It's still a neat tune. If the Stones didn't write it first, then oh well - they left the door open.

EDIT: which is of course, the cue for some enraged Stones-enthusiast to chime in with a comment on which Stones song this one is most exactly like. Really, I don't think it's the song so much as that guy's delivery.

Favorite Bands Blah Blah Blah

So anyway, favorite bands. When I was a kid, AC/DC was my favorite band - no hesitation. I might have been listening to various classic rock (Zep, Floyd), early rap (The Newcleus, Kool Moe Dee), and whatever pop was on MTV (mostly individual songs stick out, like "One Night in Bangkok" or "nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-NINE-teen," but of course the staples like VH and Duran Duran as well). My two older sisters were heavily into AC/DC and Culture Club and Ozzy and Duran Duran and Zeppelin and Weird Al Yankovic (these two sisters did not share a room), so I got plenty of all that. And my older brother was into punk and Genesis and most of the same stuff that the one sister was into. And I loved Creedence and Dr. Hook (dad's bands). And who could dispute the Everlys (one of mom's faves, along with the much-discussed Neil Sedaka...)?

By the time I was in early high school I was a big fan of solo Peter Gabriel, and of Def Leppard (who were then in the process of eating the world whole), and as high school drew on, the Smiths, New Order, and plenty of random dance music. Not like I left the earlier faves behind! If they kept producing, I kept up with them. Kool Moe Dee was a staunch favorite throughout.

But if asked who my favorite band was, during all that time AC/DC was my unhesitating answer. It was only right after high school that I had any sort of a shift.

Partly it was frustration with the pace of their output, which had really slacked off to almost Peter-Gabriel levels. But it was also that I had unexpectedly started really getting into Crowded House. What happened was, a younger sister of mine had been selling music and magazine subscriptions for some charity drive type thing, for school. I looked at what was available, and I picked CH's Temple of Low Men as a lark, because I remembered liking the song "Better Be Home Soon." I thought I'd give it a chance - give the album a chance. And then when it arrived, the album was darkly brilliant. I played it a lot. I grew deeper into it almost without noticing.

Now as it happened, I was driving a lot in those days, and my car has great acoustics. I noticed that while I cannot sing a lick of Brian Johnson, I can sing ALL of Neil Finn - which surprised the crap out of me! Especially as prior to that revelation, I always thought he was a pretty good singer.

By the time all this was happening, the album Temple of Low Men was already a few years old. But then suddenly they were back with Woodface, and in short order, I fell into seeing them live under very emotionally-charged circumstances, and it was just the most extraordinary show for any number of reasons.

And then a little later on, when a girlfriend gave me just the most beautiful Fender Acoustic for my birthday, I taught myself to play using Crowded House song books. It was easy. So in some sense Neil Finn had taught me not only to sing, but to play guitar as well - and to write a song on the guitar (not to write a song flat out plain and unmodified, though! I'd already written plenty of songs).

(OK, they were rap songs)

(STILL COUNTS.)

So it slowly crept over me until the point where I woke up one day and had to admit, "AC/DC is not my favorite band! It's THESE wimpy guys." PATHETIC! But it was the truth, so I had to honor it.

Anyway, when Crowded House broke up in 1996, they only semi-receded into the distance. Finn's various side projects kept a light burning. But they did recede, because ultimately, they weren't around. Until they came roaring back in 2007! And after the two shows they put on at the Mountain Winery - DAMN. And then the two shows they put on the following year at the Fillmore - double extra damn.

But AC/DC also came roaring back - a couple times since CH broke up, and right now they are in full mid earth-clobbering-monster roar. They are on an ass-kicking tour, and as far as I'm concerned, everybody not lining up to be an ass is an ass. This could be our second- or third- to last chance to see these esteemed gentlemen in the peak of their powers!

But with AC/DC at peak pitch, and Neil Finn and Crowded House showing no signs of letting up, it's a toss-up for #1 favorite band for me. And really at this point, I have to say neither band has the edge.

Tied for first.

And then...

#3: New Order.

#4: Public Enemy.

#5: ...this one's a little contentious.

Request for Help, Feedback, Advice. Help?

I don't normally post like this. I reserve the right to fill up my blog with all manner of frivolity of no consequence whatsoever. Unmeaning fluff. But when anybody asks me about something, "does this mean ________?" - I give a straight answer, the truth damn it - the truth or a straight "none of your business!" - if a question is out of bounds of something I want to discuss, I'll say so. I'm a pretty private individual but when you ask me to clear something up the answer I give isn't a lie. It's the truth or nothing.

Anyway, I've got a situation with a person I considered a friend, who was always respectful and insightful, who commented here and I commented on that person's blog. We exchanged e-mails, as I've done with some of you. In fact we were e-mailing a lot during a pretty hard time in my personal life, and it was a blessing and she provided a lot of insight and what I took to be compassion.

But a few months back, it turned so weird and awful. She informed me or "called me on it" that I was actually attempting to seduce her through my blog, that basically everything I wrote was some coded message to her. I set her as straight as it is possible to set somebody! It was not true at all, and I just couldn't even see what she was seeing. There was a big falling out and then she apologized and claimed she believed me that I wasn't trying to seduce her. Later she claimed I was just pretending when I said that. Called me a "player" - all sorts of things. She was also going through a pretty bad time, in her personal life. We even talked on the phone, I thought we had it all straightened out, she apologized (again), agreed it wasn't so, apologized for the mistake, I thought we could be friends. OK. Everybody wigs out sometimes. OK.

Then it happened again - and this time "everyone she asked" agrees with her that I'm a player who is attempting to seduce her and play games with her mind (specifically, her mind) through my blog, or that just the amount of time I spent e-mailing her trying to talk her down from the crazy-ledge was proof I was in bad earnest or something, had some ulterior motive.

OK. After several of this kind of apology-reversal-reaccusation cycles I realize that #1 me continuing to allow contact only feeds her delusion, and that #2, there's too much damage done anyhow. Because after all this, even the things she says between episodes, when she's acting comparatively normal, are really making me hypersensitive and creeped out, and just I can't be friends like this. So about a month ago I told her to please stop e-mailing me, don't call me, don't write me, don't contact me, I can't take the things she's telling me anymore. I asked, told, directed, eventually pleaded with her to please just leave me alone.

She refused. She has completely reverted to seeing me as hers, as me playing with her, as this being all a game between us. And when I tell her the truth - it's not true, to her, it's just another ploy. Nothing I say matters. Who I am doesn't matter, only her version of me - who would have to be some kind of pretty disgusting el creepo to treat a person so dishonestly!

That, to me, is the craziest part: why would anyone want the person she's accusing me of being?

It keeps coming, comments and e-mails and she won't stop, and the question I have and I wish and hope anyone would feel free to chime in is this:

Am I being stalked?

And: what can I do? I have diverted her e-mail accounts (3 so far) to a special folder so I don't see them, I have been deleting the comments submitted, I am doing my best to just...not respond. But it goes against my grain to not respond. In this day and age people get killed by people exhibiting this behavior.

I don't know what to do.

I feel like posting this is probably a bad move, based on what they tell you not to do - "feeding into" the person's need to get a reaction. I don't know what to do.

I have tried as plain and as hard as I can to set her straight on the truth. She doesn't respect me, she doesn't believe me, all that matters to her is what she says I am. I don't know what I can do to make it clear to her. What the hell am I supposed to do? Is there anything I can do?

WHY WOULD SHE WANT somebody who is what she SAYS I am!!???? The very idea of a relationship set up to operate on deception is REPUGNANT to me!

Any comment, any message of advice or support, any perspective people could provide would be so welcome. Or you can e-mail me if you want it not to show up in the comments thread.

But Is the Reverse Also True?

Frank Sinatra is the Bob Dylan of not writing songs.

Two people walk into a bar.

Two people walk into a bar. The bartender says something. One of the people says something back. It's funny after you think about it for a minute.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Content Warning!

So on my poetry blog, when you click it, you get one of these:

contentwarning1

Which is fine! But it seems if they're raising both issues, they need another button:

contentwarning2

The Architect Scene, Pt.2: Applying the Lessons

I'm definitely going to try this line on my next serious girlfriend!

"It is interesting reading your reactions. Your five predecessors were, by design, based on a similar predication, a contingent affirmation that was meant to create a profound attachment to the rest of your species, facilitating the function of The One. While the others experienced this in a more general way, your experience is far more specific, vis-à-vis...love."

We'll see how it goes.

The Architect Scene

The Matrix was a great movie. Its two sequels (2003's The Matrix Forever and 2003's The Matrix & Robin) were not. They were about on the level of the bottom two Highlander sequels in terms of originality and quality of conception. There are so many failings that could be pointed up, but this article will limit itself to one - the moment when I knew that the whole enterprise had gone irredeemably wrong, irretrievably dumb: The Architect Scene, from the first sequel.

The Wachowski brothers have to be two of the most profoundly middlebrow intellectuals on the planet. They came up with a dynamite treatment of a solid sci-fi concept, which they then executed brilliantly! So naturally on the strength of their giddy triumph (and that first Matrix movie did indeed present some deeply "thinky" ideas), based on all the kudos that hailed down upon their burgeoning heads, they decided that they were now needed to play a certain role, to be for us the voice of the intelligentsia futuristico.

Now, don't mistake me: I'm no intellectual. But I have respect for intellectuals. I admire intellectuals, when I can get them. And when it comes to intellectuals, it doesn't necessarily take one to know one. Anyone with a pretty decent vocabulary can smell out an ill-faluting imposter, just by the tone-deaf mash they make of their misused words.

I do have a pretty decent vocabulary.

I feel I can offer some advice, some constructive or perhaps, deconstructive criticism to whichever Wachowski brother or Wachowski underling (or -lings) wrote the Architect Scene. The advice is this: if you're writing a dialogue scene, use only words that you know how to use. Stick to words that you've used before, at least a few times. Don't try to "smart up" the dialogue by substituting words that are unfamiliar to you. Don't try to Lego together words in combinations that to you seem dizzyingly, thrillingly unfamiliar or unnatural. Don't assume that because you're not sure how to use a word correctly, the audience won't know either. I don't care what the thesaurus says: If you try to use twenty unfamiliar words in one speech, you are not going to end up sounding smart.

For a while I toyed with the idea that we aren't supposed to respect the Architect. That he is meant to be a tedious buffoon, whose pretentions are as pathetic as they are obvious. That his mind is supposed to be transparently inferior, yet infected with a grandiose vision of its own perfection (which might even be justifiable, within the limited parameters it is capable of recognizing as valid). His whole speech could be taken as a wicked-subtle pillory of nonsense academia jargon, of communication as a deliberate strategy to exclude understanding - except the understanding of those chosen few who believe their ability to communicate to each other using feverishly, arbitrarily, incestuously agreed-upon conventions marks them out as intellectually superior. Superior to those whose lack of interest in such anti-communication strategies renders them unable to make heads or indeed, tails of these teetering towers and barricades of bunkum.

But while it would be an almost perfect success as a lampoon of postmodernist anti-meaning, such an interpretation of the Architect can't be supported from within the film. The self-importance of the two sequels congeals squarely around the figure of the Architect. While it's a pleasurably ticklish notion, I admit I can't impose my wish to see it in this humorous light over the Wachowski's pretty clear intent to be taken seriously, on these ideas. So I can only assume that they looked at this weird obfuscatory spiel as the vocabulary equivalent of CGI.

Sadly unconvincing CGI.

Thought of You

I think that my soul is missing a rib.

Some People Find Humor Offensive

In many instances, they damn right.

Feminism and Body Objectification Issues Regarding Boobs

I kind of go for chicks with the BIG ONES.

Not as a policy or anything. But lately I'm like, hey man, what's more important in life, right? Yeah!

But also: I kind of like 'em real, too. Real outweighs big, I do believe, at least for me. So I don't know if that makes me a tit snob or what. I have no problem with the other kind - I'm fine with whatever somebody wants to do with their own, you know, selves, but still. I can't help what does or doesn't make me sit up and want to say, "well hey there, ma'am! I don't mean to objectify you in a sexual manner at all, but your physical attributes are far more than usually deserving of such inappropriate treatment, and it is I who must apologize for pointing that out!"

Of course, I would never say that. I said sit up and want to say, not sit up and say.

Sometimes when I'm at pool, somebody sneaks Joe Walsh's "I.L.B.T.'s" onto the juke, and I can never help but nod and whistle along! It's a good tune. I think it's perfectly appropriate.

Just, in a way that's hard to explain.

Wednesday, July 22, 2009

My new girlfriend's

My new girlfriend's pretty classy. She's the type of girl to where you have to ask yourself which do you like more: fuckin'? - or callin' it fuckin'? Because if you plan to do much of the latter...you won't be doing much of the former.

Honestly, the choice itself is a slam dunk, but some habits die hard.

This Is Just a Natural for the Wii Treatment!

Arbitrary Dichotomizing #1: Legos or Lincoln Logs?

I preferred Lincoln Logs. To my young mind, it seemed a more challenging form - its more limited structural-interlock possibilities posing stark problems that forced me to seek more creative sculptural solutions in order to vent my muse.

But I loved Legoland though! How incongruous, looking back at it now. I mean, that was kind of a cut-and-dried playset deal.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Eight Inches - Nothing to Sneeze At!

I'm getting a little sick at all the sniggering from the little ill-informed busybodies who fill my inbox with raunchy pharmaceutical come-ons. Well you'll all be pretty happy to know that I'm set up just fine in that department! Maybe not prodigiously so, but eight inches is nothing to sneeze at. Not setting any world's records, maybe.

Well above the national average.

Just so you know.

I Laughed As I Left That Pathetic Wretch Spasming on the Pavement!

"Hey, buddy, can you ..." - suddenly I clocked him with a left-to-right uppercross straight to the jib! He crumpled like clockwork. I looked around to see who saw.

No one.

I was in the clear. Another bum victimized, another bum punished by a sudden outbreak of my violence. What kind of a man am I, who would dish out such a sucker punch to some poor shmoe too hard on his heels to expect much luck from life?

I'm a bad man, that's who. I looked back and kept walking, having not so much as broken stride. Soon I was laughing long and hard, openly about it. Blissfully unaware that my own comeuppance was in the mail - coming hard and fast via Federal Express!

"Ding-dong," said the deliveryman.

I stopped short. A tall, lanky individual had stepped suddenly out from a side alley to block my path. There was something unfamiliar in his eyes - something cocky - but I dismissed it. I knew the type at a glance: disheveled. Ten-day growth of beard, and probably not showered in that long. Dressed in layers. In short: another fucking bum for me to deal with! I grinned wide as I readied myself to dish it out yet again on this fool. Two in one day, I thought: not bad.

I swung hard, and my right arm went taut as my center of gravity upended, feet leaving the pavement, pulled on an irresistible pivot to which I was only the pendulum: up and over! WHAM! - my whole body hit at once, stretched hard at length across the white concrete. Then - another full-length impact! Softer. I had bounced! Tasting blood, reeling from the unbelievability, I rolled up to one knee and elbow, raising my chin to regard this guy - my foe, my adversary - my nemesis!

CRACK right in my out-thrust chin! Clocked in the jaw by the hard-swung heel of a Teva-sandaled hammer of a foot! I flailed back sprawling, spine shot through with zinged electric jolts, skinning my left palm and landing on my back, legs akimbo and wiggling like the limbs of a string-cut puppet. But my reeling eyes cleared as I fixed them on this implacable figure. Did I know him? His slate eyes were blank of content as they were of color, but his mismatched plaids and pocket-heavy drab fashions marked him as an outsider, as one who does not fit into life but must carry it with him. He looked like a bum - an ordinary bum, someone with no appeal to society, to authority or to protection - like one of any nameless, masterless, numberless bums I'd come across, knocked over and trundled under, laughing on my callous way. "Who are you?" I rasped, again tasting the blood that was running, a little from my lips, but mostly back and into my gulping throat.

"My name's not important. My mission is. I'm here to punish you. You and all your ilk, who spit on and fuck over those who are too helpless and powerless to fight back, because life has already beaten all the fight out of them! I am one of them," he said, voice flat and menacingly emotionless, "but I am also their champion. Call me: The Human Bum!"

Gaping I gasped, astounded. Surely this was the karmic payback Jean and I had been arguing about earlier, over sushi!

I'd need to apologize to her, for the way I'd scoffed.

If Gravity

If gravity had a direction to it besides down, everything in the world would be set up to go in that direction. It would just be fundamental. People would be like, "where do you live? State Ave? That's West, isn't it? Forget it. I'm not walking West."

Grandparents would be like, "I used to walk to school - it was West both ways."

Cars would be advertised, 40 MPG!!*

*Eastbound

On the whole I think we're lucky things are as they are, with gravity remaining relatively impartial.

But still, all my lean is East. And I keep falling over.

Up Next: A Cavalcade of Has-Beens!

Shows like The Love Boat and Fantasy Island, where a whole passel of special guest stars come together for one episode to work out their dreams and dilemmas, ably assisted by a cast of hardworking folks who roll out the hospitality in their official capacity, all the while functioning as accidental guides, spiritual foils and mischievous muses (and advancing their own interlocked ongoing subplots from week to week!).

Man. That wasn't even a sentence. Let me pick back up the thread: shows like that are kind of cool! It's kind of a neat setup. I think it could be adapted to a lot of premises. I think the concept could be more prevalent on today's tv scene. Here are some ideas:

"Defending Your Life" is a natural for this setup. But with a twist! Because every week would bring a different cast of incoming recently deceased - but while most would move in and move on pretty much en masse, it might take longer for some than for others - some might linger for 2 or 3 weeks.

Actually, that's the only one I can think of right now. But I bet there's plenty of others!

Monday, July 20, 2009

I'm Beyond Hot.

I'm not just hot!

I'm warm.

Ah, Lay Your Hands


This one, hey. I've not been a dutiful fan of these dudes by any means, but this song has one of the great goddamighty choruses doesn't it, huh?

I'd like to also pause here and record a few thoughts, to do with the present-day situation for a lot of people. People who, without realizing it, without wanting it, without even realizing it sometimes, find themselves in a situation not of their devising - a situation that they then find they can't get out of. Or at least, not easily. These people aren't alone, but they don't realize they're not. To them it seems they are very alone.

That's all I can say about it, without some more specifics to go on. Their whole dilemma seems a little vague to me - at least, as I've laid it out - and I'm not sure it's really going to get any clearer unless someone else can come along and help me out by supplying at least a few hard facts. As it stands, who are these people, and precisely what is their situation? It would be irresponsible of me to speculate further, knowing as little as we now do. I've done my best to open a channel. From here, I leave it to others to complete my merciful work.

Still. If they are reading this, if any of the people I've described above are reading this, they can take heart a bit, and enjoy this video by the Thompson Twins.

There Are Those Who Care. Never doubt that.

On the Topic of You-Know-What

Hey, I'm as big a fan of that as anybody! And I admit, sometimes I like to get a little adventurous with it. Most times I just like to put the aforementioned undersigned Article (as specified in appendix D, and hereinafter referred to as "the Article") right into the approved places indicated in appendices B, C, and sometimes A (collectively hereinafter referred to as "the Goods"), but other times I just say hey, que sera me, baby! Any way you please, so it will be (hereinafter referred to as "the Services").

The main thing is, it needs to be (for me at least) an expression of the fullness of a commitment, and the natural culmination of the course of emotional business between the two interested parties, who have each tendered evidences of their intent in good faith. I can't be a party to some of these fly-by-night transactions bartered between two furtive high-stakes negotiators on a handshake and a seat-of-their-pants basis (and often lacking even that!)

It seems to me that there's no reason why everybody oughtn't at least have a little something something going into it, something secured, some assurances of some kind that any agreements or arrangements offered or entered into, whether verbal, written, oral, or other (hereinafter referred to as "the Tender"); will be honored, and shall be binding upon and inure to the benefit of the respective successors and assigns of the two entangled parties.

I mean, I think that's all pretty usual and customary!

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Ain't Got No Time for the Corner Boys

ain't got no time for the corner boys
down on the street, making all that noise
or the girls out on 8th avenue
'cause tonight I wanna be
with you
tonight I'm gonna take that ride
cross the river to the Jersey side
take my baby to the carnival
and I'll take her
on all the rides
'cause down the shore everything's alright
you and your baby on a saturday night
and you know you make all my dreams come true
when I'm walking down the street with you

you know she thrills me with all her charms
when I'm wrapped up in my baby's arms
my little angel gives me everything
and I know someday that she'll wear my ring
so don't bother me, man I ain't got no time
I'm on my way to see that girl of mine
'cause nothing matters in this cold hard world
when you're in love
with a Jersey girl
sing sha la la la la la la
shalalala la la la la la
shala la la lala lala
shalala la la la

Down the shore everything's alright
you and your baby on a saturday night
cause nothing matters in this whole wide world
when you're in love with a Jersey girl

I always loved that song. "Jersey Girl,"

Now, it's a Tom Waits song, but I first heard it from Springsteen, and I think the way Mr. Springsteen sings it has colored the lights on the carnival ride for me. I didn't hear the original until much later, at which point it just made me love the song even more - it's very different. But anyway by then the lyrics I knew had faded to a palimpsest, and the version I have now, the one in my head, I've sort of forgotten my way into. Starting from a mingled memory of both, but probably not very accurate to either.

But all that is by way of apology, because the song itself is beautiful. I love the casual and true way it shifts between addressing her in the second and third persons; she's on his mind the whole day through - sometimes more distant, like a dream or a future thing. Sometimes so close you could almost catch her up tight in your arms, bury your happy lovesmacked head in her big Jersey hair, letting your scents of salt sweat, coconut sunscreen and sea air mingle as your pulses thrum to each other through your goose-pricked skins.

And tonight, you're going to take that ride. Cross the river.

Sing sha la la la la lala.

Pascal's Wager Revisited

When I was a sophomore (in high school, I mean), I independently formulated Pascal's Wager without ever having heard of Pascal or his damn Wager, and was immediately upbraided for my unoriginality by my favorite intimidating languages teacher. So ever since then I've said screw you, Pascal! Screw you and your damn Wager!

I have to concede that he did in fact end up winning that Wager. Well, I'm sure it makes him very happy! But if you ask me, it's a pretty fucking sick thing to go around betting on.

He should of lost.

Anyway, my version was a little classier. I'd derived it from that whole Schrödinger's Cat thought experiment setup, instead of whatever the hell gave him his cue. That bastard was probably shooting craps.

I still might feel a bit guilty about that cat, though. Can't be certain.

Your Grim Stevedores

well all these people in my heart
who I fell in love with, but never out
they linger never paying rent, and keeping up
the management, they're bad for business
there's no doubt - put them out
put them out right now
there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
are dragging in your steamer trunks
and I am trying my best to help
and I will help you settle in
and I have turned down every room
nothing but the personal touch
I'm most hands-on solicitous
for such a precious guest as you
there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
are dragging in your steamer trunks
and they don't seem to want my help
you'll settle into cleanest sheets
your pillow mint, melting in your pillow mouth
down in my office, I turn in
and flip the vacant light to out
there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
are dragging in your steamer trunks
and they might kick me out as well
and out my window, cross the courtyard
I see the flicker in your room
and you'll be blasting your tv
but there'll be no complaint, you see
all the help is gone but me
and all the guests are gone but you
and there's no room in my heart
no vacancy at all
you have booked the whole hotel
and your grim stevedores
have all gone back to their long shore
and they have left you in my charge
and you have put me in your spell
all your grim stevedores
have all gone back to their long shore
and I will keep you very well

Saturday, July 18, 2009

So I Flew Home

I was dying to paint a few canvases of these. But I know for a fact some other jerk already paints high-altitude flat-aspect abstracted landscapes. So maybe I can't, too! But I bet mine would be better.
abstract study 1
abstract 5 the world wears madras shorts
abstract 4 the cloudstained earth
abstract study 3 that's my cloud
abstract study 2 crop circles
abstract 6 hey half-dome
That's Yosemite down there! Can you see Half Dome down there? On the lower left.

Not so bold and sassy without some Ansel Adams to tart you up all iconic are you, Half-Dome?

Old Rolls #3

the lead in
vertical cuts
layers

Old Rolls #2

rock water fire
from shadows out
green blue shadow pearl

Old Rolls

borderflash
horizon crash
emerald to haze

In My Command

A lot of videos and pictures lately, it seems. Perhaps all my words have been taken away.

desolate in anger and safe
in isolation, you're about
to be the victim of a
holy visitation
by the rights that I have been given!!!


It's just the fear of losing control / you know so well

Suffer Never

kisses, slowly rising / on the air
left her weightless, on the air / on the air



"Only Talking Sense"

there's a wild thing in the woolshed and it's keeping me awake at night

Friday, July 17, 2009

Why are we waiting? Waiting for what

It's so funny sometimes, it seems like Australia/New Zealand is this whole alternate/parallel universe of classic and timeless music that none of us up here knows a damn thing about. But clearly, some of it is quite indisputably beautiful! Why weren't we told?

Don't believe me? Don't make me sing my take of "Whaling" for you. In the meantime, call me loyal.

I'll hold you loyal, too.

We are loyal.

Keep it that way.

Beside you

here's to your garden
here's to your kid
I heard you were in the neighborhood
I been a long time on a skid
and baby I'm
beside you
you run to the river
when it all ran over you

this is for you standin' up to a bone-chilling wind
this is for the failures
you collected from my sins
and this is for your lonesome tears
I never dried
this is for you hanging in
in the hope that it never died

and baby I'm
beside you
you run to the river when it all ran over you

this is for you waiting up
though the call never came
for the milk of human kindnesses
you collected from your veins
and this is for your lonesome tears
I never dried
this is for you hanging in
in the hope that it never died

and baby I'm
beside you
you run to the river when it all ran over you
and I'll be running here
beside you
and I'll be running here
beside you

this is for your travel
all the blind and desert roads
good fortune smile upon you
and may love be your only load
and this is for the only one
who could quell my burning rage
to anyone been with a broken man
and anyone seen better days

and baby I'm

beside you

and I am running here
beside you
and I
am running here
beside you

- "Beside You", Dave Dobbyn

Thursday, July 16, 2009

The Flower Shrub Outside Is Going Off

flowershrub
flowershrub2

None More Random Pt.5

Time to change out the Top 9 of All Time again! Once again, chosen completely at random, using the very own "Feelin' Lucky Button" which you see to the left. But why let me dictate my Top 9 of All Time to you? Seize your own randomness! Make use of the Lucky Button on your own, to compile your own list of what's "Top 9."

Here are mine, anyway - the current Top 9 Most Random of All Time. Quite a nice selection, this time. Some real winners. But fuck that - you be the judge.

TOP 9 OF ALL TIME (CHOSEN AT RANDOM)

NEIL TENNANT.
After a Good, Pounding Rain
NFL Week 4: Why I Picked The Way I Did
Can a Feminist Bake? Pt.2: Update
Tina Fey Is Hot Pt.3
Hey, Are You Together? Let's Keep It That Way!
Hard to Argue
Thought Of The Other Day
My Fingertips Hurt!
Special Guest Shot #5: My First Super Hero!
That's Just Dumb

(don't forget, there's always 11 - it's traditional)

Has Anyone Here Actually Read Hitler's Mein Kampf?

Well okay, then! Don't be so quick to judge something you know nothing about.

Also, though - don't even bother. You're not missing much.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Purpose of Life #5

Look: people make certain accommodations with their conception of reality. It's not my job to spell that shit out for you, okay? Off-base, on-base, what does it really matter? You've got your reality, I've got reality.

That's enough for me, or else it ought to be.

Purpose of Life #4

The purpose of life is to reproduce itself. Order reproduces itself; chaos does not.

Purpose of Life: Previous Attempts

The purpose of life is to understand the purpose of life.

The purpose of life is to process sensory input and arrive at some conclusion.

(I worry that second one may be the real deal - it's pretty hard to refute it down, or move past it irrefutably)

Kind of a Funny Joke, You See, Te He

Jenny Lewis "See Fernando" from Team G on Vimeo.

Don't bother watching it here. Click through to vimeo and blow it up fullscreen.

Those are totally her legs at the very end, I swear.

Purpose of Life #2

Since the meaning of life is inescapably all around us, the purpose of life is quite quaintly irrelevant.

Purpose of Life #1

The purpose of life is to add meaning to everyone else's life.

Big Head Todd & the Monsters / Blues Traveler at the Mountain Winery

Saratoga, CA, July 14th, 2009 - The Mountain Winery

Great show. I am so glad I had a chance to see Big Head Todd (with of course, his charming bestiary in tow). It was strange that the merch booth had only Sister Sweetly on tap as far as CDs go - I'd've not minded a chance to be tempted with whatever newest album they might conceivably be out on the road flogging for, if there is one. I mean, there was a concert DVD but I want album. If a band puts on a good show, I want to say "OK then! I will shell out for this new album, your latest best creative effort, this collection of new songs you've pitched me on." It's a gratifying transaction, a powerful sales push followed by the happy acquiescence of a satisfied customer! But can a show sell you on a concert DVD...? What would that even mean? Hey, good job on the concert, you convinced me to buy this other concert that I didn't go to. Huh?

But leave all that aside, because it is already aside. These guys are a great live band. They play with such character and zeal, such joy for it. The drummer was just, as he was playing, he was just the happiest guy in the whole amphitheater. He was so into it it was dangerously infectious - he was playing with his whole body, his head was nodding and lolling around like crazy with his eyes squinched tight and a whole-face grin; he'd throw his sticks up in the air not even bothering to catch them - pull out a spare! No missed beats from this guy. Apart from Todd on lead vocal and guitar, there was also a truck-stop fashion-plate bassist (you know what I mean) who knew exactly what to do with all four strings, and an organist/keyboardist who'd occasionally drag out and do wild justice to a lap steel slide guitar.

They played with passion and verve, now stately, now frenetic, toying with various styles (including one reggae-blues number and one awesomely smoove reggae-funksexy-70s-soul number) but all very firmly rooted in their signature blues rock and roll with distorted alt-rock flanges flaring proudly. Every song they played went down great, and on a number of numbers (especially "Broken-Hearted Savior" which still for me holds a spot in my heart, right where the throat catches) they reached a pitch where they were just crushing it on every kick of the drum for whole songs long. They played some of the classics that I knew them for, they threw a few covers in there but I couldn't tell who by. I'm sure some of what they played was newer material, too - it all sounded great to me. Can't believe I just lucked into these tickets on the day of! Big Head Todd, awright. What a score.

Blues Traveler, I wasn't a big fan really going in but I did give them my openest mind. I always respected the songcraft in their singles, and I appreciated how they put themselves across as a band in public. They seemed like a decent sort, but perhaps not really my speed or style. OK, I admit it: I am not the biggest fan of orgiastic virtuoso harmonica soloing. So I was a little leery there, on that score. But as I said, I put it aside and came in with my mind open. I always give a band 1 chance to kick my ass.

Hey, these guys are real for real. A powerhouse musical unit, and I don't mind saying, certainly even moreso than Big Head Todd & the Monsters. But that's not a knock - Big Head Todd & the Grrrs are just a little more laid back by nature and probably design. Blues Traveler on the other hand, they like to burn it pretty hot. I was impressed. Apart from a pretty tepid Cheap Trick cover that they seemed to want to be a big audience participation singalong song (and doesn't a band usually want to use one of their own songs for that? But maybe they don't write songs like that, I guess. OK.), they put few feet wrong and had fingers all over all the necessary pulses to keep the ear of the crowd happy, even blissed out.

So overall, yeah, BT rocked the house. Popper is one hell of a singer! And his harmonica playing left me stupid and wide-eyed - the effect live is just another world removed from what you get hearing the album version at background levels, where the harmonica kind of decoheres into a weird squalling squeal of kinked and tormented noodling bleats, shronks and squonks. Live, it was a muscular snaking writhe of a kind of frenetic pentatonic bebop that had too much blood, soul and spit to dismiss. He was chawing on those harmonicas like it was a turkey dinner! And producing these unbelievable white-hot twisted melodic lines that would just earworm into your disbelieving mind and then out your gaping mouth! Wow. I was enjoyably flummoxed by how little it seemed like showing off, and how much it seemed like stacked choirs of insane cherubim, coming maniacally rejoicing from one guy's mouth.

And after just about every song, he'd toss a harmonica into the crowd with a casual flip. That was really endearing. A nice souvenir for some lucky fan!

Two great bands that taste great together.

I Would Die 4 U

I bet Prince really took to this whole text-messaging phenomenon like a fish 2 water. In some ways he's almost like, a spiritual godfather of the whole craze.

I picture him busily blipping and clicking, precision-thumbsing his way through his day, maybe occasionally pausing to spell a whole word out just for the sheer shock value of it.

It's That Final Analysis Guy Again

In the final analysis it doesn't really matter anyway, though. Whatever you say on a subject doesn't matter because it's just words. And facts are practically always mere links in a chain of happenstance that bears only a coincidental relationship to what people try to make it mean. Fifty ka-billion years from now, it all ends in entropy anyhow. There's no point getting all riled up.

Even now I can feel myself cooling, and my atoms spreading apart.

Quote of the Day

"You pay for your life with your life" - Dave Dobbyn

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Blue Canary In the Outlet by the Lightswitch, Who Watches Over Me

"Not to put too fine a point on it / Say I'm the only bee in your bonnet"



This is like, my first favorite song or something at the moment. So thumping and exquisite and melodic and lyrically-intricate and stuff!

"I have a secret to tell
from my electrical well.
It's a simple message, and
I'm leaving out the whistles and bells"

BIRD WATCHING!!!

Man, I don't even know where to start with this one. I've been an avid bird watcher my whole life. I like the littler dudes that hop on the ground, not walk. Their little legs are too stubby!

My problem is, I'm all watch and no identify. I don't know who's who really. But I sure do love those little dudes!

I'm not too keen on the gulls. You'll be tearing up the stale bread into hunks, tossing it around the yard, all the little dudes are like "we're saved! It was such a lean winter," but then suddenly whole flights and grim formations of dive bombing gulls bust up their little luncheon and they're left on the outskirts.

F'ers!!!!

But yeah, birds are overall pretty great. And again, the little guys especially - who could not love 'em? I love wrens! I love wrens, sparrows and finches best, probably. Not in that order though. And not as if I could always infallibly tell between.

I also love jays, and cardinals, the two very closely associated in my mind (but of course, so easy to distinguish between!). They are in the next order above, in terms of size and build, but they seem a quantum leap up in terms of sheer jocky athleticism. Sparrows are kind of dorks by comparison.

I love those little dorks! Look at 'em hop for their bread!

Oh, okay. I guess I love gulls, too (I'm such a sucker). They are the self-machined, wind-hewn soaring explorers and piratical scavengers of our shores and seas, brash and pushy and aggressive half because they have to be, half because they can.

Condors are freaky cool! Hawks are so piercing, hovering high up against the wind, then uttering that cry of theirs to freeze their prey. Eagles are magnificent. Do they have a cry like that? I get the sense, maybe they don't need it.

Peacocks are punk pioneers, in my view.

I'm so naive, though, in terms of bird-watching. I could never rattle off bird names with any confidence (not counting fictitious ones that I coin on the spot, those are easy to rattle off with confidence).

I'm also a bit of a flower-watcher. Same similar problem there.

Self-Quote of the Moment

“No one who has ever found love, can complain of life being unfair.”

Is Opinion Really Worth Anything?

It's relative, and it depends on several factors:

1. Is the opinion in question yours?
2. Does the opinion in question agree with yours?
3. Does the opinion in question seem persuasive enough to you for you to consider adopting it in preference to your own, previously-divergent opinion?

If the answer to these three questions is "No", then the opinion in question is relatively worthless.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Speaking as a Damn Feminist...

...but not a damned feminist, you'll note. Important distinction to draw.

So anyway, as a feminist, I'm pretty confident to say that I speak for all women who agree with me on this next thing I have to say, which is this:

The insulting part of calling a man a "bitch" has as much to do with the word's feminine aspect as the insulting part of calling a woman a "bitch" has to do with its canine aspect. Which is to say: NOTHING. It has nothing to do with it. When you call someone a bitch, you're not calling a man a woman any more than you're calling a woman a dog. The insult has long since moved on from its ancient etymological roots, okay? It has subsumed its referent, and is now linguistically sufficient unto itself.

What's insulting is that you're being called a bitch. That ought to be quite enough for you.

Or to put it more to the point: that ought to be quite enough for you bitches.

Waxing Autobiographical

OK, I'm going to try this out, just as an experiment. If it doesn't pan out I am never doing it again.

Here it goes.

Just got back from a WEEK'S VACATION in South Jersey! Had a nice time. Went to the beach in Brigantine and communed with the Atlantic, stood godfather to my most-recent niece, watched the fireworks over the Atlantic City skyline from my sister's big backyard across the bay and salt marshes from A.C., went to Six Flags Great Adventure with a whole horde of stomping and cavorting parents (plus their screaming and giggling kids), played a triumphant solo acoustic comeback gig under the moon, stars, and distant lightning at the beach in Point Pleasant - albeit the turnout was pretty sparse (audience of one). I ate more whole hoagies than I'd want to go back and count, fresh delicious corn, cookout burgs and dogs, and the most ridiculous filet Oscar I've ever had foisted on me - instead of the sauce béarnaise it was like, steak sauce! Not A1 or anything, but definitely a steak sauce. COME ON!

It was still good, but still. Steak sauce on a great tender slab of perfectly juicy medium-well filet mignon is bad enough. But steak sauce on lump crab?

Good to be back, though.

Thought of the Day, Smiling Wide

There's a big difference between having someone in your life whose presence makes you miserable, and having someone in your life whose absence makes you miserable.

OK, in practical terms, you're miserable either way. So perhaps the difference is largely hypothetical but it is HUGE.

Another One for the Card Shop

You know what they should have? Belated Happy 4th of July cards. Because there's just no excuse!

Back to Work!

I'm back from my Jersey Shore vacation! Looks like all my scheduled auto-posts posted in my absence, except for the first one actually mentioning I was going on vacation! But anyhow, back. Back back back back back.

So much to tell, a lovely trip all in all, but that all seems kind of weird to talk about on a blog such as this. Besides, I've got to get in to work.

It generally takes me what, three weeks to catch up/recover from a week's vacation?

I'll do it in two.

Sunday, July 12, 2009

A Promissory Note

God, I'm praying this ahead of time
please see me safely there and back
and let it all go oh so well, and nothing
change, and nothing lack. I am in love
with so much life, so much in love, with
such good cause. I've had such luck, in
life, I know. With gravity, and other laws.
I've shown poor gratitude thus far - I'm
daunted, by the scope of debt. But if you
keep me here awhile, I'll find a way
to thank you yet.

Saturday, July 11, 2009

Retroactively, a Novel.

Alright, so somebody was giving me a whole lot of shit about writing all these posts or articles or whatever in here instead of working on my novel. And the most ridiculous aspect of that is that this person doesn't even know what my novel's about! If Baskin Robbins made sense instead of ice cream, that would not be one of the 31 flavors.

But hell, then, though. If that's where it's at, then I'll tell you what - we can take care of all that right here! I hereby declare this entire blog from the start right up to this point to be, retroactively, a NOVEL.

My first novel. "Oh, Nobel...?" Although wait. Team Nobel gives out the lit prize on an oeuvre-not-opus basis. Which means one thing.

Gotta go now. The sequel needs work.

If Others Would Accept Us As We Are, Then We Would Be Happy

Bullshit! No we wouldn't.

We would just criticize them for their lack of standards.

Thought of a day gone by

If being too eager for good is a sin, the penalty ought to be heaven.

Friday, July 10, 2009

I Kind of Smell.

That's so weird. I pretty much hardly ever kind of smell.

The Blessings of a Life Lived to the Null

Life is so straightforward and simple and plain! I just wish there was some way to know that I would live until I am like 95 years old at least, and in a woefully deleterious if not borderline-vegetative state of faculties, with all of my fitness and vigor not "only a memory," so much as "gone beyond recollection or recall." At that advanced state of affairs, I want to die in some bizarre accidental way wherein the circumstance of my death forms some seemingly nondescript yet in reality hiddenly-crucial link in a chain of events that would in some way precipitate the foiling of some petty, mean-spirited threat to the nation that was only uncovered due to the embarrassing fact of me expiring in an inconvenient time and place. The ultimate in self-sacrifice.

I feel like there aren't enough top-notch all-out action movies featuring a complete invalid in the main hero role, and I feel like if my noble sacrifice could inspire a film like that, it would probably be coming out around 2076 or thereabouts. Just in time for our nation's jubilant tricentenary!

My only regret is that, with the knowledge of my heroic self-sacrifice still then just fresh in the public eye of a humbly grateful nation, I wish that there would be some way for me to attend the premier. It would be a nice touch. I'd like to see that. Or at least kind of drool in the aisle a bit.

Perhaps the science of that far day will render it all possible in some way. Anyway, I have my hopes!

Wednesday, July 08, 2009

Confessions For Your FACE #2: Less Smart

This is something I have to come clean about. I am less smart than I come across.

But then when you think about it, it'd be almost impossible for it to be otherwise I guess!

Tuesday, July 07, 2009

Word of the Day: "Futilitarian"

Holy cow, I cannot believe that “futilitarian” is a real, accepted word in the dictionary. It sounds made-up!

A lot of words are starting to sound made-up. I have a suspicion that some of them are made-up. Only they managed to pull the wool over somebody’s eyes back in the day, and then eventually time passed, and it acquired a certain stamp of legitimacy. Which only compounds the problem.

Whatever Happens Today,

Man, I just caught myself STRUTTIN' again! The world is too bouncy. It tosses me a little bit up in the air with each step!

Whatever happens today, I'm going to wake up happy tomorrow. That's not even a prediction. There's a point past which a thing that feels infinitely right becomes inevitable.

There is also, however, a point a good bit short of that, where you're basically kidding yourself to that same effect.

But same effect can just as easily mean same result, same difference. The gap between inevitability and kidding one's self is not so spacious as to be unbridgeable by dint of sheer will! It isn't even so wide as to be unleapable, by dint of having way too big a bounce in one's stride, and way too much obliviousness from the sun in one's eyes.

On a partly cloudy day, no less. With a 30% chance!

Monday, July 06, 2009

The Positive Thought Process

Sometimes you find that if you send positive thoughts out into the world, they come back to you. Unopened.

Sunday, July 05, 2009

Eternal Posers: Can God Make a Rock So Heavy That He Himself Cannot Lift It?

This is an evergreen. The question is ultimately not about how heavy a rock God can make (infinitely heavy) or how strong God is in terms of lifting rocks (infinitely strong). The question is this: Can God self-limit?

The "immovable object" is a fantasy - all objects are moveable, given sufficient force. Heaviness is not "the ability to not be moved"! It is a simple descriptor of mass, or of gravity's action upon mass. These are physical properties, susceptible to being overcome by sufficient forces - and an infinite force is a sufficient force.

So the question becomes: can an infinite God choose self-restraint? Can God elect to take on a limitation, to God's infinite power?

Well, it would be quite odd if God couldn't. Even we humans can do that. But there's some biblical precedent for God choosing self-limitation. God became human, eh? Even those who most fully endorse Jesus's divine nature as truly God, don't depict the Lord as wielding Herculean (or even, Samsonian) physical might. Christ is not shown tossing boulders around and such. I really don't think that super-strength was part of the Messiah-powers package. So in at least that one instance, I'd say that there were many boulders that God had created, that in that time and place and person at least, God could not lift - God in the person of Christ, God in human form (but still very much fully God).

If the questioner refuses to allow God's choice to self-limit, then the question becomes an obvious logical self-contradiction - so flimsy it knocks itself over with the unavoidable tautology it calls forth. Strength is definable here as ability to lift. If the heaviness of the rock God can create is infinite, and God's strength to lift it is infinite - where is the supposed limitation to God's power?

Here, the power to create mass and power to lift mass are both infinite. It is logically impossible that either can exceed the other, if both are infinite.

The root problem here is that the questioner fails to grasp the nature of infinity*. If an item is for sale at an infinite price, that doesn't mean that it can not be bought even with an infinite amount of money - if that were the case, then it is not for sale! No, an infinite price means that it can only be purchased with an infinite amount of money. Just so, the infinitely-heavy object: it is not that it cannot be lifted, only that to lift it requires an infinite strength.

Given, a given item may simply be not for sale. Not to be had for any price. It is a matter of decision on the owner's part, and not all hearts are swayed by money (not even an infinite sum of it!). But a physical object cannot decide to be immune to sufficient force. Even an infinitely massive object cannot be taken off the market of being liftable. Yet the question as phrased demands a mass so heavy that it cannot be lifted by a force with infinite lifting power. This is an absurd thing to ask for: a logically-impossible object.

In demanding a logically-impossible object, the questioner is not demonstrating any limitation to God's power, but rather a limitation within the questioner's own powers of reason.