A ruler rapped across the knuckles. A serious ass spanking with a green willow branch, or a shoe, or a ladle, or an open hand, or a book or a leather belt. A whole month without phone or television privileges. No dessert after dinner. No dinner at all. Going to bed early. No recess.
Some call it "punishment" or "detention" or "being grounded." Whatever you call it, it's what your parents or guardians did to keep you in line and prevent you from being a complete and total shit. Sadly, being a shit is now considered a charming trait and more and more all you see are piles of "shits" lying around, being shitty. Their parents sitting idly by and smiling, proudly. They have conversations with themselves of how proud they are of their shit. There is nothing parents like to brag about more than their shit. There is nothing more charming than a parent who thinks that their shit don't stink.
Alec Baldwin left a message for his daughter and he called her a name. He didn't hit her. She can still sit down. She didn't lose anything precious. She'll still go to bed rich and wake up with a brighter future than anyone else I've ever known at her age. For some reason, the parents who are usually sitting idly by and watching their shits grow in to full blown diarrhea are all up in arms over Mr. Baldwin's assault on his daughter, Pig.
Her father called her, "A thankless and ungrateful little pig," and I have to say, if that's all he said to create this hysteria and stir the media attention pot so vigorously then we should be less shocked at Mr. Baldwin and more outraged at ourselves for being so transparent, ridiculous and obviously shallow. At least Alec was able to open his eyes, see his shit and give it a name. (Pigs love to wallow in their shit)
Of course, it's not uncommon for us to jump up and down for such a bland little story like this and turn it into such a cause celeb for everyone to rally around. We have a history of this in our country. As the world around us is screaming and shouting and shooting at each other and blowing each other up, the only national dialogue we have, or can stomach, seems to be, "What is Britney Spears going to do to get her career back on track?" I know I'm flummoxed and pained because I don't know what she's going to do either.
I don't have a lot of time to worry about Brittney's future, or Alec and Pig's family disciplinary tactics because fast approaching is my trip to Africa. Normally a pending trip to a foreign country is something I really look forward to, but with all of this drama in my own country, I just can't seem to get my mind on track. I need to prepare my mind and body for the rigors of a trip to a war torn area of Africa and I have to figure out a way to best entertain a bunch of American soldiers who have been fighting there for five years. What material should I do? What do you think our soldiers want to hear about? The price of gas? The Yankees' woes? What should I tell them about "What's going on" at home? Perhaps I should do a bunch of jokes about Alec Baldwin's phone message to Pig. I'm sure the soldiers who have lived in a tent in 120 degree heat for the past five years will find those jokes hysterical. Or perhaps I should carry on about Phil Spectre's murder trial. There is nothing the people of Africa like, or appreciate more, than a tale of a murder where the murderer goes free because they're rich and their victim was poor.
I think I'm going to be a hit.
Alec Baldwin has scoured his daughter's precious "life-of-substance" veneer and we have been made to witness. We have decided that we should not sit idly by and let a rich man in the midst of a brutal custody battle vent out some frustration. We have decided that we don't care about the rest of the world's evils or woes, and we have decided that Alec Baldwin is the new face of disgrace and the personification of personal shame.
Our own shame and disgraces seem somehow less powerful and important, and therefore more manageable, if we place them on someone else's shoulders for them to bear. Isn't that the cornerstone of the Christian faith? Isn't that the basic tenet of friendship?
I leave in 15 days. I hope for my sake that we figure out what to do with Alec and Pig Baldwin. I hope that Brittney announces her comeback plans so I can get some rest. I hope that the shy black girl wins American Idol. And I hope the rest of the world's pain is kept out of my sight, at least until fund raising season, so I can get my work done. When I get back, we can pull out AIDS, or starvation, or land mines, or slavery, or human rights and we can walk a couple of miles, or wear a ribbon on our clothes to raise awareness and be done with it (I just like to do my part). There is nothing I enjoy more than raising awareness. I learned how to properly "raise" things by watching Alec Baldwin.
Monday, April 30, 2007
Saturday, April 28, 2007
what rhymes with poop?
You take one little break from the fast paced world of media manipulation and everything around you goes nutty. Thankfully the news media is still the same ol', same ol'. And by that I mean it's old people telling other old people how awful the world is and how much better it was when they were young and how good it could be if they just figured out a way to rid the world of its youth. At least that much hasn't changed. It has always been that way. There is nothing like watching yet ANOTHER crippling comparison of 2007 to 1957 to bring hope to your day. (They always fail to mention their culpability in the changes.)
Youth is a time of being foul, which is not unlike the old age kind of foul: They both smell really bad. But this foul isn't caused by some rot or mysterious mold or mildew which is so common with old people. Youth smells foul because it doesn't care to smell good. Youth looks foul because they make unguided, unsupervised decisions. Youth sounds foul because they love dirty, shameful words that used to get soap in the mouth, but now can be used without punishment. But why all this foulness? Because not too many years prior, Youth wasn't allowed to be foul because Youth's parents were watching over their every move and bossing them around. Youth, set free, is pure foulness on a level that we will only ever know once in a lifetime.
Then we get older. Bills start to stack up. Rent, or the mortgage is due. You gotta work at 8, gotta be up at 7, gotta be in bed by 11, need to eat by 6. You need to exercise or you'll get fat and die or worse, no one will ever want to sleep with you again. Moisturize or you'll wrinkle. Save money for retirement. Get married or you'll get AIDS and die. Have kids so you can justify going over to your in-laws. Wear comfortable shoes. AND....
Never use foul language. Basically, you speak as old people do. The language of your youth is lost to conformity.
Whilst on vacation this past week, the "old school" rappers of the world have decided to come together to declare that they are "standing TOGETHER" (aka conforming) for a world wide KIBOSHING of foul language in rap. That's right, the rappers of the world want other rappers to stop cussing in their songs/raps. Of course, the people who decided that there should be less cussing in rap are the very same souls who cussed in rap before anyone else did and did it more than anyone else did and did it better than anyone else did. It's because of them that bee-atch, ho, niggaz, mutha-fucka and shee-it are all popular in our vocabulary today (oddly cunt was a word that they overlooked, I guess that's just TOO far over the line).
To show the depth of their dedication on this decision, they all gathered at a high rise building in downtown New York, sat at huge conference table, all of them wearing suits, jewelry and sunglasses that cost more than you and I make in a year, and were able to use their press agents to get the media to show up at the event. They then showed their solidarity on the issue by shaking hands and by repeating the refrain, "It just has no business in our industry. It brings us all down."
Old men.
Old men talking to old men.
Rap was black punk rock. It was created as an expression for those who had no way to express themselves. It was a bellow of frustration against a system that pushed them out. It was "uncivilized, unruly and unacceptable." It was frustrated Youth fighting against the conformity that was being asked of it. It was innocence fighting against great sin. It was filled with cussing, rage, and, most importantly, the slightest glimmer of hope. It wasn't until money and pussy and power was introduced to the picture that rap became "pop" and the punk soul was ripped out of its heart. Punk saw this same thing happen to it and to this day you can hear the "punky" songs of Avril Levigne(sp) on the radio. Then you can buy her cereal at Wal Mart. The old men win again. They are trying to take away that last glimmer of hope so you will have no choice but to conform.
The Godfathers of rap got old, as we all do and will, but rap didn't get old. Rap, and its punk cousin, is a state of mind and these can never grow old unless you turn your back on youth, on hope, on innocence, and embrace the staleness of conformity. Foulness is how you let The Old know that you haven't conformed and that you still have hope. "FUCK YEAH!" And they will know that you are still not on board. The words might not echo in their heads, but the spirit of the words will.
Youth is foulness. Youth is life being used and lived. Old is life in storage, on ice, in the closet on a shelf. It gathers dust, it molds, it mildews. Youth is freedom. Old is a world of gray, of being a part of the machine, of being lost, of being nothing but a shadow.
Those Godfathers of rap with their million dollar homes, million dollar wives, and million dollar lives, can suck my mutha-fuckin dick!
Youth is a time of being foul, which is not unlike the old age kind of foul: They both smell really bad. But this foul isn't caused by some rot or mysterious mold or mildew which is so common with old people. Youth smells foul because it doesn't care to smell good. Youth looks foul because they make unguided, unsupervised decisions. Youth sounds foul because they love dirty, shameful words that used to get soap in the mouth, but now can be used without punishment. But why all this foulness? Because not too many years prior, Youth wasn't allowed to be foul because Youth's parents were watching over their every move and bossing them around. Youth, set free, is pure foulness on a level that we will only ever know once in a lifetime.
Then we get older. Bills start to stack up. Rent, or the mortgage is due. You gotta work at 8, gotta be up at 7, gotta be in bed by 11, need to eat by 6. You need to exercise or you'll get fat and die or worse, no one will ever want to sleep with you again. Moisturize or you'll wrinkle. Save money for retirement. Get married or you'll get AIDS and die. Have kids so you can justify going over to your in-laws. Wear comfortable shoes. AND....
Never use foul language. Basically, you speak as old people do. The language of your youth is lost to conformity.
Whilst on vacation this past week, the "old school" rappers of the world have decided to come together to declare that they are "standing TOGETHER" (aka conforming) for a world wide KIBOSHING of foul language in rap. That's right, the rappers of the world want other rappers to stop cussing in their songs/raps. Of course, the people who decided that there should be less cussing in rap are the very same souls who cussed in rap before anyone else did and did it more than anyone else did and did it better than anyone else did. It's because of them that bee-atch, ho, niggaz, mutha-fucka and shee-it are all popular in our vocabulary today (oddly cunt was a word that they overlooked, I guess that's just TOO far over the line).
To show the depth of their dedication on this decision, they all gathered at a high rise building in downtown New York, sat at huge conference table, all of them wearing suits, jewelry and sunglasses that cost more than you and I make in a year, and were able to use their press agents to get the media to show up at the event. They then showed their solidarity on the issue by shaking hands and by repeating the refrain, "It just has no business in our industry. It brings us all down."
Old men.
Old men talking to old men.
Rap was black punk rock. It was created as an expression for those who had no way to express themselves. It was a bellow of frustration against a system that pushed them out. It was "uncivilized, unruly and unacceptable." It was frustrated Youth fighting against the conformity that was being asked of it. It was innocence fighting against great sin. It was filled with cussing, rage, and, most importantly, the slightest glimmer of hope. It wasn't until money and pussy and power was introduced to the picture that rap became "pop" and the punk soul was ripped out of its heart. Punk saw this same thing happen to it and to this day you can hear the "punky" songs of Avril Levigne(sp) on the radio. Then you can buy her cereal at Wal Mart. The old men win again. They are trying to take away that last glimmer of hope so you will have no choice but to conform.
The Godfathers of rap got old, as we all do and will, but rap didn't get old. Rap, and its punk cousin, is a state of mind and these can never grow old unless you turn your back on youth, on hope, on innocence, and embrace the staleness of conformity. Foulness is how you let The Old know that you haven't conformed and that you still have hope. "FUCK YEAH!" And they will know that you are still not on board. The words might not echo in their heads, but the spirit of the words will.
Youth is foulness. Youth is life being used and lived. Old is life in storage, on ice, in the closet on a shelf. It gathers dust, it molds, it mildews. Youth is freedom. Old is a world of gray, of being a part of the machine, of being lost, of being nothing but a shadow.
Those Godfathers of rap with their million dollar homes, million dollar wives, and million dollar lives, can suck my mutha-fuckin dick!
Friday, April 27, 2007
deadwood and other mysterious tales of joy
I am not the spry little dove that I used to be. In days of yore I would have been able to travel for 20 to 30 hour stretches without needing a pee break or to sleep. My body was a traveling machine that was able to withstand everything that the road could throw at it. I could watch the miles roll past in hundred mile increments and not even think twice about it. I once drove from Savannah, Georgia to Kansas City, MO and then on to Los Angeles, CA in 55 hours. Every car I have ever owned has quivered whenever I got behind the wheel knowing the brutality that lie ahead. I was fierce.
Today, I have to pee a lot, and a hundred miles seems like a full day of travel. Even if I could go farther, I wouldn't try it. As a seasoned traveler, I know that all that lies beyond that hundred miles in front of me is just another hundred miles, and another, and another... That's a lot of pee breaks.
I spent four long lovely days in Kansas City, eating, sightseeing and taking it all in. I stayed with Adam at his new digs in Olathe and made all the rounds of the Daniel historic landmarks; Winsteads, Gates, the parks, the Plaza and, of course - the zoo and the art museum were squeezed in there for good measure. I love going back to Kansas City probably as much as I like to complain about it. For every nasty thing I could think to say about it I still can't convince myself not to daydream about it. It is, and always be, my true home. It tortures me to think about the place, much the same way a bad cook looks at a ruined meal and tortures themselves thinking they can save it by fooling with it further. Their efforts will only add more misery to the flavor, but it doesn't stop them from trying. Kansas City has always tasted like it's been over seasoned, but I still ate as much as I could before it was time to go puke.
It was finally time to go home and the trail ahead of me seemed like a prison sentence. The trail home was in need some serious modification if I was to make it without going crazy. The well-traveled route that takes me from Lincoln, Nebraska to Salt Lake City just wasn't going to work for me anymore. The Wyoming plains are as mentally taxing as any remote part of the world can be and I doubt even the hardiest Siberian gypsies could make the trip as often as I have without losing their minds.
So it was decided that South Dakota might be a more colorful and therefore, less disturbing choice. Sometimes my thinking is questionable.
If you're thing on road trips is road side attractions then South Dakota is your state. It can boost more road side attractions in a 350 mile stretch of highway than anywhere else on earth. The USS South Dakota is buried up to its main deck in a park in Sioux Falls. The Corn Palace, adorned with corn, sits as a shine on the prairie to the Corn Gods for all the corn worshipers world wide to come and worship at. Just a few miles down the road from there is Laura Ingalls Wilder's house (yes, Little House on the Prairie). It's mad of mud and has grass growing on it. There is an old western town. A car museum with the General Lee. There's the famous Wall Drug. The Badlands, which is a smaller version of the Grand Canyon. The Wounded Knee Massacre site, and THEN....
Mt. Rushmore. A testament to America's bravado and its willingness to insult an entire nation of people by defacing its most sacred land and convincing everyone that it was a patriotic thing to do. A lesson that other countries should remember; If America is willing to desecrate it's own people's beliefs, what makes them think we would think twice about besmirching theirs?
If carving the faces of four white men on a mountain wasn't good enough, there's Sturgis. A small town of modest means that sits at the foothills of the sacred Black hills, and for one week in August it becomes the Mecca for Harley riders everywhere. It's nine or ten days of debauchery and hedonism on a level that only Genghis Khan and the Vikings could fully appreciate. (I mean the football team, not the marauding Norwegians). I'm sure the few remaining natives in the area must be beating themselves up that they lost to these idiots.
The most curious stop is Deadwood. A small town made famous by the latest HBO series of the same name. It's a small town that would have otherwise disappeared like many old western mining towns if not for the fact that this particular town is where Wild Bill was shot and killed while playing poker. Why is he famous? Can you remember? Well, it gets better. He's buried here and lying next to him is Calamity Jane. Remember why she's famous? No? Well, she's a drunk with a big mouth whose shameless stories of self-promotion were so bold and daring that she is famous to this day for reasons that NO ONE can remember. She was that good at it. I know a lot of drunks who talk big shit. HELL, I talk big shit when I'm drunk, but I doubt that I'll be famous a hundred year after my death for those campy little tales. Calamity Jane was just a big, loud drunk woman that lives on in our memory because she had a cool name.
Traditionally the trail between the Perch and KC takes two full, long days of driving. With a serious deviation comes an extra traveling day (hence the non-posting for so many days in a row) and that means more mental distress which is always a good frame of mind to have when looking at road side attractions.
Just past the South Dakota border lies Wyoming and that great big weird looking rock that was made famous by the film, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind". Up close it's not as stellar as the movie made it look. I was able to walk all the way around it in thirty minutes which means that either I'm the God of hiking or Richard Dreyfuss is a slug. [SPOILER] They took out the runway where the space ship landed so don't ask to see it. I was here before when I was a child and the tale of how this rock came to look this way centered around an Indian legend where a bear clawed at the sides trying to kill some Indian children. I held on to that belief until I came back twenty-five years later still believing that only to have my dreams dashed by a park ranger explaining that the rock was just a volcano without sides.... .... .... ..... .... I was crushed. I liked the bear story better.
The final road side attraction is Custer's Last Stand just across the border in Montana. It was closed by the time I arrived, but the huge headstone that marks the spot where Custer fell on the battlefield was still visible from the locked gate. It's well marked and stands out because it's larger than the rest of the headstones and it has a huge bronze plaque on it that reflects the setting sun with impressive strength. It was almost like Custer's famous ego was shining through from beyond the grave.
The battlefield sits in the middle of an Indian reservation and had their forefathers known that their efforts would become such a famous road side attraction I'm sure they would have slaughtered Custer closer to the highway.
They're designed as a cash grab that appeal to our morbid curiosity but often they act as a modest goal that brings a decent mental break from a rather monotonous trip. One can only look at endless fields of corn for so long before they need to see some dead cowboys. So as much as you might despise their presence and their obvious offensiveness to good taste, you can still appreciate what they've done to get you home.
Their Ragu may be too spicy, but at least you aren't eating bland, flavorless noodles.
Today, I have to pee a lot, and a hundred miles seems like a full day of travel. Even if I could go farther, I wouldn't try it. As a seasoned traveler, I know that all that lies beyond that hundred miles in front of me is just another hundred miles, and another, and another... That's a lot of pee breaks.
I spent four long lovely days in Kansas City, eating, sightseeing and taking it all in. I stayed with Adam at his new digs in Olathe and made all the rounds of the Daniel historic landmarks; Winsteads, Gates, the parks, the Plaza and, of course - the zoo and the art museum were squeezed in there for good measure. I love going back to Kansas City probably as much as I like to complain about it. For every nasty thing I could think to say about it I still can't convince myself not to daydream about it. It is, and always be, my true home. It tortures me to think about the place, much the same way a bad cook looks at a ruined meal and tortures themselves thinking they can save it by fooling with it further. Their efforts will only add more misery to the flavor, but it doesn't stop them from trying. Kansas City has always tasted like it's been over seasoned, but I still ate as much as I could before it was time to go puke.
It was finally time to go home and the trail ahead of me seemed like a prison sentence. The trail home was in need some serious modification if I was to make it without going crazy. The well-traveled route that takes me from Lincoln, Nebraska to Salt Lake City just wasn't going to work for me anymore. The Wyoming plains are as mentally taxing as any remote part of the world can be and I doubt even the hardiest Siberian gypsies could make the trip as often as I have without losing their minds.
So it was decided that South Dakota might be a more colorful and therefore, less disturbing choice. Sometimes my thinking is questionable.
If you're thing on road trips is road side attractions then South Dakota is your state. It can boost more road side attractions in a 350 mile stretch of highway than anywhere else on earth. The USS South Dakota is buried up to its main deck in a park in Sioux Falls. The Corn Palace, adorned with corn, sits as a shine on the prairie to the Corn Gods for all the corn worshipers world wide to come and worship at. Just a few miles down the road from there is Laura Ingalls Wilder's house (yes, Little House on the Prairie). It's mad of mud and has grass growing on it. There is an old western town. A car museum with the General Lee. There's the famous Wall Drug. The Badlands, which is a smaller version of the Grand Canyon. The Wounded Knee Massacre site, and THEN....
Mt. Rushmore. A testament to America's bravado and its willingness to insult an entire nation of people by defacing its most sacred land and convincing everyone that it was a patriotic thing to do. A lesson that other countries should remember; If America is willing to desecrate it's own people's beliefs, what makes them think we would think twice about besmirching theirs?
If carving the faces of four white men on a mountain wasn't good enough, there's Sturgis. A small town of modest means that sits at the foothills of the sacred Black hills, and for one week in August it becomes the Mecca for Harley riders everywhere. It's nine or ten days of debauchery and hedonism on a level that only Genghis Khan and the Vikings could fully appreciate. (I mean the football team, not the marauding Norwegians). I'm sure the few remaining natives in the area must be beating themselves up that they lost to these idiots.
The most curious stop is Deadwood. A small town made famous by the latest HBO series of the same name. It's a small town that would have otherwise disappeared like many old western mining towns if not for the fact that this particular town is where Wild Bill was shot and killed while playing poker. Why is he famous? Can you remember? Well, it gets better. He's buried here and lying next to him is Calamity Jane. Remember why she's famous? No? Well, she's a drunk with a big mouth whose shameless stories of self-promotion were so bold and daring that she is famous to this day for reasons that NO ONE can remember. She was that good at it. I know a lot of drunks who talk big shit. HELL, I talk big shit when I'm drunk, but I doubt that I'll be famous a hundred year after my death for those campy little tales. Calamity Jane was just a big, loud drunk woman that lives on in our memory because she had a cool name.
Traditionally the trail between the Perch and KC takes two full, long days of driving. With a serious deviation comes an extra traveling day (hence the non-posting for so many days in a row) and that means more mental distress which is always a good frame of mind to have when looking at road side attractions.
Just past the South Dakota border lies Wyoming and that great big weird looking rock that was made famous by the film, "Close Encounters of the Third Kind". Up close it's not as stellar as the movie made it look. I was able to walk all the way around it in thirty minutes which means that either I'm the God of hiking or Richard Dreyfuss is a slug. [SPOILER] They took out the runway where the space ship landed so don't ask to see it. I was here before when I was a child and the tale of how this rock came to look this way centered around an Indian legend where a bear clawed at the sides trying to kill some Indian children. I held on to that belief until I came back twenty-five years later still believing that only to have my dreams dashed by a park ranger explaining that the rock was just a volcano without sides.... .... .... ..... .... I was crushed. I liked the bear story better.
The final road side attraction is Custer's Last Stand just across the border in Montana. It was closed by the time I arrived, but the huge headstone that marks the spot where Custer fell on the battlefield was still visible from the locked gate. It's well marked and stands out because it's larger than the rest of the headstones and it has a huge bronze plaque on it that reflects the setting sun with impressive strength. It was almost like Custer's famous ego was shining through from beyond the grave.
The battlefield sits in the middle of an Indian reservation and had their forefathers known that their efforts would become such a famous road side attraction I'm sure they would have slaughtered Custer closer to the highway.
They're designed as a cash grab that appeal to our morbid curiosity but often they act as a modest goal that brings a decent mental break from a rather monotonous trip. One can only look at endless fields of corn for so long before they need to see some dead cowboys. So as much as you might despise their presence and their obvious offensiveness to good taste, you can still appreciate what they've done to get you home.
Their Ragu may be too spicy, but at least you aren't eating bland, flavorless noodles.
Monday, April 23, 2007
where are the bears?
What is a zoo without bears?
Sunday afternoon, after a full morning of viewing the art at the Nelson-Atkins museum in Kansas City, I went to the Kansas City Zoo to see what was new with the birds and the bees. It's been a full twenty plus years since my last visit and I remember this zoo was big in my childhood. I must have come here a dozen or so times on school field trips or with my family on Sunday afternoons, just like this one and each time I was in heaven.
There is a tiny train that you can ride through the park. There are seals in a small pool that you can watch swim around and be cute. There are stinking goats that you can pet. There is a monkey house full of poo-slinging monkeys. It's all there...
The sun was bright, but the spring winds were blowing. Blowing might be too soft a way of saying "gale force" but I think you understand. Spring has always brought strong winds to Kansas City, so its nothing new. They tell the Kansas City faithful of strong, menacing storms somewhere over the horizon and that we should prepare to lose a house or two. As humans we can't see the storms but we can pretend to prognosticate based on odd and irregular ideas that we feel makes us look like a weather genius: "I see that the clouds over there are silver on top and grey on bottom, that must mean heavy rains are coming." "Hear how long that cat is meowing? That means rain!" Of course, it could just mean, "Shadows under a cloud" and "I'm hungry, feed me." but never argue with a weather report.
The animals at the zoo knew what the winds meant and most of those animals weren't even from here. Most of the animals hail from Asia or Africa and apparently their attitudes toward Kansas City were much the same as their neighbors outside of the zoo; if they could leave, they would. And that's not just because they were incarcerated. I think they feel that Kansas City just isn't cosmopolitan enough for them. Like all creatures - comfort is paramount and Kansas City isn't a comfortable city.
Or they could have been agitated by the pending storm, who's to say....
The zoo seemed to be a mess. It seems that laws and animal rights activists have somehow stripped my youthful zoo down to nothing and what remains in it's place is a huge barren wasteland with some lemurs running around in it. What was once a zoo FULL of animals, is now a shadow of it's former self. More vegetable now than animal. The zoo of my youth was wall-to-wall animals with small little concrete or limestone cages with bare iron bars to keep the animals safe from a BBQ crazy world. The animals were stacked ten deep in a cells no bigger than the average studio apartment. Each cell had a big red ball for the animals to play with amid numerous piles of feces laying everywhere. If the animal wasn't there, walk ten paces to the next cell and you could watch the next animal pace around a bit. It wasn't uncommon for all the large cats to be housed in the "cat house" which was several bathroom sized cells all clumped together like a human prison, each with it's own cat inside. All the monkeys were housed in the "monkey house", which was several open cages with large pits separating the monkey from the gawker. Hippos and rhinos were all stuffed into a building no bigger than your average sized McDonalds. The smell was amazing and still lingers in my mind. The zoo was bursting at the seams with animals of all sorts. Your mind would be dizzy after just ten minutes of walking. Bears next to snakes next to camels next to seals next to elephants. All for the greater good of Midwesterners that could never travel to see these animals in their natural habitates. I'm sure a great deal of the people that saw these animals felt that these animals lived on concrete slabs and played with big red rubber balls back in their native jungles. I know I thought they did.
Somewhere between the glory of those days and now, people came along and stripped all the fun and value out of the zoo. Now the zoo is seven times LARGER with less concrete and more trees, grass and other natural stuff, and quite possibly the greatest sin, there is barely a tenth of the animals that there used to be. Maybe an eleventh....
The walk between the TWO tigers (no panthers, cougars, lynxes or pumas) and the lions (which were "inside because they were frightened of the pending storm" was an hour and even then the animals looked tame, relaxed, well fed and entertained... Even though they didn't have a red rubber ball. The two gorillas, which looked ready to eat a bullet given the chance, were miles away from the chimps and the baboons, who were also inside hiding. The elephants were a no show in their cage which was big enough for a NASCAR track and filled with trees and not one hint of concrete. (oh the humanity!!!) And they were a time zone away from the giraffes and the camels.
It was madness!
The rather cleaver and at the same time cruel trick that the zoo-minded Napoleons played on me, was to leave all the old cells there for me to walk past on my long trek to see the next animal. The condition was that of an old parking lot that hadn't seen a car in some years. There were cracks in the concrete and native grasses were growing. The walls were crumbling and falling away and they stood like relics of an ancient civilization for curious onlookers to comment on. The iron bars that held back the bears were twisted and mangled and one could imagine that the bear finally figured it out and took a few Chiefs fans with him in his mad dash for freedom. Most of the limestone cell blocks had been back filled in and had I dared, I could have walked down into the old cages and felt what it was like in those cages from my youth. If I had children, I could imagine telling them as we past these structures, "There! There in those former cells is where they used to keep the bears!" and then I can see myself having to tell my children what a bear is and why they don't have them at the zoo anymore.
Maybe all this came about because someone said Midwesterners were fat and lazy and we needed to move more. The trip to the zoo, which used to be a fairly easy walk of maybe a mile, is now a forty mile walk that produces less than one animal per mile. You have to WALK baby! Either they want to deter the locals from coming to the zoo or they really want you to feel some pain while looking at animals.
Kansas City has been morphing into something new and old structures of the past have given way to other attitudes and interests. Four of the major malls in the area stand empty or have been leveled completely. The ones that are still open are filled with flea markets or low end jewelry stores or off-the-boat clothing boutiques. Just walking through the mall makes you feel like you have been cast in an odd "Twilight Zone" episode where you're the only one left alive in the world. And like the zoo, the architecture is thirty years old and packed full of childhood memories. (my grandmother and I spent hours in that mall together)
It was a trip for walking around in the past and viewing it as a stranger. Such a turmoil is evolution and how odd it is to see it play out before you. Perhaps I wish I hadn't seen it in my life time. I think it's hard to witness your strongest memories fade and to watch former glory become simple garbage. Perhaps I relate these things to my own sense of self-worth and watching them die or change means that perhaps I was wrong and that my value has, like them, lost it's former glory and become garbage. A symbol of a bygone era.
Now I know why the caged bird evolved...
Sunday afternoon, after a full morning of viewing the art at the Nelson-Atkins museum in Kansas City, I went to the Kansas City Zoo to see what was new with the birds and the bees. It's been a full twenty plus years since my last visit and I remember this zoo was big in my childhood. I must have come here a dozen or so times on school field trips or with my family on Sunday afternoons, just like this one and each time I was in heaven.
There is a tiny train that you can ride through the park. There are seals in a small pool that you can watch swim around and be cute. There are stinking goats that you can pet. There is a monkey house full of poo-slinging monkeys. It's all there...
The sun was bright, but the spring winds were blowing. Blowing might be too soft a way of saying "gale force" but I think you understand. Spring has always brought strong winds to Kansas City, so its nothing new. They tell the Kansas City faithful of strong, menacing storms somewhere over the horizon and that we should prepare to lose a house or two. As humans we can't see the storms but we can pretend to prognosticate based on odd and irregular ideas that we feel makes us look like a weather genius: "I see that the clouds over there are silver on top and grey on bottom, that must mean heavy rains are coming." "Hear how long that cat is meowing? That means rain!" Of course, it could just mean, "Shadows under a cloud" and "I'm hungry, feed me." but never argue with a weather report.
The animals at the zoo knew what the winds meant and most of those animals weren't even from here. Most of the animals hail from Asia or Africa and apparently their attitudes toward Kansas City were much the same as their neighbors outside of the zoo; if they could leave, they would. And that's not just because they were incarcerated. I think they feel that Kansas City just isn't cosmopolitan enough for them. Like all creatures - comfort is paramount and Kansas City isn't a comfortable city.
Or they could have been agitated by the pending storm, who's to say....
The zoo seemed to be a mess. It seems that laws and animal rights activists have somehow stripped my youthful zoo down to nothing and what remains in it's place is a huge barren wasteland with some lemurs running around in it. What was once a zoo FULL of animals, is now a shadow of it's former self. More vegetable now than animal. The zoo of my youth was wall-to-wall animals with small little concrete or limestone cages with bare iron bars to keep the animals safe from a BBQ crazy world. The animals were stacked ten deep in a cells no bigger than the average studio apartment. Each cell had a big red ball for the animals to play with amid numerous piles of feces laying everywhere. If the animal wasn't there, walk ten paces to the next cell and you could watch the next animal pace around a bit. It wasn't uncommon for all the large cats to be housed in the "cat house" which was several bathroom sized cells all clumped together like a human prison, each with it's own cat inside. All the monkeys were housed in the "monkey house", which was several open cages with large pits separating the monkey from the gawker. Hippos and rhinos were all stuffed into a building no bigger than your average sized McDonalds. The smell was amazing and still lingers in my mind. The zoo was bursting at the seams with animals of all sorts. Your mind would be dizzy after just ten minutes of walking. Bears next to snakes next to camels next to seals next to elephants. All for the greater good of Midwesterners that could never travel to see these animals in their natural habitates. I'm sure a great deal of the people that saw these animals felt that these animals lived on concrete slabs and played with big red rubber balls back in their native jungles. I know I thought they did.
Somewhere between the glory of those days and now, people came along and stripped all the fun and value out of the zoo. Now the zoo is seven times LARGER with less concrete and more trees, grass and other natural stuff, and quite possibly the greatest sin, there is barely a tenth of the animals that there used to be. Maybe an eleventh....
The walk between the TWO tigers (no panthers, cougars, lynxes or pumas) and the lions (which were "inside because they were frightened of the pending storm" was an hour and even then the animals looked tame, relaxed, well fed and entertained... Even though they didn't have a red rubber ball. The two gorillas, which looked ready to eat a bullet given the chance, were miles away from the chimps and the baboons, who were also inside hiding. The elephants were a no show in their cage which was big enough for a NASCAR track and filled with trees and not one hint of concrete. (oh the humanity!!!) And they were a time zone away from the giraffes and the camels.
It was madness!
The rather cleaver and at the same time cruel trick that the zoo-minded Napoleons played on me, was to leave all the old cells there for me to walk past on my long trek to see the next animal. The condition was that of an old parking lot that hadn't seen a car in some years. There were cracks in the concrete and native grasses were growing. The walls were crumbling and falling away and they stood like relics of an ancient civilization for curious onlookers to comment on. The iron bars that held back the bears were twisted and mangled and one could imagine that the bear finally figured it out and took a few Chiefs fans with him in his mad dash for freedom. Most of the limestone cell blocks had been back filled in and had I dared, I could have walked down into the old cages and felt what it was like in those cages from my youth. If I had children, I could imagine telling them as we past these structures, "There! There in those former cells is where they used to keep the bears!" and then I can see myself having to tell my children what a bear is and why they don't have them at the zoo anymore.
Maybe all this came about because someone said Midwesterners were fat and lazy and we needed to move more. The trip to the zoo, which used to be a fairly easy walk of maybe a mile, is now a forty mile walk that produces less than one animal per mile. You have to WALK baby! Either they want to deter the locals from coming to the zoo or they really want you to feel some pain while looking at animals.
Kansas City has been morphing into something new and old structures of the past have given way to other attitudes and interests. Four of the major malls in the area stand empty or have been leveled completely. The ones that are still open are filled with flea markets or low end jewelry stores or off-the-boat clothing boutiques. Just walking through the mall makes you feel like you have been cast in an odd "Twilight Zone" episode where you're the only one left alive in the world. And like the zoo, the architecture is thirty years old and packed full of childhood memories. (my grandmother and I spent hours in that mall together)
It was a trip for walking around in the past and viewing it as a stranger. Such a turmoil is evolution and how odd it is to see it play out before you. Perhaps I wish I hadn't seen it in my life time. I think it's hard to witness your strongest memories fade and to watch former glory become simple garbage. Perhaps I relate these things to my own sense of self-worth and watching them die or change means that perhaps I was wrong and that my value has, like them, lost it's former glory and become garbage. A symbol of a bygone era.
Now I know why the caged bird evolved...
Friday, April 20, 2007
30 hours of driving later
....And I am sitting here trying to be cleaver and interesting. Forgive me until I am able to remedy the situation with some resonance of clarity. I need to get over the fact that I'm not invisible and then I might be able to write something groovy.
D
D
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
33 is more than 22
Luby's Cafeteria. Ever heard of it? If you're not from Texas, then the answer is probably, "no." For those of you who don't know, it's just a simple chain of all-you-can-eat buffets in Central Texas that catered to "morbidly obese," buffet fans, and most people outside of that world will have never heard of it, with just one minor exception. It's not the food, nor the value that you would have heard of, it's the buffet's famous atmosphere.
For over twenty years, Luby's hasn't been known as "Your neighborhood gathering place" or "Where America eats." It isn't where you go after work for food and fun, or where you take a date on a special occasion. Luby's, sadly enough, is known for something so completely tragic that even I wouldn't eat there because of it, and I love buffets! Luby's is the place where, twenty years ago, a man walked in with a bunch of guns and shot 22 people before killing himself. The only reason this particular shooting is so memorable is that it WAS the record for number of deaths in a single shooting spree until yesterday's Virginia Tech shootings.
Previous attempts at the title:
McDonalds - San Diego.
Day Trader - Atlanta.
Columbine - Denver.
University of Texas - Austin. (Pre-dates Luby's, but it's memorable nonetheless.)
Amish School Yard - Pennsylvania.
Junior College - Montreal.
High School - Portland.
Indian Reservation - Bemidji.
All of these were spree shootings. NONE of them... Have the celebrity of Luby's. Columbine does have some celebrity but that's because it was a rarity in spree shooting lore - it had two shooters. Other than that, most spree shootings are a two week story on the major media sources and then they are shelved in a vault among the sex scandals, political scandals and scare tactic reports. They only see the light of day when the next spree shooting comes along and some news bunny reporter needs it to contrast the present to the past, or if TV needs a good gore tale for one of their hour long series on blood lust, brought to you by Valtrex.
There is in our world a dark, sinister part of the imagination that creates what we like to humorously call "morbid fascination." It's the part of our souls that slows cars so we can look at a car crash on the roadside perchance to see a poorly covered or neglected part of the carnage. It's the part that can't get enough of Dealey Plaza - the site of John F. Kennedy's assassination. It's the part that wants to see famous gravesites. It's the part that watches "America's Funniest Home Videos" and all of the spin-off shows of that ilk, that like to show us regular people getting kicked in the balls by a small child. We like the darkness of a moment. Why? Cause we are fascinated with the death of it. Morbidly fascinated with it. We, ourselves, have never died and we are curious to know more about it. Especially since we all know that it will find us one day. We want to know more about it. To have answers to unanswerable questions. Why else would so many of our television shows be predominately death-based, or have dying as its central theme? CSI, Monk, Law and Order, etc. etc.
How do you explain the cavalier attitude that we carry with us after a tragedy? "We will never forget" is the most commonly abused claim that we throw around after a tragedy. It's meant to be a sensitive courtesy towards the recently deceased, but in all actuality it's just our tongue-in-cheek way of saying, "Awesome! Do that again!" We're all stunned in the moment, like a slap across the face that we didn't see coming. But what we think is sorrow is really more a misguided and poorly timed self-pity. It's an ugly desire to share in all the attention that people mask as sympathy. They want everyone to see how this has affected THEM! Not the victims, but to THEM! Two months later, those who were barely affected, but made the most noise and burned the most candles, will hardly remember the incident at all. They will have, "Moved on. Made peace. Come to grips" or, more frighteningly, "Accepted" the pain and the terror. Meanwhile, the truly affected will still be in an emotional coma, barely able to move, eat, speak or feel anything at all. Their candle, it would seem, will never burn out.
Two years later, the whole tragedy will be a television movie or a two hour Dateline special report or a footnote to some study on spree killings or an American Justice episode or a kitchy trading card or internet joke or a reason for more government regulation of [Insert scapegoat here: Music, movies, terrorism, immigration, television, religion, ADHD, video games, Anne Murray].
There is a new record holder: Virginia Tech with 33 dead. That's how we will remember it: The record for the WORST or MOST PROLIFIC spree shooting in American History. Sadly, this means we will forget about Luby's. Now just the second worst - which is nothing. (Can you name the third or fourth...or the previous second worst?) This record - like all records - will one day be broken. And one day we won't remember Virginia Tech. So we have that to look forward to. I guess this record isn't really broken, maybe it's just scratched.
For over twenty years, Luby's hasn't been known as "Your neighborhood gathering place" or "Where America eats." It isn't where you go after work for food and fun, or where you take a date on a special occasion. Luby's, sadly enough, is known for something so completely tragic that even I wouldn't eat there because of it, and I love buffets! Luby's is the place where, twenty years ago, a man walked in with a bunch of guns and shot 22 people before killing himself. The only reason this particular shooting is so memorable is that it WAS the record for number of deaths in a single shooting spree until yesterday's Virginia Tech shootings.
Previous attempts at the title:
McDonalds - San Diego.
Day Trader - Atlanta.
Columbine - Denver.
University of Texas - Austin. (Pre-dates Luby's, but it's memorable nonetheless.)
Amish School Yard - Pennsylvania.
Junior College - Montreal.
High School - Portland.
Indian Reservation - Bemidji.
All of these were spree shootings. NONE of them... Have the celebrity of Luby's. Columbine does have some celebrity but that's because it was a rarity in spree shooting lore - it had two shooters. Other than that, most spree shootings are a two week story on the major media sources and then they are shelved in a vault among the sex scandals, political scandals and scare tactic reports. They only see the light of day when the next spree shooting comes along and some news bunny reporter needs it to contrast the present to the past, or if TV needs a good gore tale for one of their hour long series on blood lust, brought to you by Valtrex.
There is in our world a dark, sinister part of the imagination that creates what we like to humorously call "morbid fascination." It's the part of our souls that slows cars so we can look at a car crash on the roadside perchance to see a poorly covered or neglected part of the carnage. It's the part that can't get enough of Dealey Plaza - the site of John F. Kennedy's assassination. It's the part that wants to see famous gravesites. It's the part that watches "America's Funniest Home Videos" and all of the spin-off shows of that ilk, that like to show us regular people getting kicked in the balls by a small child. We like the darkness of a moment. Why? Cause we are fascinated with the death of it. Morbidly fascinated with it. We, ourselves, have never died and we are curious to know more about it. Especially since we all know that it will find us one day. We want to know more about it. To have answers to unanswerable questions. Why else would so many of our television shows be predominately death-based, or have dying as its central theme? CSI, Monk, Law and Order, etc. etc.
How do you explain the cavalier attitude that we carry with us after a tragedy? "We will never forget" is the most commonly abused claim that we throw around after a tragedy. It's meant to be a sensitive courtesy towards the recently deceased, but in all actuality it's just our tongue-in-cheek way of saying, "Awesome! Do that again!" We're all stunned in the moment, like a slap across the face that we didn't see coming. But what we think is sorrow is really more a misguided and poorly timed self-pity. It's an ugly desire to share in all the attention that people mask as sympathy. They want everyone to see how this has affected THEM! Not the victims, but to THEM! Two months later, those who were barely affected, but made the most noise and burned the most candles, will hardly remember the incident at all. They will have, "Moved on. Made peace. Come to grips" or, more frighteningly, "Accepted" the pain and the terror. Meanwhile, the truly affected will still be in an emotional coma, barely able to move, eat, speak or feel anything at all. Their candle, it would seem, will never burn out.
Two years later, the whole tragedy will be a television movie or a two hour Dateline special report or a footnote to some study on spree killings or an American Justice episode or a kitchy trading card or internet joke or a reason for more government regulation of [Insert scapegoat here: Music, movies, terrorism, immigration, television, religion, ADHD, video games, Anne Murray].
There is a new record holder: Virginia Tech with 33 dead. That's how we will remember it: The record for the WORST or MOST PROLIFIC spree shooting in American History. Sadly, this means we will forget about Luby's. Now just the second worst - which is nothing. (Can you name the third or fourth...or the previous second worst?) This record - like all records - will one day be broken. And one day we won't remember Virginia Tech. So we have that to look forward to. I guess this record isn't really broken, maybe it's just scratched.
Monday, April 16, 2007
first gear
It has been five long months and as you can see, not much has changed with me. Same format, different photo (points to you if you know the image in my profile). A new title for the blog, but the attitude will be the same. Of course, for all things that are the same, there is that much that has changed.
I am surprised to be sitting here writing these words on this computer. I was pretty sure that I had seen the last of the blogging days. Real sure of it, in fact. Over two years of writing almost every single day... This was all I knew. It was my heroin addiction. My mini-series that I couldn't miss one installment of. It lasted longer than most of my relationships with real people. Which means, in a weird sort of way, that I dated all [blah, blah, blah] of you and then broke up traumatically over a need to see something new. So it's odd to be sitting here again, gazing upon familiar fonts and formats, humping you again.
Five months can be a long time in anyone's life. Look back upon your own life and see how far you have come in the last five months. Are you bigger? Smaller? Richer? Poorer? Do you still live in the same place? Do you still talk to the same people? Have any values changed? Or is everything still steadfastly the same in every way? Do you still eat the same thing for breakfast everyday? Is your favorite movie the same? Hint: Most of this has changed for me.
Much has changed in my world. For one, names and characters that I have written about, both beloved and despised, have come and gone. Heidi - the single greatest dog in the whole wide world - has passed on. The mere mention of her name brings tears to my eyes. I shall write about her later, for now, just remember her as 43 percent of my overall happiness.
Still others have entered my life that you have never known and their place in my world has, and will, become more important as the days play themselves out before me.
When I left you, I was at the Perch in Tacoma, living below a grand view of the great volcano. That much has stayed the same, though there is much at work to change much of that. I have my sights set on the countryside again. As much as I have enjoyed the city scene, it's time for me to return to more sparcsely populated areas. I think most people prefer me better in that capacity. "Arms length" has always a good social practice when dealing with surly types such as myself.
As much as I could fill this post with "what's up with me" data, I am really more interested in what everyone else has been up to. In some way, this whole thing feels like an odd run-in you might have with an ex-lover in a store or on the street; you want to catch up - sort of, but where do you begin? For the most part, you want to gloat, or brag, or to prod each other for painful information, and then ultimately to run off and have sex - just for old time sake. Not having that as an option, I'll stick with a more casual and less messy; How are you?
This time around, I hope you'll bear with me when I say that if I do this, I'll need donations. I was thinking of making this a paid site, but chose to stick with the donation button as I know most of you can afford to donate and I don't know how to make this a site where you have to pay to join. The porn site people were pretty hush-hush about their methods when I asked. Knowing this, please take time to click on the donate button and again, we will walk down the road of madness and spirituality. There is so much to tell you. So much to look forward to. Coming in less than a month is the INVASION OF AFRICA tour as well as the TOUR OF ALL THINGS EASTERN this summer.
If you look to the blogging horizon, you'll see something worth five bucks a month. If not, go see who got voted off American Idol this week.
I am surprised to be sitting here writing these words on this computer. I was pretty sure that I had seen the last of the blogging days. Real sure of it, in fact. Over two years of writing almost every single day... This was all I knew. It was my heroin addiction. My mini-series that I couldn't miss one installment of. It lasted longer than most of my relationships with real people. Which means, in a weird sort of way, that I dated all [blah, blah, blah] of you and then broke up traumatically over a need to see something new. So it's odd to be sitting here again, gazing upon familiar fonts and formats, humping you again.
Five months can be a long time in anyone's life. Look back upon your own life and see how far you have come in the last five months. Are you bigger? Smaller? Richer? Poorer? Do you still live in the same place? Do you still talk to the same people? Have any values changed? Or is everything still steadfastly the same in every way? Do you still eat the same thing for breakfast everyday? Is your favorite movie the same? Hint: Most of this has changed for me.
Much has changed in my world. For one, names and characters that I have written about, both beloved and despised, have come and gone. Heidi - the single greatest dog in the whole wide world - has passed on. The mere mention of her name brings tears to my eyes. I shall write about her later, for now, just remember her as 43 percent of my overall happiness.
Still others have entered my life that you have never known and their place in my world has, and will, become more important as the days play themselves out before me.
When I left you, I was at the Perch in Tacoma, living below a grand view of the great volcano. That much has stayed the same, though there is much at work to change much of that. I have my sights set on the countryside again. As much as I have enjoyed the city scene, it's time for me to return to more sparcsely populated areas. I think most people prefer me better in that capacity. "Arms length" has always a good social practice when dealing with surly types such as myself.
As much as I could fill this post with "what's up with me" data, I am really more interested in what everyone else has been up to. In some way, this whole thing feels like an odd run-in you might have with an ex-lover in a store or on the street; you want to catch up - sort of, but where do you begin? For the most part, you want to gloat, or brag, or to prod each other for painful information, and then ultimately to run off and have sex - just for old time sake. Not having that as an option, I'll stick with a more casual and less messy; How are you?
This time around, I hope you'll bear with me when I say that if I do this, I'll need donations. I was thinking of making this a paid site, but chose to stick with the donation button as I know most of you can afford to donate and I don't know how to make this a site where you have to pay to join. The porn site people were pretty hush-hush about their methods when I asked. Knowing this, please take time to click on the donate button and again, we will walk down the road of madness and spirituality. There is so much to tell you. So much to look forward to. Coming in less than a month is the INVASION OF AFRICA tour as well as the TOUR OF ALL THINGS EASTERN this summer.
If you look to the blogging horizon, you'll see something worth five bucks a month. If not, go see who got voted off American Idol this week.
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