It's Saturday. What I'm about to tell you happened seven days ago. 7 days is how long it took for me to calm down enough to make this into a readable story without an excessive amount of profanity. (so, if the amount of profanity below is bothersome to you, just imagine it a week ago, and you'll probably wet your pants).
When I'm in the Rio Grande Valley, I usually don't want to be. Actually, I've never wanted to be in the Rio Grande Valley. However, my parents live there (Harlingen) with my youngest and eldest brothers, so I go there often. I used to work there. My dad is a pastor, and I was his youth pastor. 6 years ago. For 2 years.
Now, when I go back 'home' for the holidays, or for some other unwitting circumstance, I find myself constantly trying to escape. Either by taking on some project (my last interview turned into a 6 minute video that took about 80 hours to make... while I was 'home'), or by simply killing time at night while I'm alone, and therefore sleeping straight through the days.
So, more nights than not, I borrow keys from my mom, head up to the church at around 9pm, and work in my dad's office through the night. I'll work online, write blogs, play music in the auditorium (grand piano + full drumset = Meshach's playground), or just generally kill time.
Last Saturday was no exception. I'd spent the week with the time-killing project of labeling all of my equipment cases with a stencil and spray paint. It looks great. So good, in fact, that I found myself looking for extra stuff to slap this retro 80's hot pink dripping stencil onto. I remembered a flight case that I'd left under the stage of the church years back, and planned to retrieve it while I was at the church. I went to Wal-Mart, picked up an extra can of black spray paint, and headed over. With a few pieces of my gear unpacked on the side of my truck (which was parked just outside my dad's office), I stood in an alley-way beside the church to paint my case, so as to not get any paint onto the building, or any concrete. At most, it'd drip onto some grass that no one ever sees anyway.
It was around 10pm when I got there. I unlocked the church doors, used my code to disarm the alarm system (remembering out of habit the 'safety' word in case I accidentally set it off, and have to call the alarm company), and went inside to work while the paint dried. At around midnight I put my laptop back into my truck, set the alarm back on, locked up the church, and prepared to leave. The last 3 pieces of my gear were still on my tailgate as I waited for my fresh new hot-pink '(me)shach' logo to dry on the top of my freshly-painted black flight case. At some point, I walked over to the side of the building to pee in the woods so I wouldn't have to open the building again just to use the bathroom. I walked back over to my case, and kneeled down to feel the paint and see if it was dry yet. "Fast-drying special neon, my ass." I was in a good mood. My mind was off of the valley. It was on a project. I wasn't on the border of Mexico. I was in my own world.
I saw a strange light out of the corner of my left eye, and heard something. My mind immediately assumed it was a flash light, but in hindsight I realize that I could've just as easily imagined headlights from a car. I looked up and, still kneeling, said "Who is that?" with the same tone as you'd use for saying "Do we have any milk?"
"Show me your hands!" The light was getting closer.
Immediately I thought one of my friends was playing some stupid trick on me. Once, when I was a youth pastor, 2 guys from the youth group saw my car outside the office late at night, and sneaked up to the door and started throwing pebbles onto the glass of the window to scare me. My oldest brother is constantly trying to spark some sort of expression of panic and frustration from me. This is clearly a prank.
"Who is that?" as I try to show my hands without actually giving into the prank too much. The satisfaction on my friends' faces after they pull one over is always so disappointing to me.
"Show me your hands!"
At this point, my mind became a nascar pit-crew, changing absolutely everything at once. My mood, my expression, my posture... everything. At the moment that I heard this ridiculous command the second time, I realized the light was definitely a flash light, but also that it was being propped up by the barrel of a 9mm pistol, which was now about 20 feet from me, pointed at my head, and creeping closer.
"Whoa! Whoa, man? Who is that?" The game's over now, I'm showing my hands clearly. I'm standing up straight, and sub-consciously walking forward to see who is behind the light.
"Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!"
(note: I had to copy and paste the above sentence, but the owner of this voice spit it out, I guarantee you, MUCH faster that you just read it. I'm guessing those four words were repeated about 29 times in 4 seconds or so at this point)
"Whoa, man! Hold on a second! What are you doing? What are you doing, man? Slow down!" I'm standing at attention now, and trying to think as quickly as I can. This has all been less than 5 seconds or so, and is just happening too fast to process. Suddenly, I realize that my body is thinking for itself, and I'm belly-down on the cement. However, my mind still knows there is a handgun about 15 feet away now, so my arms are holding my chest and shoulders up to keep my eyes squarely on the firearm aiming at them.
"OKAY! I'm on the ground! Now stop! What are you doing, man?"
"Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground! Get on the ground!"
(again, cut and pasted)
Out of the corner of my left eye now ('cause I'm not taking my eyes off of that gun), comes another cop (clearly, they're both cops at this point), running, gun drawn, screaming in cadence the command that to me, may as well be "Become a human!" All I can think is, "are they fucking both completely blind? or just bat-shit crazy!?!?! I'M ON THE FUCKING GROUND!"
Before I know what happens, officer number 2 (let's call him "Dickhole", shall we?), does three things in one motion as if he had been waiting for this moment his entire life. Dickhole (a) holsters his gun, (b) changes what he's saying to 'Stop resisting!', and (c) leaps onto my left arm to twist it, throw a knee into the back of my shoulder, and slam the side of my face onto the pavement.
(note to any lawyers reading this: IN THAT ORDER. That's right, screams 'stop resisting' before he lays a hand on me.)
Now, for those of you who didn't know, 2 years ago, while in the valley for Christmas, I was killing time by test-driving an ATV which was to be a gift for my baby brother. It was one he would 'grow into'. The brakes failed, and I flipped it, shattering my left arm. Range of motion took about 6 months to get back to 99%. Strength is still not there. Resistance to pain and future damage will be another year or so. This is the arm that is now bent backwards over my head.
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa! That arm is broken, man! You can't do that! Whoa!"
Now, I'm thinking 3 things... (a) when I'm in a panic, I start to sound like Joey Lawrence. That's so lame. (b) my arm isn't really 'broken', but it was, and it's still mending, and I can't very well spit that out in a rush, can I? and (c) WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING TO ME!
At this point, officer number 1 (he'll be 'Shit-stick' for now), runs up, joining his partner in their new cadence, like two babies who just learned the same new syllables. "Stop reseeesteeeng! Stop reseeesteeeng! Stop reseeesteeeng! Stop reseeesteeeng!" (typed phonetically according to pronunciation. 'Shit-stick' apparently is working in his second language.)
"I'm not resisting! I'm in pain! Let go of my ... " I look up out of my right eye, and see that gun, about 2 inches from my temple. 'Shit-stick' was kneeling on the ground on my right side, holding the gun to my head, and handing his partner his handcuffs.
(second note to any lawyers reading: 'Dickhole' was NOT twisting my arm to cuff me. His cuffs were never removed from their case. This was a simple combat maneuver. It's the move that every 12 year old learns from their uncles in law-enforcement. It has jack-shit to do with cuffing a prisoner... or in this case, a victim.)
'Dickhole' and 'Shit-stick' each grab an arm, and lift me to my feet. This is the first time in any of this (everything you just read took about 30 seconds to happen. Probably less.), that either of them stopped screaming. 'Shit-stick' asks 'what are you doing here?' the way Jack Bower would ask "Where is the bomb?!?!" to Osama Bin Laden himself.
"My dad is the pastor of this church! I have keys to the building in my pocket. I know the alarm code! The pastor's name is on the sign! It's Barry Jackson! My license is in my wallet! It has the same last name! LET ME GO!"
"What are you doing here!?!?!"
Oh my sweet god. Did they not hear any of that? Was that some sort of reverse ventriloquism
where my mouth moves but no sound comes out? I'm going to try it all again.
"My dad is the pastor of this church! I have keys to the building in my pocket. I know the alarm code! The pastor's name is on the sign! It's Barry Jackson! My license is in my ..."
"What are you doing here!?!?!"
Fucking.
Twilight.
Zone.
"What are YOU doing here? I work here! My dad is the pastor here! I was working in his office!"
"It's midnight, bro."
They're dragging me over to the squad car now. Parked just behind my car.
"I know what time it is! Is it illegal to be here at midnight?!"
"You know this looks like a robbery? What's your dad's name?"
"Barry Jackson."
'Shit-stick' calls into his radio... "Do you know a David Jackson?"
(NOTE: My full name is "James David Joshua Meshach Jackson III". My mom, bill collectors, and people who work for my dad's church, call me 'David' - which is the name on my license, 'cause the rest of it won't fit.)
Immediately after the question, "Dispatch" replies "affirmative".
"James David Jackson?"
IMMEDIATELY "Yes." No rustling of papers. No pause to check the database. Whomever was answering the calls at dispatch, knows me.
"What's your dad's number?"
"What did you just say? It's 12:30 in the morning, you're not going to call my dad!"
"What's your dad's number?"
'Dickhole' - "We're not letting you go until we talk to your dad."
"What did I do wrong!?!"
'Shit-stick' - "We can't let you go until we confirm that you can be here."
"You couldn't do that without the handcuffs!?!?! I HAVE THE KEYS TO THE BUILDING IN MY POCKET!!!! CHECK!!!"
'Shit-stick' - "What's your dad's number?"
At this point it dawns on me that I want someone else to know about this. I think, for a second, that my dad will answer. Be livid. Take out vengeance on the sons of bitches that did such horrible things to his son. That he'd answer the phone groggy, and immediately snap into father mode and reach through the phone to strangle this piece of shit on the other end of the line.
In hindsight, I should've just said no. I'd have a much better case if they didn't let me go. I gave them the number. He reads it over the radio, and walks over to the car. 'Dickhole' is standing to my left, and starts saying something to me. I interrupt him.
"Am I under arrest?"
"No."
"Then take these handcuffs off of me."
"No."
"Am I a threat to you?"
"No."
"Then take these handcuffs off of me!"
"No."
'Shit-stick' - "There's no answer, give me another number."
"Of COURSE there's no answer! It's 1 in the morning on Saturday night! He's fifty years old! HIS PHONE IS OFF!!!" The words hit me harder than I'd hoped it would hit them. He's not going to answer. They're going to take me to jail. I'm going to jail for committing the worst crime anyone's committed in Harlingen in 40 years...
Standing outside after midnight.
I'm convinced in my own mind that the best possible thing now is to get my dad on the phone. I give them my mother's number.
"No answer."
My parent's home number.
"No answer."
"IT'S ONE IN THE MORNING, GENIUS!!! OLD PEOPLE SLEEP!!!!"
At some point in the middle of 'Shit-stick' having dispatch call every number registered to a Jackson in south Texas, 'Dickhole' starts trying to interrogate me some more. I think he's becoming convinced that I'm lying, and that they've Forest Gumped their way onto a real hard-case, cat burgler, type of criminal with me. I can't make out what he's saying with all the swearing going on in my head (it's amazing even to me, but us being on church property and calling my dad, I didn't let out a single profanity through this entire ordeal... 'till the end, but I'll explain that when we get there.). I cut him off...
"Are you going to read me my rights?"
"No."
"Look. Either read me the right to remain silent, or shut up and walk away from me. We have nothing to say to each other."
"Fine, bro. Dig your own grave." He walks away, rehearsing lines from the cinematic remake of Starsky and Hutch's interrogation scene in his head, dreaming of one day being a real cop when he grows up.
Around now, a third cop pulls up. He gets out of his car, hands in his pockets, in uniform, but a jacket over everything. He gives the immediate impression that he's in some form of authority. Probably just psychological, since 'Dickhole' and 'Shit-stick' are each about 5'1", and he's a solid 6'2".
"Que Onda?"
(NOTE: from this point on, everything spoken between officers is in Spanish. There has been absolutely no indication at this point that I speak any spanish whatsoever.)
"Resistido."
"Whoa! What did you just say? You just told me I wasn't UNDER arrest! How could I be resisting arrest if I'm not under arrest!"
I am Mattlock.
Officer number 3 (He'll be 'Jackass' from now on) turns to me, and says something like...
"Sé que él. Le he visto en la iglesia. Se sienta en la parte delantera."
("I know him. I've seen him at church. He sits in the front.")
The blood is now rushing from my left arm, after the shock, and pain starts shooting through my shoulder. It feels numb at the fingers, but the shoulder isn't right. It's bad. It's really bad. Did they dislocate my fucking shoulder? What the fuck!? Holy Hell that hurts!
'Jackass' - "What are you doing here?"
I'm tired of answering this question. Especially to someone who's just verified that I have every right in the universe to be here.
"What are YOU doing here? I work here! My dad is the pastor here!"
"Do you know (insert some name here that I didn't recognize so didn't commit it to memory) ?"
"No. Take these cuffs off of me. My arm is killing me!"
"Do you know Cory Jones?" (the music pastor at the church. I was the best man in his wedding. I drove 30 hours one-way to stand in that fucking weddin...)
"Yes. TAKE THESE HANDCUFFS OFF OF ME!"
"(aforementioned unrecognized name) is my son. He plays in the band with Cory. I know Cory."
"I don't care. Take these cuffs off of me."
"Where's your dad?"
"It's one in the morning, where do you think he is? It's Saturday night. He's going to be at the church in about 4 hours."
'Jackass' looks at 'Dickhole' and 'Shit-stick' and says, "Iglesia a mañana." As if it hadn't dawned on him before then.
"What are you doing here?"
"I was working!"
"Are you going to church here tomorrow?"
"No. I'm going to McAllen. Take these cuffs off of me."
"I thought they closed the church in McAllen."
"No. They didn't. My friend, Phil is the pastor there now. He was gone for a while. He was starting a church in Austin. I was in Austin helping him. I LEAD WORSHIP for him after I resigned AS THE YOUTH PASTOR HERE. Take these cuffs off of me!"
"Do you have your phone on you?"
"It's in my pocket. His number is easy to find. It's under "D-A-D"!!!" At this point, I want to bite off my own tongue.
'Jackass' reaches into my back pocket, and starts looking for my phone. I lean over to look at him, as I'm now lying on the hood of the squad car.
"Am I a threat to you?"
"No."
"Then take these handcuffs off of me!"
He motions to 'Dickhole' to take off the cuffs, as he opens my phone.
'Jackass' - "We just need to confirm that you can be here before we can let you go."
"What did I do wrong?"
"We just need to talk to your dad before you can go."
As the cuffs come off, my left arm slowly swings around my body, and I can feel tendons and ligaments stretching, wreathing in pain.
"Give me my phone."
I dial the number. No answer.
I dial again. No answer.
'Shit-stick' walks up and holds out my license. I can't move my left arm, and my right arm is holding the phone. I'm not in a hurry to grab my license. He throws it. It bounces off of my shoulder and onto the car.
"There's your license whenever you want it."
My dad finally answers the phone with a very sleepy and sarcastic "this better be a fire" kind-of "Hellllllloooooo?"
"Dad, someone needs to talk to you." I hand the phone to 'Jackass', who immediately walks away from me. About 30 seconds go by, during which 'Dickhole' starts in on me again.
"Look, we don't have anything to say to each other. Shut up and walk away from me."
'Jackass' comes back over and, holding out my phone, says, "Your dad's still on the line, I told him they through you on the ground."
It jarred me for a second to consider why he would say that to me.
"Dad, you there?"
"What's going on, son? I'm in bed. I'm going back to sleep."
"No, no, no, dad! You can't go back to sleep. You have to tell these guys to let me go!"
"Let you go? What are you talking about?"
"What did he just say to you?"
"He told me his name and said everything was fine. He just wanted to make sure everything was okay. What's going on?"
"Okay, everything is absolutely not fine. You need to stay awake." I held the phone away from me... "Am I free to go?"
'Jackass' - "You're free to go." 'Shit-stick' moaned audibly.
"Dad, you need to stay awake, I'm going to call you back in 5 minutes."
Hanging up, I said, "I need everybody's names and badge numbers."
'Jackass' - "Nombres y numberos." ("Names and numbers").
'Dickhole' scribbles onto a business card as if he's signing an autograph...
"J.B. Lopez #3588
D. Rodriguez #3599"
So, in case you didn't get that, it's...
J.B. Lopez - Harlingen, TX Police Department - Badge Number 3588
D. Rodriguez - Harlingen, TX Police Department - Badge Number 3599
Harlingen Texas Police Station - 956.216.5400
I don't know which one was 'Dickhole' and which was 'Shit-stick', but you can feel free to call him by their real names now. Seriously. Call them. Ask for their real names. Speak your mind. Back to the story.
I take the card with my right hand. I put my phone in my pocket. I pick up my wallet. I put it, with my license, into my pocket. I walk back over to my truck, and use one hand to load 3 pieces of gear (not normally heavy, but with one hand... a challenge) into my truck. I walk back over to the scene of the crime, lock down the lid of my now completely dry case, and drag it over to the truck. I load it up. I walk around to my door, and look over... All three of them are standing 10 feet away... staring.
I call my dad back. "Dad, look I don't know if you're going to be awake when I get home, and I don't want to cause more trouble for you, but I'm not sure what to do here. I'd like to file a complaint, press charges, do something."
"Son, I don't know what you're talking about yet. I don't know what to tell you. I'm getting ready to go back to bed, so why don't you just come on back home."
Thinking that this could get ugly. Thinking that this could make my dad's life very difficult when I leave town. Thinking that I'll be able to escape this in a couple of weeks by simply driving away and not coming back, but my parents have to live here... I decided to go home. At least give him the benefit of the doubt. At least let him hear the whole story. At least let him see my face. The side of it is throbbing from smacking the concrete. There must be marks. He'll see how I can't move my arm. He'll be outraged. He'll wake up the Mayor. Harlingen has 60 thousand people in it. Dad's TV show on Sunday nights get more than half of that to watch. He'll be able to do more than I ever would anyway.
I get in my car, and I say the one thing I've wanted to say for 45 minutes of hell now...
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!"
I use my right arm to put on my seatbelt. I use my right arm to release the emergency brake. I use my right arm to shift into gear. I use my right arm to steer. My left hand, lying in my lap, is flipping the bird.
When my dad hears the whole story, at almost 2 am, he is... tired. He says the things you'd sort of expect... "There was no reason for them to treat you that way." and "I'm really sorry this happened to you."
Then he says something that slapped me in the face like an Anvil hitting Wiley Cayote in the desert.
"I've been asking them for 2 and a half years to patrol the property. We've had break-ins, vandalism... Now they finally do it, and this happens."
I know it wasn't his intent, but he said "... this happens." the way you'd say if you'd been trying to plan free time to mow the yard, and just as you get gassed up, it rains. As if it were a minor set-back. An unfortunate mishap.
I made a conscious effort to separate myself as much as possible. I said things like, "I'm sorry they even woke you up." and "I told them not to even call you". What I wanted to say was, "ARE YOU GOING TO DO ANYTHING AT ALL!?!?! ARE YOU EVEN UPSET!?!?!?! WHAT IF THIS HAPPENED TO YOU!?!?!"
Just then, my mom, through sleep-stained eyes, said, "Well Barry, what if this had happened to you? They did this 'cause they didn't recognize him. These same guys could just as easily not recognize you some day, and do the exact same thing."
"I'd be pretty pissed."
"What if they did it to me?" My mom played the trump card. "I've been up there after dark before. Alone."
"I'm really glad you two are having this conversation. It's nice to think you might be able to put yourself in my shoes in this. Something's got to be done."
"Well, I've got a meeting with the chief of police this week."
I held out the card with the names written on it.
"You need to keep up with that. I'm meeting with him to ask him to increase security at the church. I'm going to ask him to have officers on the property during services. I want them patrolling the building every night." He confessed. Like he'd just been caught sneaking brownies out of the pantry, and may as well admit that he's been doing it for years.
I ask my mom for a heating pad. I take 600 MG of Motrin. My mom helps me take off my jacket. It's my favorite jacket. The front of it is scraped from concrete.
The next morning I call a lawyer. The only one I know who doesn't go to my dad's church. The only one who won't care if security in the parking lot on Sunday morning is a little light because of all of this. The only one who would be ruthless, objective, or worldly.
"What!?!?!" She cried over the phone when I started into my story. "Are you serious?" She kept interrupting me.
"This is good." I thought. "She'll help. We'll start a small army, and we'll seek Justice. We'll be the Justice-Seekers... or the second name that we come up with."
I finish my story with "...my favorite jacket. The front of it is scraped from concrete." and top it off with, "I didn't file an official complaint yet because I wanted to talk with a lawyer first. You're the only lawyer I know who doesn't go to this church, so I have to know your opinion."
Silence.
"You there?"
"Yeah. I'm here. Well..." Her tone has changed. What is this? What is this new tone? When did it change? She was outraged! What happened?
"...how is your arm?"
"Sore. It's really sore. It's not dislocated. There's no swelling. Nothing broken."
"So... nothing that would show up on an X-Ray..."
I knew it was a question, I just didn't want to answer.
"Look, I think it's horrible what happened. I really do. But I think you just move on."
"Move on?!?" I say with sarcasm oozing from my pours.
"Like I said, I think it's awful. These guys are pigs. No question. They're horrible cops at best. But what it sounds like is that you're looking for some sort of recourse, some... Justice, and that's just not going to happen."
She used my word. "Justice." She took my jousting glove and slapped me back with it.
"So I just do nothing?"
"Look, you're asking my advice, right?"
"Yes."
"Here's the reality. You don't have medical bills from this incident, correct?"
"Correct."
"You won't have psychiatric treatment after this, right?"
"Probably not."
"Your dad isn't going to sue them, is he?"
"Definitely not."
"Then the reality is, the only reason any lawyer would take a case like this, is if there were some money in it, and there just isn't. You could win, but not enough to cover court costs, which would mean you're in the hole. That's the civil side."
"What about criminal?"
"They didn't arrest you."
"Yeah...?"
"That's it. They handled procedure incorrectly. It's going to be a pat on the wrist at best. And even then, that would only be to please your dad. Not because anyone in charge actually gave a shit. I'm from the valley. I know this place. It's absolutely rife with corruption. The simple fact is, if you go in and file a complaint, someone may hear it, someone may write it down. IF that happens, someone may file it. IF that happens, someone may read it. IF that happens..."
"Okay, okay!"
"This could take years. Literally. I'm representing a client right now with some horrible things that have happened to him, and while I understand his outrage, I'm telling him the same thing. If you want the best out of your own life, let it go, and move on. You're not going to get anything out of this, and chances are, you're not going to do them any damage either."
"I could go to the media. Local papers and news stations eat this shit up in small towns like this."
"Sure you could. Then you'd be 'that guy'. In your dad's home town. You build up this big local media story, get these guys some bad press, get the church some bad press, either your dad can't get the cops to step onto the property again, or they do, and people don't feel safe around them, then you pack up and go back home, leaving your parents to deal with the mess that these two jackasses created. I'm telling you from experience; you don't want this. Move on."
I hung up. I felt desperate. I wanted to punch something. I wanted to hang myself. I wanted to blow up a car. I wanted to vandalize a church. I wanted to eat 28 dozen dough nuts. I wanted these mother fuckers to pay.
I waited six more days. Then, at midnight Saturday, exactly 7 days after I was thrown to the ground, assaulted and harassed for being up-to-no-bad... I got my revenge in the only way I had left.
Officer Lopez. Officer Rodriguez. Officer Jackass (you know who you are.). Welcome to the internet. Enjoy. May the fleas of a thousand camels rest in your armpits. May your wives' legs grow hair like steel-wool. May your children all be born with clef-pallets. May your ... You get the idea.
Just a general "Fuck You forever" to the Harlingen Police Department, and the legal system of the Rio Grande Valley.
Sincerely,
James David Joshua Meshach Jackson III
Son of Barry.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
No clowns. No rings of fire. No popcorn. A different kind of circus.
I had the worst dream I can ever remember having last night. I don't remember details of what was happening, or why I was so terrified, but I woke up at 4am in a cold sweat, crying, and honestly feeling like I was going to die.
I remember distinctly in the dream thinking "Either this is a dream - in which case, I have to figure out how to wake up - or it's real - in which case, I'm dying, and almost certainly going to hell."
I've seen Cirque De Soleil three times, and I've been fascinated and comfortable there. It feels like the most magical and surreal place to watch these seemingly impossible things happen. And though the movement and colors of my dream reminded me (only in memory, not while it was happening) of Cirque, there was a clear sense of impending danger and a sort of mockery of my value as a human to everyone else in the dream. There were acrobats and trapezes. There was a lot of light blue and orange. I remember each member of my family at some point or another, but they each looked the way they've looked in the height of our worst argument or disagreement through my life.
My father was screaming and angry at me. My mother was weeping in disappointment. My brothers were taunting and teasing me. My sisters ignored me in shame. I could feel myself trying to wake up, but I couldn't.
"I'm not going to hell. I'm already there." I thought.
I don't remember objects or even any particular occurrences, but only the feelings and thoughts that I had throughout the dream. It couldn't have lasted for long, 'cause I can't imagine that my body wouldn't have begun thrashing violently very quickly in reflex to such torture.
At some point (the earliest moment of the dream that I can recall with any clarity), I felt 'light'. As if gravity were dying too. In the midst of the absolute chaos and war waging in front of me, all systems of order failing and all of it in direct spite of my well-being, gravity itself began slipping away. But not from anyone / thing else. Just me. I began slowly floating. My body drifted to a horizontal position. It wasn't peaceful or pleasant, the way you'd expect. I started to lose oxygen too. I was hyperventilating. I knew instantly what was happening.
"I'm either asleep, and this is the feeling of me waking up, or this is real, and I'm about to die."
I began trying to scream for help. Not from someone 'real', but from the people conducting the catastrophic orchestra of hate in front of me. I forced the sound from my mouth, but nothing came. Only small puffs of air. I had no voice. They all seemed to laugh. Not audibly, but they individually sort-of shook, as if chuckling to themselves at the thought of their helping me survive. I couldn't breathe.
I was wearing (as far as I can remember) these long blue pajamas. I don't own pajamas. I've never worn them. But these were 'mine'. The way that this war, this circus of destruction, this masterpiece of evil... were mine. The pajamas were comfortable. Which scared me, for some reason. It made me feel numb. Like I didn't know what I liked and didn't like anymore. Like maybe I was losing my mind.
As I floated slowly upward, the world began to yawn. Everything was muddled and blurry. I could taste my tears, and could feel them dripping into my ears as I my body was now perfectly horizontal, facing the sky. For some reason my eyes would not look away from the murderous madness around me, though.
I woke up suddenly. It took about 3 seconds to evaluate that I was not in the room where I went to sleep. Something was wrong. I threw back sheets and covers that I didn't recognize, and instinctively looked down at my clothes. I was wearing blue pajamas. The room was all white. It was like a child's room. Toys thrown around. I knew immediately. It was starting over. I wasn't awake. I was still dreaming. Or, I really was dead now, and this was hell. My eternity would be spent in an endless cycle of nightmares and terrified waking, only to realize that I was still in the nightmare again.
I scrambled onto my feet, and ran to the door. Before I could touch the knob, my body jolted. I sat upright in my bed. I was naked except for boxer shorts. I was sweating head-to-toe. I was crying. My chest hurt, and I could hear my breath. I had a headache. I realized that in the midst of the dream, I had stopped breathing. My body woke up as a way to keep from dying. It was a Code-Red alert to my brain. "Hello? Are you paying attention? The lungs haven't moved in a solid minute. It's time to sound the alarms."
The most distinct feeling that could identify in the midst of the terror and confusion of this morning, was guilt. I can't say what I feel / felt guilty for. I don't really know. But that's what I felt. I felt like everything that I saw in my dream, was entirely my fault. I have worked all day. I've played video games. I've done busy work. I've spent time on the phone. I tried to watch TV. I can't get my mind off of this dream. And I can't understand why I feel guilty. Condemned.
Most of all, at 2:37 AM, I can't figure out how to get my mind off of last night, in order to get back to sleep again.
Thanks for reading this.
Meshach
I remember distinctly in the dream thinking "Either this is a dream - in which case, I have to figure out how to wake up - or it's real - in which case, I'm dying, and almost certainly going to hell."
I've seen Cirque De Soleil three times, and I've been fascinated and comfortable there. It feels like the most magical and surreal place to watch these seemingly impossible things happen. And though the movement and colors of my dream reminded me (only in memory, not while it was happening) of Cirque, there was a clear sense of impending danger and a sort of mockery of my value as a human to everyone else in the dream. There were acrobats and trapezes. There was a lot of light blue and orange. I remember each member of my family at some point or another, but they each looked the way they've looked in the height of our worst argument or disagreement through my life.
My father was screaming and angry at me. My mother was weeping in disappointment. My brothers were taunting and teasing me. My sisters ignored me in shame. I could feel myself trying to wake up, but I couldn't.
"I'm not going to hell. I'm already there." I thought.
I don't remember objects or even any particular occurrences, but only the feelings and thoughts that I had throughout the dream. It couldn't have lasted for long, 'cause I can't imagine that my body wouldn't have begun thrashing violently very quickly in reflex to such torture.
At some point (the earliest moment of the dream that I can recall with any clarity), I felt 'light'. As if gravity were dying too. In the midst of the absolute chaos and war waging in front of me, all systems of order failing and all of it in direct spite of my well-being, gravity itself began slipping away. But not from anyone / thing else. Just me. I began slowly floating. My body drifted to a horizontal position. It wasn't peaceful or pleasant, the way you'd expect. I started to lose oxygen too. I was hyperventilating. I knew instantly what was happening.
"I'm either asleep, and this is the feeling of me waking up, or this is real, and I'm about to die."
I began trying to scream for help. Not from someone 'real', but from the people conducting the catastrophic orchestra of hate in front of me. I forced the sound from my mouth, but nothing came. Only small puffs of air. I had no voice. They all seemed to laugh. Not audibly, but they individually sort-of shook, as if chuckling to themselves at the thought of their helping me survive. I couldn't breathe.
I was wearing (as far as I can remember) these long blue pajamas. I don't own pajamas. I've never worn them. But these were 'mine'. The way that this war, this circus of destruction, this masterpiece of evil... were mine. The pajamas were comfortable. Which scared me, for some reason. It made me feel numb. Like I didn't know what I liked and didn't like anymore. Like maybe I was losing my mind.
As I floated slowly upward, the world began to yawn. Everything was muddled and blurry. I could taste my tears, and could feel them dripping into my ears as I my body was now perfectly horizontal, facing the sky. For some reason my eyes would not look away from the murderous madness around me, though.
I woke up suddenly. It took about 3 seconds to evaluate that I was not in the room where I went to sleep. Something was wrong. I threw back sheets and covers that I didn't recognize, and instinctively looked down at my clothes. I was wearing blue pajamas. The room was all white. It was like a child's room. Toys thrown around. I knew immediately. It was starting over. I wasn't awake. I was still dreaming. Or, I really was dead now, and this was hell. My eternity would be spent in an endless cycle of nightmares and terrified waking, only to realize that I was still in the nightmare again.
I scrambled onto my feet, and ran to the door. Before I could touch the knob, my body jolted. I sat upright in my bed. I was naked except for boxer shorts. I was sweating head-to-toe. I was crying. My chest hurt, and I could hear my breath. I had a headache. I realized that in the midst of the dream, I had stopped breathing. My body woke up as a way to keep from dying. It was a Code-Red alert to my brain. "Hello? Are you paying attention? The lungs haven't moved in a solid minute. It's time to sound the alarms."
The most distinct feeling that could identify in the midst of the terror and confusion of this morning, was guilt. I can't say what I feel / felt guilty for. I don't really know. But that's what I felt. I felt like everything that I saw in my dream, was entirely my fault. I have worked all day. I've played video games. I've done busy work. I've spent time on the phone. I tried to watch TV. I can't get my mind off of this dream. And I can't understand why I feel guilty. Condemned.
Most of all, at 2:37 AM, I can't figure out how to get my mind off of last night, in order to get back to sleep again.
Thanks for reading this.
Meshach
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
The People vs. Spears, Lohan, and Hilton - WARNING: Explicit Lyrics. Seriously, mom... don't read this.
Is anyone else effing sick of hearing about Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, and Paris Hilton? Seriously, can we just stop? I don't mean stop talking shit about them, or even to stop singing their undue praises. I mean just stop.
What I propose is that we, the American public, revoke our interest, and seek recompense for the invested time, energy, and money into worthless celebrities who screw it up unwittingly. Let's just find 3 other hot, young, blonde(ish) bitches and give them a ton of money. I mean it. We'll just start over. American Idol for the next Pointlessly Intriguing Teenager. And if the new trio of eye-candy princesses screw it up, we'll just take it away again (all of it), and find three more. It'll be like Menudo for hot young white girls.
I think if we all get together and start a class-action law-suit against the three of them combined we should be able to recoup a few million at least. We sue them on the grounds that they did not provide any of the expected services after we (I mean collectively. I can't say that I've ever given a shit... until now) paid them what they asked for.
They are self-serving, money-hungry, marginally-talented, and unabashedly arrogant whores. Now, don't tell me they're not whores. They all sold their bodies for money. That simple. They did all of the same things intellectually that the average transvestite crack-addict hooker in Harlem would do for $150. But they charged millions, and they took it from all of us. Think of the beautiful, intelligent, talented, funny, interesting women that we could have been hearing about over the last 10 years. Honestly, did we really have to learn about 3 three cum-dumpsters' every move on every fucking news report?
E! channel and Entertainment Weekly... The only thing entertaining about these girls is the shit that you say about them. And now, that's gotten old. We don't care anymore. So please, shut the fuck up.
It's our own fault that people like Lindsay Lohan grow up to be narcissistic maniacs, Paris Hilton to be self-promoting sociopaths, and Britney Spears to be... a mom. Seriously, who the hell would want Britney Spears as a mother? Strike that... who the hell would let Britney Spears stay a mother? America, take her kids away. For the sake of my grandchildren, don't let Britney's offspring stay in the family. This is going to rob many generations after me their peace and sanity without ever knowing the difference. The only credit I could give to Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan over Britney Spears is that they haven't (as far as we know) reproduced.
Here's what I think we should do. We sue the ever-loving hell out of the three of them. All we need is roughly 2 million or so of us, we all give a dollar, hire a crack team of lawyers, and file a class-action suit against the parties of Lohan, Spears, and Hilton, on the grounds that we paid for a service that we didn't get. We list hours collectively invested into Television shows, Movies, Magazines, and Cd's waiting for something worth-while. We watch a shitty-horrible show like "Crossroads", and want to gouge out our own spleen and feed it to a small pony... but instead, we drive home quietly. We leave it alone. What we should do, is ask for a refund. All of us. For every dime back.
Millions and millions of hours invested. Millions of moments that we could have spent working out, reading poetry, laughing at brilliant comedians, studying art history, supporting live music, or perfecting some life-long interest like pottery restoration. Anything. Absolutely anything would have been a better use of time and money, than paying absolutely any attention to these three hose-hounds. So we want it back.
When we, the American public begin to follow a beautiful young woman's career, and we are so forgiving and gracious as to not pull the plug on our attention span in the first couple of years, we expect certain things. We expect, at the very least, their absence from places like rehab, prison, or internet porn. We expect that the object of such unwarranted praise and affection would exhibit a certain amount of grace, poise, mystery, gratitude, humility... I'm not saying they should have all of this. I'm saying ANY of this would be fantastic to see in any of the three of these imbeciles. Any other century would have stoned them. All I'm suggesting is that we sue them. Take back what is rightfully ours.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not promoting a complete absence of forgiveness here. If you have a friend who gets a DUI, you make it clear that you disapprove, and you support them back to health. If you have a friend who gets pregnant out of wedlock, you help. You buy them baby clothes, and bring them a cup of coffee in the middle of the day when you know they're at home elbow-deep in baby shit. If you have a friend who acts like a spoiled brat at their work and gets reprimanded by their boss, you comfort them and offer them a kind ear to hear their side of the story. You take their side. If you have a friend with 2 kids who makes a sex-tape and puts it online unapologetically after they have a get out of rehab... you punch them in the throat and make it clear that you want back your Notre Dame sweatshirt and the first season of Arrested Development on DVD that you loaned them last summer. You tell all of your friends in no uncertain terms that you don't want to be invited to a party that this loser is going to be at. You make clear to new people who are just meeting this person that before they build some kind of friendship with them, there are a few things that should be made clear about their past.
This is all I'm suggesting. We've invited these people into our homes. Into our vocabularies. Into our worlds. We don't need them. Never did. We didn't do so completely out of benevolence. We had certain expectations. Those expectations weren't meant, so we want back what we invested. That simple. We want back that ND sweatshirt, and the Arrested Development DVD's. We'll spare punching them in the throat (for now), but we expect that they, with all haste and hostility, return to us what is rightfully ours, or the aforementioned socks to the esophagus will begin. Millions and millions of punches to the throat.
What I propose is that we, the American public, revoke our interest, and seek recompense for the invested time, energy, and money into worthless celebrities who screw it up unwittingly. Let's just find 3 other hot, young, blonde(ish) bitches and give them a ton of money. I mean it. We'll just start over. American Idol for the next Pointlessly Intriguing Teenager. And if the new trio of eye-candy princesses screw it up, we'll just take it away again (all of it), and find three more. It'll be like Menudo for hot young white girls.
I think if we all get together and start a class-action law-suit against the three of them combined we should be able to recoup a few million at least. We sue them on the grounds that they did not provide any of the expected services after we (I mean collectively. I can't say that I've ever given a shit... until now) paid them what they asked for.
They are self-serving, money-hungry, marginally-talented, and unabashedly arrogant whores. Now, don't tell me they're not whores. They all sold their bodies for money. That simple. They did all of the same things intellectually that the average transvestite crack-addict hooker in Harlem would do for $150. But they charged millions, and they took it from all of us. Think of the beautiful, intelligent, talented, funny, interesting women that we could have been hearing about over the last 10 years. Honestly, did we really have to learn about 3 three cum-dumpsters' every move on every fucking news report?
E! channel and Entertainment Weekly... The only thing entertaining about these girls is the shit that you say about them. And now, that's gotten old. We don't care anymore. So please, shut the fuck up.
It's our own fault that people like Lindsay Lohan grow up to be narcissistic maniacs, Paris Hilton to be self-promoting sociopaths, and Britney Spears to be... a mom. Seriously, who the hell would want Britney Spears as a mother? Strike that... who the hell would let Britney Spears stay a mother? America, take her kids away. For the sake of my grandchildren, don't let Britney's offspring stay in the family. This is going to rob many generations after me their peace and sanity without ever knowing the difference. The only credit I could give to Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan over Britney Spears is that they haven't (as far as we know) reproduced.
Here's what I think we should do. We sue the ever-loving hell out of the three of them. All we need is roughly 2 million or so of us, we all give a dollar, hire a crack team of lawyers, and file a class-action suit against the parties of Lohan, Spears, and Hilton, on the grounds that we paid for a service that we didn't get. We list hours collectively invested into Television shows, Movies, Magazines, and Cd's waiting for something worth-while. We watch a shitty-horrible show like "Crossroads", and want to gouge out our own spleen and feed it to a small pony... but instead, we drive home quietly. We leave it alone. What we should do, is ask for a refund. All of us. For every dime back.
Millions and millions of hours invested. Millions of moments that we could have spent working out, reading poetry, laughing at brilliant comedians, studying art history, supporting live music, or perfecting some life-long interest like pottery restoration. Anything. Absolutely anything would have been a better use of time and money, than paying absolutely any attention to these three hose-hounds. So we want it back.
When we, the American public begin to follow a beautiful young woman's career, and we are so forgiving and gracious as to not pull the plug on our attention span in the first couple of years, we expect certain things. We expect, at the very least, their absence from places like rehab, prison, or internet porn. We expect that the object of such unwarranted praise and affection would exhibit a certain amount of grace, poise, mystery, gratitude, humility... I'm not saying they should have all of this. I'm saying ANY of this would be fantastic to see in any of the three of these imbeciles. Any other century would have stoned them. All I'm suggesting is that we sue them. Take back what is rightfully ours.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not promoting a complete absence of forgiveness here. If you have a friend who gets a DUI, you make it clear that you disapprove, and you support them back to health. If you have a friend who gets pregnant out of wedlock, you help. You buy them baby clothes, and bring them a cup of coffee in the middle of the day when you know they're at home elbow-deep in baby shit. If you have a friend who acts like a spoiled brat at their work and gets reprimanded by their boss, you comfort them and offer them a kind ear to hear their side of the story. You take their side. If you have a friend with 2 kids who makes a sex-tape and puts it online unapologetically after they have a get out of rehab... you punch them in the throat and make it clear that you want back your Notre Dame sweatshirt and the first season of Arrested Development on DVD that you loaned them last summer. You tell all of your friends in no uncertain terms that you don't want to be invited to a party that this loser is going to be at. You make clear to new people who are just meeting this person that before they build some kind of friendship with them, there are a few things that should be made clear about their past.
This is all I'm suggesting. We've invited these people into our homes. Into our vocabularies. Into our worlds. We don't need them. Never did. We didn't do so completely out of benevolence. We had certain expectations. Those expectations weren't meant, so we want back what we invested. That simple. We want back that ND sweatshirt, and the Arrested Development DVD's. We'll spare punching them in the throat (for now), but we expect that they, with all haste and hostility, return to us what is rightfully ours, or the aforementioned socks to the esophagus will begin. Millions and millions of punches to the throat.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Leslie.
The stuttering transvestite flasher turned politician
Rages through his fiery orange beard and buck teeth
To scream the scene with obscene indecencies into the town hall mic
”S… S … Save the Music Channel!”
This is our spokesman or woman,
Whatever
This is the politician who needs our votes to exist
This is the candidate with no illusions of connecting to the voters
He wants an office so he can have a warm place to sleep and a few bucks for the bus
This is Leslie.
This is the politician of the little man.
This is Leslie.
This is our microphone
We are the dripping red calligraphy of the disenfranchised
The not quite sold, but completely self-assured
The generation of Americans who can sleep soundly in our own insecurity
We burn scarred with the lies of our electric parental guardians who flicker all night long in
Black and white dots, dancing, singing, screaming their message… all is NOT well
Be afraid,
Be very afraid
Cut to Leslie
Cut to the sheman of A-town
All the while scratching is bare ass
And flashing for their cash
And waving tauntingly at the cops he knows by name
As everyone who passes him knows his
He’s the Texan singing naked cowboy
He’s the loon that every big city has,
And every little city secretly plots to kidnap
This is our microphone
This is the laughing stock you’ve made of our freedom
This is the joke we’ve seen in you all of our lives
This is what we go to sleep knowing is incapable of actually harming us
This is what you tell us to fear
But what we fear is you
What we fear most are the cavemen you wrap in blue and strap with triggers
What we fear are the mounted patrollers with nines, glocks, bad attitudes and less education than our Leslie, our microphone, our politician
What we fear is the shear stupidity that you broadly assign to our names
What we fear is that one day
One sweet day
We will wake up,
And the entire world will not see Leslie in a suit and a tie and a clean face with perfect speech,
But they will see you,
With cheap, store-bought breasts, bucked teeth, and a yellow thong,
Waving, flashing your ass, kissing for cash, the way we always knew you could.
Welcome to our world
And by all means…
Speak into the microphone
Rages through his fiery orange beard and buck teeth
To scream the scene with obscene indecencies into the town hall mic
”S… S … Save the Music Channel!”
This is our spokesman or woman,
Whatever
This is the politician who needs our votes to exist
This is the candidate with no illusions of connecting to the voters
He wants an office so he can have a warm place to sleep and a few bucks for the bus
This is Leslie.
This is the politician of the little man.
This is Leslie.
This is our microphone
We are the dripping red calligraphy of the disenfranchised
The not quite sold, but completely self-assured
The generation of Americans who can sleep soundly in our own insecurity
We burn scarred with the lies of our electric parental guardians who flicker all night long in
Black and white dots, dancing, singing, screaming their message… all is NOT well
Be afraid,
Be very afraid
Cut to Leslie
Cut to the sheman of A-town
All the while scratching is bare ass
And flashing for their cash
And waving tauntingly at the cops he knows by name
As everyone who passes him knows his
He’s the Texan singing naked cowboy
He’s the loon that every big city has,
And every little city secretly plots to kidnap
This is our microphone
This is the laughing stock you’ve made of our freedom
This is the joke we’ve seen in you all of our lives
This is what we go to sleep knowing is incapable of actually harming us
This is what you tell us to fear
But what we fear is you
What we fear most are the cavemen you wrap in blue and strap with triggers
What we fear are the mounted patrollers with nines, glocks, bad attitudes and less education than our Leslie, our microphone, our politician
What we fear is the shear stupidity that you broadly assign to our names
What we fear is that one day
One sweet day
We will wake up,
And the entire world will not see Leslie in a suit and a tie and a clean face with perfect speech,
But they will see you,
With cheap, store-bought breasts, bucked teeth, and a yellow thong,
Waving, flashing your ass, kissing for cash, the way we always knew you could.
Welcome to our world
And by all means…
Speak into the microphone
Sunday, November 04, 2007
Repentence of Recompence
He swings half-assed
And hits her oh, so hard
She swings so soft
And breaks his cold, dry heart
The name he calls her
Rattles down in her bones
She later eats his soul
With the name she moans
He splits her arm
With the swing of a knife
She splits her legs
In return the same night
He spits and stutters
Too angry to speak
She drips and shutters
Cold, sweating, and weak
There’ll be no forgiving
Her sins this time
He has only hate
For the criminal’s crime
Recompense lies wheezing
On this dying floor
Since the day daddy
Called mommy a ….
And hits her oh, so hard
She swings so soft
And breaks his cold, dry heart
The name he calls her
Rattles down in her bones
She later eats his soul
With the name she moans
He splits her arm
With the swing of a knife
She splits her legs
In return the same night
He spits and stutters
Too angry to speak
She drips and shutters
Cold, sweating, and weak
There’ll be no forgiving
Her sins this time
He has only hate
For the criminal’s crime
Recompense lies wheezing
On this dying floor
Since the day daddy
Called mommy a ….
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Playground Bullies and Fireflies
Playground Bullies and Fireflies
July 26, 2004
As if it were disguised
As if it had been bruised by some brute force
Lying bleeding and blinded with bandaged eyes
Or as if it were disguised
We scream and send out a search party
To comb historic forests
And stoic forces
Who must have hid the truth from us
The daybreak turns to dusk
It was just as we had settled in
By the firelight
By the candle’s flickering frail fright
That doubt
Took the seat beside
And propped his feet in pride
And the truth slipped out
Leaving the window open
And letting in the cold breeze
Which sent a sliver
Of a shiver
Down our social spine
Serving to remind
Us that the truth was gone
And the race was on
Our innocence had come and gone
And we were left wheezing, heaving, and lost
It was the letter that grabbed our attention
It was the suicide note that truth left on the seal of the window
The one where the breeze burns cold
And the crisp flick of the curtains
Snap like a hissing serpent in the wake
The letter really proclaimed more than defamed
It was more lament and less fluorescent
Though we always confused the truth with light
“I have not been tried and found wanting
I have been found difficult and not tried”
So the letter reads
And so the search begins
So the difficult becomes the passion that rests inside a weary soul
And bones ache in cold breeze because we can’t bring ourselves to shut the window
We find comfort
In the rhythm
Of the popping
Of the stale sticks falling
From broken limbs
Of trees
Who one knew leaves
We cry ourselves to sleep
On pillows that turn
To ice
In the cold night and crush themselves
To salt
In the morning light
Just in time
For us
To cry again
In the midst of our pathetic, rambling, escapades
We search for the long lost friend
“Where are you?”
While combing the woods behind the house that you left
A wise little weirdo told me how he planned to find you
With a snorting laugh and a silver chain
Connecting
His neck
To a sacred silver cross
That hung over v-neck Haynes
He said “the opposite of truth is not false,
But counterfeit.
the presence of a little bit”
Then he spit
Into a snarling, snorting, sneezing frenzy
And jittered, clumsily away
Maybe you are gone for good
Maybe it is fa(o)r worse
We only wish we understood
Your absence was a curse
Long before the window seal was crossed in silent night
Long before the window seal was broken by your weight
Long before the window fell with this house like a stone
With this house like a stone
Like a stone
Like a
We can fall asleep by the clanking clatter of cobblestone streets
We can ignore the myriad of ads in adjun(ct)k sales
And let sales figures climb in through the hole you left in our hearts
The day you left
You left
That hole
In the shape of you
And though
We know
The glow
That shows
Through clothes
Is just another view
Of our loss
We search
And we do so as clothed as we can
Bare
We cover up in warm daylight while the public eyes are bright
And reveal ourselves naked, scared, and dripping
To the loneliness of night
And it’s all because you lef(p)t out the window
You left your widow
You didn’t shut it
You didn’t cover your tracks
You made sure we’d know exactly how you went
But not where
You made damn sure we never got to close that thing again
It’s not fair
But it’s true
See?
That’s the problem is it’s true
We can’t escape you
You can run, and we can’t hide
Fists split and wrists slit when worlds collide
And you don’t move
But you did once
Once upon a time
In the back of this house
You woke from a dream
As quiet as a mouse
And you split your lip on the broken glass
When you dove face first
No one heard the crash
But we found the trail of blood
That led out back past the trash
We were covered
We were mesmerized
We’d been dreaming that we’d never let you
From our eyes
Again
After tonight
After we’d had our fun and forgotten for a while
So we bomb the girl
And rape the world
And scrape
Grape juice from the bottom of the sacrilegious pearls
Make a jelly thick enough to dip a wafer into
And we lick the goo
We suck it dry
We eat it up and sing a gospel lullaby
And we know you’re gone
You’re so not here
You’re so 5 minutes ago
You’re like, that one guy
From that one place
With that one look on his face
The one with bleeding eyes
And watery sides
The big naked center-place
The picture hangs above the mantel in the house that you just left
Yeah, you’re like him
You‚re dead
At least that’s what they said
We told them you were gone and when the search had yielded none
They told us you were dead and that we should find another one
The translation killed the messenger and we could save our shots
But I remembered that wise weirdo who was covered in sun dots
I’d just been staring at the sky lying peaceful in the grass
When he leaned over the sun and said “this too, has come to pass”
“What the hell, man. You’re blocking the rays. I was about to go blind”
So he walked away with the urgency of a drunken father time
He said “dude, I know you’re pissed ‘cause you’ve been lied to for so long
But it was for your own good, though the liars were still wrong.
If you always knew the truth, you would have never grown through time.
But now that you’ve tasted mother earth, you should enjoy the wine.”
“Wine’s for drunkards, you freak.” as I sat up on the hill.
“And stop your cliché an(ec)tidotes I’ve taken my last pill.
I don’t care anymore. I’ve lost that flavor from my tongue.
Or maybe when truth left, I bit it off.
Either way, I’m done.”
“Then why are you screaming?” he smiled, but cleverly, or wry
He was grinning like a school boy with a secret he wouldn’t tell
I noticed now that he was holding a baby and my hands fell to my side
“Don’t follow if you don’t want to, but I‚m gonna get the hell…”
Before he could finish I jumped
Like waking
Like water
Weeping and whining all at once
I felt like I’d pissed my bed and fallen down
I had a headache that wouldn’t stop
And I felt the breeze
It was c(rue)ool
Long before I even had the chance to think it was all a dream
It was like a slap in the face
Some resounding gong
An alien probe that wasn’t so private
This was capital punishment in the private parts of my inner ear
The letter and the wind joined together to remind me
Like a child in the corner of the room screaming to the top of his lungs
“I’m hiding”
Only this “child” was the truth
And this “hiding” was having been beaten down, broken up,
Battered
Tattered
Torn
Worn
Wrangled
Mangled
Maimed
Framed
Feared
Speared
Resisted
Raped
Abused
Misused
And what’s worst of all
Forgotten
But not by me
I have not forgotten thee
Don’t think for one moment that you are out there on your own
“Let the truth sting” sings the foreign man made of black and white
Like a shepherd of the yin, yang coming from the clock radio in the night
Sing it out
Let the truth sting
And while we’re at it,
Let it burn and bleed
And fear for its life
As if a feeble fable of its own ghost
We seek for truth like it’s lost
When it’s we
Who are being (not so much) sought by the truth
(As) baited
By truth
Having waited
Knowing we’re jaded
And it’ll take a while
One day we’ll discover you
And when we do
We’ll be blinded by the darkness of it all
The absence of you was the search in itself
Your opposite is not the absence of you
But counterfeit
The deception of thinking we’ve found you
Just long enough to call off the search,
Feed the dogs,
Downgrade the code from the red of the dragon
To somewhere around a suburban Orlando tan
The search for the truth is over
We’ve found something almost as good
He claims to be god.
He has a church on a hill
And he drives long silver sedan
He’s a family man
An all-american boy
He’s the talking, walking, shaking, quaking, Playschool Jesus toy
And all the while you wait
Desperately in the shadows
So close
You have to sense that one day we will trip over you
And when we do
You will look laughing from above
Cover up the sun
And float down like a dove
And hand us a picture of
Ourselves
Before we were dead
But only by a moment
You’ll say this is what you’re looking for
You wink, I think
Then you’ll vanish.
We’ll awake, feel the breeze
Call the search party
Bring the dogs, the cops, the neighbors,
“Who wants take-out Lebanese?
We‚re gonna stay-in to burn the midnight oil”
Then we’ll squeeze
Our eyes shut
And hold on tight to what we saw
But there is nothing left
Just pupils burned raw
From the sun
The sun!
That's it…
It’s when we’re staring that we see
And I fall asleep
And dream in the darkness
That the truth is here with me
And as if some day I’ll see
When I open my eyes
…as if it were disguised
- meshach.
July 26, 2004
As if it were disguised
As if it had been bruised by some brute force
Lying bleeding and blinded with bandaged eyes
Or as if it were disguised
We scream and send out a search party
To comb historic forests
And stoic forces
Who must have hid the truth from us
The daybreak turns to dusk
It was just as we had settled in
By the firelight
By the candle’s flickering frail fright
That doubt
Took the seat beside
And propped his feet in pride
And the truth slipped out
Leaving the window open
And letting in the cold breeze
Which sent a sliver
Of a shiver
Down our social spine
Serving to remind
Us that the truth was gone
And the race was on
Our innocence had come and gone
And we were left wheezing, heaving, and lost
It was the letter that grabbed our attention
It was the suicide note that truth left on the seal of the window
The one where the breeze burns cold
And the crisp flick of the curtains
Snap like a hissing serpent in the wake
The letter really proclaimed more than defamed
It was more lament and less fluorescent
Though we always confused the truth with light
“I have not been tried and found wanting
I have been found difficult and not tried”
So the letter reads
And so the search begins
So the difficult becomes the passion that rests inside a weary soul
And bones ache in cold breeze because we can’t bring ourselves to shut the window
We find comfort
In the rhythm
Of the popping
Of the stale sticks falling
From broken limbs
Of trees
Who one knew leaves
We cry ourselves to sleep
On pillows that turn
To ice
In the cold night and crush themselves
To salt
In the morning light
Just in time
For us
To cry again
In the midst of our pathetic, rambling, escapades
We search for the long lost friend
“Where are you?”
While combing the woods behind the house that you left
A wise little weirdo told me how he planned to find you
With a snorting laugh and a silver chain
Connecting
His neck
To a sacred silver cross
That hung over v-neck Haynes
He said “the opposite of truth is not false,
But counterfeit.
the presence of a little bit”
Then he spit
Into a snarling, snorting, sneezing frenzy
And jittered, clumsily away
Maybe you are gone for good
Maybe it is fa(o)r worse
We only wish we understood
Your absence was a curse
Long before the window seal was crossed in silent night
Long before the window seal was broken by your weight
Long before the window fell with this house like a stone
With this house like a stone
Like a stone
Like a
We can fall asleep by the clanking clatter of cobblestone streets
We can ignore the myriad of ads in adjun(ct)k sales
And let sales figures climb in through the hole you left in our hearts
The day you left
You left
That hole
In the shape of you
And though
We know
The glow
That shows
Through clothes
Is just another view
Of our loss
We search
And we do so as clothed as we can
Bare
We cover up in warm daylight while the public eyes are bright
And reveal ourselves naked, scared, and dripping
To the loneliness of night
And it’s all because you lef(p)t out the window
You left your widow
You didn’t shut it
You didn’t cover your tracks
You made sure we’d know exactly how you went
But not where
You made damn sure we never got to close that thing again
It’s not fair
But it’s true
See?
That’s the problem is it’s true
We can’t escape you
You can run, and we can’t hide
Fists split and wrists slit when worlds collide
And you don’t move
But you did once
Once upon a time
In the back of this house
You woke from a dream
As quiet as a mouse
And you split your lip on the broken glass
When you dove face first
No one heard the crash
But we found the trail of blood
That led out back past the trash
We were covered
We were mesmerized
We’d been dreaming that we’d never let you
From our eyes
Again
After tonight
After we’d had our fun and forgotten for a while
So we bomb the girl
And rape the world
And scrape
Grape juice from the bottom of the sacrilegious pearls
Make a jelly thick enough to dip a wafer into
And we lick the goo
We suck it dry
We eat it up and sing a gospel lullaby
And we know you’re gone
You’re so not here
You’re so 5 minutes ago
You’re like, that one guy
From that one place
With that one look on his face
The one with bleeding eyes
And watery sides
The big naked center-place
The picture hangs above the mantel in the house that you just left
Yeah, you’re like him
You‚re dead
At least that’s what they said
We told them you were gone and when the search had yielded none
They told us you were dead and that we should find another one
The translation killed the messenger and we could save our shots
But I remembered that wise weirdo who was covered in sun dots
I’d just been staring at the sky lying peaceful in the grass
When he leaned over the sun and said “this too, has come to pass”
“What the hell, man. You’re blocking the rays. I was about to go blind”
So he walked away with the urgency of a drunken father time
He said “dude, I know you’re pissed ‘cause you’ve been lied to for so long
But it was for your own good, though the liars were still wrong.
If you always knew the truth, you would have never grown through time.
But now that you’ve tasted mother earth, you should enjoy the wine.”
“Wine’s for drunkards, you freak.” as I sat up on the hill.
“And stop your cliché an(ec)tidotes I’ve taken my last pill.
I don’t care anymore. I’ve lost that flavor from my tongue.
Or maybe when truth left, I bit it off.
Either way, I’m done.”
“Then why are you screaming?” he smiled, but cleverly, or wry
He was grinning like a school boy with a secret he wouldn’t tell
I noticed now that he was holding a baby and my hands fell to my side
“Don’t follow if you don’t want to, but I‚m gonna get the hell…”
Before he could finish I jumped
Like waking
Like water
Weeping and whining all at once
I felt like I’d pissed my bed and fallen down
I had a headache that wouldn’t stop
And I felt the breeze
It was c(rue)ool
Long before I even had the chance to think it was all a dream
It was like a slap in the face
Some resounding gong
An alien probe that wasn’t so private
This was capital punishment in the private parts of my inner ear
The letter and the wind joined together to remind me
Like a child in the corner of the room screaming to the top of his lungs
“I’m hiding”
Only this “child” was the truth
And this “hiding” was having been beaten down, broken up,
Battered
Tattered
Torn
Worn
Wrangled
Mangled
Maimed
Framed
Feared
Speared
Resisted
Raped
Abused
Misused
And what’s worst of all
Forgotten
But not by me
I have not forgotten thee
Don’t think for one moment that you are out there on your own
“Let the truth sting” sings the foreign man made of black and white
Like a shepherd of the yin, yang coming from the clock radio in the night
Sing it out
Let the truth sting
And while we’re at it,
Let it burn and bleed
And fear for its life
As if a feeble fable of its own ghost
We seek for truth like it’s lost
When it’s we
Who are being (not so much) sought by the truth
(As) baited
By truth
Having waited
Knowing we’re jaded
And it’ll take a while
One day we’ll discover you
And when we do
We’ll be blinded by the darkness of it all
The absence of you was the search in itself
Your opposite is not the absence of you
But counterfeit
The deception of thinking we’ve found you
Just long enough to call off the search,
Feed the dogs,
Downgrade the code from the red of the dragon
To somewhere around a suburban Orlando tan
The search for the truth is over
We’ve found something almost as good
He claims to be god.
He has a church on a hill
And he drives long silver sedan
He’s a family man
An all-american boy
He’s the talking, walking, shaking, quaking, Playschool Jesus toy
And all the while you wait
Desperately in the shadows
So close
You have to sense that one day we will trip over you
And when we do
You will look laughing from above
Cover up the sun
And float down like a dove
And hand us a picture of
Ourselves
Before we were dead
But only by a moment
You’ll say this is what you’re looking for
You wink, I think
Then you’ll vanish.
We’ll awake, feel the breeze
Call the search party
Bring the dogs, the cops, the neighbors,
“Who wants take-out Lebanese?
We‚re gonna stay-in to burn the midnight oil”
Then we’ll squeeze
Our eyes shut
And hold on tight to what we saw
But there is nothing left
Just pupils burned raw
From the sun
The sun!
That's it…
It’s when we’re staring that we see
And I fall asleep
And dream in the darkness
That the truth is here with me
And as if some day I’ll see
When I open my eyes
…as if it were disguised
- meshach.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Yours.
She says I look like New York
says I remind her of home
she wears the shortiest shorts
she talks the phoniest phone
she's fragile like a butter(fly) like a diamond ring
you can pop her rubber-band, but I'm her bumble bee sting
I got a woman, and her name is yours
I don't know what to tell you, brother
but when it rains, pours
She says she fell like a stone
gave me her trembling heart
says she's too young to be alone
too old to go back to the start
she's fragile like a butter(fly) like a diamond ring
you can pop her rubber-band, but I'm her bumble bee sting
I got a woman, and her name is yours
I don't know what to tell you, brother
but when it rains, pours
Pours.
says I remind her of home
she wears the shortiest shorts
she talks the phoniest phone
she's fragile like a butter(fly) like a diamond ring
you can pop her rubber-band, but I'm her bumble bee sting
I got a woman, and her name is yours
I don't know what to tell you, brother
but when it rains, pours
She says she fell like a stone
gave me her trembling heart
says she's too young to be alone
too old to go back to the start
she's fragile like a butter(fly) like a diamond ring
you can pop her rubber-band, but I'm her bumble bee sting
I got a woman, and her name is yours
I don't know what to tell you, brother
but when it rains, pours
Pours.
Friday, October 12, 2007
On Al Gore, and why he won't (can't) run for president in '08
REASONS:
___ Guliani / Schwarzenegger
___ Gore / Bono
Word.
- Meshach
This post brought to you by the following campaigns.
- Hillary Clinton
- For all of the non-partisan political mumbo-jumbo, Al Gore is still a Democrat. He's loyal, I gotta give him that. His party may want him to run, but they want him to not run against Hillary more.
The simple reality is, with Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton already battling for this bid, Citizen Al entering the bid would only split votes, weaken Hillary's campaign, and pull very few votes from Obama. Meaning it would do more work towards splitting the Democratic nomination campaign into even more of a tight-rope campaign (with unwanted mud-slinging inevitably the result), it would certainly not be the best choice for someone who's at this place in his career. - Bill Clinton
- The major contributing factor to Gore's success in the 2000 campaign was the fact that Bill Clinton gave such a strong endorsement of Al's capabilities. At the time, Gore was broke (in political candidate terms), and desperately needed the extra nod.
Now, though he may not need it quite as much, he certainly does not want the opposite. The last thing Al Gore wants is to campaign against Bill Clinton. And, with Hillary in the race, that's precisely what he'd be doing. - He doesn't need...
- The Money
- Search thestreet.com or forbes magazine archives, and you'll find that before the 2000 campaign, Gore's reported net worth was less than $1 million (somewhere around $800k).
In October of 2000, thestreet.com had this to say..."To give you an idea of his savings, his total taxable interest in 1999 was $1,267," says Benjamin Tobias, a certified financial planner and certified public accountant at Tobias Financial Advisors in Fort Lauderdale, Fla. "He has got virtually nothing in the form of stocks. And virtually nothing in the form of savings."
Of course, this may mean that Gore has been doing a lot of planning to minimize his tax burden -- a top priority of most wealthy Americans. If so, he's doing a bang-up job.
In May of last year, Forbes Magazine reported the following...- In 2001, Gore became a part-time senior adviser to Google, which went on to an IPO. His compensation is unknown, but Eric Schmidt, who joined the company a month later as the chairman, got equity now worth $5.2 billion.
- Gore took a seat on the board of Apple Computer in 2003, and he now has 60,000 stock options worth $2 million.
- A year later he became one of the investors in Current TV, a cable network aimed at young people. It's available on cable systems with 28 million subscribers, but Gore's share has not been disclosed.
- Also in 2004, Gore founded Generation Investment Management with former Goldman Sachs executive David Blood. The London-based firm invests largely in companies that make environmentally friendly products.
- Gore receives from $75,000 to $150,000 for paid appearances on the lecture circuit.
- The Press
- If you haven't heard, he won the Nobel Peace Prize.
- If you haven't seen it, the prize was for his work on "An Inconvenient Truth".
- If the above two were news to you, here are a few other events you have missed.
- John Lennon, Saddam Hussein, Princess Diana, and the notion of American Personal Privacy... all dead.
- Soilent Green is people
- 'blog', 'text', 'I.M.', and 'friend' are all verbs now.
- To Rush
- The fact that Al Gore is 59 means he could theoretically still run in 2012 so long as Hillary doesn't win. Let me say that again. IF HILLARY DOESN'T WIN IN 2008, AL GORE COULD RUN IN 2012. He's not gonna run against re-election of "Billary" (NOT at typo... you heard it here first...), and he could probably sweep the primaries against every one of these crackers with 4 years of Nobel prize campaigning under his belt.
___ Guliani / Schwarzenegger
___ Gore / Bono
Word.
- Meshach
This post brought to you by the following campaigns.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Winter Listening...
Here's what I'm listening to this winter.
(In no particular order)
(In no particular order)
- Milosh - Down-tempo masterpieces.
- Heist At Hand - A chick-lead Mars Volta with better songs?
- Stateless - Just toured with DJ Shadow... fitting.
- Edie - Nashville singer from Holland with a hypnotic falsetto.
- None shall pass by Aesop Rock - Just a solid freakin' record from beginning to end.
- In Rainbows by Radiohead - It's on me, and it's growing.
- Alice by Tom Waits (... again) - A damn-near perfect record.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
I miss my friend.
My friend, Jim Carr died last night. I was on the phone. With someone else, talking about nonsense. While he died.
I met Jim in 2002 when I moved to Austin and went to work at the company he'd be at for two years. Tall. Red-haired. Gentle. Jim became my friend instantly. When I left the company to start my own, I had plans to do something big. He wanted to help. He had always offered kind and encouraging words before, but now he offered guidance and brain power to help with something he knew well, but was bigger than me. Jim wanted to help lift the load. We met at starbucks on a couple occasions. He was positive. He was confident. He was my best bet.
Jim, with his wife, Amy had been trying to have a baby together for years to no avail. I spoke with him about their desire to adopt a child from China in 2005. Jim was excited. Jim had a website (www.carrtexas.com) to track the progress of the adoption. He and Amy, the most capable potential parents I knew, would finally be able to raise a child. Jim would certainly need a more stable job than what he and I would be doing together. We wished each other well, and said we'd keep in touch.
On May 24, 2005, after months of paperwork, phone calls, research, and interviews, Jim and Amy posted the following on their website: "May 24, 2005 - We find out Amy is pregnant. Due date is 01/30/2006. Adoption is temporarily put on hold."
So giving, they said "temporarily".
I was on the phone with Jim shortly after, and he was beside himself. He would finally be a dad.
They named him Landon. He was the interruption for which they'd prayed for over 13 years. Landon was 8 months old when his dad went to the doctor for a routine checkup, and was diagnosed with cancer.
I had already moved to New York, and was unable to visit Jim. I will be in Austin in 2 weeks. I was excited about finally being able to drop in. 3 days ago I emailed Amy, and let her know that I was planning to be in town, and that I'd like to come and see him. Yesterday I got an email back. I thought it was a response with visitation times. It's subject line said "Funeral arrangements". I was 2 weeks too late, to say goodbye.
This is Jim, the way I remember him.
This is what cancer did to my friend.
I miss you, Jim.
I met Jim in 2002 when I moved to Austin and went to work at the company he'd be at for two years. Tall. Red-haired. Gentle. Jim became my friend instantly. When I left the company to start my own, I had plans to do something big. He wanted to help. He had always offered kind and encouraging words before, but now he offered guidance and brain power to help with something he knew well, but was bigger than me. Jim wanted to help lift the load. We met at starbucks on a couple occasions. He was positive. He was confident. He was my best bet.
Jim, with his wife, Amy had been trying to have a baby together for years to no avail. I spoke with him about their desire to adopt a child from China in 2005. Jim was excited. Jim had a website (www.carrtexas.com) to track the progress of the adoption. He and Amy, the most capable potential parents I knew, would finally be able to raise a child. Jim would certainly need a more stable job than what he and I would be doing together. We wished each other well, and said we'd keep in touch.
On May 24, 2005, after months of paperwork, phone calls, research, and interviews, Jim and Amy posted the following on their website: "May 24, 2005 - We find out Amy is pregnant. Due date is 01/30/2006. Adoption is temporarily put on hold."
So giving, they said "temporarily".
I was on the phone with Jim shortly after, and he was beside himself. He would finally be a dad.
They named him Landon. He was the interruption for which they'd prayed for over 13 years. Landon was 8 months old when his dad went to the doctor for a routine checkup, and was diagnosed with cancer.
I had already moved to New York, and was unable to visit Jim. I will be in Austin in 2 weeks. I was excited about finally being able to drop in. 3 days ago I emailed Amy, and let her know that I was planning to be in town, and that I'd like to come and see him. Yesterday I got an email back. I thought it was a response with visitation times. It's subject line said "Funeral arrangements". I was 2 weeks too late, to say goodbye.
This is Jim, the way I remember him.
This is what cancer did to my friend.
I miss you, Jim.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Lost American Idol Audition Tape: Tom Waits
[Ryan Seacrest] "For the first time ever, American Idol is in Pomona, California, searching for the next American Idol. The 5th largest city in Los Angeles county, Pomona is the home of thousands of hopefuls and future stars seeking to be... The next American Idol. We'll be right back with the new season of American Idol." (leans over to camera man) "Hey, can I get a Ginger Ale? Also, is anyone else sick of the title of this show being in every freaking sentence we say?" (laughter off camera) "Seriously, get me a Ginger Ale."
(Cut to judges preparing for the day. Simon is filling his 68 ounce bright red Coke cup with equal parts Vodkah and Pepto Bismal. Paula is double-fisting 600mg Vicodin. Randy sits still, staring, in a daze.)
[Ryan Seacrest]
"The first 267 Idol hopefuls were complete wastes of time. I mean it. Pile them all together, and you couldn't get an emotional choir take of a 'It's a Small World', much less 'We Are The World'." (off camera) "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who wrote these cards? Anyway, keep rolling. I'll wrap up the intro to this next psycho." (pause)
"While Simon and Paula bitch and moan to each other in their usual train-wreck banter, little could prepare them for what was about to walk through the audition door."
[cut to the door, where a 50 year old+ man wearing a fishing vest covered in tackle, a top hat, and carrying a fifth of whiskey limps and swaggers onto the floor. He looks around the room after stopping on the gray "X" on the floor, as if he's still not sure he's in the right place.]
(TOM WAITS) "Hi." [He mumbles and wipes his mouth, spilling whiskey on his shirt.]
(RANDY JACKSON) "Uh... Hi dude. Mister... uh... Waits?" [looking through his papers] "Tom Waits. 'How you doin', dawg?" [Randy mumbles without looking up.]
(TOM WAITS) "Fine. Look, can I put down my drink? I just spilled all over myself, and I'd like to get focused on what's really important here."
(RANDY JACKSON) "Sure man, do what 'chu gotta do." [Randy looks sincerely scared now, and Simon has begun to snore.]
[The singer pulls out 2 spoons from his coat pocket and begins banging them together on his knee. He starts making a strange sound with his mouth that is rhythmic like beat-boxing, but tonally sounds closer to the login of a dial-up modem on AOL. The only distinguishable words are "I got the bread, but not the buttah! I got the winduh, but not the shuddah!" and "I'm Big in Japan! I'm Big in Japan.". This goes on for a good 2 minutes or so with no noticeable climax or dynamic control whatsoever.]
(PAULA ABDULA - OFF CAMERA) "STOOOOOOP!" (Waits stands upright, then calmly sits on the floor and grabs his bottle of whiskey)
(SIMON COWELL) "Mate." [leaning back and holding both hands over his own breasts.] "What in the bloody name of melody, was that?"
(TOM WAITS) "Big in Japan." [from the floor.]
(SIMON COWELL) "I think you're big on Cocaine if you think that would sell records!" [smirks at his own cleverness.]
[OFF CAMERA - Paula is crying.]
(RANDY JACKSON) "AAAAAA HAAA HAA HA HAAAHAHA AAHA!! Dude, that was the dopest rhythm I've ever heard someone pull out in here, man. And with a pair of spoons, man. That was insane! I would love to play with you on some of that stuff, but dude! You just ain't right for this show, man."
(SIMON COWELL) "Are you insane?" [Simon stands up.] "That was utter rubbish!"
(RANDY JACKSON) "Nah, dawg, you didn't hear some of the stuff he was playing. That was pretty bad ass. His voice ain't for everybody, which is what this show is about... voices that are for everybody... but still, it was innovative, man." [leaning back in his chair.]
[The two continue to bicker over the top of Paula's comatose head, completely ignoring the contestant standing in front of them. Finally, a stage manager walks on screen wearing a headset and a "Masterpiece Theater" t-shirt. "This way, sir."
As Waits follows slowly, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of fighting coming from off camera, he takes another swig from his bottle, and walks outside. ]
(RYAN SEACREST) "So, how'd it go?" [standing with... no one... waiting for the audition to end.]
(TOM WAITS) "Huh?" [stops and looks up, as if woken from a dream.]
(RYAN SEACREST) "How'd you do? Did you get in?"
(TOM WAITS) "Oh. Yeah, I think they're gonna call my agent. That Paula Poundstone looks great, though. Man, I'd like to smother her with Miracle Whip."
(RYAN SEACREST) "Okay!" [Seacrest looks back into the camera.] "Pamona California, ladies and gentlemen! What the hell are we doing with our lives..." [He drops the microphone and walks off camera.]
(Cut to judges preparing for the day. Simon is filling his 68 ounce bright red Coke cup with equal parts Vodkah and Pepto Bismal. Paula is double-fisting 600mg Vicodin. Randy sits still, staring, in a daze.)
[Ryan Seacrest]
"The first 267 Idol hopefuls were complete wastes of time. I mean it. Pile them all together, and you couldn't get an emotional choir take of a 'It's a Small World', much less 'We Are The World'." (off camera) "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Who wrote these cards? Anyway, keep rolling. I'll wrap up the intro to this next psycho." (pause)
"While Simon and Paula bitch and moan to each other in their usual train-wreck banter, little could prepare them for what was about to walk through the audition door."
[cut to the door, where a 50 year old+ man wearing a fishing vest covered in tackle, a top hat, and carrying a fifth of whiskey limps and swaggers onto the floor. He looks around the room after stopping on the gray "X" on the floor, as if he's still not sure he's in the right place.]
(TOM WAITS) "Hi." [He mumbles and wipes his mouth, spilling whiskey on his shirt.]
(RANDY JACKSON) "Uh... Hi dude. Mister... uh... Waits?" [looking through his papers] "Tom Waits. 'How you doin', dawg?" [Randy mumbles without looking up.]
(TOM WAITS) "Fine. Look, can I put down my drink? I just spilled all over myself, and I'd like to get focused on what's really important here."
(RANDY JACKSON) "Sure man, do what 'chu gotta do." [Randy looks sincerely scared now, and Simon has begun to snore.]
[The singer pulls out 2 spoons from his coat pocket and begins banging them together on his knee. He starts making a strange sound with his mouth that is rhythmic like beat-boxing, but tonally sounds closer to the login of a dial-up modem on AOL. The only distinguishable words are "I got the bread, but not the buttah! I got the winduh, but not the shuddah!" and "I'm Big in Japan! I'm Big in Japan.". This goes on for a good 2 minutes or so with no noticeable climax or dynamic control whatsoever.]
(PAULA ABDULA - OFF CAMERA) "STOOOOOOP!" (Waits stands upright, then calmly sits on the floor and grabs his bottle of whiskey)
(SIMON COWELL) "Mate." [leaning back and holding both hands over his own breasts.] "What in the bloody name of melody, was that?"
(TOM WAITS) "Big in Japan." [from the floor.]
(SIMON COWELL) "I think you're big on Cocaine if you think that would sell records!" [smirks at his own cleverness.]
[OFF CAMERA - Paula is crying.]
(RANDY JACKSON) "AAAAAA HAAA HAA HA HAAAHAHA AAHA!! Dude, that was the dopest rhythm I've ever heard someone pull out in here, man. And with a pair of spoons, man. That was insane! I would love to play with you on some of that stuff, but dude! You just ain't right for this show, man."
(SIMON COWELL) "Are you insane?" [Simon stands up.] "That was utter rubbish!"
(RANDY JACKSON) "Nah, dawg, you didn't hear some of the stuff he was playing. That was pretty bad ass. His voice ain't for everybody, which is what this show is about... voices that are for everybody... but still, it was innovative, man." [leaning back in his chair.]
[The two continue to bicker over the top of Paula's comatose head, completely ignoring the contestant standing in front of them. Finally, a stage manager walks on screen wearing a headset and a "Masterpiece Theater" t-shirt. "This way, sir."
As Waits follows slowly, seemingly oblivious to the sounds of fighting coming from off camera, he takes another swig from his bottle, and walks outside. ]
(RYAN SEACREST) "So, how'd it go?" [standing with... no one... waiting for the audition to end.]
(TOM WAITS) "Huh?" [stops and looks up, as if woken from a dream.]
(RYAN SEACREST) "How'd you do? Did you get in?"
(TOM WAITS) "Oh. Yeah, I think they're gonna call my agent. That Paula Poundstone looks great, though. Man, I'd like to smother her with Miracle Whip."
(RYAN SEACREST) "Okay!" [Seacrest looks back into the camera.] "Pamona California, ladies and gentlemen! What the hell are we doing with our lives..." [He drops the microphone and walks off camera.]
Sunday, July 29, 2007
'Been weird. Turning pro.
My first review, a positive one, compares me to music I haven't heard. I'm intrigued. ""Get Weird, Turn Pro" was kind and generous in their review. I hope you'll read it, and the rest of their work (usually pretty fair, so I'm taking the short post on my record at it's word.)
If they ever read this. Thanks.
Meshach
If they ever read this. Thanks.
Meshach
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
When it rains...
I'm in Texas. Which means, by obligation of the pack, Rosco (my boxer) is in Texas. He was born here. But he's not from here. He's a New Yorker. He loves the snow. He loves hating NYC rats in Washington Square Park. He's a 75lb brown boxer from New York.
He's been in Texas about 3 weeks now, and Texas, slowly but surely, is killing him. It's rained damn-near every hour we've been here. Unheard of for Texas summer, the mosquitoes are unreal. The first week we were here, Rosco was drinking the bright blue water from my parents' swimming pool, and his front paws slipped forward, sending him head first in a hilariously clumsy dive into 3 feet of water. In that moment (I was in the pool at the time) I realized that he both (a) had never swam before, and (b) had scraped his stomach from the brick side of the pool, and left a nasty 5 inch gash straight down his sternum.
The next day, I was treating his new wound with peroxide when I noticed him limping. Somehow, he'd cut his back right paw about 1/4 inch deep and wide, and had gotten it filthy in the pin where he's currently dwelling. I took him to the vet 2 days after that, when I noticed that a few random bumps that had popped up around his body had presently swollen into full-scale boils all over him. He'd scratched one on the side of his face to the status of open wound, looking like something had just scraped the skin right off the left side of his face. The vet gave him a shot of Cortisone and some antibiotics to be taken daily. Also, some antiseptic spray, which he hates.
The bumps went down, but not before they had been rubbed completely raw, and become open sores. Hairless, gross, open sores. About 50 or so of them. All over his body.
About an hour ago, he scratched on the back door of my parent's bedroom, where I'm stationed at the desk while they're away. I opened the door to find him nursing a fresh wound on the aforementioned paw, this time up near the "elbow" joint, and chopped, down to the bone.
I have absolutely no idea what is causing all this shit, or if he's just not used to his surroundings and is constantly finding new things to hurt himself. I just wish it'd stop. While I was cleaning the latest injury (peroxide, neosporin, gauze, tape, etc...), I had the distinct feeling that I needed to decide if I could afford to treat him any further. The simple answer to that question, without hesitation, was a resounding no.
My parents return home from Africa tomorrow. It should be a joyous day. I may have to give up my dog... or worse.
Fuck.
He's been in Texas about 3 weeks now, and Texas, slowly but surely, is killing him. It's rained damn-near every hour we've been here. Unheard of for Texas summer, the mosquitoes are unreal. The first week we were here, Rosco was drinking the bright blue water from my parents' swimming pool, and his front paws slipped forward, sending him head first in a hilariously clumsy dive into 3 feet of water. In that moment (I was in the pool at the time) I realized that he both (a) had never swam before, and (b) had scraped his stomach from the brick side of the pool, and left a nasty 5 inch gash straight down his sternum.
The next day, I was treating his new wound with peroxide when I noticed him limping. Somehow, he'd cut his back right paw about 1/4 inch deep and wide, and had gotten it filthy in the pin where he's currently dwelling. I took him to the vet 2 days after that, when I noticed that a few random bumps that had popped up around his body had presently swollen into full-scale boils all over him. He'd scratched one on the side of his face to the status of open wound, looking like something had just scraped the skin right off the left side of his face. The vet gave him a shot of Cortisone and some antibiotics to be taken daily. Also, some antiseptic spray, which he hates.
The bumps went down, but not before they had been rubbed completely raw, and become open sores. Hairless, gross, open sores. About 50 or so of them. All over his body.
About an hour ago, he scratched on the back door of my parent's bedroom, where I'm stationed at the desk while they're away. I opened the door to find him nursing a fresh wound on the aforementioned paw, this time up near the "elbow" joint, and chopped, down to the bone.
I have absolutely no idea what is causing all this shit, or if he's just not used to his surroundings and is constantly finding new things to hurt himself. I just wish it'd stop. While I was cleaning the latest injury (peroxide, neosporin, gauze, tape, etc...), I had the distinct feeling that I needed to decide if I could afford to treat him any further. The simple answer to that question, without hesitation, was a resounding no.
My parents return home from Africa tomorrow. It should be a joyous day. I may have to give up my dog... or worse.
Fuck.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
I went to the future, and discovered that time travel is impossible (that is, if logic has anything to do with it)
Parkinson's disease has no one to thank more for it's presence in the modern psyche than Michael J. Fox. And, the lovable Mr. Fox has nothing to thank more for his presence in the modern psyche than Back To The Future - a trilogy of hover-boards, bad-ass retractable jacket-sleeves, killer vintage ES 335 Gibson Semi-Hollow body guitars, and the most impressive over-simplification of the notions of time-travel ever written. Amazing. Simply put, it's just a great freakin' movie. Er... 3 great freakin' movies.
However, this popcorn logic-based train-wreck of overacting is still the best possible place I can think of to start my thoughts on time travel.* (Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, and Bogus Journey don't count because... Keanu Reaves sucks.) And of course, you'll want to know what I think of this, or you just won't have the full story.
Here are the questions we need to answer:
Here's the problem with the concept that humans could ever (EVER) travel back in time. If it is ever going to be possible, then at some point in the past, someone from the future has already come back, and the cycle has already begun. Which means, if the manipulation of the past is ever possible in the future, then it is, by simple paths of logic, always possible. Since we know that it is currently not available, we can ascertain that it never will be. Make sense? No? Let's try an example.
Ask 100 people what they'd do if they could go back in time, and someone (probably many of them) would say something like "Dude, I'd totally go back to when Hitler was like, 12 years old, and I'd just beat him like a rag doll, or I'd like, kidnap him, or something. Yeah."
Genius.
Or you'll get "I'd stop the crusades."
Or, "Um, I would like, go back to my childhood, and like, just tell myself how wonderful I really am, and that I don't have to prove anything to any... " I'll stop here, 'cause I think I just threw up in my mouth.
Here's the problem. If time travel, at any point in the future, is ever invented, then of course, someone will do these very things (though, you'd probably still never get that bubble-gum pep talk you clearly needed, unless along with time travel, we've discovered how to help people not to throw up in their mouths as well). Now, if we can safely say that at some point (let's say the year 2080) time travel is invented, and people can indeed go backward, wouldn't someone around Hitler's time already have known about it?
Yes. The answer there is yes. Or, to put it in the terms of Stephen Hawking, if traveling backward through time is ever going to be possible, we would be plagued with time tourists today.
Don't worry if you're confused. Just stop reading, and we'll all keep you posted on the events of the rest of humanity. If you get that, let's move on.
Now, having stated these simple steps of logic, we can ascertain that even if time travel were ever possible, there is no way that we will be able to travel backward, to events that happened before traveling through time was made available (feel free to go backward now, though, and re-read anything I've just written, 'cause it is hard for some people to get - incidentally, if I could travel back in time, I'd stop most of those people from learning to read).
Now, this still doesn't rule out the concept that time travel will someday be invented (by the way, when I say "invented" I mean that the technology is discovered, tested, perfected, and implemented as a staple into modern culture, not just that the theory is stated. Remember Einstein was a genius, but one of the best things he ever wrote was ... well, wrong.)
Okay, so let's look now at what "Time Travel" would be, if it is NOT moving backward through time. In order to move forward through time, you simply have to travel faster than time itself. Or, you have to slow time down while you continue moving forward. Either way, now we're just talking basic rules of physics. If you can run at 10 miles per hour, and I can run faster than 10 miles per hour, then I can run past you, and see parts of the road that you will eventually see, before you do. Now, if "Time" moves 670,616,629 miles per hour (or, for the sake of easy reading, let's use "The speed of light" or "X"), and I can run faster than "X", then I will be able to see parts of the road (or the world) before time does. Okay, that's a terrible way to describe it, let's try something else.
DEFINITION: "Light Year" -
In smaller units, if you travel at 10 miles per hour for 1 hour, how far will you go? 10 miles. That's right. So: 10 mph x 1 hr = 10 miles
This coming together?
If you could look through a super-duper high-powered telescope (TM) into space, and you could see a star exploding, the reality is, that star is at least 4.22 light years away (the closest star we know of), and probably exploded earth years ago, which means you are essentially looking years into the past. Conversely, if you could somehow go to that star, and look back at the earth through the same telescope, you could see the earth, millions of years ago. Adjust the distance and/or the telescope strength, and you may be able to see... yesterday. You follow?
Okay, let's move on. If you could use the right equipment, you could SEE the past... from "outer space". Still not very enticing, is it? Nah, didn't think so. Okay, but about this "moving faster than light" thing? What's so great about light?
Well, the speed of light is also the speed of any image traveling to your eye. Let's take this example from wikihow.com on how to determine the distance of a lightning bolt from yourself.
Now, if we're able to somehow physically move in any direction faster than the speed of light itself (670,616,629 miles per hour: aka "really f$*$ing fast"), then we'd be able to essentially move forward in time, faster than time. (Don't get too excited, currently, the fastest recorded speed ever travelled by a human was in 1976 (!!) at a whopping 2,188 mph.)
Speed of Light: 670,616,629 mph
Fastest Human: 2,188 mph
... and the winner is, the speed of light, but a crap load of mph's.
So. What are we learning here? That time travel is impossible? No. Not even close. That time travel is implausable? Abso-f$#@ing-lutely.
Let's say the improbable happens (as it tends to over time), and someone figures this out. Let's say we figure out how to stay alive, and move people faster than 670 MILLION miles per hour. Having that kind of technology means we're going to use it, right? And if history has taught us anything, it's that whatever is created with the intention of being used for good (see: moving forward to discover the cure for AIDS, Cancer, Bad Hair), is inevitably going to be abused for... less than good (see: moving forward to come back and spoil the end of "Lost" - it's lame, don't bother. Or, to discover how Brittney Spears is known in 40 years - she isn't).
Now, here we get to some crap that is frankly far over my head (not that the rest of this topic clearly isn't, but rather that this next part is like even more. Like, speed of sound is fast, but speed of light is faster: time travel in leu of the speed of light is hard to get, but time travel in leu of time warps in the space/time continuum... is harder). However, Stephen Hawking explains a buncha crap on his site, then comes to the basic conclusion that though it's not possible that time travel will ever allow people to move backward through time to any point before it was discovered (invented), it is possible that time travel, once becoming available, will forever be available back to the point at which it was invented.
Kinda like saying, "time travel is available starting ... now. No time travel was available before I said 'now', so if you're going to go backward, you can only go backward to the point where I said 'now', no further. However, you can go forward as far as you want."
Here's the problem with the last part of that ("forward as far as you want"). Just because I can run faster than 10 miles per hour doesn't mean I can run faster than 20 miles per hour. It doesn't even mean I can run faster than 11 miles per hour. Maybe I can run exactly 10.000000001 miles per hour. Which is still faster than 10 miles per hour, but only slightly. Just because we could one day move forward faster than time, doesn't mean we can move forward infinitely faster than time.
Now, let's say the first time that time is warped and people can move forward, say, 4 seconds, is on August 3, 2007. Then, Jim, let's call him Jim. Jim gets into the machine, the contraption. The rocket-ship shaped thingy. And he vaporizes. Jim's colleagues stand around looking at each other. There is a hush. A strange, awkward silence. There's a split second of thinking "Holy crap, maybe we should have let Jim call his wife first". Then, 4 seconds later, Jim re-appears. Jim steps out of the rocket ship, and says "the damn thing's broken".
Jim didn't experience those 4 seconds. He flipped the switch, and nothing happened. He stepped out, and the world was 4 seconds older. The other scientists are in tears with joy, and Jim is forever skeptical of whether they're pulling his leg.
Now, over time, they figure out the algorithm, and learn to go faster and faster. Or, they figure out how to travel longer, at the same speed. The gap grows over time, and 1 millisecond in the machine equals 4 seconds outside of it. So, 1 week in the machine equals 12 years outside of it, and so on. (these numbers are a crock of shit. FYI).
Now, let's say they start building larger, more comfortable, livable machines where people can stay for longer periods of time. Let's say some kid is raised inside of this machine. Still only going slightly faster than the speed of light. That kid is born on earth, put into the machine, and then, when he's 12, gets out... a million years later. See where this is going?
So, just because we can see tomorrow, doesn't mean we can see the end of the world, right?
Wrong.
Remember how we said that if we invent time at, say, 10PM on August 7, 2007, then you could move backward all the way to 10PM Aug 7, 07, but no further. What that means, though, is that people in the year 50,490 AD could travel all the way back to that point in time as well. So, essentially, we don't necessarily have to go forward in time to "discover" the future, because they'll come back to us. And, if I know humans (which I don't), I know that many of them will want to come back to "the beginning", meaning they'll want to come back to that very second that time is invented.
Now, if there is a "portal" or "door" through which all future "time tourists" (as Stephen Hawking calls them) can travel, and that door is all at one place and moment in space/time, then not only does every discovery instantly collapse onto that one moment, but so does every conflict, every disease that travelers from the future may have, every super-villain that may have been born on Aug 7, 07 will be a target for future heroes. Every war criminal escaping death into the past. Every new destructive and explosive technology. It all "happens" at that very second. Which means, at 10PM on August 7, 2007, every moment of the future that will happen, happens. And the universe collapses in on itself.
The moment in which time travel is invented, the world will end.
Puff, puff, give, man. Puff, puff, give.
* I'm not a physicist, mathematician, scientist of any sort, pilot, pitching coach, astronaut, nuclear engineer, or any other type of authority on things that could/should pertain to time-travel, or the speed of light. If this is not obvious to you, you should be shot in the forehead point-blank with a potato gun, and beaten with a rusty muffler until your feelings are hurt.
However, this popcorn logic-based train-wreck of overacting is still the best possible place I can think of to start my thoughts on time travel.* (Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure, and Bogus Journey don't count because... Keanu Reaves sucks.) And of course, you'll want to know what I think of this, or you just won't have the full story.
Here are the questions we need to answer:
- Will time travel ever be possible?
- If so, will we be able to travel backward AND forward?
- If so, wouldn't we already be doing so?
Here's the problem with the concept that humans could ever (EVER) travel back in time. If it is ever going to be possible, then at some point in the past, someone from the future has already come back, and the cycle has already begun. Which means, if the manipulation of the past is ever possible in the future, then it is, by simple paths of logic, always possible. Since we know that it is currently not available, we can ascertain that it never will be. Make sense? No? Let's try an example.
Ask 100 people what they'd do if they could go back in time, and someone (probably many of them) would say something like "Dude, I'd totally go back to when Hitler was like, 12 years old, and I'd just beat him like a rag doll, or I'd like, kidnap him, or something. Yeah."
Genius.
Or you'll get "I'd stop the crusades."
Or, "Um, I would like, go back to my childhood, and like, just tell myself how wonderful I really am, and that I don't have to prove anything to any... " I'll stop here, 'cause I think I just threw up in my mouth.
Here's the problem. If time travel, at any point in the future, is ever invented, then of course, someone will do these very things (though, you'd probably still never get that bubble-gum pep talk you clearly needed, unless along with time travel, we've discovered how to help people not to throw up in their mouths as well). Now, if we can safely say that at some point (let's say the year 2080) time travel is invented, and people can indeed go backward, wouldn't someone around Hitler's time already have known about it?
Yes. The answer there is yes. Or, to put it in the terms of Stephen Hawking, if traveling backward through time is ever going to be possible, we would be plagued with time tourists today.
Don't worry if you're confused. Just stop reading, and we'll all keep you posted on the events of the rest of humanity. If you get that, let's move on.
Now, having stated these simple steps of logic, we can ascertain that even if time travel were ever possible, there is no way that we will be able to travel backward, to events that happened before traveling through time was made available (feel free to go backward now, though, and re-read anything I've just written, 'cause it is hard for some people to get - incidentally, if I could travel back in time, I'd stop most of those people from learning to read).
Now, this still doesn't rule out the concept that time travel will someday be invented (by the way, when I say "invented" I mean that the technology is discovered, tested, perfected, and implemented as a staple into modern culture, not just that the theory is stated. Remember Einstein was a genius, but one of the best things he ever wrote was ... well, wrong.)
Okay, so let's look now at what "Time Travel" would be, if it is NOT moving backward through time. In order to move forward through time, you simply have to travel faster than time itself. Or, you have to slow time down while you continue moving forward. Either way, now we're just talking basic rules of physics. If you can run at 10 miles per hour, and I can run faster than 10 miles per hour, then I can run past you, and see parts of the road that you will eventually see, before you do. Now, if "Time" moves 670,616,629 miles per hour (or, for the sake of easy reading, let's use "The speed of light" or "X"), and I can run faster than "X", then I will be able to see parts of the road (or the world) before time does. Okay, that's a terrible way to describe it, let's try something else.
DEFINITION: "Light Year" -
- 9,460,730,472,580.8 km (about 9.461 Pm)
- about 5,879,000,000,000 statute miles
- about 63,240 astronomical units
- about 0.3066 parsecs
In smaller units, if you travel at 10 miles per hour for 1 hour, how far will you go? 10 miles. That's right. So: 10 mph x 1 hr = 10 miles
This coming together?
If you could look through a super-duper high-powered telescope (TM) into space, and you could see a star exploding, the reality is, that star is at least 4.22 light years away (the closest star we know of), and probably exploded earth years ago, which means you are essentially looking years into the past. Conversely, if you could somehow go to that star, and look back at the earth through the same telescope, you could see the earth, millions of years ago. Adjust the distance and/or the telescope strength, and you may be able to see... yesterday. You follow?
Okay, let's move on. If you could use the right equipment, you could SEE the past... from "outer space". Still not very enticing, is it? Nah, didn't think so. Okay, but about this "moving faster than light" thing? What's so great about light?
Well, the speed of light is also the speed of any image traveling to your eye. Let's take this example from wikihow.com on how to determine the distance of a lightning bolt from yourself.
- Watch the sky for a flash of lightning.
- Count the number of seconds until you hear thunder.
- Divide the number of seconds by five to calculate the distance in miles (or divide by 3 for kilometers).
- In other words if you counted 15 seconds from when you saw the lightning, the strike was 3 miles (5 kilometers) from your location. The delay between when you see lightning and when you hear thunder occurs because sound travels much, much more slowly than light. Sound travels through air at about 1100-1200 feet (330-350 m/s) per second, which is a little more than one mile per five seconds (one kilometer per three seconds).
- Do this for a few consecutive strikes of lightning.
- If the distance is getting progressively smaller, your ass is about to be fried.
Now, if we're able to somehow physically move in any direction faster than the speed of light itself (670,616,629 miles per hour: aka "really f$*$ing fast"), then we'd be able to essentially move forward in time, faster than time. (Don't get too excited, currently, the fastest recorded speed ever travelled by a human was in 1976 (!!) at a whopping 2,188 mph.)
Speed of Light: 670,616,629 mph
Fastest Human: 2,188 mph
... and the winner is, the speed of light, but a crap load of mph's.
So. What are we learning here? That time travel is impossible? No. Not even close. That time travel is implausable? Abso-f$#@ing-lutely.
Let's say the improbable happens (as it tends to over time), and someone figures this out. Let's say we figure out how to stay alive, and move people faster than 670 MILLION miles per hour. Having that kind of technology means we're going to use it, right? And if history has taught us anything, it's that whatever is created with the intention of being used for good (see: moving forward to discover the cure for AIDS, Cancer, Bad Hair), is inevitably going to be abused for... less than good (see: moving forward to come back and spoil the end of "Lost" - it's lame, don't bother. Or, to discover how Brittney Spears is known in 40 years - she isn't).
Now, here we get to some crap that is frankly far over my head (not that the rest of this topic clearly isn't, but rather that this next part is like even more. Like, speed of sound is fast, but speed of light is faster: time travel in leu of the speed of light is hard to get, but time travel in leu of time warps in the space/time continuum... is harder). However, Stephen Hawking explains a buncha crap on his site, then comes to the basic conclusion that though it's not possible that time travel will ever allow people to move backward through time to any point before it was discovered (invented), it is possible that time travel, once becoming available, will forever be available back to the point at which it was invented.
Kinda like saying, "time travel is available starting ... now. No time travel was available before I said 'now', so if you're going to go backward, you can only go backward to the point where I said 'now', no further. However, you can go forward as far as you want."
Here's the problem with the last part of that ("forward as far as you want"). Just because I can run faster than 10 miles per hour doesn't mean I can run faster than 20 miles per hour. It doesn't even mean I can run faster than 11 miles per hour. Maybe I can run exactly 10.000000001 miles per hour. Which is still faster than 10 miles per hour, but only slightly. Just because we could one day move forward faster than time, doesn't mean we can move forward infinitely faster than time.
Now, let's say the first time that time is warped and people can move forward, say, 4 seconds, is on August 3, 2007. Then, Jim, let's call him Jim. Jim gets into the machine, the contraption. The rocket-ship shaped thingy. And he vaporizes. Jim's colleagues stand around looking at each other. There is a hush. A strange, awkward silence. There's a split second of thinking "Holy crap, maybe we should have let Jim call his wife first". Then, 4 seconds later, Jim re-appears. Jim steps out of the rocket ship, and says "the damn thing's broken".
Jim didn't experience those 4 seconds. He flipped the switch, and nothing happened. He stepped out, and the world was 4 seconds older. The other scientists are in tears with joy, and Jim is forever skeptical of whether they're pulling his leg.
Now, over time, they figure out the algorithm, and learn to go faster and faster. Or, they figure out how to travel longer, at the same speed. The gap grows over time, and 1 millisecond in the machine equals 4 seconds outside of it. So, 1 week in the machine equals 12 years outside of it, and so on. (these numbers are a crock of shit. FYI).
Now, let's say they start building larger, more comfortable, livable machines where people can stay for longer periods of time. Let's say some kid is raised inside of this machine. Still only going slightly faster than the speed of light. That kid is born on earth, put into the machine, and then, when he's 12, gets out... a million years later. See where this is going?
So, just because we can see tomorrow, doesn't mean we can see the end of the world, right?
Wrong.
Remember how we said that if we invent time at, say, 10PM on August 7, 2007, then you could move backward all the way to 10PM Aug 7, 07, but no further. What that means, though, is that people in the year 50,490 AD could travel all the way back to that point in time as well. So, essentially, we don't necessarily have to go forward in time to "discover" the future, because they'll come back to us. And, if I know humans (which I don't), I know that many of them will want to come back to "the beginning", meaning they'll want to come back to that very second that time is invented.
Now, if there is a "portal" or "door" through which all future "time tourists" (as Stephen Hawking calls them) can travel, and that door is all at one place and moment in space/time, then not only does every discovery instantly collapse onto that one moment, but so does every conflict, every disease that travelers from the future may have, every super-villain that may have been born on Aug 7, 07 will be a target for future heroes. Every war criminal escaping death into the past. Every new destructive and explosive technology. It all "happens" at that very second. Which means, at 10PM on August 7, 2007, every moment of the future that will happen, happens. And the universe collapses in on itself.
The moment in which time travel is invented, the world will end.
Puff, puff, give, man. Puff, puff, give.
* I'm not a physicist, mathematician, scientist of any sort, pilot, pitching coach, astronaut, nuclear engineer, or any other type of authority on things that could/should pertain to time-travel, or the speed of light. If this is not obvious to you, you should be shot in the forehead point-blank with a potato gun, and beaten with a rusty muffler until your feelings are hurt.
Friday, May 18, 2007
on smells, and the ways my body is changing.
There is a growth on my tongue. It's as if my tongue is swelling to conquer my chest. I feel it pressing the back of my teeth. When I read email, I take breaks to stretch and massage my jaw for the pain. I could choke. There is a chance that my tongue is morphing into another person. A little villain. A not-so-little-as-yesterday Lex Luther.
My hands are bony. They're not growing. They're shrinking, I feel. My wrists were always small, my hands freakish and rubbery in comparison. But now, they're shrinking. It's fitting, I think. Large tongue, tiny hands. My forehead is secreting the strangest goo. Back to my tongue.
My tongue doesn't taste odd. It's not even a new texture. It's just progressively - daily - occupying more space in my mouth. I don't know why. I wasn't bitten. Was I bitten? No. I wasn't bitten. I didn't bite it. I didn't eat anything strange. I may have swallowed more than I should have. I may have chewed up and swallowed a buncha stuff I should have spit out. I probably shouldn't have even eaten it, now that I think about it, but since I did, I should have just spit it out. Now, I'm paying for it. My tongue is rejecting it. Rejecting me. I may have to amputate. Should have thought of that sooner.
I get phone calls (sometimes), and I feel myself sweating. I pace. I walk a mile in a 10 minute phone call. I start to hyperventilate. I can smell copper. I taste pennies. My cheeks feel red. Like Jaundice. No. Jaundice is yellow. What's red? Fire. My cheeks feel red. Like Fire. My eyelids are heavy, but won't shut.
It's just within reach. This thing. This goal. It's so close that I can see how far I need to go. Before, I couldn't even see it. It was so far away, that I thought I was closer than i was. Now, I'm close enough to see just far I have to go. I hear smart people say that the more they learn, the more they realize they don't know. That's dumb. The more I learn, the more I realize I like learning, and hope I never run out. I digress.
My feet are covered in blisters, and I walk a fraction of what I used to. I miss her. I forgave her. Then she hurt me again. I asked her to stop, and she accused me of hurting her on purpose. I just wanted it to stop. My feet are sweaty. They're not swollen, just sweaty. I wish all this would stop. I wish there were some reason. Some excuse for the excess in failure. I wish I could just quit. I wish I had no ambition. No drive. I would be a much happier person. I wish I expected less. Delivered more. Was more stable. More predictable. More dependable. I wish I wasn't so selfish. I was once very selfless. I am not anymore. I don't think so. I'm a freakish, big-tongued, sweaty-footed, hyperventilating, overweight, cross-eyed, vagabond.
I didn't want this. I'm afraid. I don't laugh as often as I want. I don't cry as often as I probably should. My eyes water, but there are no tears. Not real tears. I'm tired. I'm too young to be this tired. I'm too old to be this scared. What the hell is that smell?
My hands are bony. They're not growing. They're shrinking, I feel. My wrists were always small, my hands freakish and rubbery in comparison. But now, they're shrinking. It's fitting, I think. Large tongue, tiny hands. My forehead is secreting the strangest goo. Back to my tongue.
My tongue doesn't taste odd. It's not even a new texture. It's just progressively - daily - occupying more space in my mouth. I don't know why. I wasn't bitten. Was I bitten? No. I wasn't bitten. I didn't bite it. I didn't eat anything strange. I may have swallowed more than I should have. I may have chewed up and swallowed a buncha stuff I should have spit out. I probably shouldn't have even eaten it, now that I think about it, but since I did, I should have just spit it out. Now, I'm paying for it. My tongue is rejecting it. Rejecting me. I may have to amputate. Should have thought of that sooner.
I get phone calls (sometimes), and I feel myself sweating. I pace. I walk a mile in a 10 minute phone call. I start to hyperventilate. I can smell copper. I taste pennies. My cheeks feel red. Like Jaundice. No. Jaundice is yellow. What's red? Fire. My cheeks feel red. Like Fire. My eyelids are heavy, but won't shut.
It's just within reach. This thing. This goal. It's so close that I can see how far I need to go. Before, I couldn't even see it. It was so far away, that I thought I was closer than i was. Now, I'm close enough to see just far I have to go. I hear smart people say that the more they learn, the more they realize they don't know. That's dumb. The more I learn, the more I realize I like learning, and hope I never run out. I digress.
My feet are covered in blisters, and I walk a fraction of what I used to. I miss her. I forgave her. Then she hurt me again. I asked her to stop, and she accused me of hurting her on purpose. I just wanted it to stop. My feet are sweaty. They're not swollen, just sweaty. I wish all this would stop. I wish there were some reason. Some excuse for the excess in failure. I wish I could just quit. I wish I had no ambition. No drive. I would be a much happier person. I wish I expected less. Delivered more. Was more stable. More predictable. More dependable. I wish I wasn't so selfish. I was once very selfless. I am not anymore. I don't think so. I'm a freakish, big-tongued, sweaty-footed, hyperventilating, overweight, cross-eyed, vagabond.
I didn't want this. I'm afraid. I don't laugh as often as I want. I don't cry as often as I probably should. My eyes water, but there are no tears. Not real tears. I'm tired. I'm too young to be this tired. I'm too old to be this scared. What the hell is that smell?
Sunday, April 29, 2007
On Eggers, Burgess, and why, as I sit in starbucks this sunday afternoon I can't feel my legs (or at least, nothing below the thighs)...
Two things: (Have you ever seen or read "Shopgirl"? This isn't one of the aforementioned "things", rather an explanation of why I would begin a sentence so poorly as to number the "things" that said sentence would describe. In "Shopgirl", a flawlessly delicate masterpiece of a book, and later adapted film written and starring respectively Steve Martin, Jason Schwartzman's character occasionally begins sentences containing 2-part questions with the declaration, "two things" - accompanied by a casual right-handed peace sign.)
This is why, as I allowed my bowels to move and my mind to wander reading such heartbreaking work of staggering genius, I can no longer feel my legs (or at least, nothing below the thighs).
- I have terrible circulation. I don't know why, but I have for a long time. If I sit in a chair, or worse, on the toilet for more than, say, 15 minutes without moving my legs or otherwise adjusting my position, I'm numb. From the thighs down.
- Dave Eggers has the ability to make mundane and "normal" things embarrassingly hysterical, just as Anthony Burgess has the ability to make menacing and disgusting acts so intricate you can't help but turn the page to read on.
This is why, as I allowed my bowels to move and my mind to wander reading such heartbreaking work of staggering genius, I can no longer feel my legs (or at least, nothing below the thighs).
Saturday, April 21, 2007
Hey, It's me.
I said "good" when she asked how I was doing, and my face started burning. My ears swelled and started closing and the whole world muddled like a yawn. I could hear my throat constrict and the insides of my eyelids grew shards of glass and I blinked. I smiled. My eyes felt like burning... I'm not just happy... Strike that. What I meant to say was
I'm Just.
Not.
Happy.
I'm enthusiastically miserable. More than is acceptable. I'm unhappy enough - and have been for long enough - for my blandness and cold misery to call for a good tough love cleansing speech from a friend or worse - my mom. I can hear her saying "enough is enough, it's time to snap out of it and move on already" underneath her "dad and I really love you" speech. If she only knew how bad this feeling hurts, she'd understand. And she'd want to kick my ass.
"Well that's good to hear, darlin'."
I'm Just.
Not.
Happy.
I'm enthusiastically miserable. More than is acceptable. I'm unhappy enough - and have been for long enough - for my blandness and cold misery to call for a good tough love cleansing speech from a friend or worse - my mom. I can hear her saying "enough is enough, it's time to snap out of it and move on already" underneath her "dad and I really love you" speech. If she only knew how bad this feeling hurts, she'd understand. And she'd want to kick my ass.
"Well that's good to hear, darlin'."
Saturday, March 31, 2007
Friday, March 23, 2007
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Thursday, March 01, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
OMFG RATM!!!
Dude. DUDE! Listen to me. Seriously, listen. I have something very important to tell you...
Rage.
Against.
Thuh.
Machine.
... back together.
Holy effing balls!!#$&@*!#1
Now, I understand that because I have a fairly diverse readership, this may not mean much to you. And if that's the case, you're probably not listening.
RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE IS BACK TOGETHER!
Dude.
Duuuude. Seriously. Seriously.
Bjork, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and RATM are set to kill Coachella on April 27 in California I may very well become bi-coastal for this shizzle. If you want to understand what's going on here, I'll give you the quick recap.
1991 - The world is done a friggin' service by Tom Morello and Zack de la Rocha getting together to strike fear in the hearts of ... okay. They formed a band.
1992, November 3 - Rage is introduced to the world with their self-titled debut album. Peaking on billboard at #45.
1996, April 16 - Sophomore? Is that the right word here? Their Sophomore release? Well... #1. On Billboard. That's "Evil Empire."
1999, November 2 - This, regrettably, is where I finally heard of the band. Like most acts, I was introduced late in the game. However, I still play this freakin' record all the time. "The Battle of Los Angeles" is one of the greatest rock records of my life time, and certainly in the top 10 of the 90's.
2000, December 5 - Rage's "last" record. Didn't have the commercial success of "battle", but I gotta say, it was no reason to go breaking up over it.
Now, I gotta admit, Audioslave was no slouch of a rock band, but that's because Tom and the gang went and grabbed the last great true-rock singer, Chris Cornell, and did some damage on the speakers in my '87 Sentra.* What we all need to be focused on now, though, is the fact that Coachella tickets just turned into Gold. Solid effing gold.
Oh yeah, and Bjork is playing. So that's gonna make it... neat, too.
Wrock.
Your friend and mine,
Meshach Jackson
* I never actually had an '87 Sentra, but I also didn't have an iPod yet, and I didn't want to have to trace back all the crappy cars I actually did have around that time, so I have referenced here the crappy car that a friend of mine had, with whom I must have listened to Audioslave and Rage at some point or another... in the aforementioned Nissan.
Rage.
Against.
Thuh.
Machine.
... back together.
Holy effing balls!!#$&@*!#1
Now, I understand that because I have a fairly diverse readership, this may not mean much to you. And if that's the case, you're probably not listening.
RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE IS BACK TOGETHER!Dude.
Duuuude. Seriously. Seriously.
Bjork, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and RATM are set to kill Coachella on April 27 in California I may very well become bi-coastal for this shizzle. If you want to understand what's going on here, I'll give you the quick recap.
1991 - The world is done a friggin' service by Tom Morello and Zack de la Rocha getting together to strike fear in the hearts of ... okay. They formed a band.
1992, November 3 - Rage is introduced to the world with their self-titled debut album. Peaking on billboard at #45.
1996, April 16 - Sophomore? Is that the right word here? Their Sophomore release? Well... #1. On Billboard. That's "Evil Empire."
1999, November 2 - This, regrettably, is where I finally heard of the band. Like most acts, I was introduced late in the game. However, I still play this freakin' record all the time. "The Battle of Los Angeles" is one of the greatest rock records of my life time, and certainly in the top 10 of the 90's.
2000, December 5 - Rage's "last" record. Didn't have the commercial success of "battle", but I gotta say, it was no reason to go breaking up over it.Now, I gotta admit, Audioslave was no slouch of a rock band, but that's because Tom and the gang went and grabbed the last great true-rock singer, Chris Cornell, and did some damage on the speakers in my '87 Sentra.* What we all need to be focused on now, though, is the fact that Coachella tickets just turned into Gold. Solid effing gold.
Oh yeah, and Bjork is playing. So that's gonna make it... neat, too.
Wrock.
Your friend and mine,
Meshach Jackson
* I never actually had an '87 Sentra, but I also didn't have an iPod yet, and I didn't want to have to trace back all the crappy cars I actually did have around that time, so I have referenced here the crappy car that a friend of mine had, with whom I must have listened to Audioslave and Rage at some point or another... in the aforementioned Nissan.
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