Miserable Memories

Under a torrential rain - down pouring like sheets of glass - drenched to the core I reminisced:

I think about my time growning up a lot while encumbered by the best that Mother Nature can throw at me (at least to the level of my tolerance). It is during these times - when saner folks do not forgo the ride and only the dimmest of Darwin's next cruel joke walk - that I tend to fall back on the few memories not rendered useless by years of living. My immediate thoughts fled back to, when I was in the second grade and left at a local Chucky Cheese's (somewhere between the Animatronic Jamboree and the ball pit). It was on a bitter Fall evening when I mistaked who I was to go home with and instead emerged myself into an cunning game of skee-ball. By the time I came back up from showing that parlor game what's what, I noticed the party I was with had vanished (they did not know they were to take me home). Well I tried to signal some responsible adult, though the only responsible adults were hormone raged teenagers and the creepy manager... at the time - and still today - I think I made the safer decision to just walk home.

Now the location of the Chucky Cheese's was maybe a mile to two miles from my house. In fact the shopping center in which it was located is where I would find employment during my raging hormone teenage years as well, but perspective may be perception on this one. I know what you are thinking, why didn't I just call home.... well because this was before helicopter parents force tech industries to make two way pagers for kids and because I did not know my telephone number. Now not knowing my telephone number put me in a precarious situation; leaving me young, alone, and ignorant of seven simple numbers (never said I was a bright kid) and tasked with a long, cold, wet, and dark walk back to my abode. I tried to work around my ignorance by dialing the operator and asking them to put me through to the Gushue residence, thinking that if it worked in 1950s television shows it would work for me. Alas all I learned at that moment was that television lied to you and it also rotted your brain to the point of not even knowing one's own telephone number.

Since I am writing this you can assume I made it home - logic does abide - and, alas, I did make it home. However I wonder if that night wired me to not think about how shitty life can be but to just deal with the circumstances we come across everyday. Yes it was completely stupid and dangerous to walk home alone, at night, along a busy road, virtually putting myself at the mercy at all those men explained via the after school special (you know, the ones thin mustaches, driving around in vans, and giving out the best candy).

eh hem!

Moving on.

So yeah, it was stupid and dangerous, but no further damage came my way. Lucky? Damn straight. Would I do it again? Hard to say.

I do know that such flirtations with sketch and danger elevate the senses and make life a bit more enjoyable (if for only having the story to tell later). However, I am not a big risk taker in the sense of major bodily harm. I just like to wander and to adventure. I figure in most situations if I keep my wits about me most adventures are going to turn out just fine.

It is amazing what shitty weather can do to the mind.

The Human Hive

The mob mentality fascinates me, from eagerly obedient religious types to the hegemony of gated community dwellers the individual tends to get lost in the collective. In the group, especially one driven by emotion, the human is not a single unit, rather a part of a machine that emulates animal pack behavior more than the sophistication that humans have attained in the 12000 years since sedentary agrarian life.

I was reminded of this fact when watching a Sky News clip of the ongoing riots in Greece. In the link below you can see the tension growing on both sides of the conflict between the law and the anarchists (anarchists stated by the commentator).

Sky News - Greek Riot

So the intriguing part starts at around 1:40 into the clip and hits a crescendo at around 1:55. At 1:40 you will notice a man hammering away at the the wall in the background, this is to provide projectiles for hurling at the police officers. At 1:55 (after a radical zoom out) the motion of activity around the accruing rock pile emulates a swarming hive. Even in the frantic and excited actions of the stone wielding (and chucking) mob a natural rhythym in the chaos is evident. I just find it interesting how intelligence of an individual can digress to absent rationality of the mob giving appropriate emotional and environmental triggers.

The Mason Monkey Dreams Impossible

A ton of bricks...
The monkey off the back...
The Impossible Dream...

No More!

Tonight, as Brad Lidge sent Eric Hinske swinging with a slider, I watched the Philadelphia Phillies do something I have never been cognizant of - a major sports championship in the City of Brotherly Love (i.e. The Fertile Crescent of American Democracy, the cradle of American Democracy). In the time it took for an 80+ mile-per-hour pitch to cross the plate - and the subesequent swing and a miss - my life felt unwittingly lighter. I was never old enough to understand the championships of the 1980 Phillies or the 83' Sixers, though I did suffer through the late 80s, the 80s, and the 00s as the Flyers, the Sixers, the Eagles (Iggles), and the Phillies all suffered losses in their respective championship setting. Tonight I drink my fill of that single piece of hardware I have always wanted to see raised by my hometown. I have never felt such pride in my sports; true I have always supported them - to the extent of sadness, frustration, anger, rage, and the occassional glee, but this was the first time I have seen a conquest. The Phillies are the World Series Champs and I am as happy as I have ever been. The step is springier, the aromas smell better, and the world is a bit more colorful - it is akin to getting laid for the first time, but not nearly as awkward (or short lived). I know tommorow brings another day, full of challenges, disappointments, and sports agony (like any Philly fan will acknowledge), but for tonight the pinnacle was finnaly realized.

Syllabic Boredom

Haiku~

Wintery March Chill
Soft Felt Flakes Layer The Earth
When Does Spring Abound?

Quiet, Motionless Streets
Inclement Sunday Weather
Pedestrian's Dream

Radio's Murmur
Lighted By A Halogen
Pining To Get Out

Culture of Economy

" It makes excuses for unwanted lipstick on your collar
And it's only a dollar, step right up
it's only a dollar, step right up"

~ Step Right Up, Tom Waits

In the midst of an obvious recession (or the looming signs of the "R" word) I have hit on all time disgust with the manufacturing and processing world of our economy. I am tired of the advertising, the promotion, the pleading of me to buy your shit. I no longer have the patience to even deal with the affairs of our economy and as soon as we clear out of this monetary funk no one will change. Beyond the fact that our economy seems to solely based upon jane and joe buying more things that they don't need is my complete antipathy to spending good money for packaged products. I do this not from the stand point of some anti-industrialist or anti-capitalist, the failings of all social systems implemented into the broad structures of nations and states is documented. The human populace seems to only like change more than one rigid set of rules and ideas. My position on this issue stems from a general malaise when walking into a store or listening to some advert. It is too fucking much in my opinion, I don't want more shit I don't need! Arghhh ... why does the anger rise so in me? Why can't I be happy with just buying some trinket or toy to satisfy a failed life or empty existence? Am I different, have I not caught on to what the wave or craze is all about? To be sure there are things I want - pricey items even - a flat screen television to better enjoy movies, but that would merely be an upgrade from my current empty television slot that occupies my quaint apartment. The other things I want to buy are a barebones computer that I can build and upgrade myself. So I am not totally opposed to what is being sold. I guess I am just realizing that I do not need more shit to bring me contentment. I feel sorry for those that need to thrive on the fresh receipt and new car smell to get through their pathetic lives. When you juxtapose these people with our current credit crunch can you truly feel sorry the millions of lives being ruined? I have overspent and lived lavishly (enough) without having the necessary means to support such expenditures. I am now in a complete debt (both credit and student loan) payoff mode - and soon as that is done all I want to is invest the extra that I have. I don't want to buy shit I don't need. I am sure the anger will subside from me soon enough, but at this moment every fucking jingle in hear in Target and ever line I see at Best Buy only serves as fuel for my angst towards our consumer culture.

Maybe I just need a hug?

Six Months

3/5/08... has it really been six months? Looking back so much has changed. Life and time on their own are extremely dynamic systems, but from September to now my world seems extremely different. There are days and nights - especially nights - when I think of those last few hours, trying to place myself in his mind. How much of a struggle was it? How much did it hurt? What was he thinking? I know these are not questions I should dwell on, nor is there anyway ever to find out, however my inability to converse with him as I had for years leaves a pain inside me.

Right after his passing the world became much grayer to me. All hues and sounds saturated by a fine, silty static eclipsing normal lights, colors, and sounds. I have no idea if this is a normal response, perhaps an effect of immediate depression or perhaps it is a more ethereal experience. I tend to leave philosophy and religion for those that have the time. Still, an extreme loneliness overcame my physical and mental states. I was close with him and I will miss our conversations. Experiences deepen and enrich us, there were things I wanted to experience with him and for him which, will never come to fruition. Sure I will go on, but who will I tell? He pushed me to become who I was, both directly and indirectly. Is that a sign of immortality? Do we live forever through our interactions with other people. Surely it is not an etching in stone or preserved script, but can it be just as indelible as those tangible relics? There are many questions I cannot answer. Supposedly, I am to grow from this, but all I want to do is call him, and see him, and hug him - he could be a grouchy man, but he had one of the warmest embraces I have ever felt. I well up just thinking about this absence in my life, and it hurts. It hurts more than any injury, or breakup, or let-down that I have ever endured. I know it is asking much but I want that back, in some shape or form. I want that unconditional love; a space where even if I did wrong, I could do no wrong. There were so many times he gave me comfort, gave me hope; in the end I wanted to give all that back in a matter of minutes. I wanted pour all of my love and thanks into his heart and soul as those final minutes ticked by; I have no way of knowing if it sunk in. The inability to know leaves me in despair...

... but than I think about so many other things, good times, happy laughs, and that warm embrace. These thoughts provide euphoria, happiness, and contentment. Yes, the pain will haunt me, but to dwell is the one thing he would not want me to do. I will have to build deeper connections with myself that I built with him. Each time I succeed in a goal or learn from a failed experience creates another narrative I would have shared. Maybe there is an afterlife, maybe he beams down upon me as I toil on a house project or see a new place... maybe? Either way, with the pain as a reminder of a great love and relationship, I step forth to build a deeper connection with myself as if he were still with us.

The colors and sounds are getting brighter day by day. Though the tints and hues will never hold as much glory as the once did, I can find solace in their growing light. I miss you Dad, I hope you have found peace.

A Month Too Far

~ My ambition is only handicapped by my laziness - Charles Bukowski ~

OK, I do not blog at the same rate as everyone else - once or twice a day - but I have been busy, and at times this blogging thing feels too much like thesis work. I just wrote 130 goddamn pages on golf courses, suburbia, and semiotics... leave me the fuck alone!

Ah rage, in its finest form. So I have many ideas of things I want to write. Many about my Father, who is deceased, and how his wisdom still impacts my life. Right now I feel these thoughts are too personal and too involved to get into this mass media industry. I have developed some interesting ideas about life and personal connection since 9/5/2007 - things that both haunt and inspire me.

My latest thoughts have delved into the world I am currently situated within - Prescott, AZ. This is a very cliquey town - either a redneck or a hippie. I, of course, lean left; but I can not conscientiously adopt a hippie persona (no matter how good those non-showering, vegan eaters look).

Tonight, after adapting a wonderful shelving system for my bar, I sauntered into the Prescott downtown. I stopped first at an overpriced wine bar to sample both the atmosphere and the Scotch menu. I had a wonderful 18 year old Talisker - very Earthy (as peat should be) - that carried a strong aromatic of a hot coal driven back country fire. With a renewed sense of vigor, I ended up at a familar stomping grounds of the local hipster/ new age/ crunchy hang out in Prescott. As I sat there isolated from the liberal/ alternative throngs my mind wander on many things.. the bar project, the need for testosterone injections to increase my facial hair capacity, the idea that a few tattoos may attract a more supple female companion (or at least a female companion), and, finally, that everyone in this place is capable of more bullshit - built upon an accepted mountain of B.S. - than most politicians. I have developed a theory called "three seconds" the heart of which is based upon three seconds of conversation one may hear in any social setting. There are great stories in this idea, imagine all the things you hear in passing that can be developed into compelling stories of the human soul. Well in this place - as much as I enjoy the beer selection - I am astounding by the amount of bullshit that spews forth from the patrons. Not that I am not capable of my own BS, indeed I would willingly thrown down with some indiscriminate conversation if it meant a few minutes to sell myself. I am just amazed on how so many people buy into bullshit. I mean in a car salesman (and under typical story lines - a used car salesman) fed you a load of crap, would you buy? What are the percentages of flattery? or intrigue? or positive story telling? My faith in humanity is constantly questioned that invariably pushes me farther into the philosophies of P.T. Barnum.

I know this diatribe sounds acerbic and vengeful, but, in reality, I am just intrigued in the ebb and flow of humanity - especially in the social microcosm of a bar. But it is late, and I should go to sleep before this intrigue - and, OK, angst - spirals deeper into a post not just about humanity, but about my cynicism towards humanity.

A Memorable Chill

Prescott Weather: Freezing Rain/ Snow mix accumulation between 6 - 12 inches.

A dreary, bitter day on this unofficial American Holiday (the Super Bowl). The biting winds, a broken truck, and a lack of imagination have brought me back to my terrarium on this sacrosanct day of food and football. The streets of Prescott are abnormally quiet, perhaps due to the weather, the stringent DUI laws - or the sanctuary of an inviting abode replete with a wide-screen high-def television, revelers of multi-million dollar commercials, and, of course, Jan's famous Guacamole dip (three kinds of peppers, people!). Me, I'm not so into the celebration this year; but I did enjoy the serene street scene today. The fierce wind and stinging sleet transported me into a blissful mood. Many of my acquaintances will tell you that I am no fan of the Winter weather, that I pray for global warming and beaches in the middle of Nebraska; however, I do enjoy the guilty pleasure of such foreboding days. The ominous overcasts, the molesting precipitation, and the welcomed - albeit - eerie silence associated with such days thrusts me into a nostalgic mood. I think back to when I would commence in my daily sojourn to high school, especially when the infamous wind chills and ice storms reigned over the East Coast. The students who bussed into school usually arrived late. The fortunate product of inclement weather and horrible road conditions. I, of course, was not so lucky - unless KWY 1060 called out our school number, my ass was going to school. Those days meant hanging in the cafeteria with the few kids who, like me, lived in the unfortunate geographic location of a walking distance radius to school - the brave, the few, the spatially disadvantaged. It almost held the same negative social connotation of being foreign or unathletic in gym class when teams were being chosen. Great extra time to further procrastinate a History assignment and to contemplate the skirt lengths of the ever chaste Catholic School Girl. The mind of teenage boy cannot fathom any deeper meaning than Mary Kelly's obvious disregard for the three inches above the knee absolute. There are many positives unseen in the career of a Catholic School kid, this, fortunately, was one of them. However the message of this post was my isolated wandering during snow-driven weather. When you walk in these storms, you walk alone. Your mind is abuzz, darting from things said and done which could have been played differently. While walking from the proverbial A to B my mind would roam in a multitude of directions and ideas, and to this day still does. I look back on those quiet days as a start to an established career as a moseying, self-reflector. When I walk I shut out the world, my thoughts become as crisp and clear as the wind or snow that hurls itself at me with kamikaze-like zeal. In this vacuum of inclement weather I find a small space for reflection.

Sometimes Better Curves Come From Belgiums

"Son, a woman is like a beer. They smell good, they look good, you’d step over your own mother just to get one! But you can’t stop at one.!"

~Homer Simpson

Well there is a paramount truth in the words of a bald man who weaves through his day each week, with the skill and guile of a cartoon half his age. That being said, there are few women (that I have had the wonderful opportunity to meet and disappoint) in my life that hold up like a good beer. This is not to attack the reverence of womanhood, but a well-crafted beer can be satisfying enough and without the usual arguments spawned from miscommunication. The problem of communicating is after you have imbibed one two many of Avery Brewing and Russian River's harmonious effort.























The story of this good, strong ale came at a time when politics were polarizing, the country was mired in a godforsaken land, and the housing market was still safe - I am talking about November 2006. Having discovered that they each brewed a wonderful Belgian by the name of Salvation the proprietors of said brewing companies decided to find a peaceful accord - laughing in the direction of the United Nations, Israel-Palestine, the Kashmir Province, and, of course, Felix Ungar and Oscar Madison. Sure lawyers (and probably a few Barristers) from all over the country lined up - just outside the Trustfarian paradise of Boulder, Colorado - in order to have their day in court and to resolve the conflict in pure American, democratic - not to mention litigious - fashion; however, it seems, the cooler heads of beverage production prevailed. Alas, the lawyers were sent home, only getting the opportunity to sniff each other's business cards like mutts sniffing each other's sweet spot. The result of finding an amiable solution is one hell of a beer. It smelled good, it tasted good, and though I wouldn't step over my Mom - she is smart enough not to get between a good beer and my liver - I would easily brush pass someone deciding between Coors and Miller in order to buy yet another round of this sweet beverage.

I was once told that Colorado has the best beers in the country, well - fuck that - I give credence to no nation-state within the borders of the lower 48 (Give Texas back to Mexico, let Hawai'i and Alaska roam free). Though, I will give it up for Avery Brewing to find happy medium with the good folks at Russian River. I have delved deeply into the Russian River Brewing collection over the last few years, I am eager to try the rest of what Avery has to offer... even if they are from Boulder.

To me learning about a beer is as simples as opening up a beer. I proclaim no insight into the brewing process, hops agribusiness, or the perfect amount of malt to flavor a brewed concoction. The terminus of said musings boils down to the time tested folk credence - "I don't know much about beer, but I know what I like!"

The Relevance of Heroes

A week of work over, a night of drinking capped - what better time to come home, pour a Johnny Walker Red and digest my thoughts. Heroes... not super, not extraordinary, just the regular folks who bring such joy into my life. Sorry to say cops and firemen are not in this list (tonight); yes I know the job is hard, but this about my heroes and not some standard group chosen by a women in stretch pants who read Grisham every night.

Nope my two heroes (at least this week) are Chester A. Burnett and Bill Hicks, and I will explain why. First Chester A. Burnett - better known as Howlin' Wolf. The Wolf was a blues man who came up from the Delta and proceeded to not only provide gritty blues music, but also influenced a great many bands who in turn influenced the next generation of great rock. The American music scene is nothing without the contributions of Black culture and sound. Jazz and Blues... the foundation of everything else, is one iteration or another.

The reason I chose Howlin' Wolf is the overwhelming affect it had on the two greatest British Invasion bands - Led Zeppelin and The Rolling Stones (not a Beatles Fan... at least not above Zeppelin and the Stones). Any who blasts Zeppelin I and II into their ears, as I did during this week's discourse of work should know of the Wolf's influence in both sound and lyrics. Though grittier and enhanced by pulsating electric guitars and feverish drum solos the music of Zeppelin and the sound of the Stones is just a next generation of the Wolf. From Zeppelin and the Stones how many bands have copied their sound? I do not claim to be a musicologist, but the connection is undeniable. I am a person who believes in roots, perhaps other should follow suit.

The second of my weekly Heroes is the man who single handedly brought comedy back from the shitty blazers and bad 80s haircuts that nearly destroyed the genre - Mr. Bill Hicks. I know I am not going out on some anti-establishment plane by claiming the genius of Hicks. Many relevant and contemporary comedians and savvy people already know this. However, it is never too late to chime in my accolades for a genius, whose works transcend time by maintaining a relevance even in today's political and social climate. I channeled ever megabyte of Bill Hicks through my headphones this week as I trudged away on my dual monitors.

His opinions on media, politics, and the general fucked-upedness (if that is a proper noun/ adjective) of society are still viable even in today's political climate. I am sure, without a doubt, Hicks would have a field day prancing around the stage and denouncing the general hypocrisies and bullshit surrounding contemporary political, social, and religious figures. Everyday I see the kind of assholes who were the targets of Bill Hicks' scathing commentaries and jokes.Now more than ever do we need Hicks, even with a spawn of great satirists and comedians like Patton Oswalt and David Cross. My hope is those who have never heard his message and are fed up with ongoings of this country, go out and listen to what Bill Hicks was trying to say.I am no rebel like Bill Hicks, though every word he speaks rings true in my ears, he had balls as big as Buicks and was not shy to use them for any purpose. For those not in the know, feel free to peruse his collection at www.billhicks.com, I promise this is worth your time.

With an ode to my weekly heroes over, it is time I sleep off the numerous amounts of Belgium beer I poured down the esophagus in hopes to appear witty and charming, only to wind up sleepy and cranky.

Entering the Fray

There are two types of stories - man leaves town and man comes to town. I have successfully accomplished both in the last few months. The frontier spirit, alive and well, in Prescott, Arizona has treated me well. It is a place where the tourist runs thick - unbridled and carefree - the way the West was truly won (or at least adapted). Here the goal is to explore (and work to support the exploration) the lonely places not seen by the average citizen. I have always been fascinated with the back alleys and dusty towns of our American Landscape; the places where nowhere is everywhere. The goal is to record the musings of travel; from the extreme to the mundane, anything new offers at least a modicum of interest. I even intend on expanding into the travel of the mind - the reviews, raves, and rants of books, movies, and media that I feel requires some (if not yet another) expression. It is with this discourse that I begin.

In 2006, Cormac McCarthy penned The Road, adding yet another compelling narrative to his litany (in my opinion a guru of the Neo-Noir Western ). The story of "man leaves town" follows a father and son in a post-apocalyptic America annihilated by the fire and brimstone so popular with Southern Baptists, burned-over districts, and country-road-tent-revivalists. Save some basic supplies, a six shooter, and a shopping cart, the boy and the man are without much of the comforts enjoyed by the sedentary, developed societies of today. In the eerie world following an unknown catastrophe the two protagonists follow an old byway/ highway heading south towards a coastal environ and, hopefully, salvation and society. Along the way, faced with starvation, the elements, road warriors, and human harvesters (apparently Soylent Green really are people) the father and son struggle to find not only goodness in the world but goodness in each other. The ending, wrapped with both tragedy and hope, sheds light onto the special bond between father and son.

This book was recommended to me by a friend from graduate school. For those familiar with lost and the battle of grief that ensues, McCarthy's somber world provides fertile ground to realize how much dear ones will be missed after they have passed. By creating a stark environment - where little life exists and humanity is an afterthought - the reader is able to internalize the relationship between the boy and the father without the distractions of what we deem as "everyday life." Truly for those that have a close bond with another, this book hits home; however it does not have to be for those dealing with loss, it can also be a good step forward to recognizing the relationships we have while those close to us are still of this earth. I encourage many, if not all, to pick up this book, rattle out some espresso, and dive into a frightening, yet optimistic, story.