So long as it isn’t a blow job and a cigar, America still cares about the pump more than the big picture. Hope-driven dreams of white picket fences and SUVs dot starless, light polluted skies in a false celestial umbrella of imagined success in the only way truly American – intangible and unreal.
Is it little wonder that snake-oil salesmen peddling hope by the pound can find their stock rise higher than pies in skies in these hopeless times? The efficiency of capitalism is matching supply with demand, and there are few supplies greater than religion for those most demanding, the religious. Swiping debit cards like the hope-stricken ancestors before them crossed themselves each Sunday, these metroreligious will meet the same disappointment after pounding the five-pack portable communion wafers as they did before. A disappointment found solely in the sudden sixty-five mile-per-hour smack in the face that this world isn’t waiting for the Passion of any Christ. That this planet is not interested in hanging around for any Second Comings. That your heart knocking nine-to-five isn’t putting food on the table like Christian nobility.
This disappointment comes in the realization that responsibility is the Alpha and Omega and it all begins and ends with you, little man. No rosary bead or Biblical novel or advance movie ticket is going to buy you a front row seat to the Heaven of the here and now. The closest thing to Paradise you and I will ever see will be found in the glorious appearance of the smallest of things that collectively amount to the angelic grace of humanity. The separation between us and monkey isn’t divine decision and providential prominence, but speaking plainly at dinner tables, talking softly across fire places, and making love instead of making sex. With hubris as integral to humanity as using tools, fools will chase white rabbits through any attractive holes in the ground instead of taking pause to ponder the heavenly hereafter that was already sitting in their opposable hands.
A simple pause of admiration for the adoration of ourselves is all that stands between you and divinity.
Why pay the piper for a tune you already know how to sing for free?
So, we’re all getting broadband in 3 years. I have to say, even getting to Mars seems more feasible. Of course everyone is asking where the money is going to come from and, of course, Dubya isn’t telling. Apparently it is coming from the same infinite and invisible revenue stream that is going to take us to Mars.
I caught The Fog of War again last week, this time with the added bonus of a panel discussion with a couple Brown professors that work with former Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara frequently. So frequently in fact, for a senior seminar that is periodically taught at the university, their students get the benefit of an in-class guest lecture by the man himself. Naturally, a good amount of envy accompanies such news; envy that can only be quelched by checking out the graduate program for poli sci.
My first real fateful trip into the inner bowels of Boston was last night. A journey of plenty action and little memory, I am able to recall fuly accomplishing two things. 1) Seeing Jersey Girl and 2) finding the best pub in the United States. The latter a discovery of uncomparable signficance and the former a mistake of unrepeatable misjudgement, I find in the game of life four pints *can* beat a royal flush. The perfect counter balance to cliche plot and weak characterization, Tiernan’s was quite, smoke-free, and loaded with every important beer imaginable on tap. Add inexpensive pricing, quality disc-jockeying, and a shrine to The Way, The Truth, and The Light himself and the only thing missing is a Now Leasing sign in the apartment space above the pub. Much like Homer suddenly finding a place that serves Fudd, my lot is the disenchantment that comes with finding out that Heaven is a place on Earth, but still pretty fucking far away.
I have my new vehicle a grand total of an hour and a half, when suddenly my boss comes up to me while I’m talking to the boys with a concerned look on his face. I join him outside with another partner, and sure enough, a brisk wind carried the door of his Volvo on an intercept course with vehiclar fate, leaving my new ride with a very distinct ding.
Obviously, he apologized all over himself and promised to make it right, but it was kind of hard to get upset. If the luck that befell every other automobile I have owned is any indication, this Focus better be ready for a bumpy ride.
The Rockstar, my flame-painted beauty, is sadly on the way out, hence the replacement. A solemn ceremony shall be conducted next Saturday to give the vehicle its proper respects. Still loosely defined, this ceremony is going to involve two 12-packs of Guinness, motorcycle helmets, health insurance waivers, and the large acreage behind Jesse’s parents’ house.
Pictures, obviously, will be provided.
Just when I thought I could get away from the hard winter’s night, Rhodey drops another 6-8 of freshies in my lap with little more than a fork to eat my way out. Though it bites, I hear if I had taken a more conservative turn of life choices post-graduation, it could well be worse. I hear the Midwest is still digging itself out a week later.
My second experience with a cell phone began yesterday. Though a thorough geek in virtually all manner of nerd periphenalia, I have always been stringently opposed to carrying the chic du jour piece of consumer electronics with which even 10 year olds seem to come standard equipped these days. Many thought I was just being a ridiculous Luddite, but as I wear my Nintendo shirt to my white collar IT job every day I think I can stomp that particular argument like an Italian plumber on a Koopa Troopa.
The real issue with me and cell phones has been a matter of need. I don’t think for a collective five minutes in my life I’ve ever been so important that I needed immediate availability with the outside world. Three of those minutes constitute the few moments following the first and last occassion I zipped myself up in my pants and the other two constitute small 15 second bursts of minor emergencies over the course of a lifetime growing up geek. In terms of importance, I’ve always comfortably occupied tiers slightly above inorganic objects but safely below Taco Bell managers.
With the new gig at work, however, the Powers That Be suffered a synchronized set of short fits of insanity that prompted the distribution of a company phone. Generally speaking, if its not automotive or adult-oriented, I can understand the intricate workings of any electronic device in pretty short order. However, after fiften frustrating minutes of trying to determine how to turn the damn thing on, I had to call in the cavalry on my cell phone. Evidently, the mysterious artifact contains a digital “camera” of some sort with which you can take “pictures” and place them on the “Internet.”
After a day of use, the only thing I know is how to set the phone on vibrate. And even then, all I know is that I need to buy tighter jeans and have people call me more often.
To our guests visiting from other strange domain names, welcome. If you were looking for porn, I hope you are not overly disappointed. There are a few photos in the gallery where I look particularly fetching while suggestively holding a bag of Riffles potato chips and my best “come hither” is in a number of different pictures from my vaudeville shows at The Blue Moon Cafe.
For those who came for the usual shafting, I’ve got a funny story.
So I’m cruising through my logs and I find a whole mess of external links that I can’t explain, and popping them up in the browser it became clear that they *all* were pointing to the Shaft website. While having guests intending to learn about Rogers Industrial services were likely only a bit miffed, I imagine those looking for the latest pics from One Sick Chick were pissed right off. As has been proven on many an occasion, the Shaft simply can’t compare to barenaked ladies.