Subtle Sway

I'm a product of my environment. I've watched plenty of TV and suffered through and enjoyed commercials of different varieties. When I was younger we used to tape movies off TV. Our old VHS of a taped Ghostbusters contains grainy nostalgic doses of old Pillsbury Doughboy commercials, Nestle Tollhouse chocolate chips, Pizza Hut ads spreading word about the Land Before Time puppet giveaways with meals. That tape has been worn to shit. A few years back I watched it and felt just at home with those old commercials as the classic movie itself. 


It had a dream like quality for me, and dreams are the best way to sway me on a product. If a brand can dunk itself far enough into my subconscious to bob as a staple in my dreamland, then I'm pretty close to convinced. 


A few weeks back I had a dream I was driving around back in my hometown of Auburn, ME. It was snowing. Through the blinding white hitting the windshield I hunted for sight of a Dunkin Donuts. In fact, this quest for a Dunkin Donuts; a hot cup of coffee and a few chocolate glazed donuts was the through-line of this REM adventure. When I awoke, I made a stop soon after to the donut destination. It convinced and stirred a hankering better than any commercial. But the dream's successful sway can give credit to the year's of accumulated memories revolving around late night visits to 24 hr Dunkin Donuts for warm cups, glazed indulgences, or something to do at an odd hour.  The experience stays and reinforces. 


A few dreams of KFC have fucked up my arteries in consequence.


The other night I had a dream of a different display of propaganda. Rahm Emmanuel put forth an initiative for Chicago's poor, and wealthy. In a gargantuan, vacant warehouse on the west side he "sought" to fight hunger and paucity by enlisting dozens of food vendors to donate to a pop up grocery store. He invited all of Chicago's residents to stop by over the course of the day, and one cart per household was welcome to fill up with foodstuffs, at the city's expense. Now, when one got to the warehouse to push their cart around for an easy one time break from hunting and gathering, they were also immersed in a pseudo museum showing historical photos from famous casinos, such happy faces playing games! Murals spanned walls with child like renditions of wonderful times at the slots! The initiative to slow hunger was also a campaign to get all the citizens excited about the potential Chicago casino coming our way. And what a perfect demographic to spike the hope of a lucky win; the lower class. And middle and upper class. 


All were invited to fill up their carts. 


All were invited to see the glory of the gamble.

Whiskey vs. Toboggan Tycoon

Monday marks the 3 year anniversary of my illustrated book Whiskey Pike. The other day I remembered, and I had quite forgotten over these 3 past years, that the original draft of Whiskey Pike was titled "Bowermaster and Begovenit." The character Shane had the latter last name, while another character of industry had the former. It was much longer piece, and had a whole other second section, telling of another man's business dream, and each criss-crossed in an epilogue, a ghost story to close things out. 


After reading the piece to a friend over whiskey way back, it was apparent the second half didn't work with the first, in fact it siphoned the power of it and made it top heavy. Dissipated the focus. So it was cut, the first half reworked, and Bowermaster transferred over to the whiskey making character because I liked the name better. When I was younger I had gone with my Dad to his office one day and noticed the name plate on an office door down the hall from him stenciled with Mr. Bowermaster. I had always liked that name and wanted to use it in something. 


I'm posting the second half of the original draft here as it was enjoyable to read it again, for me at least, like recovering an old photo, and the nostalgic flood. I had originally thought about reshaping it into it's own story but forgot about it the deeper I had gone in revising Whiskey Pike. I'll let it have a life here. It's not a great story, but represents a weird commentary on the ski industry in the face of global warming, though set in an antiquated period. 


-----------


(The original draft had this synopsis->) Two men, of different times and different slopes of the same mountain, set out to brew a wicked beverage, a potent spirit to spike pleasure into the veins of its jollified consumers. Memories of high buffoonery roared as each promoted their beverage business down a strange path to where apocalyptic guitars rattled a rusty ballad in the echoes of the valley. Two men of a mountain: entrepreneurs in tragedies of industry.

Part II: Bowermaster

Ian Bowermaster awoke early and stepped out from his canvas tent into the valley of fog and dew. Refreshed by ambition alone, his head pounded a mighty throb. He took a significant chug of water from a metal canteen and set out to get to work. With hammer, nails, and pine boards, he accomplished a significant portion of the top platform for the toboggan run working straight through into dark. Summer was about to cease, he thought. Less than a few months more before the first predicted snowfall and the ribbon cutting for the winter carnival.

Bowermaster worked slavishly over the months of Autumn. Knocking away he built the toboggan run within a matter of weeks, with a solid structured staircase up the slope, and sandpaper along the panel each step for the snow boots to grip. As September announced its arrival with the fall of leaves and yellowing of the grasses, Ian’s son Frederick set up tent next to his father’s as well as working along side him. Both worked steadily to solidify the ski jump, with another set of steep stairs up the slope. A self powered rope tow was set in two different spots. With axes and saws the two rounded out some ski trails from the rope tow pulley on down.

As October rolled around, the three main attractions were nailed, and Ian began a solid daily routine to cut, steam, and curve panels of oak wood into pairs of skis, and birch branches into stiffened poles. Frederick’s new assignment was to erect two large cabins and large shed. One was for the Bowermaster family’s residence, offices, and ticketing. The second was equipped with rows of bunk beds and a narrow extension hall for a dining room and kitchen. The shed was of course for equipment rental. Things were coming along. Ian was pumping out rows upon rows of skis, as well as snow shoes. The lodgings were set, and so Frederick began knocking together a series of five toboggans.

Ian’s wife Abigail soon arrived presenting Ian with a copy of one of the many leaflets she distributed in the surrounding towns inviting residents near and far to the upcoming Inaugural Winter Carnival November 16th, the day the Farmer’s Alamanac predicted the first snow. The leaflet enticed ski jumping, snow shoeing, toboggan runs, hot cider, ice skating. “Put your cold bones to warm action!” Abigail started building a series of ten benches to surround the small pond at the mountain base. As November rolled around, a man steering a horse and wagon came upon the premises and unloaded a hefty supply of leather bound ice skates into the shed with Frederick’s help. Ian wrote the man a promissory note and sent him on his way. With everything attended to, the Bowermaster family felt confident about their invested enterprise. They looked to the skies and waited, sipping hot cider and sweating in the still somewhat humid valley conditions.

“Winter is one hell of a sport,” Ian Bowermaster announced, and put his arm around his wife.

The mid November mark fast approached, and unfortunate for Ian Bowermaster’s investment, snow did not fall. In fact the weather felt much like springtime, moist dew hung upon the air and vegetation was still hanging on. The eve of the opening date was saturated with an anxiety while preparations were made. Mrs. Bowermaster stirred cauldrons on hot cider, while the mountain workers arrived from Boston ready for seasonal work. Mr. Bowermaster dually flipped moods from eager optimism that the following day would go according to plan, to a frustrated edge in his demeanor as he tried to make the new workers, five of them, useful. The pond was still of liquid nature. No snow in sight. The winter games had no venue. A warm breeze softened Mr. Bowermaster’s face and smoothed his hair while his blood pressure boiled.

They all went to bed early that night to avoid the nagging fears they all had about the weather, however none of them truly slept. The next morning they all awoke as sunrise tipped its colors over the horizon and staining the cloud spread. A cold frost settled on the ground, and Mr. Bowermaster’s spirit felt slightly elevated as he looked to the sky. Partly cloudy. Perhaps some flakes of snow were brewing and gaining weight against the gravity. The pond rippled as one of his men tossed a pebble into it. The sun continued to rise, and bursting Mr. Bowermaster’s elevation another warm breeze invited itself. No guests arrived, to Mr. Bowermaster’s reflief, and opening day grew into a bust as the sun dial rotated.

Mr. Bowermaster, devastated both in his investment and ambition, grabbed a bottle of wine from his personal chest and announced to everyone he was going for a walk. He hiked up the mountain, tossing back his shoes and barefooting the terrain. Taking large sips from the bottle that made a strange sound as his lips made an aggressive suction around the opening. Large strides he took up the slope, away from his men, his family, his operation, his endeavor. Thoughts of abandonment slammed around in his head. Was this operation really a good idea? What’s going on with the climate? Is the farmer’s almanac a hoax? How much of a fool did he look to his fellows and family? Will this thing be operational for some winter amusement? As Mr. Bowermaster reached the summit, he stopped and allowed himself to sweat for a good few minutes as a semi cool breeze hit him in waves. He looked back at his site. The ant sized movement, the overall inactivity. Then he looked down the other slope and could see a farm, perhaps his neighbor’s farm. Bowermaster embarked down the other side as he destined to pay the Begovenit family a visit.

Stumbling down the brush and pine, the man was a light weight, with the wine seeping into his head rather quickly. It did not help that he hadn’t ate breakfast, nor much the past few days due to his nerves. Bowermaster aimlessly knocked away branches as he charged forth and made his way to the fields below. From the open farm, he was able to find sight of the cabin. From there he redirected his thrashing and drove his footed path through the remaining grasses of his friend. Ever so often he’d take a break, gulp some wine, and continue. As he arrived, he announced himself.

“Begovenit! Hello from a Bowermaster!”

No response. The inebriated Bowermaster hustled towards the barn and poked his head in but found no one. Turning back towards the cabin, he shouted another hello but noticed a fox run away from the fire pit. Bowermaster stumbled that way and became aware of the center of focus for the scavenger; three skeletons laid in the yellowed grasses. Skin, muscle and organ gnawed away for the most part. Bits of leather and cloth still clung to pieces of bone. He recognized the dress of Sarah in one the carcasses, clumped in a fetal position. Three skeletons. Horrific. Bowermaster vomited red wine and hustled off into the wilderness. His head throbbed and he wished for a creek to be found as he needed to wet whistle. His intense thirst drove him into a painful drunkenness. He lost his bearings and became more concerned about finding a creek then about making his back to his own site. After awhile he stumbled upon a trail, which led to a creek. There he splashed his face with water, and lapped up large gulps. He sat down on the muddy ground, mind spinning.

“Hello new friend,” came a strange voice from behind.

Startled, Bowermaster twisted around to see the oncoming of a man he recognized; Mr.

Begovenit.

“No Shit, you’re alive man! What happened to all of you down here?”

“Not too alive friend, in oblivion, wandering. Something’s up when you drink ten barrels and don’t feel nothing.”

“You look like shit.”

“I am shit. Just remnants of a man.”

Bowermaster splashed his face with more water.

“What happened down to here to your family?”

“Bad moonshine.”

“Glad I didn’t accept your offer.”

“Glad I didn’t ship any of those barrels into town. My company is ruined. My family wiped out.”

“Bad time for business on this mountain! I build a toboggan and ski park. No snow! None. How the hell our we going to operate!”

“Winter sports are fading friend, climate is on the change.”

Begovenit kneeled next to Bowermaster and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“But the farmer’s almanac-“

“But the farmer’s almanac is a superstition.”

“For twenty years in was right on with my crop back, a great attribute to my business.”

“Like I said, climate is changing. You can feel it.”

“How are you so wise friend, the lot of you are drunks.”

“Taste the earth.”

“What?”

Begovenit dug his fist into the ground, gripped a handful of black dirt and brought it to his mouth. Bowermaster, anxious to learn a secret, dug his fist into the ground and shoved a heap of dirt into his mouth. He coughed and spat.

“What does that do?”

“Maybe you aren’t ready to live off the land if you can’t understand the flavor of dirt.”

“Why is every drunk I know acts so wise and mighty? Hell I’m drunk, feel like I’m getting closer to comprehend what you were going after.”

“You’ll never know what I was going after. Why not figure into what you’re after.”

“I was after my ski business.”

“Why skiing?”

“Recreation, enjoyment, nature and winter frolic.”

“Winter frolic…”

“If we don’t get any snow I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“Sounds like you put together a big operation.”

“A big investment. Everything I had. I thought this was the country to do this sort of thing in.”

“Sadly, climates change, but not the desire of the people for frolic. My business was about

“Recreation.”

“Exactly. Recreation.”

Begovenit noticed Bowermaster still clutching at the neck of a wine bottle.

“You’re a wine drinking man if I remember right?”

“Yes.”

“Have you tasted any of the grapes in the valley?”

“No.”

“The sweetest juices.”

“I’ll have to pick at some.”

“I can tell something about you Bowermaster. Something I can just tell, you’re like me. You don’t lay yourself at the ground in a fit of hard labor just for it to be swept away by an old God. Like the old timers I lay down to the whim of a good time. I sweat for leisure, you see. My any old God, and I think your any old God, is a God of drink and revelry.”

Bowermaster took another sip from his bottle. When he turned back, Begovenit was no longer present. Footprints pressed soft outlines in the mud, falling away from him. Nothing visible of the man’s body with whom he was speaking. Bowermaster, spooked and sobered, ran straight through the creek, at the middle waist deep, and charged up over the mountain. On his way down, Bowermaster took a few tumbles and rolls. Each time fully recovering and moved down the hill with rapid turnover. At the bottom he slid, and sat. His chest heaving air, and mind steaming to grasp sense, Bowermaster wasn’t sure whether to take his encounter with Begovenit as a hallucination, but he did gather that his ski business might not be the path to take. More than ever, it felt as though fresh blood circulated through his brain, and the idea of brewing his own beverage seemed to have economical weight.

He snuck around his own camp, to explore the valley in the moonlight. He wandered until he found some grape vines. Not an overwhelming population of grape vines, but enough to get him started. Most of the fruit had long withered, however a few still clung to the vine thanks to recent warm air currents. Bowermaster tasted the small fruit. Pleasantly surprised, it had managed to maintain sweet juices, and he could only imagine the vivid flavor of a ripe batch.

That night Bowermaster, with crowbar and bare fist took apart his toboggan run and various platforms, and all of the skis. He tore each apart in haste, and gathered the remains into a large pile of wood. The members of his family and his working man all attempted to pry Bowermaster away from his destructive task, but to no success. Bowermaster, with fevered focus and a crowbar was not the easiest thing to approach. The next afternoon, after a long slumber through the hours of the morning, Bowermaster gathered all who followed him there to tell them of his new grand master plan. The Bowermasters were now in the wine business; The Bowermaster Beverage Company. The announcement was met some disgust, and the men who came to work unanimously decided to leave the operation in a big display of their now lack of faith in this man. His family was skeptical and though him still drunk from his previous night of wandering bereavement. But they knew he was boss, and neither of them had the courage to tell the man he was wrong.

Bowermaster and family delved into an aggressive project of reusing the wood from the

toboggan run and platforms on the hill to create large and small barrels in preparation for wine making. Bowermaster went into town and purchased grape seeds. As an early spring rounded the corner, he planted a grand assortment of grape seeds throughout the valley.

The spring was moist and yielded enough rain to overflow buckets. Bowermaster danced a drunken dance and could taste the imaginary juices of plump grapes. His mouth salivated and his dreams were fed. Midway through the summer months, the rains became absent as the sun continued to beat down. The grasses yellowed as the creeks shrank in width. Bowermaster’s blood deep with concern, stretched to keep high hopes that each new day would bring some rain. Each morning he’d rise to see a clear blue sky, and sweated under another sun. His grapes slowly showed signs of withering. If it keeps this up, he thought, there goes one more of my entrepreneurial attempts to the ditch. Determined not to fail, Bowermaster went on an intense walk away from his operation, through the sun glowing dust that rose from the dying grasses and on up Mt. Footstone. He wanted to once more hear some encouraging words from the apparition of his old neighbor.

Bowermaster settled for the night at the Begovenit cabin. He remained sober, no wine for he hadn’t any yet, and sat on a tree stump outside the old and weather battered barn while tending to a small fire. An assortment of pine cones and tree bark simmered a layer of smoke, surrounding Bowermaster in a haze of smoke as he continued in the throws of deep thought. He prayed for the spirit of Shane Begovenit to return from the dead. Many hours into the night under a black moon, Bowermaster sat alone and desperate. At sunrise, the tired eyed man barked out a raspy request to the Gods.

“Shane old friend, if your restless spirit is hoping to make use of its rattling leftover ambition, I sure could use some precipitation. See my crops are dying. My grapes are shriveling up fast. I’m going to have no business, unless you, my ghostly friend can convince the Gods to shower down precipitation and help my business. Please, I’ll gladly hand over my soul to you at the end of my life, to aid you in an eternity of revelry. I’ll sell my soul to you as a drinking companion in the lonely land of the dead if you would just please, please conjure up some precipitation!”

Bowermaster stood as the last orange embers faded into a crust of gray ash, and stretched his arms into the orange sky of sun up. He kicked dirt onto the last of the smoking fire and wandered up the mountain and back towards his own land. At the top of Mt. Footstone, the man stopped and studied the sky. The sky was consumed by a vast gray, dark fluffy clouds engulfed the regions above and pushed back the bright rays of the sun. A cold breeze slapped upon his face and he strode down the hills with sureness and glee. The proud felt accomplished and relieved that his strange and desperate prayer was indeed heard. However his stride slowed as what began falling from the sky, were not heavenly tear drops ready to splash the dirt and satiate the thirst of every living root. Fat flakes of snow drifted down, and began to, with each pump of Bowermaster’s heart, increase in number, size, and momentum. As Bowermaster resumed hustling down the hill he raved at the skies.

“For crying out loud you knew what I meant, I wanted rain, not just any precipitation, rain! My crops are dying you careless beasts! I don’t need snow now! I could’ve used it way back when you were done forsaking me the first time! Rain,goddamnit, rain!”

Bowermaster crumpled into a raging heap of broken man, beating his fists against the now freezing earth under icy winds that carried sheets of snow. Behind the broken man, perched at the summit of Mt. Footstone, was the figure of Shane Begovenit. Strumming his aged guitar, the figure stared down at his neighbor on the slope below, and reveled in the recreation of seeing a man burn up as an icy climate gnawed at a helpless spirit. Shane Begovenit paused his play of music, as he enjoyed the flow of whiskey from a jug. Ian Bowermaster laid his flat back against the mountain earth and tried his best to breath. As Shane resumed his summit concert, Ian thought he heard some music. He assumed it was his feverish mind and listened to it without feeling.

The End.

That chunk of a story above might have more context for you if you read Whiskey Pike, so the slight capitalist in me thinks you should probably get a copy -> Consider Ordering It!

Satan is Responsible

I recently read the book Satan: His Psychotherapy and Cure by the Unfortaunate Dr. Kassler, J.S.P.S. written by Jeremy Leven. It followed the fictional Dr. Kassler's life of mishaps and how we wound up treating a computer brain that was built by a madman, and came to in fact be Satan incarnated. The read was hilarious, and in parts pretty damn sad. The following passage struck me with much food for thought:


"I arrived when you all decided you were not really a part of nature, when you started telling tales of how lust, revenge, malice, and self-interest weren't really from your heart, but were forced upon you by some outside force."


This comes from a section when Satan is receiving his psychotherapy and is speaking about his birth. And it rings true, not that I'm looking to side with any prince of darkness, but Satan gets a lot of blame placed on him for the world's terror, when in fact, aside from all the beautiful accomplishments the imagination can drive, the imagination can also conjure up some evil lord where one can dump all the bad things they do and see into a sack, "the devil made me/him do it." It's high time people took real time to consider consequences for their actions both in a direct sense...and a not so direct sense, how larger actions, say a nation takes (and we all sit by idly) toward global economic domination, might trigger some violent retaliation that isn't actually caused by the devil whispering in a frustrated people's ears.


And if the devil does exist, does that still make it okay to no longer take responsibility for our actions and shut down the true capabilities of our imagination to understand and cope with and possibly prevent future bad things from happening? Do people really want to let the fear centers of the brain let a specter of a cerebral Satan take up the imagination's projection power? Or do we want to actually use our brain's creative capacities to solve social issues? We're all physically on this Earth and have to find ways to co-exist. And that involves responsibility from all participants. The devil only exists in pictures and cannot be held accountable in any court on this plane of existence. Maybe God's court? But who knows when that trial will get around to happening. We're better off being critical thinkers.

Champion

I thought of a feat of strength I'd like to place on my bucket list. A triathlon: I will run up a mountain, where there's snow and varied terrain, so the next leg can be cross country skiing, eventually taking me to a lake where I can sail across. Hopefully a lake known for vicious winds so there's the physical challenge of hiking way back on the windward side to keep it upright. And before the sailing can begin, the boat will have been capsized and one must bail out pounds  upon pounds of water to get it afloat. 


I will probably attempt this when I can afford a mountain home. Chicago doesn't unfortunately boast mountains, and to moor a boat in this city I'd need to be a millionaire and if I was a millionaire I'd have my own mountain getaway home. It'd be more refreshing to do this feat of strength in the mountains. 


If you'd like to join me in such a triathlon, shoot me a message. This will probably be in the 10 year plan, as I get into my late 30s and such exercise comes to be a must to keep a balanced cholesterol level. And I can of course afford a mountain home.

Brewer Under the Bridge

Whenever I step foot in Wisconsin I tend toward gluttony. It happened several years ago when I had to go tend to management red flags at a Dells location the photo company I worked for operated. During the initial 9 days there to turn things around my colleague Matt and I would work a long day, forgetting to eat and pool our per diem into heavy food and drink. This would leave us lethargic, sitting in the hotel jacuzzi like beached whales. We'd soon call such spells of lethargy and ill ease with digestion "Dells Mode."

My girlfriend and I on occasion take a long weekend. We've done a trip to the Dunes, camping somewhere outside of Sandwich, IL, the Dells, and this weekend past, Milwaukee. The highlight of the trip was the Lakefront Brewery tour, located under a bridge by the river, usually a locale for some seedy concoctions, but the beverages here were a delight. And an economical venture into day drinking. For $7 you get the tour, 4 tokens for samples, and a coupon for a free beer at a local restaurant. And a pint sized glass. The tour guide had a Rollie Fingers mustache, and issued a dynamic comedic performance. After the tour we crossed the tiered bridge, looking as though it was left over from old days of carting product from the mills, and strolled down the Historic Brady Street to find a place on the list to eat and cash in on our free drink coupon. The street didn't look all that historic. We settled on a place called Crisp Pizza Bar and I tried macaroni and cheese pizza for the first time. After several beers and heavy pizza, I was hit with a dusting of "Dells Mode" and was ready for bed at the hour of 9pm. 

Deep hotel sleep was interrupted at some wee hour from some family shouting at each other down the hall. And some guy, we're not sure if he was part of it, shouting "shut the fuck up!"

Hotel brunch was good. We tried the hotel jaccuzzi and pool the next morning at the Radisson but they were on the cold side. We attended a Brewers game at Miller Park, and hot damn, that is a nice stadium. There was carpet on the upper deck corridor, the bathroom was clean, I could have pooped in it if I had to, and no troughs, so I didn't get pee shy when I went to relieve myself. And fireworks going off at an inside ballpark! They were done safely, no one was hurt, they must know what they were doing. And home runs were hit! I saw a batter get on base from bunting! No shit, that never happens, bunting usually seems such a weird move, like asking for an out, but I'm by no means an expert on baseball. When we left the stadium, I noticed everyone had the same body shape, stocky. Not to be cruel and point out such a thing, but Milwaukee being a beer-centric city (if you took beer out of its sphere of daily action, it would collapse economically) the vast majority of the inhabitants will probably accumulate a little beer fat. I wonder if they ever proclaim themselves suffering from "Dells Mode" or whatever label they may have for it.

We picked up some local Wisconsin beers to take back to the hotel later that night, and I made the mistake the day before of taking off my bottle opener key chain to organize my apartment keys to give to the cat sitter. I charmed the hotel bartender to let me borrow her's so I could pop open all the beers, run it back, and proceed to drink them all while playing the board game Betrayal on House on the Hill with some friends of ours that met us up for the weekend. It was an exhilarating game, yet complex, glad we had experienced friends explain it to us, and once again I felt my stomach blood vessels hog all the attention and send me into "Dells Mode." 

The Biznix of Books

I had perused the site of the small press Two Dollar Radio and came across the mention of a book called The Business of Books by Andre Schiffrin. I'm glad I learned of it, and I'm glad I eventually read it. The book details the swallowing of publishing houses by a handful of corporations. Disney, Rupert Murdoch, Viacom, to name a few of the few that own all of the major presses, and books are chosen not by the excitement of an editor towards a new work, but by committees, and accountants. This probably isn't news. We've all felt it. Publishing is in a weird state, with such an oligarchy, and digitizing of books, that the best option for a younger writer certainly seems to be the path of pursuing a small independent press with a supportive community, or DIY self publishing. 


In the big houses risks are not being taken, if a book won't sell more than 20,000 copies in it's first month, then the idea of that book is not taken on, not given a chance. The accountants are creating the mass market reading lists. 


The following passage did strike me, as quoted from the German publisher Klaus Wagenbach:


Let's make this as explicit as possible: If books with small print runs disappear, the future will die. Kafka's first book was published with a printing of 800 copies. Brecht's first work merited 600. What would happen if someone decided that was not worth it? 


Whereas some bemoan the ease in which self publishing has made it to where anyone can put a book out there, and yes, there's some bad content that makes it out there, but I'm personally for a plethora of material, and sifting through some "garbage" to find quality, than having a trend towards lack of new material. And because self publishing caught a bad reputation for awhile because of this lack of editorial quality, I think we'll see that turned around, particularly by the DIY writers that want to be taken seriously. And those that pumped out a book as to have a commodity on the market place, because they were impatient, I think we'll see them drop off. We're keeping each other in check.


I'd recommend this book for anyone involved in creative production. Even though the book was written in 2000 and 12 years later the DIY and small independently owned companies have begun to create thriving communities, it's still an important reflection, because the big publishing industry hasn't changed, nor has the make up of industrial corporate structure changed. The Republicans all fight for hands off on business for the sake of "liberty" but the momentum of business growth and mergers, the swallowing and mushing of business into bigger, stickier balls of clay continues, so that we reach a point where censorship doesn't come from the government, but from accountant's suggestions to the big boss. But then again Republicans in some parts of the country are okay with censorship, so they should probably stop co-opting the term liberty. We're certainly not doomed, because arguments are happening. And I'm not by any means against profit. I'd just like to see less of the banks profiting from tricky financial risks, and actual risks being taken on creative stories getting some ounce of profit so they these ventures can sustain themselves.

Inspired Archery

A coworker pointed out an article she read that archery lessons have seen a big jump since the release of the film version of The Hunger Games. And this reminded me of my own intense experimentation with archery back in the early 90s, when I was 8 years old and Robin Hood Prince of Thieves was released. My friends and I would forge our own bows and arrows using branches from the woods and string from our mother's craft tables. We got pretty good at it, and I remember finding a gorgeous branch with fine flexibility, and a taught power to the string that it shot, from my diluted memory, 100 or so yards uphill upon testing.


One day my friend Brian was horsing around in his basement and shot an arrow at his brother Kevin, and it made impact with his eye. It did some damage, thankfully he didn't lose his eye, but he had to be rushed to the emergency room, received many stitches, and had to wear an eye patch for several months. Putting a damper on any of his summer swimming plans. Needless to say our bows and arrows were confiscated pretty quickly by our parents. I had always stashed mine up in our tree fort. Somehow my dad knew this. He climbed up and got it. 


I had been surprised in my luck that I wasn't the one who got an arrow in his eye. As a kid I had what my mom joked was an eye magnet. I was always getting hit in the eye by stuff. One time it was an acorn my friend had thrown at a tree, and it ricocheted off, right into my eye. Another time a friend jumped off a tire swing in a gnarled, twisty motion, and his foot flailed off to the side, into my eye. In dodge ball during gym class, a deteriorating foam ball hit my face, and a foam chunk broke off just seconds before my eye lid fluttered shut, trapping in some crusty particles that irritated the fuck out of it. I had to go to the school nurse for a bit. Luckily my early years of reckless, indie archery didn't cause a personal incident to be added to this list. And as I was once inspired by Robin Hood Prince of Thieves and Kevin Costner's "charisma" to shoot arrows at imaginary villains, I hope The Hunger Games fever doesn't set in motion a trend in little kids shooting arrows at their friends "to the death." 

A Point Scored for the Other Team with the Same Jersey

I work in sales. Today I lost a prospect I had been working on to a different sales office of our same parent company. Now, this is not a bitter post. I have moved on, and in fact find it fairly humorous.

I had on my calendar to follow up with this particular business in the latter half of March, that it would be an ideal time to move forward. When I called up, my contact said "wait, we already went with your company a few months ago...I thought we were set up with you?"

Me: No, not with me...do you remember your rep's name?

Contact: No, it was a Hispanic guy with a short Caucasian guy that was training with him. (These don't fit the description of the other one sales guy in my office) Yeah, they just showed up one day, I thought you sent them.

Me: No, no, not me. I go out on my own appointments.

Contact: I even told them I had been talking with Jeff. And they all acted like they knew you. They said 'Yeah, Jeff's a good guy.'

The last part is what made me laugh later. Of course those other sales people would pretend to know me. Aw man, acting like they no me and shit! But, very soon our office will be completed re-branded, with a new product launch, and we won't run into other satellite offices stumbling upon our sales calls and saying "yeah, Jeff's a good guy" like they're an intimate member of my team, and taking paperwork back to a different office. Of many things I've learned in sales, emotionally detaching from a potential client is a good one to practice.  Otherwise, my guts would be long gnawed and laughter would be on a different mental continent. I would probably have turned to harming small animals if I had attached to each prospect with tightly pinned hopes, internalizing each that slipped to the done heap like an awful, catchy swan song.

But maybe that other office did have a Jeff working there and he is a good guy.

Darth Voter

I ran late getting home from work and was overly confident I knew the street where my polling place was and I wound up going a roundabout way, and thought about skipping out on voting, but I felt guilty about that notion. I finally found it when I resorted to my map app like a lost driving dad who resorts to asking for directions at a gas station, embarrassed, humbled in front of his children that he doesn't have all of the answers. It was in an industrial building sans signage, without a marked entrance, with people hovering outside, signs down at their feet, shuffling pamphlets they were supposed to be handing out to sway last minute voters but they didn't approach me. After walking the length of the building a few times, puzzled as to whether this was the spot, I asked one lady where the entrance was and she pointed me to a shady door. Again I wanted to skip out on voting, but I felt like I should put myself at risk in order to earn my future bitching about government. It was a  half-assed polling operation, a shoddy table with a couple of duct taped binders. There were only two voting booths. The power went out briefly and sent their scantrons into momentary dysfunction. I was asked to claim my party, I thought about claiming Republican for the hell of it so it could vote in that primary, maybe for Newt as a funny joke, but I didn't want my name being in the books as a Grand Old Partier. They said I couldn't register nonpartisan or green so I registered as a democrat and voted for Barack Obama as the only nominee. There were a lot of  judges up for election. I voted in one of them, for a guy whose name I remembered because he handed out fliers at my L stop and he seemed like a really nice guy, and in reading his flier he seemed like he had depth in his law experience. I also voted for him because I tried thinking of it in terms of if I was going on trial for something, who would I want presiding over me; a nice, reasonable guy. 


With each election I realize how ill prepared I am in researching all of the different positions going up for a vote, like water reclamation, and the plethora of judge positions. So I don't vote for those. It would make me feel even more guilty for voting blindly at what name sounds the snazziest. And I realize I've spent so much time following the Republican race, and it's not something I actually vote in. I really should have learned about all of those ambitious judge contenders in that time! But the Republican race is so easy to follow, because it's noisy. I watch it the same way someone probably watches a soap opera. As much as a I can say, yeah, woo! I voted today! It does feel rather pointless. Mostly I accomplished wearing further the hole in the sole of my shoe in racing to the poll before close. Just going through the motions of citizenship. I may as well have worn a Darth Vader mask with a T-shirt that says "Darth Voter" to get some laughs out of some politically weary people showing up due to a democratic guilt, equally as ill informed. 

The Golfers

I was thinking about golf today because it’s been so nice out and I like walking across greens. I also had a dream last night that I went to Hawaii to play golf. I’ve never been to Hawaii and have only played golf a few times in my life but this sounded nice. And I thought about how understandable it is that businessmen take such a liking to the golf course over the years, especially if they work in an office with florescent lights. 

And there’s this vision among some young hipsters that people who like golf are snobby rich assholes.

And perhaps there is a businessman on the golf course right now who is a nice guy, has worked hard at his job and earned his ability to afford the country club membership, but lately he has been made to feel like shit about himself by people waving angry signs outside the building he works, claiming an absolutism that investing is evil. And so he’s in a bad mood when we he eats lunch at the country club grill, he’s started to internalize what a bad person he must be, and leaves a shitty tip and the waitress takes a picture of this and it floats around social media. And on his way home he listens to the radio and Michael Moore makes mention to the fact that “he makes his money the old fashioned way, he makes things.” And the businessman thinks, wait a minute, didn’t Michael Moore get to make things, films, because a studio INVESTED in him, and his films made money, profit, from his particular niche, and because of this, they’ve continued to invest in his films and he gets to MAKE more things? But investment is an evil? Michael Moore is talking that up? Maybe Michael Moore should work a day job and make his movies via crowd funding, like Kickstarter, so he can get as far away from investing as possible.

Here's a shitty metaphor. The anger of our times needs to drive the golf ball at the hole, target itself at solutions. As opposed to chopping up the grass and pissing on lawns because they think someone is a bad man because they work in the world of money. Frustration isn’t eloquent. And as a result it pushes a cycle of the fortunate to retreat into their miserly side and this is reinforced again and again and they lose the ability to reason around it. And we hate them more. And then they hate us. And then we hate them more. 

I don’t believe the Obama administration is perpetrating class warfare. But class warfare is getting stirred from the ground up, it’s making the air dirty. And for a hot moment I was like, yeah, class warfare, I’m for it! Because I don’t have lot of money and I got excited at the notion of shaking things up. But then I pictured a nice guy trying to earn enough in his investment portfolio to retire and take his grand kids on a golfing outing someday, somewhere nice. And I’d like to someday achieve something of the like and not feel like shitty person for accomplishing such a pleasure. I’d like to someday to get deep financial backing on a movie project and I hope I don’t turn around, like a Michael Moore, and disrespect the act of someone else allocating money on a venture. There are some out there who are wicked in their practices within the financial sector, and they should be dealt with if they refuse to learn their lessons. But absolutism and generality in rage will not create meaningful change, from the top, nor from the bottom. The anger, the resentment must get more specific. The super rich don't need sticking up for, but when middle class members get lumped in and confused as must-be robber barons, the unbalanced equation requires a new variety of questions.