Western Kid

Waiting for Good

2007-12-13T23:10:00.000-08:00

I guess you're all growed up when funny is just a bad word substituting for ironic. Or wry. Or whatever. They all point the same wicked finger in the same general, silly direction. My mind feels like I stood my body upside down and willed myself to think straight. Sounds like a potentially illuminating yoga pose, but not really.

Here come the holidays, the flood. I have grandiose plans for realizing the glorious mundane. Will it happen? Is it my destiny this season to be happy and sentimental? I certainly fucking hope so. Food will be prepared in my house, my bathroom will be scrubbed in preparation for guests. And me, well I'll stand in the kitchen doorway like a goofy sentinel with bad posture, awaiting my friends and family with spatula in-hand. They'll all say that they're happy to see me, with or without an apron on, and I will know that it is the truth. Follow your bliss, however unorthodox.

Trippin' the Light Fantastick

2007-12-12T18:10:00.000-08:00

I am not into most of the stupid relationship crap that gets published, but it would be untrue to say that the subject of human male-female relations doesn't start me up sometimes. Especially when it concerns me directly.

Take a situation I found myself in yesterday evening. A gentleman (he's not particularly gentleman-like, so I'll use this term veeery loosely. But he is nice--to me. He's discouraged me from vouching for him with anyone else) who I have spent some recent time getting to know socially, asked me to take the Briggs-Meyer personality test. I usually avoid that sort of thing, preferring to grow my self-knowledge using other means. Plus, I didn't think we were quite there, yet, but okay, I did it. What the hell. I was in a rush and it seemed like a decent way to maintain my m.o. of being late to everything.

Afterwards, I boldly e-mailed the results to aforementioned man, returned my trigger finger to its holster, and blithely went off to see...aforementioned person. Let's call him Tree from now on. Mostly because it's shorter than "aforementioned man," but also because I like trees and they seem to like me back well enough, and that is pretty similar to the situation I now find myself in with Tree.

So Tree and I hang out for about fifteen minutes before he brings up the test results. He's like, "Soooooo.....you're an EOMF (or something like that)." He had to explain what in God's name he was talking about because, like I said, I normally dodge this type of shit. Um, note here: I give propers to the field of psychology. It's the personality test that I have a problem with. Even though I've never had an on-the-couch relationship with a shrink, I value the idea of a talking cure over the self-serve method of psychoanalysis. Back to the story. Earlier in the evening, Tree had told me that he thought we'd come out with the same test results. Turns out we didn't. For me, that was pretty much the end of it. Still, I got the sense that Tree was nonplussed by our differences--differences according to the test, that is.

Results be damned, Tree and I had spent the evening playing "I'll show you mine if..." games. Always a barrel of laughs, those games. It seems as though, in the end, that physicality always wins.

Why Cement Bad People In Photos?

2007-05-29T21:16:00.001-07:00

That's a great question to ask myself. Mostly because it forces me to think on an issue that I consider a non-issue. Let's back up. Why Cement Bad People in Photos? I posed the inquiry because my internet home page is http://www.NYTimes.com. Earlier this afternoon, the site sported a centered photograph of President Bush(ido) in a blank-faced pose as he spouted off about why those who oppose him are fear-mongering. I happen to agree with a policy embued with a healthy dose of amnesty. I do not appreciate Mr. Bush(ido) appropriating a term (in a negative sense) that basically embodies what his administration has meant for the country.

How can he wear a straight face while criticizing others for fear-mongering? He's got the gall of a man who is accountable to no one. We elected him, on whatever pretences (although I, myself, am self-righteously excluded from that group of 'we electedites), and so must deal with the stomach-churning consequences.

The issue that got Mr. Bush(ido)'s panties in a wad concerned immigration policy. Look up his initiative. Think about Mr. B's past comments on the subject. Discuss. We'll talk irony in the morning.

Got God?

2007-03-31T01:46:00.000-07:00

I get kind-of twitterpated when an atheist makes the news simply for being an atheist. I mean, God is all over the place--that's a given--and while I respect the religious nature of the world-at-large, I feel left out of that schema (but not necessarily out of the entire world). There will be no apologizing here, though. I am content to form my own guild of godless do-somethings.

This is what I'm getting at, I guess: Not having God in my life means that I have to fill that cavernous, empty void with either one or two large substitutes, or a helluva lot of small ones. No pun intended by the "helluva" by the way. So when I heard about Richard Dawkins and his ballsy endeavor, "The God Delusion," I paused to applaud the man and mentally thank him for giving a shout-out to those of us who don't subscribe to religion.

An interesting line of popularity has sprung up around the idea of "spiritual" atheists in the last few years. I wonder what in the hell that means (still no pun intended!). I guess that if it's considered "spiritual" to be into 1950's popular culture to the point that you buy a formica table and sport Jackie-O sunglasses, then there are plenty of spiritual atheists out there, me included. Popular culture is a sort-of mass-media religion in the sense that it has adherents who worship a deity ('that-which-looks-too-abso-fucking-lutely-cool-not-to-own'), collect artifacts that celebrate the deity (Jackie-O sunglasses and formica tables to name two, but please feel free to pick your poison), and go to church (ahem, ebay).

I don't mean to deny the possibility of so-called atheistic spirituality by labeling it as simple consumerism. I would like to point out, though, that "spirituality" is a very nebulous term. What is spiritual to a buddhist is different from what is spiritual to a catholic, a biker, a wife-swapper. Yet people from all of these groups can be found to posses a similar zeal in their personal quests for non-material fulfillment. So why use the term, spirituality, at all? Isn't it a misnomer for people who operate under a set of life rules that run contrary to belief in God?

I get a dirty feeling every time I hear someone say something like, "Well, I'm not religious, but I am spiritual." When I hear that line, I want to shout out, "Admit that you think there's a possibility of God, you...you...you...AGNOSTIC!" Because that's it in a nutshell. When someone who claims to be an atheist says that they're spiritual, what they really mean is that they are a closet [fill in the religion blank here], they are embarrassed to admit that the only thing they believe about God is that he/she is a delusion, or they are trying to sneak out of a potentially troubling conversation with their mother, father, or other zealot relative.

So like I said. I think it's nice when atheists come out of the closet, wholly, unapologetically. Why artificially soften a blow that needs to be struck? I hope that I'm a good person; I certainly strive to be--and that is the case even though I doubt that anyone's God is whispering suggestively into my ear. Being "spiritual" could mean that we just don't place a whole lot of stock in materal things, but that's just stupid. General Motors sells ninety-percent of its worst gas-guzzling man-traps to Christians; there's little to nothing spiritual about that.

Love Me, Love My Hypothalamus, or, the Blame Brain Game

2007-03-26T00:57:00.000-07:00

Blogging at this hour, pacific time, is not very cool in a variety of senses. It suggests a few things about the author that might not be true, like: that blogger is a vampire; that blogger is on speed; that blogger can't sleep because her ulcer is acting up again--all untrue assumptions, as it happens...but if you were thinking hey, she's an insomniac, then congratulations on your correctness! Never mind that my insomnia could be caused by any one of the above circumstances. Anyway, I was talking about some stupid stuff, trying hard to focus (I'm very tired, just not sleepy) when I went on one of my annoying tangents, which I will try to cease doing.....right now.

Here goes another attempt at my point. Why would I use some awful pun-phrase like love me, love a hard-to-pronounce part of my brain as the title of tonight's blog? Because I found a convenient target for blame about my insomnia: my brain. Now, I recently found out that my entire brain is not responsible--just one sneaky little section named hypothalamus. That's turned out to be kind-of a bummer since I've squandered more than a little time over the years knuckle-sandwiching pretty much my entire head trying to get it to FALL ASLEEP! Stupid of me, I know. I mean, it's painfully obvious that the hypothalamus was responsible for my wide-awake nights; the name even sounds hyperactive (and it begins with an 'H' just like the word 'hyperactive'. Coincidence? I think not).

Some smart people who've studied other people while they were sleeping have divulged some interesting results about how our circadian rhythms (those mysterious biological processes that cue us all on when to get tired, get energetic, burn calories, fart around, etc.) are instructed by the hypothalamus.

That funny little brain part is located, or so I've recently read, in the suprachiasmatic nuclei region of the noggin. I don't know where that is, but now that I'm aware that it's there, I'll try to jostle it less by thinking moorree sslllooowwllly. Evidently, we (not just humans, but all sorts of other animals) fall victim to inherited genes that dictate to some extent how our circadian rhythms work. That means, I think, that my parents are ultimately to blame---AGAIN, sheesh! By the way, Mom, why did you throw away my comic book collection fifteen years ago? Are you a sadist?

As per usual, I'm not sure of where I'm going with this, nor am I sure that some scientist who studies sleeping people (pervert!) won't comment that I'm full of crap and should do some fact-checking and use less hyphens while I'm blogging. But I don't care. I'm super-humanly brave when I'm tired and/or drunk. That reminds me--I'm tired and maybe, maybe, maybe, just a tiny bit sleepy. I think it's time to defy my genes and say,"Goodnight Mr. Hypothalamus."

How I Almost Met George Stephanopoulos

2007-03-07T23:22:00.000-08:00

I began this blog with a sigh, but since no one but me heard it, I'm mentioning it now--for the record, for the mood. Two weeks ago, or thereabouts, my boyfriend/business partner called me on the phone with the news that George Stephanopoulos, THE George Stephanopoulos, was standing outside of our bookstore, talking on a cell phone. First, major props to George for going outside for that nasty business. Second,...well, there is no second. I'll just say that I was floored a little by the news that he was at my store.

I wasn't excited by the garden variety, ohmygodacelebrityjustwalkedin, sort-of star-humping tendency. For those who even know who George Stephanopoulos is, the idea is ludicrous. George served as White House Press Secretary/Communications Director/Presidential Advisor during the Clinton Administration. Hold on to your hat while I expound upon why I am such a huge, flaming nerd. When I was in high school, I wanted that job. I didn't just want it, actually. I coveted--coveted that job. Mostly, I just played it off as a joke, "Wow, George Stephanopoulos can talk to anyone about anything and sound sharp as a tack. I totally want him And his job, ha ha." Nix the ha ha and you have my true feelings at the time. Additionally, my favorite documentary, to this very day (and I am a bit of a doc aficionado, or so I fancy...) is The War Room. In a room full of Democratic shark heads with sweat stained shirt pits and pocket protectors, George Stephanopoulos really stood out as a hottie. In another life, one in which looks do not matter AT ALL, James Carville might have won as the catch of the bunch, but come one people, get real.

It turns out that George was in town because he was addressing the State Legislature in Carson City. Surprisingly, I was a little relieved when I found out that I'd missed him. It would have been really un-cool of me to barf or have a panic fart in front of my childhood idol (I do not have a farting problem--that last part was purely for comedic effect).

Anyway, my boyfriend proved to me that you can train men after all; he recognized George on sight when he walked in. And when George returned to the front counter of the store after his cell phone diversion, my dutiful boyfriend had the presence of mind to ask for his autograph, on my behalf. I'll note here that despite some peoples' distaste for politics and questions about whether or not the political mind is anything but tiny marbles knocking around in a cardboard box, George is brilliant. That fact is evidenced in part by his handwriting. It sucks. Like doctors' handwriting sucks. I could only decipher a few of the words in the autograph--just enough to recognize that it was written in English. For me, that'll do. It will more than do. Especially the part where George wrote, "Good luck with our fughel wlkeh"...or something like that. Thanks to that small, penned gesture, I am willing to forgive George for mis-pronouncing Nevada at the State Legislature; I am willing to forgive him for being 5'5" tall; but most importantly, I am willing to continue carrying the torch for Greek Presidential hopefuls until my dying day. Maybe America wasn't ready for Dukakis, but in a few more years, maybe it will be ready for a Greek dude with a few more syllables in his name.

Reno Bars and The Guilt, The Guilt

2007-02-17T00:13:00.000-08:00

Hmmm, I wonder if I visit bars less now that I'm perched on the crest of thirty years of age. I'd prefer to say...yes? Seriously, though, bars have regained some of the lost mystery I once retained for them say, five or ten years ago. That must mean that I don't go to them as often; absence does make the heart grow fonder, after all.

Lately, all of my bar experiences have been unequivocally weird. Mostly because I have a little-known syndrome, colloquially referred to as "bar guilt." For the purposes of blog clarity, I'll describe the syndrome in brief: It is an "acute social disorder wherein the subject is aware of intense feelings of guilt for not engaging in conversation with the person they deem least desireable at the bar. Subject is driven by intense psychological forces to eschew contact with "safe" conversants (usually an accompanying friend or acquaintance), in lieu of lively interaction with aforementioned undesireable person."

It's weird--I know what my problem is, and yet I'm helpless to remedy it. In the last three months I've had a pack of cigarettes stolen, several friends befuddled by inattention, my boyfriend irked, and my bar tab prematurely run up due to this condition. It's like I think to myself, "Hey, I can just turn around and pick up a conversation with my friends." You know, the "Quit Any Time" bit. Instead, I choose to try validating some dickweed who probably doesn't really need validating (but, yes, he does), while explaining that I have a boyfriend who is sitting right next to me--My boyfriend and I have a great relationship, though that is not evidenced by the fact that I'm talking to a lame-ass with a faux-hawk who's plotting about how best to steal my smokes. Although, they were American Spirits (blue pack), which are kind-of expensive. I think they're $5.15 at 7-11, but usually they're about a nickel more expensive at the Quickie Marts. Strangely enough, bar cigarette machines only charge like $5 straight-up; You'd think they'd be more expensive--but I digress.

People of Reno, listen. It was at a bar last night that I received some sage advice from a youngish man. Wise beyond his age by about two years, he said to me, "It's weird. It's like, I'm at a bar and I'm talking to someone and I'm like, 'what's up, why are we talking?'--in my head, though. And then I'm like, it's weird, because in Reno there's like this thing where you have to talk to people who are around you, waving. You can't just spend time by yourself, enjoying the silence and shit."

That dude spoke to my feelings about my condition in an intimate way; maybe that was why I was talking to him at the bar. He will never know how much his observations meant to me, mostly because I'll never go back to that f-ing bar again. Unless my buddies are going and only if we have dinner and a game of darts first because they don't serve food at that bar, nor do they have a dart board.

Discology is My Friend

2007-02-07T21:19:00.000-08:00

Reno has been kind of a sad place to live lately. By lately, I mean pretty much starting around the time that I heard that Soundwave was closing its doors. I drank a lot. Not because of Soundwave, but that didn't help. Then, a few months later, Tower Records went bust. I have to say that while Soundwave was my favorite, favorite place to buy cds, Jesus wrapping paper, and beat generation post cards, the whole Tower experience turned out worse for me, emotionally.

Let me explain: For something like four weeks, my boyfriend dragged me back and forth from work, to Tower, home, to work, to Tower, etc. At first, we gave sideward glances at the innocent enough looking 10-15%-off stickers. By the end of the long goodbye, we were actively moping at the field of clearanced dregs. I did have a couple of smiles through the tears, however. I stocked up on zines (80% off!), harajuku lovers shoe laces, and some spooky keychains which made excellent stocking stuffers. Huey Lewis played in the background as I asked my boyfriend if he'd checked the porn section out yet--it's like 95% off, I said. Barely looking up from the last of the soundtracks, he replied glumly, nah, the good stuff is already gone. See, that's why we're together--because he can say almost exactly what I'm thinking.

All of this whining has a point, sort-of. Sometime around the Thanksgiving holiday, a friend of ours, David, opened up a used cd store called Discology. I am so freaking relieved I can't tell you what. I was like, Thanks David! The place is located at the corner of Sierra St. & California Ave, on the second floor of the building with The Satellite and Blue Moon Pizza. If you live in or around Reno, if you were even half as heart-sore as I was to see another small guy throw in the towel (R.I.P. Soundwave), then get to Discology, pronto.

Wow, I just ran out of words fast. I'd better beat it.

Family and Stuff and Other Things

2007-02-06T18:42:00.000-08:00

I recently returned home from a weekend trip to San Diego, where I met with my genetic cohorts. I drove down with my Mom, in a rental car that had to be traded in upon arrival due to a minor mechanical mishap--a real drag. The purpose of the trip: My family had called a spur-of-the-moment meeting to discuss my Grandparents' living situation. My Nana & Papi live on a ranch that they own in Mexico, near Mexicali--just over the Tecate/San Diego border for the uninitiated, where they were recently the victims of a frightening act of vandalism.

The talk went well and the details of the family's conclusion are still being worked out, but the gist of my blab lies in this question: How does one care for elderly family members who live in another country? As an American citizen, I admit to having unreal expectations about the beneficient reach of legal systems in other nations, especially, I feel at this moment, that of Mexico. The above question was rhetorical, so you may have to wait for the next blog for something engaging--or for the next blog after that one, or after that one.

Things We Do Just Because We Can

2006-09-27T10:13:00.000-07:00

E-books are weird. That was my initial thought several years ago when the phenomenon first garnered some interest from the public. While portable dvd and mp3 players make practical sense (you can't take a band or a movie theater with you on a road trip), books and magazines are already portable. Why, then, is text on a hand-held screen better than an actual book-in-hand? Apparently it isn't. At least, the public hasn't bought the idea--literally or figuratively. Sales for e-books have yet to reach a fraction of the heights that those of music files have.

Sony seems to think that this is because the idea simply hasn't been properly realized. They are banking on the supposition that e-book sales will skyrocket when the files are available on Sony's new "Portable Reader System." The little piece of machinery looks something like a Blackberry. Most of its front area is taken up by screen that is supposed to provide "technology that rivals text on paper."

The fact that iPod users already load audio books into their players does not seem to discourage Sony executives. Not only that, their foray into the field of electronic books will not come cheap to consumers. Sony hopes to get $350.00 a pop out of their new system. It should be interesting to see how the battle of hand-held books plays out over the next year or so. Will it be paper or plastic?

Mitch Albom: Mouthbreathing Poser?

2006-09-26T17:50:00.000-07:00

I am not saying that there is anything particularly bad about Mitch Albom as a human being. In fact, there is evidence to suggest otherwise. He used sales from his first book to raise funds to pay for a former professor's medical bills, he sponsors fundraisers for the homeless, and he penned what many consider a moving, uplifting story about the afterlife and its treatment of those who do good--he's also very eager to tell you about it. Bully for him. He understands the marketing sense of helping others out while you make a great deal of money. To be fair, there's nothing inherently wrong with making money.

Partnering with Starbucks, however, was a move on Albom's part that churns my stomach. If writing books were a sideline to his career, I could see the partnership as an appropriate one. After all, Starbucks has compared its foray into bookselling to the third leg of a stool, another sideline to buttress already ridiculous sales of coffee, music, and dvds. A third leg serves as an unintentionally apt metaphor for what Starbucks' new venture represents. It is unwelcome to conscious consumers.

Albom has signed on to offer his new book, "For One More Day," for sale at Starbucks coffeehouses all over the country. His reasoning is that it will offer readers a "fine environment to absorb and discuss a good book." As opposed to the thousands of independent bookstores who will offer the book? Granted, independents will sell the book without the drastically deep discounts afforded only to very rich companies. But if you are concerned about two or three extra dollars in your wallet, why are you spending $3-$5 on a cup of coffee?
So fine, Mitch Albom is going on an eight-city author tour for Starbucks. Why am I so against the proposition? The answer is simple: Albom is in it for the cash, not for promoting literacy. Allow me to state my case.

First, nothing that Mitch Albom has produced up to this point qualifies as literature. It is watered-down, feel-good writing that is not even well-crafted. Reading his work is a waste of time precisely because it is soley worthwhile for its emotional content. When I hear about how "heart-rending" or "tear-jerking" his books are, it makes me want to lose my lunch. This sort of shallow reward is not unlike the fruitless benefit of reading bodice-rippers.
If I want to sit down and spend a few hours reading something that won't challenge me, I know that I can rely on a vast number of writers. If I want to read something that might change my life, make me contemplate human nature and how writing can elevate it, then I have fewer, but still plentiful options.

Second, I have to ask why Albom justifies promoting his book so aggressively through the Starbucks engine if he really cares about literacy. Yes, people read in Starbucks locations all over, but Starbucks did not invent this phenomenon. In fact, the practice of reading and discussing books in coffee shops as a popular public activity sprang from a far more independent vein. The Beat Generation gave it a mighty push forward--authentically. So maybe we should be asking why City Lights doesn't franchise itself out for the sake of the mighty buck. Think of what could be made off of pasting pictures of Kerouac, Ferlinghetti, and Ginsberg on coffee mugs all over the world. They haven't done it, and they never will because the idea is lame. Money isn't everything. Community means a helluva lot. That's why.

Starbucks may have started with a great idea, but they've compromised any status they might have had as a positive commercial force by infiltrating (there is no more equitous word to describe it) communities the nation over. They build cookie-cutter shops that out-complete better businesses simply because they have the money to do so. There are three Starbucks within a one-mile radius in my city, and in the town's only Arts District. Additionally, those coffeehouses are all sidled next to non-franchise, long-standing coffeeshops that have truly been part of the community. They may not have dapper, matching green aprons to parade around, but they have fantastic employees, wonderful atmospheres, customers who write as furiously as any under a Starbucks roof, and superior coffee.

Starbucks will contribute $1 per sale of Albom's book to a preschool literacy program. They should do that anyway. Crap on Bill Gates as much as you like, but he didn't have to sell condoms for a profit to fund HIV prevention programs in Africa.

What Mitch Albom represents to me, after his decision to sell out completely, is not only a writer who doesn't deserve the title (he was that when he first put pen to paper), but a poser who justifies his money lust by talking about how he likes to promote reading. How about working on your craft in a way that encourages the nobody with talent to succeed, as opposed to the somebody with money.

Today, Albom's new novel hits bookstands everywhere. I encourage conscientious readers who want to see independent bookstores succeed in their communities to boycott the book at Starbucks. Moreover, commit yourselves to buying a good book today instead of the sentimental drivel that Albom and his ilk turn out. "The Road," by Cormac McCarthy was released today, and I bet that it will change your life, or at the very least, remind you of why we read great literature in the first place.