Southern Fried Blog

Death by Middle Man

goethe3 — Mon, 30 Jul 2007 04:46:00 +0000

My wife and I went to the public library book sale the other week and noticed dozens of people clogging the aisles using Palm Pilots equipped with scanners to scan the bar codes of books. Obviously they are trying to find little gems to sell on eBay at inflated prices. I stopped one guy and he showed me how he would scan a book and his handheld device would tell him if it was valuable or not. We saw another couple work in tandem as the wife cleared every shelf methodically as the husband scanned each and every book right behind her.

As I watched this battle of the book scanners, it hit me: America has become a place for Middle Men to thrive and grow. People, like these scanners, get in between our love for books and inflate the price so they can make a little extra money. So many concepts in our society follow this same pattern, whether it is the housing market or a person just trying to buy a concert ticket, the Middle Man is there to inflate the price so they can get a cut.

This greed leads to inflating prices, such as the current housing market, and it will one day end in doom for us all, but it appears that our society has gained this mindset that we should grab all we can, while we can, and don't bother thinking about what the consequences could be. It is horrifying to see how Middle Men will flock to a newly built condominium and buy the units only to resale them to the average consumer at an inflated price. People have become obsessed with "flipping" houses so they can make a fast buck on the wanting consumer. It has become almost impossible to beat the Middle Man to the punch, and we often find ourselves at their mercy.

Our country has a history of success due to our competitive nature, but it is strange to see that ever since the fall of the U.S.S.R., our uncontested reign as the powerhouse of the world has made America more corrupted and egotistic. The other day Mikael Gorbachev stated his anger in how the United States has handled world situations since becoming the superpower of the Earth and said, "The world is experiencing a period of growing global disarray." This disarray comes directly from our failure to stick to morals and principles we should live by, rather than our descent into letting our greed guide our decisions and attitudes. The seven deadly sins capture the current mode of America today better than the concepts of love and benevolence, which are the ideals we should cherish and live by.

So, as I watched the red lasers scan the books at the library, I saw America in those aisles. A desperate nation trying to get an extra dollar or two by coming between a person and their desires. I saw our future turning into one that resembles a pack of wild dogs fighting over a piece of meat. The countdown clock to our destruction has already begun, and it is only a matter of time until it reaches zero.

The Race with No End

goethe3 — Sat, 24 Mar 2007 14:54:00 +0000

I sat in the quietness of the house contemplating the rat-maze-of-a-life I'm trapped in. As the sunlight broke through the morning air, it hit me: we will never win. We live a life where objects become outdated so frequently, and no matter what we do to get ahead and increase our comforts, we are always going to be fighting the decay of our world around us. We think we'll one day beat back death, deconstruction, and entropy, but they are natural occurrences that are vital to the function of the earth. They can never be defeated.

The more we fight to get a little more, the more we separate from one another. It is like we are running a race but yet we don't realize there is no prize at the end, only a long run of futile anguish. If we would make communal societies then the industrial machine that runs us ragged would disappear and interdependence would fill the void in our lives. The world can only become peaceful when we join together to rejoice in a common happiness. Our current competitiveness not only takes us further from harmony, but infects the world with unnecessary murder, pain, and heartache.

We connive and scorn as we fight for that oasis of a perfect life. It will never come and we will never "win" anything. Whether it be retirement, huge salaries, or extravagant properties, there will never be a time that you can quit running the race and declare victory. There will always be another leg added.

Take an extreme example like winning the lottery and imagine what would truly happen. The massive millions can not be immune to inflation and the money, in time, will disappear. So, in essence, these races we fight for every day only offer a mock sense of relief when in actuality they increase our burdens exponentially. Inflation is more than an economic bacteria, it is a tangible representation of our pain and anger toward one another. We want to have more and punish others, and that greed is metamorphosed into inflation.

Happiness is like taking a gorgeous picture you have spent years painting and, after realizing it is a masterpiece, tearing it to shreds. Like the materialism we devour, what other purpose would the picture have other than as a weapon to taunt others?

We know we should abandon our suburban lives and head to the hills to live freely, but we feel it is a joke and, when we get to the countryside with a flower placed nicely behind our ear, we would look back and see the industrial world laugh as it devours all of our "stuff" we left behind. That fright keeps us running on our gerbil wheels.

I haven't ripped the life-support wires out yet either, but, god, how I want to. Maybe it is like jumping off a building: you just have to either do it or not. I have me toes on the ledge and I'm looking down. I am waiting for someone to push me, but it has got to be all me. Just me.

Living Life Backwards

goethe3 — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 04:01:00 +0000

I sometimes get scared when I think about being without a job. The losing of our house, cars, and toys can be frightening, but work carries us down a road away from true happiness. Our society is setup to make us move farther from our real spirits more and more each day. We are constantly being wooed toward false realities, especially through our televisions, that we forget who we really are.

We can receive all the materialistic idols we long for, and after we emerge from all the discarded shrink wrap and styrofoam, we will discover that it really isn't that special. We have these great buildups of expectations only to be left in a state of sad realization that harmony and love live only in the simplest things in life, not in the factory-produced piles of trash we numbly accumulate.

To live life is to lose all we have and see life as it has always been and always will be: simple yet pure. We are living life backwards as we teach people to strive for all the "stuff" they want in their lives. We need to show our children that the man or woman that lives under a tree in the park experiences life more than the CEO who is constantly worried about how well their stocks are doing. A materialistic life is an endless well that we can never fill with happiness no matter how hard we try.

We wake up to our carpeted world and stroll the concrete to our cars, then we spend eight hours in a tile-floored building before taking our cars back to our carpeted houses. When is the last time we have actually touched the earth? When is the last time we have felt a blade of grass tickle our backs? Just imagine the percentage of time we spend away from Mother Nature and we can begin to understand why we are so angry and lost. A simple middle-of-the-night excursion to our backyards as we look to the glowing moon in the crisp early morning air can bring us more stabilization to our life than pills, therapy, or toys ever will.

The Diary of Jeff Mangum & Neutral Milk Hotel

goethe3 — Mon, 15 Jan 2007 02:21:00 +0000

I had heard of the band Neutral Milk Hotel before, but never owned an album or had an opportunity to hear the music. Recently, as if driven by some force, I traveled to Papa Jazz records in Five Points and sought out a Neutral Milk Hotel album. I purchased On Avery Island. It would be the beginning to a change in my life.

The music, with its clanky aurora, made me take a different approach from the glossy tones of current radio playlists. The poetic, macabre imagery made me tilt my head like a dog trying to understand human language. It was strange, but beautiful.

I checked some info on the web about the band and discovered the wave of praise for In the Aeroplane Over the Sea album, so I traveled back to Papa Jazz to buy it. As I listened to the album and its themes of suffering, I found myself mesmerized. The tragic stories of Jeff Mangum's intense but ultimately unattainable love for a girl, Anne Frank, who had died decades before his time, a two-headed boy in a jar of formaldehyde making a radio for the one he loves, and Siamese sisters freezing to death as they await an animal to eat them so they can be warm in its belly were a delicate intertwining of tragedy and hope. It is the most beautiful anthology of music I have ever heard. Each story feeds into the theme of ultimate, true love that lasts even after desolation and death.

In Kim Cooper's book 331/3: In the Aeroplane Over the Sea and on internet websites, people talk of Jeff Mangum's openly soulful praise for Jesus in "The King of Carrot Flowers Part 2 &3," but, when I listen to the song, I hear something much different. Rather than using Jesus Christ as a proper noun and stating his love for his religion, I believe Mangum uses "Jesus Christ" as an interjection to state his mournful epiphany of true love toward the one he is anamoured with: "I love you, Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ, I love you, yes I do." It is more than a simple claim of loving someone, but a heart-wrenching cry of complete devotion. Each character on the album is willing to give their complete selves to the one they adore, even if it means that love will never be allowed to bloom.

Anne Frank's diary marks a tragic time in history, but does so through a little girl's personal, private paradigm of the world that was never meant for anyone else to see or read. I feel guilty as I read it because the diary's unfiltered pain, love, and despair were meant as a therapeutic way for a young girl to deal with the collapse of the world around her. In the Aeroplane Over the Sea is Jeff Mangum's personal diary of dreams and raw emotions. I feel just as guilty as I listen to the words of his intense longing and dismal hopefulness, especially after I realized that the album's sad, tragic characters are really a metaphor for Jeff and the way he feels. Mangum is the two-headed boy trapped in the jar of time trying to make music; Anne Frank's and his souls are the Siamese sisters who can only live as one once they are digested in the bowels of history. Jeff Mangum's love is real, but yet it can only be attained in a celestial place (time machine) where time and death cease to exist and only love thrives with all its power:

"...and in my dreams you're alive
And you're crying
Move your mouth into mine,
Soft and sweet;
Rings of flowers 'round your eyes
And I love you, nineteen-forty and five as we leave.

Brother, see we are one in the same
And you left with your head filled with flames,
And you watched as your brains fell out through your teeth.
Push the pieces in place,
Make your smile sweet to see;
Don't you take this away.
I'm still wanting my tongue on your cheek.

And when we break, we wait for a miracle.
God is a place where some holy spectacle lies.
When we break, we'll wait for our miracle.
God is a place where we will wait for the rest of our lives..."

from "Two-Headed Boy Part 2" Jeff Mangum Live @ Jittery Joe's (video below)

It is no surprise that after In the Aeroplane Over the Sea that Jeff Mangum disappeared from the music industry, except as a ghost that shows up here and there. He has exposed himself completely with his last Neutral Milk Hotel album, and how can he ever begin to craft another album once he has laid-bare his soul? It would be like Anne Frank, who always wanted to be a published writer, releasing a novel after the world has read the secrets of her personal diary. Jeff Mangum now lives in a bubble of suspended time as In the Aeroplane Over the sea, an allusion to the vessel carrying their ashes, continues to silently, softly spread like a dandelion clock being blown to the wind.

Proud Americans?

goethe3 — Sat, 30 Dec 2006 12:59:00 +0000

Last night, as I drove home from Greenville, I searched the van's radio dial to hear the last moments of USC's Liberty Bowl effort. I happened to stop on a station that had a caller describing how he was going to stay up all night so he doesn't miss the Saddam Hussein execution. He tried to rationalize his fervor for the hanging by saying he had a personal interest in it because he was a soldier or something like that.

There is never a reason to murder another person. Even if they did kill hundreds of people like Hussein or, as in the case of Jeffrey Dahmer, tried to make zombies and eat some pieces of the people he slaughtered, we should never celebrate murder. Most pro-capital punishment zealots are Christians who ignore everything that the bible preaches to them and vote to have their states maintain capital punishment laws. Just last week California and Florida had to put a moratorium on death sentences because they were botching lethal injections and missing the veins of prisoners, therefore causing long, painful deaths. I wonder how many people responded with, "Those murderers deserved to die slowly and painfully!" and had no idea why any of those people were on death row in the first place?

What kind of society do we live in where people laugh and joke of another person's death but yet still claim to be devoted to what ever religious philosophies they carry with them on a daily basis? It's strange how the European people try to save us and call out for us to think before we act, like with the Iraq invasion. Our response to help? Ignore and bully on. Remember "Freedom Fries"? Now we see how childish we acted when the world said how irrational it would be to bomb Baghdad. They cried out again about the execution of Hussein, but did we listen? No. I wake up this morning and see pictures of Saddam Hussein wrapped in a white shroud and bloody splotches around his neck. I should be proud of that?

"Thou shall not murder" is a commandment, but we try to alter it to, "Thou shall not murder, unless someone murders your loved ones, or if you just don't like the person accused." I look at it in a different way: "An eye for an eye makes everyone blind."

I had an art teacher in high school who said she was going to turn off all her lights and electricity that evening because Pee Wee Gaskins was going to be executed in the electric chair. I asked why, and she responded that she wanted him to get a little extra juice. Seeing that kind of mentality for blood is frightening and sickening. I remember watching a 9/11 tribute for the city of New York days after the catastrophe and Richard Gere came out and told the audience of firefighters, police officers, and rescue workers that we have to learn to forgive even if it is not that most popular sentiment at the time. They booed him and then said they would boycott his movies. Forgiveness, the same thing talked about in the bible and many religious texts, is the essence to living a life of morality, but we scorn it and take it for weakness. Jesus died for our sins, but our sins are much worse today than the ones he sacrificed himself for 2,005 years ago.

It doesn't take much imagination to think of what Jesus Christ's response to the Hussein execution, or to any execution for that matter, would be if he were alive today. However, if he did live today the way he would be treated would be horrendous. Our society would shun him for befriending Mary, a so-called prostitute, and tell him to shut up as we looped the noose around Hussein's neck just like we did to the religious leaders around the world today who tried to tell us what we were doing was wrong. Our historical record is shaping up to be one of bloodshed, egotism, and animal-like responsiveness as each day brings more to be sad and embarrassed about.

A few months ago a man went into a small Amish schoolhouse and took several young girls hostage. When the Amish men stormed the school to save their children, the man began shooting as many young Amish girls as he could. Several little, innocent souls were killed, and then the gunman killed himself. The Amish community was devastated and eventually tore down the little schoolhouse. Through all the anguish and sadness the Amish community then found it in their hearts to forgive the gunman.

Religious leaders ranked the Amish display of forgiveness after the schoolhouse shooting in Pennsylvania as the top story of the year.

"I believe the Amish people have practiced what their religious belief has dictated," said Imam Abdul Barghouti, president of Northern Nevada Muslim Community in Sparks. "I hope that the religious communities have learned from them that regardless how horrible the crime may be there is always space for forgiveness, knowing that god can only render absolute justice."

The First Part Last

goethe3 — Wed, 20 Dec 2006 14:14:00 +0000

The other day I read a part from a book that was amazingly beautiful. It made me stop and experience a wonderful epiphany of life and truth that still lingers with me today. It is from the first chapter of Angela Johnson's The First Part Last:

"So last week when it looked like Feather probably wasn't ever going to sleep through the night, I lay her on my stomach and breathed her in. My daughter is eleven days old.
And that sweet new baby smell...The smell of baby shampoo, formula, and my mom's perfume. It made me cry like I hadn't since I was a little kid.

It scared the hell out of me. Then, when Feather moved on my stomach like one of those mechanical dolls in the store windows at Christmas, the tears dried up. Like that.

Things have to change.

I've been thinking about it. Everything. And when Feather opens her eyes and looks at me, I already know there's change. But I figure if the world were really right, humans would live life backward and do the first part last. They'd be all knowing in the beginning and innocent in the end.

Then everybody could end their life on their momma or daddy's stomach in a warm room, waiting for the soft morning light."

Unnatural

goethe3 — Sun, 10 Dec 2006 22:11:00 +0000

Our culture has become unnatural.

Just think if we lived outside of the chaotic industrial machine that enslaves most Americans now. Our lives would be spent with the ones we love, doing the things we love to do, and our minds would be free from the industrialization which imprisons our creativity. Screw the electronics that populate our lives; they are merely dangling carrots that enchant and distract us from the real hell our lives are becoming.

Creativity is needed now more than ever, but we are being conned into the cookie-cutter, shiny-plastic realm of fantasy life. If you are reading these words, then you are trapped too.

Let's plan our escape...

Tortured Turkeys

goethe3 — Mon, 13 Nov 2006 02:31:00 +0000

(A Thanksgiving Triolet)

Turkeys were never a part of Thanksgiving Day
Until farmers concocted a deadly campaign.
"Turkeys go with Thanksgiving!" they began to say.
Turkeys were never a part of Thanksgiving Day

Their cruel torture and slaughter is unforgiving;
Pumped up with steroids, their legs crack under the strain.
Turkeys were never a part of Thanksgiving Day
Until farmers concocted a deadly campaign.

(Buy Tofurky Instead)

The Experience & Beauty of Wayne Coyne

goethe3 — Tue, 27 Jun 2006 04:44:00 +0000

As we grow older we gain valuable insights from the pain we experience, but our society looks down upon age as a repugnant disease. America celebrates the untalented spirit of youth and tries to silence those who they deem “older”. If we allow the creative spirit to thrive and continue, we see the results in heart-stopping fashion. Artists, musicians, writers, and athletes tend to reach a zenith as they grow older, but often our society tries to dissuade such efforts and inject the situation with a bland neophyte.

Wayne Coyne is a perfect example. When he first started the band The Flaming Lips, their songs were at times wobbly and contained uninspired lyrics, but after dealing with the chaos of success and the heartbreak of disaster, Coyne found a voice that resonated with unbridled truth and honesty in albums like The Soft Bulletin, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, and At War with the Mystics. Songs like “Do You Realize?”, “The Spark that Bled”, and “The Sound of Failure” contain ideas that resonate with me greatly because Coyne has passed through the stage of trying to impress people for attention, and has now settled into the comfortable role of producing great art.

It becomes hilarious to watch as the new talents enter the world of art and our society celebrates them because of their youthfulness, but yet they lack that magical inhibition that they will soon gain with experience. Think of all the silly love songs that teenage musicians wail on pop radio and then compare such trite products to the powerful edicts of people like Roger Waters and Neil Peart, who write a powerful truth that can alter your ideals in a single sentence. I don't think anyone can claim such a powerful epiphany with a tune like “Hit Me Baby One More Time”.

Creativity is like a peach. When you pick it too early it can be tart and unenjoyable, but if given time, it can produce some of the most joyuous nectar ever known to man.

“Do You Realize?” by The Flaming Lips
Do you realize that you have the most beautiful face?
Do you realize we're floating in space?
Do you realize that happiness makes you cry?
Do you realize that everyone you know someday will die?

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes, let them know
You realize that life goes fast;
It's hard to make the good things last.
You realize the sun doesn't go down,
It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round.

“Mr. Ambulance Driver” by The Flaming Lips
Waiting for the ambulance to come.
Hoping that it doesn't come too late.
Hearing the sirens in the distance,
“Hold on! Help is on the way!”

Mr. Ambulance Driver, I'm right here beside her,
And, though I'll live, somehow I've found,
Mr. Ambulance Driver, I'm not a real survivor
'Cause I'm wishing that I was the one that
Wasn't gonna be here anymore.

Oh, we can't trade places.
Our lives are strangely our own.
Mr. Ambulance Driver, tell me
For everyone that dies, someone new is born?

"Lies, Lies, Lies Ye-ah"

goethe3 — Tue, 27 Jun 2006 04:40:00 +0000

America is choking on its own vomit of lies. Our culture has become obsessed with getting what they want at any expense that we don't understand the consequences of such behavior. Newton proved that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, and that applies to our own actions and spirits. The whole mindset of this country has become “grab what you can and run”; it is causing the rapid decay of all we know: drug companies assigning medicine to patients who don't need it, inflated insurance costs (what is insurance but a way to just make money anyway?), gas heights when there is no shortage, and on and on and on.

As Americans we eat everything thrown our way (literally and realistically). Watch any commercials on TV and everyone is a lie. Children are being taught to lie, or at least deny, even if they don't have to. Lawyers can always find “an expert” to challenge another “expert's” findings in court cases. We hear on the news how we are finding new ways to help save the human race, but later find those same “innovations” are actually killing us.

The state of America reminds me of the Wizard in The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard controls this intimading machine to scare people into being obedient, but behind the curtain is a powerless old white man whose only power is the use of fear and deception. The rest on the world has found this curtain, just like Toto did in the film, and they see the frail, true nature of our country: a false idealism that has been created to trick people into compliance.

We need to learn to live through a paradigm of love, and shed this desire to out do everyone through unneeded competition. The people of this country have beautiful ideas, but they are constanly being stifled by the continuous sea of lies that tell us that we are not smart enough, not beautiful enough, and not successful enough. We need to charge through the Wizard's curtain and kick his ass. Our ideals are supposed to be embedded through democracy, but, if the current accpeting totalitarianism continues, our freedoms will continue to rot until we are left in a state of regretful enlightenment.

Vegan Parenting

goethe3 — Sun, 25 Jun 2006 22:43:00 +0000

People always seem to suggest that raising a child vegan is hurting them. The dairy industry has created such a fallacy about its products that people believe that they help you grow and make you stronger. Nothing is farther from the truth...

Killer Bloggers

goethe3 — Mon, 17 Apr 2006 12:21:00 +0000

It is a little scary finding out that another Blogger.com user has been arrested for murder. This time it is Kevin Ray Underwood in Oklahoma, who killed a little girl, put her body in a plastic tub, and bought meat tenderizer so he could eat her. It makes you wonder about the lackadaisical comments that people fling around on their blog spaces and what is really going on in their minds.

Here is a strange entry he wrote in September 2004:

"The first blog makes me want to kill people. Speaking of killing people, I went back on my Lexapro today. Not because the doctor told me too or anything, but when he took me off of it, I still had five refills left, so I got one today. I've been off of it since May, and I was doing pretty good, until about the last month or so. I'm still not having much of a social phobia problem, but I'm getting depressed again. Yesterday I was really depressed the entire day. I was so depressed yesterday, it was one off those times where I'm so depressed that my chest hurts. I wonder if that happens to anybody else? When I get really depressed that happens to me. Like usual, the main thing I've been getting depressed about lately is my lack of a sex life.

I mean it, I really need a girlfriend. It's not just depressing anymore, it's actually starting to have a negative effect on my mental state I think. For example, my fantasies are just getting weirder and weirder. Dangerously weird. If people knew the kinds of things I think about anymore, I'd probably be locked away. No probably about it, I know I would be."

Here's another entry from February:

"That doesn't stop me from getting drunk occasionally, usually when I'm depressed. Which is a bad idea, because pretty much every time I get drunk, I get depressed, whether I was depressed before I started or not. Pretty much every time I get drunk, I end up punching brick walls, or at least fighting the urge to punch things and freak out. Especially if I'm in a party situation where there's more than two or three people around. Because I can't handle the social interaction, and I get pissed off. Pissed off at myself for not being able to be social, and pissed off at the other people because they can, and pissed off at God for making me be this way. If there is a God. Pretty much the only time I believe in God is when I want to blame Him for something. Or, when I'm really depressed, to cry and beg him to make me better, to make whatever is wrong in my brain go away, so that I can live like a normal person.

That's all I want in life, is to be able to live like a normal person.

I've been really bad again lately. I need to have the doctor write me a prescription for more Lexapro or something, and start taking that again. I wonder if they even still make Lexapro? I checked some of those online pharmacies, to see if I could get it cheaper from Canada or something, but none of them I've looked at have it. They have five or six other antidepressants and anti-anxiety medications, but not that one.I've been really bad lately, probably worse than I've ever been.

Except for work, I've hardly left the apartment in close to two months. I keep not going to the store until I'm completely out of stuff to eat and HAVE to go. Until a couple of days ago, I hadn't even taken my trash out in weeks. I could barely even get into my kitchen for all the piles of trash everywhere and on every available counter space. Because along with the social anxiety, this time I seem to have developed a tremendous apathy. I just sit here at the computer every minute of the day, when I'm not at work. A week or so ago, I spent my day off sitting here at the computer, barely moving from the chair, for 14 hours. I just can't make myself do anything, even simple stuff, like pick up something that falls on the floor. I'm like 'Oh, I'll pick that up later, maybe,' and then it lays there for a week."

It is strange to see a blog after the blogger has been arrested because people run there to leave comments on the site about the killer, some against his actions and some supporting him. It is also strange how technology has exposed the mental insights of killers, but it may also bring celebrity and attention to those who seek it. I think Andy Warhol's synopsis of "15 minutes of fame" is shrinking down with the shortening of our attention spans to "30 seconds of fame."

You can read his complete blog here: Strange Things are Afoot at the Circle K.

Here's his other blog: So You Want to Learn Japanese?

Me and You and Everyone We Know

goethe3 — Sun, 15 Jan 2006 16:15:00 +0000

Such a great film...

))<>((

Stanley "Tookie" Williams

goethe3 — Tue, 13 Dec 2005 20:27:00 +0000

Stanley "Tookie" Williams was executed early this morning because he wouldn't admit to a crime he said he didn't do. Although he has been nominated multiple times for the Noble Peace Prize because of his work with helping children understand the pitfalls of gangs, Arnold Schwarzenegger deemed that Williams had not reached any level of redemption so he had to die.

Several years ago my wife gave me a copy of Tookie's book Life in Prison, which I have read to my students at the beginning of every school year. The book talks about how Williams started the Crips street gang with a friend of his and how life in a prison is something that is harsh, rough, and unbearable. It was very difficult coming to school today and having to talk with students about Williams's execution and how redemption can be held at different standards for different people.

Tookie preached about the tragedies that can occur by joining the "gang life", and now that voice has been taken away. Martin Luther King, Jr. once said, "An eye for an eye makes everyone blind." I think that quote applies well to this sad event carried out today. Tookie's death opens up many issues, including whether redemption is attainable in our society, which happens to be bombing and forcing its dysfunctional democratic views on many other countries throughout the world. It opens up the question of whether the death penalty is a barbaric approach to our societal problems and whether our prisons serve no purpose but as a warehouse for prisoners.

America has become a society of "play it safe" mentalities. Decisions are made based on what doesn't rock the boat and then they are covered up quickly so they avoid anymore exposure. I guess it is our fault, too, because we let our shortened memory spans forget about injustices and prejudices that happen today. What about the Terence Garner case (Click here to see)? Is that now forgotten that the TV screens have faded on their coverage? Maybe Tookie will change that; I know for me I can never look at Schwarzenegger in the same light again.

http://www.tookie.com

Katrina, Karma, and Criticism

goethe3 — Sat, 03 Sep 2005 01:09:00 +0000

Devastation.

Death.

Denial.

Hurricane Katrina swept through Miami and then made her onslaught into the Gulfcoast, ravishing the land and lives of millions. Now, days after the disaster, the sadness and horror reverberate through the marrow of all Americans. Anger and despair build a concoction that floods our hearts and minds like the streets of the destroyed Gulfcoast towns and parishes.

Response and help was delayed and the blame-games begin with accusations of racial preferencing, political affiliation, and human error. New Orleans, with its beautiful streets that I have never walked down except in the corridors of my imagination, receives the brunt of criticism as the people struggle to find food and water. It upsets me that the rescue efforts and supplies were delayed and are finally reaching the Gulfcoast, but I think the failure to reach the victims sooner depends on many mixtures of decisions and assumptions. We live in a country where we think that our power and money gives us a free-pass to disaster; hurricanes, storms, and wars just don't happen here, but we forget to look in our past at all the horrors that fill our short history and become scared and outraged when disasters happen to us that affect people around the world on a daily basis.

The help was delayed because the people were poor. All Americans of all colors were questioning those who stayed whether in New Orleans, Gulfport, Biloxi, or any other town. People assume the poor have a way out and often they don't. Most of the rich whites, blacks, latinos, and asians got out; we hear stories of people renting a limo to Chicago or a taxi to Atlanta for thousands of dollars. In New Orleans with its African American majority shows a slice of the pain of the poverished, but other Gulfcoast cities show that the poor, whether white or Latino, were also left unaided. The poor are the victims of this disaster, not just one race or culture.

Aid has come late, but there are many areas that are less populated than the major cities being spotlighted in the news that have people dying and suffering still and aid is not on its way to those forgotten and unseen places. Its becoming a contest of who can shout and scream the loudest to bring the media to their area. Let's help everyone and take the beaurocracy out of saving human life.

As I watched the Hurricane Relief Concert on NBC a few minutes ago, Kayne West refused to read his prescribe que-card monologue and began to go into a incoherent tirade about George Bush hating black people and how they are going to shoot blacks in the streets of New Orleans as a shocked, que-card reading Mike Myers looked on. I am sure West's comments will be on news programs and shows for the days to come, but to throw such an unplanned and wobbly iconoclastic speech to Americans during a Red Cross fundraising effort after a sweet duo by New Orleans' own Harry Connick, Jr. and Winston Marsalis was an awful display of humanity. To publicly criticize a delay in response, which there was, and then make a statement that West was going to call his business manager "soon" to send as much money as he can to help New Orleans is hypocritical. The federal response was delayed, but any help Kayne West thought to offer is even later than that of the government, and the Gulfcoast people of all races are hurt, deprived, and hungry, not just the media-selected people that the news channels choose to spotlight. West, who rode out the milder Katrina in Miami at his lavish MTV VMA party in which Suge Knight was shot in the leg, needs to think before he speaks. People need help not money-centered stars to begin a war of words as the citizens of the Gulfcoast pray to get diapers, MREs, and water.

There were and are fuck-ups all around. We need to get off this egotistic-pedestal we have for ourselves and understand that we are not separate from the world: we live and die, experience heartbreak and death just like the other cultures of the world. Our litigious mindset makes us often dissect and research everything so blame can be thrown upon a designated scapegoat. We need to let love light our hearts and minds, and not let hindsight and what-ifs slow our progress. We need to extend our help and hands to the victims of the Gulfcoast and follow the lead of Houston, Texas, the first benevolent people to stand up and help.

Osama Bin Laden's plan for America is and was not a secret: he wanted to attack America in a way to draw them into the Middle East so that once involved in the region, we would would be trapped in combat for a long, long time. Our country's resources are spreading thin and our resolve is being tested. We need to follow our principles more than our emotions. Principles never change, they are what keeps a country together and strong, but our principles are being tossed to the wayside for raw, unfiltered emotion because it is always easier to hate and point out mistakes than to love and spend the energy to help others. America will experience many other disasters such as the ones that have devastated our past, but we must stick to the principles we cherish like love, trust , and hardwork to light our way down these dark days that will haunt and test our basic fabrics of humanity.

Ordinary people are the heroes and humanitarians that keep this country together. Their love and help and will get us through the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. George Bush and Kayne West won't be jumping from helicopters saving others or opening up their homes for victims like Hardy Jackson. Ordinary Americans will. Everyday Americans were donating to the Red Cross, offering food, and helping the victims days before all the celebrity Fairweather Johnsons. We started the healing and our love will mend all harm and hurt that our countrymen and women are enduring. That's the American way and it will thrive in this crisis as well.

Click here to help the Gulfcoast.

Perfection / Addiction / Obsession

goethe3 — Sat, 23 Jul 2005 03:36:00 +0000

Perfection - Addiction - Obsession. Are they all the same but just wear different masks? I become obsessed with concepts (examples in the past have been stamp collecting, astronomy, and hockey to name a few), but that obsession always links up with addiction in that I need to expose myself to that topic or medium constantly to satisfy my interest. However, perfection plays a part as well. I will have to have an original piece or I precisely check objects for imperfections, and, if not right, I am haunted by their flaws.

Here are typical, everyday examples of these forces at work in my life:

Buying the Third - whether music, books, or any product, I always buy the third one on the shelf, unless it is damaged in some way.
Mustard "S" - when I make a tomato sandwich, I always have to put the mustard on in a "S" shape.
Minute Details - I always look at the differences between variations like taillights of a 2004 Sedona compared to a 2003 Sedona, and I file them away in my head as I drive.
Instant Education - when I discover something new that I didn't anything about, I have to learn everything about that topic as quickly as I can.
Gobble, Gobble - I often will horde all I can of a particular interest so I am comfortable that I have it all.
Mapping - before I drive anywhere I completely draw the route I will take in my mind and must take that predetermined route precisely.
Assumed Knowledge - I learn many things, but my brain assumes that everyone knows the material as well so I hardly discuss any epiphanies I have had, although rare exceptions show I have been mistaken.
Coin Flipping - Often, when I have a wrenching decision to make, I'll flip coins, or anything that has discernible sides, to help aide me in that decision.
Unfocused View - I did this more as a child, but sometimes do it as an adult. When I spectated some event or activity, I would unfocus my eyes some and stare at the event with utter intensity in hopes of influencing an outcome.
Whisper Travel - The idea of throwing a whisper into the wind and imagining its complete and detailed travel across the country to its intended destination, such as when the Braves were in the last innings of Game 7 of the World Series in 1991 and I wanted to offer encouragement.

When I think about the examples above I realize that there is nothing wrong with them (they don't really hurt others or myself), but the comparison of how I think "I should be or act" makes me skeptical. We always seem to compare ourselves to what a typical American would do or think, but that concept consists of a false reality and is rather flawed. A mustard "S" makes me me and to try and eliminate it from my life is killing a part of me. Isn't that the tale of America: partial suicides in hopes of a personal, utopian Americana?

Preacher

goethe3 — Wed, 20 Jul 2005 13:27:00 +0000

I remember going to band rehearsals in the mid-90's and a friend of mine, Jason, would rush in from just getting the newly released Preacher comic. He would tell me some of the storylines and show me the fantastic covers, but I, never a comic reader except for a couple of copies of Beautiful Stories for Ugly Children and Tales from the Crypt when I was younger, didn't weigh the notion of jumping into the series myself. After a few chuckles about a cover which depicted a guy who had shot himself in the face, we would begin playing through our set list for that week's gig and Preacher would slip from my mind.

About a year later I had surgery and Jason came to my house to visit me as I recovered. He brought me a book, Preacher: Gone to Texas, as a get-well present. It was a trade paperback book that collected the first set of Preacher comics. Still in pain and hazy from all of the medications, I put the book on my night stand and went to sleep. When I awoke, I reached for the book and began to read the first few pages. A couple of hours later I had read the whole book and desperately wanted to see how the story continued. The artwork combined with an addicting flood of plot points had made me a Preacher addict instantly.

When I was better and could move out of the bed, one of the first things I did was drive to the local comic book store, "Heroes and Dragons." I had never gone in the store before and didn't know where anything was or how to find any Preacher comics. I asked for help at the counter and the guy showed me where the trade paperbacks were and I bought the next two Preacher editions, Until the End of the World and Proud Americans. I read those quickly, too, digesting the dark storylines as Jesse Custer's conflicts became deeper and more disturbing, and I had to go back to buy the last Preacher trade paperback that was available at that time, Ancient History.

I had gotten to the point now that the Preacher saga had my complete devotion, and with no trade paperbacks left to purchase, I began to search for the actual comic books to pick up where I had left off in the storyline. I went back to the comic store and asked about buying Preacher back issues since I was slightly behind in the series, which, at that time, was about to begin the War in the Sun episodes. As I looked through what little back issues they had and at the price they were asking for each comic, I realized how popular the series was at that moment. The salesman guided me to the glass case where he showed me the Preacher #1 comic and he was asking several hundred dollars for it. I, only concerned with catching up with the story, bought a couple of back issues and purchased the current Preacher on the just released shelf.

The next couple of months saw me catch up with the Preacher story line and I began to wait the agonizing month for the newest Preacher release. I signed up to be saved a Preacher every month and would count down the days until the I could get my next fix. I had no idea how to collect comics or how to keep them in pristine condition, so I bought a white cardboard box to the store the comics in and started buying boards and plastic to put each new issue in. I also began trying to collect the older issues, which I had read in the trade paperbacks, and searched on eBay to fill in the holes, but anything under issue #5 was too expensive for my blood.

Once, while I was in Beaufort, I came across a little comic book store and looked in the Preacher back issue section. There, to my surprise, were the first five Preacher issues. They were not priced, and I felt like I had found the holy grail because Preacher #1 had become a myth to me: it was always too expensive and seemed unattainable. Shakingly, I took the comics up to the clerk and asked how much he wanted for them. He looked at me, the only customer in the store, and said $75 for all. I couldn't believe it; $75 was way cheaper than people were asking for just issue #1 on eBay, so I quickly accepted the deal. As the clerk bagged the comics I noticed he gave me all the comics, which included multiple copies of issues #2, #3, #4, and #5, and my heart fell to the floor with shock. When I got into the car I gazed into the bag to make sure I wan't dreaming. With the exception of one or two comics, I had now the entire set plus the magical Preacher#1.

I continued my reading of Preacher as the new issues emerged and would talk to Jason about the story and about Garth Ennis's statement that he would only produce about 60 or so Preacher issues. With Alamo, the Preacher saga began to come to a close and I was excited because I knew that the question of how Jesse would find and destroy God would be answered, but I was also sad because the magical effect Preacher had upon my life was about to end. I didn't really read any other comics, although I wanted something to capture my attention like Preacher had. With the last few issues of Preacher I also started reading the new DC Vertigo comic Flinch, but it didn't grab me like Preacher did, so when I bought the last Preacher I never returned to the comic book store again, not even for Flinch.

In time I sold my Preacher collection and went back to my routine of life. The storylines and artwork have begun to fade from my memory, so as I looked online a few days ago to buy a complete set of Preacher trade paperbacks, I stumbled across a full-run collection for a cheap price and bought it. I am not sure if there are comics out there that I am missing that would capture my attention like Preacher, but as I await for the collection to arrive, all I can think about is returning to that special time of my life when the beauty of language and art emerged into a perfect union called Preacher.

Willy Wonka

goethe3 — Mon, 18 Jul 2005 03:46:00 +0000

My wife, when she was a child, wanted to watch Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory as it premiered on national television in the late seventies, which was a big deal because there were only three stations at the time and the rerunning of movies were few and far between. Her parents, however, used the movie as a form of discipline, not allowing her to watch the broadcast after breaking a rule, so she spent the evening peeking from the door jamb of her room, trying to get any kind of glimpse of the film. I think that experience made the movie even more magical for her and the film lifted itself into a special place in her heart.

When I think of the film, I am always drawn to the scene when they are licking flavored wallpaper and Gene Wilder turns to Veruca and says," We are the music-makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams." I considered Wilder's ability to bring the spontaneity and crazed-compassion of Willy Wonka to the screen as the strongest element of the original motion picture. So, when Tim Burton's Charlie and the Chocolate Factory opened this weekend, we had to go see it and compare the two versions.

I was concerned about the new movie at first because so many people are currently making dreadfully awful remakes of films and television shows. My other concern, of course, was the affinity the American public has created for Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka character, and how Johnny Depp would respond to tackling such a well-known role. The original, even though Roald Dahl wrote its screenplay, drifted from the novel a bit so I also wondered if the new film would follow the novel's course more or not.

I have always been an admirer of Tim Burton, seeing all of the movies he has made (they even showed a clip of his next movie, Corpse Bride, in the new film's preview), including his first film Frankenweenie, and have always wanted to come from his movies excited and inspired. A past student of mine, Perry Walston, even played a lead role in one of the films Burton made in Alabama called Big Fish, so I was eager to see how Burton would do this time.

When you like an artist's work it can be hard to give a negative critique because our society tends to take stars and become devotees to them through thick and thin. I think that is a dangerous way to support an artist because an artist needs to receive realistic feedback on what works and what doesn't. Many bands have fans like that, who will take a record that was not well-received and still claim that it contains moments of brilliance. In truth, we all have down times. Even the most creative artists in the world experience failure, which is good because, I believe, only success can arise from failure.

Although I am a big Tim Burton fan, I must acknowledge that he has had some failures. I have always enjoyed his creative, Robert Smith-like approach to movies, but sometimes they have soured. The biggest disappointment, I suppose, was Batman Returns. Even going to see The Nightmare Before Christmas on opening day I came from the film with a feeling of approval, but I still felt like I was wanting the movie to be greater than the film's actually ability to be great on its own. I found Big Fish, as I watched it with much anticipation at my student's special opening day screening, was the same way, so when I purchased tickets to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory from Fandango, I was silently hoping that Tim Burton could return to the brilliance of old with films like Edward Scissorhands and Beetlejuice.

Happily, I can say that Charlie and the Chocolate Factory does work very well. The story line, especially with the revelations of Willy Wonka's past childhood, makes the film a much more cohesive whole. Despite having a xeroxed-copied Oompa-Loompa throughout the movie, Burton, through his wit and artistic vision, was able to recreate the Wonka masterpiece into its own realm of magic. Johnny Depp did a fantastic job of making the personality of Willy Wonka separate from Gene Wilder's adaptation, which is a strong reason for the film to exist as an alternative to the original and, thankfully, not a verbatim copy.

I think the Oompa-Loompas' songs were one of the most exciting parts about the film because there formats and atmosphere fit well to each child's fault that they sung about. Also, the artistic detail that Burton, a fabulous artist himself, brings to the film, like the crooked Bucket shack and the details of the factory, succeeds fabulously. All in all, I find my past affections for Tim Burton's work renewed, and I can hardly wait to view Corpse Bride on its opening night as well.

I think Tim Burton, or for that matter anyone else thinking about riding Wonka's success, should never make a film of Roald Dahl's sequel, Charlie and the Glass Elevator, because even Dahl himself admitted that it was a book he wished he had never written; he had only produced the sequel following pressure from his agents after the original film's world-wide acceptance. Roald Dahl, a very interesting writer who has always despised parents and schooling, and Tim Burton, one of the only original directors in Hollywood today, compliment each other's abilities wonderfully. It would be amazing to see what they could have produced together if Dahl was still alive.

Plath

goethe3 — Sun, 17 Jul 2005 03:28:00 +0000

I just finished watching the Gwyneth Paltrow movie Sylvia which is based on the life of the great American confessional poet Sylvia Plath. Although the movie has been out for sometime, it has always been able to avoid my viewership for some reason or another, so I queued it up on my Blockbuster.com account and received it the other week. I suppose I have heard or seen somewhere that the movie was not considered to be too great, and maybe that is why I have procrastinated in seeing a movie about a poet that has always moved and inspired me.

Now that I have seen the film, I have to agree that it was abysmal. The story line was slow and the plot points fell into so many jumbled pieces that it was often frustrating to watch. I couldn't help but feel that the movie was making an effort to try and mask Ted Hughes's mistreatment of Plath with excuses of her sanity, or lack thereof. In one scene, they even have Sylvia Plath trying to admit that Hughes's affair was an after effect of her not trusting him. It's exacerbating to watch a movie about such a magnanimous person, but yet the screenwriters are boxing her life into a drab existence that I find extremely offensive to her actual genius.

There was another film that came out years ago called The Bell Jar, which was based on her autobiographical novel. The movie's director took some liberties with the script, even including an element of lesbianism that Ted Hughes, at the time, found revolting. He sued the film company and the film makers and won the lawsuit. Ted Hughes, who was the Poet Laureate of England, died of cancer in 1998 shortly after the release of his book Birthday Letters which contained poems about his relationship with Plath and his subsequent mistress. Throughout his life Ted Hughes would never talk about Plath, and it was a shock when the book was released to an eager public that has always wanted to know his thoughts about those tragic events. I think he continuously wrestled with the demons of Plath's suicide and saw how his serial-adultery affected the world's affinity for her work and the world's disgust for him.

Ted Hughes's mistress, Assia Wevill, would later commit suicide in a very similar fashion to Sylvia Plath. With her daughter, Shura (fathered by Hughes), in tow, Wevill dragged a mattress into the kitchen, feed Shura and herself sleeping medicine, and then turned on the unlit oven's gas. Plath didn't murder her children, she stuffed towels around their door frame to insure their survival when she took her own life. Wevill, haunted by the presence of Plath's death, tried to end her humiliation of the entire Hughes experience by destroying herself and anything that was a sign of her infidelities with Hughes, namely their daughter.

Ted Hughes seems to have lived a life filled with defense of his short time with Plath. Being the widower, he possessed the power of editorialship and would often filter any information about Plath so she was made to look like an insane buffoon and he the victim. It has always been hard to buy a Sylvia Plath volume and know that the money was going to a man that many blame for her death. Although he had passed away before the release of this film, Sylvia still seems like an effort to redeem Hughes from the shackles he has worn, and still does wear, even in his own death, in regards to the demise of Sylvia Plath.

Cinema is a powerful tool that can touch many people's lives and minds throughout the world. I think that in due time a screenplay will emerge that sheds a deeper understanding of the conflicts Sylvia Plath faced in her life, especially in her frantic final days in 1963. Until then, her works, although few, can keep even the most devoted readers flabbergasted, amazed, and speechless. Now that I think about it, maybe the "cinema of the mind" should be where Sylvia Plath succeeds best, as she dances and twists in the ballroom of ravaged rhythm and macabre metaphor.

Dreams So Real

goethe3 — Sat, 16 Jul 2005 02:06:00 +0000

As a young R.E.M. fan I rented a VHS copy of Athens, GA Inisde/Out from the local Blockbuster video store. Of course I wanted to see the R.E.M. spots in the video, but the other bands, which I didn't know of at the time, also intrigued me: the crazy rock-a-billy of The Flat Duo Jets, the smoothness and mystery of Pylon, the rawness of the Bar-B-Que Killers, and the glossy sound of Dreams So Real. In fact, as I browsed the local record store aisles after seeing the video for the first time, I came across a cassette of the movie's soundtrack and bought it since it had inspired me so much.

A few years later, as I traversed through a Haywood Mall Dollar Store in the early 90's, I came across a bin that had cassette tapes flung in it. As I fumbled through the different titles, I found several copies of Gloryline by Dreams So Real. I bought a copy and listened to the tape over and over for the next few days. It was so good that I went back and bought several more copies to give to friends. The discovery of the cassette made me realize for the first time how many great bands are shunned and should have done very well, but, maybe due to bad timing or a lack of luck, were never given the opportunities they deserved. Now that I am a little bit older I can think of several musical compositions that are wonderful, but seemed to have escaped from the limelight of mass-market appeal: Daylight by Duncan Sheik, Message for the Mess Age by NRBQ, Now It's Overhead by Now It's Overhead, Poovey's Grove by Blightobody, to just name a few.

Despite buying the album for a dollar, Gloryline has remained a constant presence in my life. I have since bought more copies of it on CD and even today, fifteen years later, I like to listen to it on long drives, especially when I head to Athens to eat at The Grit. When I think of Dreams So Real, I remember watching that Athens video and being amazed with the quality of the drummer, Drew Worsham, and the clean, crisp sound they produced as they performed "Golden."

I assumed that the band had maybe broken up since their albums were cruelly being tossed in sale bins, so I decided to look up some info on the band on the internet. As I looked through several websites, I discovered the band had indeed drifted apart, but I also learned some very terrifying news about their drummer whom I have admired for almost 18 years now.

Drew Worsham had moved away from the Athens scene to the Brunswick, GA area and was playing drums for different cover bands and working as a computer technician. He was dating a girl named Dara Jo Wasdin in December 2003 when, early one morning, Wasdin's ex-boyfriend, Joel Chris Blankenship, entered Worsham's home and shot him at close range in the face after they had started arguing. Blankenship then kidnapped Wasdin and drove her to a wooded area a few miles away where he shot her in the head and then shot himself, also in the head. Blankenship died instantly and Wasdin died the next day from her wound.

Drew Worsham amazingly survived the shooting. The bullet that had entered his skull had not reached his brain, but had lodged itself in his eye socket. Worsham lost his vision temporarily, but regained some of it back after a few days in the hospital. Fellow local musicians organized a special concert for Worsham in January 2004 at Smith's Olde Bar in Atlanta since he was uninsured and needed help with paying his medical bills.

I have never met Drew Worsham or any of the members of Dreams So Real before, but maybe this feeble blog can reveal in a small way the impact their music has had upon my life. Just in case you ever stumble across these words, Drew, I wish you all the best in your recovery.

Cat and Marc

goethe3 — Fri, 15 Jul 2005 02:49:00 +0000

Cat Stevens, a huge rock star in the 1970's, formally became a Muslim in December 1977 and then changed his name to Yusuf Islam. His story is intriguing to me because he was a man that was at the height of his success and walked away from it all. He sold all his memorabilia, entered into an arranged marriage, and began practicing his Islamic faith full time. He pops in and out of the news every now and again, such as in the eighties when he came out in support for the death sentence ordered by the Ayatollah Khomeini against novelist Salman Rushdie for writing the book The Satanic Verses. Many people were displeased and stop playing his Cat Stevens' songs on classic radio and 10,000 Maniacs pulled their cover of "Peace Train" off of their In My Tribe album. Yusuf Islam made news again recently when he was stopped from boarding a plane because authorities were worried about him being a terrorist; the guards had no idea that he used to be Cat Stevens, they had stopped him only using their narrow-minded racial profiling tactics.

In an age when almost everyone plays air guitar as a child and dreams about being on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans, it is rare to see an artist voluntarily walk away from abundant prosperity in order to follow down a path of principles and morals. Many artists, despite the stress and battles with guilt, continue to try and last through the musical machine, but are often spit out, disarrayed and broken, like Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, Michael Hutchence, and Marc Bolan.

Marc Bolan, also a huge rock star in the 1970's, had a life that interwined with Cat Stevens' in some respects: both were British rock stars, both knew each other, and both had experienced an almost spiritual transition in 1977. Bolan, a small, curly-haired, elfish figure, found himself on top of the world in 1971. He had transcended from the acoustic, bongo tunes of Tyrannosaurus Rex to the electric boogie of the revamped T. Rex. Despite not igniting the hearts of Americans with his music, Bolan found that the British fans had deemed T. Rex as the next Beatles after the massively successful single "Hot Love." T. Rextasy began to sweep across Europe and one Beatle, Ringo Starr, even joined forces with Bolan to capture the magic of their 1971 success in the film Born to Boogie.

After the earth-shattering phenomenon of Electric Warrior and the ending of Bolan's friendship with John Peel, T. Rex released their next album The Slider. The band's reputation, like the title of their new album, began to slide. Marc Bolan, once an avid vegetarian, poet, and Tolkien buff, drifted into the world of alcoholism, drugs, and egotism. His weight began to balloon up, his marriage to June Child (once Pink Floyd's secretary) ended, and members of the band began to quit including his bongo-banging sidekick Mickey Finn. As he struggled through the mid-seventies, Bolan found himself trying to reinvent the greatness he once had. He had a child, Rolan, in 1975 with his girlfriend Gloria Jones (the first to record "Tainted Love") and began to clean up his life. He started taking care of himself and began working to promote the newly emerging punk scene in Britain. On his final tour in 1977, Bolan had even invited The Damned to tour as his opening act.

In the summer of 1977 Marc Bolan released his last single "Celebrate Summer," which contained the eerie refrain, "Summer is heaven in 77," and Bolan began starring in his own television show called Marc. He helped showcase up and coming new talent like The Boomtown Rats (Bob Geldof) and Generation X (Billy Idol). In one outtake from the show, Bolan is on stage playing with his friend, and sometimes nemesis, David Bowie and falls off of the stage in the middle of the song "Standing Next to You." Marc, who ended each show with the phrase, "Keep a little Marc in your heart," would be dead exactly one week after the taping of the Bowie show.

On September 16, 1977, two weeks before his 30th birthday, Marc Bolan was killed in a late night auto crash when Gloria Jones crashed their purple Mini into a tree on a dangerous road in England. Marc, although he had an affinity for cars, never did drive and even had a premonition that he would one day die in a car crash. His premonition came true. Upon word of his death, people raced to his home and broke in stealing memorabilia, papers, and anything they could lay their hands on. Gloria Jones, still in the hospital with her jaw wired shut, had no idea her home was being ransacked. Although their son received some money from the estate, Jones does not receive any of Bolan's royalties. It has been a rather dark mystery as to who is receiving the money being made from Marc's music. Royalties are still being sent to an offshore account and being claimed by an unknown source.

Despite their ups and downs in the musical world, Cats Stevens and Marc Bolan still find their music alive and well in the covering of their songs by some of the most famous acts in the world today, like Sheryl Crow and Morrissey, and their work being featured in movie soundtracks and television commercials. 1977 found the death of one and the rebirth of another. Their stories reveal the pitfalls of excess and fame, and show the truth of the old gypsy curse: "May you get what you want and want what you get."

Brat Camp

goethe3 — Thu, 14 Jul 2005 01:17:00 +0000

This evening I saw a new show on ABC called "Brat Camp." It is about a wilderness camp in Oregon called Sage Walk (click here to see) that tries to help at-risk children who have ran out of options. As I watched the teens strip themselves from all their worldly pleasures, I realized we all need to go to Brat Camp. These teens are some of the most troubled, drug-addicted, boisterous Americans there are and they, upon their emergence into a natural life, find the meaning and purpose of living as a trusting unit.

Our current society seems to stress individuality to a point that we lose ourselves. Kids yearn to be an adult quickly so they can move away and live freely on their own, but once you find your little apartment you realize that it is not a wild adult party when the bills begin rolling in. Our separation from our families and communities leads to this aggressive nature to fight for the scraps we find everyday. Going out into the world alone is like a lone piece of string, that with a little bit of tension, will break. A community is a collections of strings that become a sturdy rope that hold up to the tensions of life. We need to rethink our views of desolation as some form of liberty; it is more a distraction from the experiences of various perceptions of the world.

I then watched Morgan Spurlock's "30 Days" episode about two city dwellers moving into an ecovillage called Dancing Rabbit. The show seemed to gel with my brain's deconstruction of what I saw on "Brat Camp". Places like the Dancing Rabbit Ecovillage (click here to see) and Zendik (click here to see) seem to be a couple of examples where people are joining together in a communal sense to remove themselves from the machine of current American life and to live life based on their own choices. It is an addiction we have with this overstimulating world we live in, but to think about removing yourself from the glitz and glamour of society's media, clothing, and fast food reveals how tough it could be. Our society has us enslaved with interest rates and bills, that, to leave the machine we are caught up in, would be hard, but to escape it and find the true realities of life, love, and purpose seems so intoxicating and so inviting.

I am jealous as I see those juveniles hike across the cold, Oregon terrain because they are on a path to finding themselves and I am on a path of monotony. But, when their time of introspection comes to a close, and they return to their suburban homes, I can't help but think that they will return to the competition and deflation of American life. It is almost like detoxing a drug addict, but then giving them the cocaine back when their detox is complete.

I flip through the hundreds of channels on my satellite dish watching these shows, critique my life as I sit in the comfort of my air conditioned home, and then type this blog and send it across the world on my DSL connection. I am so much a slave to these unnatural machines that beep and ding at me, but what do I do? How do I just severe myself away from this life? How can I free myself from a tyrannical system that dictates and limits any choices I may have?

Natalie Merchant

goethe3 — Tue, 12 Jul 2005 19:05:00 +0000

I remember walking the streets of Asheville, NC as a teen and listening to Blind Man's Zoo by 10,000 Maniacs. The pulse of the beats and the powerful crescendos, along with the crisp staccatos of Natalie Merchant's voice would grow stronger with every flip of the cassette in my portable walkman. Those songs became a soundtrack to my life at that time and when I listen to the album now on my Dell DJ, I am taken back to that magical summer.

Natalie Merchant left 10,000 Maniacs a few years later after the group moved from being a college band associated with R.E.M. to a radio mainstay on VH1. Merchant's solo music is ok, but the simple, yet original rhythm section and the fluid jangle of the guitar has disappeared. It seems that virtuoso musicians, although talented and very proficient, lack the enthusiasm and the creative imagination a less skilled musician may have.

I have played drums for many years and with many bands, and I have tried to study and advance myself like Neil Peart of Rush or Niko McBrain of Iron Maiden, but, even though those drummers do some very amazing things, I find myself touched with the gentle, but simple beats of people like Meg White or Jerry Augustyniak. Sometimes becoming so involved in complicating a rhythm can drain out the emotion that was there.

I think it is beneficial to all artists to remain in that realm of amateurism to a large degree. The studying and out doing of others begins to infect the music or poems that we produce. A poet that has studied English Literature throughout his college life becomes a slave to his views of literature based on T.S. Eliot or Yeats. A person who writes from the heart without the predisposed influence of "the masters" can create much more original and thought-provoking work.

Natalie Merchant, a once shy and bashful youth, poured that emotion into her art with 10,000 Maniacs, and when you listen to the albums you can hear and feel the wanting and the need to share their thoughts and ideas with us. The trick is battling past your successes, because the public turns a song or a poem into a "miracle," and it causes you to think that it will shadow anything you produce later. But it won't, I believe, if you continue to speak from the heart and retain that love for creationism.

I don't know if Natalie Merchant will join with 10,000 Maniacs again someday like Pink Floyd and the Pixies have done, but it would be nice to hear that voice couple with the musical excitement of a band that has returned to the place that they belong. But it will be without the fluid jangle of Robert Buck who succumbed to liver disease in 2000 (Click here to donate to the Robert Buck Fund).

The Big Herding

goethe3 — Tue, 12 Jul 2005 03:14:00 +0000

I am going to watch the next commercial break and report how many commercials are lies...hold on...be right back...

Commercial #1 - Jenny Craig with Kirstie Alley from "Fat Actress" acting like see is talking into a cell phone to Jenny Craig
#2 - Mastercard commercial where a guy makes a doomed matrix out of yarn
#3 - Silk Soy Milk where a brother and sister fencing team drink Silk everyday
#4 - Holiday Inn commercial where a clown is helping a cowboy ride a bull, but he is not a rodeo clown
#5 - Loreal commercial with Andie McDowell talking about how the make-up makes her so beautiful
#6 - some drug called Fosamax and paid actors telling how it helped them
#7 - A&E promo for a show called "Inked" where even one guy displays an "A&E" tattoo and the models say, "I did it alone" or "I did it with someone else."

All of them were lies! Well, you might say what does it matter, but once you start looking at the commercials and quietly in your head determine which ones lie, it makes you internalize how much of the world is fake and unreal. It is degrading when you realize that corporations are convinced that we are so stupid to fall for the dumbest and most blatant lie. We will buy what some actress promotes or wear the shoes a sports star models in. It shows the real use of media: to distort and obscure. Try it during the next break you encounter.

People complain that video games make kids violent and music makes people angry, but you never hear people say commercials make us lie and give us a false sense of the world. Congress won't address the ridiculousness of commercialism because it is a societal tool they use successfully themselves: political ads filled with lies. Commercials are the herding tools of modern man that imprison us away from the wild green pastures of orginality and truth.

The Flat Earth

goethe3 — Sun, 10 Jul 2005 07:11:00 +0000

"The meaning of our existence is not invented by ourselves, but rather detected."

"What matters, therefore, is not the meaning of life in general, but rather the specific meaning of a person's life at a given moment."

"We can discover this meaning in life in three different ways: (1) by doing a deed; (2) by experiencing a value; and (3) by suffering."

-Victor Frankl, from Man's Search for Meaning

Sometimes I feel trapped by the expectations of our society, but so much of it is lies. Commercialism feeds on all levels of our society, from the yuppie to the goth, the doctor to the dishwasher. We are told what to like and feel, but in time, you realize it was just a lie, maybe a lie to suppress our angst and calm us, but still a lie to subdue. I guess the best word for it is hype.

We suffer with the questioning of ourselves and our purpose. We beat ourselves up on what we should be doing and how we should act, reinventing ourselves in hopes of finding that ever-elusive moment of contentment. I am starting to believe that moment never comes. We entertain ourselves numb due to that realization, accepting that contentment will come knocking on its own behalf, but it won't.

Our search for answers and meaning lead us to false assumptions. When you look back in history we chuckle at those who tortured, killed, and imprisoned those who believed the Earth was round, but our humanistic nature to follow others would have placed us in the screaming crowd, too. The history of man is littered with mistakes and assumptions that we look upon and say, "We know better now." But we don't.

I think that we will also be the bearers of laughs bestowed upon us by the future generations: thinking pills could solve everything, killing each other about slight variations in religion, and inventing the idea of the "Summer Blockbuster". All are meant to make us feel right momentarily until the next generation takes over the battle.

American culture always deals with the after-effects of our decisions; we don't tend to prevent. The only answer I see that is remotely close to ending the anxieties we experience is The Four Noble Truths (click here to read them). We will suffer and we will question ourselves, and by accepting that suffering, only then will we move beyond our never-ending circle of despair. Forget the pills, it is ok to suffer.