Stuff That Falls Out of Books I Flip Through at Half-Priced Books

More often than not I am finding these makeshift bookmarks placed somewhere in beginning one-third of the books they respectively reside. This is an interesting observation, one that is fertile ground for speculation of all sorts; speculation in which many variables must be considered. Let us examine the facts that surround our current find.

This, let us call it a Tiki Menu, was found in between pages 156 and 157 of The Birth of the Modern: World Society 1830-1850 by Paul Johnson. Relevant to the general observation mentioned above, it is worth noting that the total page count of this book (apparently an older edition) is 1,095 – indeed, placing the tiki menu well within the range of the first third of this tome. After reading the inside flaps and doing a brief thumb-through it is obvious that this is a layman’s history book, albeit a thorough one; cat nip for anyone with a burning curiosity about this period in history. Now, let us examine the tiki menu: Bi-folded, color print, limited selection, price listings for alcohol only, United Airlines logo on the back. Here’s the story:A man of middle-age is taking a respite from his job in the accounting department and taking his wife for a week’s jaunt in Hawaii. They have reservations at a sea-side resort but no tentative schedule for anything. This is to be a relaxing, low-key getaway; sit-on-the-beach-and-read kind of thing. In anticipation for the trip our friend visits the local bookstore. He deliberately walks up and down the isles, carefully pulling books off the shelf to preview what is in store. Ultimately, he comes to Johnson’s book. It’s a hefty one, very dense, but so very alluring. This could be the greatest beach read ever!

Now, allow me to pontificate. It is devastatingly easy to convince oneself to purchase a book of this type while standing there in the History aisle of the non-fiction section deep in the embrace of a bookstore. Indeed, a bookstore is a place where the air of intellectual ambition is potent; where the sincere desire to dive headfirst into a 1,100-page history book, for example, seems easy and rewarding. I have found myself in similar situations that have witnessed me walking out with, for example, a 700-page biography of Jorge Luis Borges and a book that is a comparative study about social revolutions throughout the ages of civilization. The ambition to chew upon and digest these works was honest and fervid. I may even stop someplace for lunch to begin the endeavor – yes, I can – Nay – I will do this, and it will better me!

… and then I get home: the apartment is suddenly too muggy; the ceiling fan is suddenly too rhythmic; my attention span is suddenly cut short. I am fatigued and the environment of this place is not conducive to reading this elaborate biography. I will take a nap and then try to pick up where I left off. The momentum is then lost, and the rest is history.

This, I fear, is what I suspect happened to our accountant friend. A history book may have perhaps seemed like an excellent choice to lose oneself in while on vacation. Why wait until we get to Hawaii? We’ve got a long plane ride ahead of us. Thank you, stewardess, for this tiki menu. I’ll have the pupu and the ono beef slice entrée! Wow this book is really great. I love that we’re going on vacation. This beach is beautiful. Come let us frolic and order sea-side drinks. Wait, I have to go back to the room, I forgot to bring my book. This is so interesting, honey; check it out, In 1832…

And so it continued. The tiki menu marked his progress all through the vacation. However, 156 pages later, our accountant friend finds himself returned home, back in the rat race of life. And Johnson’s book just sits there, clutter accumulating around it. The desire to learn about the onset of the modern era just doesn’t have the same appeal that it did in the bookstore. Too much time has passed since the vacation and the book is just so damn big! The clutter continues. Then our accountant spontaneously combusts and his wife sells back all of his stuff the end

One Foot in Babylon - Doctor Jones Mix Sequence #23

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=N953KFDZ

This mix is the closest of any that have come to being a kind of narrative. As I general approach to sequence construction I aim for some kind of overall character with the hope that each stands apart from the others. With One Foot In Babylon, I hear a story; a gritty one with a promising start and a bleak outcome; a future society, streaming technology, information. Gradually, these wonders are abused. Then there are giant sentient mechanical chugging perversions; borderline steampunk, though just as garish but not as, y'know, lame. An end brings a new dark and twisted dawn.

This Happened

My Kids in Essence

Presented herein is a series of snapshots attempting to get my kids to hold still and formally pose for an informal text message to gramma and grampa; or would it be designated a text message with an image attachment? It is interesting how "text(-ing)" is now a predicating verb that denotes the action of transmitting quick spats of communication, be it actual text, or of image files, or even both. "txt me a pic" does not sound queer.

Like trying to photograph fuzzy kittens, my kids have proven to be just as tricky to capture on film - I mean, memory card. Notice the ever-present motion blurs.
Take #1: Ok, wait. no wait. Quiet! Sit next to your sister and... *SNAP*
Take #2: *SNAP* Ok, that was a good one. Babes, your face is betraying your flatulence so... Let's try again
Take #3: Ok, says cheese for gramma and grampa. Say Che...-Noo, sit back up. You're only encouraging him! Ah screw it *Snap*

The true moment, you could call it, is observed when these three snapshots are considered as one; a moment far more sincere than some stressed and unnatural pose; the moment when the empirical evidence is enough to confidently declare: My kids like each other. And as a parent still mucking my way through learning by experience, their relationship is a welcomed relief. They have their own special brother-sister dynamic, tightly-knit. When I hear them cooperatively playing in the other room, I dare not infringe because there is no place for me. Even when things get dicey, I keep an attentive distance and let the matter sort itself out. Siblings need their own time, their own methods of interaction and resolution - even if the resolution may be a deliberate shriek that sends your big brother scampering off like a spooked weasel. So, if it gets worse as they get older, do me a favor and keep quiet about it. Let me be an ignorant parent by savoring these moments.

Opeth - "The Devil's Orchard"

If this new track is any indication of a shift in musical approach then I welcome the new album with open arms. Opeth's last two albums are far too contrived. The tracks are way too expansive, leaving precious little to sink ones teeth into. I couldn't even finish Ghost Reveries; instead I switched over to Blackwater Park and everything was alright. And with Watershed... I became acutely aware that something was amiss; that under the threat of become overly-bloated Opeth needed to do something, anything . And with this video below, we hear the favorable results of such a corrective maneuver. It's musical, colorful, spacious, and does not have a running time over the 11-minute mark. Opeth reached deep for this one, rescuing themselves from certain stagnation. Now, with the experience of self-resuscitation we just need to get these guys to slap some sense into Clutch.

Yesterday's Corn

The sign board outside the general purpose room reads Pity Party. This is where they squeeze in to commend each other for their lives of strain and struggle. Yes. This is where they seek the praise needed to push forward; where they discuss their common enemy, and evaluate new ways of existing. Yes, hard times, yes.

The beginning, at the top of the hour; this is when they pair off. By either pre-destiny or calculated maneuver, the general lump of pity is divided and each person selects another, the pair then forming their own precious sphere of pity. Blushed faces are cupped in angel soft hands. Strained, sympathetic gazes are matched. Tears squirt forth onto four dollar beaded necklaces, and collars and shoulder pads are smeared with sobbing mascara.

- Oh, me, oh, my: I know, I know.

- My life has more meaning than most people because I’ve struggled: I know, I know.

- I learned the old fashioned way, not because I was old fashioned but because I was poor: I know, I know.

- I grew up in a rough spot in town; therefore, this gives me the innate right to chime in at inappropriate times during class discussion to tell a story or share a bit of my wisdom even if it has no relevance to the subject matter, because people know I’ve had it hard and want to hear what I have to say: I know, I know.

The love-energy from these communions grows so intense that gravity is soon defied. Pairs will eventually levitate in their own pity bubbles. The harder they grip, the harder they sob, the higher they float. Soon after, their bowels glow with an aura of righteous light. Yes, a golden light that beams upward and bursts forth from upturned eye sockets and open mouths. The room quakes at the power. The ceiling lights flicker out and there the pity party hang, drowning in the drone of pity, awash in the light of each other’s bubble guts - flushing away all that bad juju.

Eventually things will calm down. The metaphysical power of pity abates and the ceiling lights timidly come back to life. Feet are returned to this raw and tyrannical reality. Folding chairs are placed; they moan under the under the pressure of usage. Accompanied by the scattered sniffles and delicate sobs left over from the ascension, the Pity Party president goes to the lectern: Welcome, sisters. Any visitors? Please stand and introduce yourself. Usually more than a couple will stand and wipe, swabbing tears from their faces as they say how thrilled they are to be here and what a release it has been so far. Sometimes others opt to remain seated on their thrones, either by choice or physical infirmity (more commonly a dramatic approach to the latter) and lean to either side to ensure being witnessed. As always, the newcomers are warmly welcomed.

The Pity Party president will then usually read from the announcement sheet which is usually extensive. They are usually of benign importance, just an opportunity to hear her own voice. At length, she can tell that she’s been there for too long because her legs become tingly; the Pity Party must proceed.

Most meetings will have a special speaker, usually one of the regulars who invited herself ahead of time to do so. She is received warmly. Topics usually involve oppression and the ever-present common enemy. One speech was given the stirring title ‘The Emotional Woman Trying to Define Herself’; another was ‘Breaking the Masculine Mold”. The speaker chronicles her hardships, usually beginning in childhood, and usually involves the saintly presence of mothers and how they worked fingers to the bone and never complained and how that way of life has always been an influence. The listeners will bob their heads in agreement, a perpetual zen pool of pity. Afterwards, the microphone is made available to anyone who seeks praise from the entire group. This… This is the real happening. Immediately, a line forms and snakes through the oval room, double-backing on itself, eventually peeping out the door a little bit - and even from this distant place, praise is still shouted; the potency from which emanates through the entire building. A profound thought from the lectern quivers its way through the ranks of pity until the very end of the line. Yes, through all the churning, these gems come out unscathed. They are all alike. Once a member is finished with her oratory, she leaves. Life must continue onwards, y’see. The party abandons a multi-purpose room littered with used tissue and program outlines whose corners are fold over and held fast with wads of chewing gum. A maintenance man comes in, contorts his face, waves the air before his nose, and opens a window. “Lord, have mercy!”

The Killingfields of Parenthood; or, How I Cope - Part 1 of n

I was ignorant before parenthood; completely oblivious to the psychological prowess of – where it stands now – a three and a half year old, and how this child has the subtle and devastating ability to cripple me down to a blubbering sociopath, only to then strut off like it was business as usual. It is amazing what one word can do to a man.

Up until the birth of our first child I fancied myself an individual with confidence, surety, self-control – Iron-will, if you will. I was able to walk away from confrontation; my fuse was long and tightly-woven. But oh, how quickly these assumptions – for assumptions they were – failed to withstand the might of one Mitchell Robert. Within two weeks, these falsities of character were stripped away, leaving behind a raw, quivering thing. And then, in this condition I found myself on the frontlines of an ongoing battle of wits. Indeed, it goes without saying that children have the ability to push grownups - fully maturated and intelligent sentient beings - to limits he/she didn’t even know existed… And then the kid enters the game-changing toddler phase. Before Toddlerdom, parenthood was merely an endurance contest. Like pushing your hand into a piece of stretched rubber, so too is your mental strength extended to agonizing proportions. But, this is just an elementary strategy of attrition and resistance; your kid pushes, you push back – at length someone will give out.

But then the child’s cognition develops further, character becomes defined. Yes. At three and a half years old the child has added a new devastating tactic. Moving beyond the tactic of resistance, moving beyond sleep deprivation, things will then get psychological – he starts messing with you. And this… this is where things get perilous. He confidently maneuvers himself with tactical precision, constantly on the lookout for a positional advantage. Oh my.

While I am under no illusion that the universal characteristic of toddlers is that of stubbornness and antagonism, it has always been my belief that my kid is wired different: not abnormally, not incorrectly – Just different; that there is some quirk in his neural circuitry that elevates him to something higher, something apart, from the other children. I’ll see your 3 year old, and raise you one diabolical genius. This is the story of a man - a father - broken and under the boot of his three year old son.