Fare thee well

He wore a tie stamped over and over with a tiny golf club and had a mop of hair that looked heavy from having soaked a chestnut spill. In a first betrayal of my low-bred worldview, for which I’d later learn to nurture a healthy insecurity, I ridiculed him and said he looked like a nerd. In my defense, the swoop had yet to sweep its way westward from Georgia to Texas in 2001. He’s moderately gray and taking hair dye salon recommendations from me now.

He was one of those peripheral friends, a pledge brother from out of state who was a token Jew and who liked to drink whiskey, maybe. That was what I knew of him in 2002.

In 2003 we took a trip to Mexico, having liked a previous Bordertown jaunt with the gang so much. While messaging a girl (who is now his wife) with one of those archaic devices with T9 predictive texts, he looked up late and had to swerve to miss a glacier of retread sitting in the middle of the lane on a dusty stretch of highway. My sprite and whisky moved in a big wave but largely stayed contained, save for the spill on my hand which I lapped up, lips full and wet like a lover’s passion. The cop who pulled us over didn’t seem to appreciate the smell that results and lingers when whiskey and sprite cohabit, and I only remember of her a curled, snarly lip. Though I’d later learn that the inhabitants of a vehicle are accustomed to the reek—literally having given birth to the slow and overarching stench that hangs, with the heaviest of the air molecules hovering above the steering wheel—I think the policewoman was a lesbian. I cracked my door and rolled my plastic bottle of brown sprite under the vehicle and after twenty or thirty minutes I was given the permission to drive the car.

He went to jail for some reason. I’m not a lawyer so it strikes me as reckless to speculate as to why. Maybe I’m just old school and journalistic like that.

Keys in hand, I drove to Mexico alone. He would have wanted that.

I drank alone in a cut-off shirt and later slept in the front seat, across the border and next to a shuttered textile factory in a fashion I would describe as “with one eye open”, but to this day I could swear I got a good five hours complete with some REM. That’s not bad, considering.

On the way back to school I figured I’d stop and see what’s what at the jail—I had his car, after all, and if it wasn’t too big a pain in the ass it was probably the least I could do.

It was noon.

They told me to wait so I tried to lie down in the lobby. The plastic molds of the seats were too hard and unaccommodating and the criminal justice staffers kept looking at me funny. I yelled a lot and acted crazy. I thought it was quite natural that a severely hungover idiot would be the one tasked to pick up a jailed driver, the next morning. I’m still not sure how that didn’t occur to them or how that doesn’t logically follow, but I’ve since learned to pick my philosophical battles more practically.

I ate Sonic and remember, this was back before the Sonic boom ((no pun intended)) of the mid-2000’s which saw a sleepy Oklahoma-based quick service restaurant grow to a respectable national brand, so that’s saying something. I even spent, like, a dozen dollars on magazines at a grocery store—isn’t that ridiculous? I don’t think I’ve done that since. The last dead cat bounce of Print Media, Inc.

Six or Seven hours later, he was released and we drove back to town. Thoroughly exhausted from the travails, I assumed it was an understood fact of life that we would be forgoing the boozy concert scheduled that night. He assumed the opposite which, upon our reactions, made for a mirroring effect despite our two faces being so structurally different. That was the day that I knew this guy had the chin of an Irish boxer and I accepted that he would always be a hardier specimen of human, than me. As he dropped me off I turned to him and would utter what would later become both a running joke and the cornerstone of a deep and honest friendship: “That was the hardest night of my life.”

I didn’t understand how the guy who had just gotten out of jail and had (what was at the time for such young, privileged men) an impossible weight of misdeed and misfortune hanging over his head could have riposted “The hardest night of YOUR life? You asshole”. Hadn’t I explained about the delay and the chairs that didn’t allow for me to lay flat?

From that moment on, however, we were inseparable. We had a bond like I imagine bank robbers or soldiers had and grew to be the best kind of kindred spirits. That is to say, best friends whose forays into life’s dark dangers will die with us, not out of shame but rather out of respect that we should not cause undue stress and worry to our loved one’s regarding events whose statute of limitations have long since expired anyhow (R.I.P. N. Holloway).

When he moved to Dallas, I’d already been here for two months. He picked up my bed and a few other things and drove them to me. In the last fifteen years, outside of those two months, he’s always been no more than two miles away should I need help; a couch to sleep on, a short-term loan to bail out my alcoholic and irresponsible ways, a lawyer to bail me out of jail, a friend with which to share a meal.

The Godfather of one of my children,

The guy whom my parents think is weird,

The smartest person I know (and I know them all),

My financier,

My attorney,

My enabler,

My best friend*.

Fare thee well.

*Submissions re-open again in August. Contact for guidelines.

What do you do to remain violent in modernity?

It has dawned on me that it is likely a relatively new phenomenon that an able bodied man in the prime of his life does not use violence for basic sustenance in food and shelter, doesn't use violence to promote himself in sexual selection, celebrate in violence when the conqueror and has evolved away from teaching the ways of severe violence to his children whether it be against animals or other men.

At top of mind (from reading the aforementioned book on Comanches), just as far back as 150 years ago, if you are a native Texan, your grandfather's father was likely savagely killing other men, impaling, torturing and likely enjoying it a little bit too. It was either that or his kids were being stolen, his wife was being gang-raped and he was being killed and tortured with his testicles in his mouth or burned to death on a skewer. Respectable men and not just trained militia and military -- preachers, lawyers, sheriffs, teachers, land owning gentry-- were hardened in the ways of killing fellow man.

Men that could be fit, and later were in Andrew Jackson's case who lived the rest of his life with lead in his body from a duel he survived, to be a President of the United States used violence as an acceptable tool in their problem solving kit of life.

Sixty years ago we had a massive World War that sped boys through the threshold to manhood in warp speed and provided a built in rite of passage. These boys and later men were in general shown to be wise, judicious, smart, strong, responsible and reasonable people. The greatest Americans to ever live, as we so dub them with the "Greatest Generation" moniker, was nurtured by violence. 

If we treat that last statement as one devoid of irony then it must be held as evidence, the exhibit A (or B or C), that violence as a psychological or character trait is endemic to the success, "goodness", and glory of the American people.

And yet, today and in the recent past, we have attempted to "evolve" away from it. Outside of the USMC on the front line or whatever and the dispassionate poor mired in poverty (a modern day "Noble Savage" in the J.F.Cooper archetype), there is a conspicuous lack of violence both in our culture and everyday lives as we hold keeping peace as the higher and more noble ideal in much the same way we view humility as being superior to pride.

The question then is: Is the lack of violence a good thing? On an intuitive level we would knee-jerk a response "Yes", but I think the more important question is: What are the social costs?

To you personally: What do you do to keep refined your sense and ability to impart violence in a modern world?

Do you watch or participate in physical sports like football, boxing and MMA type training?

Do you get drunk and high and shoot semi-automatic guns with your buffoon friends?

Do you shoulder check people at baseball games or otherwise get in bar fights?

Do you get online and call people fagets and virtually talk shit/e-fight?

I, for one, need to focus on being a better American by way of being a better man, I think. Excuse me while I have a glass:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HI-mDTdeKR8

The Old Man and the Sea

When a book like The Old Man and the Sea is made the icon and becomes a synecdoche for “Made-in-the-USA” literary genius, for an entire generation, it generally means that for it to be made palatable enough to become the zeitgeist of mainstream America and to reach the level of ubiquity it has, it had to be distilled to a point where the original compounds have been removed. What is left – this sober and simple caricature of what was once an intoxicating and clever portrait- becomes an object that is all too easy for the subsequent generation to view with a sense of cynicism or outright dismissiveness. The afore, coupled with my memory of my father making my twelve year old brother read and write a report on this book as a form punishment for some reason, led me to thirty years of “The Old Man and the Sea” avoidance.

It wasn’t until I recently finished a hackneyed, heavy-handed, and disastrous first draft of a manuscript that I thought it imperative to read this book and only then because of a selfish and fancifully sociopathic turn. I had inadvertently titled my MS with the same compound sentence structure: The ___ and the ___. 

Once I realized this I had to read the book. I mean, Hemingway was not only one of my favorite authors but one of my life’s idols and even though we respectfully disagreed on matters of taste, like Victorian aesthetics and terse, Spartan sentences, maybe there was a fundamental driver that compelled us both to independently arrive at a similar naming convention. My heart swelled when the thought first flowed to my brain; did we share a muse?

I’ll save you the suspense. The above compound sentence structure is one of the most common found in the English language and I am an idiot. 

What I did find, however and finally to the point, is that I really enjoyed this novella and thought it to be very profound and illustrative of, if we are lucky (or unlucky, as one may argue), an honest acceptance of our own old age, a review of our life lead up until our old age and what it has meant, and ultimately the inevitable end of it all.

What I read was not just a story about an old man fishing, but the story of love and sacrifice. This story is the song of the stoic and the ballad of the martyr. It is simply an understanding that life as we know it thus far (and likely have always known it) is inherently an exercise in futility with which the only control one can hope to wrest is the control of your attitude and how to give other people pleasure and love. 

In my opinion the sea was a wonderful metaphor a vast and treacherous life that is intellectually unknowable by virtue of our physical and mortal limitations compared to the deep secrets and power of said vast and treacherous sea. The entire lifespan, experience and expertise of one man with a sole focus, who in this case was “born to be a fisherman”, cannot but put a dent into what can be truly known. Our fisherman, old, frail and barely able to “fish” anymore had in his short span only come to really understand the dynamics and characters at play in a small pool of water north of Cuba. With what hope can a man truly know the world and life if he is disabled with a built-in expiration date that makes investigation of every inch of the sea impossible? 

One can’t, I think the author argues, but one can make the best of his nautical miles and pass the lessons on to our inspired youth with love and sacrifice.

The Irony of People Who Do Not Believe in Evolution...

The Irony of People Who Do Not Believe in Evolution, Why Mainstream Christianity in the West is the iPhone of Religion, and a Case for Why China is More Evolved Than America.

Let me first acknowledge from what perch I derive my view. I am an Absurdist through and through and as such, I find staunch and devout atheists just as annoying as the similarly described religious.

To expound on my personal belief, the first thing you need to know is that my belief presupposes that, as a species, we have realized that our survival is more likely encouraged if we group and work together. (There is a meaningful distinction I should make here in that "group together" does not mean every human being should live, this is as paradox in that it is concurrently exclusive and inclusive.)

To that end, religion in general and the flavor of Christianity that is mainstream in America, is equal to all philosophical beliefs in that it is nothing more than a construct to help groups, by way of individuals, survive this world.  Whether it be a philosophy that inspires one to live for its own purposes, a religion that obligates one to live in a certain way, or any of the other infinite possibilities a human mind can conjure up and put a flawed and mortal sense of belief or faith in, the dictation of a behavior code and pattern is being adopted to promote the creation of a standard; a standard which will serve to stabilize the (also, perhaps, infinite) possibilities of human behavior in an attempt to, as a group, avoid being lost in the human ignorance and resulting chaos of our material universe and world.

My personal belief further dictates that because we as a people and a condition cannot know inherent meaning for life (ergo, we cannot know "God"), we are free to conceptualize and implement whatever the fuck philosophy (or religion, which can be used interchangeably at this point in my explanation) we want as long as it helps to yield the result of our survival. It is in this way that religion is nothing more than the best product our species has been able to produce for easing the lives of and maintaining the order for our kind. (As a side point and at the risk of delving into political philosophy, it’s my belief that this is why until the modern era you see religion as a basis of laws and rights, as well.)

Because our species has evolved to believe that the best case for survival is through banding together and creating standards to promote harmony and convenience for the most basic needs of human life, and because philosophy and the group adoption of said philosophy is a product of this evolution, one can only surmise that philosophy is a product of evolution, ergo religion is a product of evolution.

It is in that sense, not through a pejorative or dismissive tone, that I say Christianity in the West (and specifically in America) is the equivalent of the iPhone and Jesus was Steve Jobs. Jesus (or his executive handlers depending on the Apocrypha to which one subscribes) and the latter, evolved iterations that we see today, is a democratized product whose design is very easy to digest without much work or thought.

The packaging of a product that solves the human problems of having to work to create a personal meaning to live is important because instead of each individual being compelled to actively live, experience, think and create a philosophy by which to live, the inheriting or otherwise accepting a philosophy that one has not earned (or in the modern case, even understands) eliminates the need to know and critically think about anything in the world one lives in, and instead frees these specimens to eat, sleep and procreate in larger numbers.

It is in this way that religion has a tipping point from being beneficial to survival to detrimental to survival, through the encouragement of the procreation of people who have shown a propensity to be indoctrinated as well as have exhibited a lack of appetite for critical analysis*.

Because as a species we have historically ascribed the philosophy that encourages the survival of the group, it can be deduced that societies birthing larger percentages of a population that has not inherited cheap dogma, defined as any philosophy not sufficiently earned, is more evolved. If we are to accept the aforementioned definitions and controls then logically we can interpret that China is an example of a more evolved society than America **.

Notes

*Religious people who have come by their religion through a personal interest, study, or experience are not included in the inherited and indoctrinated as it could be said their philosophy is just as legitimate and valid as any other.

** China has reports of 60-80% of its 1.3 Billion people as non-religious or beholden to an inherited doctrine (780 million on the low end). America has reports of 20% of its 313 Million people as non-religious or beholden to an inherited doctrine (62 million).

#MothAnkles

Moth Ankles is my metaphysical alter ego; a fatalistic, devil-may-care man who struggles to exist in a world with no inherent meaning. 

Born from the homage to the indomitable Cocaine Biceps aka Galaxy Knuckles aka Thor Molecules aka Ghostface Killah, the original iteration of this self was known as Meth Ankles.

As time wore in and my alter self became more self-aware, I was awoken to the depressed realization that I had a severe lack of cowardice. It was with this in mind, coupled with my deep love for the 19th century golden era of Russian literature that I evolved as the enlightened and absurd "Moth Ankles".

The Ironic Case of Vladimir Putin an original essay by CutTheCrackJack [Draft]

[U][B]The Ironic Case of Vladimir Putin, an original essay on how an autocrat of the state exists because of the democracy of life.[/B][/U]

By most all biographical accounts, of which there are many, Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin has an affinity for vodka, stout German beers and telling vulgar jokes in even the most formal of settings.

Putin, in an effort to properly frame a vanity worthy of his post, will only deign to tranquilize bears, tigers and whales, ride horses through the Urals while topless and, though elaborately staged in the heavy handed way usually seen in the regimes of cherub-faced fat kids, when he swims the breast stroke for 200 meters in rivers or cliff dives into the Black Sea, his proud Slavic torso conjures up none of the silly and amateur shame one equates with the North Korean propaganda machine.

This is the profile of a man who, with a hard to substantiate at $40B in net worth, is estimated to be one of the world's richest men and who tops the Forbes list of “[I]Most powerful man in the world[/I]”.

Putin is also a 5'7, 160 pound, 61 year old man with a wedding singer-bad quality comb-over and a weird overbite thing going on.

He is not particularly intelligent or gifted, is not from a storied family or of wealth or prestige (actually, there is evidence that points to his actually being a pauper, ill-bred and being adopted), and he owes much of his amazing vertical march from the nadir of Russian society to his current perch on the peak to interpersonal relationships, risk and luck.

Relationships. Risk. Luck.

If those general ingredients sound vaguely familiar and comforting it is because those are exactly the same platitudes we stir together and sell as "The American Dream." Isn't it easy, then, to see how Vladimir Putin evokes such interest and fascination, if not outright empathy from American men of ability and ambition?

Ideologically neutral, joining a movement for only so long as it suits his personal and political needs until it no longer serves the self, Vladimir Putin embodies many of the characteristics of a generation- one that we deride here in America- that we call "The Millennials."

--

 “You can do anything” I reiterated to my son after subjecting him to Pixar’s 2007 film Ratatouille whose democratizing and feel-good mantra “Anyone Can Cook” is underscored by the story’s ethereal donor Chef Gusteau.

And isn't that the point, that anyone can possibly do anything?

Almost. I hope to explain, and through great irony, how Vladimir Putin the despot ruler and indisputable bad ass of the world is one of the greatest threats to the world's torchbearer of Democracy* because of our world's inherent democracy vis-à-vis fatalism.

--

Anyone can do anything.

What I've left out up to this point is that the above is not true. At least it is not [i]entirely[/i] true if one realizes that what is omitted -- what we either don't say, realize or consciously know-- is that our life and accomplishments are inextricably slaves, chained to what exists as the current conditions or the foreseeable future conditions (which becomes a current condition) by what we can materially affect.

So what does that mean? Truly then, we cannot do "anything".

The extreme examples we see in history**, or anecdotally, are really not amazing and otherworldly feats but only extremely (and relatively) valuable outcomes from optimal conditions, within the confines of material space and time (which is our metaphysical limit). We are fated to exist in a world with preset physical laws, societies, culture and relative morality. To the extent we can affect our world is fated by our corporal temporal shelf-life and viability within the sandbox we were placed.

So what were the optimal conditions that gave rise to Russia being ruled for the last fifteen years by a poor, orphaned, wholly average, arguably sociopathic but otherwise nameless guy?

Extreme image crafting.

If you are on facebook, image crafting is something we see everyday through our network of friends and peers. At it's essence, it is manipulating and leveraging information (whether it be words, photos, locations, etc.) in order to affect and project an outward image in whichever way the crafter deems ideal.

Putin had the perfect opportunity to be an image crafter.

Putin joined a KGB that, contrary to popular American romanticism, was not a vodka-fueled mixture of the Russian version of the Soprano’s and a Mexican Gulf Cartel with a splash of 007, but was rather a bloated, bureaucratic version of our volunteer armed forces who sit behind desks.

He dicked around for a while making minimum wage in East Germany as the equivalent of a middle manager that kind of rises up through the system and gets a little savvier with each bump in raise and responsibility instead of petering out to the peter principle*** in St. Petersburg (okay, that was obnoxious I'll edit this out) until getting a break by way of a relationship he fostered to get into politics. Nobody can really explain the truth about this relationship as these two men, Putin and Sobchak, when asked even have conflicting messages and widely varying accounts of how their partnership came to life. How even now the real arrangement between the two men can be obscured with individual agenda and egotistical lobbying is because of the optimal condition Putin had the fortune of being in, which is to say his entrapment in a closed political system with an unremarkable career in the KGB.

By the time Putin reached an unlikely position of prominence and influence, he was able to basically invent his own credibility and qualifications without any of the negative blow back that we’d see in more transparent political and societal systems. Simply put, Putin had the good fortune of growing up in a time and in a society that allowed him to write his own ticket by giving him the liberty to create his own back story and mythology.

In these optimal conditions, that of statist Russia “Anyone can be anything” if one can will it as Napoleon with deceit and mere say-so, creating a true democratic dynamic. This democratic dynamic is what lead to Putin become the antithesis of democracy, and I for one am tickled pink (no pun intended).

[i]Notes:[/i]

The presupposition is that one's psychological and physical make-up is ideal and optimal within whatever conditions one finds oneself being born into. In this instance, being a sociopath with a sizable ego and a modicum of luck was inherent to Putin and a genetic advantage.

* Democracy is Not My Standard: An Essay by CTCJ
http://cutthecrackjack.blogspot.com/2013/04/democracy-is-not-my-standard.html

**http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Man_theory

***http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Principle

I am sad for Justin

Gosh, that video above of Justin Beiber trying to fight the paparazzi is sad.

I know it's supposed to be funny and I'm supposed to take joy in making fun of this guy, but all I see is a tragedy. The poor guy never had a chance.

Once he got famous, as just an innocent little boy, his fate was sealed. I'm of the opinion that nobody can be well-adjusted and emotionally healthy if subjected to the celebrity machine, in our society, before or during those transformative years where our brain and psyche and psychology are developing. I think being used by the celebrity machine at an early age causes an acute flavor of mental illness what likely he will (if he doesn't already) and others like him (who, just off the top of my head who I've read about on shaggy include Lohan and Amanda Byrnes) suffer.

The best and most noble thing you can do is to martyr yourself for your family. He should maximize his earning potential, procreate as much as possible, put a shit ton of money into accounts for his progeny with stipulations like "must never act/record/whatever in Hollywood" and "must go to school" or it's forfeited, and then self-medicate with whatever interests and pleases you, living like an emotionally stunted and developmentally arrested "hedonist" who, in an ultimate twist of irony, is irrationally hated by all the "normal" people who misinterpret his confusion and misery as undeserved privilege and new age douchebaggery.

Seriously, I've seen more sympathy and understanding for convicted killers, homeless people, and other criminally insane than the hate for celebrities who fall off the deep end.

Advanced Mathematics

I am/was terrible in Math and I was grateful UT offered M308D (or something like that), called Math for Non-Science majors, more commonly and affectionately known around the frat house as "Hot Girl Math".

That being said, I have an enormous amount of respect and reverence for Math and what I perceive to be it's role in our world. That is, a perpetual tool that can eventually illustrate, design, develop, build, break and explain everything possible in our material world. Because I believe Math to be so inherent in our world and so naturally rewarding to man and mankind, I've often pondered two things:

1) For as smart as I perceive myself to be, why was advanced math so excruciatingly difficult (not just unnatural in a prodigy sense, but painfully foreign to my being and natural self)? It's not that I didn't have the interest to arm myself with math or I lacked the good sense to realize advanced math is one of the most valuable weapons we as people can arm ourselves with, but there was a definite dearth of genius and interest in math itself which made it hard for me to develop and focus on it. I've wondered if it was a thing -- a psychological thing, an environmental thing, genetic thing or if I was just born devoid of the aptitude and ability necessary to understand what is understandable in this world. In other words, I question if I was born a weak, runty and inferior man meant to either assist or stay out of the way; a civilian casualty of man's war on nature and himself. Jonathan Gonnet: Failed experiment #980,003,344,298,484,300 in a world that has seen few truly born.

2) I am not convinced that Math is truly a "Universal" language and would be something an other-worldly being would find as valuable as us. I'm not sure one can ever evaluate and experiment with that, but even if they could, it would probably, literally, beg the question (as it would be through math) and I would be as I am now, impotently unaware.

For these two reasons it is my belief one must try to not only live but advance that with which one has been born an innate, natural understanding and fellowship. I am warmed to know that in me grows a deep and profound love for advanced, genius-level mathematicians and the past math pioneers as they make me want to be a part of "humanity" because I become aware that I alone cannot exist in the world, I need others.

Vincent Paul until I croak

As Packer fans enter into the last stages of preseason football and start to see depth charts shake out and roster moves being made, I wanted to take a moment to explain what you may see as the insane following that VY has, despite everything that has happened to him and because of him.

For those who don't understand the irrational infatuation and love that some of us have for VY, I’ll hazard a guess that you aren't a male, aged 26-36. You probably weren't on campus or associated with UT in the middle of VY-mania and you didn't have a front row seat on the round trip ride that VY took those of us on from 2004-2006 which is why your views and opinions on the matter are, pun irascibly intended, pedestrian.

We root for him and believe in him partly because we’ve witnessed firsthand the magic but also because he is part of our extended family. You won’t understand the attention and hope we emit because If you were in that aforementioned demographic, then you'd know that somewhere on that timeline in the mid 2000’s, our Longhorn Football fandom and VY’s DNA, like some Jeff Goldblum 80’s horror movie with terrible costumography, got mixed up together and we will now be forever be tied with each other.

For my part, I am far from a Longhorn super fan. I didn’t grow up a Longhorn fan despite living in Dallas and I barely even liked the team until the Spring I found out I’d be attending UT. But to this day, I will root for VY to make an NFL team and believe that he can one day be a Superbowl winning quarterback and will continue to advocate his candidacy until his viable days are effectively finished. At that point in time, I will wear my faded #10 shirt on game days and will regale my children - and their children and their children's children- with the oral folklore of VY, complete with (probably) exaggerated tales of heroism, strength and miraculous ability like those before me have done with the likes of Paul Bunyon and some carpenter from Galilee.

During the holidays he will be there in our homes as we pop in the DVD of the 2005 Rose Bowl and get drunk on nostalgia and egg nog—the reason for the season after all—because what is not understood to those unafflicted is that there is a neuron path carved into our brains others lack that will always compel us to root for VY while, taking the good with the bad, hoisting him as our champion and viewing him as an extended member of our family.

Either that or you are a shitty Longhorn fan and, clearly, you should hate yourself.

VY until I motherfucking die (here on known as #VYtilIdie)

P.S. Graham Harrell sucks and Aaron Rodgers can be hit by a bus.

A 30th Birthday Invitation

Premise:

Cohn, Gonnet and Sandone LLP present "Drinking a lot at various locations", in co-celebration of Joe and Jonathan successfully wandering into a third decade.

While not Cohn's birthday specifically, his involvement stems from the unassailable truth that one does not simply survive a life of clumsy blasphemy and disorganized theory without having a Jew to help finance and litigate away one's existence. This party is to honor him, as well.

Time:

On Saturday, November 24th (the Saturday that directly follows Thanksgiving) we are going to host a mobile, outdoor bender which starts at 12:00PM and will run until 8:00AM the following Sunday.

Road map:

For this ill-advised venture we have thrown in a clever little wrinkle which we think is a value-add for our prospective guests. Because we understand that not everyone has 20 hours with which to waste in heavy drink and harassment of our fair city, and because we realize not everyone has the bandwidth, stamina or alcoholic disabilities that enables one to booze for such an extended period of time, we've taken the liberty of creating a Google .doc spreadsheet to assist and promote attendance.

This spreadsheet will allow the prospective party-goer to see, as a running itinerary updated in real-time, exactly what bar or festive locale the traveling caravan is at any given hour. Further, the invited guest will be able to track location and activity which we hope empowers the guest to pick and choose- based on either schedule availability or interest- when and where they want to join our existential soiree.

If you have received this and are excited to attend (in some aspect) please message me your email address so that I can follow up in the next day or so with an invite to the read only document.

Democracy is not my standard.

If the state is a temporary establishment in the development of human society, an idea with which I follow and agree, then we who make up society are doing each other a great disservice by abandoning almost all study and research into political science.

People, as a species, are genetically hardwired to respond and act towards an incentive or reward. Individually, you see this phenomenon in the hard-wiring of human brain chemistry and with the “reward center” and, collectively, it is expressed through the external and material rewards of society. In America, we have created a political environment so toxic and ignorant -- so full of cruel, close-minded and mediocre, small people -- that our greatest and most able thinkers, instead of trying to understand and best a bunch of moron's in what amounts to some perverse idiot pageant, have completely abandoned the subject of political (and, arguably, economic) theory. And what has that left us with? Individual autodidacts going on tangents on a blog, a 200 year old, bastardized form of government that, while admittedly responsible and effective in hyper-local settings, in 2013 is woefully inadequate and laughably archaic, and the "Tea-Party" movement. Hey, at least those dorks are trying, I guess.

America (not to say anything of mankind) has a remarkably decorated laundry list of accomplishments in the realms of science, mathematics, and technology. By and large we have told our finest thinkers, and at an early age, you will be rewarded by society if you can achieve in the aforementioned fields; if find a cure of AIDs, if you can discover the Higgs Boson, or if you can create a social media platform, so is it any wonder that is what they set out to do? Unquestionably, we have reaped the benefits of our greatest thinkers and will continue to do so for generations- nobody will argue the societal gains and value- but why have discouraged investigation into matters of individual and societal relationships and freedom. Why have we discouraged the investigation of the relationship between the state and man and how we can improve on the various structures we have developed and implemented since the time of ancient city states?

Imagine if we were to take the same academic and practical approach to science and technology that we have largely taken with philosophy, both generally and politically speaking. We would have created the horse and buggy, declared it to be the most definitive mode of transportation ever, anointed it "God's will", we would have sold the idea (and the horse and buggy very cheaply) to the vox populi and stagnated on that idea so that 200 years later we would find we are an even larger society who is without the luxury of the resources or an environment with which to sustain a horse and buggy culture. That is what we have effectively done with respect to Democracy:

 "Government of the people, by the people, for the people" forever, no matter what, to infinity, no take-backs so don't even try to conjure up a better system or you are a traitorous racist who can find somewhere else to live."

My worry for a better future for my kids is not the "impending financial doom" or the "debt crisis" or any number of other silly constructs the talking heads crow about to draw up fear, it is only that they  might live in a nation and in a society that is (over)populated with too much "fat part" of the bell curve who represent the simple and sad cretins, content to continue on the status quo who willfully exist without a critical thinking bone in their body. A people who while more complicated than cattle are just as immovable when confused and dug in and a people who make movement, and by virtue progress, impossible.

Do I have a favorable alternative or at least the rough sketch of what one looks like? No. I have spent many years "working hard" to "provide for my family" and "be a good dad" and rationalizing that's good enough work and socially responsible and respectable. It's not, it's self-limiting and pathetic and wholly my own fault.

Is Anarchy the answer to a better world and society? Probably not (at least not for people like you when there is a sizable amount of guys like me out here), but I am hopeful there will be a time soon when at least people aren’t upbraided for asking the question of what is and the pursuit thereof.

White Boi Swag

Recently I have found, through my clumsy and rudimentary experimentation, that learned behaviors and human skills have more than one use.

For example, I have found that the skill needed to put a baby to sleep (read: be a good father) is the same skill needed to make a woman orgasm (read: be a good lover) which fundamentally translates to the awareness of bodily rhythm and the ability to sustain it longer than thought possible.

Namely, the ability to keep rhythm, at any pace, when you've come to the realization that you have found the sweet spot and not “geek” yourself into slipping up (the human mind can be a self-defeating instrument) and inadvertently changing your motion and sustained rhythm.

This difficult pattern suggests more than just the brute and brawn needed to rock a baby or pound a vagina, this of course implies all of that, plus another trait, the evolved brain of a modern alpha male:

He that is both the archetypical and fabled Sex God and Lover, but also the newly formed and created Modern Dad.

On Living a Life Without Meaning

On Living A Life Without Meaning:

Let's assume someone is not religious and does not believe in a Western God or a variation of the Savior myth (or someone is sufficiently skeptical to dismiss the payoff of heaven).

Why would one who does NOT want to A) investigate life with an eye for observation, in an effort to advance human understanding, scientifically and/or technologically, B ) does not want to participate and add anything meaningful to the human conversation with original creations of art, music, literature, or otherwise, C) does not want to procreate in order to add resources and prolong the human experiment and, C) does not, at least, find value in the sensory pleasures of the fruits of man's labor thus far, rich foods, booze and merriment, porn and easy sex, etc., want to go through the motions to sustain life?

It would seem as if that person would just be biding time, meaninglessly working and eating and sleeping and generally trudging about, before they sighed their last breath. It would seem that if, after an honest and thorough evaluation, of course, one were to deem that their life was more work and cost than it was worth and beneficial, would the most efficient and rational course of action, then, be to just, how do you say it nicely, unplug yourself from the game?

We regard the suicidal as irrational and mentally ill, but what about the man who exists with no merit? Wouldn't it be easier for the apathetic to save time? Doesn't it seem much more irrational, instead, to waste 70+ years putting fuel in your body to, not participate, but to watch people, like human isotopes, electrons, and ions, interact and share and grow and (brain) chemically change in this big test tube we inhabit?

Good Grief!

One time, a while ago, I was really hungover on the couch.

Not your typical "woe-is-me-I-feel-like-shit" hangover where some lapsed time, hydration and a nap cures what ails you, but one of those states of general malaise that rocks your worldview to the core. Paranoia, anxiety and confusion are the rules of that day and a man's only recourse is to grin and bear it and orgasm in one way or another.

When a man's condition is perverted to such extremes, brief moments of lucid thoughts and experiences explode like epiphanies. Well, it just so happened that as I lay on my couch - that worn, leather deathbed - in the background babysitting my children was a Charlie Brown musical and I heard a song. I had such a moment.

I heard this brief song and I thought of what foundational and deep wonders the Peanut mythology held. I perked up and felt alive.

My person -- my genius, as the Greeks called it (not the pedestrian definition we use nowadays) -- was moved. A two minute song perfect in juxtaposition; innocent children of the nuclear 50's playing a tragic masterpiece under the Gothic, pained harmony of that bitch Lucy.

I say all that to say, just now my kids and I got to share that same moment. This came on and we all, as if prompted, shut the fuck up and experienced.

I hope it meant as much to them as it did me.

Death in Venice - A Review

Death in Venice, while being a relatively short read, set in a short amount of time and on limited geography, was a pretty dense and, at times, emotionally exhausting read.

A few prerequisites to thoroughly enjoying Death in Venice:

• A firm understanding and working knowledge of Greek mythology, which is a prevailing motif peppered on almost every page from the beginning until the end.

• Experience with archaic, out-of-date language. While legitimately impressive, it could also be a deterrent if the one who is reading does not have a particularly robust vocabulary. I stopped and looked up at least a half dozen words, so I can imagine the frustration to a layman trying to plod his way through. But, it’s not Mann’s fault and it isn’t a mark against his writing and novella. It’s almost as if he was just on the unfortunate end of history, like he was using the “Betamax” dialect of 1800’s language because a lot of his vocabulary was defined as “archaic” or “dated” or “out of use” or otherwise EOL’ed.

• Speaking of being on the unfortunate end of history, when you boil it down the book is about a 50-something man’s smoldering and sexual lust for a 14 year old boy. It takes you into the mind, and really the downward journey, of a pedophile. It’s a fascinating look at how “innocent” pederasty begins, as a germ in a discontented, repressed, and, although decorated as an artist and writer, wholly average man and leaves you guessing at just how far down the rabbit hole our protagonist would fall had outside events not interfered

All in all, it was a good book once you got adjusted to the style. He was good, not great, at imagery; he put a lot of effort in trying to get the sounds and, especially, smells off the page and for the most part succeeded. I feel like Death in Venice, with its somber, grayed tone, setting, and homosexuality was an influence on The Talented Mr. Ripley -- I wouldn't be surprised to read that. That being said, in its style, language and aspirations, while not poor, it was an austere man’s less interesting imitation of E.A. Poe.

Not that I am a literary critic and my reviews are the definitive take on the particular subject as it’s just one man’s perspective, but I like to critically think about literature as an art form and I hope that helps answer your question!

A Rap Enthusiast's Top 10

1. Biggie Smalls. He was born with the gift of gab. Just a big, fat, motherfucker who was blessed with the voice of a generation. Not much needs to be said: The GOAT.

2. Nas. Nas is a more cerebral Biggie Smalls. If you listen to enough of his music you will come around to the acceptance of my theory that he is brilliant and probably has the highest IQ of all rappers. (apologies to OutKast fanboi's because, while Andre3Stacks is the most creative and artistic of any rapper- he's a craft artist, if you will- Nas is intellectual horsepower.)

3. Tupac. Tupac, while not being the most technically sound and talented rapper, had pure, unadulterated passion. In fact, I would argue that NOBODY ever rapped with more integrity. This motherfucker made the conscious decision to truly and wholly embody his music and, I would argue, traded his life for a higher calling- that of his art. He created and threw himself into "Thug Life" and truly lived like there was no tomorrow. With Tupac I'm reminded of the old ham and egg breakfast idiom:

"When it comes to a bacon and egg breakfast, the Chicken is involved, but the Pig is committed" and 'Pac was committed! He was an artist's artist and while I don't think most of his music aged well, he gets my highest respect and honor.

4. Ghostface Killah. This is a controversial pick for some, but I feel he has a true talent and is the closest to "Rapper/Warrior Poet". His unique brand of "stream-of-consciousness" is fascinating and stretches the listener (a lot of that is his unique delivery and slang as well, but not to be discounted).

Beyond all that, I don't think there is a rapper, save maybe 50 cent for about 6 months, who has ever commanded more tacit fear and I think it's largely because his music his full of testosterone and adrenaline, like raw meat.

5. Jay-Z- While it is my opinion that someone of his tenure and visibility (and discography) should have way more tier 1 songs, he is one of the best technical rappers. It makes sense after all, he followed and was close to Biggie. He is lyrically very strong and while he may not be a lot of people's favorites not mentioning him in the top 10 I think is fallacy.

6. Eminem- Eminem is an example, to me, of what happens when hard work and practice meets a unique perspective, story and style. Eminem could have sold out and been a bitch, but he made the decision early in his career to keep his music on the cutting edge (stylistically- not so much shock lyrics) and it worked. His unique style- not rhyming ABAB or AABB, but multi-syllabification within verses (eg. "Whatever 'happened to 'catching a good ol 'fashioned 'asswhoopin and getting your shoes,coat and hat took'en) is ground-breaking.

7. Controversial pick - Fabulous. I know his first exposure (and last to most music fans) was that pussy ass holla back song, but Fab is hands down the best punch line rapper ever. Cannibus, Cassidy, Ludacris- eat your hearts out. Lyrically, he does the most twists and turns and is clever enough to extend metaphors for multiple bars. If the rappers above are great literary titans, Fab is like the intellectual satirist.

8. T.I. - I generally fancy music that glorifies violence, misogamy, drugs, and glory and while there are grimier and more raw rappers that embody those ideals, T.I.P. birthed them in the South. I think what makes T.I. great is that his best music all has the message, by way of subtext and underlying themes, of hope. He reminds me a lot of Tupac and I think, if he doesn't quite elicit the same emotion and following with his fan/populace/constituents, when it comes to actual rapping, he is better.

9. Juvenile- I contend that 400 Degreez might be the greatest debut album ever. Juvenile, like carcinogenic cellular mutations in the human body and Mother Nature, just doesn't give a fuck and won't be denied. I feel like all men are born with a purpose. Most men use resistance and excuses to wallow in mediocrity and deny themselves the passion in their heart until it doesn't exist. Juvenile was a born rapper and nothing- not the death of his kids, bankruptcy, fraud- will deny him. Without rap Juvenile would cease to exist on this earth and I feel that manifests through his music. I think in 20-30 years we will all understand his genius and celebrate his entire catalog.

10. Lil Wayne- I think Wayne in TC1-TC3 (and all his mix-tapes) deserves to be in the top 10. His experimentation and exploitation of that time was remarkable in that he truly mastered his craft and could invoke his message, his journey, his being, in each and every song from 2004-2008. It has become chic to forget those days but I think eventually time will do him justice. In fact, I think Lil Wayne will be one of those who commits suicide because as the drugs, fame and fortune wear off, he will wake up in a stupor to realize that he sold out his art and is an empty man who spawned fagets like Drake and Niki Menage

Urban Spelunking in Search of Rooftop Tennis/Basketball Courts

For the last 4 months (since I moved into my current office building) I've asked around to everyone how to access this rooftop tennis and basketball courts and nobody I've talked to seems to know the answer. Here is a crude picture I took from my office. #humblebrag

My office overlooks a structure, I want to say it's a parking garage, that seems to be connected to the Plaza of Americas. When I look out of my window I can see a rooftop tennis court and full basketball court.

I have never seen anyone on it, ever.

My CEO has said that if I can figure out what it is and how to get on it, I'll be allowed to dick around and play tennis and basketball. The last two weeks I've been fervently asking around- building management, workers, The Marriot (which I thought was the proprietor as it seems to be right around that conference area they have)- and nobody seems to know anything about it.

**Update**

I got this note from Marriot:

Thank you for contacting Marriott. We appreciate the opportunity to provide you with information.

We contacted the Dallas Marriott City Center directly on your behalf and spoke with one of our colleagues. They are not aware of a full size tennis court, or a basketball court on a roof, in the area.

More information regarding this hotel's facilities and services may be found at the webpage below:

www.marriott.com/DALDT

You may wish to contact an associate at the hotel for further details. The contact information for this location is included below:

Dallas Marriott City Center
Phone: 1-214-979-9000
Fax: 1-214-953-1931 

***Update II***

Full disclosure, I am so terrible at things that involve spatial reasoning, things that include all of the following: driving, directions, parking, physics, geometry and exclusively abstract theories. That being said, I went on an orienteering mission to find a Tennis Court and ended up more confused than I began. I took a few pictures:

So I took the advice and went over to the parking garage. I took the elevator to the 11th floor (the highest allowed) and then had to take the stairs to 12, the top. Once I reached the apex, I found a door that was locked:

So I go back down stairs to the 11th floor and start snooping around some hallways above the Marriot. There is a testing company and I asked some employees but they were of no help. I went down the only hallway outside of that business and at the end of the hall there was a left and a right. To the left was a large, lit 'Exit' door that was locked and had a badge sensor next to a locked door that sounded like it had a server in it.

Down the other side of the hall was one door. I didn't take a photo of it because it was, for some reason, unlit and dark. I opened the door and I found myself circled back to the 12th floor door:

At this point I'm feeling like a first person shooter trying to learn a new map/world like Golden Eye or Silent Hill.

I resign myself to go home and get in the elevator when I notice the 12th floor has a star next to it. I took that exit and found a dark/closed/unmanned Dallas Regional Conference area.

**** Update III ****

It has since come to light why there was nobody in the Dallas Chamber and why everything was wide open, dark and seemingly empty.

Posted in April of 2012:

"The Dallas Regional Chamber announced Tuesday that it will move its headquarters within downtown Dallas from Plaza of the Americas to Lincoln Plaza.

The chamber, which employs 45 people, has leased the entire 26th floor at Lincoln Plaza, which covers 25,436 feet. The move is scheduled for the fall."

So, they are moving/have moved and there is nobody there. So either I get to figure this out and play tennis and basketball for free for a while or nobody that knows anything about it or how to open the door.

The whole place is empty but its open so I resume sniffing around. There are lots of empty conference rooms, break rooms, printer/office rooms and I think I hear someone rustling around in a supply closet so I call out and nobody is there that I can see/hear. Admittedly, I'm a little spooked. I continue snooping on tip-toe.

All the doors by the exits are closed except one to the very far left. It's sufficiently away from where I thought I heard someone but I couldn't be sure, so I'm weary about opening this door and letting it close behind me and me being stuck on a roof.

I venture out and I see a fence and I think "YES" this is where the tennis courts are, I've made it:

Then it hit me, "well heck, how does one get through that fence and no door?" So I venture further and see this. Really weird.

So, I turn around and take a picture of my office (the right side, 4th row from the bottom) from my vantage:

I'm done for the day, don't want to get stuck on a roof or get in trouble for trespassing.

****** Update IV ******

I go home and do some google/bing maps research. I see that I was outdoors on the opposite side, ostensibly separated by Dallas Regional Chamber:

So the next morning I'm resolved to figure this out.

******* Update V *******

So, I was advised it might be a good idea to call the Dallas Regional Chamber but I don't want The DRC to know anything about my attempts, or alert anyone really, because I don't want to risk my potential honeypot.

I went back up there this morning and the first thing I noticed was, again, The DRC was wide open, dark and empty. The place, I have surmised, is abandoned or maybe under the absent eye the Plaza of America's management group keeps it open for some reason, but its empty and everyone who worked there or had business there is obviously moved out and on to Lincoln Plaza (per the article I copied and pasted).

So knowing that I had a bit more confidence about roaming around and not getting in trouble for trespassing. I walk to where I was last at yesterday and figure I need to go on the opposite side. I find this hallway that looks to be the path. The tricky thing about this hallway is that I have to leave my bag as a door stop or else be at risk to be stuck in the hallway (the door says no re-entry on the backside), so now I'm bag-less. Notice the floors are torn up:

Upon reaching the end door, there happens to be a small, orange cone which works to my fortune because it too is an exit only/no re-entry door. Either management uses this trick or there is another rat like myself trying to figure out this maze. I prop the door open with the orange cone but am not too confident about it's holding power. And then, there it is. The promise land. I called my CEO. "Hey, you in the office? Go to my office, look out the window and take a picture. you'll know what I'm talking about."

 So, I figure this honeypot will be open to me at least through the holidays as traffic getting in to downtown is already light and people take vacations and all around half ass it. 

Anyone in Downtown Dallas up for a game of rooftop tennis or basketball?