Dreams

Yeah, I have dreams just like anybody else. Sometimes I dream about standing in a moonlit field and all of the clothes and skin exploding off of my body and an emerald-eyed jackal emerging from the cloud of vaporized blood where I once stood. It stalks through field an forest until it descends upon a seaside Scandinavian village. It sneaks into a rustic little cabin. Finding a nursery there, the jackal eats the baby whole, digests it, and excretes it as a flock of luminous sparrows with human faces.

SPOILER ALERT!

… he looked out upon the land and felt deep in his heart and with utmost certainty, “Yes, I’ve finally done it. I am truly the greatest flugelhorn player in the world.” As the echos of his final tones still lingered among those sacred mountains that he had traveled so long to reach, he thought to himself, “Shit! I hope Glen will let me have my old job back at Target.”

                                                                FIN

True Story.

Brunch at the Starved Rock State Park Grand Lodge a rather classy event. Especially if you’re there for Gramma’s 80^th birthday with the side of your family that grew up in a Proper English home.  It used to be that every time I saw these family members, they were excited to see me at first and would immediately start asking questions to catch up on my life. If I say, “Oh, I haven’t been doing much. Working mostly,” they usually seem satisfied with that answer and will talk to me a little longer. But if I tell the truth, “I just played a show and recorded a new album with my pseudo-jewish ukulele hardcore band, I’m working on a rap album with a friend, a solo project, and I just got done making an animated video in a style comparable to South Park,” the interest in their faces is quickly replaced by confusion and disappointment because I’m not studying in a foreign country or doing an internship with a major corporation. So for the first fifteen minutes of brunch I smiled pleasantly and fielded questions with the blandest responses I could think of.

When my younger cousins arrived, I was relieved because there was someone in the family who could relate to my brother, Doug, and I. But that relief also came with a side of  hesitation and a bit of dread. These two tended to be wild and obnoxious and I, being the oldest, was expected to control them while The Adults had a lovely time together. For some reason The Adults thought I liked being held prisoner in Becky’s room and forced to play with Polly Pockets. They thought I was good at breaking up fights between the two cousins, okay with having Scott throw barbecue pork in my Pepsi, and assumed it was in my nature to keep Becky from farting on Doug.

The four of us Young People were placed in a far corner of the table; Becky on my right, Doug at my left, and Scott was next to Doug at the end of the table facing us. Almost immediately after he sat down, Scott, who was about ten years old, told a joke at the expense of the Chinese. I admit it was horribly incorrect in the political sense, but it was damn funny. Then Becky, an adorable blonde-haired, blue-eyed eight-year-old made a raucous fart noise by blowing against her hand. This is when I decided that I was not going to baby-sit these kids today. I’d rather be entertained.

We loaded out plates from the multiple chefs’ tables and various buffet lines, went back for seconds, Doug and Scott went back for thirds, Doug went for fourths and fifths. When Doug make the mistake of leaving his food unguarded to get more mostacholi, Scott took this opportunity to add at least two tablespoons of salt, a large stream of maple syrup, and a pinch of paper napkin to Doug’s cheesy potatoes and laughed his head off when Doug came back to find that his cheesy potatoes had magically turned disgusting. Doug tried to transfer the potatoes to Scott’s plate, but of course Scott just flung them back at Doug. Other foods were soon recruited to bombard foreign plates and in the midst of this amazingly low-key food fight, we realized that Becky’s soul had gotten trapped in a bagel.

No one remembered bringing the bagel to the table, but there it was. We’re still not sure how her soul got in there or why; probably she was trying to throw some eggs onto Scott’s plate and accidentally got her soul caught in the eggs and it fell out while passing over the bagel. Seems like every time we get together, Becky’s soul is falling out one way or another, but usually she just picks it up, brushes it off, and puts it back. One time, Scott made Becky laugh so hard that her soul came out her nose along with the milk she was drinking and we spent the rest of the afternoon trying to get her soul back from my uncle’s cat. But it had never gotten stuck in something before. Yet there it was, trapped in the little hole in the center of the bagel, and poor Becky sat there soulless, not knowing what to do. There wasn’t much she could do at this point.

For the entire meal, The Adults and Young People had no interaction. So the Adults had no idea what had just happened. They were talking about our older cousin who had just graduated college and was now working as a tire saleswoman for Michelin. They were all engrossed with that story because she’s “successful.”  So we didn’t bother the Adults with Becky’s little problem.

Scott tried dissecting the bagel to get the soul out, but that only got the soul lodged in there even more, and in little fragments. So Scott added the bagel pieces to Doug’s cheesy-potato-eggs-with-napkin-and-syrup while Doug got dessert, the Adults moved on to talk of yet another cousin who was off studying in France, Becky was still soulless, and I tried to get the syrup off my pants. The four cups of Darjeeling tea I drank with brunch suddenly took effect and inspired me to make the World’s Most Underwhelming Pirate Hook by inserting a spoon up my sleeve, putting my napkin over my left eye, and saying things to my brother like, “AAAARRRR you going to finish that?” and “I be the pIIIrate of StAAARRved Rock ey scurveyyy.” At the sight of the spoon in my sleeve, Scott realized that I held the key to the freedom of Becky’s soul. But it would be risky. There were Adults all around us who could ruin the whole operation. The only way to get Becky’s soul back was to smuggle an entire set of silverware out of the lodge and cast it off a cliff without getting caught, thus fulfilling the prophecy.

I was suddenly sobered by the weight of our mission, so slid the spoon farther up my sleeve and took the napkin off my head to reduce any attention our actions might draw. Doug put a fork in his pocket and Scott hid a knife in his sock. We assured Becky that we’d get her soul back and she just looked at us with big, blue, concerned eyes. I guess the soul is necessary for one to be able to speak because the poor kid hadn’t said a word since she threw the thing into the bagel.

Finally, the Adults finished their coffee, we pushed in our chairs, and went to explore the main part of the lodge. The adults wandered amongst other tourists, marveled at the enormous buffalo head on the stone fireplace, and browsed the gift shop of simulated Native American knick knacks and Boyd’s Bears. Scott Doug, and I weren’t interested in the scenery – we were too focused on our mission. Too often the fork would fall out of Doug’s pocket and we’d scramble to re-conceal it, the knife would poke Scott in the ankle, or the spoon would slide down to my elbow and cause my sleeve to sag. We tried to stay calm and not giggle, but when a waiter would walk by or the fork would start to escape from Doug’s pocket, we struggled to remain inconspicuous. I think the Adults sensed we were up to something, but they probably thought Scott was just telling racist jokes again and didn’t bother to inquire. Once they tired of looking at stuffed opossums and game birds, we all went outside to the stone-paved, tree-lined patio in back.

Everyone lines up along the rail overlooking the drop-off behind the lodge, but all you can see are dense treetops. There’s no view, nothing to look at. But still The Adults gravitated to the railing and looked at the treetops in awe. We used their touristic weakness to our advantage. While they were discussing my aunt’s boyfriend’s driftwood sculptures (they’re more interested in driftwood sculptures that in my solo album) Doug, Scott, Becky, and I snuck off in the opposite direction down the stone path. We found a small wooden bridge over a stream, made sure the Adults were still engrossed by the trees and stories of driftwood, and then drew our utensils.

Just as we were about to complete our mission, an elderly couple warned us of their approach with the loud swipping of their nylon jogging suits. We hid the silverware and pretended to see something interesting below the bridge until they passed. The Adults were still unaware of our absence, or existence, either way was just fine as long as they didn’t find out about the stolen silverware. We giggled at each other as we unveiled our loot once again, Scott counted down, and the three of us simultaneously cast the utensils off of the bridge into the ravine below.

Triumphantly, Becky made a fart noise with her hand. We rejoiced with a happy little dance and patted Becky’s golden head. She had her soul back. The Adults eventually tired of the view had sufficiently caught up on our more exciting family members, and called us to leave. We heeled obediently, said our goodbyes, and wished Gramma a Happy Birthday for the seventh time in the two hours we had been in her presence.

As soon as we got in the car, our parents commented on how nice the brunch was, how nice it was to see the family and how nice Scott and Becky looked. They asked Doug and I if we had a nice brunch. We both thought for a second, sighed slightly, and gave the blandest answer we could think of, “Yeah. It was nice.”

-a

The Irish Find Their Setter

There was once a time in Ireland when people couldn’t tend to the important things in life, like interesting fashions and notebooks and finances, what with three times a day having to drop everything and set the tables for meals at a level of perfection which requires the utmost attention to detail, and is immediately botched once the mind slips to something else.

So the Irish set out to hire some other member of the Animal Kingdom who could fill the position.

First they tried training lemurs for the job, but the lemurs had even shorter attention spans than the people they were to replace.  Just as the Irish would see progress being made, the lemur would see his reflection in a spoon and displace every utensil, cup, and plate in one quick movement across the table and refuse to listen to reason for at least 45 minutes.

Learning from their mistakes, the Irish looked to the other end of the spectrum – to a creature who can’t help but think out thoroughly his every move – the sloth.

But the sloth just took too damn long to do anything.

The Asian elephant was briefly considered because of its hospitable nature and dexterous trunk.  For obvious reasons, the elephant didn’t work out (not that these reasons were so obvious at the time – roughly twenty sets of china lost important pieces, a lovely dining room rug got mud so hopelessly smashed into it, it was rendered worthless, not to mention the damage done just in coaxing an elephant from the front door to the dining room).

Throughout this audition process, a large dog residing with one of the Irish grew impatient watching all this attention wasted on other species, who he felt were not nearly so qualified as he.  So while the Irish drank coffee and smoked cigarettes on a break after shooing the elephant out the yard (the elephant kept calling and calling to see if he got the job, too.  He finally got the clue after three weeks), the dog demonstrated with confident precision and a charismatic smile, the task at which all the previously-considered animals had failed.

The Irish gave the dog the Setter position and scheduled him to go into mass production the next week.

Fast food chains and conflicting feeding schedules have significantly lowered demand for the Irish Setter’s table service, while the important things like notebooks and finances flourish.  Today the Setter can be found in many countries other than Ireland and is mostly kept around for his dashing good looks and impressive tolerance with children pulling his hair and trying to get him into outfits.

-a

The Shit and The Terms

While talking about the development of jazz from dance music to art music in an interview in Stop Smiling magazine, Chicago-based guitarist Jeff  Parker concluded with this statement:

“They wanted to be recognized for who they were, and that is what black people wanted as well. We want to live in the same neighborhoods. We want to do all the same shit as everyone else – and do it on our own terms.”

That last sentence puts a spotlight on a conflict at the heart of the American experience, regardless of race. The only way you can expect the same shit as everyone else is to do it on someone else’s terms. The cost of one form of freedom is the sacrifice of another. The shit comes with the terms. Shit.

-Doug

The Great Sequined Hope

In The Omnivore’s Dilemma (which I’m currently about to finish reading), author Michael Pollan deduces that the most humane way of producing and consuming food – particularly meat – is only to raise and eat those creatures that are allowed to live their lives as nature intended. As in, if you’re going to eat chickens, the chickens should be allowed to live out their lives doing chickenly things; scratching open pastures for grubs and eating their natural diet and such. “Gratifying their every chicken instinct.”

This got me thinking on the quality of human life (mine in particular). People should focus on living however comes naturally to them. Some people may want nice things – go ahead and have them if that’s what you truly want. Some want to dedicate their lives to charities – go for it. But what would my natural way of life be if I wasn’t always worrying about bills or the perpetual possibility that I could be missing out on something or there’s something better or more productive I could be doing at any given time (like this one! o!).

I brought this up to a friend and co-worker as we closed up at the dog daycare. She had just been standing in a group of 20 dogs and observing their interactions. Even though dogs do have a bit of a social etiquette when it comes to greetings and play behavior, she noticed that they don’t have social barriers inflicted upon themselves and the dogs they associate with. Even if Lolli and Skeeter come from the same household, Skeeter can play with London, with Bamboo, with Casey, whoever he wants and it’s perfectly fine and they’re all on the same page. Lolli goes off and plays with her friends. If a dog wants to play with a toy, he does. If he wants to pee on a wall, there’s nothing holding him back.  And at the end of the day, the dogs leave and curl up on the sofa together at home, just happy to have a warm soft thing to sleep on.  It’s perfect because all the dogs are doing exactly what nature intended. Play, run, eat, sleep.

But people with their insecurities and conscience are doomed to be miserable because whatever we do, it seems, there is inevitably something wrong with it. If we want to play with a toy, someone is gonna come up and say “That toy was made by children in China. Shame on you.” Or, more often in my case, “Aren’t you too old to be playing with that toy?”

Even if you get what you think you want, what happens when your human brains convince you that you don’t actually want it after all. Nature is saying I would like to eat a burger. But if I go out and get said burger, I won’t enjoy it because I’m thinking of the cow that this meat used to belong to standing ankle-high in cow shit and being pumped full of antibiotics.  I used to enjoy turning pre-existing things into other things – it comes naturally to me. But I’ve stopped doing that largely because the original thing could be of much more use to someone as-is, than after I turn it into something else. For example, I used to buy nice wool sweaters at resale shops and turn them into cute sweaters for my dog. A good wool sweater would mean a lot more to a human in the winter than to my dog. He hates wearing them anyway.

I guess you just have to come to terms with the fact that a human brain is a miserable thing to have and as long as you have one, true happiness will be hard to come by because of the ever-looming shadows of the origins of the things that make us happy. Knowledge is power. Let the truth set you free. So on and so forth.

So, then what have we learned here from these dogs tonight about the nature of happiness, I asked her. We shake our butts and run around and lick things? To which she replied, “That’s called ‘clubbing’; the answer is ‘clubbing’.”

Pardon me – I’m off to buy a new outfit. With a heavy emphasis on the sequins. Onward to happiness.

-A

Aaaah, Summertime Lemonade

I’m all about making lemonade out of life’s lemons; turning bad experiences into important lessons, transforming junk into functional amenities. But lately I just have too goddam many lemons. So many lemons I can’t possibly turn them all into lemonade in a timely manner and most of the lemons just sit there rotting in the corner. I try to make something out of the fresh ones while I can, but the stink from the rotten ones is so distracting that I don’t get very far so I try to get rid of some of the old ones but I soon get fed up and find new lemons and try with all my might to ignore the stench and do something constructive for a change.

Lemonade is a tough business.

-A

How do I make the “R” back’rds?

Y’all remember Korn, right?  The “hip-hop” influenced “metal” band who made it “okay” for white guys to wear cornrows. A while a go one of the guitar players published an autobiography about how he did drugs, got famous, did more and better drugs, got tons of tail, got bummed out about it and found Jesus.  Now I see the bass player  has published a book about the same thing, with the same ending.  There’s nothing wrong with letting Jesus help you straighten your life out. I suppose there’s some  fine line somewhere, which may or may not have been crossed, between spreading the Word and cashing in on it.  All I’m saying is I’d like to see the drummer publish a book called “I Still Do Drugs and I’m Atheist.”

Recent Exercises in Glib Observation

Sobriety is a form of masochism.

Before attempting the impossible one must first confront the inconvenient and the difficult.

There are two kinds of people in this world. I hate them both.

The morning sunlight glistens on a shirtless drunk.

I went on a little run today and along the way saw a heartwarming vignette:

A sweaty, shirtless man asleep in a lawn chair next to a half-finished 6-pack and blasting “Crazy Train” from his boom box loud enough to be heard from two blocks away at 8:00 a.m.

This prodigious slice of Americana evoked in me a thought: Of all the people I’ve known in my life, only a handful are NOT of the Midwest. This made me sad… and a little nauseous. Not because there’s anything WRONG with Midwesterners, but because if there were I’d have no way of knowing.

Excuse me, I suddenly have a profound urge to check the train schedule.

-Doug