adios, amoebas...

It's been good, Dallas. Mostly.













I'll catch up with you from the next time zone to the left...















PS - Thanks again, Tim. I'll do my best to pay you back.

Fishbone 101

A while back on Jeff Liles' History of Dallas Music MySpace page, I took it upon myself to leave a brief dissertation on the true greatness of - and sad lack of appreciation for - Fishbone in a comment on one of the ticket stub pictures I gave him.

For those who don't know much about them, there's not much more I can say here that I didn't say in the aforementioned comment...although, I would recommend a quick read through the band's Wikipedia page. So instead, I'll just share this clip. Crank it up if you can. And pay attention to just how tight those guys really are in the midst of the absolute onstage chaos they created. Then imagine experiencing that intensity for, like, two solid hours. It left you exhausted, exhilarated and in awe. At their peak, they were the best band in the world. Past their peak, they were still the best live band in the world. Unbelievable shit.

(Oh, and in case you are wondering who the Kendall Jones both I and Wikipedia reference, he's the guitar player on the left who sings the bridge to "Party at Ground Zero." I hope he's better now because his life was a tragedy for a while...)

Turn the shit up, pogo and enjoy...!


And lest anyone think Fishbone were strictly a ska band, you can check out some of their heavier shit here and here and in this additional live clip below. There wasn't anything those guys couldn't do better than anyone else. The first of those links makes me particularly sad in a way because Kendall wrote and sang the song. However, he'd already fried and left the band by the time it was released and they'd joined the Lollapalooza festival in '93. So in the video, it's keyboard/trombone player Chris Dowd shown singing. But it's a particularly poignant song in hindsight given its religious theme and the "religious" reasons for Kendall leaving / freaking out.

Swim (seriously heavy)...

genius

Quote of the day...

It feels like the world is a fuckin' pile of shit that's full of snakes and flies, and we're here to put some frosting on it. - Curt Kirkwood

As, um, negative as that may sound, I love the sentiment behind it. Hee hee...

good read

This, to me, could just as easily have been written by my friend, the amazing Bill...

I really like a lot of what he had to say (unfortunately, only about a quarter of the interview appears online). And I'm really starting to enjoy it when I'm reminded that not all Christians are like...well, like the majority of Christians I've had to deal with in my life. Always good to keep one's prejudices in check. Or something like that.

sad, I think...

...that people consider Barack Obama* "inspiring" when people like Mike Gravel (and Dennis Kucinich and Ron Paul and Ralph Nader) are also running for president. Yet those folks get no support from their parties because they speak about actual issues and run their candidacies based upon their own principles and a sincere agenda. Pandering is demanded by both parties and, it could be argued, by most of the voting public who seem to respond only to mindless jingoism and empty plans and promises.

I'm supposed to be taking the year off from my political soapboxing, but I couldn't resist posting this message from my man, Mike...

Two days ago I attended an event to address both one of the most disturbing and overlooked consequences of the Iraq War. Attended by both scientists and Iraq veterans, I heard how depleted-uranium weapons and ammunition have turned Iraq into a nation littered with radioactive fallout. We gathered across the street from General Dynamics in Scranton, PA-a war profiteer whose profits have spiked in the wake of the illegal Iraq War. The Nation magazine estimates over 11,000 US soldiers to have been killed from exposure to uranium since the first Iraq War. That does not even address the vast destruction to the Iraqi people and their country. Onset of cancer, permanent respiratory and neurological conditions, deformities in the children of our servicemen-make no mistake: Depleted-Uranium (DU) is the Agent Orange of the Iraq War.

How did we get here, that our industries are poisoning and killing our own troops? The fundamental problem is pervasive and the result of our militarized culture. On Earth Day, it was clearer than ever that we cannot sufficiently tackle the myriad environmental problems we face without bringing the Military-Industrial-Complex to heel. The links between nuclear power (against which I fought and succeeded a generation ago) and our malignant warfare industry is undeniable and inextricable.

Yet it is very possible to shake the military-industrial-complex's grip on our society. It will only come from empowering the people with The National Initiative. Our Congress is controlled by this complex lock, stock and barrel, and we have seen both the Democrats and Republicans dissolve into war parties, neither offering a definitive plan to end the War in Iraq. Nor will they end American Imperialism, which will ultimately bring future wars, havoc and destruction to the innocent. I count our delicate planet and natural world among those innocent victims.

I adamantly believe that, as a nation, we can get off of gasoline in 5 years, and the world can get off of carbon in 10. We have such great ability and capacity, yet we are squandering our treasure and resources on war and killing. I remember how American Industry could produce only one ship per year in 1941. Three years later, heeding the call to WWII, it was one per week. That same spark is possible to heal the environment, if we turn the military-industrial-complex on its head. Our society's massive abilities and capacities have been hijacked by war, but we can reclaim them for limitless sources of innovation. Zero-emissions transportation, revitalized infrastructure and mass transit system to counter congestion and spur real productivity-these possibilities go overlooked when we foolishly wage wars for finite, carbon-spewing fossil fuels. Rather, we must harness the resources before our eyes: the sun, wind, and the people's creativity.

Dwight Eisenhower, who predicted the military-industrial-complex, said that "one day, the people will want peace so badly that they will push the government aside." That reality is before us by unleashing the creativity of the American people with The National Initiative. Today, I believe in that possibility more than ever.

*PS - Not that this has anything to do with the above sentiments from Senator Gravel, but am I the only person who actually agrees with most (not all, but most) of what Obama's "spiritual advisor," the Rev. Jeremiah Wright, has had to say...?

true, 'dat

Here's a concept I was trying to explain to someone a few months ago without much success. Possibly because it's said more eloquently here...

Tell me whom you love, and I will tell you who you are. - Houssaye

Utah-bound (yet another long-ass post)

Irony is hitting me from all sides at the moment. Maybe not irony in the most correct definition, but at least something similar to what Alanis Morissette had in mind (rain on your wedding day, foreign hair on your spaghetti plate, etc.). Actually, it's probably somewhere in between...something my friend Amber used to refer to as "bumper cars." For example, Amber just moved to New Orleans a couple weeks ago. I just returned from there, fresh and smooth as a newborn baby's unemployed ass, in February with three kitties for my new-ish apartment and thoughts of visiting her and ARNO on a somewhat regular basis.

I like my new-ish apartment. A lot. And I've spent a lot of time getting to know it along with the three kitties in this past month. That's the most kick-ass-est thing about unemployment...it affords you plenty of time to be humped over in your jammie pants in front of your computer with a small, black and white cat perched on your back watching birds outside the window. There's also lots of time to be spent on YouTube watching completely fascinating videos of bands you really love - or just know about, in many cases - but never got to see live and/or in their heydays (ladies and gentlemen - Bikini Kill...and Kiss...and Tool...and Helmet...and Nashville Pussy...and Deep Purple...and Blue Cheer...and Mr. Bungle...and clips from the never-released Rolling Stones flick, "Cocksucker Blues"...I've truly only scratched the surface, I'm sure). I reintroduced myself to the beguiling and dangerous world of napping. Never been much of a fan of napping for the most part. But for a good week or so I was napping a completely unacceptable amount. I'll always take my conscious mind over my unconscious (or subconscious). But the lure of the nap when you're annoyed or disappointed or stressed...oh, sweet nap...easily the most convenient form of escapism. And the dangerous part for me is, a) that I have somewhat depressive tendencies to start with; and, b) the fact that I cannot comprehend moderation at all...not a good combination of personality traits. It's a recipe for clinical depression, actually. So...ixnay on the apnays. But there's also reading. You can do lots of reading when you ain't got no job. It's loads of fun. Yeah, the "no steady source of income" thing sucks a ball or two, but it's otherwise a pretty nifty lifestyle. To paraphrase Ferris Bueller, if you have the means, I highly recommend it.

Anyway, Tim and I both loved the new place pretty much immediately. We'd been stuck in a rut at the old apartment. The old place was cool, but the novelty wears off after ten years...and with stuff falling apart or not working and walls permanently stained with candle soot. I had no idea, though, how much change I was in for when I made that move. You jack with one thing, make one significant change...BOOM!...all kinds of (seemingly) unrelated hell breaks loose. Amber would be doing a delighted happy dance in front of me, clapping her hands and singing "bumper cars!" And I, of course, would be denying the more spiritual implications behind her theories. I'm a steadfast, utterly devout follower of the religion of Shit Happens. Amber and most of my friends believe - to varying degrees - that everything happens for a reason. I can think of no other platitude that makes my eyes immediately roll as quickly as that one. Because it's a fucking cop-out philosophy, mainly...the ideal that certain things are or are not "meant to be." Whatever. The only thing I really subscribe to with any sincerity is the notion that nothing happens for a reason (or everything happens for no reason...take your pick). Shit happens. Amen.

That's not to say, however, that many actions and events don't influence other reactions or events. Far from it. I just believe that coincidence is a more powerful and believable force than the idea that some incomprehensible purpose is driving the activities and/or mental/physical processes in this earthly dimension. It's just my thing.

As is my tendency, though, I've veered a bit off topic here. Back to the "loving the new place" subject. The place in question is in a very old building (1920s-ish) that, given the block on which it sits, could not look any more incongruent than if it were on the side of a mountain. It's a converted Spanish-style mansion sitting directly in between some sort of mid-rise commercial building and a group of stores along Oak Lawn. It's the only residential building on this block; there's even a fucking Starbucks across the street. Not that that's a unique occurrence. But even when I was moving in, I kept wondering if the days were numbered for this place. These days in Dallas, if you even think of looking at a building with some sort of historic sentiment in your head, you might as well paint a bulls-eye upon which somebody can take aim with a wrecking ball. On the western side of Oak Lawn, Rawlins Street is virtually entirely residential and makes for a pretty lovely drive because almost all the buildings are old mansions from various eras converted into apartments such as my own. Not on my block, though. (Feel free to check out the views from the nifty second-floor patio area here...)

At any rate, I had a couple interviews with a really cool company - doing pretty much what I've been doing the past fifteen years, work-wise - here in Dallas shortly after getting shitcanned from my old job. I don't know if I actually got the job - I know I was one of two finalists. But I think I discovered that the voicemail service for the landline I've been using since I moved in has never worked. Hasn't been an issue to this point because I mostly use my cell phone or email, anyway. But I know some numbers have shown up on the caller ID, listing folks from whom I'd expect a message of some sort awaiting me. It doesn't really matter now - and I kinda like not knowing whether I got the other gig or not - because something more fitting came along. Or, I should say, I came back to it.

The person who would have been my boss at this new job in Dallas had a sign in his office that read, "What would you do if you knew you could not fail?" I'm sure that's a well-established platitude with some folks somewhere, but I'd never considered it before. Shortly after seeing the aforementioned sign, I read the following by Barry Lopez from a recent issue of National Geographic magazine...

"My guess would be that someone someday will trace the roots of modern human loneliness to a loss of intimacy with place, to our many breaks with the physical Earth. We are not out there much anymore. Even when we are, we are often too quick to take things in. A member of the group who insists on lingering is 'holding everyone else up.' I think about this kind of detachment from the physical world frequently, because human beings, generally, seem to long for a specific place, a certain geography that gives them a sense of well-being.

"When I was traveling regularly in the Arctic, I routinely asked Yupik, Inupiat, and Inuit how they characterized people from the civilization of which I was a part. 'Lonely' was a response I heard with discomfiting frequency. The cure for loneliness, I have come to understand, is not more socializing. It's achieving and maintaining close friendships. The trust that characterizes that kind of friendship allows one to be vulnerable, to discuss problems that resist a solution, for example, without having to risk being judged or dismissed. I bring this up because the desire I experience most keenly, when I travel in landscapes like the ones made so evocative here, is for intimacy. I have learned that I will not experience the exhilaration intimacy brings unless I become vulnerable to the place, unless I come to a landscape without judgments, unless I trust that the place is indifferent to me. The practice I strive for when I travel is to meet the land as if it were a person. To encounter it as if it were as deep in its meaning as human personality. I wait for it to speak..."

I think he's right, myself. I think it's what's always drawn me to desert locales and is behind the reason I usually feel most inspired when I'm in the most desolate areas I can find. At any rate, the message on the sign and the words from Barry Lopez conspire in my case to lead me back to Best Friends. Allow me to elaborate, please. (As an enormous, you've-got-to-be-kidding groan takes shape somewhere in cyberspace...)

I decided in the summer of 2005 that I needed to move out west. I had so much fun and felt so alive during the road trip I took in spring of that year to see the dual rarities of blooming wildflowers and a temporary lake in Death Valley that I even traded in my Toyota Corolla for an Xterra. Having damn near destroyed the Corolla while making my way to the Racetrack Playa in Death Valley, I knew I needed a truck of some sort. Yes, SUV Guilt is a bitch for a liberal, but dammit...I want to see stuff that can be hard to get to sometimes. So, screw the car...gimme a truck. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

I love the desert - my favorite place in the world is Death Valley - and I wanted to find a job and a place to live that would situate me in the middle of the southwestern U.S. Preferably in an area that wasn't ungodly hot like, say, Phoenix. I realized Flagstaff would be the perfect location because it's a nice little town in a cool (literally...as in regards to climate) area in Arizona, and I'd be a day's drive from all my favorite spots. For the next few months I spent all my mental energy trying to get myself relocated to Flagstaff.

Not so easy, as it turns out. For one thing, the cost of living there is pretty high. More problematic, though, is the fact that you pretty much are required to have two master's degrees and a Nobel Prize to get any kind of job in that fucking town. It's ridiculous. They have three main employers, two of whom can hire you if you want to have a warehouse job, and the other who will only hire you if you are The Smartest Person Who Has Ever Lived. Fuckity.

Needless to say, I started expanding my options to include smaller towns in central/northern Arizona and even looked at far southern Utah as possible candidates for the big bag of nothing that I had to offer. I happened upon a small town in Utah called Kanab. When researching the town, I discovered it was the home for the largest no-kill animal sanctuary in the United States. As you might guess, angels sang and...well, shit like that. I immediately got my friend Ginger to print me off a few copies of Best Friends job applications (couldn't do that sort of thing at work and didn't have the capabilities to do so at home) and wasted little time in firing off applications to them for at least three different positions. Then about two weeks later, Hurricane Katrina absolutely destroyed the gulf coast, New Orleans in particular, and any respect most of us had for our government's ability to prepare for and respond to natural disasters.

Suffice it to say, everyone's attention was focused on the gulf region, with Best Friends really leading the way with regard to animal welfare in the area. I was originally supposed to volunteer down there with the ASPCA and at least one other animal organization. After those opportunities fell through, it was almost by accident that I got in touch with Best Friends, who told me they could use my assistance. I headed down there for a little over a week in October followed by a second week in December...meeting the best friend I've ever had, my dear Wendy, in the process. As I've said before on this blog, those experiences with Best Friends in Tylertown, Mississippi, were nothing short of life-changing.

Once Best Friends had more or less pulled out of Tylertown and New Orleans, I got an invitation to do a work evaluation with BF in Kanab (also thanks in no small part to some of the group's founders, whom I'd met and pestered during my volunteer stints). In April of 2006, I spent a week in Kanab and was offered a position as Cat Caregiver. It was the hardest thing I've ever had to decline; financially, there was absolutely no way I could make it work. To say that the pay is low there would be an understatement. But not an insult or negative observation, as nobody should want or expect the pay at any non-profit to be good. They need to be spending their money on their objectives after all, right? And nobody goes to work for non-profit organizations to make money anyway. Unfortunately, I was just nowhere near being in the kind of shape to take on that kind of change in financial lifestyle...too much debt, too many payments, etc. Like most American consumers, I'd worked myself into a position that wasn't easy to escape; the more money you make, the more money you spend, the more obligations you have to fulfill. In short, I was fucked.

Fast-forward to the second half of 2007. The atmosphere at my workplace had become absolutely unbearable...the worst I'd experienced in my fifteen-year tenure there. I hated those people; most of us hated those people. And they didn't look kindly upon us. Every day there was more insulting, oppressive and offensive than the day before. I knew when they laid me off in February that they were doing me a favor. I just had no idea how big that favor would become.

I spent the first month or so firing off resumes to anyone and everyone. One day, however, during one of my usual cleaning-up-after-messy-kitty rituals, it occurred to me: two years ago, I was bending over backward to try and get myself into a position where I could be doing this very thing (or something like it) for a company I think the world of in a part of the world I was dying to move myself to. I told Best Friends when I declined their first offer that I would do my best to get myself where I could accept a job from them. I hadn't, of course...I settled back into my safe, somewhat comfortable rut and plodded along. But now here I was - exactly where I needed to be without having even realized it.

I'd been collecting unemployment benefits since the layoff, but I knew I was going to have to dip into the 401k at some point to make ends meet. Why not really dip into the 401k, pay off all the debts, pay off the truck, etc., and get myself to where I could make the move out to Utah...do what I really love in a place I really love for a group of people I really love?

I ran the idea past Wendy (my financial advisor) and my folks (my reality advisors) to make sure my idea wasn't too irresponsible or stupid. Everyone was on board. This made me happy.

I just got back last week from another two-week work evaluation with Best Friends. (You can see some pics of the place if you'd like here.) They offered the gig again. I accepted. Life is good. Scary and intimidating for the time being, but good.

I'm scheduled to move out to Kanab by the last week in May. The apartment I love so much I will leave behind. It has become for me merely a transitional place of residence. My world turned inside out during the six-plus months I've lived here. I lost my dear friend...my beautiful, wonderful companion Tim. I lost a very close friend who revealed herself to be not quite the good and trustworthy friend I'd made her out to be after all. I lost a job of fifteen years (that I mostly hated). I turned forty. Amber, my close friend for so many years who saw me through sobriety, the onset of panic disorder and some level of depression, has moved to New Orleans. Though, in truth, our friendship has been slowly eroding for some time now...just kind of a natural process that sometimes happens. Things will never be the same. But that's for better and worse. And it's the way things should be, really, if a person is attempting to evolve and move in a new direction. I admit, I was failing badly at doing so prior to my move to the new place here in Oak Lawn. Maybe I should be a little embarrassed by that, but instead I find myself feeling really lucky to have my ass kicked so hard that it hopefully, finally woke me up a bit and forced me to look at my life and where I've put myself.

I've made some really great friends in the process of losing so much. Cindy and Kate have been wonderful supporters...better than I probably deserve. Older friends like Wendy, Ginger, Elena, Erin and Crispin - along with my family - have been predictably supportive in ways I hope to never take for granted. My new feline friends - Frank, Mack and Mary (named after some of the Best Friends folks I got to know in Tylertown) - have been a blessing.

Life is good. Scary and intimidating, but good.

Wish me luck, if you don't mind, on my new adventures. I feel wonderful about it all. And I finally feel, like the Doug Burr lyric currently at the top of this blog, that I've found that reason to sing that I've been looking for for such a long time. All I've ever wanted for myself is to do good, help others, and be proud of my life while I'm here. I hope I've finally found the road that will take me there.

But if not, if it doesn't work out and I fuck the whole thing up...at least I'm giving it a shot. To finish with another great lyric - this one courtesy of the amazing Curt Kirkwood...

Slipping slowly up the rock slide, one thing always seems apparent...
If the climb becomes too much, I can always turn around

off to Utah...

...wish me luck!

more death and other goodness from The Sun

From the December 2007 issue of The Sun magazine...

Burrow into what's interesting - in you, and in everyone else. Every moment on the planet has juice to yield. Anything is interesting if you truly want to know about it. Staying awake to that (is) the key to staying alive. - from The Wizard in the Closet, by Heather Sellers

...my resistance to love. I'd often put distance between myself and others as a way to keep from feeling trapped or getting hurt. I'd delivered wearying criticisms of people I thought were less than perfect, as if I were any better than them. Living like that had been a long, hard battle with many casualties, the most wounded sometimes being me. I think that during all those silent-meditation sessions; in all the time I'd spent listening to the wisdom of renowned teachers, theologians, and sages; in all the millions of words I'd read in profound spiritual tracts, I'd been trying to learn how to love. But no amount of meditation or yoga or studies of scriptures could have given me that. (Insert name here)'s death put me in touch with one of the highest orders of human existence: to love others as though we are dying all the time, because the plain truth of the matter is that we are. - from My Marital Status, by James Kullander

And from the "Sunbeams" section...

Stop reading for a moment, and imagine that you are going to die in one minute. The last things you are going to experience are reading these pages, sitting in this room, thinking and feeling what you are thinking and feeling right now. This is the end of your life... You have no time to write a note or make a phone call. All you can do is experience what is, right now. This is a very simple exercise, but it is quite profound. It brings you into presence very quickly. You stop fighting, you stop needing, you stop being concerned with physical comfort, you stop wanting, you stop achieving, and you stop maintaining. Enlightenment, attainment, realization all become meaningless. You are just present. - Ken McLeod

letters to The Sun (part two)

Those who know me well enough will understand why this has meaning for me...

The most severe panic attacks I've ever had all occurred in airports. The panic would be triggered by feeling trapped in the fluorescent-lit concourses crammed with rushing people. The worst was Chicago's O'Hare, where the crowded tunnel between concourses was outfitted with flashing neon lights and piped-in hustle-bustle music designed to get everyone through as fast as possible. For me the sensory overload was so great that more than once I clung to the tunnel wall, shut my eyes, and felt my way from one end to the other, crying and praying the entire way.

My panic disorder was at its zenith in the summer of 1976, when I'd survived a protracted and brutal divorce and was faced with raising two young children alone. There was one bright light in my life: I was in love with a man I'd met in my therapy group. But then, at summer's end, he got a job more than a thousand miles away, in Denver, Colorado.

I was determined to fly out and visit him, even though it meant changing planes at O'Hare. A friend rationalized that I had an invisible handicap and needed a visible one instead, so that the airline employees would help me. She lent me a pair of crutches and told me to wrap my leg in an Ace bandage and say that I had a broken ankle.

Another friend, who lived in Chicago, agreed to meet me when I arrived at O'Hare. I got off the plane to find my friend waiting for me, along with an airport employee who had orders to put me in a wheelchair and take me to the gate for my next departure. My friend insisted we have a drink first, so the employee wheeled me over to the nearest airport lounge and said he'd be back to get me in half an hour.

After a few drinks it suddenly dawned on us that he'd forgotten me, and my plane was due to depart in two minutes. My friend yanked me out of the wheelchair, and I put the crutches under my arm and ran down the concourse. When I got to the gate, the doors of the plane were closing, but the crew took pity on me and let me squeeze on.

The man I was flying to see has been my husband for nearly thirty years. Together we have traveled the world.

- Ciel Bottomly
Montrose, Colorado

For me, it's always been malls. Not that I ever go to malls...maybe once or twice a year at most. But something about them freaks me the fuck out. The panic disorder doesn't limit its manifestation to malls, unfortunately; that would completely kick ass because I hate malls to begin with. But for whatever reason, that locale cranks the internal weirdness behind the disorder up to eleven, much as the airport does (or did) for Ms. Bottomly.

In addition to relating to this letter on that level, though, I also really love it because it brings to light one of the most notable idiosyncrasies of panic disorder...or maybe just one that I share with the author, anyway. But even when panic symptoms are at their worst, they are always trumped by any unexpected urgency of reality. If anything legitimately important were to suddenly arise - car accident, news of a loved one needing assistance, etc. - panic symptoms...POOF!...cease to be. Which says a lot about the disorder, I think. Not that it makes it any less real or upsetting for the person experiencing it.

And it makes me wonder why therapists don't recognize this phenomenon and base some type of exercise around it. (Or maybe some do and I just haven't heard of them.) In my experience, there are two or three types of therapy for the person who suffers from a panic or anxiety disorder. First: drugs. Obviously. Because that's the first line of defense for any mental or physical ailment these days. There are drugs to take on an ongoing basis to prevent the unpleasantness, and drugs that can be taken in response to (or, as the neocons might prefer, as a preemptive strike) an "episode." Second: exercises - usually involving breathing patterns, physical activity, or thought processes that encourage the examination of the symptoms as they happen - designed to help one "get through" such an "episode." Third: variations on some form of ongoing cognitive therapy as a means of overcoming the disorder.

I'm not going to go into the various theories I have about why anxiety/panic disorders have become so common in America...mostly because I'm still trying to craft them into something more measurable or verifiable than just theories. But I wonder how universal this is amongst my panicky peers...that an immediate, unexpected, usually-physically bona fide emergency will squash panic symptoms like a fucking grape. If there's anyone out there who happens to be reading this and can comment from the perspective of a sufferererer...I'd love to hear from you.

Meanwhile, I think I'm gonna dink around in my laboratory with this idea and see if I can...I dunno. See what happens, I guess. Can't hurt, right...?

callous Dallas

Here's a story that's distressing/depressing on a number of different levels...

After complaints, Dallas shelter ensures humane handling of dogs

So while San Antonio is on a two-year mission to become a no-kill city, its more "cultured" and well-known neighbor to the north has taken this approach to animal services. Not exactly progressive or compassionate, to say the least. But then those aren't qualities widely respected in our fair burg. I'd say it's also a decent representation of the priorities of our city leaders. As a whole, they're completely consumed with all things shiny and new...anything they feel will bolster our appearance of cosmopolitan culture. Any initiative to address the well-being, health, happiness and financial interests of average constituents - let alone a bunch of fucking animals, for crying out loud - isn't even an afterthought. It's simply not a consideration to begin with.

Where do we even begin addressing this city's shallow indifference in general? Its policies toward taking care of the less fortunate...humans and non-human animals alike...?

My sister has worked for the Dallas Zoo for most of her adult life. I respect what she does and I respect much of the work that zoos in general perform. I do think they perform a valuable service as a whole. I've always thought of zoos as being much more than just entertainment facilities, at least to those who visit in search of more than entertainment. They provide education, important research in terms of study and behavior, and in some cases they can be essential in the fight to preserve species.

Having said all that, though, I must also admit to having a few misgivings about zoos and the function they sometimes find themselves serving to the general public. There was a picture on the last page of the November issue of The Sun that not only crystallized my misgivings, but just frankly broke my heart. The image was taken by an absolute genius of photography by the name of John Rosenthal. I hope he doesn't mind my sharing it here...


Speaking (yet again) about the greatness of The Sun, I thought I'd share a few of my favorite "sunbeams" from the tail end of that same November issue. For those of you who know me, you know the last thing I ever attempt to do is convert anyone to anything...and I'm not doing that here. I just enjoy the following comments not only because they speak to me and some of my sentiments, but also simply because I think they're worth consideration. For all of us.

It is an important and popular fact that things are not always what they seem. For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much - the wheel, New York, wars, and so on - whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man - for precisely the same reasons. - Douglas Adams

There's a schizoid quality to our relationship with animals, in which sentiment and brutality exist side by side. Half the dogs in America will receive Christmas presents this year, yet few of us pause to consider the miserable life of the pig - an animal easily as intelligent as a dog - that becomes the Christmas ham. - Michael Pollan

The animals of the world exist for their own reasons. They were not made for humans any more than black people were made for white, or women created for men. - Alice Walker

Humans - who enslave, castrate, experiment on, and fillet other animals - have had an understandable penchant for pretending animals do not feel pain. A sharp distinction between humans and "animals" is essential if we are to bend them to our will, wear them, eat them - without any disquieting tinges of guilt or regret. - Carl Sagan (one of my all-time heroes)

And my favorite - a comment that concisely expresses my general outlook on daily living...for better and worse...

Think occasionally of the suffering of which you spare yourself the sight. - Albert Schweitzer

Yes, please...think. Consider. At least occasionally.

my accidental jihad

That's actually the title of a really great story in the October issue of The Sun magazine by one of its staff members, Krista Bremer. A story, in fact, that has me quite intrigued with the concept behind Ramadan. However, it's the poem preceding "My Accidental Jihad" that I'm posting here. I just used the title because it's kinda fitting for me entering the new calendar year. 2007 really wasn't all that bad as a whole. My grandmother's passing in April was my first real brush with some measurable level of grief. But along came December to kick me hard in the crotch. Twice, actually...in case I wasn't paying enough attention the first time. At any rate, it's become clear that I need to make some changes - even if they're temporary - in the upcoming year. For whatever reason, this poem spoke to me...all past, present and future considerations taken.

I had to consult with some friends to help me make sense of my life's unscheduled vacation to the crapper...what did it mean, what did I do wrong, what could I have done differently, etc. The friends I normally count on for support and advice - Wendy, Cindy, Jan, Amber, some of my fellow aminal enthusiasts - were their usual helpful and insightful selves...the first three in particular. But it was another good friend, Elena, who gave me what may have been the most thought-provoking suggestions. And in the midst of all that, I came across this absolutely stunning, thoroughly beautiful poem.

I'm posting it simply because...well, it kinda blew my mind. Aside from being completely timely with regard to my recent unhappiness, it just really...it's hard to explain. Suffice it to say that it's been a long time since I've read anything that made me feel so personally encouraged about my own life while also reminding me I've only begun to scratch the surface of the parts of my mind that have been itching as of late. It's cool if you don't have the same interpretations, though...I'm sure you'll find it a great story for your own reasons.

Whenever I reprint something from The Sun I try to get the author's permission, but I can't see where to go about doing that in this case. So I'll just detail all the info listed in the magazine and hope that it will suffice. The author seems like a pretty good humored guy...and I can't imagine a Rumi enthusiast would also be a lawsuit enthusiast. Particularly, since I'm just some dude with a blog nobody reads. But I like to give as much credit as possible where it's due, and it will follow here in a second. The poem is rather long, as you'll see (Wendy, you've prolly already seen this one). But I have kick-ass typing skills, which is nice when you're as verbose with your written communication habits as I am. And, besides...it's worth it. Sez me.

(Coleman Barks has collaborated with scholars for thirty-one years to translate the poetry of Jelaluddin Rumi into American free verse. He has published nineteen volumes of Rumi's work, which have sold more than three quarters of a million copies, as well as six volumes of his own poetry. He taught American literature and creative writing at various universities for thirty-four years and is now a retired professor emeritus at the University of Georgia. He lives in Athens, Georgia, close to his two sons and four grandchildren.

("Song of the Swordsmith" is part of a longer poem, "Central Asian Sufis and the Nature of the Heart," which appears in Coleman Barks's Scrapwood Man [Maypop Books]. Copyright 2007 by Coleman Barks.)


"Song of the Swordsmith"
by Coleman Barks

There is a swordsmith
in a valley in eastern Afghanistan.

When there is no war, he forges
steel plows, and he shoes horses,
but he is most known for his singing.

People come from all over to listen to him,
from the forests of the giant walnut trees,
from Qataghan and Badakshan,
from the snowbound Hindu Kush,
from Khanabad and Kunat,
from Herat and Paghman.

Mostly they come to hear one song
about the far valley of paradise.

This particular song has a haunting lilt
and the ability to make those who hear
feel that they are in that place,
the paradisal valley.

Someone always asks when he finishes,
Is that a real place?

It is as real as real can be,
is always his answer.

Have you been there?

Not in the ordinary way of traveling.

The singer loves Aisha,
a young woman in the valley.

But she doubts that there is
such a place as the one he sings of,
and so does his rival for her love,
Hasan, a swordsman of great strength
and agility. He has full confidence
that he will eventually win Aisha.

He makes fun of the swordsmith-singer
whenever he can. One day the villagers
are sitting inside the blessed quiet
that happens after that song.

Hasan says, Why don't you follow
the blue haze that rises there
from the mountains of Sangan,
and actually go to the place you sing about?

I feel it would not be right.

Well, that is a convenient feeling.
It keeps you from being revealed
as a fraud and a sentimental dreamer.

I propose a test to decide
several things at once.

You love Aisha,
but she does not believe
in your valley.

You two could never be married
in such a discord of trust.

The swordsmith replies,
You expect me then
to set out for the valley and return
with proof of its existence?

Yes! call out Hasan
and the crowd together.

I will make this trip then,
but will Aisha promise to marry me
if I return successfully?

I will, says Aisha quietly.

He collects dried mulberries
and scraps of bread in a sack
and starts on the journey.

His way is always up. He climbs
until he comes to a sheer wall
blocking the way. He scales that,
and there is another, another,
five walls in all.

On the other side of the last wall
he finds himself in a valley
like his own.

People come out of their houses
to welcome him.

It is so weirdly strange, this experience
of the swordsmith-singer.

Months later he walks back into
the valley he started out from,
an old man limping to his hut.

Word spreads that he has returned.
Hasan is spokesman for the crowd that comes.
He calls the singer to the window.

They gasp at how old he has become.

Did you find the valley?

I did.

What was it like?

He is quiet for a while
in the weariness and confusion,
in the difficulty of saying
where he went, where he is now,
and what has happened.

I climbed until it seemed like
no human habitation could be so high.
But there was, a valley identical to this one.

And the people there are not only like
us, they are us. Hasan, Aisha, myself,
you, you, everyone is there
in his or her original form.

We are the shadowy copies.

Everyone turns and walks away,
convinced that the singer has gone mad
in his solitary search.

Aisha marries Hasan.
The singer rapidly grows old and dies.

The people who heard the story
as he told it also soon grow old.
They lose interest in their lives.

They feel some huge event is about to occur,
one they have no control over.
Vital energy drains away.

Once in a thousand years
such a secret is revealed
to someone like the singer-swordsmith.

But no one yet
has quite been able to take in
the truth that we are two selves,
this one and one more real
that lives in the valley
a certain song makes us long for.

That we are that being
as well as this more familiar one,
who is dubious, confused, reckless, and sad,
whose sadness is a little solved
when we hear the song
that makes us remember essence.

A friend says,
There is another world,
and this is it.

That the two valleys are one
living being
cannot be said in language.

That we already are the perfected one
cannot be spoken of.

But it can be felt inside,
as the moment itself,

and as the whole outdoors,
the whole-around-us,
that veiny animule.

That is the heart,
where we take our walks.

land of the greed, and the home of the slave

Robert Greenwald keeps finding new reasons for being my hero...



Please visit War on Greed

This, unfortunately, is the new America. Even more unfortunately, it's just the tip of the iceberg. And once again, not too many of us seem to care...

(By the way, the Ebay suggestion toward the end was my personal favorite.)

"...I do not want to be devoured"

From Mary F. Mullane of Benton, Arkansas, in the "Correspondence" section of the September issue of The Sun...

To me forgiveness is about letting go of anger and resentment. Like everyone, I have felt these strong emotions, but I've learned to let them go, because they eat away at me, and I do not want to be devoured. Life is too short and too full of better things. When we indulge our anger and let it dominate our thoughts, we inflict more harm on ourselves than on anyone else.

I believe that wholeheartedly. My question is...How do you learn to do that? Where do you begin? I've heard a lot of folks like Ms. Mullane express that same sentiment. But I still haven't seen examples of how people can transform themselves from the type of person for whom anger and resentment seem almost a basic component of character into beings who can sincerely live this philosophy.

Anyone...?

...he said, before driving off in his SUV

Short but sweet...

Awareness is Overrated

And, of course, he's right. In my own defense, at least with regard to the title of this post, I do refer to it as The Hypocritical SUV. But, in a better defense, I also think I took Jack E. Jett's brilliantly twisted idea today in a comment on an Unfair Park post and made it brillianter and twisteder by sort of re-proposing it as a larger form of protest / performance art / something goofy to do rather than just throwing my hands up in disgust. Yet again. Because my arms are getting tired from doing that...

And, while I don't expect anyone to take my comment on the Observer post seriously, I was being serious. You know...it's unique, it's something nobody in the world would expect or even know how to react to, and it's just such a clusterfuck of sarcastic weirdness directed at a particular target there's no way anyone could ignore it.

But that's my very small contribution for the day...

my friends kick ass

This is only a small example of the inumerable ways in which my friend Wendy is so awesome...

Striking UMM workers prepared for second week of pay protest

University of Minnesota, Morris clerical and technical workers will “recharge our batteries” over the weekend and be back on picket lines Monday if necessary, said a campus union leader on Friday.

The UMM workers were on strike for a third day Friday, and will take the weekend off with plans to return Monday in their protest for higher pay from the University of Minnesota, said Laura Thielke, lead steward of the UMM clerical workers’ union.

(That's my girl, front and center, in her red ballcap.)

The American Federation of State, County and Municipal Employees workers began striking Wednesday.

At UMM, strikers rallied briefly on the campus mall late Thursday morning to hear several speakers and listen to music by AFSCME member Tim Ray, a UMM employee, before returning to picket at campus entry points.

“We really think we’re doing the right thing,” Thielke said Thursday. “We know a lot of people in Morris think we have really great jobs and that we shouldn’t complain. But we want to really keep great wages in this town for people who come after us.”

The AFSCME union, which represents about 74 UMM employees, filed an intent to strike notice on behalf of its workers on four University of Minnesota campuses in late August after an overwhelming vote to reject the university’s latest offer.

(Here she is again. She looks bored, but trust me...she's fired up. She's actually just a bit beaten down by spending ten hours picketing in 95-degree heat.)

The university’s offer of pay raises of 2.25 percent for clerical and technical employees, and 2.5 percent for health care employees was rejected by what the union said was a 72 percent no vote.

Negotiations broke off about 11 p.m. Tuesday after a marathon day of bargaining. The union represents about 3,500 workers — about 17 percent of the employees in the University of Minnesota system statewide.

Thielke said the disparity between the salaries of administration and workers is a key element to the strike.

Ray, who befriended Minnesota legislator Tom Rukavina when Ray lived and taught in northern Minnesota, said he had a phone conversation with the lawmaker about the situation.

Ray reported that Rukavina said, “let there be no doubt” that the Legislature appropriated a 3.25 percent pay increase “across the board” when it passed the U of M’s appropriation.

Wendy Hyatt, a UMM employee, invoked the name of human rights activist Cesar Chavez at the rally. She noted that Chavez, who has a UMM street named for him, promoted the importance of unions and the importance of working people throughout his adult life.

“We’re not doing this for ourselves,” Hyatt said, “we’re doing this for all workers.”

UMM employee Darla Hennen said a strike is a stressful event in her life, especially financially. But it’s a way for her to show her children what is of true value.

“I thought long and hard,” Hennen said. “I can’t afford this (a strike). But I was hired as a union employee and I have to support that because that’s who’ll support me down the road.”

(And here we have the back of her head...kicking ass and standing up to The Man as only backs of heads can do.)

Striking AFSCME workers set up pickets at each of the entrances to UMM on Wednesday morning and were back at them on Thursday.

On Wednesday, Guyotte released a memo from Johnson, which stated that each AFSCME member will make the decision to strike based on their particular situation, and she asked the campus community to “respect each person’s decision and treat each other in a cordial manner as we navigate through this difficult time.”

No talks between the union and administration are pending, Thielke said.

Hang in there, my dear. Your friends are with you in spirit and we're proud of you.

I was born on this mountain...this mountain's my home

It isn't the mountain ahead that wears you out--it's the grain of sand in your shoe. - Robert Service

Well, sometimes it's the mountain. But it is a point well taken and worth pondering from time to time...

it's just what I do

Cindy wrote the greatest post on her blog yesterday about The Amazing Bill. It was a tribute of sorts, as KERA broadcast an essay Bill wrote for their "This I Believe" segment. Bill's essay was a perfect and beautiful crystallization of what I love so much about the guy. More than that, though, it was yet another confirmation that he and I, in my humble opinion, are flip sides to the same coin. The differences we have are pretty extreme - he's a man of strong, sincere Christian faith, whereas I'm a person with a strong, sincere (and intentional) lack of religious faith - but I find it kinda fascinating that we both arrive at those places with the same motivations driving us: compassion, admiration for people more creative than us, and a desire to serve. Someone...something...somehow. Bill's found his way to do so and he does it well. I'm still working toward getting myself into a condition where I'm able to do something I'm proud of or consider honorable - either for a living or at the very least on a consistent basis. (Maybe I need to rethink that whole religion thing...)

Cindy was "furious at the world" yesterday. Bill's essay inspired her to see events like the one she wrote about in a different light...not as a reason to be pissed off at everything but as an opportunity to contribute in a way that she finds mentally gratifying. I still think it's okay to pissed off so long as you have a purpose.

I was furious at the world yesterday, too. (What else is new...I'm usually pissed about something that's going on and, frankly, it's becoming a drain on my mental and physical health. As I've stated many times, moderation is not my strong suit.)

The reason for my anger...Without getting into politics or soapboxing, I'd just like to draw your attention to the following two articles in the hopes of finding out whether I'm alone in my conclusion that there's a disparity on display that is...well, you be the judge:

New Orleans marks Katrina anniversary

Not far away, President Bush visited a school. "We're still paying attention. We understand," he said before heading to the Mississippi Gulf Coast, also devastated by Katrina...

...(Said a man) whose house was the only restored home on an otherwise desolate block, "There was supposed to be all this money, but where'd it go? None of us got any."

Bush to request $50 billion more for Iraq war: report

The additional funds would come on top of about $460 billion in the fiscal 2008 defense budget and $147 billion in a pending supplemental bill to fund the wars in Afghanistan and Iraq...

Last night I had the pleasure of seeing the supremely talented and inspiring Kristy Kruger play the AllGood Cafe, with a really kick-ass band called Rose's Pawn Shop first backing her, then following with their own set. This show was for me what Bill's commentary was for Cindy, as it was a benefit for Hurricane Katrina relief efforts.

But the topics in the two above articles collide even more starkly if you know that Kristy's been on her own personal mission lately. Aside from - or in addition to - the fact that she lived and recorded in New Orleans and considers it her "true home," Kristy's older brother, Doug, was killed on the first day of his deployment to Iraq this past November. She plans to play shows in all fifty states in the U.S. in his honor. In her words, "Since he died in the name of this country, I'd like the country to know his name. And I'd like to see America, the whole thing. I'd like to see what he died for."

I videotaped (thanks again, Val) Kristy's tremendous show last night. I hope it turns out decent so that she and maybe Cindy can use the footage. If it winds up looking all Zapruder-film-jumbly or something, at least I got to enjoy some awesome performances, buy a copy of Kristy's third album and give a few bucks to the cause.

I considered showing the two aforementioned articles to Kristy last night. Not to push an agenda on her, but to see what her reaction would be. But something told me it would be inappropriate or insensitive (or both) to do so.

I'll get into the politics and ranting and raving about this later (trust me). In the meantime, I guess I'd just like to take this opportunity to thank Bill and Cindy and Kristy for inspiring me. And reminding me to do something with what hurts or angers me. To serve...somehow.

wanted: amusing cliche about ships

Can't think of anything cute and/or clever to kick this post off...hate it when that happens. Anyway, I just thought I'd share a couple nice, inspirational-type quotes that by sheer coincidence both have to do with ships...

A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.
- William Shedd

If you want to build a ship, don't drum up people together to collect wood and don't assign them tasks and work, but rather teach them to long for the sea.
- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I particularly appreciate the latter quote, as it kinda speaks to the faint goals I have in mind for myself at the moment. "Sink or swim" will have to wait until I figure out how deep or rough these waters are going to be...

please stand by...

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We will be returning to regularly scheduled programming when whatever bugs we're dealing with here have been worked out. In the meantime, you should go out and get some exercise or something...