August 2005

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

Federal Register Watch

Strike the Root has found an new editor, Charles Hueter, for the Federal Register Watch, which has been on hiatus for over a year. Tune in each week to find out just how much you're getting shafted. On second thought, don't. It may just piss you off, and there's not a fucking thing you can do about it except disobey. As for me I have moved beyond outrage to amusement. I laugh heartily at the attempts of those in power to fuck with us. Some poeple would say that the situation would be funny if it weren't so sad, but those people are wrong. I think shit has gone full circle, and it is funny again but on a whole new level.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Meth Panic

So it’s not just me. I was wondering if I was the only one who has wondered if the whole meth thing was a little over-hyped. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never touched the stuff nor do I intend to (however, had someone approached me with a sample while I was working on my thesis, I can’t be certain that I would have refused). I’m sure that, like heroin or Mountain Dew, it has very harmful effects and would strongly dissuade anyone from trying it. That said, it seems to me that any mention of methamphetamines has been accompanied by such hysteria and hyperbole, that any hope of constructive discussion is lost. Even among people I know who advocate decriminalization or legalization when it comes to other drugs, the very word “meth” turns them in to Nelson Rockefeller. Whenever hysteria over any subject (drugs, sex, brown people who talk funny, WMDs) reaches this sort of level, it sets off my bullshit detector. Which is why it came as a relief that Jack Shafer at Slate has been hearing alarm bells as well. In this article he notes the similarity to the hype around crack during the late 1980s and even back to “Refer Madness”. It leads me to think that when the smoke clears (so to speak) the absurd claims of the so-called experts will discredit any real helpful information they may have. How many kids, when they discover that half the stuff they’ve been told is a load of crap, will believe that there are ANY harmful effects? I also wonder how much of the epidemic talk is self-fulfilling prophecy. It can’t be mere coincidence that when draconian laws and overzealous education programs are used to combat a given societal ill, it only increases. Gee, you'd almost think politicians and bureaucrats were trying to create hysteria and exacerbate problems just so they could keep their jobs.

Spokane Motel Blues

In the spirit of my chronic inland northwest ennui, here's a little Tom T. Hall song I've had stuck in my head:

I don’t know what I’m doing here, I could be someplace else
Like in Atlanta drinkin’ wine, wine, wine
I don’t know what I’m doing here, I should be someplace else
Like in Kentucky drinkin’ ’shine, ’shine, ’shine

The dogs are running down in Memphis
And them nags are running in LA
I’m stuck in Spokane in a motel room
And there ain’t no way to get away

Willie Nelson’s picking out in Austin
And Waylon’s hanging out in Mexico
I’m stuck in Spokane in a motel room
And Kris is making movin’ picture shows

Hey, I don’t know what I’m doing here, I could be someplace else
Like in Atlanta drinkin’ wine, wine, wine
I don’t know what I’m doing here, I should be someplace else
Like in Kentucky drinkin’ ’shine, ’shine, ’shine

Well I know they’re dancing in New Orleans
And old Chicago’s bright as day
I’m stuck in Spokane in a motel room
Lord, I wish I had a Dolly Parton tape

Well Hill and Bare and Billy Joe they’re gambling
And ol’ TP’s frying croppie all night long
They’re down at Tootsie’s eating chili
I’m stuck in Spokane a-writing songs

Hey, I don’t know what I’m doing here, I could be someplace else
Like in Atlanta drinkin’ wine, wine, wine
I don’t know what I’m doing here, I should be someplace else
Like in Kentucky drinkin’ clear moonshine

Thursday, August 25, 2005

Standing Request

My office gave us matching polo shirts. I wore mine once. My request still stands, if you ever see me wearing a polo shirt, please kill me. I don't care what you do with my body. Make it look like an accident, sell my organs on the black market, sacrifice me to Cthulu, dump me in a freshly poured concrete footing, whatever, just kill me. I can wear a suit and tie and still be a freak, but if I wear a polo shirt it is a betrayal of everything I hold dear. It is your obligation as a fellow freak to stop me from wearing a polo shirt by any means neccesary.

Monday, August 22, 2005

There's a Lake of Stew and Whiskey Too, You Can Paddle All Around 'em in a Big Canoe

What would life be like without bums? Not rear ends (although I can’t imagine life without them either), but hobos, derelicts, transients, “the homeless” if you will. The town where I work appears to have a higher than average per capita population of bums. I’ve lived and traveled places which, while more cosmopolitan and socially stratified than this cowtown, do not come close to the diversity of age, race, sex, and physical stature seen here.

This town is a perfect storm for bums. It’s the largest town this side of the mountains attracting the castoffs from thousands of tiny dying farming, mining, timber and reservation towns around the region, but not yet large enough to be monopolized by aggressive professional panhandlers. It lies on a major rail and highway corridor, and the weather is dry but mild, an oasis for the weary traveler. It is also home to both a mental hospital and prison, and when many of the former non-local inmates get out, they’ll drink or smoke away their bus money before they get to the station. Best of all, the rubes here are not yet jaded enough to stop trying to help them. In short, this is the real life Big Rock Candy Mountain.

We have disaffected youth who ask for cigarettes, crazy old women who talk on imaginary phones, mellow dropouts from the rat race with their dogs, methed out middle-aged hookers with toothless grins, drunk Indians who’ve lost their land, culture and language, hardcore ex-cons who ride the rails, sex offenders in exile from the West Side, and the big fat men: one who sits on second all day in a plastic chair, one who lives out of a car stuffed with newspapers and sits under the viaduct with no shirt in the summer, and the guy in suspenders with one sneaker, one flip-flop and who carries a collection of pink, red, green and blue radios. Every morning they gather on the hobo highway, the alley between 2^nd and 3^rd which runs all the way through downtown parallel to the freeway and railroad. This route provides easy access to the bum infrastructure of convenience stores, drop-in centers, churches, fast food dumpsters, motels, SROs, transportation, vacant lots with fire pits, and most importantly, good panhandling spots.

Anyway, the upshot of this all is that many days as I’m walking in to work I feel an overwhelming urge to step into a convenience store, buy a few 40s and just spend the day hanging out with them. While I do not envy those tormented by personal demons, I admire those who have said “fuck it”. Wouldn’t it be nice to just drink all day and not worry about tomorrow… until well, tomorrow? You gotta love a place where you’ll never starve, rarely have to worry about being stuck out in the rain and snow, the sidewalks are full of cigarette butts for the taking, and you can get enough money to stay shit-faced drunk all day, just by asking. Why, I’d be a fool to pass up such a lifestyle! And so for one more day, I remain a fool: driving in my car in a daze, staring at a cathode-ray tube until my eyes won’t focus and going home with just enough money to make it through the night. Tomorrow morning will I be a fool still?

Thursday, August 18, 2005

End of the Land Sadness, End of the World Gladness

12 years ago this week, I pulled up stakes and headed west. Like so many before me and many more to come, I had chafed at my surroundings. For some time I had appeased my restless nature through seeking new experiences, artistic expression and travel, but my feet remained planted in the deep black rocky soil of the upper midwest. Fortunately my wanderlust overpowered those thick Scandinavian roots as I climbed aboard a westbound train and began to roll, alone, toward the setting sun. Since that moment I have felt, for better or worse, relatively rootless. Each move, each job, each friendship seemed transitory, as if I would soon be on to something new. I found a life partner and believed that we would be fellow travelers on this journey. Yet here I sit, 4 blocks from the train station where I disembarked over a decade ago. I have realized that with a career and a son, setting out to a new destination is not feasible with in the next few years. At most I could move the family a couple hundred miles, but any initial excitement would likely be overshaddowed by increased traffic and house payments. Besides, beyond that, it is the great expanse of the Pacific, and no more West beyond it but East. It makes me think that it may be better to stay put while keeping in the back of my mind that the journey westward is still possible should I choose to continue. On the other hand, the mindset here can be irritating and I wonder if my family deserves a more creative and intellectually stimulating environment. Either way, I must accept that try as I might, I will not find a city full of people just like me and come to grips with the fact that I am and shall remain a square peg.

Ha Haw

To coin a phrase here's an Actual Workplace Conversation:

Indie Boy: Hey Dave, you know Corel. How do I make this new parking garage look better so the City approves it?

X: Ha Haw! You're a tool! ...It's okay, I realized that about myself years ago. Take a picture of another parking garage and wash out the color. Then take the picture of the new parking garage, insert some nice looking mature trees, and put some expensive cars in front of it.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Tool and Die

I’ve been a desk riding tool of the Man for the better part of a decade now, but before that I worked hard physical labor, farm labor, sprinkler repair, dishwashing, janitorial, lumber yard, metalworking, the types of jobs where you shower after work instead of beforehand. Sometimes I really miss the feeling of putting in an honest day’s labor and leaving the stress behind when I head home. It’s a comforting thought that if and when the shit hits the fan I can probably depend on my blue collar work ethic to get me through.

However, every time I under take a major project on the house I am reminded of how easy I have it. After two days of sanding and staining the deck, the joints in my knees, hips and hands are screaming. I still can’t straighten my fingers - even my two favorite fingers. It’s not like I’m terribly out of shape. Between the nightly jaunt with the jogging stroller or the Gamebike, I’m doing all right. Although I still need to kick the Dew habit. I suppose if I worked like that everyday I’d adjust, but it wouldn’t be enjoyable. I could be a painter though. I can do that shit all day and wake up the next day ready to start again. I’m really good about keeping my brushes clean. It’s kind of a Zen thing.

Here’s the last rendering I’ve done. It’s a rare opportunity that one gets to go back and fix the obvious flaws in one’s earlier work. I started this project in 2001, but was sidetracked for obvious reasons. This is the latest version:

And here is the original version:


Side note: Today at lunch we went out to celebrate a coworker’s 30th birthday. I was witness to him getting a shirts-up (albeit bras-on) titty-sandwich. This shit makes being a tool worthwhile. Sorry, no pics. But hey, you can experience one for yourself at the Satellite Diner. Just ask for Princess and tip well.

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Domestication

I have the pad to myself this weekend. So what do I do? Gambling? Hookers? Sheep? Nope, work on the house.

Yeah, I'm such a fucking hardcore anarchist...
...in a respected profession...
...with a family.

Friday, August 12, 2005

Second Attempt

I've had this site up blank for almost a year, and finally inspiration has struck me to start writing on it, and possibly post some images. I'm keeping my expectations low. I have a shelf full of journals/sketchbooks with only the first half dozen pages used. I'm terrible about keeping track of my work, let alone my own life, and I have no delusions that this endeavor will be any different.

That said, I've yet to decide WHAT to write about: So I'll start with politics. There are two problems with me writing about politics. First, I hate politics, I find all politicians, pundits, political bloggers and even voters contemptible. Second, any discussion of how I think the world should be run is rendered moot because I don't believe in telling anyone else how to live their lives. However, I won't let that stop me from commenting or even from running for office.

I guess I'll start with my basic philosophy: Don't vote, it only encourages them. I am a recovering voter. Last fall I sat out the first Presidential Election since I've been of legal age. Contrary to popular opinion, not voting was very difficult for me. They talk about voter apathy. Fuck that. I've got apathy down pat! No, not voting is like not smoking, harder in fact, because most people will actually encourage you to quit smoking. When I tell people about my recovery, I might as end by saying that I need a quick smoke before driving drunk to a NAMBLA meeting at the Aryan Nation compound.