This is a rant. It started out politely and ended Somewhere Else. The road between meanders.

I've cultivated some fairly decent social skills over the years. I credit my family with this; my mother is a "people person", able to initiate and sustain conversation with just about anyone. My upper-middle class suburban upbringing also exposed me to a number of well-bred and well-mannered individuals, providing me with many models of etiquette and polite conversation.

On another level, my personal experiences (read: mental illness, rehab, etc) have given me a profound sense of empathy and compassion for anyone who's ever felt awkward, alienated, trapped, or invisible. Having suffered all these feelings myself, and being still susceptible to insecurity, I have an instinctive desire to make others feel comfortable expressing themselves. I wouldn't call it compassion, so much as a compulsion. A yearning to comfort my past self, or maybe redeem her; to show her the kindness of an encouraging smile, a friendly gesture, and inclusive embrace.

Back then, and now, I am unable to do these things for myself. I have built in a resistance to comfort, a barricade of self-sustainability that is at once self-destructive and self-preservative. It is a way of protecting my ego from feelings of rejection and failure. At the same time, it is a way of starving my soul, which needs to connect, to bond, to share in the same way that my body needs air. Spiritual asphyxiation. That's what isolation is.

My situation isn't desperate, don't get me wrong. Quite the contrary, in fact.  I have wonderful relationships with my family, a small but vital number of friends who know me deeply and truly, and a blessedly large and diverse circle of more casual (yet still vital and enriching) friends and acquaintances who amuse, educate, challenge and inspire me. I am supremely fortunate in my relationships.

Yet still, the old anxieties remain. The walls have not fallen away completely, though in some places they have crumbled away considerably. Small talk exhausts me. Large gatherings overwhelm me. I sometimes avoid social situations altogether, unwilling or unable to summon the energy it takes to engage with people on a superficial level. I cannot entertain and be vulnerable at the same time, not truly. I can bare what seems to be my soul, but in truth they are just facts. The details of my life are not personal. It's the contents of my soul, my memories and impressions and the way I feel at night or in the  morning or when I clean the cat feces from the litter box. These things are private. And it's not that I don't want to share them with you. It's just you so rarely ask. It's not polite. And I only want to share with someone who's sincerely interested. Ideally, someone who's willing to share with me. And such people are rare. Such relationships are rare. As they should be. But I love those relationships. I thrive on them. I long for more, even as I resist them with my "I'm-fine" demeanor and witticisms and antics.

I make people uncomfortable when I reveal too much. My intent, my desire, is to make people more comfortable with revealing too much. We should all be less comfortable more often. But somehow I don't think HR would approve. And what is HR but a representative of polite society?  Someday I'll plot my escape. 'Til then, tell no one what I've revealed here today. I need my job.

A Typical Online Dating Exchange

Him: WOW!!! Hello beautiful..... :-)⭌

Me: Is that a soul patch on your smiley face?

Him: Lol no he's blowing a kiss!!

Me: Oh. I think I'll just keep thinking of it as a soul patch.

Hallo-weenie

I want to share with you a recent conversation I had on a popular online dating website. Ready?  

Guy: What are you going to be for Halloween?
Me: Mister Rogers!
Guy: That's a good costume...not going to take advantage of being allowed to dress slutty?

Pause here. 

First of all,  I didn't realize I needed permission to dress like a whore. This whole time I thought I was free to dress in any way I like. I mean, here I am, thinking that I'm CHOOSING to wear pants, when in fact I've been unwittingly adhering to a dress code imposed by -- who, exactly? Society? The man? DAMN THE MAN.

Secondly, how does he know my Mister Rogers costume isn't slutty?

Ok, back to regular programming.


Me: I prefer to dress slutty only when it’s NOT allowed. 

Zing! Right? Apparently not:

Guy: Dressing slutty is a skill all girls should have in their armamentarium.

He then went on typing, but I stopped listening here. Try as I might to resist it, I was offended. Not "as a feminist," because that phrase is overused and alienating and just plain obnoxious. But as a woman, or even just as a human.

I realize that this guy is typical. Men want sex. That in itself is not offensive. It's just shallow and uninteresting and ... well, typical. There's so much more to discover about a person, beyond the temporary thrill of physical attraction. I'm tired of superficial flirtations that only serve to inflate my ego momentarily. Sex without substance. It's lost its appeal. I think that's a sign of growth.

On the other hand, and this is the embarrassing part and probably the root of my anger and indignation, I felt the impulse to prove to this guy that I did, in fact, have sex appeal. Or, as he stated it, the "dressing slutty skill." I felt I had to explain that I'm not only capable of dressing like a skank, but I excel at it. Which isn't really true, but at the heart of this defensive impulse is the subconscious fear that I am not attractive enough, feminine enough, desirable enough (for who? this ordinary guy I'm not even interested in? my ego is such an asshole) - that I need to rely on my body to win a man's affection. 

I refuse to buy into it. And I know that it's not society that needs to change - or at least, I can't wait for society to change. It's my ego. That divisive wicked little creature responsible for all those self-defeating thoughts. The impulse to tear down my self worth, the false beliefs that I am not enough, that I can't, that I don't deserve, that I am wrong. This is my greatest enemy, which I believe I might be battling my entire life. But I have this anger, this guilt, this shame, provoked by a few thoughtless and harmless words. And it's my responsibility to get free from those feelings. By matching every negative thought with an affirmation. By acknowledging that those feelings exist. And, because I'm human, by having a little fun at this guy's expense. Because he's definitely going to be included in my next set list. Hallo-weenie indeedy.

How I Spent Last Weekend.

I went to the dentist on Friday, because they say you should go every six months, which translates to about once every 4.7 years, on average. I started feeling nervous about two hours prior to arriving at the office. I should have heeded what was clearly my body's preemptive response to impending trauma. But you know what they say about hindsight. It rubs our mistakes in our faces. Our contorted, numbed, drool-covered faces. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Once in the dentist chair, everything happened really fast. A young man draped a heavy lead apron on me. The dentist took x-rays and then explained that my teeth were really dirty and that she'd have to do a "deep cleaning." Imagining the bottle of face wash in my medicine cabinet, with the pretty pink "scrublet" for deep cleaning, and lured by the dentist's generous offer to do this extra service without cost, I agreed to the procedure.

What I'm about to describe is graphic, so sensitive readers may want to turn to something more pleasant, like the highlights reel from Nascar's most explosive crashes.

The chair was tilted back, tools were wielded, I felt a series of more-than-teensy pinches as a numbing agent ending in -caine was injected into my gums. I thought "Oh, good, I won't feel anything now." Then the deep cleaning began, and things went blurry. Pain rendered me stupid. Water and saliva mingled and sprayed from my mouth in the general direction of my retinas, forcing me to shut my eyes. Mistake. The pain sharpened in my mind. So did the awareness that my legs were losing feeling, my pulse had sped into panic mode at the urgency and ruthlessness of the drilling, and my hands were no longer folded against my abdomen - they were locked together in a death grip, at the urging of my unconsciously-contracted biceps.

There were moments when I remembered to breathe, moments when I could hear my pathetic groans, catch glimpses of two solemn, masked faces peering into my mouth as if at some gruesome yet riveting horror movie. And then, finally, it was over, the chair righted itself, and the dentist was addressing me as if I still had full control of my mental capacities. The young man set a cup of pink liquid beside me. I eventually understood that I was meant to pour it into my mouth and swish vigorously. Unfortunately, the lower half of my face was numb, and when I tried to swish, I merely spouted a fountain of pink onto my flimsy bib. "Oh yes," the dentist said,"I forgot you were numb." What a silly billy! I succeeded in not grabbing her by the throat her as she handed me tissues, but I blame the PTSD for that.

She kept talking the whole time I was spitting the wasted pink stuff - now suspiciously more red than pink - into the sink, and I must have been touching my face a lot, because she said "Your face isn't swollen, I promise, it's just the numbness. Then she did me the kindness of holding a mirror in front of my face. Sadist! She claimed to be reassuring me, but what I saw was a frighteningly crooked grimace disfiguring my ashen face. Insult to injury.

Looking like a stroke victim and feeling like a professional boxing victim, I walked out into the waning sunlight, ready to start my weekend.

This Old Thing

I found a shirt. It must have been under the dryer for years. A tank top with pink and brown diagonal stripes, pink lace trim and adjustable spaghetti straps. As soon as I set eyes on it, the buzzing of vague memories quickened my pulse. Powerful memories, but beyond the grasp of definition.  Just a strong and sudden sense of something important, some critical event or occasion in my biography.

It's baffling how the mind operates. How some moments implant themselves, and can remain hidden, or dormant, or just plain forgotten, until triggered. Impressions. That's the word. This tank top evoked an impression I'd long since forgotten. I recall an icy, citrus-y beverage...lemonade, perhaps, and almost certainly spiked. A pool hall. Q Billiards. A summer backyard party at the barely-livable eyesore of a house a friend was renting at the time. Humid air and cold vodka lemonade, manic conversation fueled by chemicals, and manufactured ecstasy laced with fuck-it-all impulses. Unrestrained impulses.

An ex-boyfriend, most of all. The one I loved in the way that only happens when you don't know any better than to fall, unrestrained. Reckless love. Young love. First love. Squandered love, ultimately. Wasted in the way that only happens when you don't know any better, when you take it for granted. When you don't know yourself or love yourself or understand yourself enough to appreciate the profundity, the rarity of true love. When you have no business falling in love. When you have no fear of it, either. And by you, I of course am talking about myself.

The shirt is a relic, a memento from my past. A message, its meaning unclear, perhaps incomprehensible, but important. I think, I was a different person when I wore it last. Smaller in size as well as in scope. But I am not entirely separate from that person; I still contain my smaller self. It's just been hidden under the dryer for a while.

It's not altogether unpleasant, this reminder. It holds regret, but also love. Destruction, as well as innocence. It has depth and fullness that surprise me with persistent, choking sentiments. As these feelings rose and swirled like ribbons of smoke, I washed the shirt, and folded it. It's in my closet now. To a visitor, it probably looks like just another piece of clothing.

This is a mess. I have no explanation.

Perhaps it's the 90-degree weather, or the generic soft rock they play in the bathrooms, or the way the mirrors here make my outfit look less like free-spirited whimsy and more like an ill-fitting jazz recital costume. Maybe it's this morning's realization that I failed to fulfill my responsibilities to one of my extracurricular commitments, or the anxiety of applying for an apartment and feeling completely unprepared to actually move. It could have been the vigilante truck driver this morning who took it upon himself to block the would-be shoulder-drivers trying to get past the I-90 traffic to merge onto I-294 (I was obeying the law, but I resent the self-righteous impulse of the vigilante; such behavior, like gaping at traffic accidents, disgusts me, because it is the result of common human impulses, which I depise, probably because I lack self-acceptance).

There are many possible explanations for today's emotional discomfort, but none of them provide me any relief. Oh well, thanks for listening.

On the importance of taking a stand on inconsequential issues concerning the entertainment industry.

I'd really like to see Grizzly Bear at the Riv this September, but I can't get past the "convenience fees" and "order fees" that Jam Productions tacks on to every ticket price. This offends me. If the $34 ticket price weren't enough to turn me off, $10 in arbitrary fees sure is. I'm taking a stand. In fact, I've been taking a stand for as long as I've loved live music. I think it's really starting to influence the music industry, insofar as I'm very delusional.

Jam Productions, I hope you've learned your lesson. I may be loathe to part with my money, but I'm very generous with my indignation. And you, sirs and madams of  corporate douche-baggery, have been served. Holler.    

Lunch Break Learning Time.

When I turned my car on this afternoon, I heard this on the radio:

Chicken eggs have two purposes. One, they can be eaten, and two, they create more chickens.

This is why I have two settings on my radio dedicated to NPR. Hard-hitting facts. I'm going to be a huge hit at the next dinner party I attend.

Self-Esteem Plan B

I'm either sleep-deprived or suffering from a progressive illness that attacks my intelligence and ability to reason. Somehow, I still managed to get an impressive amount of work done, but I've forgotten how to add. Also, I have nothing clever to say. This is particularly upsetting, as much of my self-esteem hinges upon on my wit and mastery of the English language.  I need to get some new skills. Back-up skills. Like lip reading, vegetable gardening, or harmonica playing. 

Hating the Haters: A Spiteful Plea for World Peace

On the radio this morning, some dude was quoted as saying he was ready for the viciousness that had defined the Republican primaries to end.

I was like, yeah, man, right on. I'm sick of hearing about how awful politicians are, too!

Then he went on to explain that he was eager for the viciousness of the Obama vs. Romney race to begin.

Bullshit, old man! You just want to blame someone with whom you don't identify. I hope the candidates end up being super polite and courteous, purely out of spite for your hate-lust. Hmph.

This shouldn't come as a surprise.

This Saturday, Ezra Furman will be at Schubas. So will I. Why? Because he makes songs like this:

The poetry of ugly things.

Since January, I've gotten up at 5am to workout six days a week, for at least an hour at a time. I've pushed up, pulled down, squatted, lunged, jumped, hopped, leaped, kicked, blocked, punched, and vinyasa-ed to the point of nearly vomiting. As a result, I have seen noticeable improvements in my flexibility, balance, energy and strength.
And still, I look in the mirror, contemplate the approach of bathing suit season, and watch my self-esteem crumple before me. The berating begins. My least favorite of voices cry worthless! cry weak! cry repulsive, cry vile!

What language these warriors employ. Warriors without bodies themselves, who are they to judge?

For as long as I've been not-a-child, I've waged war upon my body. Because I'm a fat kid at heart. My passions are numberless and overpowering, and there are not enough outlets to vent the pressure they apply to my spirit. I refrain from chemicals, even nicotine and alcohol. Caffeine is one exception, and tragically limited in its power to placate the almighty appetite. I find refuge in food, and I eat like it's the only way to escape the claustrophobic corners of self-loathing, anxiety, and defeat. Like every bite is a twig in the dam, which I vainly hope will curb the flood of emotional intensity and spiritual struggle.

Everything I feel is heightened by my artistic vision, which others mistakenly call my melodramatic nature.

So forgive me if this is insane to you. I readily acknowledge it is so. But these words are the iron bars of a prison, to which I will now sentence my contempt and vanity and jealousy. And I'm asking you to take the key, because I'm easily persuaded by the voices of my delusions. I'd really like to leave them behind now.

I want to wrap myself in seaweed, all perfectly contained, and paint it beautiful bronze. 

Post-Traumatic Descriptive Disorder

In my job, there are certain phrases, like "strong demand is expected," that I use on such a consistent basis that I sometimes resort to desperate measures in order to maintain the illusion of my originality. Today, I described the demand that we were expecting as frantic. Compelling, right?  My boss told me to pick a "less traumatic" word. Touche.

What Makes Me Think My Office Is Designed to Prevent Pregnancy

They post the most interesting announcements directly above the microwaves, which are exactly womb-high.

I Think We Should Fight.

Last night, I finally finished the John Grisham nonfiction book The Innocent Man, which has been sending me off to bed with despair for the atrocities that occur in America's police stations, courtrooms, and prisons. Just when I'd all but entirely lost faith in humanity and our legal system, things started turning around for Ron Williamson and Dennis Fritz, thanks to the efforts of some honest and upstanding citizens (they do exist!).

Ultimately, the book left me with two realizations.

1. In the face of overwhelming adversity and what seems like a hopelessly unjust situation, even one person struggling for what's right can make a difference. It is imperative that we fight for freedom, whether it is our own, or someone else's, even if it seems futile. And it is even more imperative that we continue to fight, until we have realized our goal. There will always be injustice and hatred and pain, but that doesn't mean we should accept it. I think that the most important thing we can do with our lives is to fight.


2. John Grisham is not only one of the two popular writers I adore, but he is also a good looking man.

An Inappropriate Inequity

We all know that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. But it's one of life's lesser-known inequities that inappropriate touching is in the beauty of the toucher. 

So gentlemen , before touching a lady in any way, please verify that she finds you attractive, charming, or at least endearing. Lest she cries creep.

P.S. I am hereby claiming all rights to the phrase "Lest she cries creep."

Be Nice to Your Sisters

One of the best things about having a niece is that I finally get to pay back my brother for all those years of pushing me around. Like when my niece finds the dog's leash and tells me we need to take "dada" for a walk, and he has to oblige us because no one can resist her tiny, adorable, beguiling charm.

Who's the dog now, man?!

Give Me My Baby-Making Freedom!

I think the worst thing that's happened since Obama took office has been his unceasing attempts to turn me into a baby-killing heathen. All I want is the freedom to NOT have access to birth control. Is that so much to ask? LISTEN TO MY SONG OBAMA! LISTEN TO IT GOOD!

Corruption: My Day at Church

My youngest niece got baptized last week. During the ceremony, my oldest niece and godchild, who was being held by my brother, dutifully answered the priest's questions along with her parents: Do you believe in the God the Father, almighty, creator of heaven and earth? (She did.) Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary, was crucified, died, and was buried, rose from the dead and is now seated at the right hand of the Father? (Yeah, she did.) Do you reject Satan and all his works and all his empty promises? (She shook her head: "I don't, Dada!")

It was a proud moment for me. Which made me feel a little guilty, which made me feel redeemed as a Catholic.

But don't tell her mother I said that, about being proud. On account of I'm supposed to be a spiritual guide, not a conspirator in treachery.

Poem-esque, if you like that sort of thing.

Letting It Out...Loud: Garbage Bags, or, Next Time Find a Kinder Containe...: Garbage bags. Presented to me in person or dropped at my door, they contain a number of small personal items. A toothbrush, a travel-sized ...

Reflections on Brevity

I just re-read a paragraph from my last post. I've come to a conclusion. I need to write shorter sentences.

More about faith, blah blah blah, thanks for listening.

Yesterday evening, while listening to an atheist describe his worldview as comfortable, I realized that I don't believe in anything supernatural. I believe in the human spirit. A clarification: I seek to believe in the human spirit. That is precisely my struggle in faith.

Can I call this a "higher" power? Absolutely. Because the basis for my comparison, the "me" and "I" that is lower than "God," is not me, per se, but rather one of the negative functions of my entire being. I sometimes call it ego, sometimes mind, or simply fear or ignorance. And just as much as these negative functions are a part of me, so are the "higher" functions such as strength, courage, and compassion, which are sometimes called divine, God, truth, etc.

I guess the whole point is, I, like the atheist who prompted these musings, strive too much to understand what is meant by the word God. Essentially, the struggle is to simply believe. In anything that is positive and fosters courageous action and inspires us to connect more with our fellows and create instead of destroy.

I have been struggling to believe. I have been choosing to let the voices of fear convince me that I am inadequate, incapable and incompetent. This manifests itself in my career, in my creative pursuits, and in my relationships. I become impatient with others' shortcomings because I believe that my own shortcomings make me unworthy of love. I resent my professional work because I believe I am not of any real value in my job, because I fear being mired in mediocrity, and it is more convenient to blame my situation and higher-ups than to strive to improve myself professionally, and it is easier to believe I am incompetent than to take ownership of my work and risk criticism. I'm afraid to set and pursue goals as a creative writer, because I might fail. I'm afraid to accept my shortcomings in all aspect of my life, because deep down, I don't believe I can change them.

But Faith, or God, or whatever you choose to call it, says otherwise. Faith knows my fate is not predetermined or immutable. Faith knows that the human spirit is capable of overcoming any challenge, of developing its character toward growth and expansion and actualizing its potential. And it is ONLY through faith that I will ever change my perspective...which is the ONLY thing holding me back.

So the struggle continues, and that is just fine. I'm just glad you're here to listen, my silent and invisible audience. Cheers.

Ok, this is gonna sound a little creepy, but...

It's no secret that I'm in love with Ezra Furman. And I don't mean that in a crush kind of way, a fantasy kind of way, not even in a stalker kind of way. I mean I saw God look into my eyes at an Ezra Furman concert, in January of 2011, and I still hear God in every Ezra Furman song I hear. This is especially noteworthy because I don't believe in God. But I believe in music. And I believe in poetry. And I believe that every human being contains the limitless potential for indestructible joy, which is more popularly known as God.

Buddhist philosopher Daisaku Ikeda says this: "The eyes of a poet discover in each person a unique and irreplaceable humanity. White arrogant intellect seeks to control and manipulate the world, the poetic spirit bows before its mysteries."

Ezra Furman is such a poet, embracing the oddities and nuances that make the most marginalized individuals the most beautiful and interesting. He shines light on dark corners of his own consciousness, not afraid to linger in those places that trouble, disturb, challenge and frighten. With a sharp-witted insight, his music tells me I am not alone. Even more importantly, his music tells me to be fearless in my pain; to confront pain with unyielding determination; to delve in deep, if only for the sake of a song.

I'm not a musician. But I aspire and work towards transforming my life into a song, nonetheless. To break free from self-loathing by immersing myself in it. To express myself honestly and loudly and unapologetically, so someone else might find the courage to do the same. To embrace that which is sensitive and vulnerable in my own being, gaining strength through the unconditional acceptance of all that is.

For those of us for whom life is a struggle, and we are many if not obviously so, the beauty is in the fight. And we ought to recognize our responsibility to create beauty from our struggle, lest our brothers and sisters lose heart and despair. Music is the soul's triumph, art is a life lived courageously. Find your God, within yourself and within others. Name it whatever you choose. Then triumph, and create.

Oh, and check out Ezra's new album, which is utterly masterful. www.ezrafurman.com

Imaginary friends, and those we left behind.

The summer I was 6 years old, I remember playing at a small playground by myself. Another little girl came up and started climbing the monkey bars. Being 6, I politely asked her if she'd like to be my friend.  She said no and walked away.

This hurt my feelings. But as I recall, I recovered pretty quickly. At least, I don't remember it ruining my day, much less my life.

Making friends isn't that much different today. Perhaps I'm not so blunt, but there's still that element of awkwardness and risk involved in pursuing a relationship of any kind. Of course, as adults, we've learned that it's poor form to hurt someone else's feelings, so in lieu of bold-faced, outright rejection, we usually opt for a more passive-aggressive response. On both ends. 

One of us says "we should get together sometime," and the other agrees, maybe even enthusiastically. We exchange numbers, then part ways. We don't call. We are busy, we have jobs, families, responsibilities, habits, routines. We both feel, if not acknowledge, a sense of relief. It's not rejection if it's mutual.

But, especially in the case of platonic friendship, we are both denying ourselves the opportunity to expand our lives, challenge our complacency, and develop our characters. Which is exactly why we feel relieved—such benefits come at a cost. It takes courage, energy, effort, and possibly a couple blows to the ego, to build a relationship. We can get our feelings hurt.

I need to remember that I can recover from hurt feelings. With time, attention, and patience, I've discovered I can heal even the deepest wounds. But still, I resist asking for friendship, because my 28-year old self has learned to equate pride with self-worth.  Fortunately, I'm also learning that few truths are as self-evident as they seem. I'm learning to revise. To challenge. To risk.

The key word is learning. Struggling. Faltering. But always returning to the right path, guided back by the slightly impatient, but utterly fearless, voice of my 6 year old self. Who, unfortunately for the nay-saying girl in my story, is actually an exceptionally kick-ass little lady.

Winter likes and dislikes

One thing I like is enough snowfall to make all the dark gray cars in the parking lot look alike, so that I walk up to the wrong car and start brushing the snow off, and then realize there is someone in there and it isn't me.  That is humorous, after the shock/shame wears off.

One thing I DON'T like is not being able to fit all the things I need on my head under my hood, and getting my earmuffs snagged in my hair clip and dislodging my glasses by trying to fix that situation with clumsy mitten hands. That is just maddening. Nobody likes a clumsy mitten hand.

Like Robert Downey Jr, but Less Gritty

Today's word of the day warrants a brief write-up, mostly because it makes the speaker sounds appalled and a bit scandalized, especially when spken with vehemence. It makes me feel a lot like Sherlock Holmes (albeit a much more effeminate, British version of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character).

So without further ado, I present:

deucedly \DOO-sid-lee\ , adverb: Devilishly; damnably.

Learn it, live it, love it. Try throwing it into everyday conversation. Here, like this:

"Well good evening, madame, and how was the show?"
"Deucedly clever, my good man! Quite the caper!"
"Deucedly, you say?"
"Deucedly!"
"Well I say!"
"Mm, yes, I say!"

Random "Like and Dislike" of the Day

Something I really like is looking at an awkward-looking animal and pretending it is thinking really deep thoughts, with the aid of either a voice-over
or captions:
.  

Something I DON'T like is the idea of animals that actually talk, because that's preposterous. But deep-thinking animals, that's just insightful.

Dear Sean Moeller,

If you cared about me at all, you'd stop writing self-reflective, esoteric, meandering essays on how each Daytrotter session affects you personally. And you'd start writing something relevant and educational, and maybe even a little objective, like information about the band or its members or what kind of music they play.

Especially since my computer claims it is no longer able (or allowed) to play the sessions on the web before I decide to download them.

With the Utmost Respect for Daytrotter (My Opinions About Your Writing Notwithstanding),
Me

That's it, I'm voting for Stephen Colbert.

I read this morning that President Obama has raised $240 million dollars for his re-election campaign. 240,000,000 dollars. I'm too outraged to use exclamation points to illustrate my outrage.

Where the hell is that money coming from? And why the hell are Americans struggling to feed a family on $8.25 an hour when we can afford to donate hundreds of millions of dollars so that one politician can publicly assassinate the character of another politician, in an attempt to persuade us that our future as a country depends solely on one man? One man who is so far removed from the reality of average Americans that he believes "winning" is the best way to help our nation, and that political campaigning is the best use for $240 million American dollars.

I want to be clear that this isn't a party attack. Obama's "campaign war chest" thus far is roughly equal to the one raised by George W. Bush for his 2004 re-election campaign. No, this is an attack on stupidity, waste, power-hungry greed and a complete lack of perspective. This is an attack on the system, on politics, on "the man." That bastard.

I'm sure it's much more complicated than it seems, however.  I'm sure that investing that money in education, small businesses, or the housing market isn't actually a reasonable way to spend $240 million. I'm sure it will be worth every penny when we have a savior in the White House who has the sole power, intelligence, and wisdom to legislate all our problems away.

Unless, of course, we mistakenly elect the devil. Because there are only two choices. And there's only one way of distinguishing good from evil: advertising.

I'm voting for Stephen Colbert.

Dedicated to those brave enough to espouse optimism

 "One tragedy of our time is the willingness of realists, in spite of impending crises, to criticize and obstruct people who expend their energy toward finding solutions. Their judgments, however, are superficial and conventional, and their attitude distances them from the essential quality of reality—change. Often the wisest realists cannot escape this trap. The challenge, then, is to create a new kind of reality that offers hope for changing the world." from Buddhism Day by Day: Wisdom for Modern Life by Daisaku Ikenda

I find this very apt in light of our economic and political climate, in which it is so tempting to adopt a defeatist attitude and a victim mentality. Often, when the subject of the economy or politics is brought up, I hear anger and defeat and frustration. I hear blame, accusations, hopelessness. The voice of hope, of encouragement, of positive belief in our own potential to change our situation, is all but lost. If it's not drowned out, it is scoffed at, ridiculed, called naive.

But isn't it more realistic to work towards a solution, however impossible it might seem, than to wait around for others to do it? Especially when those others are involved in politics, which obscures their perspective and impedes their ability to be compassionate, open-minded, or far-sighted.

I hope we can all learn to nurture hope, to encourage each other to take positive action, to breed a sense of capability in ordinary people. Because life's too damn short to wait for the solution to come to us. I know that there's limitless joy to be experienced, I just need to pursue it with the same tenacity I habitually reserve for criticizing those in power.

Cham-WOW!

I learned this weekend that a "chamois" is a NOT a fancy lounge chair with a lace canopy, but a piece of leather used for polishing.

I guess "-ois" is French for -WOW. Fancy!

Why FM Radio Is Underrated

I am gifted with a sixth sense, a heightened receptivity to messages from the ether. Most often, these messages are transmitted via radio waves. For example, over the summer, I heard 3 different Queen songs on three different occasions, on two different radio stations, all in a 24-hour period. Clearly, this was a prophecy of my imminent victory at a certain 3-person comedy contest you might remember.

In any case, I got in my car this morning and the first song that played was David Bowie's "Space Oddity."  For those of you not inclined to remember song titles, it's this song:



Ok, now here comes the omen-explanation...tonight is the world premiere of a very special, very odd (almost Bowie-esque) sketch comedy show, which I helped create along with a group of other very talented comedians, entitled....wait for it.... "Ground Control to Planet Keith."


Destiny! As in, it's your destiny to see this show. So read all about it, and then experience the oddity yourself!

PLANET KEITH'S FACEBOOK PAGE
Click the link to find more information, including how to buy tickets.
Or, if you're old-fashioned like me, just read this stuff:

Things have gotten shady ‘round here. Duh! Get an education as you ford your way through ‘Ground Control to Planet Keith!’ where the past, present and future are put into your hands or mobile device!

Tackling such important issues as animal violence, teen pregnancy and pretend gay-ness, 'Ground Control to Planet Keith!' is sure to leave you wondering if this great democratic experiment of ours is really just one big American fail.



Fridays at 7:30 pm January 6, 13, 20, 27 & February 3
In the de Maat Studio at Second City 1616 N Wells St.
Tickets available at secondcity.com or by calling 312-337-3992


Directed by:
Joe Janes

Musical Director:
Jonathan Wagner

Starring:
Phil Biedron, Skylar Bingham, Laura Bloechl, Anne Marie Gaggioli, Bex Marsh & Earon Rein

Written by:
Langston Antošek, Robin Dafforn, Ben Jones, Kelly Kenna, Joshua Koenig, David Aaron Tripp & Dan Shea

facebook.com/planetkeith

What is it about being human....

... that makes us want to share our emotional tribulations publicly? Perhaps it's the dawn of social networking, that enables us to vent our frustrations, pour out our sorrows, and express our fury without the discomfort we might feel were we to erupt so spontaneously and unreservedly in the presence of actual people.

I'm guilty of this myself. There is something so irresistible about posting an irate Facebook status, cleverly disguised by a thin veil of snark. It provides me with an illusion of superiority,  this passive-aggressive attempt to reconcile an inner conflict or conceal an emotional wound. Sometimes even to share an emotional wound, as though by doing so I might find vindication, by saying "see? see how I've been wronged?" Because I instinctively believe that it's possible and even necessary for me to prove that I don't deserve whatever emotional pain I'm feeling. As though justice were relevant in matters of the heart.

Essentially, it's all about control. A belief that if I can rationalize, vocalize, make comprehensible a painful reality (such as, my feelings have been hurt), I am in control of the feeling. I am not powerless....or, rather, I am not responsible. The truth is, even if I have been treated unjustly, I don't have to be a victim. It is still within my power, and is indeed my responsibility, to turn a painful situation into something of value. There is always something to gain, often it is something intangible, like strength or wisdom or humility.

So why this need to prove I am a victim? Or, perhaps more accurately, that I am not a fool, not passive or weak or unwitting, but aware and indignant and, yes, superior. It always comes down to protecting the ego. If I were enlightened, I wouldn't post this.

Unfortunately for my ego, however, I still have a need to be vulnerable, to share my pain without risking appearing foolish or weak...which, being human, I am. And that's okay.

It's a journey, right? Here's to hoping this next curve in the road will be more humorous, readers. Til then, thanks for listening anonymously and invisibly. And cheers, regardless!  

Recently, I was honored to have one of my comedy sketches selected for the Mary Siewert Scruggs Works by Women Festival at Second City. It was a really amazing and highly entertaining experience, working with brilliant director Anne Marie Saviano and four very talented actors to bring my idea to life on the stage. You can watch the video below, compliments of Second City, and learn more about this awesome festival in honor of the influential, inspiring, and accomplished late Mary Scruggs at http://www.secondcity.com/page/worksbywomen2011/

Hope you enjoy, and if you don't, well, sorry about the 4 minutes. Maybe you'll like my next project better. So keep coming back, and thanks for reading!