My baby...

My baby wears cat pajamas.
The cats scratch and claw
to find their way out of their
pajama prison.
My baby's cat pajamas sing and
dance through my eyes,
purple and teal
tails in the air
waiting for their way out of their
purple and teal pajama prison.
My baby's purple and teal cat pajamas
are all I know
are all I see
are all I care to be.
Meow.

Who am I? I am I.

This post was originally about the art of writing. What it means to me. What it provides me. Even what it costs me. And because I often give myself grief for not taking writing (this blog, for example) more seriously and also because I think I'd really enjoy a career as a science writer (also, for example) or simply an environmental journalist. And since, as a journalist-in-training, I want to be a bit more prepared and informed, I started researching "writing" so as to include quotes and stats about writing, thereby sounding more intelligent, continuing the charade.

That's when I came upon a website dedicated to the written word of one of my favorite scribes: Tom Robbins. It did not simply feature examples of Robbins' writing; rather, it contained the written word of Robbins and words about writing by Robbins. One such line, taken from an interview of Robbins (that I will now separate from the original blog post so as to provide greater emphasis):

I'm not an animal, I'm a zoo

Wow. He did it again. He has described me as I could never have. But that's not surprising: the man has an uncanny way of expressing himself, using words together in ways I believe no one else does. That's part of the magic of experiencing a Tom Robbins novel.

The idea of being an entire zoo, however, not just one animal, speaks to my varied interests, my deep curiosity, my love of so many different ideas that sometime I feel I'm stretched too thin. Being just one animal in a cage is easy. You have no one to worry about. You have mainly one view of the world and it is a closed world. Sure, you grow more curious as the days go by, looking out into the world through steel bars which both shield the world from you and you from the world. It's comfortable.

But to be the whole zoo, with its many different views, its many different competing passions and parties, its almost convoluted sense of its place in the still larger world; that's the world I live in. It's hard, sometimes, to simply focus on just one thing...this blog, for example, when there are things like Facebook, and music reviews, and books, and my cats, and the way that shadow falls on the carpet there, and ENOUGH!! But when I do focus I'm brought right back home. It's easy here. This? This is all I've got to worry about? I'm sold. I'm home. It's a wonder why I even left at all.

Family forever?

So family is supposed to be forever, right? Beyond petty fighting, beyond minor squabbles. Family is forever. Familial ties are thicker than water, stronger than the nano-crystals holding together a diamond. But what happens when the very family that you are fighting for, biting your tongue for turns out to not care. What happens when the brother you have is an alcoholic unemployed jerk who, oh yeah, also happens to have a son of his own, and who also, by the way, calls you very unflattering names in front of his son, your nephew? Can you love a brother who does that? Can you continue to unconditionally love anyone who makes you feel less like a sister and more like a piece of dirt? This guys says no way. But I'm lucky. I have a brother who is wonderful. Unfortunately, we can't all be so lucky.

Best Word I've Heard All Day

Tingled.

v. intr.

1. To have a prickling, stinging sensation, as from cold, a sharp slap, or excitement: tingled all over with joy.
2. To cause a prickling, stinging sensation or feeling: The straw tingled.

Tingle here (above-right) wants to know: why tingled? It just makes me smile, that's all. I don't question it.

A Letter Writing Campaign

My friend, lets call him Minimexican, writes letters. And it inspired me. So I warmed up with a card that Kelly gave me in August and sent it to her. Ready for the real deal, I was inspired to write an actual letter, just a sheet of CGR copier paper filled with words. Several recipient candidates were considered. The final candidate, however, was unexpected and sudden, as if a flash of lightening in my head.

An Open Letter to Barack Obama

Mr. Obama-

To say I've never done this before would be a cliche...but I've never. Not even for an elementary school class activity. At least I don't think so. Anyway...the reason for my writing. I guess it's to first of all wish you a huge fuckin' congratulations on winning the presidency. Nicely done, sir.

But really, the reason to write is because of what you have done, and what I hope, because of your promises and pledges followed through from your campaign, you will continue to do. You are our generation's (I'm 26) great, inspirational, motivational, politician/person in shining armor, busting through the doors of corruption, misdirection, political, educational, environmental, racial, and social injustice wreaked upon our country and the world by many bad men with horrible plans for world takeover, some of which have already been realized. Your have given us all the hope that comes from seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. You, sir, have allowed us to hope with a conviction that only comes with a sense that it might finally be time for change.

Thank you.

Sent 11/17/08

Doubtful Blogging

Will: you stopped blogging again.
already.
me: i know!!!!! :(
i hate myself
Will: well i hate you too.
me: tell me you liked it and i'll start again
Will: i love the blog.
me: you do?
Will: i would even consider letting the blog do me doggy style.
i love it so much.
me: i want to
but its sooooo hard
Will: inertia is hard to over come.
you need to lower the bar.
just assume whatever you post there is going to suck monkey balls.
me: but that sucks
Will: it gets a lot easier after that.
me: i dont want to assume that
Will: yeah, but then the more you post, the better you get at it.
and then before you know it your posts will be like little dissertations of flowery prose.
you should just take this gchat and post it on your blog.
a record of your self-doubt.
it's telling.
and it will be funny.
me: what i need is a sure-fire way for me to post something and then for like 1 million people to read it and i'll be a blogging sensation
Will: that doesn't make any sense.
it doesn't work that way.
also: most people that read blogs don't post comments.
me: you make an excellent point oh wise one
Will: you probably have like a whole 8 readers of your blog.
people that actually care about you, mind you.
not lame hangers-on.
people that want to just taste the fame.
me: no fairweather fans for me
Will: no.
me: thankfuly
Will: you're above that.
me: nothings worse than fairweather blog fans
Will: exactly.
'cause they're the ones that will then spread rumors about how you like monkey balls.
me: rest assured everyone, I DON'T LIKE MONKEY BALLS
Will: well, you should let your blog readers know that.
me: well if i'm gonna post this i should go so that it's not too long
Will: sometimes i am really fucking insightful.
me: say something else insightful in closing
Will: i humped your mom last night.
me: perfect
you really do have a way with words
Will: i make them with my fingers.

L9 Tourism is Fuct

What can we say about a country, a people, that doesn't seem to care about average people? Doesn't care about death? Doesn't care about suffering or injustice or accountability? How is it that an area totally and utterly devastated thanks to human ignorance and stupidity can be so far from the hearts and minds of average Americans until some very attractive and famous individuals decide to make it their pet projects?


Are we for real? These two assholes can make everyone pay attention? It's not enough that 1,800 lives were snuffed out? Fucking drowned in their homes? Tried to survive for days/weeks in the rubble of their homes, their city, without medical help because our dumbass president and that asshole Brownie (the "head" of FEMA, who never had a single day of emergency relief experience) waited and pretended they didn't know Katrina would be a big deal? Nonsense.

And now, all of a sudden, tour vans, in the tens per day, more than ever, drive by (which, by the way, is ILLEGAL), taking pictures of the new Make It Right homes (so out of place, looking like country bumpkins lost in the big scary city), while all around them is evidence of a residential graveyard, complete with bare concrete slabs, empty lots, grass higher than a one-story building in some instances. Not to mention our Common Ground house, smack in the middle of the Make It Right installation, which people bypass as if we're not even here. CGR has been on the ground almost since DAY 1, doing the work, and more, that Brad and his money is involved in, sweating, getting eaten alive by mosquitoes, until recently living in squalor. Who the fuck is Brad Pitt? People don't care about human suffering unless Brad says so?

Sure, it's important for people to see what's going on and to tell their friends about it and to care. But seriously, L9 TOURISM IS FUCT. The human race is fuct. God damnit.

A Mixed Bag 10/29/08

Never has there been a forum for so much shit and nonsense as exists in the deep recesses of the internet. Clearly, I could devote an entire blog to the topic of random internet videos and probably never air them all. There are, of course, gems within the quarry, little golden nuggets of quality watching that you will show to friends, who will show to their friend, and so on, and so on. Whether they be music videos, hilarious antics, or even just hot chicks pooping into cups (no, I actually haven't seen the whole video...I shut it off after that first glimpse of brownness), some videos must be seen. Thankfully, this blogger will never, and I mean NEVER, tell you to watch cup poopers. No matter how hot the chicks.

Pearl Jam "Evolution"



AMAZING moving art by Blu



Ninja Cat!!



Whitest Kids You Know "Indiana Jones at Rock n' Roll Memorabilia Auction"

TV Picks 10/29/08

As someone who enjoys his share of that nasty T-word (television) I want good things (ratings, critical acclaim, success for all involved in their future projects) to happen to the show. Sure, things like global hunger, the loss of the wetlands, or mercury accumulation in fish may matter more in terms of real importance and long-term quality of life of this planet. Honestly, I worry about those things too. Believe you me, I loose sleep over the second-by-second fleeting nature of the southern Louisiana wetlands. But I also like watching TV. Sue me.

And so, it is fitting that I start this, let's say, bi-weekly "column" of my picks with arguably one of the best shows in television history: The Wire.

Set in urban Baltimore, The Wire is an all-encompassing, engrossingly complex look at everything from politics in city hall to the politics ruling the streets, from learning in the public schools to learning in the drug filled, crime-ridden projects. We travel five seasons through the drug game, the cash-strapped and desperate ports, politics, the public education system, and the media, who see some, report even less, and spin the whole thing in the search for a Pulitzer. All throughout, though, the drugs and the streets are front and center.

You may have heard The Wire mentioned as a show to watch. You may have given it a shot, only to leave frustrated that the dialogue wasn't easier to decode or even that the plot movement was just too slow. Go back. Give it another look. This show contains some of the greatest writing, put to screen by really fantastic actors, actors that, unfortunately, won't have material this good to work with for the rest of their careers. Because they really are quite good. And a lot of actors in The Wire are not that at all: just locals picked out from amongst the streets, the "real" streets, put on camera and given lines to say. Yet another wonderfully unique quality to the show.


Whether Bodie (pictured with McNaulty), Omar, Bubbles, or Daniels, the characters make this show. You find yourself sympathizing and worrying for the safety of drug dealers. Murderers. Crooked union bosses. Thieves. But you care. You ache. You want them to stay alive and out of jail just so they'll continue in their society-corrupting ways and remain on the show.

I've been re-watching all five seasons for a little while now and it's just as good as the first time. Looking for something to do for an hour or so every few days? Watch The Wire. Download torrents of the show for free on many different torrent sites (really really easy to do and FREE) or you could rent/buy it from a store. Your call. Not quite convinced? Watch this scene, the WHOLE scene please, and tell me this isn't the best, smartest show in history:

I Like It Cause I'm White?

As I sit utterly enthralled in the funky break beats flowing through tiny headphones into my ear drums, my body is warm (partially from the three layers I'm wearing) from a certain delicious beverage I am enjoying...coffee. Specifically, I've recently been enjoying cafe au lait, which I learned yesterday is regular coffee and steamed milk, as opposed to a cafe latte, which is espresso and steamed milk. And at a reduced price, comparatively, of about two dollars, the cafe au lait is my now and future drink of choice.

Coffee, why do I love you so?

Is it because you have been enjoyed by men and goats since the 9th century? No.

It is because you are one half of the best relationship in the world, coffee and cigarettes? No (and especially since quitting smoking, again, one week ago, no).

It is because you are sometimes FairTrade certified, making the drinkers of said certified beans feel better about themselves? No.

It is because I am white. Yep, white people like coffee. No if ands or buts about it. And in that vein, I bring you the #1 thing that, apparently, white people *like myself) like, coffee: (courtesy of Stuff White People Like)

There is no doubt that white people love coffee. Yes, it’s true that asians like iced coffee and people of all races enjoy it. But I promise you that the first person at your school to drink coffee was a white person. You could kind of tell they didn’t enjoy it, but they did it anyways until they liked it - like cigarettes. White people all need Starbucks, Second Cup or Coffee Bean. They are also fond of saying “you do NOT want to see me before I get my morning coffee.” White guys will also call it anything but coffee: “rocket fuel,” “java,” “joe,” “black gold,” and so forth. It’s pretty garbage all around.

A Man Of His Word

With out further ado, here is RJD2's video for "Work It Out" featuring Bill "VirtualProvocoteur" Shannon.



Pretty sweet, huh? For more antics and projects, visit Mr. Shannon's website, www.visualprovocateur.com, which comes complete with this description of the "art" that he creates:

The dance I perform is pretty much my own invention...I dance in the street when I walk in the street...the whole street watches me walk down the street...I weave traffic like a bird flies among the herd...I stop traffic when I fly. And that is why I am an artist...to make things work, to have no expectations...to just follow my soul and stay true to people in the most profound sense of staying true to myself.

Blaahg Blog

The original idea with this second new post was to show you a bad-ass music video of a dancing man on...crutches. But you won't get the video, nor a link to his website, nor a description of what he does, the "art" he creates. No, you won't get any of these because our good friends at Blogger decided to make it exceedingly difficult to post video (at least for an unexperienced blogger like me). I'm gonna consult the manual (i.e. Flushy McBucketPants) and be back tomorrow with said content.

New Beginnings II

For real, this time. A new layout. A new title. A new url. New content. New influences. New shoes. More to come.

New Beginnings

Time seems to flow at different paces depending on where geographically one finds oneself. The cadence of life, the ever ebbing, constantly progressing rhythm of the world feels different in Jerusalem, New Orleans, Beverly Hills, and New York City. Upon returning to one's home, feelings of separation and disillusionment can become intensified. I suppose that is normal after a long absence from home. It also doesn't help to be have a debilitating injury which has persisted for a few weeks now. I feel as if I am hanging out, because I am, in a place which needs more than my time. It needs my sweat, my diligent attention and work. Planning seems to lose some of its meaning when there is no immediate action.

The information gap

When something - a new law being passed, a natural or man-made catastrophe, an important recall of a commercial product - happens, we can expect our major news outlets to report on them, allowing us to be "in the know". Right? Unfortunately, this is the grand ol' US of A, and we're not so lucky.

Upon deciding to venture to New Orleans, I had the great fortune of stopping by my local Chase branch to sign my financial life away. Making conversation with my new financial mastermind, I alerted him to the fact, shocking as it may seem, that New Orleans is, two-and-a-half years after the storm, still in trouble, to put it gently. This story is not a unique one among my fellow volunteers. The fact remains that a large percentage of Americans do not realize that the people and the city of New Orleans are no where near to being back or rebuilt. This can be attributed to many factors, the most important of which (and which just so happens to be the focus of this here blog entry) being that the national /local news outlets - your CNNs, Fox News', USA Todays, the Daily News' - don't put a high priority on the truth as it exists in our fair lands. Rather than reporting on how f-ed up everything from the government, to the special interests, and even the plight of the middle-class home-owners, both here in New Orleans and nationwide, they feel that people (anonymous viewers to simply further ratings) should know about the latest black man wanted for a crime he didn't commit, or the cat who jumped through rings of fire, or how many times Britney Spears flashed her nether-regions this past weekend. You know, the truly life-changing, important stuff.

What we, in our media-driven country, need is a greater accountability of those which provide us with the information they decide is necessary. They have to stop deciding what we THINK we should know and start telling us what is ACTUALLY HAPPENING. The good, the bad, the kind of stuff that may make their advertisers/backers/supported candidates look bad. There needs to be some independence and objectivity. Heck, the world press has been a better disseminator of Common Ground/New Orleans news than our national press. And we're separated not just by state boundaries but by a huge freakin' ocean! It's time to bring the news, in a country founded on the premise of "by the people for the people", back to the people.

Oh to blog...

The question is not: ...to blog or not to blog. The question is: what to blog? The list is never-ending: puppies, sad clowns, whales, question marks, pies, Shirley Temple, rainbows, bows, hair, horses, Philly Cheese Steak Hot Pockets (hot pockets), sandals, sneezing, meowing, mowing, moving, shaking, extra-terrestrials, Chester Copperpot, Venus, the Arc de Triomphe. See? And that was just a fraction. Nay, an insignificant speck of dust in the vast universe of blog topics. Should they be profound? Should the be culturally or politically relevant? Can they be funny without being sarcastic or silly? Can they be interesting?

And this, my friends, is why it is both frustrating and liberating to host a blog. One minute your mind is wrapped and warped and twisted around a powerful movie you've just watched and the next your fingers, working in almost perfect harmony with your brain (oh that brain; always doin' stuff good), are transposing those thoughts into a digital journal. But this ain't no ordinary digital journal. This is one that the world can read. Fuck. Osama Bin Laden or Charles Barkley could be sitting in their boxers, in between You Tube videos, reading this out-loud to the respective harems. And how would I know? What would I even do about it if I knew? The point is, I can say whatever I want and there it is. Forever public record. Forever in the cultural landscape we have created and are continuing to create every second of every day.

But I have it easy. I made the decision, long long ago, that this space would be for random caricatures of life both in the Great New Orleans area and within this head of mine. There are those, however, who have decided to compile similarly-themed things and give them to the masses in the form of a single-subject blog. "Stuff White People Like" or "WW1: Experiences of an English Soldier", for example. Even "PostSecret", though it is really a continuous gallery exhibit, if you will, represented in blog form, is a single-subject blog. An entire world based around one idea, changed and altered ad nauseam, with an outcome of either golden-brown on the outside, soft and delicious in the middle, perfect or disaster. Those three example are of the former variety. I suppose those of the latter don't get the kind of recognition to be mentioned in MY blog.

And with the sheer staggering number of blogs out there, it's no wonder that so many get passed by without the slighted hint of interest from outside parties. Technorati, a search engine for blogs, estimated the number of blogs as of December 2007 at 112 million. Wow. Well now there are at least 113 million. And not all of those can say they've been commented on by Flushy McBucketpants. Boo-yah!

I'm vain, but you're Fain

It's a beautiful morning. Good tunes in the form of Assembly of Dust are coursing through the airwaves and my eardrums. The kids are out in full force; potting, watering, and regaling in the warmth of the April sun, much stronger here in the quasi-tropics than their yankee homeland of Massachusetts. And the afternoon? Well, that will be just as productive and entertaining, except our feet won't be planted on the Earth Mother in quite the same way. A big-ass canoe will be our chariot, and she will carry us around the Cypress Triangle and to the future home of Bull Rush, to be planted on Monday with the watchful eyes of PBS cameras upon us. Thats right, your favorite blogging, tree-planting tall guy will get his break on the silver screen in a PBS documentary series called e-squared Design. We'll be interviewed, filmed, and if you're one who isn't a fan of the whole "filming" thing, you'd say we will have our souls sucked out of our host bodies. I, on the other hand, am comfortable with the whole idea. Plus, I am vain as shit and can't wait to be famous.

Consistency

Those of you who know me certainly know that I like consistency in appearance. Symmetry, OCD, sameness. Call it what you will. I just like it that way. You know Monk? That show about the OCD detective who has to make sure everything is in order and arranged just the way he likes? I'm not certifiable like Monk is, but I likes what I like. So I apologize (mostly to myself) about the lack of pictures to accompany these past posts. But when technology doesn't agree with the decided-upon way of doing things, there's nothing that I can do about it. I assure you (me) though, pictures are forthcoming.

Parental patience

"Hi honey. Just checking in. Hoping all is well. Talk to you later."
"Hi honey. Just checking in again. Wondering how you are. Talk to you later"
"Hi honey. Please call us back. We're just wanting to talk to you and find out how everything is. Please do call us back. Talk to you later."

Within just a few days, increasingly angry and frustrated messages can pile up from one's parents when you are in a new place, a place that they don't know much about, a place that may frighten or intrigue them. Or, at least, they do on my phone. But what can be done when the son either doesn't have much to report or desire to be on the phone? The answer: just deal.

Parents are funny that way. They want to know. They want to know that their kin are well (and alive). They may want details, but more often then not, they just want to hear. Hear something. Hear a voice.

Not so much to ask for.

Back in green

So what does a tree-planting volunteer blog about when he is M.I.A. from said blog? Well, trees (or in this case, plants)!!!! Tuesday was a great day, minus a little flat tire ordeal. At the USDA Plant Material Center, I, along with the two other CG Wetlands team members, pulled about 1100 pieces of a grass called Spartina. The idea is that they (PMC) grow plants perfectly suited to these environmental conditions and then give them out to non-profits and nurseries who will then propogate and/or plant them on their own. It's a really important way for groups like our Wetlands Restoration program at Common Ground, which does not have a lot of throw-around cash, to make a difference in this cash-dominant world. It was a muddy and sweaty ordeal, but in the end, we were 1100 steps closer to restoring Louisiana's coastal wetlands...in a just and sustainable way, of course.