Ode to Joy or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Apathy

I am a firm disbeliever of happiness.

Dear reader, please do not mistake my statement for outright nihilism. I DO believe in and attest to the truth on certain uncontroverted matters:

i) The earth revolves around the sun;

ii) Laetitia Casta (circa turn of the century) was the pinnacle of feminine hotness;

iii) If an integer n is greater than 2, then a^n + b^n = c^n has no solutions in non-zero integers a, b, and c ('tis true, just use elliptic curves and solve for n=4 and prime numbers, many thanks Sir Wiles);

iv) The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing;

v) Yoko and me (and that's reality).

But, happiness? Nay, it can neither be attained in this world nor the next! Rather, dear reader, I subscribe to a slightly more skewed, yet practical, philosophy on life I term, "MOMENTS OF EPHEMERAL JOY SPARSELY SPREAD AMONGST ONE'S MUNDANE ROTE EXISTENCE and stuff . . ."

Moments of minute episodes of joy. No delusional promise of the city-state of Shangri-La happiness. Let your mind marinate on that for an atomic minute.

Interesting philosophy, you smirk with teeming condescension. But, pray tell, have you any concrete examples of such "moments of ephemeral joy"? Pergunta boa, meu amigo!

The key to this philosophy of joy, not unlike the underpinnings of space and time, is relative: the individual defines his/her moments of joy. For an avid runner like myself, running ten miles to and fro along the beach between Manhattan and Hermosa any given Saturday morning qualifies as a moment of joy. Or receiving a text from Maganda. Or waxing philosophies with Balong. Or drinking and chewing the cud with the Spearhead Commander. Or running (lately, runwalking) with Lard Boy. Or watching Ysabella with Mom. Or talking about the good ol' days with Inay. Or getting an e-mail from Elleigeiram. Or watching the sunrise. Or watching an old episode of ST:TNG (especially anything involving Q, Lor, or the Holodeck). Or seeing childhood pictures. Or singing Karaoke (that is the magic word!). Or watching the last scene of Field of Dreams when Ray Kinsella asks his dad to play catch with him (lump in my throat sprinkled with a warm fuzzy feeling everytime). Or reading My Blog. Or . . .

Dear reader, if there is one undeniably lame public service announcement I may espouse, it is simply this: acknowledge those little moments of joy that enrich your life. The cosmos shall grant you no less and no more. And, at the end of things, pray that your lifetime MOJs (that's "moments of joy" for you damned text happy freaks) total more time than your time spent wiping your asshole. A man can dream, n'est pas?

Rise

Sometimes ending it seems the simplest
Solution
Such a sublime finality
To stop the suffering
And let it all go
Poof!
A gunshot
A wrist cut
Blood draining out of you
Freedom from
Your mortal shell
Free from your solitude
Escape from your worries
Sleep, perchance to dream
Gone, gone the form
Of man
This corpse shall
Ne'er arise again.

Why waste a precious
Second, minute, hour, day?
Infinity is but
An overdose away.
Breathe in your last
Breath
Release your grip
From the mortal plane
Embrace the vastness
Of the undiscovered
Country.

Love has nothing to do
With how you feel,
Regret has gone
The way of pride
What has shame
Got to do
When your Ego
Has no place
To hide?

Let go, let go
It would be too easy
So final
So sweet
Akin to just taking
A quiet stroll
On a white sand beach:
Taste the salty air
Feel the warmth of the breeze
Gaze at the sunset
Cherish it,
Would it be
So much sweeter
If it were your last!

Are you a coward
For saying such things?
Are you an outcast
Like Cain, Judas, or
Morningstar?
When have you gone
a smidgen
Too far?
Where is the snag
On the tightrope
You walk?
Who, if anyone,
Dares to fly
So close to the sun?

Laugh at those ants,
Fools mortals be!
Don't they know
Life's no big
Mystery.
It flows like a
River
downstream
endlessly
Past the troughs
And crests of
Mortality.
The cataracts of
Despair, conceit
And treachery,
Its source is high
On the mountain
Of faith
And its estuaries
Lead to a boundless
Ocean.

Along the river banks
One will meet
Such wondrous
Souls
And memorable loves,
Kind warm faces
Noble spirits
Places I remember
Loves never regretted
What a journey!
A short thread
Of cosmic happenstance
Beautiful
Pure
Never to be
Repeated
Again . . .

So allow It to end
Or continue to fall
Whatever you decide
It's not your
Decision
At all.
You shall one day
Later or sooner
Find that there
Are no more
Miles
to travel.

So,
Rise
Fight
Run
Make love
Dance under the moon
Drink and be merry
Cheat, steal,
Fornicate
Hate
Shit, piss
Stay up late,
Kiss, caress
Watch her undress
Wake up
Dream
Bang your drums
And let them know
that you stand
Here, now
Not ready to go.

Make your mark
Cover your dirty fingers
With your money
Chastise those
Who don't have any.
Fill it up
Fill her up
Wage your wars
Plunder and rape
Take her out
On a romantic date.

Let it be
Or end it now

Desire a good death
Since no one
Is ever
Promised
A good life.

Spirits in the Material World

Dear reader, I fancy myself as leading a sparse, spartan, and spendthrift lifestyle (praise to you, oh alliteration gods!). My "appetites" are comparatively modest or, as some liken them, borderline, ahem, anorexic . . .

Before going any further, I implore you dear reader to halt your concerns -- I am far from the likes of homeless blind transients who unwittingly slept with their mother and are destined to slay their father! (Besides, Oedipal complexes are best saved for another blog.) However, to paraphrase another self-imposed homeless individual, the unexamined life is not worth blogging about! In other words, upon closer scrutiny, am I, like those with similar modest and middle-class pedigrees who liken themselves as LIBSTERS (yeah, that would be a portmanteau of "Liberal hipsters"), really nothing more than a closet PIGALIST (in layman's terms, "pig capitalist")?

Well, when I am at a cross-roads and cannot seem to set things straight, I at least know to whom to turn. No, dear reader, not Jesus or my parents or parish priest or Capt. Jean-Luc Picard or even that lovely blue-eyed brunette from Amsterdam who only cost 50 guilders (yeah, that would be another blog). No, the man of which I speak is none other than that great American comedian/social commentator, Jeffrey M. Foxworthy. Thank you, Mr. Foxworthy: your tried and true, innocuously jocular the first listen yet Chinese water torture all subsequent times, stand-up routine is the key to my conundrum lock, the hot blade to my Gordian knot.

So, without further ado, my dear reader . . .

You Might Be a PIGALIST If:

1. You own more than 5 pairs of shoes. Or just one pair of Salvatore Ferragamo kicks.

2. Lie awake at night because you have a lousy 720p flatscreen instead of the "true" hi-def 1080p version.

3. Own more than 1 of the aforementioned inferior 720p flatscreens.

4. Paid for the LE version of your car instead of the base model because you preferred the faux wood grain interior.

5. Cannot live without your TiVo or DVR.

6. Think people who access the Internet via dial-up belong in a separate socioeconomic class.

7. Defer from buying any new movies on DVD since you know you'll be buying the Blu-ray or HD DVD version soon [pending 1) who wins the format war and 2) when those blasted high def. players go south of 3 bills].

8. Have ever paid more for the sake than the entire sushi meal.

9. Own a pair of Diesel jeans.

10. Could not pass up Clash of the Titans for $9 at the local TAR-jay. (Actually, this could just qualify you as a damn smart shopper, son! And to digress, the movie is arguably Ray Harryhausen's best work, rivaling his stop-motion action awesomeness in Jason and the Argonauts. As a child, I never so wanted to pee in my pajamas as when I heard the menacing rattle of Medusa's slithering tail. And who can forget fair Andromeda and those innocent, yet subliminally sensual, moonlit scenes while she slumbers in her bedchamber tower (right before the giant vulture whisks her spirit away in a human sized birdcage)? And Bubo the mechanical, golden owl made in the likeness of great Pallas Athena's own immortal owl by the hands of the lame god blacksmith Hephaestus? Do not get me started!)

11. Own a desktop and a laptop and a Treo with Internet access and wireless Bluetooth.

Corn & Flour

Instead of tackling some of the more complex and fundamental questions of life (i.e. "Why are we here?," "Is there a God?," "Do these jeans make me look fat?"), let us essay, dear reader, to solve, once and for all, the slightly less intricate, yet equally intriguing, query:

"Should I go with the corn or flour tortilla?"

Scoff all you want my befuddled reader. Yet, try and not to sing my praises when next you purvey such fine establishments as Chevy's, El Pollo Loco, Baja Fresh, or Tito's Tacos and are asked this dire question. Ha! You shall impress the cashier/waiter by not even hesitating, not spending a single nanosecond of quietude in contemplation, and look them squarely in the eye with a supremely confident answer. Indeed, the aforementioned cashier/waiter will surely admit afterwards, "By Jove, there is an individual who knows what they want. There is an individual who has put in some study and made an informed decision about their tortilla. Such an individual I shall gladly bear their cross and follow to the ends of the earth!"

However, rather than confront this culinary dilemma with any coherent polemic, I simply offer a tune one can recite prior to ordering:

Some like their tortillas made from flour,
Some prefer corn.
From what I've tasted of burritos
I hold with those who favor flour.
But if to suffer indigestion twice,
I think I know enough of heartburn
To say that for my palette maize
Is also tasty
And would amaze.

Via con dios, mi amigos.

Sing to me, O Muses

Sing to me, O Muses . . .

"Self discipline is what I need to sustain my existence and find meaning of why I am here whether it be to be successful, have a family and help others or to wantonly kill those who try to hold me down in my quest for true enlightenment or search for the very existence of a God who seems hapless in aiding his children in this world full of vile creatures and hungry appetites yearning to quash the hopes and dreams of those who dare assert their independence and who continually remind them that they are bound under the chains of slavery imposed by themselves because freedom cannot be attained in this world or the next."

All hail the divine Father Cockroach who bleeds honey from its frothing mouth yet chooses not to suckle the starving masses yearning to eat the honey ambrosia that will grant them freedom and immortality!!! All hail the Son Dung Beetle who will come in glory to judge the penny pushers and perverted holy men who through the ages called on His name to spread lies and flies to justify their oppressive thumbs on His trash bin flock. And all hail the Horny Satyr who comes in the night inspiring the Selected Drones to speak in tongues and spread the Word to the future generations who would later pervert, prophesize and print the Word on pages used to wipe their stuffed mouths and shit-laced assholes.

I shall sing a new song while waiting for Godot. I shall clean my soul at the car wash and get my spirit detailed. I shall taint my body with sweet tasting drinks that will corrode my teeth and eat of the sacred herd like Odysseus' men while counting my mortality away. I shall let you eat my bread and drink from my cup and ravage you until I have had enough. I shall struggle for my will to power only to have others borrow my words in the name of genocide. I shall reveal the truth behind our origins while you will use that knowledge to separate us as man and beast. I shall dream of Utopia wrought in blood won by those wearing blue collars, and yet you turn it into a nightmare world with seven-year plans and mass killings. I shall march on the steps of your capital with my brethren in busloads, and you shall kill me out of ignorance. I shall imagine a world without your kind and sing a song of peace; you shall murder me and make my legend increase. And all the while I shall wait patiently for Godot who sends me signs and miracles to keep me on my toes.

But I am a man fraught with guilt, sin and flies in my stomach that weigh me down. I dream of flying to the sun but fear my wax wings will melt and have me drown. I sense the doom in the horizon and tragedy of life, but I am sustained by a nagging inner light like those cheesy glowing hearts in those pictures of Christ. Mother Theresa and Schweitzer are no longer -- they might have served as examples. Zimmerman protests too much and sings with a nasal snarl, while those lads from the working class who changed the world are without their leader and have become aging capitalists with no more melodies. Movies stumble to tell a tale and have become a squire to the Knights of the Round Box Office. The Blind Poet of Antiquity seems not to have even existed, while the Bard of England may not have even written his quartos.

The universe is finite, infinite, expanding, contracting, sitting still while time crawls, moves too fast, or does not move at all.

I shall sing my song and wait for Godot. Perhaps Rosencrantz and Gildenstern will join me, even if they are dead. Maybe Joyce but he is probably sulking in Dublin. Maybe Milton but he is lost in paradise. Maybe even Lee though she maybe killing a mockingbird. Perhaps Salinger but he and Caulfield are probably stumbling in the rye. Maybe Socrates if he is not too busy with his inquiries. Or maybe Descartes if he is not too busy with his ball of wax and meditations. Maybe Albom if he gets his Tuesdays free. Maybe Albee if he is not crying wolf. Perhaps Kerouac when he is not on the road. Or maybe Hawthorne when he is done tending the garden and clearing out the gables. Perhaps Malory will lend his voice after Arthur's demise. Or maybe Gibbons after the Fall and Decline. Perhaps I can even convince Guttenberg to stop the presses and lend his voice.

Maybe.

Perhaps.

I shall sing my song, nonetheless, and wait for Godot. I shall even find Godot a city. Like Remeus and Romulus and Dido. I shall build a city on top of a hill higher than Macchu Picchu. I shall call it Erewhon. I shall put two lionesses at its gate and build a ziggurat at its center. The tower shall have seven gates with seven seals and made completely of alabaster and with hanging gardens. I shall make a temple for Godot and make a statue of him seated on his throne made of pure gold. And I shall put this city by the river Styx and place a colossal statue of the Son Dung Beetle peering out into the sea. And I shall call myself Ozymandius and carve my name upon every stone for future generations to see and be amazed.

I shall sing my song and wait for Godot. But while I wait I will retreat and go under like Zarathustra. I will teach that man is a rope between beast and overman. And I shall have Durkheim take down some notes. But Sorel and Bergson shall thwart my every move and will invoke the scream of Munch to scare me away. But I will return and cross the Rubicon with Elijah and Elisha who will anoint me with oil and call me messiah. And I will circle the walls of Erewhon and its sister city Usher until everything comes crashing down. I will slay Sorel, Bergson and their champions Hektor, Enkidu and Sampson. And I shall take Helen and Gunievere from the city and make them Vestal Virgins. In the cities I shall try to find a dozen honest men and fail. And Godot will send fire and brimstone and the bomb upon Erewhon and Usher to wipe the world of wickedness and sin. And Godot, Grendel and Job will laugh from the halls of Valhalla while the gods weep in Mt. Olympus.

Still, I shall sing my song and wait for Godot. But before I wait, I shall travel to far away places and live the life of a Homeric poem. I shall be amazed like fair Portia and Huxley as I brave this new world. I shall be swift, tell the Irish to eat their babies, have a war between books and converse with gentle horses. I shall perform the Seven Labors three times. I shall be a wily sailor lost years at sea while the god of earthquakes pursues me. I shall be a knight chasing down windmills and join a motley crew of heroes in search of a golden fleece. I shall search for a Holy Grail and be struck down by lightning before I touch it. I shall be a child on a Crusade forever lost on my way to Palestine. I shall reach the Orient and write a book, while Erik the Red mocks me when I find a world of grapes. I shall stop the Turks at Vienna and watch helplessly as Scipio defeats Hannibal at Zama. I shall see the sky lit up in flames as a zeppelin falls from the heavens and smile with glee when the unsinkable gets sunk at sea. And I shall fight bravely with the Spartans at Thermopylae.

And then I shall meet Godot at the crossroads on frozen tundra when Nanook is up North with Robert Johnson. He will call me "Victor F." and will ask for his name. "The Creation is the Creator, and the Creator his Creation," I shall reply. And we together like Pip and Stella or Bogart and Raines will walk pass the ashes of Erewhon, Xanadu and Utopia and enter the forbidden land guarded by an angel with a sword of flames. And there we shall eat from the Tree but will not be reprimanded. And there we shall mock Satre's notion of Hell and Dante's visions of Heaven. And there we shall wait for another asleep in Avalon who will come to lead us to Ragnarok. And we shall fight the soothsayers, politicians and holy men of the world until the firmament cracks and Gaea becomes barren.

We shall die and be eternally reborn.

And we shall live these memories again and again . . .

And Nietzsche and Christ will walk hand in hand singing the Song of J. Alfred Prufrock with tears of joy in their eyes like Alex after hearing Beethoven's Ninth.

-- JPN 12/29/00

Music Weltanschauung

(A more enjoyable read if one has Patrick Bateman's voice in mind . . .)

LESSON #1: Basics (the 4 Bs)

BEATLES
There was a time I could tell you which album and track number a particular Beatles' song came from. No joshing. Arguably, they were simultaneously the best and most popular at their craft. That is hard to match in any type of discipline.

PERSONAL FAVORITE: Revolver. Technically, sonically, and lyrically their most succinct work. A giant leap from the Dylanesque Rubber Soul (another favorite). "For No One" is quite possibly McCartney's most honest work, an underrated classic any lovelorn guy would appreciate. Lennon re-wrote pop music with "Tomorrow Never Knows" ("Turn off your mind, relax, and float downstream"). George matures with "I Want to Tell You" and the acerbic "Taxman." And Ringo, well, Ringo was the drummer . . . seriously, "Yellow Submarine" hums with childish glee that only Ringo could've pulled off.

BOB MARLEY
Who doesn't like Robert Nesta Marley? Disliking Bob is like refusing a nice cold ice cream sandwich on a hot, humid day. Especially after one has cotton mouth after taking a couple of ridiculously cough-inducing bong hits. Lick samba, lick samba, lick samba, me say lick samba . . .

PERSONAL FAVORITE: Kaya. Should you ever wake up early one fine Sunday morning, have some herbal remedy, relax, and put this disc on. Everyone knows "Sun is Shinning," but the real gems here are "Misty Morning" and "She's Gone." Oh mockingbird have you ever heard words that I never heard . . .

BOB DYLAN
Robert Zimmerman from Duluth. Yes, most folks in the 30 and under set probably don't think they can relate to Mr. Dylan. I felt the same way, until I actually heard some of his earlier stuff. Mind freakin' blowin' in the idiot wind with a leopard-skin pill-box hat! Aside from John Lennon and Bob Marley, quite possibly the greatest singer-songwriter of the 20th century.

PERSONAL FAVORITE: Blood on the Tracks. His most accessible record, never has Dylan blended lyrical imagery with melodic hooks so seamlessly. "Tangled Up in Blue" and "Shelter from the Storm" are highlights. The record could have been autobiographical or rehashed Chekhov short stories or inspired by a Kubla Khandian opium dream. With Dylan, it's always an enigma.

BEETHOVEN
You read about him in high school and watched Immortal, Beloved countless times (although, to digress, Foreman's treatment of Mozart in Amadeus was a far superior film with respect to the Classical Era music composer movie genre). The man was deaf, but still composed music. I refuse to type with a hangnail.

PERSONAL FAVORITE: Piano Sonata No. 8 in C minor, Op. 13, "Pathetique." Yeah, you've heard this one before. This is the one that makes me sob like a little licentious tramp and wonder where my childhood innocence, my dreams, my loves, my faith have all ran off . . .

It's hip to be square.

Blue Whales

Not unlike my fellow six billion brethren, I've always had that singular aspiration. No, my ambitions never ran as high as ruling the world or walking on the moon ("giant steps are what you take . . ."). No, my fellow readers, my aspiration was to write a novel. Dare I say, the great American novel.

After 29 years of godblessed existence, here's what I have so far:

"Diego remembered the day the last of the Blue Whales died. He read about it on page 7 of the New York Times. Apparently, a pack of Orcas had killed it. It was the ocean equivalent of an African elephant being mauled by a pack of wolves. How novel, Diego thought."

Cela est tout. 5 sentences. I have no clue why the protagonist is named Diego given that this is supposed to be the great AMERICAN novel. Also, I thought it rather odd that Blue whales go extinct via the circle of life rather than by a harpooner's hand. Perhaps this illustrates my faith that mankind, despite its current rate of "progress," will not be involved in causing ALL future extinctions and ecological failures.

On a different note: help control the pet population; have your pets spayed or neutered. We miss you, Bob.

"Moonlight spills on comic books . . ."

For my fan boys out there, I posit this query:

The Silver Surfer vs. Superman

Specifications:
1. The Silver Surfer, obviously, is endowed with the full breadth of the Power Cosmic.
2. Superman, indubitably, is under a yellow sun system.

Twists:
1. The Silver Surfer is still trapped within the Earth's environs per Galactus' decree.
2. Superman has, at his disposal, Mjolnir (Thor's magical hammer for the uninitiated) and Capt. America's indestructible shield.

My pick:
Silver Surfer. Assuming it is not the Pre-Crisis, Silver Age Superman who could juggle planets and reignite dead suns with his heat vision, even a fraction of the Power Cosmic would decimate the Man of Steel. Also, even without his cosmic abilities, the Silver Surfer still has comparable power levels with Superman -- i.e. strength, speed, durability, etc.

You speak the truth, you say, but how about Mjolnir and Capt.'s shield? My answer: sadly, Clark relies too much on his brawn and superabilities and, therefore, lacks the requisite warrior/combat skills to adequately utilize, let alone master, those two devastating weapons. Your mileage my vary on this, my fellow fan boy . . .

However, it would be a Pyrrhic victory for good ol' Norrin as a battle of this magnitude would surely lay waste to at least half the planet.

Anyhoo, SHAZAM!!! my fellow fan boys . . . catch you on the other side of the Rock of Eternity.

Addendum:
Bats would kick anyone's ass, if you ask me. He'd find a way to siphon off the Power Cosmic and, using Mjolnir and Capt.'s shield, have the Silver Surfer tasting dirt inside five minutes.

You Are . . .

You are not your insecurities,
You are not your bank account,
You are not your car,
Your are not your words,
You are not your body,
You are not your mind,
You are not your clothes,
You are not someone's bitch,
You are no one's master,
You are not your flat screen,
You are not your Blue Tooth,
You are not your laptop,
You are not your Black Berry,
You are not your breaking heart,
You are not your tears,
You are not mood music,
You are not your iPod,
You are not God's child,
You are not the Devil's cleft foot,
You are not your happiness . . .

You are the universe. Or, rather that part of the universe with the special temporary ability to be self-aware. For some, the self-awareness spans many decades; for others, the self-awareness is abruptly cut short in the womb. However, we are all blessed with it.

That is what you are: a piece of everlasting stardust with the brief ability to think, to know, to dream, to question.

This is the Word according to the Gospel of Goodguyako.
Amen.