Friday, May 29, 2015

Joe Oliver's Master Plan

Remember how I tore a strip off Tom Mulcair for being fake and contrived?

I admit I was being a little harsh. A friend of mine accused me of being an idealist and I agree.

I get why politicians need teleprompters and scripts, to some extent.

Not everyone can say what they believe eloquently. I certainly can't. I need to rehearse or risk putting my foot directly into my mouth.

Believe me, I'm very familiar with the taste of foot.

Here's another reason politicians should use teleprompters: so they don't say the stupidest shit imaginable in front of an international audience.

"Hey, Joe Oliver, you're the finance minister of Canada. Do you know how can we spur economic growth?"

"Dur, yeah, I gots me a few idears. Why don't we loosen them labour laws up and make it easier for employers to lay people off. That'll really get the economy roaring!"


No wonder Canada's international reputation is down the shitter. I mean, look at the yahoos and morons representing us on the world stage!

In any case, Oliver's statement shows just how little he understands basic arithmetic.

Spurring economic growth by relaxing labor laws to make it easier to lay off workers?

Sure!

While we're at it, let's fight obesity by making it easier for gyms to revoke and deny gym memberships to obese people. 

Right?

Why stop there? Let's improve mental health by giving counselors and psychologists the ability to deny mentally ill people the help they need.

Yeah, that'll work!

Thanks Joe Oliver. You're a genius.

Book Reviews a la Meme Merchant



Most bloggers and book critics review works that have been recently published.

I'm like, fuck that. I'll do as I please, thank you very much.

I'll review 2,000 year old books if I feel like it. I'll review the Book of Job. I'll review the Kama Sutra. I'll review anything I've read in my lifetime, from fiction to scripture to psychology and everything in between.

And when I say review, what I actually mean is "comment on." I'm not going to critique here. I'll tell you why I liked it, what I got out of it, and anything else that pops up.

I won't tell you to go out and read this book.

What I will say is, "If you're into X, then this book is for you."

Or, "If you read and enjoyed Y, then this book is for you."

Or, "If you ever wondered why Z? then this book is for you."

After that you can take it or leave it.

Last thing I want to be is a critic.

Critics are trolls with glasses. Critics are people who have nothing to aspire to, no achievements of their own, so they nitpick other people's achievements. Critics build themselves up by knocking other people down.

If I don't like a book, I won't bother writing about it. Hell, I don't even bother finishing it. I read for pleasure and for self-improvement: if a book provides neither, I put it down and never pick it up again.

That simple.

So any book I review on here is, in my opinion, awesome.

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Fights: Arlovsky - Browne

By far the best part of my trip to Vegas was watching UFC 187 live at the MGM Grand.

It was also my first time watching fights in person so I didn't really know what to expect.

I knew I wouldn't get to listen to the commentary. I knew I wouldn't get multiple camera angles.

What I didn't know is that none of that matters when you've got one of the best cards in recent memory taking place right in front of you.

UFC 187 didn't get off to a great start. The prelims were pretty boring, and that's putting it lightly.

Even the first fight of the main card was meh. That being said, it was a lot better than any fight on the prelims so it got my blood pumping.

But then, after the first fight, something magical happened.

Shit got real.

Andrei "the Pitbull" Arlovski, once my favourite fighter in the UFC, rekindled my love for prizefighting.

I admit I was skeptical about Arlovski's return to the UFC. I used to love this guy but then something happened. He started getting KO'd, got a little gun-shy, then made his way through a series of inferior organizations with mixed results.

I'd seen this downward slide enough to know what was happening to him. Once you get put to sleep a few times, you start to lose your ability to take a punch. Pretty soon a hard sneeze is enough to earn you a standing 8 count

While outside of the UFC Arlovski won some and lost some. Clearly he won enough to get himself back to the big league. He even strung together three wins in the UFC, knocking out Bigfoot Silva in the process.

Yet despite his win-streak, I still doubted him. I thought for sure Browne would crack that weak chin of his and put him away. Boy did I get it wrong.


Sweet baby Jesus. Did you watch that? Wow.

If I had watched the fight at home I would've been standing on the couch yelling my face off. How much better was it live? Just imagine 16,000 people roaring in amazement and clapping until their hands went numb.

It was fucking unreal.

Here's what I really liked about Arlovski's performance:
  • He let his hands go. I feel like he became gun-shy for a while there. Well not anymore! He threw some really beautiful combinations, and lots of 'em. 
  • He worked the body diligently. Anyone who knows me knows I fucking love body shots. They're extremely under-utilized in MMA and it makes me sad. After he got hurt, Browne did a good job protecting his head. So Arlovski went downstairs and made him pay. Those were some nasty shots to the ribs!
  • You see when Arlovsky threw a punch that missed and hit him on the way back? What the hell was that? He did it twice and even knocked Browne down with it at one point. 
  • He threw unorthodox combos. At least, unorthodox in MMA. For instance, the combo he used to put Browne away--a right uppercut followed by an overhand right--is extremely uncommon in MMA and hard to land successfully. Anytime you see a fighter double up with the same hand, you know he/she is a skilled boxer.
  • He got his chin back!!! At one point Browne, who's game as fuck and deserves mad props for lasting as long as he did, caught Arlovski with a massive left hook that sent him spinning to the ground. I thought for sure that was it, game over, but I was wrong again. Arlovski came back and finished Browne shortly after.
Is Arlovski back? I don't know, man. I hope so. It's rare to see an aging prizefighter mount a successful comeback. For every Couture, Hopkins, and Lawler there's a dozen Tysons, Alis, and Liddells.

There's nothing worse than watching you favourite fighter get demolished time after time because he doesn't know when to call it quits.

On the flip-side, there's nothing better than watching an old favourite mount a spectacular comeback.

Arlovski says he's hungry. He says he wants the belt.

And after last Saturday I believe him.

Of the three predictions I made regarding UFC 187, this fight is the only one I got wrong. And I'm glad!

If you get a chance to watch this one in its entirety, do so. 

Tuesday, May 26, 2015

Short Story Interlude

So I got back from my first trip to Vegas yesterday. I'm still processing the experience but I'll have lots to write about in the days to come. 

Unfortunately I don't have anything written yet so I thought I'd share a short story I wrote a few years ago.

About this story: 
  • It's 1,414 words long, so longer than my average blog post;
  • It's actually the prelude of a full-length novella I intended to write but never got around to;
  • I originally wrote it to show my friend an example of the voice or style I thought she should use to write her own story; and
  • It's filthy and dirty. If you're offended by anal sex, for example, don't read this.
If I had to sum this story up I would say it's like a harlequin written by Chuck Palahniuk. Enjoy!




The hotel room is small and cramped and smells faintly of mould and cigarettes. Tucked away in the nowhere states of Idaho or Wyoming, it's exactly the sort of place I would expect Karl to pick for a secret rendezvous. 

He jumps to his feet the moment I open the door. His eyes are bright with relief, with a smouldering kind of pleasure.

Karl doesn’t have the capacity for love so I guess this is the next best thing.

He takes my breath away just for a minute: six-foot-something, blonde, with eyes too blue to be real and the jaw-line of a fifties  movie star. His arms are sculpted and his neck and shoulders stretch his t-shirt taunt, the result of military service and a failed career in cage-fighting.

Not failed, sorry. That would imply past success.

Not career, either. That would imply making money.

He looks at me standing in the doorway framed by the dull glare of the dusty mid-western sun, and he says, “I knew you’d come.”

I drop my bag by the door and squint at the darkness inside the room. The curtains are drawn and the air conditioning is blasting. It’s like a frozen tomb in there. A quick scan reveals a half-empty bottle of Jack and an ash-tray crammed full of scrunched-up little filters.

Karl, staring at me with a puppy’s devotion, he says, “I knew I could talk sense into that thick fucking skull of yours.”

If by talk sense he means “blackmail,” then yes. The way he says “thick fucking skull” with fondness in his voice, it makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. 

He’s gorgeous but not much in the way of coherent thoughts. He’s like those hot guys on the cover of all those shitty paperback harlequins you see at the pharmacy.

No substance. Just a pretty face.

“Well? What the fuck are you waiting for? Get in here.” The love in his eyes hardens into something else—impatience, the seed of anger. I take two steps into the room and close the door behind me. 

I can feel the grit and filth of the carpet through my shoes.

He embraces me in his big muscular arms and presses my face into his damp t-shirt. Aqua Digio overlaps the thin, sour smell of perspiration. Just sitting there, pressed up against the hard musculature of his body, I start to get a little wet. 

I won’t lie. He’s a caveman, crude, bad-tempered, jealous, a complete and utter failure in almost every sense of the word. He's good at two things: the first is how we met in the first place. The second is the reason I stuck it out with him for six months, flew him out to meet me, took him shopping, and bought him $100 steak dinners.

He isn’t gentle when he shoves me onto the bed, nor do I want him to be. The sheets don’t smell altogether clean but I don’t care anymore. By the time he tears my pants off I’m panting and moaning. 

“You don’t know how badly I been wanting to do this,” he groans into my ear, and me, I turn my head just a little bit and I tell him to stick it in my ass, to pound my ass so fucking hard.

“You bet your bottom dollar I will,” he says in his Nebraskan accent.

So unlike my husband, in every way.

It’s this exact thought that brings me back to reality. Not the reality of this shitty hotel room. Not the reality of this moronic redneck thrusting up against me, making this meaty slap-slap sound.

It’s the reality of my life. Of what I’ve done, what I’m doing, and what I’m about to do. The Holy Trinity of my fucked up life.

I decide I’m going to enjoy my last time with Karl. The certain knowledge that it's nearly over helps me to enjoy the sex a little more than I normally might. 

Don’t get me wrong, this sort of thing is a real treat. My husband, God bless him, he’s a much more reserved kind of man. A gentleman, loving, caring, sensitive, smart. 

Mention anal-beads and he laughs. Mention fisting or felching, golden-showers or role-playin1g, anything that isn’t good old fashion missionary, and he thinks you’re kidding. The whips and leather, the rough stuff, autoerotic asphyxiation, all of that belongs to a shady subculture my husband wants nothing to do with.

My husband, God bless him, he needs to brush his teeth and shower before we engage in any sexual activities. Doesn’t want me to taste his coffee breath or, heaven forbid, swallow a stray pubic hair while giving him a blowjob.

Karl makes me feel like a real woman. And by that, I mean like a real slut.

“Oh my fuck, I'm gonna cum so hard in your ass. Oh fuck—“ Karl is going harder, faster, and he smacks my ass so hard I swear everyone in this nameless little mid-western shithole hears it. He yanks my hair and I clench up in pain, in pleasure, and that’s all it takes to push him over the edge. 

I feel him tense and spasm and he howls like a mongrel dog at my back.

And then it’s over. Just like that.

If only my husband could see me now.

Karl gets off and burps loudly. “Fuck. I’m gonna hit the shower baby.”

I’m still laying there on the dirty mattress, wondering how many women have been sodomized on this exact spot. I wonder, half in a daze, my ass aching, how did I get here?

I grab my bag and pull out a bottle of wine. The shower’s on and I can hear Karl humming happily to himself. There’s no table in the room so I put the bottle down on top of the big TV set, pull out two plastic cups, and set them down.

I find Karl's gym bag and rummage through it. It doesn't take me long to find the compromising photos. 

When he comes out of the shower I’m sitting on the ratty love seat by the window, plastic cup in one hand, yellow envelope in the other. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, looking at the envelope. “Don’t get any crazy ideas. I made copies of those pictures.” He taps his temple with a forefinger to indicate the cunning of his plan.

I ask him if he really loves me. I mean, he must to go through all this trouble, to plan out this entire scheme, to threaten to destroy my already crumbling marriage. 

He thinks we can be together forever. In that fucked up mind of his he think he can blackmail me into spending the rest of my life with him.

“Are you dumb? Of course I fucking love you. Why do you think I’m doing all of this? You’re not smart enough to know what you want, what’s good for you. That’s why you need me.”

Me, with my masters degree and my 100k-a-year career, I’m too stupid to know what I want. 

It’s the most astute observation Karl has made during our time together. “Come sit with me,” I say. “Let’s toast.” 

I motion to the plastic cup sitting on the TV.

“To our life together,” he toasts. The beautiful moron. He chuckles and tosses back the wine in one swallow. Just like that.

More like our last time together, I tell him.

The mean look in his eyes stirs up all the emotions I've been feeling of late. I wouldn’t say I hate myself for doing all of this, for falling into this bizarre downward spiral that seems to never end. I could never hate myself.

But I can hate the things I’ve done.

Karl, his face is already turning red, and the look of anger is gradually transforming before my eyes. I watch in wonder and read the thoughts as they scroll across his ruggedly handsome features. First is confusion, the furrowing of his brow; then, suspicion followed by the bright light of realization. 

“No. Fucking. Way,” he croaks. He can’t believe it. He tries to lunge for me but his muscles, his perfectly sculpted muscles, they seize up from lack of oxygen. 

His throat is swelling shut. He stumbles, collapses, lets out an anguished cry, but it's a whisper compared to the sounds of our fucking just a few minutes ago.

I stay sitting on the couch and watch his eyes bulge grotesquely. His body twitches and shivers. 

I watch him die. And the last thing that skitters across my mind before he stops thrashing is, how did this start?

And, did I love you?

Thursday, May 21, 2015

Insatiable

I live my life in a constant state of tension.

I feel it from the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep. And on those rare occasions when I dream, it follows me there too.

It's this voice, sometimes whispering, sometimes shouting: "WRITE."

I spent years ignoring it or placating it with excuses. "I can't write now," I'd say in a whiny voice. "I need to relax. I had a long day. My head's not in it. I need to be inspired."

All bullshit excuses. 

Now though I'm coming to realize something disturbing. 

The more I write, the louder the voice gets.

The more I produce, the greater the tension.

I thought for sure that starting up the blog again would satisfy the voice but I'll be damned if it isn't getting more demanding.

That little voice, it's insatiable.

Every little scrap of spare-time I get, I'm looking around like a junkie for my next fix.

Coffee break? Got my laptop with me?

Time to pound out a couple paragraphs.

Wife's busy? Kids are playing?

I'll just edit this little bit here. Won't take me long! I swear.

If I'm not getting my fix I'm itching to do so. I'm composing in my head. I'm trying out new lines. I'm thinking how I can organize the chapters, how I can convey the message.

If you see me looking off into the distance, totally absorbed in my own thoughts, now you know what  I'm doing.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

TM4PM?

A friend of mine invited me to go watch Tom Mulcair speak last Thursday. Having never attended such an event before I decided I'd give it a shot and see once and for all what this orange Kool-Aid tastes like.

Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sad to report that the NDP Kool-Aid tastes an awful lot like all the other sugary soft-drinks out there.

Let me preface this by saying I dislike all four major political parties, though not equally. The Northern Republicans are clearly the worst but I don't see any other party doing great. There are flashes of competence here and there but far too few in my estimation.

When you can count the number of good MP's in the house of commons on two hands, you know things are bleak.

That's why the upcoming election isn't about picking the best: it's about not picking the worst.

Thankfully I think most of us know who that is.


As we were walking out of the rally I told my friend: "We've given the Liberals and Conservatives numerous opportunities to lie, cheat, and steal from us: now it's time we give the NDP a chance to do the same."

In this vein I'll gladly root for Tom and the NDP.

If that sounds cynical, I apologize. Note that I didn't say whether they will lie, cheat, and steal, only that they deserve a chance to be in a position to do so.

I just can't bring myself to trust a party or candidate on words alone since, as we know, there is no incentive or mechanism in place to ensure they make good on their promises. 

They can literally say whatever they think Canadians want to hear in order to solicit that sweet, sweet vote.

And that's precisely what Tommy did here last Thursday.

Reading his speech off three large teleprompters set up behind the audience, he delivered his empty rhetoric like a good little marionette. With artificial smile in tow he followed the script with the expertise of a trained actor.

...
Who knows? Maybe that was the real Mulcair up there. Maybe he always has speaking notes and teleprompters around so he knows how to say what he means in just the right way.

"Hey honey, are you ready for bed?"

"You know what I'm ready for, honey? I'M READY TO BRING HOPE AND OPTIMISM TO CANADIAN POLITICS! I'M READY TO REPEAL C51! I'M READY TO GIVE YOU CHEAP DAYCARE AND A $15 MINIMUM WAGE! ARE YOU WITH ME? (look at audience)."

The entire event felt so artificial, so disingenuous, so contrived! Afterward my friend looked very concerned. "You seemed like you wanted out of there badly," he said.

Badly doesn't begin to describe it. 

More than anything I wanted to have a shower.

The orange signs, cues to applause, scripted speeches, and feverish zeal made me feel dirty. 

Why can't we have real, authentic people in charge? Why do they have to pander to the crowd? Why do they need speaking points? Don't they know what they stand for? What they'll do once in power? 

Clearly I expect too much from these politicians. I guess I just think we deserve better. No, I believe we can do better.

In any case this doesn't change anything. I still hope the NDP wins, if only so we can say we gave them a shot. 

One last observation. 

Speaking before the main event, MP Randall Garrison had the audacity to say that Mulcair was the first leader to stand up to uncle Steve and oppose C51.

That's rich!

Elizabeth May was in fact the first to publicly oppose C51 with Mulcair coming in a very distant second, but who cares about verifiable facts? It's all about one-upmanship and the art of spin. It's not about what happened but what you can convince the public happened. 

Is it just me or does it seem like the NDP is taking a page out of the Northern Republican playbook here? 

Monday, May 18, 2015

Ode to El Gingeroso

When I was in grade three I got into a fight with a ginger.

Before you ask, the answer is yes, I managed to hang on to my soul.
 

My memory of the event is probably more like a memory of a memory of a memory by now, rewritten and edited over years of watching boxing and MMA fights. Even so, I'll try to reenact it for you.

It's recess. I'm standing outside arguing with this freckled kid from another class. A third kid stands between us: he's friends with both of us and trying to keep the peace.

He fails, miserably.

So he becomes the referee.

The ginger and I start exchanging blistering combinations and slick counters, leg kicks and thai elbows and spinning back-fists.

At least, that's how I choose to remember it.

Then my opponent shoots for a takedown, puts me on my back, and starts raining down punishment.

I tap.

Our friend the referee pulls my opponent off me. I'm laying there, feeling a little dizzy, when a big freckled hand materializes in front of me.

I take it. My opponent helps me to my feet. I tell him, "Good fight."

He says, "Yeah, you too."

We shake hands and start playing freeze-tag like nothing even happened.

These were simpler times!

Fast forward 24 years and this kid and I are still friends. More than that, he's the brother I never had.

Little brother, of course, because I'm five days his elder.

I've had the pleasure and privilege of growing up with this exceptional human being. I had the honour of being the best man at his wedding. And now I get to watch his beautiful little daughter grow up right alongside my kids.

That beating I took in grade three? Worth every second.


He goes by many names.

Dukie.

El Gingeroso.

The River Shitter.

What you call him matters not.

It's what he is that matters.


Loyal. Reliable. High-larious.

You want to know about Rocky?

He's your guy.

You want a fish caught? 

He's your guy.

You want your favourite song

butchered out of tune;

your worst mood turned to laughter;

a drink spilled on your carpet?

He's your guy.


He's not so much a man as he is

a force of nature,

a storm of laughter and love

and powerful lips.


Tomatoes, squash, pumpkins:

his kryptonite.

Fishing, football, and caffeine:

his elixirs.


To observe El Gingerso 

is to study the blueprint

of manhood. Behold!

He is all man:

father, husband, brother,

son and friend ever-present;

 a staunch competitor

who puts health and wellbeing 

second to victory;

a bard with humorous tales;

he's all these things 

and more.


32 years ago today

he charged out of the womb

into the light of day,

tackled a nurse, 

and, seeing his handiwork, 

threw a celebratory kick.

It was a glorious day

worthy of celebration.


Happy birthday, brother.

Saturday, May 16, 2015

Main Ingredient



I spotted this picture at my colleague's desk and immediately fell in love with it. 

That little wide-eyed dog is my new mascot. He embodies the very quality I value most: equanimity. 

So I decided to tweak it a bit and make a handy reminder for my friends who struggle with stress:



Equanimity is a state of composure and balance that is unaffected by outward circumstances. It allows you to keep an even keel even (especially) when shit hits the fan and it's an extremely helpful quality to cultivate in oneself.

Imagine if you could stay perfectly calm in the face of complete pandemonium. 

Imagine if you could smile in the face of insults.

Imagine if you could be completely relaxed in the most stressful situations.

Imagine if you could sit at your dinner table sipping coffee with a smile saying "This is Fine" while your house burns down around you.

Okay, maybe that last one is a little extreme. 

Equanimity is especially important if you're trying to stop giving unnecessary fucks in life. In fact, it's the main ingredient in the HNTGAF recipe. 

If you can't remain calm and level-headed in the face of adversity, chaos, disrespect, incompetence, and all the other bullshit you have to deal with on a daily basis you wave your right to give zero fucks.

Getting discouraged, overwhelmed, insulted, and cynical are all fantastic examples of giving unnecessary fucks. They're signs that you're attaching importance to things that should be indifferent to you. You can't control what life throws at you! 

Next time life throws you a curveball and you feel as if you're about to invest a few fucks, just remember the little wide-eyed dog and repeat his mantra: "This is fine!" 

Friday, May 15, 2015

Citizen's Arrest

I demand that Elizabeth May, leader of the Green Party of Canada, be arrested immediately. She is a threat to the safety and integrity of our beautiful nation and I won't sleep until she's behind bars.

Haven't you heard? She was dropping some serious bombs the other night. Pretty sure that's illegal under our spiffy new Anti-Terror legislation. 

I've heard people say she should resign but that's not going far enough. She's dangerous, man.

Forgot ISIL: this is the new face of terror in Canada.
How dare she deliver an awkward speech? 

How dare she say "FUCK" in public? That's a special word! It should be whispered only, never spoken. What kind of animal is she?

How dare she say that Omar Khadr, a war-criminal, has more class than the whole fuckin' cabinet? I mean it's true, but still! How dare she?

Oh dear, I said the special word, didn't I? I guess they better lock me up too.

Seriously though. The press makes me sick. 

Did you know there's a guy who's dropping real bombs on Syria right now? Did you know he's violating international law by doing it? Did you know he also happens to run our country?

Oh, but let's not think about that or the 100 other nefarious things Uncle Steve is doing as we speak. Let's focus on Elizabeth May. As if she isn't embarrassed enough already!

Look at this lady trying to pull her off stage. lol
Believe it or not my respect for May has actually increased since the gaffe. 

See I like when people, especially famous people or people in positions of authority, are authentic. And boy was May authentic! I wish she'd ramble like that in the House of Commons from time to time. I wish she'd drop a few f-bombs when she's being heckled by the classless shills in the Northern Republican Party.

Dishonesty, double-speak, and spin are par for the course in Canadian politics so pardon me for appreciating an honest moment. 

Truth be told, Liz was too apologetic about her little blooper. If I was in her position I would've given one interview and one only. And during this interview I would've blasted the media for focusing on such a silly event when things that actually matter are happening, not only here in Canada but across the world as a whole.

If you want to write about bad jokes, go report at a stand-up comedy club, fucktard. Meanwhile, report real news. 

And as for those calling for May's resignation, I can only imagine the world these people live in. I imagine it resembles a carnival fun house on acid. 

Resign? For telling a bad joke? 

Stupidity of this magnitude is truly staggering. I mean, it's not like May shouted FHRITP into the mic.

"Whaddya mean, I'm fired?" 
Let me sum up my thoughts on the matter.

I'd rather have a politician who drops f-bombs than one who drops real ones and I'd rather have a politician who tells bad jokes than one who tells good lies. I'd rather have a politician who makes honest mistakes and owns up to them than one who makes mistakes on purpose and tries to say they're good legislation.

If you're out there and you're listening, I have a message for you Liz: hater's gon' hate hate hate hate hate. Just shake it off, sister. The way they jumped all over you for such a little blooper shows how scared they are of you.

You must be doing something right. Carry on!

Thursday, May 14, 2015

Best Birthday Gift

My birthday was yesterday.

I'm not a big fan of this day but just like Christmas I think I'm starting to come around.

I still don't want cards, presents, or songs. I still don't like being singled out. I don't want people making a big deal about it because I still believe that every day is special, that birthdays are arbitrary, and that material gifts are a waste of time and money.

But my friends, God bless 'em, they know me better than I know myself. The way they went about it, the way they recognized my birthday in their own unique ways without making a big deal about it, was perfect!

And it got me to thinking: I am truly blessed to have such kind, thoughtful, and hilarious companions on this crazy journey called life.

Whether at work, on Facebook, or in my private life, I'm surrounded by amazing human beings. You guys and gals make waking up in the morning a treat and you made my birthday, a day I usually wish everyone (myself included) would forget, amazing.

So much so that I woke up this morning wishing it was my birthday again. Pretty sure that's never happened before. So thanks to everyone for your kind words, jokes, and undercover treats.

Ironically the best gift I received yesterday was from my parents. I say ironically because as Jehovah's Witnesses they don't celebrate birthdays, but then their gift was unintentional. In fact, it wasn't meant to be a gift at all but in a very twisted way it was the best compliment they could possibly pay me.



Here's how it went down.

They dropped by unexpectedly around dinner time and we hung out for a while, moving to the living room after dinner where conversation ensued.

Now anyone who knows me will tell you that my two favorite topics of discussion are, unequivocally, politics and religion.

Usually I avoid these topics with my parents (for obvious reasons) but yesterday something changed. Maybe subconsciously I decided to treat myself to a little birthday debate. Either way the conversation turned to the topic of homosexuality and it just progressed from there.

I wont bore you with the details. Instead I'll skip to the compliment.

At one point my mother asks me if I would study the Bible with a JW. Now I've studied a number of times before and learned a ton, but nothing to sway my beliefs in any way. So I make her an offer. I say, "I'll study your stuff if you study mine." I figure it's only fair: I'm extremely familiar with their beliefs but they know nothing about mine!

And that's when it happens: the best compliment they've paid me in recent memory.

It's my dad who blurts it out. When I make my offer his eyes light up, first with fear, then with realization. "Satan," he says in all seriousness, "is using you to test our faith."

Both of my parents sincerely believe that. by trying to get them to explore my beliefs, I am doing the work of Satan himself!

Amazing.

Satan, in my opinion, is the most compelling character in the Bible so it's a huge compliment to be associated with him.

His story-arch is fascinating.

First he helps Adam and Eve awaken from their state of ignorance, dragging them out of the perpetual Now of the animal world into the duality of good and evil, past and future, life and death, etc. Pretty awesome!

Next he plays the part of God's gambling buddy, placing bets on how poor Job's faith will hold up when they subject him to various tragedies and misfortunes.

Then, for the final act, he assumes the familiar role of scapegoat/big baddie. I suppose God was like "Well the Zoroastrians have their lord of Darkness. Think maybe you could fill that slot, Satan?" And Satan, being the champ that he is, was like "Yeah dude, of course!" Next thing you know he's testing Christ in the wilderness and stirring shit up here on earth.

Stay back, Oscar! 

Satan is the pivotal antagonist. Without him there is no Bible.

I'm sure my parents see him differently but that's besides the point. In their own misguided and roundabout way they gave me the best birthday gift possible.

When I asked how sharing my beliefs with them had anything to do with Satan, my dad delivered the perfect response. "Satan," he said, "wants us to question ourselves and our beliefs. He wants us to doubt and search for answers outside of the Bible."

And that's where my parents and I differ.

I believe true wisdom begins with doubt, open-minded exploration, and the knowledge that one knows nothing for certain; they believe true wisdom exists strictly within the pages of a single book. I believe Truth must be tested in order to verify its authenticity; they believe it should be coddled and hidden away, never compared or contrasted to potential alternatives.

Doubt is healthy. Questioning one's deeply held and cherished beliefs is a sign, not of weakness, but humility.

Mark Twain put it nicely: "It is impossible for a man to learn what he thinks he already knows."

That's the pitfall of arrogance and blind faith.

In my experience, the moment you think you have all the answers is the moment you should go back to square one and start over because you clearly didn't learn anything.

Wednesday, May 13, 2015

A Subtle Art



Not giving a fuck is a subtle art. Very few people can do it, let alone do it right.

You can't just go around not giving a fuck about anything.

That's how the amateur does it. 

The professional knows not only when but also how to give zero fucks. What I'm saying is, the professional doesn't sweat the bullshit: he only invests his fucks into things that actually matter.

Problem is, most people don't know what matters so they waste all their fucks on irrelevant and unimportant nonsense.

Some individuals think not giving a fuck is about being an insensitive ass-hat who goes around shooting people point-blank with unrefined opinions and bare-faced insults. This is the amateur turned troll. Telltale signs include lack of tact, grace, and respect.

Others think it means being sloppy, as in not giving a fuck about your work, integrity, or duties. This is the amateur turned careless slob. Telltale signs include selfishness, inconsistency, and unreliability.

You want to know where to invest your fucks? Here's what you do.

Gather up all the stuff in your life, all the problems, situations, circumstances, events, concerns and so on, and sort them into two piles: one for the stuff you can control, the other for stuff beyond your control.

The stuff you have control over is the stuff you should invest all your fucks into. It's the only time giving a fuck pays dividend!

As for the other pile, slave-turned-philosopher Epictetus would advise you to look at it and say to yourself, "This is nothing to me."

Which is just an old-timey way of saying, "Give zero fucks about this."

The only way to be happy is to stop giving a fuck about anything outside your control...

Easier said than done? You bet. You know what else is easier said than done? Bench-pressing three plates, running an ultra-marathon, swimming across the Atlantic, and just about anything you haven't trained yourself to do.

In other words, not giving a fuck requires extensive practice. And even then, you'll find yourself giving fucks when you shouldn't. It's okay! Just keep training, day in, day out. Eventually you'll wonder how you had so many fucks to give.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Labor

Anyone familiar with Homer's Iliad or Odyssey will recognize some of the characters here. This poem is written from the point of view of Ulysses as he builds his (in)famous Trojan horse.

The last line is particularly cruel considering the return voyage takes Ulysses another ten years. lol

Labor

Much heated discussion is had on the matter,
a rare occasion indeed 
for men of action such as these. 
And I remain silent throughout, 
which is rarer still.

The idea is mine, I confess, a  daring tactic
more cunning than valorous,
but I won't argue its merits.
I shall let it speak for itself and hope
that homesickness vanquish this stubborn pride,
the warrior ethos.

They wrinkle noses in disdain upon hearing my scheme
but withhold judgment. A decade of war
has tempered anger and sated blood-thirst. 
King Agamemnon puts the matter to vote:
All but one grunts Ay in favor.

My heart exults! How desperately I yearn
to lay eyes on beloved wife and son.
How I yearn to embrace them once more!
How I burn to put the shores of Illium at my back
and walk upon the sands of Ithaca again.

My coming here
was a matter not of politics, but of piety.
I came avenging the gods and enforcing their law,
for every man knows that to covet
his neighbor's wife is sin, and if he
must covet then he must not lay hands upon her;
and if lays hands, he had best prepare
to meet his neighbor on the battlefield.




Thus did we come, my brothers and I, 
to avenge this affront and reclaim what was taken.

With Agamemnon's approval the work begins.
I journey to the woods myself,
a hundred leagues in enemy country,
so that I may select the beams with my own hand.
Like a high-priest scouring the herd for a choice sacrifice
I examine towering sentinels swaying silently, 
wind-breath rustling their leaves.

Breathing the forest deep into my lungs, I search.
In the choosing I see not the tree 
but the beam encased within its trunk;
and the beam is no beam 
but the spine of this magnificent beast
upon whose back I ride homeward.

In that moment spears of light pierce
the forest cloak; a kaleidoscope
whirls and dances upon my face.
The wood is transfigured. 
No mere clearing but a temple now.
In that moment past and future come 'round
forming an unbroken ring and 
all stands in perfect stillness.
Ah, the Truth fills me! I see neither home nor war
nor wife nor king: all is God manifest!

Achilles bristles at the delay.
This temple of mine is but a clearing in his eyes,
the trees kindling. Where is the twine, he growls,
that we may string this wooden horse together
and slay the Trojans once and for all?

Brave son of Thetis, half-god and full-fool!
If the inferno roaring in his breast
burned behind the eyes how much more 
the Trojans would fear him!
Alas, Achilles has glimpsed his own death
and rushes to it heedless, eager to find Patroclus
on the fields of Elisium. 
I pay him no heed. 

For a decade we have labored
to coax the doors of Troy open.
We employed spears and arrows, threats and chariots
and still the gate is shut.
The way of the warrior for ten years has failed:
now we follow the trickster's path.

The saw is foreign in my hand.
My soul cries, Where is the spear?
What device do you place in my grip?
The hand pays no mind. With every stroke and every swing
it stirs, awakening from the slumber of war
'till the soul falls silent. 

My brothers, valorous fools, see only logs.

I see Ithaca. I see Penelope and Telemachus.
I see mother and father.
I see brothers felled by Trojan spears
and brothers not yet lost,
not in Hades nor in Elysium 
but surrounding me in the wood.
All forms rise up from God as if from sea-foam
and recede quickly beneath the waves, 
giving way to more dancing shapes.

I see the Horse.




Every nail, every stroke, every shave:
I am each one, immersed in the moment
and lost in the memory of love and passion.
I'm no longer here at all.
I step away from myself and watch as legs meet spine,
as ribs bloom, forming flanks left and right.
The spine elongates and stoops,
grows mane and muzzle both.

Hours, days, weeks: I know not how many pass.
The horse rises from the dust of the earth
as if assembled by an unseen carpenter.
And it is so! 
This flesh, these hands, they are the chariot:
where is the rider?

Undetectable. Unknowable.
The Master Worker
conjured our Horse from gray ether:
Not I!
Is this the presence I felt
in the dappled wood?

The Horse stands before me, hollow belly
lined with benches.
Dawn breaks the sea's polished mirror.
Raise anchor, brothers! Agamemnon bellows.
This evening we take Troy at last!

The labor dwells in me now. I ache from it. 
Sawdust coats my skin. 
Calloused hands and splinters, 
these are my offering to the Master Worker.
I infused the horse with a part of me 
never to be reclaimed. This is my offering to God,
my labor, my sacrifice: I pray
that he send me swiftly home.

Sunday, May 10, 2015

How?


If writing genres were utensils, prose would be a fork. When your topic is meaty and substantial, prose is the logical choice. You can really stick your fork into it!

When your topic is soup, you'd be silly to use a fork.

I recently learned that poetry makes a fantastic spoon. Gibran and Rumi taught me that!

Here's some soup I made a while back. Lemme know how it tastes.


How?

How can the time-bound know Eternity?
How can matter grasp spirit? 
This meat-vehicle restricts you 
Like shackles upon the soul.

Part of you
Resides beyond time’s grasp, 
A seed, a watchful presence, 
A knowing light
Glowing dimly within.

This light
Is your share of the  divine;
Give it a name and pray to it, 
For verily this presence is Truth,
And it shall set you free.

Yet even the word “Truth” deceives.
Like a mask upon the Beloved's face
The word masks the meaning. 

How can symbols and utterances capture the Ultimate? 
These words are cages:
Fling them open; let the birds out
And watch them wheel across the sky
In widening circles, ever outward, 
Filling the world with song.

Truth unmasked is easily found:
It reveals itself 
In all places and things.

Flock of birds, you, Truth, God:
One and the same and at the same time 
Neither and nothing. 
How is that possible? You ask.
How is anything possible? I reply. 
But what am I saying? Here I urge you,
“Free the birds!” while I spend my days
Building birdcages. 

Truth isn't revealed
'Till it's disrobed. 
You would disrobe Truth?
Disrobe yourself first. 
Remove your masks. Strip to the flesh.
Scrape away old paint and varnish.
Dig through dirt and gravel
'Till you hit bedrock. 
Here's the Ground! Here's the Truth! 
Here's You and I, All and Nothing!

The watchful presence rises from here, 
Roots sunk deep into the Source. 
Don't stifle the sapling: 
Give it room to grow; 
Quench its thirst
With water from the Four Rivers; 
Become the good gardner: 
Uproot brambles and dandelions. 
'Till the sapling bears fruit. 

How? you ask, 
But I’ve run out of birdcages.
Seek your answer among the birds.

Saturday, May 9, 2015

Fight of the Century

A week ago today Floyd Mayweather Jr. and Manny Pacquiao engaged in fisticuffs for obscene amounts of money. It was little more than a sparring session but someone (the promoter, I suspect) had the audacity to bill it the "Fight of the Century."

Look at these guys: do they look like they just had a Fight of the Century?

"Thanks for the payday, champ..."
You may not know this about me but, I love combat sports. To me, there is no truer competition. Most of my buddies watch hockey and football but not me: I don't have time for that bullshit. Too many rules, too many props.

A ball? A net? Pads and helmets? Fuck off. You want to know who the real winner is? Just drop everything and throw hands. That's what it all boils down to anyway.

Boxing's my first love. As a young teen with anger issues I was looking for a sport that would let me blow off steam. I told my dad I wanted to play football. He asked why. I told him "So I can smash people and put them in the hospital."

What a little psycho I was!

So my dad goes, "Um, I dunno about football but have you ever considered boxing?"

I was skeptical so my dad invited me into the living room and popped an old cassette tape into the VCR (that's how people used to watch movies before Blu Ray, kids). This is what I beheld:



Thus began my love affair with the sweet science.

If you got roped into watching Mayweather and Pacquio play Patty Cake for 12 rounds, do yourself a favor and watch the video above. It's 8 minutes long and considered one of the greatest fights of all time, not by its promoter but by the fans.

Promoters had more sense in the 80's. Instead of coddling their boxers in an attempt to preserve perfect records, they tried very hard to get the best fighters to fight each other. And when you do that, there's no need to hype fights up with grandiose declarations. The fight sells itself!

Case in point: the Hagler-Hearns fight was simply billed as "THE WAR," and holy fuck did it live up to the name.

When a man goes into the ring, he goes to war...

Hagler vs. Hearns is probably my favorite fight. It's 3 rounds of non-stop back-and-forth action that ends the way every good fight should: by knock out.

Since that fateful encounter with boxing's golden age, I've had the privilege of watching some truly spectacular bouts. I witnessed Arturo Gatti and Micky Ward dig deep for 10 brutal rounds; Morales and Barrera throw over a thousand punches (1,468 to be exact) at each other over 12; and the late Diego Corales (RIP) mount an unbelievable come-from-behind (get your mind out of the gutter, dude) knockout against Jose Luis Castillo.



CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT? My lord.

Fast forward to May 2nd, 2015 and the so-called Fight of the Century. If Mayweather and Pacquiao had displayed a tenth of Corales' heart we might've had a fight of the year on our hands.

Hell, if Mayweather had shown a tenth the aggression he himself displayed as a younger man when he knocked Corales he might have made some new fans.

Alas, it wasn't so.

The Mayweather on display May 2nd is one I've become uncomfortably familiar with. Economical, tactical, and precise, he made Pacquiao look like his older old self: one-dimensional, simplistic, and crude. Mayweather's lead and counter rights were on point, as befits an orthodox fighter boxing a leftie, but nothing Money threw seemed to bother Pacquiao a whole lot.

Pacquiao, on the other hand, looked nothing like the guy who tore through Morales (third fight), De La Hoya, and Cotto to name a few. There was no spring in his step, no angles in his approach. He just plodded down the pipe flat-footed, right into Mayweather's impregnable Philly shell defense.

Good luck with that!

For me, May 2nd commemorates boxing's rapid descent toward rock bottom. It was the first boxing match I watched in months (maybe over a year) and it might very well be my last.

Unless of course Mayweather fights GGG next. One can hope.