Fear And Loathing In The Land Of Entrapment

As I lay here, 3,000 plus miles away, my home town is being torn apart by fear, ignorance, and a lust for revenge. I’m watching newscasts that look more like Tel Aviv than The Land Of Enchantment. There is hate being spewed at both ends. Those that are supposed to protect us are running loose, an antithesis of “To Serve And Protect.” There are people being tear gassed in the street. There are casualties on both sides. And for what?

I understand that policemen need to protect themselves in the process of protecting us. That being said, I don’t believe that quasi-military police officers should be able to shoot a homeless man in the back because he is an “eminent threat.” I’m not absolutely sure about this, but last time I checked, homeless campers don’t tend to wield firearms at police officers. They tend to pack up and leave. What was different here? What went so tragically wrong that now we’re warring on the streets of Albuquerque, like packs of wild dogs being chased by ranchers with blood lust and tear gas?

I remember the first protest I participated in when we first began “The War On Terror.” I remember the policemen lining the streets in riot gear and standing in stoic silence, so perfectly still you’d think it was card board cutout, placed there as a scarecrow of sorts to keep the masses in fear. And for that first day, that’s all there was. We stood eye to eye, chanted slogans, held signs, and, in a semi-organized fashion, made our voices heard. I was proud of both sides that day. It was the closest thing to civil discourse between the two sides I’ve seen, and I fear will never see again. And not a week later, the dynamic had changed on both sides. You could see the foam on the edges of the mouths of everyone. And then the tear gas and rubber bullets came into play, and that brief few days of relative peace were gone forever. I don’t know who through the first punch, but as in all fights, your sense of restraint becomes a distant second to the natural instinct to fight like a crazed animal after you've been hit, and then our reptilian brains kick in and the only objective is to win at all costs. And then we all lose.

I don’t know what I’m trying to say with this rambling diatribe. Maybe this is just my way of processing injustice met with disorganized hooliganism. The only thing I know for sure is that, from a distance, this bit of social disruption is becoming so commonplace throughout the world, I fear we won’t survive long enough for the dust to settle, for the wounds to heal, and have what little humanity we have left take its course bring us back to some kind of common ground, where we won’t have to live in fear of our fellow inhabitants on this organic spaceship, hurling through the cosmos on its trip toward oblivion.

    

     

Super Adventure Girl stopped by today, and we discussed some VERY important world problems.

Some days, you just have to kick back with a friend and eat gummy things, spin some yarns, and simply enjoy the company of a like-minded human. I cherish these days. 

LP, you rule for stopping by today. And I'm super excited to see my hands free beer cozy! 

Square Pegs And Round Holes

This is a picture of Clare's head. I got Clare at a not-to-be-named chain music store right by Fenway Park in Boston, Massachusetts about a month ago. She is the first guitar I've ever owned that I feel like I have a real relationship with. I've been playing guitar off and on since I was 12, and I've always known that I will never be famous musician. This fact used to bother me to the point that I quit playing entirely for years solely because I knew I would never be the next ground-breaking guitarist, touring the world with my band, being chased everywhere I went by adoring fans and doing interviews with Rolling Stone about my troubled personal life. You know, the whole rock star thing. And because of this, I would critique every single note I ever played to the point that I stopped seeing why I picked up the guitar in the first place, all those years ago. I just didn't see the point in putting effort into something that wouldn't ever get me anywhere.

About six years ago or so, which happened to be about four years after I broke my back, I bought a guitar again. For those four years since I had broken my back, I had been searching for something to make me complete again. A friend of mine at the time had an old acoustic guitar that he played a fair amount, and it sparked the need in me to create music again. I ended up with a thin bodied acoustic electric that seemed to suit my style and musical influences at the time. After I started playing again, I immediately began to have dreams of getting a band together and becoming some kind of musical, I don't know, guru or something? Anyway, I threw myself back into music with pipe dreams of fame, or at least recognition, and played loud and hard and fast for a few months, the whole time telling myself that this guitar was going to fill the piece of the puzzle I had lost when I stopped being able to walk. The music had nothing to do with music and everything to do with making me whole again, in my eyes and everyone else's. Needless to say, that didn't last, and I put away that guitar for a couple of years while I searched for the miracle cure that I knew was right around the corner and would fix all of these demons and dark feelings that had taken up residence in my heart. 

A few years ago, while I was moving into a new house, I pulled my guitar out and started to play a little. Not too much, just when the mood struck me. I even took a couple of lessons from a friend of mine who is a guitar god, and learned some basic scales and such. But I never took it seriously. It was a hobby, a thing to do when I had a few extra minutes. A year later, I was still at it, playing some riffs I made up when I felt like it, learning some songs to cover when I was at a party and people were passing around a guitar (amongst other things) to whoever felt like entertaining he group. And I had discovered something: I had finally figured out how to enjoy playing guitar purely for the act of making music and let go of all of the childish dreams that were holding me back from making the music that's been rattling around my brain all these years. I also discovered that if you're halfway decent at it, you can add some joy to someone else's life as well. And that always feels good.

This story/lesson can be applied to every facet of your life. If you stop trying to force the square peg into the round hole and just relax a little bit, you'll be amazed at how much further you can go, no matter which direction you're headed.

Paperwork, or How To Ask Unfathomably Hard Favors Of Those You Love

At first glance, it's just another form to fill out. One more packet of paper to be buried away with the rest of your records, possibly in some dusty basement somewhere, only to be resurrected in a time of crisis.

Choosing someone to make literal life and death decisions for you is quite an experience. What is the appropriate criteria one uses to select someone to be your benevolent executioner? It can't be someone who is so close that their emotions will trump the necessary objectivity it takes to make the decision to gently extinguish the once bright flame of life that has become, at first glance, so dim and unrecognisable that it might as well be a prison without windows or phones, where the communication is through one way glass, and all you can do is watch them watching nothing, thinking nothing, not knowing if they know that you know they are already gone. 

It must be someone who loves you enough to let you go, because it's the right thing to do.

Spy VS. Spy, or The Brain And It's Bipolar Ways

Ah, Photoshop. What would we do without you? The answer to that, incidentally, is that we would be forced to learn again to physically manipulate paper and dangerous chemicals to manifest the mad visions tucked away in our minds, all in the name of art and self expression. We would have to physically get our hands dirty with 100 year old tools used by the long forgotten heroes and pioneers of of a dead art form. I miss those days. Picasso is quoted as saying, "Good artists copy, great artists steal." Today, in a world where stringing together sequences of ones and zeros makes you a "good" artist, what is there to steal to become great?

I bring this up as an example of the places your mind can wander when you're medically confined to a bed with too much time on your hands. I've been in this position before. I've been a paraplegic for almost 10 years now, and I've spent a good amount of that time laid up in a bed or on a couch or in a hospital, trying to will my body to heal it's sick self while attempting not to listen to the insane ramblings embedded in my subconscious mind. You would be amazed at the things the human brain can dream up when it doesn't have to focus on the everyday distractions like cleaning your house, paying your bills, feeding your dog/kids/ego/etc. It becomes like a bad knock off of a sensory deprivation tank experience, only you don't know when it's going to start or end, or what outside influences are going to steer your train of thought. For me, it is akin to a lucid dream you can't wake up from or control. You're just along for the ride, and whoever is driving doesn't know any more about the destination than you do. 

During this hospital stay, I've begun to learn how to let go of the wheel and let my brain wander freely down this strange road of ridiculousness, making stops at cabin fever and insanity and all sorts of other roadside attractions. I'm starting to take time to look around at what's happening now, instead of what could happen later or what has happened yesterday. And as long as I can keep up with this attitude, I'm pretty sure I will come out of this medical experience stronger and wiser, as opposed to broken and weak, which was the normal outcome before I decided to start Taking my health seriously. Your brain can be your strongest ally, or your worst enemy. It's up to you to decide which direction it will take you.

Modifying Your Attitude, or Learning To Fake Being An Adult

I was going to write some long, rambling diatribe about how sleeping in hospitals sucks, and the food sucks, and how everything sucks in general, but after taking a step back for a moment and taking stock of the environment I'm in, I think instead I want to write about the things I'm thankful for, even though I'm stuck in a hospital bed right now. 

First and foremost, I want to thank science for making my life possible. If I had been born 100 years ago and broken my back then, I probably would have been killed off by a pressure ulcer within a few years of injuring myself. They didn't have things like pneumatic wheelchair cushions, flap surgeries, and advanced antibiotics that are basically nuclear warfare in the fight against infection back then. On top of that, rehabilitation is actually a thing now, whereas I imagine it wasn't exactly a high medical priority back in the days of mustard gas and trench warfare. I have absolutely no facts to back up this assumption, but in my head, I'm spot on. Being in a wheelchair in WW1 anywhere (besides Hawaii, because Hawaii!) seems like kind of a bum deal when compared to the technology of today. 

Second, I want to thank each and every person, good or bad, who has come into my life over the last 10 years and taught me something. I've learned positive and intellectual skills like programing micro controllers to seamlessly dim a high output LED chip array. I've also learned that you're never going to win in a fight against security at a club/bar/funeral/intervention/etc. from a wheelchair, no matter how much macho juice (tequila) you've consumed. Seriously, you're going to lose that one 10 times out of 9. Yes, I meant to say 10 times out of 9.I've learned that flirting with girls has nothing to do with your clothes, bank account, or that lame story about the time you saved an albino flying squirrel with duct tap and Q tips. I've learned that when you need help, ask for it. Most people are substantially more giving than we give them credit. And never loan money to friends. Just give it to them so you don't have to have that awkward "So, when you gonna pay me, dude?"  conversation while they drink your last beer (and no, this isn't about my current roommate). Nothing kills a great relationship faster than money (with the exception of small pieces of metal travelling at supersonic speeds. I believe they're called bullets). I've also learned that it truly is all about the little courtesies and heart felt gifts we humans tend to bestow upon each other. It's these small acts of kindness that will save us all in the end.

And on that note, I'm going to try to take a quick nap before I destroy a bunch of animal protein-based breakfast items with my mouth and stomach. You all take it easy out there, and try to do something nice for someone today. They'll feel better, you'll feel better, and the world will be a slightly place, all because you decided to make it that way.

Late night thoughts

This was a good friend of mine. She lived down the street from me what seems like a lifetime ago, although it was just 3 years.

She died last month, relegated to the past tense. Gone.

I knew it was coming. I knew about the cancer slowly killing her from the inside out. I knew there was a finite time to say goodbye, and I never made the time.

I know that death is as natural as life, and if you live long enough, you're going to lose a lot of friends. There is not a lot of choice in the matter. But we do have a choice about how we handle the deaths and last days/weeks of our friends and family. The only regret I have about my friend passing is that I never made that final phone call. I never reached out one more time just to tell them I love them and they will always be a part of me. That a cold PBR and Hot Tub Time Machine will always make me smile and think of them. And this is the lesson: no matter how hard it is, if you have the chance to say goodbye, do.

Just sayin'.