This blog title is an anagram for Kansas State University Wildcats.
The Cats won yesterday.
They will not win tomorrow.
For some reason, I have stopped caring about the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament already.
March Madness? Meh.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Distraction, Delay, and Disappointment
A short entry today.
They say that Satan's greatest tools are Distraction, Delay, and Disappointment. We have had much Delay and Disappointment. But it is Distraction, that great evil, that sways me from my appointed course.
This week, when overwhelmed with duty and responsibility, one of my most favored Distractions begins--the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. This is that time of year when general productivity across the country goes into steady decline; unfortunately, I cannot afford such Decline (another evil D), and as such, I must overcome this Distraction.
To me, the abstinence from this Distraction, the "Tourney," is as essential as abstinence from alcohol and illicit drugs. For when I indulge this distraction, I cannot function.
I have filled out a bracket, yes. Now, I leave it to heaven. I do, however, have a handful of predictions of note.
--Kansas State makes it to the Final Four (actually, I think they will fall in the Elite Eight, but what the hell, it's in my bracket).
--KU falls in the Field of 32 to UNLV (that is, if they get past Boston U).
--Your national champion will be Kentucky over Notre Dame.
Beyond that, my bracket is a crap shoot. And a Distraction. Big time Distraction.
They say that Satan's greatest tools are Distraction, Delay, and Disappointment. We have had much Delay and Disappointment. But it is Distraction, that great evil, that sways me from my appointed course.
This week, when overwhelmed with duty and responsibility, one of my most favored Distractions begins--the NCAA Men's Basketball Tournament. This is that time of year when general productivity across the country goes into steady decline; unfortunately, I cannot afford such Decline (another evil D), and as such, I must overcome this Distraction.
To me, the abstinence from this Distraction, the "Tourney," is as essential as abstinence from alcohol and illicit drugs. For when I indulge this distraction, I cannot function.
I have filled out a bracket, yes. Now, I leave it to heaven. I do, however, have a handful of predictions of note.
--Kansas State makes it to the Final Four (actually, I think they will fall in the Elite Eight, but what the hell, it's in my bracket).
--KU falls in the Field of 32 to UNLV (that is, if they get past Boston U).
--Your national champion will be Kentucky over Notre Dame.
Beyond that, my bracket is a crap shoot. And a Distraction. Big time Distraction.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Tactless and Swastika
Roughly two decades ago, I was institutionalized at one of the most prominent Red State facilities in middle America. For four years, I was brainwashed into embracing this facility's rituals and ideologies. One of the tools of indoctrination was nomenclature; that is, giving every inmate in the asylum the same nickname, thus diluting any individuality one might have and making him or her part of a collective whole.
To this day, former inmates of this and other similar facilities across America proudly wear clothing announcing their affiliation to the institute that oversaw their re-education. Every t-shirt announces the name of its institution and the mascot nickname assigned to the collective; for instance, if rugby had been invented in 1793 and Charenton Asylum had created a rugby team, it might have called itself the Charenton Terrors--Charenton being the name of the institution, and Terrors being the mascot/moniker assigned to its collective inmates.
In an effort to break free from the conformity surrounding my own institution, I decided to create my own name. I did this by taking the name of the institution that had once housed me as well as the group nickname give to me and the other inmates. I ran the letters of these words through an online application that creates anagrams with whatever you feed it. As such, my institution and its mascot yielded the following:
TACTLESS AND SWASTIKA
At once, I had a true identity, a label for my individuality.
Tactless: I am nothing if not tactless. My personal history is marked by my propensity to call things as I see them, often resulting in broken hearts and hurt feelings, all the collateral damage of my bluntness.
And what of that other word?
Swastika: Dating back to Ancient India, the swastika has been an integral part of Hinduism, Jainism, and even Buddhism. The word svastika is derived from the Sanskrit roots su-, meaning "good or well"--thus su-asti or svasti- denoting "well-being"--and -ka serving as a diminutive to intensify the verbal meaning, thus making it a symbol; ergo, the word swastika was originally defined as "symbol for that which is associated with well-being" (considered a sign of "good luck" for centuries prior to the Third Reich).
Near the end of the twentieth century, I wrote a work of fiction which focused on the efforts of a high school teacher to convince a group of wayward teens that they should restore the swastika symbol they wore on their clothes (more in an effort to upset their parents than as any sort of racist political statement) to its ancient spiritual meaning. My work was not only nominated for various awards but also earned me a writing fellowship with one of the most prestigious organizations in the country.
Today, as one of German descent, I continue to put forth efforts to restore the swastika, not as a symbol of my own nationality's dark history, but as the symbol of well-being that it was originally intended. To me, the word swastika is on par with the derogatory N-word that is often applied to African-Americans, a people who may find the word offensive but nevertheless use it often to distll its evil.
Sadly, most of today's society is not so evolved as the African-American. Already on the Internet, I have been banned from online groups just for displaying the word swastika as part of my Internet moniker. Keep in mind, I display only the word, not the symbol itself. A word that implies "well-being" and "good fortune" in its original language of Sanskrit.
Swastika once meant something good. Today it means quite the opposite, all because a group of malignant thugs (today not even a century in hell) adopted it as their national symbol, and henceforth generations of hyper-sensitive crybabies withered like dried olive trees at the sight of it rather than standing firm and speaking out against its bastardization. We need to grow up, people. The word "water" won't get you wet.
Sorry to be so blunt about it ... but I am nothing if not tactless.
स्वस्तिक
Friday, February 25, 2011
Fear is the mind-killer
Once upon a time when I was in college, I attended a party. Nothing of particular consequence about that; I attended a lot of parties back in those days.
Anyway, at this party there was this girl--isn't there always?--who approached me as I stood lounging against the counter of the overly cozy kitchen nook of this overstuffed apartment where the party was taking place. The Girl was friendly and certainly very pretty, so soon she and I started talking and complaining about the awful music that was blaring from the stereo system. What the hell was this dreary Seattle grunge? Who could dance to this shit?
After a time, The Girl and I took it upon ourselves to commandeer the stereo ourselves and play what we deemed to be some "happenin' tunes." I went to my car to grab a handful of CDs, and pretty soon, the joint began to rock. Girls collaborated to push back furniture for a makeshift dance floor, and unnaturally stoic guys taking sports paused in mid-sentence to view the swelling scene. The Girl and I were rocking as well, dancing together by the stereo, singing along with Kriss Kross to "Warm It Up" and other tunes of that ilk. She seemed to be into me, and I probably could have closed the deal ... but then her boyfriend had to spoil all of our fun by lurking about. I use the word "lurking" because that's what her boyfriend, a lumbering fool named Larry, tended to do. He lurked. Larry the Lurker--that was him.
Within seconds, Larry was hovering behind The Girl, arms entwined around her waist, grinding his hips in an awkward dance move, and looking me over with narrowed, rat-like eyes. He wasn't really dancing so much as pissing to stake his claim, gripping The Girl tightly about the waist, his arms like ropes binding her to his torso. He nestled his chin hard on her shoulder, tucking it to pull her upper back against his chest, and those rodent eyes rolled up at me as if to say, Do you see? Do you see who's in charge here? He held The Girl so tightly that could no longer sway with the music in either unless Larry was swaying too. You know how some guys can be "leeches" when it comes to their women? What I witnessed that evening was a textbook case of such a phenomenon.
Later that night, The Girl broke up with Larry. She did not go home with me as I had left the party, but a few nights later when I ran into her at a local bar, she slipped me her number and told me all about it.
Today, Larry is a dyed-in-the-wool "Republican." I put in quotation marks around that because he is one of those right-wing Limbaugh nut-jobs who gives real Republicans a bad name. The man is so far right he makes Ronald Reagan look like Spike Lee, makes Sarah Palin look like Janeane Garofalo. I'm something of a conservative myself, mostly because I find the blathering banter of many high-profile liberals to be absurd, but even I have my limits. I embrace basic conservative values, but I am nothing like Larry, who slouches about our community (did I mention we wound up in the same town?), organizing Tea Parties and posting angry comments on liberal blogs, bitching about taxes and abortion and gay marriage while proudly displaying a complete set of American flag pins tacked to his chest.
Scary guy, this Larry.
But you know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Larry is pretty much representative of all right-wing extremists. No, not all conservatives are loud-mouthed bullies who grope woman and troll the Internet looking to pick a fight, but they do all have one thing in common--fear.
Of course, if Larry ever stumbled across this blog, he would vehemently deny he was afraid of anything, but I know better. Larry lives in real-time fear, consumed with that common mortal terror that all conservatives have: They believe they are mere inches from losing everything that they have. They think someone is out to get them, or--more specifically--get their "stuff." Oh, sure, Larry and his ilk couch it in the language of liberty, denouncing the "tyrants" on the other side of the political spectrum who "long to deprive us of our basic freedoms." But their fear of deprivation does not stop with liberty. I think these extremists are most afraid of having to part with everything they own. They honestly believe that their lives and their possessions are of such import that some mythical cadre of liberal cronies is even now plotting to rape, pillage, and plunder.
I imagine a guy like Larry fancies himself as Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, clawing and scratching his way through some lost temple, swinging across chasms, dodging poisonous darts, and outrunning a boulder the side of a truck, only to run smack dab into the left-wing version of Indy's French rival Belloq (think Barack Obama in a Panama hat), the embodiment of socialist evil as he extends who props himself on one knee, extends a quivery paw, and purrs: "Again, Dr. Jones, we see there is nothing you can acquire that I cannot take away!"
This explains a lot. This explains the rabid nature of the Tea Party, as well as the rabid nature of Larry the Lurker, that rough beast slouching towards his short-term girlfriend at a keg party two decades ago to clutch her to his bosom lest a rival take her away.
Get over yourself, Larry. I never wanted to steal her back then (even though I later did) because as lovely as she was, I had other offers. A healthy social life in college is not a zero-sum game when it comes to the opposite sex; as my grandpa used to say, there are plenty of fish in the sea. I believed that back then, just as I believe today that there is an abundance of opportunity and resources out there that we are neglecting, all in the name of holding on to what we got, refusing to share lest we wind up giving a kid a rope and he decides he wants our horse tied to it. That's an authentic fear, isn't it Tea Party Larry? That's the real source of your many sleepless nights.
So be afraid, man. Cling tightly to all that you've worked for. That's what you did with The Girl in college, wasn't it? You clung to her like a dying man clutching a reed. You may as well do that with everything else. Lay out your boundary markers, piss on the floor to mark your territory, and don't forget to write your name on the waistband of your underwear in indelible ink lest it get mixed with others in the wash. That's the way it's done, isn't it? That's how you keep what is yours.
Hey, we all saw how well that worked out for you in college.
Anyway, at this party there was this girl--isn't there always?--who approached me as I stood lounging against the counter of the overly cozy kitchen nook of this overstuffed apartment where the party was taking place. The Girl was friendly and certainly very pretty, so soon she and I started talking and complaining about the awful music that was blaring from the stereo system. What the hell was this dreary Seattle grunge? Who could dance to this shit?
After a time, The Girl and I took it upon ourselves to commandeer the stereo ourselves and play what we deemed to be some "happenin' tunes." I went to my car to grab a handful of CDs, and pretty soon, the joint began to rock. Girls collaborated to push back furniture for a makeshift dance floor, and unnaturally stoic guys taking sports paused in mid-sentence to view the swelling scene. The Girl and I were rocking as well, dancing together by the stereo, singing along with Kriss Kross to "Warm It Up" and other tunes of that ilk. She seemed to be into me, and I probably could have closed the deal ... but then her boyfriend had to spoil all of our fun by lurking about. I use the word "lurking" because that's what her boyfriend, a lumbering fool named Larry, tended to do. He lurked. Larry the Lurker--that was him.
Within seconds, Larry was hovering behind The Girl, arms entwined around her waist, grinding his hips in an awkward dance move, and looking me over with narrowed, rat-like eyes. He wasn't really dancing so much as pissing to stake his claim, gripping The Girl tightly about the waist, his arms like ropes binding her to his torso. He nestled his chin hard on her shoulder, tucking it to pull her upper back against his chest, and those rodent eyes rolled up at me as if to say, Do you see? Do you see who's in charge here? He held The Girl so tightly that could no longer sway with the music in either unless Larry was swaying too. You know how some guys can be "leeches" when it comes to their women? What I witnessed that evening was a textbook case of such a phenomenon.
Later that night, The Girl broke up with Larry. She did not go home with me as I had left the party, but a few nights later when I ran into her at a local bar, she slipped me her number and told me all about it.
Today, Larry is a dyed-in-the-wool "Republican." I put in quotation marks around that because he is one of those right-wing Limbaugh nut-jobs who gives real Republicans a bad name. The man is so far right he makes Ronald Reagan look like Spike Lee, makes Sarah Palin look like Janeane Garofalo. I'm something of a conservative myself, mostly because I find the blathering banter of many high-profile liberals to be absurd, but even I have my limits. I embrace basic conservative values, but I am nothing like Larry, who slouches about our community (did I mention we wound up in the same town?), organizing Tea Parties and posting angry comments on liberal blogs, bitching about taxes and abortion and gay marriage while proudly displaying a complete set of American flag pins tacked to his chest.
Scary guy, this Larry.
But you know, the more I think about it, the more I realize that Larry is pretty much representative of all right-wing extremists. No, not all conservatives are loud-mouthed bullies who grope woman and troll the Internet looking to pick a fight, but they do all have one thing in common--fear.
Of course, if Larry ever stumbled across this blog, he would vehemently deny he was afraid of anything, but I know better. Larry lives in real-time fear, consumed with that common mortal terror that all conservatives have: They believe they are mere inches from losing everything that they have. They think someone is out to get them, or--more specifically--get their "stuff." Oh, sure, Larry and his ilk couch it in the language of liberty, denouncing the "tyrants" on the other side of the political spectrum who "long to deprive us of our basic freedoms." But their fear of deprivation does not stop with liberty. I think these extremists are most afraid of having to part with everything they own. They honestly believe that their lives and their possessions are of such import that some mythical cadre of liberal cronies is even now plotting to rape, pillage, and plunder.
I imagine a guy like Larry fancies himself as Indiana Jones in Raiders of the Lost Ark, clawing and scratching his way through some lost temple, swinging across chasms, dodging poisonous darts, and outrunning a boulder the side of a truck, only to run smack dab into the left-wing version of Indy's French rival Belloq (think Barack Obama in a Panama hat), the embodiment of socialist evil as he extends who props himself on one knee, extends a quivery paw, and purrs: "Again, Dr. Jones, we see there is nothing you can acquire that I cannot take away!"
This explains a lot. This explains the rabid nature of the Tea Party, as well as the rabid nature of Larry the Lurker, that rough beast slouching towards his short-term girlfriend at a keg party two decades ago to clutch her to his bosom lest a rival take her away.
Get over yourself, Larry. I never wanted to steal her back then (even though I later did) because as lovely as she was, I had other offers. A healthy social life in college is not a zero-sum game when it comes to the opposite sex; as my grandpa used to say, there are plenty of fish in the sea. I believed that back then, just as I believe today that there is an abundance of opportunity and resources out there that we are neglecting, all in the name of holding on to what we got, refusing to share lest we wind up giving a kid a rope and he decides he wants our horse tied to it. That's an authentic fear, isn't it Tea Party Larry? That's the real source of your many sleepless nights.
So be afraid, man. Cling tightly to all that you've worked for. That's what you did with The Girl in college, wasn't it? You clung to her like a dying man clutching a reed. You may as well do that with everything else. Lay out your boundary markers, piss on the floor to mark your territory, and don't forget to write your name on the waistband of your underwear in indelible ink lest it get mixed with others in the wash. That's the way it's done, isn't it? That's how you keep what is yours.
Hey, we all saw how well that worked out for you in college.
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