Corporate Sodomy

Keening about gas prices teeters on the unreasonably ridiculous. The sky's blue, grass is green, and the oil companies are cornholing you at the pump. It's axiomatic, really. Why bitch? Because it's unrelenting bullshit that renews its unwelcome stench with each refill. An oil exec gloating, winking and nodding knowingly at the automotive industry. Yeah, it's a bit trite to kvetch about something axiomatic. But Valero just raped me with a pachydermesque dick, and I'm a little pissed. Twenty-seven dollars for 9 gallons of gas, fuck.

Another Day

She was pretty in that common beauty pageant, TV anchor sort of banal way. Consumed by her own materialism. Her too blonde hair, too red lipstick, and too matte makeup. Her myopic rendition of beauty. In one hand a breakfast sandwich of some sort from McDonald's. In the other, a vat of coffee from Starbuck's. As I stared at her I found myself wondering how she would negotiate the impending turn without wrapping her car around a light pole. As if in response to my curiosity, she shoved the remainder of her sandwich in her mouth. Her cheeks straining against the load. It reminded me of a scene in Aliens, where the alien is tearing free of its host's chest. I chuckled a bit to myself. Then, full on laughter as a tube of impossibly red lipstick suddenly appeared in her hand. That's what you need, more lipstick. As she began applying it, the light turned green. She mouthed, "Shit" to herself. I thought I would hang back some. I didn't want to be in the way if she wrecked. Impressively, she managed the turn sans carnage.

I turned my attention to the radio station, Shade 45. Rick Ross is hustling everyday, if you let him tell it. And he will tell it--over and over and over. As I pull into Vavoline, I wonder what ever happened to talent. What happened to the rule that says, "You must possess some talent to be an entertainer." The radio just plays these canned, commercial, homogeneous songs anymore. One "artist" barely discernible from the next. Sad, really.

It was right about here that one of the attendants raises the garage door and, standing there in that dingy blue uniform, starts guiding me over the oil change station. Funny, suddenly I feel like an airline pilot.

I exit my car and,exchanging vacant pleasantries with an attendant, make my way to the waiting room. Here I peruse the magazine selection and realize that I must be a mutant. Apparently, everyone who gets their oil changed is obsessive about cars. That must be the case, because all of the magazines seemed to cover the automotive industry with pathological enthusiasm. I don't share their enthusiasm for cars or the industry.

"Hey, Simon. How ya' doin?" It's the attendant that I exchanged pleasantries with. I find it almost hilarious that he's speaking to me as though he's a friend that I've had for years. Glancing at his name tag, I decide to play his game, "Not too bad. Terry. Yourself?"

"Looks like you're a little overdue here by a couple hundred miles," he says. I look at him impassively. There's a pause. I realize he's expecting me to offer some sort of excuse. I cross my arms and yawn.
"Well, do you want to go with the same oil as last time?"

I nodded in the affirmative. I'm pulling out of their driveway about 10 minutes later. As I'm driving out, I wonder why we offer excuses, or lies, to perfect strangers. You could tell from Terry's Pavlovian behavior that he expected me to offer up some sort of excuse. "Well, Terry, because thinking about doing mundane tasks, like getting my oil changed, makes my balls itch." Or, maybe, "Yeah, I always like to wait a little longer than your recommended date because I like to see you stand there in that slack-jawed way asking me stupid fucking questions. It's part of the $28 for me." It's a curious cultural idiom--making up excuses. It probably stems from a sense of guilt. Guilt is overrated.

Conversation

"I just sat there wondering what exactly life encompasses. Getting a job so that I'm able to meet an array of financial responsibilities. Hoping I will have enough disposable income to keep pace with the Joneses. It's amusing, sorta. Exchanging hours of your life for money. Permitting someone else to tell you what an hour, or a year, of your life is worth. Then each morning, fighting fatigue and traffic, you drag your ass into the office trying to prove that your life is worth more. And, maybe during your one hour lunch break, you sit there wondering if this is what your life is supposed to be. Your life as a corporate acolyte. Your life defined by your job, vehicle, address, Pottery Barn and Banana Republic," I said.

"I began questioning what matters and what doesn't. 'Be ye lamps unto yourselves.' Those are supposed to be the Buddha's last words to his followers. You know, question authority? But then you find that you're questioning everything, including whether there is a such thing as authority. Or, if there is, should we reject it as a concept. It can all get pretty confusing. So, anyway, I started reading different books on philosophy, religion and spirituality. Although stated in differing ways, most stated the same empty, dull, apochryphal platitudes concerning existence," I continued. I began to wonder if I was boring Samantha to tears, but she asked why I began meditating. Plus she still looked interested in my random, meandering answer.

"I picked up Alan Watts' 'The Way Of Zen' and he explains that Zen is a way of liberation, not a religion or a philosophy. It's a way of finding the truth of our existence. It's funny, the hardest thing to do is to sit there and not think about anything at all. To completely quiet your mind. You never realize how much it races until you try to make it stop. It's crazy."

"I guess like when you can't fall asleep? You just can't turn it off," she asked.

"Exactly like that until you get better at it. So that's why I started. I want to know the truth of my existence. I know it can't be the sum of what I consume or own. That's too bleak and boring an existence for a human being."

"There's always the possibility that you will find the truth and not like it. Then it will be too late to turn and run. I mean, once you know something it's hard to deny, from that point forward, that it doesn't exist. Like 2+2=4, the sky's blue, etc.You can't deny those truths any longer," she said. I nodded and admitted that the thought does give me pause. What will I find? I have no idea, maybe that conforming blindly to society is antithetical to our true existence. We'll see.

Gas

So, after I spent fifty dollars for 16 gallons of gas, I had to pee. This award almost made me pee down my leg. Seriously, how do you win this award?

On A Mission

He's bloated with bullshit, but that's not what made him especially annoying. He spoke with the cadence of a used car salesman, but I could forgive that. He's standing there in a Misfits t-shirt, khakis, and boat shoes. An irony that possibly, under different circumstances, might effect visceral functions. But, at this moment, I had a purpose that didn't involve the ridiculously retarded. But that's the rule for the ridiculously retarded. They have a knack for accosting your attention, throwing it into a headlock. Charly was not the exception. I guess if you're going to read the rest of this, you're gonna want to know what I'm talking about.

I'd just finished my workout. Naturally, a beer or 6-12, was calling. So, after changing into dry clothes, I hop in my car and make a bee line for the nearest liquor store door. I pull into the parking lot without much ado,score rockstar parking, and as I'm reaching for the car door handle I notice Charly.

Not in that "notice" kinda way, but in the way that you notice someone muttering incoherently to themselves. Acknowledge that he's there, and ignore them in earnest.Charly, however, doesn't think this is the place for such grace.

I'm purposefully walking to the door and averting my eyes. Despite all of my attempts at congeniality and avoidance, Charly interrupts the mission.

"Hi,sir," he started. "Can I have a moment of your time to discuss an opportunity that will forever change your life, and the life of your loved ones?" His hands anxiously offering a flyer. I cast a baleful look in his direction and say, "Maybe, if you can tell me one song The Misfits sing."

Blank expression. "What?"

"That's about what I thought. You shouldn't wear t-shirts of bands you don't listen to. It's just annoying." And with that I pushed through the doors and resumed the mission.

In An Inane Mode

You Are a Dragon

You are very charismatic and incredibly popular. People are drawn to your energy, but you are a very difficult person to get to know. You are very active - you are usually hard at work or play. You enjoy drama, and you enjoy anything unusual or eccentric.

What Mythological Creature Are You?

The Truth--More Or Less

The Internet is gravid with vapid diversions. Well known fact. Nonetheless,I answered the questions contained in a link a friend sent me. Interesting, kinda. What's more interesting is Samantha's reaction to the answers.

"Once."

"Bullshit more or less.Transparent and predictable are the last two adjectives I would choose. Trust me on that one." Eye roll ensues.

"Yeah, you're defintitely creative," she says with a wink and a smile.

"For sure."

"Yeah."

"You like what you like. What you don't--knows it."

"Definitely."

"What? When did that start?"

Well, there you have it. The Internet assessment of my spirit. And the assessment of someone who knows me. You be the judge.

Amusing

You Are a Newborn Soul

You are tolerant, accepting, and willing to give anyone a chance. On the flip side, you're easy to read and easily influenced by others. You have a fresh perspective on life, and you can be very creative. Noconformist and nontraditional, you've never met anyone who's like you. Inventive and artistic, you like to be a trendsetter. You have an upbeat spirit and you like almost everything. You make friends easily and often have long standing friendships. Implusive and trusting, you fall in love a little too easily. Souls you are most compatible with: Bright Star Soul and Dreaming Soul

What Kind of Soul Are You?

Dillon

We're going to Dillon today. It's supposed to be beautiful. I don't know if the weather is going to cooperate, but we'll see.

Troll

"Have you ever punched someone in the face? Or been punched in the face?" I was answering Eddie, who'd just asked what I was thinking about. Vague, ambiguous stares rested on Eddie, Kevin and Trevor. I knocked back my shot of Bushmills, took a sip of beer, set the glass down and waited for an answer.

"Where's this going?" Asks Eddie.

"I'm trying to answer your question." He looked around the table at the others. Eddie's never been in a fight and I knew it. Lucky him.

"The first time you hit someone in the face, it's a little traumatic. Shocking, kinda. Not like on TV." I started. Kevin nodded in agreement. I knew he'd been in his share of fist fights and I obliquely wondered why he hadn't spoken up. "The bone of your knuckles slamming into the bone and cartilage of someone's face; their nose maybe. Maybe an eye socket." I got the bartender's attention and motioned for another round of drinks. "Sometimes, when you're by yourself, you think about it. At least the first time," I said. "You don't want to admit to your friends, or yourself for that matter, that hurting someone somehow bothered you. But it did, and there's no two ways about it. Unless you're some sort of psychopath."

"Is this going somewhere?" Trev asked.

"Oh, I imagine so. I'm just taking the tourist route."

"We've lived here for about 7 years now." I took the point. I occasionally come down with logorrhea when I've been drinking.

"Well, we're told from the time we're able to throw a decent looking punch not to hit women. And,being the good little boys we are, we mind our parents. So we don't hit girls for no other reason than our parents told us not to." The bartender came, set down our drinks and asked if there was anything else. His shift was over. I shook my head. But we took the hint and we each gave him some cash.

"But the first time you jaw jack someone, there becomes a reason for not hitting women that's a bit more tangible than your parents' voice clanging about in your head," I continued. "The sudden violence of it. The barbarism of hitting someone. The carnage that used to be a face, if you find yourself so enraged that you can't stop." Trev raised his shot glass, we all tapped glasses, and threw the liquor to the back of our throats.

I gazed around the table and I could tell that not only was I dominating the conversation, but it was either annoying the hell out them, or confusing the hell out of everyone. I couldn't decide. But I delivered the point.

"I talked to my friend Tony in Seattle earlier today," I said. This was met by nods of recognition. Trev and Kevin have met him. "You remember his ex-fiance?"

"You mean the one that ran out and took all of his shit? That troll?" Trev asked.

"One and the same." I said. I shook my head in disbelief. I still couldn't believe the story he told me today.

"Well, apparently she's knocked up by some Larry that she met on MySpace."

"You're shitting me, "laughed Kevin.

"I bullshit you not. Anyway, Larry and her drop by Tony's aunt and uncle's house every once and a while."

"Hold the fuck up, " Eddie says. "They drop by TONY'S aunt and uncle's house?! Fucking for what? Your visiting privileges were revoked when we broke up, troll."

"No shit," Trev said. I could tell he was getting a bit drunk, and there was going to be some vitriolic language in the near future.

"Oh, but that's not all. On their latest visit, she,with Larry sittting there, asked if they could move in--with Tony's aunt and uncle." I paused. Took a deep drink of my beer, and let that settle in. Incredulous laughter. Shaking of the heads. Complete disbelief.

"Is this fucking bitch's late night snack paint chips? Seriously, what's her fucking problem," Trev started. "Okay, just to recap," he takes a sip of brew while holding up his hand asking for a second. "You and I are going to get married. Then, because lately you been demonstrating some troll tendencies, I decide that we need to just put this off for a few months. You know, until I determine whether or not you're a fucking stray masquerading as a decent human being. Then, mustering up all of the morality that exists in your fiber, you move out while I'm at work and steal all of my shit. Then, because I'm a nice guy--and Tony is too fucking nice if you ask me--I just let it go. Chalk it up to the cost of doing business with tramps." We're getting a good laugh out of this. He takes a swig of beer. His leg bouncing in obvious agitation.

"Then, you keep calling my aunt and uncle. Announce to them that you're knocked up by some guy you met while trolling on Myspace. Then, because you have some misplaced idea of what's acceptable and what isn't, you ask them if you and Larry can move in. Are you fucking shitting me?"

I took a drink of beer. Nodded. Pretty good synopsis. Funny, when you hear it summed up like that, it's hard to believe this shit is really going on. The absurdity of it all is breathtaking.

"How long has this shit been going on," asked Eddie.

"A little over a year now," I answered. A year. Wow, I just realized that'd it been a year.

"A year?! A fucking year?! That bitch is like herpes. She just won't go away," yelled Trev.

"Seriously, there are some fucking rules, bitch. Like, when one of your friends breaks up with a girl, you can't date her. That's just fucking wrong," says Kevin. "And when you break up with that girl, or she breaks up with you--however it goes--you don't visit each other's families. You don't talk to them, you don't send them fucking Christmas cards. Nothing. All of that shit is over."

"It's just waaaay too awkward," says Eddie. "She has no fucking sense." We sat in silence for a bit. Drinking our beer and shaking our heads. Imagining what type of necrosis has to set in to devolve into something so vile. Honestly, if I got something like this troll stuck to my shoe, I'd just buy a new pair of shoes.

"She's cuntastically fucked up," says Trevor. "But now I think I get where you were going earlier."

"Me too, "says Kev.

"Would you punch her in the face," Eddie says. We silently sat there each of us contemplating it for themselves.

"Would you, Simon. Would you drop her ass," Kevin asked.

"I'm not your moral compass, " I answered. "Would you?"

"I hate to say it, but I think I would shoot her one," said Kevin. He looked around the table to gauge the reactions of everyone. The expressions were impassive. I think everyone wanting to say unequivocally that they would just leave it be. That they would just let it go. But, and maybe it was the booze, no one could say that and it was all over their faces.

Trev leaned in and said, "Okay come clean, Simon Would you play her some chin music?"

"I'm not Chris Rock. But I wouldn't do it, but if Tony did, I would understand." Chuckles all around. "But Larry is a different story. I'd drop kick his ass into the Puget Sound. Just for being such a loser as to stand in my aunt and uncle's living room while trolleriffic asks to move in."

"No doubt," Trev said as he motioned for another beer.

Uniforms

It's hilarious actually. Fashion, I'm talking about. We like to think that how we dress is an expression of our individuality, of our creativity. That through our own volition we have developed an amazing sense of personal style. Funny where you find entertainment.

We wear uniforms. Not the polyester brown McDonald's uniform, or the obnoxious blue and yellow uniforms of Blockbuster. But we wear uniforms, nonetheless. This morning, while sitting at a stop light listening to Shade 45, a group of five people crossed the street. Cargo shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops. You know you've seen that uniform. You probably own it. I do. I'll admit it. And this wasn't the only uniform that I saw today.

I took a walk in our neighborhood today. As I came up on Peaberry's Coffee house, I saw a table of three women. Capris, sleeveless shirts and obnoxiously large sunglasses. You know someone who has this uniform. You've seen it. But we say it's stylish. We don't call it a uniform. But that's what it is.

So here's your homework assignment. The next time you have to go to the store for some incidentals, or otherwise find yourself out and about, take note of the uniforms. I have a couple more in mind, but I want to see what others notice. Drop me a line. Let me know what uniforms you see in our cult of conformity. I'll revisit this later. I just sort of noticed it, and thought I would drop a hurried post.

I'm So Sick Of Celebrities

It makes no difference to me whether or not you believe what I'm about to tell you. Seriously, I don't. Because that's the funny thing about the truth. It is what it is. Truth just sits there waiting on you to take a look and discover it for yourself. If you somehow find the truth uncomfortable or inconvenient, truth doesn't give a damn. It is what it is. And the truth is pretty simple when it comes to that social phenomenon we call celebrity.

Celebrities are a matter of public opinion. We give these celebrities their money and their lifestyles. We give them their deified status. And with the help of mass media, a cult of personality is born. With the help of mass media, we care when one of them acts a complete ass after a night of solid drinking. Two of them get married, and it's fodder at the water cooler. A rumored divorce will divide a country quicker than a presidential election. And what have any of these people done to deserve such unflapping interest and praise? Nothing. Nada. Not a damn thing.

Listen: These self-absorbed pricks have no intrinsic value. You and I impute value upon them. Don't believe me? What talent does Paris Hilton bring to the table? If you say, "She's hot," someone should slap you to the ground. No, she's not. Pompous and self-obsessed, definitely, but not hot. Oh, but I don't mean to pick on Paris. I find that most of these celebrities have no real importance aside from that which we lay at their feet.

Next time you're at the check out line in the grocery store, check out some of the airbrushed smiles beaming at you from the magazine covers. I dare you to find one talented person. Sure, a popular person. A person that we bestow unquestioned adulation upon. Maybe a good looking person. But hitting the genetic powerball doesn't euqate to talent. It just means that corporations will use these vessles of nothingness to sell you a bunch of mass produced, poorly made stuff that you don't need.

Don't get me wrong. It's not the celebrities fault. Hell, it's good work if you can get it. Sit around let people worship you and directly, or indirectly, provide you with an income that allows you to purchase private islands, yachts and Bentlys. How do you beat that? You can't. But why do we act so surprised and shocked if one of them misbehaves?

Just take a look. It all over news. Mel Gibson got drunk, drove, and then, when he was pulled over, let loose with some "vitriolic language." Lindsay Lohan got called on the carpet because she parties too much and misses work. These stories made national news. Are you serious?! It made national news and everyone shook their heads in despair and disappointment and tsk-tsk'd. Astonished that they could behave in such a way. Hey, news flash. They aren't gods. They are humans and, therefore, flawed. Gibson sounds to be so more than others, mind you. But, nontheless, they are flawed and bound to screw up. And when they do, it shouldn't be a matter of national concern. Honestly, Lohan is, what, 19? You tell me how you would act at 19 with all that money. I don't think professionalism is the first thing that jumps to mind when you think of 19-year-old millionaires. Either way, I don't care. It shouldn't be national news.

So anyway, there it is. Again, you may not like it, but the truth doesn't care. Celebrities are just people that we overvalue and overconcern oursleves with. They are just people that we have made out to be royalty because...well, for whatever reason. They only exist because we say they do.

Any Excuse To Make It Stop

If you want to know the truth, I think it's funny how a good workout can make you call bullshit. Yeah, it's funny the impact a little pain and suffering can have on your peaceful, compassionate, aware mind. If you're running, and you're in decent shape, it'll happen around mile 3. If you're in worse shape, a little earlier. Better shape, a little later. But it happens. It always happens.

"It" is Mount St. Helen's erupting in your legs. "It" is the lava forming in your chest. "It" is that morbidly self-inflicted torture that you put yourself through, for whatever reason. Announcing to the world your penchant for masochism. "It" makes you think, and say, absurd shit like, "No pain, no gain." Bullshit.

What's even worse is that we, as human beings, always seem to seek out pain and suffering. Like we're some abused wife who doesn't feel like her husband really, truly loves her until he's bouncing her ass around the house like his own little private tether ball. So she sets about doing the shit that really pisses him off. Seeking a world-class ass kicking. But this shit isn't new.

As I have mentioned before, I practice Zen meditation most days. Well, as one might expect, I've done some reading about Buddhism. You know, figure out what it was and all that. Well, while reading one book, I came across a discussion about a sect of Buddhists called Jains. They believed that they had all kinds of magical powers, which ranged from being able to fly to understanding all languages to giving sight to the blind. Guess what they attributed their other worldly gifts to? Asceticism. They tortured themselves. They went without food. They went without sex. And they thought this is what gave them their gifts. Pain, suffering and hardship is the key to all. Before you laugh, because I did, they weren't alone.

The Jewish Essenes also believed they had special powers derived from a life of asceticism. They trained themselves through self-torture, embracing and enduring illness, and self-deprivation. Why? Because they believed that they were immortal souls who were baited to come down from heaven to engage in the overindulgence of the material world. And once they had done this, they would lose their special abilities. Amazing, huh?

Well, it was right about here, somewhere around mile three, when the pain and suffering really started to set in. When I really started contemplating the Jains, Essenes and this six mile run that I'd undertaken. It was right about here that I decided I don't have any special powers, and I don't want any. It was right about here that I thought how full of shit it is to seek out pain and suffering. It was right about here that I stopped, turned around and walked to the liquor store to grab some Stoli raspberry. Yeah, I had vastly underestimated what a four-week layoff can do to your running routine. Six miles was just too fucking far. It was right about here that I realized that I'm as capable of bullshit as anyone else.