Tuesday, December 16, 2003 :::
 

A Man Among Flavors.

Desire is the devil’s favorite fishhook. Having is not the same thing as wanting, and wanting only tastes sweet until you hold in your hands that thing you want. Are theses the things I am supposed to believe?

I recently came to the conclusion that I am the guy in the 31 Flavors liking what I see but really wanting the 32nd flavor… that one would hit the sweet spot. It is 32, that wonderfully unattainable thirty-second flavor, that would intersect at the exact point of what I want and what I am able to acquire.

But, what if the tasting spoon comes out? What if the clerk at the eternal ice cream counter sees my slight dissatisfaction with the current selection and decides to take a chance on me and introduce me to the one he’s been holding back? What if from the rear freezer he pulls out a slick-white pint container then, as he is digging that pink little spoon into Number 32, he winks as if to say “Have I got something for you”! At the exact moment that tiny dollop of sweet milk hits my tongue might I decide that, while 32 was worth the wait and was better than the 31 that preceded it, perhaps 33 would be more to my liking.

Ice cream shall always be a clumsy metaphor for life and all its choices.

::: posted by Mike at 6:51 AM

Wednesday, December 10, 2003 :::
 

I'm The Builder, Not The Guy Who Drew The Pictures.

I know, it has been awhile since my last post to Nosebleed. I have gotten many e-mails and IMs telling me I need to get back on the stick and spew and spill my trademarked brand of nonsense. But, I have been busy.

You see, in case you haven't heard, life sucks. Not in a global "Everything Is Shit" where you slap a bumper sticker on your car that says "I'd Rather Be Dead". I am talking more about the reality of life, the details that I didn't read in my adulthood contract.

The whine: I never have enough time. Ever. I am up at 4:40am in the morning and I go to sleep at 11:00pm at night. No time. I am a multi-task... no more time created. I prioritize... still no time. The friends barely call anymore. The sisters know better to try. The wife has given up on me and is more than likely waiting until the holidays are over to serve me with process. The boss wants more. The business demands dollars. The marketers want tasks accomplished that will give meaning to their lives and professions. The dog doesn't feel loved. My Grandmother is dead. My final exams are too hard and too plentiful. Any of this sound familiar... this normal life filler, this bullshit of modern existence?

You see, I don't want to be torn. I don't want to be divided. I don't want to be a failure, or lonely, or speechless, or divorced. Buy I cannot seem to step off the road that leads to all those things.

I told a friend the other day that I am not becoming what I used to want to be. Instead, I am becoming what I am. I am becoming that precise thing I thought I was too good to be. I know, none of this makes sense. It is not supposed to, it is raw, unprocessed thought. An embarrassing snapshot of Mike while he was away. In my last post I had finished my book... in this post I am close to being finished being this version of me.

This friend of mine is an architect. Not in the literal, blueprints for the building sort of way. I mean an architect of ideas. Ideas that are threatening, and dangerous, and beautiful. I'm jealous I am not an architect. I lack the vision to create in my life... I can only build. I can only put the jagged metal trusses in position; put the glass in its properly designated place. I am no architect. I do not communicate the virtue, I only mortar the brick. I only place the drywall. I am the builder.

Come back next time… maybe I will have something nice to say.

::: posted by Mike at 1:19 PM

Wednesday, September 24, 2003 :::
 

I'm finally done.

After 30 months

186,580 words

3106 paragraphs

and 400 pages... I have finished my first novel.

The fact that it is probably poorly written not withstanding, I am happy to have reached the end of what has been one of the most difficult challenges of my life. I have some minor tweaking and polishing to accomplish, but the story, the structure, the characters, almost all of it, is finished.

I survived the statistics! I have already picked out the drawer I will let it collect dust in for the rest of my life.

::: posted by Mike at 3:03 PM

Wednesday, September 17, 2003 :::
 

Jesus: Gatorade for the Soul

Recently I changed the radio station on the alarm. This is significant because this represents a major change to my routine and, being a creature of unyielding habit, I do not like change.

For years it’s been Tejano. 4:40 am comes and with it comes the horns, squeeze boxes, and over-reverbed vocals of songs about the la corazón. There exists no stage of sleep where I cannot hear it when it starts. Wherever I am, be it light restful sleep or a deep R.E.M. slumber, those horns and squeeze boxes come and pull me kick and screaming into consciousness.

The other day the power went off and while I was adjusting the clock I must have accidentally nudged the tuner down a few ticks on the frequency dial because the next morning I was tuning into Christian radio. Immediately upon the alarm going off that first morning I actually pray… I prayed for the fucking squeeze boxes to return.

The monotonous drone of these ultra-conservatives with their God-is-Great-God-is-God sermonizing is not the kind of thing a person needs to listen to upon waking. It is torture to be told you are inferior and insignificant the first thing in the morning. I’m usually not made away of my deficiencies as a human being until 8:30, 9:00 am tops. To get a righteous dose of loving damnation as the prelude to my day seriously upsets that fragile balance I depend on to keep from turning to a life preoccupied with the abuse of alcohol and self as I roam the country looking for high-stakes poker games in the basements of parts supply warehouses. So what do I do? I leave it on that station and have for the last two weeks.

This morning it was commentary from the pastor of the Something Hills First Baptist Crap Shoot and Holy Roll. He told me he was not only passionate about Jesus but excited as well. I considered that to be somewhat important given his chosen profession. But then he started into me telling me I should be more excited.

Pastor Whatzhisname: “Do you know Jesus?”
Me: “Never met him”
Pastor Whatzhisname: “Are you excited by The Word”
Me: “Tactfully indifferent”
Pastor Whatzhisname: “Do you deserve the love of Jesus?”
Me: “Truthfully, some days I’m surprised my dog still likes me”
Pastor Whatzhisname: “Do you thirst for Jesus?”
Me: Me: “No, but I could use a glass of water.”

This went on for a few minutes until I decided that I’d had enough. It was as if Pastor Whatzhisname actually knew I was about to turn him off because he started talking faster about his thirst for Jesus. He started using a bunch of words that mean thirst and a few that actually meant hunger but I let it slide. Then he started talking about Jesus and his ability to quench my spiritual thirst. That Jesus could revitalize. That Jesus contained more carbohydrates and essential minerals to replenish my spirit’s fluids better than any other messiah on the market.

As I switched off the radio with an image in my mind of that Gatorade commercial where they people are all sweating out phosphorescent liquids while exerting large amounts of physical effort. I pictured myself on a black-lit treadmill in hell and Jesus spilling blood in that T.V.-cool phosphorescent blood. Dark images of crucifixion and product placement… not a way to start the day.

Before long I expect to see t-shirts and bumper stickers that ask: Jesus… Is He in you?

Tonight I will change the radio back to Tejano. It will be better for all of us.

::: posted by Mike at 3:08 PM

Tuesday, September 16, 2003 :::
 

No work ethic... NO WORK ETHIC???

We are a hard working nation, no question about it. Sometimes to the detriment of our health, our relationships, even our own happiness we work more hours per worker than any other industrialized nation*. Still, there are people that question our work ethic, that question our ability to rise above economic adversity, to mortgage the joys of our lives, to give that little extra when we’ve already extra’ed ourselves into a standard 60 hour workweek.

Well I have news for the naysayers. I have a message for all the cynics that doubt our Gumption and possibly, though I have seen no actual reports that mention the word, our Moxie.

Last night at 9:30pm, in the dark of night, at an intersection that is so empty at that time of night that the lights all go to flashing red, I saw a panhandler with a sign begging for cash. You see…you see, even our bums are putting in the extra hours to fuel the machine of the American economy. Granted they will spend the money on microwavable burritos, cigarettes that barley meet the minimum levels the government require for carcinogenic products, and maybe a lottery ticket or bagged beer. But let me give you a lesson in economics folks:

That massed produced flash-frozen burrito from Minnesota will help keep the company alive that pays the guy who drives the Frozen Burrito forklift who will spend his paycheck on rent, food, and movie tickets that will help the movie studios continue to pay Ben Affleck millions of dollars so he can continue making the news for no reason whatsoever.
And those cigarettes… they will fund the executive who is paying for his kid’s education at an expensive four-year private college (one he was lucky to get into with his scores, that fuckin’ stoner) which will get the kid a good job at a corporation that will use its profits to pay for the luxury boxes and endorsements that keep Derek Jeter off the streets.
And the beer… well that will keep Coors in business so they can continue to fund those idiotic commercials that pay Kid Rock to walk around in that stupid hat that covers his balding head which will help him afford the routine maintenance on Pam Andy-Lee’s body which keeps the plastic surgery industry alive which makes the malpractice insurance companies thrive so they can pay for employees that buy microwavable burritos, cigarettes, beer, movie tickets, tuition for their dip-shit kids, aerosol cheese, Sprite Remix, and rap albums that FEATURE everyone from P-Diddy-Puff-The-Magic-Daddy to LyRiKal ExPloSion to the guy that was sweeping the studio floor when the Entourage (read: Esclade full of black guys in basketball jerseys with no contribution to the effort except for pointing at the camera and touching booty when they shoot the video) showed up.
The lottery tickets… I think they are supposed to pay for public education which has, to date, not been proven to have much impact at all on the economy.



* I don’t really have any idea if we work more hours per worker than anyone else. For all I know Luxembourg is the leader in worker hours, productivity, and aerosol cheese consumption. I cannot afford a research assistant to check facts like this out so I usually just make up my own stats figuring that if people wanted real economic facts and figures they would read the Wall Street Journal which would pretty much preclude them from being a regular visitor of this website.

::: posted by Mike at 8:27 AM

Thursday, September 11, 2003 :::
 

You Don't Bring Me Flowers... You Don't Sing Me Love Songs

I have gotten quite a lot of e-mail asking me where I have been and why I have not posted anything new for awhile (A special thanks to metalcat for filling in with some new material).

Well boys and girls, as it turns out I am about 12 days away from finishing my first novel. I haven't discussed the book that much (or at all) on Nosebleed or the website, but it has taken me the better part of the last three years to coax and tease down the path towards completion. I am very proud of what it has become since the first day I said to my self "self, that would be a decent idea for a book".

Writing a book is hard work. Don't let anybody tell you any different.

* You have these internal battles over control of your story, development of your ideas, and voices of your characters, all while you do your best not to let existing story, ideas, and voices influence the outcome of your work.

* There are times of pride- like when you break the 100 page mark knowing that of the 100% of people who start writing a book only 20% will hit page 100; 10% will hit 200; less than 5% will ever finish; (you forget much less than 1% will ever get the damn thing published), or when you realize that even if your work isn't the most remarkable thing every written you have the discipline to stay the course and give your best, even when your best might be a page here and there, and when you feel things click and fall into place better than if you would have maniacally planned them. These are good times.


* There are times of self-loathing- like when you doubt your every comma and you let your inspired flow of words get interrupted by when you should and when you should not use a fucking semi-colon. Or when you convince yourself that your ideas suck, your characters are flat and lack motivation, your lead characters fall short inspiring anything that resembles sympathy, you don't know proper paragraph structure, everyone who writes- even the guys who write the jacket summaries for books you hate- can write better than you, you have less than a 1% chance of getting published and then if you do the odds it will be through a big name publisher instead of some one-man operation in Fishkill, Kentucky are slimmer than your wife if she depended on your writing career as a means to feed herself... These are just a few of the bad times.

* You sacrifice time that could be spent reading, watching movies, going to social functions, sleeping, studying, thinking, working, eating, and working on your interpersonal relationships... like with your wife, who doesn't understand the big deal about some book and says that it shouldn't mean more to you than her.


Just a few of the many, many things a person goes through when they are trying to write a book. I am sure there are things I have not gone through that others have, and vice versa. During the writing of this book I have worked 50+ hours a week as a sales rep for IBM. I have been enrolled full-time in the Business Computer Information Systems program at The University of North Texas. I have gotten married and traveled to distant corners of the globe. So as I near the end - knowing there is no "end" really- I have put more and more of my waking hours, and a few of the sleepy ones, into completing this book because just the act of completion means something to me.

About the Book: The book is about a guy who grows up to realize there is no such thing as potential or luck, a woman who grows up to believe that the past does not ensure the future, fragmented personalities are not normal, and fame- no matter how dubious- doesn't fill in the spaces meant to be filled by careful affection. It is also about a man who realizes that money is the root of all importance but it doesn't make you relevant, and a man who has changed his face and name so many times but he truly believes there is no place like home... even if no one lives there anymore. Oh yeah, there are some hired killers, porn stars, and a guy from Texas named Banjo that plays almost no part in the story.

::: posted by Mike at 8:57 AM

Thursday, September 04, 2003 :::
 

So, I've been absent from this blog for awhile, but absence only makes the heart grow fonder, right?

I couldn't let this last entry pass without some commentary from me. There's been a news item here in the auspicious Triangle area that has pushed my buttons big time and it sort of falls in line with Mike's comments. Here's the scoop: imagine an over-achieving, pushy, arrogant 17-18 year old kid. Imagine that kid taking the much maligned SATs as he was preparing to enter college. Now, imagine the joy of his highly-involved (read: pushy/overbearing) parents when the kid scores a perfect 1600. The kid's heart's desire is to go to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill - hereafter to be known as "Carolina". So he applies early decision - for those who don't know, that's an early admissions process where you apply very early in your senior year and commit to the University if you're accepted. Of course, the admissions board at Carolina are falling all over themselves to admit this kid who single-handedly becomes a recruiting statistic just by virtue of the fact that he scores a perfect 1600 on the SAT. He's admitted. They send him the standard "hey, don't fuck up for the rest of the year and you're in like Flynn" letter. He receives the letter, sends his cash, and there is much rejoicing.

Flash forward to the end of the school year and the aforementioned over-achieving, pushy, arrogant kid has now officially fucked up. Royally. Grades dropped. Attendance dropped. Now the kid's asked to come to an interview with an admittance official for Carolina where he's asked to explain himself. Evidently, the kid mumbled some philosophical bullshit and evades the question. So. Guess what? Admission is withdrawn. LET THE LITIGATION BEGIN!

Now the under-achieving, unmotivated, uninspiring kid's highly-involved (read: opportunistic) parent is suing Carolina because they kicked their kid out on his keister!! But when the media report the story, all you hear is "Student with perfect SAT score refused admission to Carolina" - or - "Parents Sue Carolina Over Admission Denied Admission of Perfect SAT Score Student" - or - "Hurrican Fabian Nears East Coast While Student With Perfect SAT Score Watches Toonami All Day in Parent's Living Room Because He Smoked Too Much Weed or Whatever". *Okay, I made that last one up. But you get my point.*

The only reason that the SAT is even mentioned is because it's the common denominator for the largest audience. Most people that read the rags that laughingly pass for newspapers around here could barely even get their name right on the SAT, much less a perfect score. There's no controversy here, dammit! The kid was told what had to happen and STILL screwed it up. End of story. There's no need to feed us the line about the SAT except to create opposing opinions when there are none. Hope he gets his ass handed to him in court.

IN OTHER NEWS

Did you know that the Ikea catalog has now eclipsed the Bible as the book with the highest number of copies in print? There's a certain happy justice in that. Maybe there's a way to corner the market. "In my father's house there are many rooms furnished with the Rakke chest with five drawers and accented with the Marienta yarn rug.

::: posted by MetalCat at 1:37 PM

Tuesday, August 19, 2003 :::
 

When controversy is not controversy...

I hate to get all Mr. Dictionary* on you, but I think its time we take a break to establish the meaning of the word controversy.

1. A dispute, especially a public one, between sides holding opposing views. See Synonyms: argument.

2. The act or practice of engaging in such disputes: writers skilled at controversy.

So, after reading this definition you can see there is a commonality between them, namely a dispute or the clashing of opposing viewpoints. Faction One thinks Miller Lite is less filling, which makes the blood of Faction Two boil over because they have lab-tested proof that it tastes great. You've got two or more factions, opposing suppositions, and vocalization of said difference. Add it all up and you got yourself a controversy.

Important to note here... if you do not satisfy these criteria you have no controversy. I will give you an example.

Fox television wants you to watch a television show. They produce the show and then set about selling advertisement space in that show's time slot. Media buyers need to be sure that there is going to be enough eyeballs on the screen to justify the big bucks they will have to spend. Fox wants to make sure there will be enough Nielsen eyeballs watching so they can show media buyers that the dollars are justified. Problem... the show sucks and other than people who would rather watch bad T.V. than do something meaningful with themselves, nobody is going to be tuning in. So... Fox has two choices. They can tell the media buyers "you know, this show really kinda sucks, you might want to consider buying ad time on a program that people will watch, maybe one of those reality-dating-'meet my parents'-'eat poisonous cockroaches'-'you stole my boyfriend, you slut'-'it's a game and you gotta play strategy' kind of shows that seems so popular these days." The other option is to take the money and shamelessly hype the show in such a way that you feel like you will be missing a major event in the evolution of the human race, one that will be debated by historians as the exact moment in the development of our species where we shifted into a higher state of consciousness. Enter the "controversy"

T.V. marketing folks are the biggest repeat offenders. They like to call shows about reasonably benign issues or topics controversial in order to make the program appear more interesting or groundbreaking. The hope here is to drive more Nielsen eyeballs to the tube...etc, etc. This tactic has always seemed rather odd to me considering that, for the most part, episodes of TV shows that are not re-runs (the only times Nielsen eyes really matter) have never been seen and are airing for the first time. This sort of violates the criteria of controversy because no one has seen the episode. A critic or two, maybe, but those guys are mostly frustrated wannabe TV-writers who could never get the pilot episode of their Serial Killer Sitcom made so they are more likely going to be focused on picking the show apart with a snooty "I could do better" as the sub-text. They are not really on the lookout for controversy. So where's the second faction? Where is the opposing viewpoint that says "Hey, you can't do that on Television you pack of Godless liberals?" Nowhere, there is no second faction, just a room full of TV marketing copywriters with zero skill to innovate that think by attaching the label of "controversial" people will tune in.

Here's a hint: if you are being sold a controversy, there is no controversy. Real controversy finds its way to you and doesn't need the disembodied voice of a network announcer to foretell its arrival.

* Mr. Dictionary( or Ms to be fair) is that person who starts out speeches, impassioned pleas, or advertisements for grocery stores with the terribly tacky "Mr. Webster defines 'blank' as 'blank'. For reasons that escape me they think that this is witty and charming. It's really dumb-talk not to mention ineloquent.

::: posted by Mike at 9:13 AM

Monday, August 11, 2003 :::
 

A Note About Your Children...

WARNING: I do not have children. I am not a parent. I have never gone through the associated actions of conception, gestation, labor, or birth. I do not possess the biological imperative at this point in my life to copulate with the intention to procreate. I don’t like the sounds of crying, I don’t like getting up early on weekends, I don’t like being anchored and unable to travel on a whim, and I do not like being strapped for cash. As of the writing of this post I am 29, childless, and selfish, selfish, selfish. I do not wish to share my home, my time, my wife, or my cash with a being of dubious and intermittent joy that requires me to deny myself the things I want. So, if you are a parent and you think that you are to be afforded some kind of special dispensation because you have managed an act that any crack-addicted welfare case can do, you are reading the wrong website and you should probably close your browser now- or at the very least go to some website that is all about parenting- because I will likely offend you and cause you to spew forth the same admonishment and self-important mantra that comes falling out of your face every time someone without a child objects to your fascination, obsession, and idol-worship of your children… you’ll understand when YOU have kids. Translation: when you finally experience the miracle that is childbirth, when you finally join the ranks of PARENT you hedonistic, self-obsessed, non-contributor, then YOU will UNDERSTAND just how important the CHILDREN are to the FUTURE. Well, my answer to that is… BULLSHIT. You and Whitney go sell that self-evidencing “children are the future” crap to the same people who listen to Celine Dion and take their babies to the J C Penny photo studio every time it grows a new strand of fucking hair, because I’m not buyin’ it…

Ok, that being said let me explain something to you. Few people give a shit about your children. Statistically, if you took the whole of the population and compared it with the number of people that actually give a shit about YOUR children, the resulting infinitesimal decimal of minute and meaningless data would be rounded down to zero. It’s the same as you, the same as me. Using the same methodology, I am not particularly loved. You are not all that special, either. And most of us don’t campaign on the assumption that people would love us if they were only properly exposed to the greatness of us. We just simply stick to the folks that we know give a shit about us and we call it a day. Kids should be no different.

The only people who really and truly want to see your children are people you know very well, and even then, there are rules to exposure. Random strangers, folks at the office, people you might have known casually but haven’t had a real conversation of substance with in a long time, if ever, these people do not care about what your kids look like, talk like, the CUTE anything they DO, the CUTE anything they say, or how advanced they are compared to some chart complied with data of retarded baby monkeys just to make parents feel better. News Flash: Doctors lie. They need your insurance dollars to pay for their boat and the tits on the mistress, so they will tell the obsessive parent over-reaching for validation and praise that their baby is smarter, taller, more advanced, better adjusted, and more acutely aware than any child in history. They lie to you, they lied to the parent before you, and they will lie to at least five more parents before their tee time after lunch.

Now all of this goes DOUBLE for all the parents out there that have thought it a real keen thing to do to use their children in advertising their company. They have somehow misunderstood the power of children to sell. First of all, it has to be a kid-related product. Babies that sell diapers: O.K. Toddlers that sell juice for toddlers: O.K. But kids that sell fixed rate mortgages, variable rate life insurance, minivans, pharmaceuticals directed at the curing of crotch rot, trips to anyplace that is not Disney World, or financial services for lifestyle or estate planning: NOT O.K. Second, you can’t use YOUR children! You are the only person who considers your children cute, talented, or engaging enough to shill products. Everyone else just thinks they are ugly, talentless children in an ill-fitting situation. Leave this kind of work to that breed of super-children bred to advertise and who know that if they fail to achieve the required emotional level to sell medicated foot powder their mommy won’t love them anymore.

Truth is my parents loved me. They never worshiped me, idolized me, and often didn’t even know my whereabouts most of the time. They did not center their existence on whether or not I was adequately entertained. I got no birthday parties. I never had a professional picture taken of me that wasn’t that once a year picture arranged by the school. I never got to pick what we watched on TV. I was never told I was special. I was never told that I was a miracle of the womb. They loved me, taught me right from wrong, and instilled me with virtues consistent with the social mores of America. End of duty, job, and responsibility.

Ok, That’s it. Tune in for more child-ranting when I bring you the segment called “Brand Name Babies” where I ruthlessly attack parents who name their children these vapid all-sound-the-same names in an attempt to seem fashionable. Case in point, 2002 saw several million little children named Tyler, Austin, Madison, Katelin, and assorted other Baby Brand names and nobody named their kid Bob or Deb.

::: posted by Mike at 10:43 AM

Friday, May 09, 2003 :::
 

My Pain Hurts Worse Than Your Pain.

What an anthem this is for the human experience. All you have to do is sample about 10 conversations throughout your day and you will notice a disturbing formula at work. I call this formula "Your Pain Plus One".

It is really simple math. Behold:
1. Primary Pain (converser #1)
2. Obligatory Acknowledgment of Stated Pain. (converser #2)
3. Passive Turnover of Control of Pain Topic. (converser #2)
4. Obligatory Acknowledgment of Secondary Pain (pain plus one).(converser #1)
5. Active Turnover of Control of Pain Topic or new heightened Pain Topic. (converser #1)
6. Repeat Steps 2-5 until conversation terminates or new Converser joins conversation at which points scorecards drop back to Zero and start at Step 1.

Of course there are variations to this formula but, as with most theorems, it generally holds true.

Sometimes we see Pain Plus One at work in non-conversational venues. For example: Last night the Channel 8 news at 10:00 started off with the story of the tornados in Okalahoma yesterday afternoon that damaged many homes and businesses as well as injuring over 100 and leaving thousands without electricity. The teleprompter twink read the Pain Stats (STEP 1), expressed TV compassion for the victims (STEP 2a), showed video of the Oklahoma Governor using all the buzzwords of crisis (tragedy, hearts and prayers, etc.) (STEP2b), and then they immediately started talking about the terrible tornados in Texas' past (RETURN TO STEP ONE AND HOLD)! It was shameless the way they used some blood and guts footage of our northern neighbors as a springboard to talk about how bad "our" tornados were. Our past pain is worse than your current pain...case closed.

Listen for the formula being engaged around you and it might change the way you have conversations. Or not...

::: posted by Mike at 7:02 AM

Wednesday, April 30, 2003 :::
 

The Unicycle: A Most Desperate Cry For Attention.

Believe it or not, sitting down to write the kinds of things posted on this website takes some inspiration. Yes, it’s true, these little nuggets of half-baked philosophy and commentary don’t always come pouring forth whenever I sit opposite the blank white screen of my computer. Truth is most writers imagine themselves to be shepherds of random and wandering words each of which, if arranged just so, make up significant ideas. We see ourselves as these forensic artists that detect, cull, and strain trace amounts of genius from the garbage and static of what makes up our conscience lives. It is a process- start to finish- regardless of how it is done. And sometimes we require a little nudge from the world.

I am always looking for things that draw parallels. I find there to be tremendous power in analogy and metaphor. There are no situations that stand alone and beyond comparison. There are always lines and in these lines come lessons. Writing has never been anything greater than that. It is about drawing associations, telling stories with universal themes, and about articulating ideas in terms with which the reader can identify while scarcely being able to duplicate it. No big secret here, it’s just the way things are.

Here’s the part about the Unicycle. I am certain you were wondering where the hell this sermonizing was going.

Yesterday I was walking across the University North Texas campus and I saw something that just bothered the hell out of me. There I was, walking along and minding my own business when along comes a guy on a fucking unicycle. A FUCKING UNICYCLE… It took a moment of watching this hippie awkwardly pedal himself down the sidewalk before I realized what I was really seeing. In that moment before realization is where inspiration comes from. It is in that moment we draw the lines that make what we see turn into what we say.

I used that moment to ponder the practical application of the Unicycle in modern day transportation.

FACTS:
(~) A Unicycle doesn’t go any faster than a standard issue bicycle.
(~) A Unicycle doesn’t get more inches of travel per revolution of the pedals.
(~) A Unicycle certainly doesn’t afford any additional mobility or maneuverability should an untimely pothole, rabid Bichon Frise, or junkie with an AIDS infected needle suddenly block your path.
(~) A Unicycle is not any easier to learn than a bicycle. In fact, I would contend that a Unicycle requires a higher degree of skill, time, and commitment than its two-wheeled counterpart.

I ran these facts through the thought-shredder and on the other side I saw what I was supposed to see: the desperate cry for attention. This guy was not trying to get from point A to point B. He wasn’t heading home from UNT’s Building of Clown Studies where he is majoring in Unicycle Techniques and Methodologies. This guy just wanted some attention. He just wanted someone, anyone, to look outside their self-involved world of drama and nightmares and say to themselves, “Hey, there’s something you don’t see everyday, a guy on a fucking unicycle!”.

Then I started to think about the people. The people we all work with and live with and eat with and sleep with that just want a little attention. My company is full of them. People who rant, or rave, or bitch, or scream, or politick, or kick ass, or kiss ass, or repose in the tragedy or violence of others…they all just want to be noticed. They are just not as flagrant in their wants as the guy on the Unicycle.

It started out as an outrage. How dare this selfish hippie try to pull me out of my ritual of self-celebration and narcissism just to validate his choice of single-wheeled transportation? But after I squelched the desire to push the dirty hippie off the unicycle into a pile of broken limbs and burnt hash stink, I realized that I drew a line. And after I draw the line, after my make the association, after I learn the lesson…I move on.

That having been said, Unicycles are pretty stupid means of self-transport.

::: posted by Mike at 5:58 PM

Monday, April 07, 2003 :::
 

Roll Call Of The Honorable Dead.

I do not need to know their names. I do not need to know that their hometown of Nowhere, Kansas won’t be the same without them. I do not need to see pictures of uniformed and dough-eyed soldiers. I do not need to hear the sobbing of parents and siblings; of wives and children. I do not need to know their life passions or the way they would like to be remembered. I do not need recollections of their past conquests, achievements, or milestones. I do not need to know the opinions of their friends. And I do not need to be reminded that each name is a life interwoven with the complexities of human interaction.

I need to know they died in the pursuit of their mission. I need to know that their mission is just. I need to know that their death was not in vain. I need to reconcile the actions of force with the consequences of action. I need to know that the names will not be used as statistics to settle irrelevant debates nor be marked with asterisks on the roll call of the honorable dead…fallen soldiers of meaningless conflict. And I need to know that we are not playing favorites with the dead.

::: posted by Mike at 8:53 AM

Friday, February 28, 2003 :::
 

Yet another Reality TV Rant.

I long for a return to the days of formula television sitcoms with recycled punchlines and homogenized shtick and desperately melodramatic shows about girl lawyers and bad boy doctors. I know I hated it then, I know I called television a wasteland of hacks who failed to become the All-American novelist, but God I miss those days.

These days TV is too real, and I am not using real as the root to reality. I am using real as a synonym for ugly. Here’s the truth kids, like it or not, real people are ugly. Real people are vain, vapid, and vulgar. Real people are a breathing ensemble of text-book psychological defects accessorized with the occasional personality disorder. Real people- like the ones we work with, the ones we sleep with, the ones used to know but now are just glad to be free of them- are all breathtaking catastrophes making the same mistakes with the same good intentions, telling the same lie, and dying the same death. That is what is so damn great about television and movies…they are not fucking real!

It will take awhile to return to the bad old days of television. The primetime train wreck and human-derailment is far from grinding to a bloody and total stop. We are due a few more brides and bachelors, another throng of pop stars and wannabe actors, and I am sure we haven’t see the last of people who will ingest disgusting animal parts for the promise of a quick buck. So for now, we are stuck with them. Until the short attention span of our nation’s watching public finally gets bored watching people do the things today that tomorrow will require therapy, the collective programming schedule of the networks is set.

But I leave you with this…If you watch it, please enjoy it. Watch every episode, every commercial, and when it is all done talk about it with your friends, priests, and morning talk show hosts. But for Christ’s sake don’t bitch about it. Don’t waste away hours of your life watching emotionally defective people search for true love, or eat goat testicles, or sing disco songs off key only to turn around and bitch about it. The networks are giving you what you want. The very least you can do is shut your mouth, buy the products advertised, and cease in having an opinion of your very own.

::: posted by Mike at 3:43 PM

 

And another thing...

Since we are on the subject of obligatory blessings from total strangers for very unremarkable deeds, can you explain why every transient homeless guy with access to a Sharpie and a rectangular piece of cardboard thinks that his odds of getting some cash out of me dramatically improve just because he signs off his message of help and need with the painfully obvious "God Bless"? Does the average panhandler really think that a two word reminder about God, the accountability to our fellow man, and the practice of selfless acts is going to inspire the spirit of roadside giving? It doesn't matter where you go in this country, wherever there is an intersection, an interstate highway, and a steady flow of middle-class commuters, there will be a guy with a fucking sign trying to separate you from your cash using the oldest marketing ploy in history- religion- to send you on a wallet-emptying guilt trip.

::: posted by Mike at 3:42 PM

Friday, February 21, 2003 :::
 

Love In An Elevator

Either the idea of quick satisfaction and sex with strangers appeals to people in my age group, or advertisers are just running out of ideas to sell products.

While flipping through the cables channels from my hotel room in Richmond Virginia this week, I saw the same commercial for Michelob Light 5 or 6 times where a young, attractive couple go from flirting glances to sex in the elevator in about as long as it takes most people to clean the lint trap in their clothes dryer. These kids moved fast. Of course you didn’t actually see the sex, just the rumpled clothing and the tangled just-fucked hairdos of the two as they exit the elevator into the hotel bar where they order a Michelob and then go their separate ways. No relationships, no commitments, just the exchange a few floors worth of 98.7-degree lust and body fluids.

This reminded me of the other commercial they still run occasionally for AXE deodorants where the stereotypical accountant or software engineer nerd uses this body spray and when a pretty girl gets on the elevator she gives him “I’m going to screw you until your eyes sink into your skull and the balls of your femurs break off in you hip sockets” look. As with the Michelob commercial you don’t actually see the sex here either, but you do see her straighten her dress down around her supple and recently throttled body. The sex, as with most advertising, is in the assumption. That’s how advertising works, by stopping just short of saying that if you shell out the cash for the product you will get extreme results.

I have gotten used to the regular usage of thematic concepts in advertising. Women in tampon ads usually engage in activities that show off how free and mobile they are even with half a bail of cotton placed strategically in their crotch. Prescription drugs for depression or anxiety show people having more fun than passengers on a strip-sex-free-ecstasy/Viagra sailing of the Love Boat. And we all know that someone taking an allergy medicine should be able to windsurf on fields of wheat without so much as a sniffle. So I have gotten used to these themes. But a theme is different than reused situation. Saying hot people will spontaneously screw you if you use a particular product is a theme I can understand, but localizing it to elevators shows a lack or creative skills and effort.

::: posted by Mike at 9:57 AM

Wednesday, February 19, 2003 :::
 

What’s God Got To Do With It?
or
The Theocratic Milkshake
or
Dragging Christ Through The Chocolate Cream Pie

When I sat down to write this post I couldn’t decide on an appropriate title. This concerned me because the titles of these posts are the headlines, they are the teaser, they are the thing that will make someone sit down and invest a moment or two of their time to read the baseless and largely uneducated rants of a guy who just pretends to have something worth listening to. So the fact that this single event from the other day didn’t hit me in face with a all-encompassing, interesting, and invigorating title made me think that maybe I shouldn’t waste my time or yours. But, as you can see, I went against my little voice and wrote it anyway and included all three titles as my way of cluing you into the fact that when you read Societal Nosebleed, you are reading a second-rate web journal rather than Pulitzer Prize winning commentary.

The other day my buddy Miller and I went to lunch. We went and had a burger at Clyde’s Old Fashion Hamburgers in Lewisville where we ate double cheeseburgers and bitched about contradictions that make up our working lives. As always, lunch was good. But afterwards, on the way back to the office, I deluded myself into thinking that I was a decent person who deserved some type of reward. I am not the “washing the feet of the impoverished” kind of guy but I’m still not the “practicing the dark arts to give my enemies colon cancer” guy either, which makes me, at the very least, eligible for a Chocolate Cream Pie Shake from Sonic.

This is as simple a transaction as can be performed. Hit the button, place an order for said Chocolate Cream Pie Shake, when it arrives give them $2.14, and leave two bucks poorer, but feeling like you got something far better by comparison to you silly money and that you just pulled the biggest con of all time. It has worked this way for as long as Sonic has been in business.

As you would imagine, the transaction didn’t go quite so smoothly. If it had, I would have gone back to work with my Chocolate Cream Pie Shake and that would be it. This was not the normal transaction as described above. This one was soured and all because some guy, some ultra-Christian, some There-Before-The-Grace-Of-God-Cheeseburgers-And-Blended-Milkshakes-Go-I decided it would be a good idea to interject Christ into the transaction.

Tell me…what does God have to do with my milkshake? With all the other things that you would expect the master deity of all creation to be worried about, why do you think this guy decided that it would be an reasonable thing to do to have God take a moment to bless me and protect me from the ills of this shit scary world where there are as many ways to die as there are kisses in Hershey, Pennsylvania just because I gave him $2.14 for a fucking milkshake??? With all the babies being killed in gang crossfire, all the tensions in the Middle East over disputed homelands; the military build up in Iraq, the rock-n-roll dictator in North Korea who wants his own brand of nukes, the erosive effects of class warfare; the proliferation of anti-everything extremists, and the popularity of Joe Millionaire, don’t you think that God has a few more important things to do than bless some guy who buys a milkshake just because some jerk-off in an apron with a lifetime membership in “Young Life” or the “Young Christians for a Better American Without Topless Bars and Urges That Make My Penis A Bad Little Boy” calls out “God Bless You” for every half-assed occasion that doesn’t even register as a blip on the radar of human compassion and kindness…things truly un-blessworthy? Why drag Christ right through the center of my milkshake just because someone thinks they need to tidy up my spiritual space?

Ok…that’s done. God Bless You for reading Societal Nosebleed. Please come again.

::: posted by Mike at 11:39 AM

Friday, February 07, 2003 :::
 

CORPORATE WILDLIFE: Referenda Seinfelda.

This member of the corporate community is a member of the “hanger” family of conversationalist. It is parasitic in nature and only attaches itself to the conversations around it using one tool: The Seinfeld Reference.

Referenda Seinfelda has seen every episode of Seinfeld. It knows them front to back and has extensively catalogued them for applicability to life and business situations. Referenda Seinfelda makes no attempt to share its own thoughts and feelings on a given subject it only acquiesces to the superior wisdom and lessons of the prophets George, Kramer, Elaine, and Jerry. There is no situation that cannot be tied back to a Seinfeld episode, no instance - no matter how complex or challenging- that cannot be cross-related to the show. A true Referenda Seinfelda will not relent until it can reduce and compartmentalize all the actions and conversational elements in a given setting to a Seinfeld reference.

WARNING: Referenda Seinfelda will assume that you are as familiar with the content and lessons of the show as it is, perhaps chiding you for “not getting it”.

Common Segues Include:
* “Doesn’t that remind you of the time George…”
* “Remember when Kramer…”
* “That almost as funny as when Jerry…”

and the most annoying song of the Referenda Seinfelda:
“Did you see the Seinfeld where…”

::: posted by Mike at 11:44 AM

Friday, January 31, 2003 :::
 

NEW TYPE OF POSTING: Corporate Wildlife

As many of you know, I work for a big company. And in a big company you have the pleasure- as well as displeasure- of working with a variety of individuals. But after a while, regardless of your preferences and prejudices, you find that most people fall into one of only a handful of categories in the way they act in their professional life. I want to share some of my observations about what I have seen in my walks through the corporate wilderness. Each posting of this nature will be short and appear as below. Enjoy

CORPORATE WILDLIFE: Authoritus Immedias.

Found in most job titles and capacities, this animal is identifiable by language (both verbal and non-verbal) and attitudes that indicate they know exactly what you are talking about no matter how specialized the subject or how late they joined the conversation. Authoritus Immedias cannot be told of news or announcements because it already knows. Authoritus Immedias cannot be asked a question to which it does not have an immediate, well crafted, and seemingly legitimate response. When questioned about any areas of any subject matter, Authoritus Immedias will not fail to deliver an answer and deliver it in such a way that it can’t believe that everybody doesn’t know this very simple thing.

WARNINGS:

Authoritus Immedias does not know what it is talking about a large percentage of the time. It simply has mastered the biological phenomenon of bovine excrementia.

Authoritus Immedias is indigenous to all parts of society and not strictly limited to large corporations. Other popular gathering grounds for Authoritus Immedias are family reunions, on-line chat rooms, and talent pools for reality TV shows.

::: posted by Mike at 1:40 PM

 

//mikehaddon.com/nosebleed/submit.asp?101>!!

::: posted by Mike at 1:18 PM

Thursday, January 30, 2003 :::
 

More of a Whore Than Before

For the record it disturbs me that I am going to talk at length about reality television…

Kelly watches the Bachelorette. This is not really unusual as a lot of women in this country watch the show. No surprise here. One need only take a sample of the advertisers who buy time on the program to understand that its market audience is woman between the ages of 18 – 36. A look at a few commercials and you get the impression that this is a key demographic for everything from smell-good soaps and lotions to whatever revolutionary advances have been made in the feminine hygiene industry. Frankly I think the women consumers of America are motivated by more than soaps and tampons, but who am I to question ad buyers?

Most women I have talked to look at this installment of the reality show as the woman’s revenge. It turns the tables on the sexist premise that lined up a throng of young women who fought, connived, and sometimes slept their way to the prize. And they have a soft spot for this girl who was dumped by the guy who chose the girl with the bigger chest who put out more. This time it was the woman’s turn to reduce the men to a pack of drooling hounds in the glare of prime time television.

I watched a few episodes of the first segment and came away embarrassed at the lengths of self-humiliation that these women would go to just to win the acceptance of a total stranger. I have long believed that humans lose 60 IQ points when you either put them in groups or turn a camera on them. This assertion held true as these women- women who looked as if they would have no problem getting normal guys in normal ways- each kept trading more and more of their self respect just to win the affections of a spoiled, vapid and boyish wannabe actor. And in the end, just like at frat parties and high school prom nights, this guy picked the girl who gave sex. It had nothing to do with spirit, intellect, honesty, trust, integrity, or any of the other words that were thrown around trying out-stink the bullshit.

So along comes Trista. Dismissed, rejected, and alienated Trista. She was a fan favorite and after several weeks of matching her competition blow by bloody blow in an uncomfortable pageant of emotional neediness, she got dumped because she couldn’t take that last step and close the deal for a worthless prize. Even though she spent those weeks selling short her charms and grace as woman, essentially whoring out her emotions, it was good so see that she had some dignity left.

So she comes back to ABC and this time, it’s personal. The ads even said that she was going to get her revenge!

I have only seen about one hour total time of this particular installment. I can hear the TV from my office at home when Kelly is watching it. And I have to tell you, I don’t have to see it to hear that it is the same brand of melodrama as the first, only this time it is a bunch of poofy men talking about their feelings and their needs in the disingenuous noise of rehearsed speeches. And amidst this cacophony of stock one-liner emotional-nothing statements (“I really want to get past your wall”; “I’m a man who is afraid of getting hurt”) this girl is sucking face with the lot of them.

Bottom line is that this is still America and, regardless of the progressiveness of our society in some areas, old values are hard to lose. The same double standards still apply. A man can sleep around and suffers no injury to his image. And if a woman hangs all over multiple men over the course of one tightly edited hour of television, she is still a tramp. I didn’t make this rule and I feel bad that this girl has about 3 months of usefulness left. In the end, regardless of the outcome, she will still be that girl who tried to find a husband on network TV. Twice.

Sad thing is…I don’t think she is smart enough to realize that there is no revenge in making yourself uglier.

::: posted by Mike at 1:58 PM

 

Echoes in the Hole

It’s not hard to find things to write about in New York City. That has everything to do with the fact that, for a writer, the place is equal parts hype, mystique, and energy. But, unfortunately, it has nothing to do with actual talent.

I am reluctant to draw influence and ideas from a walk in New York. Partly because I think that most of the things I see aren’t real anyway. Most people you notice for any duration are usually people who just want to be noticed. And to me there is no inspiration when the muse solicits her favors for a few moments of half-distracted attention. Whenever I see a guy dressed from head to toe in Christmas lights or a seven foot black man with a rhinestone eye-patch and a “Fuck The Police” Dashiki, I ask myself just how many journals, poems, and half-assed weblogs they will be gracing tonight imitating true inspiration.

A few Saturdays ago, Kelly and I were on our way downtown and decided to take the subway. It was bitter cold in the hole, but we were out of the cutting wind. There we stood with about 35 or 40 people all bundled up and waiting for the number 9 train. As is usually the case, the hole was filled with the sounds of a weekend performer playing old standards on his guitar getting love and applause in the form of unwanted pocket change.

The number 9 was running a bit behind schedule so we stood in silence, each of us trying to ignore one another and fight off the steady rhythm of the man with the guitar. We each stared into the abyss where the trains come out. Then without warning, and certainly without the permission, Mr. Guitar and three complete strangers starting singing in perfect three part harmony and old Eagles song. It wasn’t rehearsed. These people didn’t know each other. They just felt compelled to sing. Without a care in the world they sang and a few of the larger crowd joined. They just sang and in doing so they fill that dark hole, one made up of people who had had the title of “audience” thrust upon them when this because an actual musical number, with the most melodious echoes to ever grace the abyss.

When the song was over, the audience clapped. One of the strangers who made up this makeshift quartet threw a few bucks in Mr. Guitar’s bucket. He said “Man! That was great. I should give you guys some money,” to which everyone laughed.

A few minutes later the tardy Number 9 train hit the station and as fast as we all become acquainted by song we went our separate ways so that we could write about this New York moment in our journals, poems, and half-assed weblogs.

::: posted by Mike at 12:01 AM

Wednesday, January 29, 2003 :::
 

Low Ratings Suicide

The secrets to life are far and few between. We catch lucky breaks from time to time when we actually get it. Both the proverbial and cliché come into focus in our world-facing viewfinder and we’re clear about our usefulness and purpose. These moments sneak up on us sometimes and other times we see them far off, a wall of screaming red that signifies a traffic jam eight miles ahead. Sometimes we manage to take leave our logical and mind-narrowing senses because we’re in love, or we’ve taken a pill, or we have a full tank of gas, a twenty dollar bill in our pocket, and a 16 song CD in the dash that we could let play on until morning.

Sometimes we just get it. But other times we don’t.

A few months back they had to shut the highway down due to a suicide. I’ll be the first to admit that as far a venues go for suicide, an interstate highway is a peculiar locale. Usually, meaning statically, this kind of thing is done in a secluded place, at home or where the person feels most at ease. This is the final and most desperate point in their failure. Not a thing the damaged psyche feels compelled to advertise. But on occasion a person will transmit their last broadcast and say goodnight to Gracie at an ex’s house or some other symbolic setting- sometimes as revenge or as the last word. That’s what happened in this case.

Rather than going out isolated and leaving an awkwardly worded confession of self-recrimination, this guy decided to hack at himself mercilessly standing over I-35 on the overpass. After spilling his blood in this violent attempt at autoerasure, he jumped into the steady flow of afternoon drive traffic where he was hit several times and died on the scene. No further details necessary.

That night I went home and watched the news: nothing, no mention. The next day I looked in the Dallas Morning News: no mention, no press. And while I did not expect expanded coverage where the school chums and the girl he took to senior prom were interviewed about what kind of guy he was, I did expect him to get some publicity. With a machine as fiercely ravenous for blood and guts as our media is, I expected this guy who took his suicide to the highway just before rush hour would get at least an honorable mention. Something for the working stiffs to read and comment about how the most difference that the guy ever made to the world was making someone get home late for dinner.

Death is sad enough, but when no one notices…

If a tree falls in the woods and no one hears it die does anybody care?

::: posted by Mike at 9:20 AM