Dies Natalis Solis Invicti - the Unconquered Sun God

I'm came here with the full intention of doing some work. Budding novelist and all that rot. But I find myself unusually distracted tonight. Normally I can find a disconnect between myself and the chaos around me in this place. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I focus on my music and began to let the words flow. It sucks because I have work to do. A lot of it. I have an FMLA primer to put together. I have a first drafted novel to perfect and sell to you! I have other stories to outline and build on.
Today the crush of human beings here seems to have decimated my focus. I keep looking up from my work to gaze at the throngs of people surging beneath me. There are so many people here today. I see familiar faces moving through the crowds here and there. More are unfamiliar. None familiar enough for me to break from my tasks.
What strikes me most is the apparent unhappiness of most everyone here. No one is smiling. The mall is full of impassive, bag toting zombies. This humongous space is almost completely devoid of laughter. Loud, but more of an angry buzz than a happy chatter. I see people carrying bright bags of what I assume are gifts given the season. They spill over with ribbons and tissue paper. The most smiles I see dot the line to sit on Santa's lap. Smiling expectant faces, waiting to see the big guy. Also irritated harried faces that want to hurry and get more shopping done. A few fearful faces worried about getting so close to that strange guy. A few more faces still young, but wizening to the truth about the jolly face behind the beard.
Tis' the season, right?
I came up in a household that did not celebrate Christmas. I, somewhat ashamedly admit now, that when I was a child I was the slayer of Santa Claus for many elementary school aged children. I thought that they should be freed from the lies told them by the parents their whole lives. Curiously, none of them were as grateful as I expected them to be. Unless they were sobbing with gratitude. The truth is the truth and the truth is - There is no Santa Claus sucka'. You're being lied to, bamboozled, hoodwinked! The man is keeping you down with the big lie. Naughty list indeed! I call bull-puckey on the naughty list. Show me my name! I mean, to kids, that is the big lie. What a revolution I wanted to lead. Kindergarteners for the Liberation from the List! KLL for short.
Even through all of that I was always slightly envious of what seemed to be the whole world's happiness at Christmas. Most of the world seemed so brighten at Christmastime. I guess looking back on it that it might have just been that as I was surrounded by Children, most of the people in my life were free from the most stressful parts of the season. Gift giving had little or nothing to do with shopping and more to do with what crafts could be cobbled together from the stores of the art supplies at school.
"Oh, a macaroni sunset on blue construction paper, WITH cottonball clouds - thanks son. What a masterpiece?! Can never have too many of these!"
"Another ash tray, paper weight mug … thing! It wonderful baby! One day you'll be rich turning these things out."
Gift receiving on the other hand…
Relatives coming to stay were a welcome diversion. You got to see cousins you missed and had so much fun playing with. You didn't have to worry about feeding more mouths or making a place for people to stay.
In that depressed coal dust saturated town, we kids never realized that most parent dug a pit of debt that it would take till just about next Christmastime to dig out of to make the holiday happen. They never grasped what they were truly being given. So they were happy. Parents worked and sweated and suffered and some fat dead guy got all of the credit.
Knowing the truth, I still used to dread that question, "What did you get for Christmas?" The heat of shame would flash under my collar immediately, creeping up my neck and across my face.
I always replied that I didn't get anything because we didn't celebrate, but that it didn't matter to me because we got presents year round instead of just once a year. That was a lie, which I know was wrong, but it was the only way to avoid the gasps of shock and the pity that would come when I didn't elaborate.
I didn't want my parents to be looked at as bad parents, because they weren't. "But don't you miss Christmas?" - How do you miss something you never had?
Well, not that I'm all growed up, I see things a bit differently. First, I could give a floops fooglies about what most people think of what I do and don't observe. I still don't "celebrate" I suppose , but I do… participate. I'll never put up a tree or decorate my house. I won't go caroling (though I might from time to time be swept up into singing one of those catchy tunes that soak into the fabric of the society at this time) and I won't be asking any kids what Santa's bringing him/her this or any year.
I also won't be ruining Christmas for anymore little kids or encouraging anyone else to do so. I don't think parent should lie to their kids but it doesn't involve me. (But really, wouldn't you rather take the credit for all the work and money you spend. Wouldn't you rather your kids fear your naughty or nice list?) I also will buy presents for my friends and loved ones that do celebrate. I don't see the problem with putting a smile on their faces. I'm a great gift giver I think. I'll even enjoy the presents I get! (PS3, PS3, PS3!)
This far along, there aren't many people left that have the illusion that Jesus' birthday was December 25. Some people know about the pagan origins surrounding the date and the way that it was chosen to placate Christians and ease the marrying of disparate religions and unite people. Long ago the reason for the season was one to celebrate the winter solstice and at least three pagan Gods. I'll always be happy to have been on the leading edge of that knowledge. I think people should know the origins of what they do. They should understand to the best of their ability what they revere.
To me that makes it all about something else completely. To me it's about people. The people I love. It's time for me to demonstrate my love for them in some way. I guess how I do that depends on my situation. It could be the time I lavish them with presents and gifts thoughtfully and painstakingly selected. Mostly, it's the time that I carve out time to spend with them and let them know face to face how much I care about them.
I'll hope that the massive crush of people at the mall will as they walk from store to store searching for gifts to give, take a moment to think about the people they are shopping for. Not just about what they want, but about who they are shopping for, I mean the real person - the smiling face on the other side of the box. I hope they think about what it means that they are spending all of this time to pick something out for them. Man, how much love do you have to have for a person to fight these crowds. To get up at three o'clock in the morning to stand in line to buy a gadget for them. To save money all year to have that feeling wash over you when you hand them that pretty, bow topped package. I hope they realized that others are spending the same time thinking about them. Maybe if they do, they'll have a reason to smile, because with all of the time and money spent, it really is the thought that counts. Maybe then people will feel that love for them and perhaps, not be so melancholy, mama.
Maybe they'll take a few minutes and think that even though this might not be the Calendar day for it, the reason for all of this is because a long, long time ago, we were all given the most precious gift anyone could ever give.

What am I waiting for?

When did I lose my fearlessness and my love of the little things? This morning as I was on my way to work, a funny thought drifted into my mind. A memory really. For a moment - I remembered - scratch that - I actually tasted honeysuckle. I remember the sweet aroma that used to fill our yard. I remembered how long I would stand by the back fence, plucking bud after bud. I always took great care as I separated the green base from the flower. I remember the anticipation I felt as I slowly drew the stamen through the flower, slowly and gently as to collect in it's entirety that miniscule taste, that shiny crystalline 1/8 of a drop of sweet yum.When did I forget that? When did I get too big and too hurried for it to be worth it and suddenly to not really even notice it anymore? Soon my mind wandered to other childhood things.I used to run and play and do absolutely FEARLESS things! I used to shoot arrrows and climb trees. I used to splash in ponds and pools knowing full well that I didn't know how to swim. I jumped from roofs and swung from vines. I used to hunt snakes and black widows and have grand adventures all on my own.Then one day, I met her. You know - the one. The true. The greatest. The ONLY. I didn't even blink twice before I pursued her as fearlessly as I had any tiny poisonous spider. I didn't realize that it was the most dangerous thing I'd ever done. I was completely unaware of the sway she'd have over me FOR-EV-ER.That's not me today. This year finds me on a much less bold track. I remember when I was young I used to (I know, DUMB! Don't try this at home kids) unscrew the bulb from my red crayola lamp turn it on and stick my finger in the socket. It felt like the lamp was sucking my finger in. I was changing my lamp bulb, not a red crayola, recently and I had a long slow thought about doing it again. Ladies and gentleman, I've turned to a chickenshit.I just don't remember when fear took over. It's not like I'm a "phobe", but that adventure I used to have in my life is long gone and to coin a phrase from one of my favorites, "It sucks my ass!" I wish I could go back to the moment and erase it. I wish I could fix my mind on that first moment when my eyes flashed green and I was no longer eternal. The moment that reckless child was tempered too much, tempered into oblivion. When did I start believing I couldn't?Does it matter? Do I need to track the moment? Can I fix it? Today I feel I can. Let's see how I feel tomorrow.I think I can.

Black History Month

So it's Black History Month and if you know me at all you know I'm not I'm not black or at least I haven't been since I was working on a farm in North Carolina. I was blue black back then. Seriously, like invisible in darkness black. I'm more of a milk to dark chocolate brown these days.In any case, to myself and others I encounter I am black. I love being black too. It's so much more mainstream than those purple's. There's a lot to not like about it I guess, but I wouldn't choose anything else.SO this is the month to celebrate my heritage. Herald our glorious rise as a people from the terrible injustices of the past. One month to commemorate decades of accomplishment and perseverance. One month to raise up the fallen heroes of the past and inspire the heroic leaders of the future. Did anyone else notice that it's the SHORTEST MONTH OF THE YEAR? Damn it! I think "the man" screwed us again. Could we just get some casinos?Well, everyone jumps on board in any case and off we go. Year after year schools cover the exact same list of black heroes. I heard about the same people year after year for thirteen years. I don't mean to diminish the amazing accomplishments of even one of those truly great people, but, FYI there are more than twenty-eight notable black people in the history of this country. That is unless you're getting your information from Senator Joe Bidden (Dude. seriously. Just shut up and stop running for president - your racism is showing. AGAIN!).So many major companies are buying up ad space to speak on what Black History month means to ... um, well - I guess to thier bottom lines. Allstate likes black people so I guess I'll get my car insurance from them! Earlier this month I got an email from a VP at my company regarding how important Black History Month is to my company. I love my paycheck ... I mean ... er, company! But this VP is the second whitest lady on the planet. The only person whiter than her is like, Gwyneth Paltrow (No offense Gwyn, honey - I still think you're great).This all stems from a recent trip to my local Barnes and Noble bookstore. I went with a friend that I really enjoy and it was a great time really. We always have a glorious time.But - while I was there I encountered the not so ambiguous African-American Interest table. I always look and I'm always frustrated by what I see. I demand to know who's in charge of what goes on that table. I hope it's not an actual black person. There were 30 to 40 books on the table and well over 80% of them were 'relationship books'. I don't mean tips on how to get and maintain good relationships. I mean books about doing it. Not even how to books (Doing it for Dummies, Hah!). Books about doing it to a lot of people. Zane's collected works were featured prominantly.I don't mean to downgrade any published authors talent or integrity. I mean - I like doing it at least as much as the next guy, maybe more. I do mean to say that to infer that African American people's "interest" runs predominately to sex, drugs and the "street life" is insulting. Well, at least to me. Where are the books on the Harlem Renaissance? How about any one of the fascinating non-fiction books written by notable black authors such as Denzel Washington, Sidney Poitier or Barack Obama (if you start that 'he isn't really black thing I swear to God...). How about one of the engrossing novels by Walter Mosley or any of the myriad other ethnic authors?I've spoken to a few people about my feelings about the situation I encountered and the response I heard most often was, "You should read one of those books. you might like them." That's not the point. I might. Probably not, but anything's possible. A woman and an ethnic person are running for president so ...My point is this - we won't be more until we aspire to it. Pick up a book intended to do more than titillate. Expand your mind. Explore your past and use it to illuminate all of our futures. Be saturated by truth. Be entertained by rich tapestries woven by "The Black Experience." I love the Alex Cross novels, but let's find a black literary hero that can be embraced by all that comes from the mind of an actual black person. Maybe my next visit to the bookstore will have that section filled with rich examples of the depth and intelligence of MY PEOPLE. There's still a place for doing it I suppose, but it would be nice if it wasn't portrayed as the main interest of a whole race.

Buy Britney's hair

Ah to be famous.

Every two weeks or so I stroll in to my barbershop to get a lil off the top. We have a laugh, talk some trash he cuts my hair and then I move on. On my way out my barber normally grabs a broom and a dustpan and into the wastebin goes that tangled mass of shorn hair.

Now - evidently, if I were famous (please God, no) and in the middle of a nervous meltdown - the protocol might be a little different.Just ask poor fallen mouseketeer Britney Spears how it feels to be that fabulously interesting. She's so interesting that well, I'm writing about her and so are thousands of other people.

OK, she and K-Fed split. I didn't care. She likes to drive with her baby on her lap. At least she's not dangling them over any balconies. Tsk Tsk, give her a ticket and a car-seat. She got a little blitzed and shaved her head. I don't have to wake up looking at that pasty cueball every morning, so why do I give a crap? I guess I really don't care at all about any of that.What I do wonder is what makes her discarded hair worth a million dollars? How much disposable income and what sort of twisted freak would I have to be to even desire that unholy mess. I mean this isn't exactly a grilled cheese sandwich with an effigy of the Virgin Mary toasted into the bread. Now that's worth a million dollars. A sandwich just isn't a sandwich without the tangy zip of a miraculous apparition of religious iconography seared into it!It comes down to this - a million dollars to commemorate the fall of a pop princess. It's your money. You worked hard for it. Spend it however you'd like I guess. People are starving all over the world, but it's a good deal really - you get her used up lighter and an empty can of Red Bull too. I'm not even going to talk about what a quality pair of clippers Omega makes. You might even score some DNA! DNA, the baseball card of the future! People homeless and living in squalid conditions all over the world but this is "The Ultimate Britney Spears experience!"

For your million + you'd get to experience what exactly? A handful of store-bought hair that smells of stale cigs and that cloying hint of desperation?

PLEASE don't. If you want to throw away a cool mil - I take paypal, at least I would make arrangements to for a such a special customer as yourself. I'll even come get it. I'll keep you in a steady stream of hair clippings and empty pop-cans for as long as we're both alive. Your meals at my restaurant are all on the house till the end of time. Better yet, donate it to a charity in the name of Ms. Spears and wish her a succesful rehab. She a little nutty, we got it - we got it.So - visit the site. buybritneyshair.com. Go ahead, buy it - I dare you.


P.S. Photogs of the world, there is an entire world of amazing photos just waiting to be captured on film for the enjoyment and betterment of the world. Get out there, find them. Make the world a better place. Win an award for your dazzling skill. PLEASE stop snapping pictures of Britney going to the bathroom and Beyonce picking her nose. Have you seen a clothed picture or Jack Nicholson? He's old! We all know that he's fat and saggy! All 90,000 year old people are. We don't need you taking pictures of him on the beach to realize it. I don't wanna see that crap and lets face it, neither do you.

It doesn't take a frickin' astronaut... does it?

I abhor the news. I as a general rule absolutely REFUSE to participte in the blatant fear-mongering and sensationalism.

"What's lurking in your water? We'll tell you how to protect your family tonight @ 11!"

Damn it, it might just be too late by 11. My mom might get monstrously thirsty @ 9:30 and then she's just screwed.

"15 ways thieves could steal your identity and convince the police that you are a homeless person squatting in thier house. News Center @ 6."

I knew it! They can do that? That guy laying on my couch when I got home really wasn't my roomate after-all! If only they'd warned me @ 12!

According to those teleprompter reading, cardboard cutouts - we're all pretty much done for anyway. Our cars are unsafe and talking to my friends on a mobile phone is irradiating my brain to a nice medium well. In case you didn't know I read in the early edition that brain tumors come in Rare Medium and Well. There was an enlightening article about the dangers posed to zombies by eating undercooked brain tumors.

RIP Anna Nicole, I could give a crap about you all but for how sad it is that the news outlets hounded you LITERALLY TO DEATH. That life is not for me, and I don't want to get sucked in. I don't need details @ 11. I'd rather an imagination @ 2.

BUT - every long once in a while I see a story so fantastic in it's sugary-sweet tabloid shell that I absolutely must give a little nibble.Mrs. Nowak - I salute you. You hatched real genious level plan. I mean it.

So few people in this world have the will to follow through on something as DUMB in such a amazingly organized and intelligent way. Spock and Momma Bates had a love child and it's you!

I guess it's just the hopeless romantic in you that drove you to cross so many miles swadled in your own urine and feces to win back your first, ok, second true love. (Oh - I'm gonna get that whore! Nothing is going to stop me, not even that chili cheese burrito. I knew it didn't smell right.) Absolutely NOTHING says I love you like kidnapping and pre-meditated murder. (If you love me and you're reading this, I'd settle for maybe a good meal or a good slice of home-made pie. If your feeling adventurous, maybe we could just do it in a strange place.)

There is nothing sexier than the thought of a grown woman wearing a kettle of poop-soup dismembering the woman that I'm currently shagging. Lady - you are for the time being, an ASTRONAUT! The general public adores you. You are/were an American hero and had adventures that a .00percentage of humans in this generation will get to have. You put that and your very humanity on the line for what?

I guess just to amuse us.Luckily the mallet, rubber tubing(what the hell?) and trash bags weren't needed. Your prey survived, albeit more than likely scarred for life by those few moments your paths crossed, the confusion of seeing you, the fear and anger when you let fly your blast of pepper spray, the surprising revelation that she did not in fact soil herself with fear - you really did just smell like poo.