The Sons of No-one

I've already gone through the "CHECK THE ORGAN DONOR BOX ON YOUR DRIVER'S LISCENSE, ASSHOLE" speech. There really aren't enough organs available. If they made "yes" the default choice instead of "no," there would be a lot more organs available for everyone who needs them. If you're dead, you don't need them anymore. Let your organs save someone else's life.

Just wait until you know someone who's been on the list for years. You'll be shouting that same thing at people, too. You know what issues you care about and why. Whatever your story, especially if it's a bit of a personal vendetta, I encourage you to use that motivation to reach other people with your message. If you don't, how will things ever change? And fuck changing things by voting. One vote for your cause is a drop in the bucket. Change things by causing change in peoples' thinking, from the ground up. Community and culture first, then laws. Then all of those people are voting with you, and it's a lasting change, not just a token law that pretty much everyone ignores. Be a part of a minority group and get arrested in the Deep South. Just because the law says they have to treat you fair doesn't mean that's so. You know what I mean.

I also touched on foster care in a previous post. I'm serious, the foster care system is fucked up. A lot of times, coming from a fucked up home is better than becoming a ward of the state. Sad but true. There are exceptions, but a lot of the time, staying in one fucked up situation is better than leaving that situation for another just like it (or, God forbid, worse). Think about how badly some stepchildren are treated. Now imagine it twice as bad. That is how badly some foster parents treat their "tenants."

That makes it sound a lot worse than it is, on average, but there's no denying, that's the Ward of the State experience for far too many kids. Even one is one too may.

Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of foster parents who really care, who, during the year or two years that a foster child is with them, will do their absolute best to make sure they're not just providing room and board, but a family. I'll admit, those parents are few and far between, but if you're a ward of the state and get assigned to fster parents like these people, that is going to be a childhood memory to look back on, beacon of happy times in amongst whatever else you may have been though.

See, there's just some aspect of being a foster parent that apparently leads most people to never really invest, emotionally or financially, in the kids, since they'll be leaving. It's a lot like how Army brats learn not to make friends in their new hometown, because they'll just have no leave them behind again in a little while when daddy is transferred to another base. That's really a tragedy, because that means the vast majority of foster kids have to pretty much fend for themselves, in a kind of limbo, with no real family or support.

So I guess my point is, consider being a foster parent (and vote to make it legal for gay couples to be foster parents, too), but don't jump into the decision. Make sure you can afford to feed and clothe and foster kids you may take in, but make sure you can afford to take them to the amusement park, or maybe on family vacation, too. Make sure you can afford having all of that financial and emotional investment get in a car and disappear someday. And most of all, make sure that you will be making a positive difference in these kids' lives.

If you can do all of that, God willing, I encourage you and your significant other (whomever that may be, but please, be informed that if you try single foster-parenting, you will likely either be turned down, or wish you had been) to look into providing foster care. The system needs more good people like you.
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On that note, have you seen the movie Four Brothers? If not, you should. Netflix it or something. It's a great movie. It's loosely based off of The Sons of Katie Elder, but it's better acted, and I like the storyline more. Of course, I am partial to vigilate flicks.

More music reveiws

If you don't have it already, get the album Snakehouse by The Cliks. Notice how that's spelled. Some record stores have it entered in their computer as a self-titled album. You'll probably have to dig through The Clash and The Click Five, since it won't be right upfront on the shelf.

If you've never heard of this band, that's okay. Now you have. You'll wonder how you ever listened to music before. Warning: as far as I'm concerned, vinyl records are still the technology du jour. Expect CDs, no matter how many times I say LP, B-Side, 45, or needle skip.

The lead singer, Lucas Silveira, has an amazing voice. I don't care who you are, when the lyrics start and you hear him singing, your heart is gonna skip a couple of beats. I pretty much guaran-damn-tee it.

Their cover of Cry Me a River and the song Oh Yeah are the two most famous singles off of this LP, but they are by no means the best songs. As always, the very best songs on an album are the ones you don't hear on the radio very much. Listen to Soul Back Driver or Misery and tell me that the atmosphere of these songs wasn't perfect. Tell me truthfully that you didn't feel like you'd lost your soul, or feel that feeling of being so down, hating yourself so much that you can hardly keep going, but not staying there; instead pulling yourself up by your bootstraps and looking this whole damn world right back in the eye.

I must admit, until I finally got the album, I would not have anticipated their blues chops. Maybe the music is a bit more technical than delta blues, has just as many overtones of Syd Barrett jamming with Tony Iommi and Rush as it has in common with Texas blues boogie, but it is BLUES at its roots. They have combined dissonance and melody, both in turns and at once, into a unique style that fits the outpouring of pain perfectly. A sound all their own. If you can come up with a way to play any of the musical parts better, please, let me know. Or even if it's just different. We'll get together and jam or something. I'd love an excuse to sing Lucas' lyrics some more.



Oh, god, can he be sexy.

Just for the record, that's probably the only time you'll hear me say that phrase. Take a photo or something.

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If Jesus walked the world today, he'd probably be a hillbilly.

Those are the words in the chorus in Alan Jackson's song "If Jesus Walked the World Today." Common man of men, and the king of many, indeed. The song's off of his latest album, Good Time. I've heard some reviews say that it lacks a toe-tapper, foot-stomper like Chattahoochee, but I have to disagree. Crank up the title song, Country Boy, 1976, Long Long Way, or If You Want to Make Me Happy and haul ass down a country road, truck bed full of buddies. I include If You Want to Make Me Happy in that list, even though it's more melancholy. In fact, the whole album sounds best with the volume cranked to 11, all the windows down, and a load of rednecks. I'll admit it, white people cram their redneck buddies into the back of a truck like some Mexican dudes I know can cram people into their sedans. I've seen David pull up and unload nine people out of a Ford Taurus. Sedan. Figure that one out. But seriously, next time you see a mid-sixties good ol' American truck, fog lights up top, lift kit, covered in mud and a roll bar across the back of the cab, count how many guys are in it. Hell yeah.

I believe that riding in the bed of a truck should be legal. In Colorado it is if you're over 18, but if you'e a minor, you can only ride in the bed if you're wearing a shoulder and lap belt. What the hell? I ain't equipping no truck with shoulder belts. My grandpa would put his five kids in the bed going to and from a jobsite. When we used to go visit him, I got to ride in the back of his El Camino when he was hauling builing materials up to his retirement house (built it with his own hands). He'd haul ass around the winding Cascade roads, but my cousins and me were never close to falling out. You're more likely to fall out of some convertibles than the bed of a pickup. As long as you're not an idiot, you're perfectly safe, except in the event of a rollover, in which case you're glued, screwed, and tattooed in a convertible, too.

But to get back on track, Good Time has great country love ballads, songs of sorrow, and good ol' fashioned dance songs. Alan Jackson, ever the gifted wordsmith, used that talent in spades when he wrote this album. He can get complex songs and complex concepts across in such a way that you'll be able to understand and remember them, even if you happen to be hearing the music five minutes before last call. Somehow, Alan can lay down a chorus, go miles off track in the process of getting to the point, and then bring it all back to that same chorus. The songs just fit together. Every song I've ever heard by Mr. Jackson has painted a picture of that scene in my mind at 1080P.

The shining star of this fantastic album, though, is Sissy's Song. Bring Kleenex. I know when I tossed a few CDs in the disc changer and hit shuffle, I wasn't expecting anything terribly touching, just something to stomp my foot to while I raced my Charger on the Xbox. I wasn't expecting a slideshow of memories to get called up during a road race. I wrecked that damn Charger, cost me a fortune to fix. But it's only virtual money in a virtual world.

Why did she have to go/So young I just don't know/Why things happen half the time/Without reason/Without rhyme/Lovely sweet young woman/Daughter, wife and mother/Makes no sense to me/I just have to believe/She flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/and she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/and I know she's smilin'/Sayin' "Don't worry 'bout me."/Loved ones she left behind/Just tryin' to survive/and understand the why/feelin' so lost inside/Anger shot straight at God/Then asking for His love/Empty with disbelief/just hoping that may be/She flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By the clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/And she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/And I know she's smilin' saying "Don't worry 'bout me."/It's hard to say goodbye/Her picture in my mind/Will always be of times I'll cherish/And I won't cry/ 'cause she flew up to heaven on the wings of angels/By the clouds and stars and passed where no one sees/And she walks with Jesus and her loved ones waiting/And I know she's smilin' sayin', "Don't worry 'bout me."

Alan always has top-notch musicians in his band. The pedal-steel on this album will blow you away, and so will the fingerpicked guitar. Not to mention Alan himself: that smooth baritone register he delivers his lyrics in.... if it ain't magic, it's close to. Get the album. Hear the song. Now wipe your eyes and blow your nose.

Crown of Creation

Ever since I was young, and I mean really young, I've been fascinated by nuclear war, mutual assured destruction, fallout, nuclear winter, radiation, missile silos, and all the paraphernalia of the one technology that mankind has to effect his own, complete destruction. I'm the only person I know who thought the last few minutes of WarGames was freakin' hilarious. With all our modern technology, social justice (and injustice), evolution, ability and enlightenment, that we would destroy ourselves in an accident of arrogance, all I could think to do was to laugh. Subsequent times that I watched the movie, the sheer hilarity and tragedy of the situation faded, as I knew that the good guys would win, but the idea that a few big horn sheep butting heads over what their economic systems look like could blow up an entire nonconsenting planet was actually kind of comforting. No matter what problems we have, if we can't solve them, they can just be wiped off the face of the universe. We could take the coward's way out as a species. So no matter how bad you think things are, they could be worse. You won't even have time to hide under your desk. We could turn ourselves into dust in the vacuum of space with just the push of a button, and it would be obvious that all our petty problems were nothing in the scheme of things. As the Merry Minuet says, they're rioting in Africa/They're starving in Spain/There's hurricanes in Florida/and Texas needs rain./The whole world is festering with unhappy souls/the French hate the Germans/the Germans hate the Poles/Italians hate Yugoslavs/South Africans hate the Dutch/and I don't like anybody very much./But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud/for man is endowed with the mushroom shaped cloud/and we know for certain that some lucky day/someone will set the spark off/and we will all be blown away.

There's a second verse, but you get the point. "What nature doesn't do to us will be done by our fellow man."

Nevil Shute's novel, On the Beach, is an incredibly touching tale of the entire population of the Southern Hemisphere having to come to terms with their imminent deaths. For them, there would be no quick vaporization. Instead they get the curse (or perhaps grace) of having to wait for the radiation to arrive, knowing that they will die a slow, painful death, down to the last man. I'll spare you the details, but I can name off the effects of various doses of radiation like Jeopardy contestants can name obscure inventors. And I'm okay with that. It makes me feel good.

Nuclear war is one of the most all-reaching, imminent, and evil ways of having your life cut short, before you thought you'd go. It's most evil because it was another person that decided to do it, and they're doing it to everyone. It's not a force of nature, a natural part of life. It's murder. All the things that we don't do because we will have the time to do them later, those are the things that we will regret when the doctor tells us we have two weeks to live, or when they drop the Bomb. The more time you have once your stone has been carved before you will have to lie under it, the harder it will be, unless you have enough time to get ready. As Tim McGraw sang, "I hope someday you have the chance to live like you were dying." It's in the middleground where the heartache and sorrow lies. When you have enough time to regret, but not enough time or energy to address those regrets. Or when you have enough time to get ready to face the firing squad, so to speak, and then you are given some more time. Enough time to build up some more regrets, before your time on this rock is finally revoked. That's where the evil lies. My late aunt had to deal with the first case. The people in Shute's book have to deal with the second. I don't know which is worse.

Don't read this book if you're having a good day. It will ruin your week. But if you're a little down, or more than a little, by all means, enjoy the fact that it could be worse. You could be in Falmouth a year after World War Three.

"And they can't do anything about it?"

"Not a thing. It's just too big a matter for mankind to tackle. We've just got to take it."

"I won't take it," she said vehemently."It's not fair. No one in the Southern Hemisphere ever dropped a bomb, a hydrogen bomb or a cobalt bomb or any other sort of bomb. We had nothing to do with it. Why should we have to die because other countries nine or ten thousand miles away from us wanted to have a war? It's so bloody unfair."

"It's that, all right," he said. "But that's the way it is."

There was a pause, and then she said angrily, "It's not that I'm afraid of dying, Dwight. We've all got to do that sometime. It's all the things I'm going to have to miss...." She turned to him in the starlight. "I'm never going to get outside Australia. All my life I've wanted to see the Rue de Rivoli. I suppose it's the romantic name. It's silly, because I suppose it's just a street like any other street. But that's what I've wanted, and I'm never going to see it. Because there isn't any Paris now, or London, or New York."

Feel better? I do.

Music to crank up

I never liked most modern rock, and definitely not this emo thing, or the very creepy stalker themes often found in modern rock and all over what few videos are still on MTV. As far as I've been concerned, Death Cab for Cutie would never be played through my speakers. Now it's midnight, I have the windows open, and I've enthusiastically cranked up their song I Will Possess Your Heart. What gives, right? The music.

I was channel surfing the radio the other night when this incredibly haunting, dissonant bassline, with an absolutely chilling piano solo over it, and a very technical drumbeat came on NPR. It was like a cross between Pink Floyd, Krzysztof Penderecki, and Rush on barbiturates. Four minutes later, when the vocals came in, it was revealed to be a very disturbing stalker song, more so than The Police's Every Breath you Take, because these guys obviously think his will get them anything but a restraining order.

Musically, it is kind of a trance raga, darker and more dissonant than Shine on you Crazy Diamond, but not as wildly varied and psychedelic as The End. The fact that the band is literally playing in a freezer does not seem out of place for this video. Variations on a very simple theme and a killer piano tone combine to make for four minutes of icewater in your veins. The next four minutes are equally unvaried and consistent in their cognitive dissonace (at least for anyone not raised on this stuff), and will leave you clicking the repeat button and cranking up the bass more than once. The thin but smooth voice that Ben Gibbard has, as well as the look he has in the video of being on the edge of a nervous breakdown passes on to the listener that feeling of walking on thin emotional ice.

Overall, if you liked Pink Floyd's Wish you Were Here album, you owe it to yourself to give I Will Possess your Heart a listen.

And, apparently, youtube's embed code won't lead to a video right now, so I'll just say look it up, and I'll embed the damn video tomorrow.

Recommended reading

I have recently had the dubious pleasure of reading Jared Diamond's book Collapse. The subject matter in itself is compelling, but the actual process of reading any of Professor Diamond's work leaves one with a feeling akin to that of a dislocated jaw. Diamond fails to cohesively tie his theme together, and builds many of his arguments on propaganda techniques such as exaggeration and straw-man fallacies. I believet his is not intentional, but nonetheless, it is uncomfortable. These failings pervade through all of his work that I have encountered.

This is not to say that one should not read this book. Collapse provides a quality compilation of information on modern economic events in North America and around the world, if not balanced coverage, instead focusing on a few selected regions. I recommend that you read at least part of the book, but plan plenty of time and at least two asprins.

On the other hand, Laurence Gonzales' book Deep Survival is a fluid, easy read, with effective theses throughout, tying together into the larger whole. This is a book with gestalt. It will intrigue, compel, and terrify you in turns, and you will not regret the time you put into reading it again and again. Gonzales has done excellent research and, unlike Diamond, fully substantiates each of his statements, leaving you entirely without that disquieting feeling of having no ground under you feet. Compiling vastly different accounts of survival, death, and psychology, Deep Survival is a must-read.

Aldous Huxley's book The Doors of Perception has become a timeless favortie of The Doors devotees, and although it is a very well-written account of a mescaline trip, it falls short of the book it was once bound with, Heaven and Hell. In the former, Huxley describes, with a writer's clarity and a scholar's detail, the experience of taking peyote. However, in the latter, Huxley expands on these themes in an interesting analysis of mythology and psychology, focusing on where they meet in the realm of the subconscious brought to light by psychedelics in the proper setting.

Although far shorter than Deep Survival, Heaven and Hell is not a book to read in one sitting. Instead, one will find it necessary to set down the book and reflect, allowing the connections made to fully sink in. Fortunately, if one desired, both books, Heaven and Hell and The Doors of Perception, can be read quickly without confusion, headache, or a dull fury at the author. I would not recommend doing so, however, since you would miss out on the sort of subtle nuance that lends itself to a unique interpretation each time it is read. This is a book to buy and take notes in the marigins, which you will find yourself doing again and again.