Ron Paul Misgivings

Say what you will about the IRS, but their hold music is fantastic!

Blessings

The following is an Email from one of my company's largest clients. Yesterday, the software we had been working on for the past six months was officially "released," that is, all the superficial work is finished, with smoke and mirrors obscuring the rest, which is being worked on behind the scenes.

Our client, a Persian man who interrupts meetings to pray to Mecca, wrote me the following email:

In the name of GOD, Most Gracious, Most Merciful

Dear Mezzo,

In behalf of all my Friends and partners, I would like to thank you and congratulate you for your hard and professional work. I wish this product and your effort becomes successful and we all have benefits of it. I will see you soon God willing to take care of the financial part of it

God bless you,

:Redacted:

Xenophobia Nervosa

We have a fairly large contingent of eastern European employees at my office. They typically travel with their own and speak their Russian-ish language loudly to each other as they walk through the halls. This makes me very nervous.

The cold war may be over, but in this post 9/11 world it is important that we all remain vigilant (even if these aren't Russians we're talking about). When I hear their voices approaching me in the hallway, my body tenses up to prepare for combat and my eyes scan the scene, looking for anything out of place. The nose of an AK-47 protruding from a pant leg or a briefcase full of poison, for example.

When they are not traveling in packs, it is much more difficult to identify them. It is possible, though, by using other methods of observation. (a) They are usually wearing strange, somewhat fashionable clothing that doesn't quite fit into the mold of "business casual". (b) As you approach them in the hallway, they will seem to radiate with gloomy indifference. (c) Their faces may be covered with skin, but beneath that skin is cold, unmoving steel (d) When you are within striking distance and you say, "Good morning!" they will pass by without any suggestion that they realize that you exist.

I'm not sure why these people seem so bleak and robotic. I imagine that they go home to their barren apartments and make boiled potatoes for dinner with a small glass of tap water. Afterwards, they might sit on a stiff couch and stare at a blank TV screen in darkness, perhaps imagining winter in Soviet Moscow…perhaps just thinking about the color black.

One of them blindsided me today. I turned a corner and their she was. There was no time to be vigilant and I was forced to fall back on the impulses of the reptilian portion of my brain. A quick scan showed tight, faux-leather pants with about 15 half circle metallic loops lining the outside of each leg. She had dark, bushy eyebrows. Her hair was gelled and dyed bright red. She passed by and left a trail of particularly pleasing perfume in her wake. Cracker's "Euro-Trash Girl" began playing in my mind and I was struck by the impulse to return to Europe...immediately. It was terrifying.

It is vital that we all remain vigilant.

Birthday Kisses From My Mexican Cousin

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,

And what I assume you shall assume,

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,

I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,

Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their

parents the same,

I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,

Hoping to cease not till death.

-Walt Whitman

I just turned 31, and aside from gaining a little weight from quitting coffee, I feel fantastic. I suppose I do have a nagging shoulder injury that I really should have a doctor look at, but nothing I can’t live with. Also, if you believe the people who set the bar for this type of thing, my BMI is at the “obese” level, and by some really buzz-kill metrics, I am an alcoholic, but I carry most of the weight in my massive upper body, and drink excessively for medicinal reasons.

“I don’t care!” You might think, “Get over yourself. I drink responsibly, and don’t give a damn about your amazing physique, rippling abdominal muscles, and well-toned biceps.”

“Fuck you!” is all I have to say, “You will sit here, and you will read this because I’m spinning letters into gold. I’m serving up a platter of prose that is pwning your prefrontal lobes. So pipe down, and try to keep up while I celebrate and sing myself.”



I woke up on the anniversary of my birth to the hour with a wicked-awesome dream – an email from my unconscious filled with Freudian and religious metaphors.

I was running the Minneapolis marathon. I was tired, but not exhausted, and had just passed the halfway mark where a crowd of runners were congregating briefly before embarking on the second half of the race.

I found myself running next to a man who looked and acted suspiciously like Bill O’ Reilly. He wore a white campaign t-shirt, was eating a hamburger, and looked completely relaxed. He was clearly enjoying himself, and in high spirits.

“How you doing?” He asked. “Getta burger back there?”

“Oh…No – should have – looks good. Maybe I’ll get one the next time we pass by…Or afterwards I’ll have three or four! How are you?”

“I’m wonderful,” he said, popping the rest of the burger into his mouth, and raising his hands in the air without breaking stride. “Although earlier in the race, some guy heckled me for wearing this shirt, I mean, Comon’, we’re having fun out here, so I heckled him back.”

“You know, you remind me of myself at 15.”

He chuckled. I glanced to my left, and noticed a solitary teenage kid watching us pass by. We continued on, and the streets, which should have been lined with spectators, were suddenly empty, and the other runners melted away.

“Crowd thins here,” I said, noting the complete lack of people.

“Yeah, looks like it.”

We ran into a tunnel, an underpass of some sort, and prior to reaching the other side, a barrier prevented us from continuing. We stopped, and tried to figure out if we made a wrong turn when the same kid we saw earlier pointed to the bushes, and indicated without speaking that there was a passageway around the barrier.

I said to myself, “The other runners couldn’t have all made it through here, there would have been a huge backlog of people.”

We squeezed through the passageway, and emerged back into the race. It was the right way to go after all. The crowd and other runners reappeared, Bill O’ Reilly faded into the smoky peripheral of the dream, and my legs felt strong. I knew I had plenty of endurance left to finish the race. I woke up feeling totally at peace with myself, and that night, got shit-faced on tequila with my wife at a local bar.

Cabbages, Knickers

During my last visit to LA, Mezzo and I were discussing how there are a number of songs that, as we have aged, have become completely unlistenable. "I feel a unique privilege to have grown up at a time in American history where I had the luxury of listening to a massive catalog of music, " he said, "I used to love all sorts of classic rock, for example…but now I can barely tolerate the vast majority of it."

"Fuckin-A," I replied, "When I hear Steve Miller Band's "The Joker", I instantly get this terrible nausea deep in the pit of my stomach. My immediate impulse is to grab a pen and punch in my ear drums to stop the horrible sound…that is, before the rational side of my brain takes over and tells me to simply change the radio station."

"It's terrible!" Mezzo agreed, "and I used to like that song!"

This is the exact sort of thing that Alex from A Clockwork Orange experienced after undergoing the Ludovico Technique…the doctors injected him with nausea-inducing drugs and forced him to watch offensive images while listening to his favorite artist, Beethoven. This not only caused poor Alex to vomit when confronted by violence, but it also made Beethoven completely unbearable.

The obvious difference is that none of us are drugged and forced to watch something like "Friends" while listening to the greatest hits of the 60's and 70's.

The easiest explanation would be that this is due to the fact that the offending songs are simply overplayed, either by the radio or the listener (or a combination of both). You might hear someone say, "Sure, I used to love that Umbrella song, but after hearing it for the 300th time in two weeks, I got sick of it."

But that sort of sickness is much less extreme, it's just a minor annoyance. Additionally, I can listen to any Led Zeppelin, Bob Marley, or Beatles songs--songs that I have heard thousands of times--and still enjoy the hell out of them.

The Eagles, on the other hand, have become so offensive to me that I can't even admire the silliness of the song "Desperado" anymore. Instead, I'm so disgusted that I'm forced to sympathize with the character of the poor desperado. His entire existence is eternally frozen in time by the notes and words of that fucking music.

…so if it isn't simply repetition, then, what causes this horrible discomfort that we feel? My thought is that it's due to a person's evolving taste in music. "How could I ever have liked listening to this?" the brain asks subconsciously, "This is terrible!". Then the brain answers, "But we have excellent taste in music, this must be good" "No it isn't!" "It has to be!" "Nooooo!"

At this point the brain defecates, releasing nausea-inducing chemicals in an attempt to purge our bodies of the offensive material that is causing this contradictory reasoning…

So, ultimately, perhaps we are not that much different from Alex after all.

Female Psychiatrist: Let's Begin
[Changes to a slide with two people looking at a peacock]
Female Psychiatrist: "Isn't the plumage beautiful?"
Alex: I'm supposed to say what the other person would say?
Female Psychiatrist: Yes, just tell me the first thing that comes to your mind.
Alex: Cabbages, knickers, It hasn't got A BEAK!
Female Psychiatrist: Good.

WWJD - What Would Jim (from the office) Do?

I work in an office, and relate my life exclusively to television, so...

Let's pretend that Dwight suddenly went on some sort of religious bender and, say, started listening to cassette tapes of religious music all day long. Additionally, Dwight would wear headphones while listening to the music and sing/hum along with the music all day long, irritating the hell out of Jim and all nearby coworkers...


Lets also say that...


Dwight sighs loudly 50-60 times per day and tells family/friends on the phone that his day is going "(sigh)Ohh...just OK".

Dwight is especially bad at humming/singing, particularly his rendition of Amazing Grace

Dwight doesn't exactly hide his distaste for his job.

Dwight wears sweatshirts with things like bears or humming bees ironed on.

Dwight never talks to anyone at work unprompted and avoids eye-contact when approaching Jim in the hall.

Dwight is humming again, right now, and Jim looks at the camera.

Dwight is separated from Jim by a thin cubicle wall that is useless as a sound barrier

Dwight/Jim's office is virtually silent all day long, except for the sound of typing, phone calls, the rare conversation...and the horrific sound of humming/singing.

Dwight is attending weight watchers meetings and calls his "weight watcher buddy" from time to time

Dwight still drinks massive Taco Bell sized cokes


Dwight is singing now, Jim buries his head in his hands, stands up, and goes over to talk to Pam

Dwight's office doesn't really have a Pam on his team. If she was here, Jim would totally hit that.

Dwight is somewhere between 50 and 60 years old

Dwight has rickets

Dwight has frizzy, unkept, permed, poofed up hair that would have been out of style during the perm peek of the 80's.

Dwight is a woman who is blowing her nose right now

Jim looks at the camera and a single tear drop rolls down his cheek

So what would Jim do? Would he encase Dwight's headphones in jello? Would he replace the tapes with death metal? Would he turn the volume of the tape player to full blast before leaving every night? Would he curse Dwight under his breath, issuing loud, earth-shattering sighs/throat clears every time he started humming? Would he continue on, suffering in relative silence...or would he, say, super glue one of the spinner things that allows the cassette tape to spool from one wheel to the other, causing the cassette tape to unwind?

What would Michael do?

He would most likely publicly humiliate her, which is probably the best course of action. Is de-pantsing/public urination frowned upon in office settings?

How about hanging an effigy from the ceiling?

What would Wayne Brady do?

He would do as I do and yell through the cubicle wall...

"Is Wayne Brady gonna hafta slap a bitch!?"

But what I really want to know is, what would YOU do.

Montezuma’s Revenge!
I started drinking coffee on a family vacation in Seattle. Back then, Seattle had a reputation for two things: grunge and coffee. I was sixteen at the time, and Kurt Kobain’s mature angst didn’t resonate with my blossoming angst, so when my parents were distracted, I walked up to a mobile coffee stand in Olympic National Park where a young, attractive barista was slinging coffee for the state.

“I don’t drink coffee,” I said proudly, “what would you suggest?”

“Ummm,” she replied and thought for a second, “I think I know something you’d like.” She was a lot older than me, but there was something seductive in the way she concocted my beverage. I looked her up and down. She was wearing a brown national parks uniform. We made eye contact when the gurgle of the frothing milk hit its climax, and she smiled at me. She penetrated the frothy mixture with a long spoon, and stirred in quick circles.

“This is a tall mocha grande,” she said, handing me a paper coffee cup steaming from the top, “drink of this cup, and if you like it, you’ll know what to ask for next time. It tastes sweet, will give you the knowledge of good and evil*, and has more frothy milk than a normal mocha.”



Over the past ten years, there has been one consistency in my life – a cup of coffee (or five or six) every morning except in rare circumstances in which I was, like, on a mountain or in a third world county. I drank the stuff by the gallon.

During a majority of my white-collar days, I drank coffee all through the morning, ate lunch, then drank Coke™ or Dr. Pepper™ until the workday ended. I’d drink coffee whenever it was available, any time of day or night, from fresh percolators at evening meetings to burnt, stale sludge from a Jiffy Lube waiting room.

I drank it black unless it was absolutely terrible, and then I would disguise the taste with cream. When necessary, I would microwave two-day-old coffee, and I’ve used “ghetto grounds” enough times to walk around in the inner city after dark like I own the place. I drank it at gas stations (the quality of which has improved dramatically in the past ten years), chains (consistently strong), and trendy coffee shops (local art for sale on the walls). I would, without exception, always get the largest available size.

On exit 128 on I-90 between Chicago and Minneapolis, there is a gas station with amazing coffee in a machine unlike any I’ve ever seen. After noting the exit, and returning there a half dozen times, I asked the clerk if people ever commented about their coffee. She said in a disinterested voice, “I don’t know…We do get a lot of people in here for coffee, but I can’t stand coffee. It makes my stomach hurt.”

I wanted to strangle her right there, but figured that her comments were born from ignorance rather than stupidity. She was, after all, from a small town in Wisconsin so I forced her mouth under the uniquely fabricated spout and yelled, “Taste this, you bitch! A sublime creation is taking place ten feet from where you stand and you have no idea! Is there a cold fusion generator in the back room? Do you sell perpetual motion devices next to 10w40 oil? Is your gasoline converted from municipal gray water? Are you even aware of your own existence? Taste of this spout and know what it is like to LIVE!”

I’ve purchased high-end coffee equipment: bean roasters, grinders, and French presses. I’m in love with my Krups coffee maker. It is a work of a staggering genius. It may be the pinnacle of modern civilization. My Krups, in the words of a man I overheard once in an LA coffee shop who was describing his own Krups, “never misses.” This is not the brute force of a Mr. Coffee donkey punching the grounds with boiling water in a dime-sized hole on its way down to a badly engineered heating device. It is art and science standing on the shoulders of giants and making this Godforsaken world just a tiny bit better, one pot of coffee at a time. The Krups Aroma Control 229 spritzes a gentle rain of near boiling water onto freshly ground beans, water and beans making love, becoming one flesh, cuddling in afterglow, brewing in a patent-pending device before being ejaculated into the welcoming arms of a stainless steel carafe. The smooth, dry nose delivers a bouquet of delight that continues to the finish until your mouth goes “ahhhh” whether you want it to or not. Fresh ground coffee brewed in a Krups Aroma Control 229 is an angel’s warm embrace. It is liquid motivation. It gave me reason to continue the rest of the day vertically.

Black as hell
Strong as death
Sweet as love
- Turkish Coffee Poem



I stopped drinking coffee and soda a couple of months ago because I felt my mind slipping into DSM-V territory. I was increasingly seized with panic episodes that would come, scramble my brains, and leave me a jittery mess. I don’t know if this is a genetic defect, if this is all in my head, or if it is way too much coffee finally catching up with me. My baseline level of anxiety was always on high, and any jolt of adrenaline would push me over the top**.

This was a terrifying way to live life. Any minor fear, anything that produced the least bit of anxiety was amplified into a completely irrational fight or flight situation. I have been on long, white knuckle, turbulent flights in this condition, and by the time I deplaned, I was changed, and not for the better.

I don’t know when it happened, but I gradually came to realize that I needed to give up drinking coffee, and have now for several months. It took me a few days to get used to my heart slowing down. My resting heart rate, which has been elevated for as long as I can remember, has decreased by 20%. Obviously, I fall asleep faster, and sleep better than before. I rarely get headaches anymore, but I’d trade it all back if I could drink coffee in the morning. Physical health is one thing to cash in early, but I’m not willing to trade this tenuous grasp on sanity, and my incidences of panic episodes are way down.

So I’ve quite. I’ve cast myself out of the garden. On Saturdays, I’ll still have a quarter of a cup , but for the most part these days, I wake up, brew a small cup of tea, add some honey, and try to drive to work without falling asleep at the wheel.

*This dialogue is 100% legit, metaphorically speaking

** Studies have shown that injections of lactate, a chemical normally produced by the body, will induce panic attacks in people with panic disorder; but in normal individuals given the same dose, panic attacks will occur less frequently or not at all. Caffeine increases lactate and, in sufficient quantity (four to five cups), can induce panic attacks in panic-prone individuals, but not in normal control subjects.

The Music of Chance

I've been following the presidential race regularly
for the past few months, and figured that I might as
well blog about it on the first day of the caucuses.
I'm not particularly interested in the politics of the
candidates.  The duties of the American president
rarely has any impact on my day-to-day life.  You
could dress any stooge in a pretty suit and let him
command the highest post our country has to offer and
the end result is always going to be More Of The Same.
Sure, we might find ourselves meddling in the
business of other parts of the world more, reducing
our personal freedoms here and there, or building large
border fences…depending on the stooge…but these things tend
to be cyclical.  Isolationism always eases back into vogue,
the constitution will never change, and fences can't
contain anyone over 6 years old.












Ron Paul is the only candidate taking a stand for
substantive change, but I get the feeling that this
country has had enough Texan presidents for the next
couple decades.  But come on.  Wouldn't you like to
see what happens if we go back to the gold standard
and eliminate the federal income tax?














The most fascinating aspect of the presidential race,
then, isn't the politics of the thing, it's the race
itself.  Somewhat similar to the Kentucky Derby, as
far as the popularity and the polling and odds-on
favorites, but the rest of it is like a chaotic
no-holds-barred-tag-team cock fight.  Eight savage
freaks thrown into the same ring--pecking at each
others' eyeballs, drooling for blood, ganging up on
each other…sleepless, mad, incoherent….and
occasionally quoting scripture.









Some people are offended by the shenanigans that go on
during this period.  The bad-mouthing and mud-slinging
tend to turn people off, they say.  I am of a
different mind.  One needs only to imagine the kind of
person who would actually seek the presidency of the
United States…imagine…imagine how far away your brain
is from that place where you wake up one morning and
say, "Yes, I am prepared to lead the most powerful
nation in the world and am excited and qualified to
handle all of the byproducts of this endeavor…the
scrutiny…the nuclear bombs…the death threats…living in
Washington D.C.  This is my destiny.  Excalibur!"

These people must all be fucking insane.

And so they must be tested.

Sociopathic megalomaniacs should not just receive the
keys to the kingdom without first allowing everyone to
see how they respond to pressure.  Every candidate
should get a few kicks to the ribs, a little spit in
the eye…some blood in the stool.  After all, this is
the sort of person that could go either way.  Either
they run for high office in the United States, or they
mutilate bodies and send notes to the local papers
explaining that God's righteous hand is guiding their
knife.

And so, after witnessing several months of this
silliness, it all comes down to choosing the right
gamble.  What I really need is a piece of the action.
Soon I will be finding an online gaming site that
allows wagers on the presidential election and I will
deposit $50.  Right now, I think I may go with Obama.
He's the only black horse in this race, and I always
bet my horses depending on their color.  $30 to win
(currently 7:2, I'd like him better at 4 or 5:1).

Since I don't think Hill-dog can win, and don't think
Romney (too Mormon) or Giuliani (too ugly/bald) will
make the cut, I think I'll hedge this bet with a $10
ticket on Huckabee to win (10:1).  He should stand the
best chance at motivating republican voters vs
Hill-dog, despite his recent populist rhetoric.  I
think Hill-dog could only win against Romney or
McCain.

I'm fucked if Edwards miracles it, but that guy's
nuttier than McCain peanut-brittle.

The other $10 will be spent on football playoff
wager(s).

Go Packers!