Last night I was watching a movie and there was a scene where a stray bullet from a gang fight went through a window and killed a 9 year old boy. The mother walked in and, of course, began sobbing and holding him. To be honest, the scene didn't affect me very much. I guess the news and entertainment venues have desensitized us so much to the pain of strangers. I watched this horrific scene, completely unmoved. Until the mother screamed.
The scream took me back into the past. Now, I have never experienced honest, gut-wrenching pain, or the death of someone really close, whom I love. I don't know if that's fortunate or just setting up the potential for major tragedy. But the movie scream took me back to a moment about 6 months ago, when I was at a good friend's house with her family, the night after her dad's funeral.
The family was all there, along with close friends. They were doing really well, and I was actually dumbfounded at how they were coping. Sure, they would cry occasionally, but someone would soon tell a funny story about that funny man, and tears would turn from sadness to laughter. Until the scream.
I don't know why it impressed itself so strongly in my memory, but I'll never forget it. The mother, having just lost her husband, friend, lover, and the father of her children, had disappeared to be by herself in her bedroom. The rest of us were talking in the living room, when she let loose the most horrifying sound I have ever heard. It was rage, sadness, hopelessness, mourning, all wrapped up in a vocal, gurgling, trembling, primal scream. I had never heard that sound before. The actors on television and in the movies have nothing. Nothing.
I've been listening to a lot of music lately, since I have a 40 minute drive to and from work. I've really been digging the blues. Now, I admit that I know nothing about the music. I'm just an amateur who has an appreciation. But what really strikes me about the music is the lyrics. They're usually quite simple, maybe even trite, but they're always honest. They almost always tell a story of a painful event in the singer's life. But you have to listen really closely to feel the pain. Just listening to the music, you wouldn't be able to detect sadness at all. The musicians all have something in common: they have soul. I've been thinking about what that means, and so far I think I've come up with a pretty good definition. Soul is the ability to take pain and turn it into something beautiful.
I hope that I have soul. We all like to think we do. Honestly, I hope I never have to find out. But that's impossible - loss is a part of life, and it will affect all of us, if it hasn't already. From what I hear, my friend's mother is doing great. She has channeled her love and sadness into a force for change, and is blessing her community and her friends and family. That's soul, and that's something I hope I have deep down inside this superficial exterior.
I guess that we think we've been desensitized to the sadness of strangers, but we haven't, really. We've just learned to disconnect from what we see on the television and what we experience in our day to day lives. From the perspective of the man sitting in front of the television, watching a movie where a mother is holding her dead son is no different than watching a woman in Haiti holding her dead son. It looks the same, sounds the same, feels the same. But I guarantee you, that scream feels completely different to the people surrounding that woman in Haiti. To them, it sounds like exactly what it should - a cry for help from the human community.
If we stop trying to fill every empty moment of our lives with entertainment, we will become more sensitive to the needs of others, as well as our own. And it doesn't necessarily mean going to places like Haiti to help, although some people are called to do so. It simply means loving those around us. That's it. And doing that on a regular basis, that's soul.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Gordon Hayward and a Jag
One would think that, given the current garbage economy, it would be fairly easy to buy a cheap used car. First, there aren't a lot of people looking to buy cars. And there should be a lot of people who need extra money so badly that they'll sell pretty cheaply, right? Surely one should be able to buy a good old used car for under $6000? Nope. Apparently, the used car industry is one invincible muddafukka.
I've been looking for the perfect (or at least good) deal for about 4 months now. It's been nothing short of a headache. I mean, who has time to scour craigslist and cars.com and the newspapers and then make appointments to go see all the cars, take them to the mechanic, etc., when you have a job and a life!? I was so close to ending all this mess this weekend and buying a really nice older BMW, but when I called on Monday, they'd sold it.
This past week has just been an endless loop of disappointments, one after the other. Which reminds me of Gordon Hayward. Monday night, Gordon Hayward had the most disappointing moment of his life. His NCAA Men's Basketball team, Butler, was about to pull off one of the biggest fairy tales in the history of sports. They just had to get through the titan of basketball world, legendary Duke. That's right: Butler vs. Duke. The names couldn't be any more appropriate.
Butler is a small university in the middle of basketball country, Indianapolis. The people there eat, breathe, and sleep basketball. But Butler was a nobody. They didn't have the star players, and the coach had only coached for three seasons. Duke, on the other hand, IS college basketball. They're in the Final Four nearly every year, and oftentimes they win the championship. They've got star players sitting on the bench, and one of the most legendary coaches in the history of all sports.
Somehow, Butler made it to the championship game. Commentators were going crazy, saying it was the movie Hoosiers come real life. Everyone knew Duke would win, and more than likely by a lot, but deep down, I think even Duke fans wanted Butler to win.
Four seconds left in the game, Duke is only up 61-59. Butler gets the rebound, and our man Gordon Hayward gets the ball. EVERYONE is standing. Everyone is praying and watching him. Gordon sprints down the court, leaps at the three point line, and throws it up. It takes 4 minutes to get to the basket. It misses. Duke wins.
I guess this really affects me because I played basketball growing up, and I know the pressure of that final shot and the agony that comes if you miss. In fact, it did happen to me, in a big game. With just about 6 seconds on the clock and down by one point, I steal the ball and sprint down the court. Everyone - my dad, my little brother, that girl I want to impress - is standing and screaming. I'm going in for an easy, game-winning lay-up. Then, it happens. My knee, which I'd hurt that week but had been feeling fine, gave out and I fell flat on my face and watched the ball roll out of bounds.
We all have moments like these, but we also have moments of glory. Unfortunately, it seems that the past week I've had a series of the former, but I'm hanging on for that moment of glory. The game after the one where I fell on my face, I nailed 4 three pointers within a minute, forcing the other team to call a time out. It was glorious, and much needed.
It would really be glorious if I could finally get a car. And I may have found it. It's the 1987 jaguar pictured below. There's probably something wrong with it (there usually is), but if not, I'm going to feel like I lucked out. I can see myself cruising around town in that, Union Jack tag on the front. I'm not getting my hopes up though, no more setting myself up for Gordon Hayward moments.
I've been looking for the perfect (or at least good) deal for about 4 months now. It's been nothing short of a headache. I mean, who has time to scour craigslist and cars.com and the newspapers and then make appointments to go see all the cars, take them to the mechanic, etc., when you have a job and a life!? I was so close to ending all this mess this weekend and buying a really nice older BMW, but when I called on Monday, they'd sold it.
This past week has just been an endless loop of disappointments, one after the other. Which reminds me of Gordon Hayward. Monday night, Gordon Hayward had the most disappointing moment of his life. His NCAA Men's Basketball team, Butler, was about to pull off one of the biggest fairy tales in the history of sports. They just had to get through the titan of basketball world, legendary Duke. That's right: Butler vs. Duke. The names couldn't be any more appropriate.
Butler is a small university in the middle of basketball country, Indianapolis. The people there eat, breathe, and sleep basketball. But Butler was a nobody. They didn't have the star players, and the coach had only coached for three seasons. Duke, on the other hand, IS college basketball. They're in the Final Four nearly every year, and oftentimes they win the championship. They've got star players sitting on the bench, and one of the most legendary coaches in the history of all sports.
Somehow, Butler made it to the championship game. Commentators were going crazy, saying it was the movie Hoosiers come real life. Everyone knew Duke would win, and more than likely by a lot, but deep down, I think even Duke fans wanted Butler to win.
Four seconds left in the game, Duke is only up 61-59. Butler gets the rebound, and our man Gordon Hayward gets the ball. EVERYONE is standing. Everyone is praying and watching him. Gordon sprints down the court, leaps at the three point line, and throws it up. It takes 4 minutes to get to the basket. It misses. Duke wins.
I guess this really affects me because I played basketball growing up, and I know the pressure of that final shot and the agony that comes if you miss. In fact, it did happen to me, in a big game. With just about 6 seconds on the clock and down by one point, I steal the ball and sprint down the court. Everyone - my dad, my little brother, that girl I want to impress - is standing and screaming. I'm going in for an easy, game-winning lay-up. Then, it happens. My knee, which I'd hurt that week but had been feeling fine, gave out and I fell flat on my face and watched the ball roll out of bounds.
We all have moments like these, but we also have moments of glory. Unfortunately, it seems that the past week I've had a series of the former, but I'm hanging on for that moment of glory. The game after the one where I fell on my face, I nailed 4 three pointers within a minute, forcing the other team to call a time out. It was glorious, and much needed.
It would really be glorious if I could finally get a car. And I may have found it. It's the 1987 jaguar pictured below. There's probably something wrong with it (there usually is), but if not, I'm going to feel like I lucked out. I can see myself cruising around town in that, Union Jack tag on the front. I'm not getting my hopes up though, no more setting myself up for Gordon Hayward moments.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
The Most Annoying Bird in the World
Most mornings, I wake to a faint few distant chirps, growing in volume and proximity until finally crescendoing into a melodious, majestic bird chorus allegro. The past couple days, however, this hasn't been the case. The past couple days, a new player has been added to the company. I've named her Beyonce, and she is the most annoying bird in the world.
Like Beyonce, she compensates for her boring voice by just singing really, really loudly and quivering her notes. (I don't know the technical term for this, but you know what I'm talking about. It's the way the token fat lady from the small Baptist church sings during the offering, the way her voice starts to quiver during the chorus and final notes so everyone knows how much she loves the Lord.)
Anyway, the bird song should sound like this:
Ba Ta Ta, Ta Ta Ta.
Instead, Beyonce sings this:
BA TA TAaaAAaaaaAa, TA TA TaaAAAAAaaaAAAA
The most annoying bird in the world. And she does it right outside my window. Last night was my birthday and I went to sleep, drunk. So I needed every precious second of sleep before work this morning. Sure enough, first thing, the cacophony begins. I ignore it, roll over, try not to think about it. Impossible. I glance at the clock - 4:30 a.m. Un-frickin'-believable.
I eventually fell back asleep but at 6:00, a full hour before my alarm will go off, Beyonce reached a climax and jarred me out of a dream about dinosaurs. Bitch. I laid there for a while, but couldn't go back to sleep. I decide to go find Beyonce and throw an empty beer can at her, hoping that would make her go away. Or at least stop singing for a while so I can go back to sleep. So, I go over to the window with my beer can, roll up the drapes, and open it. Of course, as soon as the window is up, she stops squawking. I spent a few minutes scanning the yard and trees, but eventually gave up.
Five minutes later, BA TA TAaaaAAaaaaA.
I can not live like this. I CAN NOT live like this. This little bird has the ability to ruin my life, and that really bothers me.
Like Beyonce, she compensates for her boring voice by just singing really, really loudly and quivering her notes. (I don't know the technical term for this, but you know what I'm talking about. It's the way the token fat lady from the small Baptist church sings during the offering, the way her voice starts to quiver during the chorus and final notes so everyone knows how much she loves the Lord.)
Anyway, the bird song should sound like this:
Ba Ta Ta, Ta Ta Ta.
Instead, Beyonce sings this:
BA TA TAaaAAaaaaAa, TA TA TaaAAAAAaaaAAAA
The most annoying bird in the world. And she does it right outside my window. Last night was my birthday and I went to sleep, drunk. So I needed every precious second of sleep before work this morning. Sure enough, first thing, the cacophony begins. I ignore it, roll over, try not to think about it. Impossible. I glance at the clock - 4:30 a.m. Un-frickin'-believable.
I eventually fell back asleep but at 6:00, a full hour before my alarm will go off, Beyonce reached a climax and jarred me out of a dream about dinosaurs. Bitch. I laid there for a while, but couldn't go back to sleep. I decide to go find Beyonce and throw an empty beer can at her, hoping that would make her go away. Or at least stop singing for a while so I can go back to sleep. So, I go over to the window with my beer can, roll up the drapes, and open it. Of course, as soon as the window is up, she stops squawking. I spent a few minutes scanning the yard and trees, but eventually gave up.
Five minutes later, BA TA TAaaaAAaaaaA.
I can not live like this. I CAN NOT live like this. This little bird has the ability to ruin my life, and that really bothers me.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Birthday Inspiration
Turning 29 causes one to reflect on mortality and the futility of existence. That is, until you see something really awesome that makes you forget that shit.
This morning: I'm depressed and old and hungover from life.
Now: I love life so much that I'm walking around with a hard-on.
Here's what happened: I was walking to my car and I see a squirrel, just chilling on a tree. There's a retaining wall about 7 feet away from the tree, and another squirrel is sitting on it. So far, a normal boring day.
But then, the squirrel on the wall jumps - leaps - 7 feet and LANDS on top of the squirrel on the tree and promptly starts humping her. That's right: flying surprise butt sex. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen.
What an inspiration! If this squirrel, whom I imagine is 29 years old, has such a voracious appetite for life that he can defy gravity and the laws of nature in pursuit of... whatever... then why can't I?!
Watch out, life. I'm jumping.
This morning: I'm depressed and old and hungover from life.
Now: I love life so much that I'm walking around with a hard-on.
Here's what happened: I was walking to my car and I see a squirrel, just chilling on a tree. There's a retaining wall about 7 feet away from the tree, and another squirrel is sitting on it. So far, a normal boring day.
But then, the squirrel on the wall jumps - leaps - 7 feet and LANDS on top of the squirrel on the tree and promptly starts humping her. That's right: flying surprise butt sex. It was one of the most amazing things I've ever seen.
What an inspiration! If this squirrel, whom I imagine is 29 years old, has such a voracious appetite for life that he can defy gravity and the laws of nature in pursuit of... whatever... then why can't I?!
Watch out, life. I'm jumping.
Fevered Genius
The title of this blog comes from the dumbest, most ignorant, asinine thing I've ever written. I'm quite proud.
Last week, I was really sick. Had a 101 degree fever. So, after taking double the doctor's recommended amount of codeine cough syrup - a couple of times - I passed out, very happy.
At some point in the middle of the night, I was struck with a flash of genius. Apparently, I thought the following was so important that my dumbass actually got out of bed (I never do that!), went to the computer, and wrote:
"I'd really like a blood and vodka."
"Wha'chu talkin' bout, Willis?
"Blood and vodka."
"Why you talkin' bout blood and vodka, Willis?"
"Because that's what bananas drink. And what am I?"
"A banana."
"A banana."
What an introduction. Welcome to my blog.
Last week, I was really sick. Had a 101 degree fever. So, after taking double the doctor's recommended amount of codeine cough syrup - a couple of times - I passed out, very happy.
At some point in the middle of the night, I was struck with a flash of genius. Apparently, I thought the following was so important that my dumbass actually got out of bed (I never do that!), went to the computer, and wrote:
"I'd really like a blood and vodka."
"Wha'chu talkin' bout, Willis?
"Blood and vodka."
"Why you talkin' bout blood and vodka, Willis?"
"Because that's what bananas drink. And what am I?"
"A banana."
"A banana."
What an introduction. Welcome to my blog.
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