Seriously, it's coming. I'm not joking.

Coming Soon:

The story of Chief Jason's Christmas debaucle.

I think we all should look into this. This sounds very cool and something that our community would be very interested in. Anti-globalization. Anti big business. A financial gadfly if you will. This could be the subject of a very interesting discussion.

In one's endless search for love, one always and only uncovers a deeper loneliness.
Only when one is alone is she able to discover where the capacity to love may lie.
Put into practice, it is a deception of the most heinous type where to love another person is just another form of self love, or part of the endless attempt to murder and to bury the loathing of one's self.
So our bodies keep bumping into one another, moving, crashing, falling, rising in the eternal vain attempt to find a meaning to what is forever void of meaning.
And our intellectual murmurs fall effortlessly to the ground, to be trampled over by our own going back and forth.

There is a small round hole in the ceiling of my bedroom through which the entire universe is slowly being sucked. If I stare at it long enough it starts to move around.

"I cannot imagine how elections can be organized in conditions of total occupation of the country by foreign troops," Russian President Alexsander Putin said Tuesday, as he met visiting Iraqi Prime Minister Iyad Allawi at the Kremlin.

Yeah, no shit.

Do you ever feel like your life isn't what it should be . . . that it's a dead end and you just can't get out of it? God I feel like that nearly every day. Maybe that's why I drink as much as I do.

I just happen to have the MSN page as my home page on my work laptop. I suppose I could change it, but that's just one of those things that you have to get around to doing. Anyway, they had this link to the 20 most popular Christmas gifts for her, him, kids, etc. I figure I'm not much of a gift giver and could use some help buying a Christmas present for my girlfriend, so I click on the link. I suppose she would like a dozen candy cane roses, but Gucci perfume? a fluffy handbag? a red lace nighty? who the hell's girlfriend are these gifts for? I thought about the diamond earings, which apparently diamonds are always a good gift, but where would she wear them? To all of the parties and balls that we attend? Sure, she could break them out for the obligatory wedding or two a year, but I like practical gifts a little more. The rose shaped bunt cake maker was intriguing, but my mom always said not to get gifts that imply having to do work.
I'm open for ideas all of you people-who-are-better-gift-givers-than-me people.

I've been reading more lately, and I've been engaging in more creative endeavors than say, drinking beer and watching t.v. Part of the reason is that I opened up a new room in my house. It is the library/art room. I still need to get bookshelves for my books, but there's a nice looking french eisel with art in progress. My current composition is taking all of the leaves that I find on my floor and painting them onto a canvas. It's met with limited success so far. It is only the second time I've used oil paints and a canvas. I'm sure that concept seems strange to Josh and Bethany. Another reason is that I put my 5" black & white on the shelf. It'll come down tonight for Lost, which I am actually enjoying, and on Sunday for foot ball. It's no HD, but hey, I think 50 degrees is pretty warm in my house.

I want to get some turn tables and fiddle with mixing. Part of my secret would be my Latin Opera vinyls--you can get some sick samples offa those mothas. It would help my guitar playing and song writing too. Anybody know somebody that wants to sell some mixing equipment--a little DJ set? I'll definitely be into scratching. Indeed, I was scratching my leg just now.

No, but I'm trying out recording some improvisations, then molding them into a song with playback and lyric changes and perhaps some different instrumentation. It's been kinda fun so far.

Word to your mom (and I mean that, you can tell her)

I'm no Bright Eyes, but at least it wasn't contrived!

I recorded six songs last night, five of which I improvised on the spot. Although there were some unfortunate lyrics, and a few musical annoyances, all in all it was turned out to be really cool. My dilemma is whether to let those songs stand on their own or actually fiddle around with them and make them into better songs. My favorite one is about how I'd like to think I'm various actors in various roles, like DeNiro in Taxi Driver, or Pacino in the Godfather. It's a pretty cool song that started as I was looking at a DVD cover. All these songs were recorded in about an hour and a half while drinking 100 proof vodka--a sure recipe for success.

Word.

I've just started reading The Sickness Unto Death for the second time. Surpisingly I find my old markings in the text somewhat helpful . . . but that's not what I want to write about. No, reading Kierkegaard again--especially this book, which I just happened to pick blindly out of the boxes of book in my trunk--has made me face myself. This is something I have been avoiding for quite some time. Kiekegaard talks about the self being a synthesis of the finite and the infinite, and this is what lends to the possibility of despair. The language seems a little anasthetic, but the way he writes makes one personalize the concepts and ideas. Despair is the misrelation to oneself--what I take as the attempt to deny or run from the infinite portion of oneself, which I guess is both running from oneself and running from God. I can point a finger to a number of choices in my life that I continue to make (or not make) that lead to my despair--a very real tension that I am unable (although I try my damndest) to push away out of my consciousness. Many excuses come to mind, but Kiekegaard is quick to say that despair is always something that one brings upon oneself. And I find myself in my own freedom, choosing despair, wallowing in it even. Not as if I'm a depressed person, because I'm not. No, Despair is something more eternal (I was meaning to write internal, but my finger went to the e--perhaps a holy mistake). Huuuuuuuh (big sigh) I don't know. I don't fucking know.

It's a little scary driving through the mountains of Tennessee at night in the rain going as fast as you can because it's 6:00 p.m., you've been driving since 9:00 a.m., and you still have 5 hours to go. Scary, but not scary enough to slow down.

Yeah, it took me 14 hours to get back to North Carolina from Chicago. I think it might have been shorter if I would've taken an alternate route. But I didn't.

I realized again what awesome friends I have. The Thanksgiving gathering turned out great--complete with turkey, a poetry reading, and the Miller Girls. Wouldn't you know it that the only Bears game I've been able to see all year they get slaughtered. I got a nice pint glass from the bar though.

Going back to work really sucks after being on vacation. Especially if you drove 14 hours the night before. In general, going to work just sucks.

I have dreams of being a hobo but my sense of responsiblity keeps getting in the way.

As you can see, off the the right I have a nice title for my links section. However I can't figure out how to get the links in there. When I first started doing blogger, there was already a links section, so all you had to do was cut and paste. Now it's not that easy. I'm sure there's some website that would help me with this, or perhaps the help section in Blogger. Or maybe some nice person will tell me.

gotta go gotta go gotta go right now.

chiefjason

Hey Adam. You may just want to get yourself a Holmes Convertible Tower Heater Fan or it's gonna be a cold month . . . sucker.

Back to Technology

Some technological breakthrough (I think it may have been electricity) resulted in the creation of the Oscilating Convertible Tower Heater Fan made by Holmes that sits in my bedroom. Rated at a whopping 120 volts AC, 12.5 Amps, 60 hz, with high, low and auto mode, the Holmes Oscilating Convertible Tower Heater Fan is truly ahead of it's time. This Oscilating Convertible Tower Heater Fan serves at least two purposes. First of all, it keeps my bedroom heated to a temperature of about 65 degrees (I would specify Celsius of Fahrenheit, but I can never remember the difference. I know it's not Kelvin). The second purpose is that it keeps my recently bottled nut brown ale (I think I'll call it Hason's Brun Ale) beer at a more ideal temperature to complete it's fermentation process. Granted, it is supposed to be at 70 degrees, but, hell, I'm a cheap skate.

Which brings me to another reason why the Holmes (not Jason) Oscilating Convertible Tower Heater Fan sits in my room. My house is "heated" by "oil." For a 50 gallon tank of said oil, I must pay Landlady Ruth the sum of one hundred and fifty U.S. dollars. According to her--and she knows my frugal ways--this 50 gallon tank of "oil" would last me about a month or so. A month? Fuck that shit. My electric bill won't be that much.

I figure I'll dole out the hundred and fifty bones to at least make sure my pipes don't freeze on those real cold days. But until then, I can stand walking through my cold living room and into my cold kitchen to poor myself a cold beer and return to my warm room to drink it.

Here's to technology . . . . gulp gulp, ahhhhh.

To roll or not to roll

I've been thinking about creating a blogroll, but I'm not sure if I should. I mean, the people I would blogroll already have me blogrolled and I figure anybody visiting my blog probably visited their's first. Furthermore, I can't even remember how to do that shit with the template and the HTML or whatever the fuck. Maybe I'll branch out and find my own blogs to roll that aren't just other blogs rolled on the blogs that blogroll my blog. And again, do you require yeast to make a blogroll? And something about not having a blogroll makes me enjoy killing Adam Kotsko.

Please, I require advice.

I must admit, I think I may have been a bit hasty with my response to Anthony Smith (although in my defense, it was a hasty reply in response to many hasty replies I have read by mr. smith). I think he is dead accurate when he says "the change needs to be structural." I am assuming that this statement is all-encompassing--referring to the political system, the economy (big business, WTO, etc.), health care, national defense, etc., etc. etc. Well Anthony (should you ever visit my site and read this), I agree. I only question the possiblity of this change ever occuring.

From the days before this country was even formed, in the early days of the colonies, there has been seperation of class and race. The rulers and governors were almost always from the aristocracy, the rich, the land owneres. Indeed, one could not vote if they did not own land. I was wondering on my drive home how many presidents have we had that attended an ivy-league university. Could it be all of them? I don't know, but perhaps some motivated person will do the research. Politics is mired in classism, elitism, racism, ism ism ism. The structural change you seek cannot be earned by political means, nor should it be. Politics in this country has always, in one way or another, been about the people with money, the people with connections, the people with power. It has only been by these people, for these people.

If you are looking for some woman or man in office to change the structure, then you are naive. Change happens where YOU are at . . . where I am at . . . where our feeble attempts are taken and sprinkled with grace. That is why you work at the homeless shelter. That is why I work with at-risk teenagers. And maybe someday if you or I find ourselves in some political office in Nebraska or Georgia or Oregon, then maybe we can start to change something by political means. Until or unless that ever happens, we are where we are, and we have only the tools in our toolbox to use. You keep using the hammer, and I'll keep using the flat-head.

So screw you.

Birthday O2

Since I have yet to respond to a post from another blog, being so "blog-o-centric" as I have been, I think I will speak to the science and technology theme that Gorss addressed at Coney Island. Let's take a moment and consider the oxygen machine. When the body is not getting enough oxygen, say because you are in shock, or because you are old and have emphysema, all you do is hook this mask up to your face, crank a valve, and WA-LA, you are in breathing heaven.

Today is my 28th birthday, and I played basketball with a co-worker and four teenagers today at the Y. While I excel at passing and fouling, and I am just o.k. at shooting, I dribble like a drunken crack addict with one arm. Once I get the ball and start dribbling, all of my insecurities from my elementary school park district basketball team come flooding back. I'm just plain lousy at ball control.

Five minutes into the game, all of my 28 years (and I suppose the 1 or 2 cigarettes/day that I have been smoking for a while now) caught up with me. I was doubled over sucking wind with a sharp pain in my lungs. Soon I was lagging behind on defense (this was 3 on 3) looking for a "fast break." The saliva in my mouth collected in a gel-like mucousness and kept trying to get into my throat. Fifteen minutes into it, I was leaving the game in the middle of play and visiting the drinking fountain. It was not a pretty sight for the old man.

While I DID make around five buckets and my team DID win, I have come to a realization. I will never play basketball again! Leave my lazy life of beer-drinking and cigarettes? Hell NA!

Doctor, can I get the oxygen PLEASE.

Happy birthday to me.

It's 7:39 p.m. and I have not left work yet. I stayed to wait for a parent drive 3 hours to come talk to his only son. His son is part of a program through DJJ (the Department of Juvenile Justice) which says he must be successful at camp or else he will be locked up in training school (Juvi) until he is 18. He is 15 now.

The reason why his dad wanted to come up is because his son has hit two campers in the last week. One in the face, the other in the chest. He has a pattern of threats and violence--throwing logs, breaking doors, kicking things, etc. I personally wanted the kid out of here. But my superiors thought otherwise. My reasoning was that in the 6 months this kid has been at camp, he hasn't done shit, and now he's starting to hit people. There reasoning was that kids have hit other kids in camp before and they haven't been exited. After sitting in tonight's meeting with the kid and his dad, perhaps my judgment was a bit hasty.

Like I said, dad drove 3 hours after work just to come talk to his kid. He used logic, Wal-Mart, Bill Gates, the Bible, and various emotional pleas to try to get through to his son. He talked about a couple of his neighbors who had sons his age. He said he had to hold back the tears as he watched one of these dads take his son out in the car and go through the process of teaching him how to drive. Why did these dads, who don't even serve God get this privilege? And he, a servant of God, has to sit at home wondering when he's going to get the call that his son has been sent to training school for the next three years.

As I sat and listened to him, I felt nothing. I wondered to myself how it must feel to have watched a son grow up before your eyes, to have tried to teach him everything you know what to teach, and then to sit helpless as you watch him make bad choices that might ruin the rest of his life. What love and care, beyond measure, must a father feel toward his son! Never giving up, never without hope, always ready to run with open arms to embrace this wayward youth.

And here I was feeling aggravated because I had to stay at work late.

I don't know much at all.

Brewski, The Sauce, What Ales Me

On Sunday I bottled my first ever batch of home-brewed beer. Just over 3 and a half cases--approximately 45 beers. It will be ready to drink in at least another 3 weeks, I will try it on for size in two. My initial attempt was an IPA. Tasting it out of the bucket, it has grande possibilities. Of course it hadn't been primed yet nor had it sat in the bottle for the alotted 2-3 weeks. I'm excited about the end product.

Directly after bottling my first batch of beer, I brewed another pot of wort, mixed it in the bucket with the yeast and the aromatic hops, put on the fermentation lock and put the bucket in the corner of the room. The next day it was pleasantly bubbling at a rate of about one bubble per second. This batch I followed a recipe for a nut brown ale, with a few changes in the hops. I'm convinced it will be just as yummalicious.

O.k. time to work.

Word.

BEER

Beer, oh beer, my beer, yes please.

There is a 5 gallon bucket in my living room where little tiny yeasties are committing suicide and raising the alcohol content of my beer. My friend Brad and I cooked up the recipe last Saturday, and in the next couple of days I will begin the bottling process. If you are at Thanksgiving, perhaps you will taste the fruits of my spirits. That is unless I drink it all before which is entirely possible.

Thus has begun what hopes to be my long and friendly relationship with homebrewing. I feel I have given life to a new being. I glance at it lovingly every time I walk through my livingroom. I time the interval between contractions (what I term the bubbling in the contraption on top of my bucket that indicates the fermentation process taking place). Apparently when the interval between bubbles gets to be more than 10 minutes, it is time. Joy oh joy of joyous occassions!

Yes, Word to your motherfuckin' Mother

O.k, alright. So I drank a beer at 8:30 this morning. It's been too long since I've done that. I actually got up at 8:00 (set my alarm and everything) in order to cut up the vegetables to put in with my potroast. My mom used to make that meal every Sunday. It was a tradition. So as one often longs for certain things from her childhood, I have been longing for a potroast meal on a Sunday afternoon/evening. Incidentally, I have a slowcooker to cook this all in, and it's sitting on my dining room table with 8 and a half hours to go and it's already tempting my tastebuds.

Getting back to beer. Now I'm well versed in the idea of a beer at 8:30 in the morning. On a few occasions, my friends and I would celebrate one of our favorite holidays--Drunk Before Noon Day. The central theme of this holiday is quite self-explanatory. And keeping with our brash rejection of the way we had all been raised, this Drunk Before Noon Day would almost always occur on the first second third or forth Sunday of the month. I'm not sure if I'll be drunk before noon, but at least I'm drinking on the second Sunday of the month.

In my day I also put a few down at Donald and Debbies Doghouse in Bradley, Illinois (sister city to Kankee). Good ole Sharon was always ready with her $1.00 Miller Lite drafts, her snide remarks, her tough exterior, and her large and loving heart. I think she hated us whenever we bought beef jerky, or when she had to come rescue the balls that got stuck in the pool table. This was always 8:30 a.m. or before. Usually present were me, Fred, Adam, and Bethany, and an occasional appearance of a fellow brave trooper from the night shift at Indian Oaks Academy. Why didn't Kim ever come drink with us? Ahh Kim.

Long gone are the days of a Miller Lite draft, or a Busch Light in a can. No no my friends. The beer of choice for a Sunday morning is from south of the border. A little Negra Modelo. I buy twelve packs of this for around twelve dollars from my local grocer. This cannot be found in the regular beer isle. No, it is found in the Mexican section of the grocery store, along with Jumex, and Corona, and real flour toritillas.

I am saving all of the bottles because they are not twist-offs--you can't use twist offs to bottle beer. Soon I will be embarking on the journey of home-brewing. An IPA will be the first attempt from the Bent Tree Brewry. Perhaps I will have it done in time for the Thanksgiving shindig.

Word.

Nina Simone

Oh my God, have you ever listened to Nina Simone? I just received her 1972 album, entitled Nina Simone And Piano, in the mail. Wow. It is just her voice and her piano. She is a classically trained pianist, so the beauty of that was prevalent. But that voice, oh that voice. Every phrase and note are so close and personal, as if she were singing for just me. Her voice lilts on the clouds, hammers in the dust, and plays on the jungle gym. You should check her out.

On another note, I was a bit dissapointed with the new release from Modest Mouse. Way too overproduced, like someone messed with the EQ just a bit too much. And where are the tempo changes and the crescendos and decrescendos that Modest Mouse pulls off so well? There were a few tracks I liked, but all in all a dissapointment.

Rash Hashanah

I just realized that we don't have to go to work tomorrow--it's Rash Hashanah! We get to eat honey covered apples and walk in the river with our pockets turned out.

So I guess because I lived out in the woods for a year and a half, I've been letting the bugs run free in my house. Well . . . I sucked them all up when I did the initial vacuuming of the place. Since I was only borrowing that vacuum, though, I haven't been doing much sucking lately (at least of bugs, he he). The spiders quickly reappeared, taking back their positions in various corners, in that spot behind my toilet, and attaching themselves to new items that have been too long leaning against the wall. I don't mind them so much, the spiders. They're of the not-too-big-or-black-or-juicy household variety, and I figure they're getting rid of other bugs I don't want in my house.

The other day there was this large black beetle who was making a bit of a nuisance of himself--flying around, crashing into the walls--you know the type. He decided to light on my CDs, which I took as a personal affront. So I took the book I was reading, Hotel Du Lac (a good use for this book I decided), and tried to swat him. I was unsuccessful in my first and second attempt, merely wounding him. So I non-chalantly walked to the bathroom and grabbed a piece of toilet tissue, scooped him up, being careful not to crush him, and deposited him into the toilet. He struggled out of the toilet paper and began scrambling up the side of the toilet. Flush. I wasn't sure, but I think he was having fun as he rode the cyclone of water down into the pipes. Maybe he survived, taking over the realm of the underground sewage. Ruling with an iron fist. You never can tell with a beetle.

About 20 minutes later, a cricket decided to jump right up into my body space. I let him live. Crickets aren't that bad. Sometimes they help me sleep at night.

Have guitar . . . will play?

What's up with this shit? I've been working this new job for almost a month now and I've only picked up my guitar 3 or4 times. And even then it was almost out of obligation--realizing that I haven't been playing much. What gives?

I was listening to some MP3s on the Saddle Creek Records website and I realize how much I really just want to be in a band. I want to strap on an electric and start doing some new things. I want to stumble down the sidewalk and run into things. I want to feel the blood pump through my veins and know the vitality of it. I want to write about things that matter and I want people to listen.

But I don't even feel like singing.

And the cursor blinks at me as if expecting something (wink, wink, wink) . . . waiting . . . more patient than I. A technological Buddha.

Oh Christ.

What the $%&!

This confounded thing won't publish. Why won't it publish? Why won't it publish? Why won't it publish?

City Speed Wash

That's the name of the Laundromat where Emily and I did our laundry last night. I haven't done laundry at the laundromat since my fifth year of college. Kind of an interesting place, the laundromat. A public place to do a pretty private thing--cleaning one's soiled garments. Piss, shit, vomit, cum, dirt, grime, grease--the stuff that makes up your everyday life (well hopefully you're not pissing or shitting yourself too often). The result of one's work during the week--wherever your body has been, so have the clothes on it.

And the wait, oh the wait. Black folk, white folk, Mexicans, and an Indian couple--all just looking around at each other twiddling their thumbs while their undergarments go throught the spin cycle. One young man chose to while away the minutes by playing some Samurai arcade game. The frequent pounds on the glass made it apparent that he wasn't much of a Samurai. I read the story in the September issue of Harper's. Emily read one of her books for class. Mostly though, people just sat around, talking softly or looking at their clothes in the dryer go round and round.

I don't know . . . it wasn't so bad. Gave me an excuse to brush shoulders with persons in my community that I might never see otherwise. In fact, maybe I'll go to church next week. Meet some people tryin' to get their souls laundered (that'd be a good devotional in Our Daily Bread, wouldn't it? Oh geez).

Word.

Many know that I tend to be bit ascetic at times. Though this story does not involve any fasting, flagellation, or trips to monasteries.

One of my goals for my new house was to eliminate the distractions of television and the internet. The idea being that without those distractions I would be able to do things that I really want to do, like read, write music, and keep my house clean and orderly. You see, I have a bit of an addictive personality when it comes to the tube. I can sit for hours on end, watching movies (sometimes even good movies), MTV, the news, etc. and convince myself that I just need to relax because I am stressed or some shit like that. The internet is not as much of a distraction, I just have an addictive personality when it comes to thousands of pictures of nude women at my finger tips. Giving into these distractions has been a source of much self-loathing.

So the first few days at my house were great. I was getting stuff organized, reading some theology, some articles in Harper's, some Spiderman comics. Good stuff. Then I was over at Emily's apartment and she was watching a DVD on her laptop computer. Suddenly the light went on. I have a DVD player on my computer too!

The next day I go to Wal-Mart and purchase some Dolby Surround Sound speakers for my desktop. I go to Blockbuster and purchase the unlimited movie rental plan. And for the next three days I am in sitting in my bedroom, eyes glued to my 17" computer screen, eating canned soup and potatoe chips and drinking 40 ounce bottles of Schlitz malt liquor.

After watching Wild Things 2, I knew something was wrong. The Holy Spirit came upon me and asked, "Jason, what the hell are you doing to yourself? Wild Things 2?" And in a heart-pounding fit of spiritual fervor, I pushed the eject button on my DVD drive and snapped the whole thing off.

I hadn't even been drinking.

So last night I went to Wal-Mart and returned the Dolby Surround Sound speakers. I went to the grocery section, bought four peaches, a loaf of 9-grain bread, a bag of sunflower nuts and trailmix, some Nutella and some crunchy peanut butter, a bag of mesquite BBQ baked lays, a box of white cheddar Cheeze-its and a pack of Camel Lights. I don't have a fridge yet, so I was focusing on non-perishables. Back to my apartment--toast the 9-grain bread, spread Nutella and peanut butter, sprinkle with sunflower seeds, bag of chips, glass of water, read Harper's and listen to Gillian Welch, play a little guitar, turn on NPR, clean house.

The demons have been excorcised.

Cheers.

I am slowly falling into the routine of an eight to fiver. The house I am renting is pre 1930 and has it's own set of quarks and faults. I like it just for that fact. My neighbor across the street is named Thomas Vaughn. He often sits on his porch in his cut off blue-jean shorts and bare chest looking bewildered. I have talked to him a couple of times--he has no teeth and perhaps some sort of speech impediment, so I understand about 10% of what he is saying. He sure does like to talk though. I nod and grunt as if I know exactly what he is talking about.

It reminds me of when I was in Russia trying to communicate with the native speakers. You knew they were saying something and could catch a word you knew every now and again, but most of it sounded like jibberish. We got by though, relying on non-verbals, and the exchange that passes between humans that goes beyond words. I remember searching for a bookstore in Nizhny Novgorod. We just kept saying, "Gde dom knigi?" (where is the house of books?). And the questionee would point and say something. We would walk in the motioned to direction for a time and then ask another bundled up Russian, "Gde dom knigi?" It was an effective way of locating our destination.

Anyhow, Mr. Vaughn interests me. It seems he has a lot to say and no one to listen to him. He has spent the last two days on his front porch working on a broken lawn mower. He'll sit and stare at it for a while, scrarch his head, adjust something, then try to crank her up. It sputters for a while and then dies. He did have it running for about 20 minutes yesterday, but it didn't sound like the engine was rotating fast enough to cut much grass.

Tom's sister and her husband live to the left of me. Their names are Bob and Lu. I met them them my first night there when Tom led me over to their house. Apparently Bob needed some Efferdent because whenever he talked, his dentures kept falling down from the roof of his mouth making a strange sucking sound. He proceeded to tell me about all of the people that live on my street. There is the black family that live to my right. They're pretty nice, he says, for black folk. Even his grandson plays with the little black girl. And Lu's sister lives right next door to Tom. Then there's the single woman that lives on the corner with her three kids--from three different men. Don't get involved with her, she'll tear you up. "Bob!" pipes in Lu, "you don' need to be telling everyone's business!" Then the Mexican family that lives down the street. They're pretty quiet, for Mexicans. They don't bother anyone.

I guess my neighborhood is much like my house--with it's own quarks and faults. I think I'm going to like where I live.

Damn.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

Harummph

I was just wondering to myself now many times someone clicks over to my blog only to be disappointed at the fact that it hasn't been updated for a month. I suppose there would be a way to track this, but I'm not about to figure that out.

Anywho--my last day working in the woods is this Friday--Friday the 13th. Du du dum. The next day I am bartending for a co-worker's daughter's wedding reception. That oughta be good--especially since she told me I could drink as much as I wanted. Scary.

I think I found a house to live in. It's a two-bedroom, slightly run down house with light blue siding for $275 a month. Of course I have to buy my own fridge and stove and the whole shabang. But the cheap rent should make up for that. And it will be kind of fun hunting for cheap furniture. I figure I'll be sitting on my camping chair and sleeping on the floor for a little while.

I was walking down the service road the other night to the counselor house at 9:30 p.m. thinking to myself how working from 6:30 in the morning on Wednesday until 9:30 at night on Sunday had become normal. Interesting how the body and mind can adapt to adverse conditions. I am afraid I will have some culture shock with all of the extra time on my hands. Hopefully I will not use it all drinking and (b)eating meat. I was thinking about becoming a vegetarian the other day. I've always figured I'd do that some time--it just needs to be the right scenario. I've also thought I would stop drinking some time, but that never too seriously.

So good day to you all, and I hope you enjoy the beige/olive green color.

Word.

Gone Fishin'

Here I go again, leavin' for a while on a trip. My group leaves tomorrow for a 14 day backpack trip. We will be hiking over 40 miles in the Uwharrie National Forest in southern North Carolina. I'm supposed to be packing right now, but I'm having a little trouble staying on task. That's o.k., it's only 12:42 a.m., and I have to get up at 6:00 tomorrow. I can sleep on the van ride though.

A backpack trip is a brilliant way to test a young man. He is faced with the daunting task of propelling two weeks of food, shelter, clothing, water, eating and cooking gear, etc. on his back; walking on his too tender feet over rock, dirt, water, grass, root, incline, decline, crevice, cliff, and crack. Reared in the city, he suddenly finds himself in the middle of the wilderness, fending for himself. It is a struggle of the will, a strain on the mind, a punishment to the body. At the end of the trail is more than just a van ride home. It is victory. It is pride. It is strength and confidence. A new young man emerges from his chrysalis to face life with new eyes.

I also get to play with fire the whole time.

No one ever forgets a backpack trip.

Get What I'm Driving At?

I have just arrived back to North Carolina after spending the last 3 days in Vermont. I took off from South Hero, VT at 8:00 a.m. and got to camp at 8:30 p.m. Pretty good travel time. I successfully avoided the N.J. Turnpike which I happen to loathe (along with every driver that owns a New Jersey license plate).

Yeah . . . so why would I drive up to Vermont for a mere 3 (actually 2 and a half) days? Maple Syrup? Ben and Jerry's? To see a moose? O.k. it was to see a girl. Not just any girl though. Only the best girl I know. Emily's her name, and she's got the biggest brightest smile you've ever seen. She likes to kiss me with it. I haven't turned her down yet.

South Hero is an island surrounded by Lake Champlaign. Emily's parents have owned a house on that island ever since she can remember. Last night the four of us drank beer and played washers (kind of like horseshoes only you toss washers into a coffee can). Then we played a board game in the living room. Shit like that's pretty cool. You dig?

Tiger Woods

I just played my first round of Tiger Woods PGA Tour Golf 2004 for PS2. I had a little trouble with the water hazards, but other than that it was a pretty decent round. I had 3 birdies on the back 9 and actually parred the back 9 as well.

One of the coolest features of this game is controlling the way your player looks. Not only do you control the hair color or skin tone, you also have control over the width of the jaw, height of the forehead, size of the nose, setting of the eyes and eyebrows, color and size of the eyes, etc. etc. It's like a police sketch machine. My player really looks like me. And my buddies Aaron and Ryan's players look like them. Quite uncanny.

On a Better Note

I have recently accepted the job of Family Worker at my camp. This will mean, obviously, that I am working with the families of the kids at camp, rather than spending all day with the kids. It also means a significant pay increase. It also means that I will have nights and weekends free, rather than working 24 hours a day. It also means I have my own office and cell phone. It also means I have to find a car and my own place.

All in all, a pretty good deal. Less hours, more pay, more perks. Sweet.

The Rest of the Day Off

Yes, I was asked to take the rest of the day off today because I pissed on the Nakotas sign. You see, me and my co-chief, Chief Doug, were asked to plan a party day before all the kids went home on camp-wide homesday (every single group goes home, rather than just one group, which is the norm). We come up with a number of events involving water--the water balloon toss, the greased watermelon in the lake game, the water in the Dixie cup relay, and finally the canoe relay, where two groups have to paddle with there hands to a certain spot,paddle back to shore, switch out with the other half of their group, and then complete the second leg of the relay.

Well my group, the Roanokes, has traditionally had a friendly rival with the Nakotas. It's after breakfast, my group is walking down trail on our way to the waterfront, and we're enjoying some friendly banter about how our first event is the canoe relay--against the Nakotas--and we're really gonna kick some tail. The Nakotas campsite just happens to be the only campsite you pass on your way from chuckwagon to the waterfront, and as we were nearing their trailhead, I felt the urge. I was just going to take a leak in the woods like I normally would do, however the Nakotas sign at their trailhead was just too much of a temptation. Being in the back of the line, I yelled "hold top," which is what we say when the front of the line is getting too far ahead. Zzzziiip.

"Hey, Chief Jason's pissing on the Nakotas sign."

"No, way."

"Yeah, look."

Sure enough, I gained some good cool points with my kids and felt good about getting a bit of a laugh.


4:00 in the afternoon, my assistant camp director calls me into his office to "have a chat." He says he "heard some rumors" that I pretended to urinate on the Nakotas sign, and what did I have to say.

"Well, no I didn't pretend, I really pissed on their sign, and from my perspective it really wasn't that big of a deal--I was just fooling around."

"How are you doing? Is anything going on?"
"No, I'm fine."

"Well, why don't you take the rest of the day off and meet me in my office at 9:00a.m. tomorrow morning."

"Umm . . . o.k.?"

Yeah, there you have it.

Damn.

Long Time No Post
Though I have not written anything for a bit, there has been some pretty cool stuff going on.
My new group, the Roanokes, attended a Civil War reenactment on the weekend of the 8th. This was the first time I have ever been to something like that, and I was glad to be able to do it with camp. There were about 900 reenactors alone, along with the folks visiting the battle. It was fascinating to walk around and see so many people dressed in Civil War era clothing and accessories--each one a historian in her own right. One guy was the spitting image of Robert E. Lee. I think about half of my group actually appreciated the experience, but I suppose they might remember it later in life.

I've also stumbled upon a little romance, which seems to be taking up more of my time off. 'nuf said.

We had a little send off last Wednesday night to my friend, manager and roommate, Chief Troy. He is leaving Eckerd to work as a traveling representative for his college fraternity. Yeah, he's getting paid to travel around and visit frat boys. Kooshy. Anyway, the funnest part of the night was when I was asked to perform a few songs around the campfire. Everyone seemed to be into it, and I began stomping on the fire to emphasize certain parts of a song. Natural pyrotechnics baby! It's definitely a trick I will utilize in the future.

I also went fishing again yesterday. One of the cheapest beers out here on the coast is the Yuengling. Apparently it's the oldest brewry in America. Quite a flavorful lager beer. A case of that dunked in ice and some fresh nightcrawlers--I caught some fish and a nice buzz.

And here's a little shout out to Byan Keen whom I haven't heard from in over a year. Whazzup Keen!

Peace out.

Hip-Hop

Recently my collection of hip-hop albums has gone from 3 to around 30. I've been telling myself over and over again for the last year that I am going to expand my hip-hop collection. Now it has been done. My collection includes such artists as: The Roots, Goodie Mob, Mos Def, Talib Qweli, Blackalicious, 2-pac, Common, among others.

Along with the hip-hop collection, my DVD collection continues to expand. I just ordered four new Bergman films, another Bunuel film, and the Orphic trilogy by Jean Cocteau.

AND I had enough money in my checking account to send about $900 to my credit card friends. Damn.

The Legendary Chief Jason

I recorded, produced, burned and finished all of the artwork for my first cd this weekend. I'm pretty happy with it in a disappointed sort of way. Give me your address if you want a copy.

Went Fishin'
Went fishing yesterday with my buddy Ryan for about 6 hours. We were sidled up close to a case of Coors Light dunked in ice. Damn a cold beer sure tastes good on a spring day with a bobber in the water. I caught more trees than fish.

I'm Back
I have just spent the better part of two weeks paddling a 20 foot canoe loaded with gear and three kids who don't paddle very well. If I had weight to lose, I would've lost 20 pounds or so, but instead I am just buff in the upper body.

In some ways, the canoe trip was "unsuccessful". We were supposed to paddle about 80 miles or so and ended up making about 30. This because we spend time addressing any problems that our 11 adolescent boys might be having, and we discuss them as a group. We also give them a significant amount of responsibility in making and breaking campsites, making dinner, cleaning up, loading and unloading canoes, etc. etc. Ideally, we should have been leaving our campsite in the morning at about 9:30 or 10:00. We averaged around 11:30. When you shave 2 hours of paddling off your day, it makes a bit of a difference.

In most ways, the trip was a success. Given the fact that 9 out of 11 boys had never set foot in a canoe, let alone spent two weeks navigating a river, the trip was awesome! It might not rank with Jason Holme's epic adventure on the Mississippi River, but as an 11 year old boy, it must seem like a great and worthwhile accomplishment. I'm 27 years old, and this is only my second canoe trip of such length.

There were recorded sightings of 52 turtles. We saw a baby alligator and two poisonous snakes up close. Countless sightings of turkey vultures. Two rubber balls were released from their sad fate of floating down the Suwannee River and being vomited into the Gulf of Mexico. My program director (who was leading out the trip) added a can of Cajun seasoning to the flow of the river--this because he got fed up with the boys arguing over it at a meal. Chucked it right over his left shoulder, down a 40 foot embankment, and kerplunk.

All in all, it was an enjoyable time.

Gone Fishin'
Due to a canoe trip with my kids in Florida, this site will be unedited for about 3 weeks. Yes, I will be getting paid cash money to go on a canoe trip you ho(s). Your job sucks.

Come Buy Some Commodified (commoditied?) Navajo Sand Paintings
I've been paying attention to Cap'n Pete's musings on his art not for sale (along with a Gauche's and Adam's discussion on music, and Jared Sinclair's thoughts on the self), and I was reminded of an article I read a while back in the Fall 2003 issue of Parabola. Entitled "Painting With Sand," it described the Navajo tradition of sand painting--a painstaking process meant to restore balance or order to the community when this order has been disrupted, say by an encounter with a ghost or contact with belongings of the dead--some sort of "brush with evil." Though the process itself is intriguing, the most interesting aspect of these paintings is that they are erased at the end of the ceremony--usually at the end of the day.

As I did a quick search for Navajo Sand Paintings, the majority of sites were selling some sort of permanent painting of sand glued to plywood. Quoting the article's author, Sara Jane Sloane, " . . . gluing sand to a board is a far cry from the dispersion ceremonies that are supposed to end sacred Dine (Navajo) drypainting rituals: the wind blowing the sand back to its original entropy, the grains settling into a desert punctuated only by rabbit brush and pinon trees. In their dispersion they represent the fundamental groundlessness of life."

From my own experience, and from what I read of others, there is a sort of guilt about positing oneself creatively, whether through writing, music, art, etc. For some, perhaps this guilt stems from doubting if one's creation is "good enough." For others, the guilt may be from striving to create something that is appreciated by an audience rather than creating art in and of itself. Yet again, perhaps one feels guilt for having the gaul to even posit oneself.

Many musicians describe the muse--the finicky fickle spirit that bestows brief creative genius and beauty. These are the songs I always like the best. When the self is only posited by something outside the self (there is something outside the blog . . . or perhaps not). It's easier to put up with something that I didn't have much of a role in creating.

I've always thought that playing live, even or especially around a beer-can strewn camp fire, is much more enjoyable than jotting voice and guitar down on a piece of plastic. The self is posited not that much and all at once. The moment lives for less than a day. The ephemeral holds the eternal (from the Greek ephemeron, mayfly). A glimpse of the train of the robe. A shrub that burns but is not consumed. I guess that's why people keep asking when my CD is going to be done and my answer for the last year has been, "I'm still working on it." Maybe I'll record myself in some live situations. Can you lessen the commodification of the commoditied compact disc?

I don't know.

Damn.

Around a Campfire

It's been a while since I've enjoyed a beer around a campfire. It was a bit chilly last night, but we decided to drink outside anyway. I like the fact that I'm always good for a fire. Seems like when I drink with my friends/co-workers (my friends are my co-workers), I'm always the one building the fire. Makes me feel like Jason Holmes a little bit. He's a good egg.

I think most serious drinking should be done around a fire.

I Need You

I'm starting a band. I need a drummer, a bass player, a cellist, a lead guitar player, and someone with dreadlocks.

If interested, please move to Manson, N.C.

The Angst of Not Thinking

Reading Robinstein and Kotsko and Bienko and whoever Jared Sinclair is, I find myself feeling that I am not very thoughtful these days . . . at least thoughtful in a directed academic, literary, philosophical, theological sort of way. My first inclination is to say that I don't have enough time--which is literally a good excuse (I'm at work 5 days a week, 24 hours a day). I have stayed up later at night reading in my tent, but I always seem to have little energy the next day. Believe me, I need energy in my job/life (my job is my life). I have two days off a week in which I could do some concerted reading and thinking. But hell, I can't drink for five days a week, so I gotta get my drink on. And I use these days to pay bills, run errands, and rest up for the next week. Still, I read Christian Science Monitor, Harper's, National Geographic, and a book every now and again. I'm lucky if I read a few articles a day, though. Sure, I could be doing better.

Back when I was involved in a creative, artistic, thoughtful community (121 Old Farm Midcourt), I was doing some good reading and depth of thinking. However, back then I always had the angst of thinking and reading about what I should or could be doing with my body. Now I'm doing it.

The angst of not thinking is not as great as the angst of not doing. Perhaps I just need to be a little more thoughtful about what I am doing.

The Weekend Off, Whooooo Hoooooo

Typically I work every weekend because my camp has "cook out" on Saturday and Sunday. This is where my kids stay in campsite and cook all of their own meals over and open-fire grill. This is referred to as an "altar fire." During the previous week, the kids create their own menus, referring to a price guide to calculate the costs of food. They plan for nutritional requirements and make sure that the portions are adequate for the number of people in our group. They must add up the total cost of the menu, and then use their long division skills to calculate the cost per person. Talk about experiential education! They're practicing their math skills, learning organization, planning balanced and hopefully tasty meals, and they get to cook it and eat it in the end. Nice!

We always split up into inside and outside crews. The inside crew is in charge of washing all of the dishes, setting the table, and cooking the meal. The outside crew is doing some sort of work around campsite--chopping wood during the winter, washing a top tarp for their sleep tent, fixing trail rocks, tying lashings, etc. etc.

The last two weekends I have had to work cook out on my own in group. Since the weekend is usually a pretty stressful time, the absence of my co-counselor makes it even more so. Running two crews is not as easy as it may sound--especially when at any moment you have kids throwing rocks, pushing each other, running out of boundaries in the woods, etc. You gotta love 'em though.

All of this to say that my kids went home today on their home visit--a privilege they get every 5 weeks. I am off from Friday afternoon until Tuesday at noon. My list of things to do:

--drink beer
--pay my bills
--watch college basketball
--drink beer
--record some music
--walk around the woods aimlessly in search for meaning
--drink whiskey, then beer
--watch a couple of movies
--catch up on the recent Harper's
--go to a bar to drink beer

Peace my brother and sisters

On My One Day Off
I'm watching the "100 Greatest Rock Bands" on VH1 while listening to The Wu-Tang-Clan "Enter The Wu-Tang: 36 Chambers" I think I need to check out more Thin Lizzy and Living Colour. Other albums I've listened to today: Super Furry Animals "Rings Around The World", Robert Johnson "The Complete Recordings", 2-Pac "Greatest Hits", Hank Williams "The Ultimate Collection", and The Immortal Lee County Killers "Love Is A Charm of Powerful Trouble". I think my next album to buy is going to be a Faith No More album . . . why the hell not?! I also think I'm going to start using a slide on my guitar. Damn.

Virgil Brower

From a recent MSN messenger conversation with Virgil Brower:

2:16 a.m. Jason Lee says:
are you there Bill?
2:35 a.m. Jason Lee says:
i guess not. well, i think i'm going to bed now.

Occupational Burnout

I've been thinking about leaving my job lately. There are a few reasons why I think I've been thinking about this. a) The longest I've ever held a job was one year . . . and that was 6 months on the day shift, 6 months on the night shift--I'm gettin' itchy b) I question whether I've made any sort of close friends in the year that I've lived here (really though, who could ever come close to my friends from Kankakee?) c) Lately I've been yelling, cursing, and pushing kids around a little too much--something not really in my nature; I think I'm suffering occupational burnout d) I'm 27 years old and I'm still wondering what the heck I'm doing with my life. And there are probably a lot of other things too.

What the hell?! I've had to do some major evaluating of my dome piece lately. Sometimes I feel like I'm doing more harm than good to these kids. That's a pretty horrible feeling.

I think I've decided to stay though. Maybe it's because I have no expenses whatsoever, and I'm paying quite a bit on my debt. Or maybe it's because I know could be promoted fairly quickly. Or perhaps it's because I've found some demons in myself that I really need to face. I think probably all of these, but most of all because I know in the deepest part of me that this is where I need to be. I have dreams of travel and freedom, but not right now. I think the chorus of my most recent song puts it well:

I was born to wander, I was born to walk around
And these feet get anxious when they're sticking in the ground
Although I think I'm a nomad and a lover by trade
I retreat to the background, 'cuz I'm getting in the way

So I guess I'll be here for another year or so. Or at least that's what I'm telling myself right now. I do know that I can't be in this funk for much longer. I got some PTO this week. Maybe that'll help.

Youthful Automatons 

In my job we have a lot of "huddles." A huddle is when my entire group gathers in a circular formation in order to talk about something. We "huddle up" to set commitments before an activity(i.e. a meal, education period, walking down trail, etc.). We huddle up afterwards in order to evaluate how we did during the activity. At any time, every person has the right to call a huddle. Often a camper will call a huddle to "express himself appropriately." More often, he will call a huddle to address the behaviors of another camper that just kicked him or was singing "P.I.M.P." or something.

In an ideal huddle, everyone will have "huddle standards." Basically this is everyone in the group focused, listening, not talking, supporting the person that has initiated the huddle, etc. This rarely happens, especially in my group of 11-14 year old kids who are much more interested in throwing rocks, digging in the dirt, dangling snot from their noses, pretending that pine-cones are grenades, etc. "Well isn't that what kids do?!" you might ask. Emphatically yes. However throwing rocks at other kids would probably not fly in junior high English class. So we do what we do.

Eckerd Youth Alternatives, the company I work for, is not all about creating youthful automatons like many residential programs. In fact, a child at my camp is given endless amounts of opportunities to explore his curiosity, to get excited about learning, to be able to express his feelings or thoughts and actually be listened to. AND my program is non-punitive, which means we don't punish kids for wrong doing, or reward them for right doing. The consequences are natural or logical, and the rewards are as well.

Not only do I really agree with this philosophy, but I also get paid to play with fire, go on canoe trips, go on backpack trips, live in the wilderness, eat (yeah, I get paid to eat), etc. etc. etc. I think I really like my job. Damn.

Nader Runs Again 

So I'm watching CNN to see Ralph Nader's announcement that he is running for President as an independent. About 2 minutes into it, CNN cuts the audio and starts talking about the ramifications of this for the other 2 parties. I flip the channel to MSNBC. Apparently they have a longer attention span and ran his speech for about 4 or 5 minutes, then they cut to their discussion about what this might mean for the Democrats and the Republicans. After some more frantic flipping I finally settled on C-Span 2 which of course covered his entire speech and the following question and answer period.

What a good example of major networks ADD* for anything remotely substantive. The only news worth watching these days are NWI's programming, and PBS's "News Hour With Jim Lehrer". Even then, my good people, go read for crissakes.

*Attention Deficit Disorder (commonly found in most of my 11-14 year old kids).

Rantburg

Since I don't know how to make links yet, I'll just give you the address of this site. It's a sort of political blog with judicious amounts of sarcasm and cynicism--just the way we like it.

www.rantburg.com

Bills

I just sent $825.00 to 3 creditors, and my debt is still larger than my yearly salary. Damn.

4 Days In Greensboro

So I just got back this afternoon from my "Kalechetuh" training--the training that I was supposed to have at my 9 month mark but instead am just getting it at nearly my year mark (yes, a little bitter). Topics of training included: Mental Health, Resiliency, Group Work, Experiential Education, and Boundaries.

At about 4:30 p.m. each afternoon, training was over. Each evening consisted of myself and 5 or 6 other "chiefs" (that's our title in the woods) going to some downtown pub, dining, and getting completely shit-faced.

On Tuesday night at about 10:30 p.m., I was shaking my booty at Fischer's bar on Elm street. I like to shake my money maker. The bartender was also the coach of the UNCG rugby team. He made stiff drinks. I like stiff drinks.

Later that night, I was observed to be leading a sing along with a bunch of drunk property managers in the lobby of the Greensboro Marriott. People in business atire look silly singing "We all live in a yellow submarine." I made sure to please the crowd with renditions of "Like a Virgin" and the song from Titanic. Yes, I was drunk too. All proceeds went to the bartender, Will, who helped us out earlier in the night with dining and live music suggestions.

On Wednesday night, Lisa got a little drunk and thought it would be fun to start spilling beer on me. It wasn't that much fun, but at least she didn't spill my beer.

Last night it was time to get naked, or so some people said. Yup, only me in my boxers drinking rum 'n cokes while Terry told me how she thought we were going to be friends. Damn.

If you don't know, I live in the woods 5 days a week, 24 hours a day. So when people in my position get a chance to drink for three nights straight, we take the opportunity and run (er. . . stumble).

JASON'S GOT A BLOG

Whoa! Jason's got his own blog now, Jason's got his own blog now, Jason's got his own blog now.