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Recently my cousin made a statement that it’s too bad that my grandfather’s values didn’t stick to my dad so he wasn’t able to pass them on to me. Or something to that effect. Like somehow my parents’ divorce has something to do with my liberal political views, and that somehow my liberal political views lack the values my grandfather would have liked to see passed on. And I’m not going to lie. It made me mad. And I could take this time to write a rebuttal about how my grandfather didn’t think too highly of her father, and was actually quite vocal about it, and how I don’t happen to agree with his opinion (although, my views may be skewed a little due to some idol worship of this particular uncle that I hold onto from my childhood). But being a man of very little values, I will show restraint. After all, the opinions of a spoiled drama queen don’t have much relevance to the real world, do they?
But what her words have done is make me think about the overall thought process of this group of people. Somehow, the desire for all Americans to have health care and food and not be shot at in the Middle East in a bullshit war equates to loose morals or a lack of values. That values are somehow related to corporate riches, and to be against that means you are against Christianity. I know, it doesn’t make sense to me, either.
The only thing I can think of is that most liberals aren’t necessarily anti-abortion. And because most liberals are pro-choice, conservatives think health care for all Americans is a bad idea.
So let me ask this… How can you be pro-life and still support the death panels of the insurance companies and a war for oil? How do you justify the deaths of thousands of people so that insurance company CEOs and oil moguls can sustain their extravagant lifestyles? Are those the values you cling to? Greed, death, and destruction? Those are the values your party represents? That’s what you have to buy into to be part of your gang?
I learned a few things from my grandfather. He taught me that if you work hard work and try to always do the right thing, success will follow. And he was right to a certain extent. Unfortunately, only a few short years later, working hard and trying to do the right things don’t necessarily lead to success. You have to have some rotten bones in your body to make it in today’s America. You have to have the ability to go for the jugular and not flinch at the sight of blood. You have to lack compassion towards humanity. You have to have sociopathic tendencies.
You see, in today’s America, success means you claw and bite and kick your way to the top. And if you just don’t have it in you to do so, you fight for the rights of those who do, in hopes that someday your conscience falls out of your ass and you can dig down and find the mettle necessary to step on your neighbors and piss on your family, all in the name of the almighty dollar.
But I don’t have it in me to seek out America’s version of success. Instead, I will strive for my grandfather’s version of success—a happy, healthy family; a steady job that provides the necessities to live; and a greater awareness for the world around me and the right that all of us have to be happy. So you go ahead and dream of that big house on the hill, designer jeans, and jealous neighbors.
Because in the end, when we face whatever it is we face on the other side, the selfless will prevail.
And you, my dear cousin, can ballroom dance your way to hell.
Yes, folks, this is where you come to learn about Conor Oberst. I try not to just repost YouTube videos on this blog but I came across these and the production value is so good, I had to share. The first two are at Telluride the night before we saw them in Moab.
Danny Calahan:
I Got the Reason #2
I Don’t Want to Die (in the Hospital)
And for good measure, some Bright Eyes (because how can you go wrong with two kick-ass chick drummers?).
I don’t have the closest relationship with my dad. I’m not going to go into specifics, but if you know me, you know my issues. If you don’t know me, you just need to know that I have issues. He has made decisions that I have never been able to understand. However, as I’ve grown older, I realize that I was just a kid and unable to grasp the concepts and complexities of life when everything went down. And I’m not going to tell you that now that I’m an adult, I completely understand. Because I don’t. But what I can tell you is that I no longer blame myself. Or him. It just is what it is.
What I have recently come to realize is that while my dad and I have never really had a close father/son bond, I’m not sure that at this point in time, I can count on anyone to come through for me more than him. Over the past few years, he has always been there to break any fall and soften any blow that life may deal me. We’re still not exactly friends or have a relationship close to where I’d like it, but I always know that I can depend on him to come through when I make that call.
I’ve been trying to think of why that is. What I’ve come up with is that the rest of my family doesn’t really know me. They have their beliefs and their religion and it doesn’t quite jive with my way of thinking. I feel that some of them think of me as a heartless shell, looking for the next opportunity to fuck something up.
I don’t get that feeling from my dad. He gets me. And as time goes on, I’m finding this less strange. If you’d have told me at any point in the last 20 years that I would grow up to be like my dad, I would have responded with an “absolutely not.” But here I am. More alike than not alike. I hope he looks at me and can see how I’ve made different choices than he did at my age and that he is proud of them. That I learned from some of his mistakes. That I tried to break a pattern. That I tried to be an example.
And I know that he would go back and do some things differently if the technology existed. But it doesn’t. So all we can do is continue to make the choices ahead of us, learning from the choices we’ve already made and the choices of those around us.
When all is said and done, we are all just people trying to find our places. Trying to make sense of it all. Doing what we can to survive another day. We both understand this.
I hope that one day we will have a relationship built on more than me calling when I’m in a bind and him bailing me out. But until that day, I sleep a little better at night knowing that he’s out there and that he’ll answer when I call.
A flash in the pan and his image was set on film. That’s how he would be remembered. The man in the hat. With a beard and a sad eyes. Hopes and dreams hidden behind paper.
Fifty years later, his children will have long since forgotten him.
Eighty years and his great-grandchildren will wonder what happened. Eighty years and a day, he will return to forgotten.
A flash in the pan. An image on film.
I don’t really know everything. Sure, I claim to, but really deep down inside, I really don’t. I know you don’t really think so, either, so thanks for pretending that you think I do. It means a lot.
When it comes to matters of the heart, I’ve learned a thing or two. Do I always do the right thing? No. Rarely ever. But do I know what the right thing is? Yes. Usually.
I’m just going to throw this out there to all the men in the world. Show your lady some special attention this weekend. Let her know you appreciate the fact that she ignores your hair and lumps and general disgustingness. Show her that you realize that guys like you are a dime a dozen and that you need her more than she needs you. Treat her like you don’t want to lose her. And don’t expect anything in return.
I know, it’s hard. As men, we are wired to grunt and posture. We want to eat and shit and generally be left alone. We want things done our way. We don’t want to think or feel or think about feeling. So when our women cook us dinner or clean the toilet, we don’t complain. And we don’t reciprocate. So reciprocate now and then. I know you have it in you.
To the ladies in my life—my wife, my daughters, my mom—thanks for putting up with me. My wife is a saint. St. Hollee, the patron saint of retarded men. The fact that she’s put up with me for so long proves she is certifiably crazy and should probably be locked up, which I guess means I’m lucky. I hope they never find the cure. I hope she continues to tolerate me.
And to the men of my life… umm… er… football (scratch, scratch, fart).
Slipping off the grid for a week. Talk to you soon.
Daylight savings is an insomniac’s nightmare.
When I sat down this morning, I had every intention of writing about how tired I am of people saying, “Where’s my bailout?” I was going to write about how sometimes people like to make themselves feel good when they talk about the stimulus bill by talking about how they are responsible homeowners and have never missed a mortgage payment, never wary that their friends and family might be struggling to make ends meet. I was going to write about how human beings are a greedy lot and left to their own devices, will never allow capitalism to fully function because we are all looking for the quickest way to financial freedom, regardless of who we have to step on or stab in the back to get there.
But I’m not. I’m already bored with my own post. So instead, I’m going to write about porn (capitalism at its finest).
A study was published in the Salt Lake Tribune yesterday showing that Utah has the highest online porn subscription rate per thousand home broadband users. This same report also cited the Journal of Economic Perspectives, saying that online porn subscriptions are typically higher in states that enact conservative legislation, such as banning same-sex marriage and civil unions, and states with higher religious influence.
I find this interesting not because I like to stick my middle finger up to organized religion and say, “I told you so.” Because that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that on the outside, my friends, family, and neighbors are taking a stand for morality. They vocalize their disdain for immorality and disgust at those who seek acceptance in the community. Then they close the door and get down to business at the computer. Who do I trust with the safety and well-being of my children? A gay couple trying to make a life together or a straight person who salivates over his keyboard?
And we’re not talking about your everyday, run-of-the-mill porn here. I can objectify and appreciate the beauty of the fairer sex with the best of them when she crosses my line of sight. But we’re talking about subscription porn sites. Places you don’t just stumble across and say, “Hey, what’s this? Oh… clear history.” We’re talking about going out of your way to get there, then giving them your credit card number, then putting in a password, then going back and doing it again on a regular basis. And I’m not going to pretend I’m perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but I’m pretty sure that when you have to pay to see it, you make sure you find the site that goes the extra mile to get your freak on. You make sure it gets about as dirty as it can get.
So what am I saying? Am I judging you for liking porn? No, not at all. Do I think you are any less of a person than me? Absolutely not. Do I wish you’d ease up with your public voice when it comes to outwardly expressing your contempt of what you say you consider deviant acts of sexual misconduct? You betcha! Because what bigger hypocrite can you be than saying that homosexuality is a bigger threat to America than radical Muslims and then going home and logging into your favorite porn site to watch a little girl-on-girl action? Watching dude-on-dude? Or dude-on-donkey? Yeah, that’s probably a bit more accurate.
I used to really be into films (see how I call them films instead of movies—that’s so you’ll think I’m artsy fartsy). I used to fancy myself a screenwriter and I did a lot of research. I’d watch six films a week. Studying structure and character development and plot. This has changed in the past few years. I don’t watch nearly as many movies (I switched back to “movies” to show you that I’ve become a standard, run-of-the-mill member of society—this way, maybe you’ll be able to relate to me) as I used to. Maybe a couple a month. This is a result of several things. First, I get it. I can pick apart a movie in my sleep. My studies of films have ruined my enjoyment of mundane stories. I can’t just tune out. I can tell you why each choice was made. Secondly, I’m not really writing screenplays anymore (sure, I’ll have an idea here and there, but nothing that makes it to paper) so I’m really just not that into it.
I do still consider myself a pretty good critic and I still do enjoy a really good movie. I would actually consider myself a film connoisseur (though I would never say it out loud for fear of sounding like a douche, which is what you’d sound like if you walked up to somebody and said, “Hi, I’m a connoisseur of fine film”). So even though my motion picture viewing time has dramatically decreased, I still have skills on toast when it comes to deconstructing pretty much anything you can throw in front of me. And those mad skills, my playas, are not really all that practical in these trying economic times. But, you know, whatever… you embrace what you have and try not to cry too hard while curled up on the shower floor.
As a film guy, one filmmaker I’ve never been able to fake interest in is Stanley Kubrick. It’s funny, because when people find out that I write (and sometimes screenplays) and that I enjoy films, they always pull their Stanley Kubrick card first. Maybe it’s because his name is fairly well-known as being the creator of not-so-mainstream movies. And when you’re trying to identify with an elitist film pig when you’re a movie commoner, you pull out all the stops.
I never let the Kubrick conversation get far. When I hear, “Oh, you know who I love? Stanley Kubrick. Man, he’s out there,” I always say, “Yeah… I think I’m the only film guy who doesn’t like him.”
Their response is always something like, “Really?”
To which I will retort, “I just can’t stay awake. In fact, I’ve never seen the 
middle of a Stanley Kubrick film. I fall asleep every time… Yeah that’s right. Especially A Clockwork Orange. Even The Shining. Even Full Metal Jacket… although, the beginning and ending of Full Metal Jacket are pretty entertaining. I never even wasted my time with Eyes Wide Shut.”
For some reason, this takes me down a few notches in their film-loving-person idolatry meter. In fact, it takes me right out of contention. And that’s fine. Because if you think that someone has to love Stanley Kubrick to “get it,” then you’ve got another thing coming. Or maybe you don’t. I don’t really care either way.
Well, it’s finished. I finally feel like I can fully invest myself into my novel now. I’ve finished the flash fiction project I’ve been working on for what seemed like forever. It only took me 3 years to write 59 extremely short pieces. It’s not exactly a crowning achievement, but it is now behind me. And it’s not as long as I’d like it to be, but if I didn’t wrap it up, I’d continue forever. You can buy it on lulu.com. It’s only 10 bones. Scroll down to and hit the buy now button. I think it has two F-bombs that I couldn’t avoid. Sorry, Mom. But I have to let my characters’ true voices be heard.
