Previously...
Flashing montage of spectral voices describing everything that is wrong with an air and water show. Flashy waste of military funds. Mass hypnosis with the machines of war acting like circus animals. Images of me cringing in my apartment everytime a jet screams by. Stereo knobs being turned up. Time lapse clouds and thunder storms. Me giving puppy dog looks out the window at the crappy weather like the boy trapped inside practicing the violin while his peers run wild in the streets.
Shot opens on a sunny day, my friend Charles and I bicycling slowly on the lakefront path.
Charles is new to biking, and I am repressing my usual speed to let him set a comfortable pace for himself. I had never taken the time to enjoy a leisurely ride. I get on my bike and zoom. I'm off. This was pleasant. It was a pretty day. The breeze was mild, the sun was out.
And so were the crowds. By the time we hit the contruction before North Avenue Beach, the memory of the scheduled events came back to me. Families wlking four abreast on the path, dragging coolers. Children erratically cutting in front of our bikes. Other cyclists and joggers miffed at the ruining of their pace.
So we slowed down, and crept through. This was fine. Serenity still in place. Occassionally, we slowed too much to maintain balance. We then set foor to ground and walked our bikes, taking advantage of any opportunity to begin peddling again. If man were meant to walk, God wouldn't have given us bicycles!
As we crawled through the loose masses congregating on North Avenue Beach, the loud speakers were proclaiming some marvel of water skiing occurring off the shore. When I could, I stole glances out to sea (lake?).
I have always wanted to water ski. Never have, and probably never will. Still, this sport fascinates me. I have no idea why. I picture myself hanging on for dear life, somewhere between the vintage sports commercials and a Go-Gos video. Only a lot less pretty.
As I steal glances eastward, simultaneously stopping and starting my bike to avoid crushing small children and scraping the heels of the more procreative members of our society, all I see out in the water is a couple of boats here and there. They are all far enough out to really be matchbox car size.
All you could see were small (perspective) boats zooming this way and that. If this was to be a water show as advertised, there wasn't much show going on. I could barely see anything going on. Silhouetted against the morning sun, the boats were small grey blobs moving about far enough off shore to be completely featureless. If there was a water skiing exhibition going on, the skiers either too far off to be recognizably independent of the boats and the horizon, or they were so bad as to not stay up long enough to exhibit any admirable water skiing prowess.
Tommy Bartlett's this was not. I remember as a kid being mesmerized by the water show at the Wisconsin Dells. The bleacher seats close enough to the shore to see the action. Skiiers flying off ramps and racing around the river on one foot.
Here, on the shores of Lake Michigan...nothing. Just droves of spectators spectating at nothing.
Surprisingly, Charles and I made it downtown in decent time, depsite the slow going. Strange, the day was still quite lovely.
So far...
28.8.04
Air and Water ShOWWWWW! Vol. 1 Invasion By Air
So...a string of events.
A little over a week ago saw the 50th Chicago Air and Water Show, or some other anniversary of long running boredom.
I don't get it! Really! Someone please explain. Please?!
Aside from being a celebration of our outdated military industry used for crowd pleasing spectacle, a la fireworks, it has to be one of the most annoying and boring civic events.
Maybe the worst part of it is that you cannot escape it. Chicago is a large town. It's huge. Still, for three days prior to the "event," the jets were "practicing" their stunts. This pretty much translated into scremaing across the Chicago airspace. You could not excape. I live on the far north side of town, but even inside my apartment, you could hear the jets scraping across the sky, over and over again.
Some things you can choose whether or not you want to go. Every event obviously has some appeal to someone, or it wouldn't be held. However, if you did not want to go to, say, the Taste of Chicago (a large annual feeding frenzy downtown), you can simply not go. It's not like the event also flings polish sausages to farthest reaches of the city. Not interested in attending a Bear's game or a Cub's game? Don't go. Movie is the Park? Stay home.
Air and Water Show? Move.
Even sitting in my apartment, with the windows closed, the TV and the stereo turned up, the SSSKRKRKKRRRRRREEEEUEUUUEUUUUUUWWWW of the jets flying by overpowered all.
So, regardless of my desire not to participate in the spectacle of planes flying around, I am trying out this new plan called "Participating in Life."
Now for some reason, this summer has been exceptionally cool. It's like October in San Francisco. For many, that translates into "lovely." For me, that means, friggin' cold. The whole previous week it had been rainy, overcast adn rarely above 70 degrees.
Since I was too much of a wuss to go out on my bike much, I sat around eating and entertaining fantasies of the air and water show getting rained out. What better way to have an Air and Water Show than with large volumes of water falling from the sky?
Needless to say, the weekend weather was beautiful.
On Sunday, my friend Charles called me up to go on a bike ride to meet up with some folks downtown.
I am constantly amazed at my lack of short term memory. Bike Ride Downtown + Large Groups of People Watching the Air and Water Show = HELL. Either I could not remember that this was going on, the above displayed skills at arithmetic were in remission, or I was in absolute denial that people would want to turn out to watch planes and boats do what they do best.
Charles and I set out on our bikes south along the lakefront trail at 9am.
A little over a week ago saw the 50th Chicago Air and Water Show, or some other anniversary of long running boredom.
I don't get it! Really! Someone please explain. Please?!
Aside from being a celebration of our outdated military industry used for crowd pleasing spectacle, a la fireworks, it has to be one of the most annoying and boring civic events.
Maybe the worst part of it is that you cannot escape it. Chicago is a large town. It's huge. Still, for three days prior to the "event," the jets were "practicing" their stunts. This pretty much translated into scremaing across the Chicago airspace. You could not excape. I live on the far north side of town, but even inside my apartment, you could hear the jets scraping across the sky, over and over again.
Some things you can choose whether or not you want to go. Every event obviously has some appeal to someone, or it wouldn't be held. However, if you did not want to go to, say, the Taste of Chicago (a large annual feeding frenzy downtown), you can simply not go. It's not like the event also flings polish sausages to farthest reaches of the city. Not interested in attending a Bear's game or a Cub's game? Don't go. Movie is the Park? Stay home.
Air and Water Show? Move.
Even sitting in my apartment, with the windows closed, the TV and the stereo turned up, the SSSKRKRKKRRRRRREEEEUEUUUEUUUUUUWWWW of the jets flying by overpowered all.
So, regardless of my desire not to participate in the spectacle of planes flying around, I am trying out this new plan called "Participating in Life."
Now for some reason, this summer has been exceptionally cool. It's like October in San Francisco. For many, that translates into "lovely." For me, that means, friggin' cold. The whole previous week it had been rainy, overcast adn rarely above 70 degrees.
Since I was too much of a wuss to go out on my bike much, I sat around eating and entertaining fantasies of the air and water show getting rained out. What better way to have an Air and Water Show than with large volumes of water falling from the sky?
Needless to say, the weekend weather was beautiful.
On Sunday, my friend Charles called me up to go on a bike ride to meet up with some folks downtown.
I am constantly amazed at my lack of short term memory. Bike Ride Downtown + Large Groups of People Watching the Air and Water Show = HELL. Either I could not remember that this was going on, the above displayed skills at arithmetic were in remission, or I was in absolute denial that people would want to turn out to watch planes and boats do what they do best.
Charles and I set out on our bikes south along the lakefront trail at 9am.
10.6.04
The Agony of Having Nothing to Say
What can I say? Lots. What will I say? Nothing.
For a head that runs a mile a minute, only stopping for breathe about five minutes any given day (and often not consecutively), I get nowhere.
It seems like great ideas flow in and out of my mind at a mind-boggling pace, and yet none of them stick long enough to even consider putting into effect. It may be just as well. Whenever great ideas have hung out for tea, I invariably end up in some sort of trouble.
Still, it would be nice if my head were less like a transient hotel and more like a ... Super 8?
I need to spend more time writing. If only things could come out of me in such a way as to make sense, even to me. I know that a certain amount of writing takes discipline and practice. Still, some part of me thinks writing is more like child birth. You scream, and bleed and perspire, and then bam, out comes a child. For better or worse, there it is. It isn't a draft. YOu can't erase portions of it. It is there, screaming in your arms, and you have just presented it to the world, covered in blood and ready to take a life of its own. No sending it back to be fine-tuned. No discarding it. No stuffing it back in. Of course, with that attitude, I'd figure I'd be more prolific. Or at least more productive.
Maybe to get more out of me, I should take up jogging. A friend of mine, tired of the length of her pregnancy, took up Thai food and jogging to try and urge the little bundle of joy out of her.
I guess I'm what is called the non-editing type. Funny. Every creative writing course I took, everyone always told me what a great editor I would make. (None of these comments are to reflect on my spelling, grammar or content here, as this stuff is just, you know, stuff) I was never sure whether to take that as an insult. I suppose everyone was quite thankful for insight into their writing (solicited or not...), but what about MY writing? "It's nice." That doesn't tell me anything.
So...
What now?
That is all.
For a head that runs a mile a minute, only stopping for breathe about five minutes any given day (and often not consecutively), I get nowhere.
It seems like great ideas flow in and out of my mind at a mind-boggling pace, and yet none of them stick long enough to even consider putting into effect. It may be just as well. Whenever great ideas have hung out for tea, I invariably end up in some sort of trouble.
Still, it would be nice if my head were less like a transient hotel and more like a ... Super 8?
I need to spend more time writing. If only things could come out of me in such a way as to make sense, even to me. I know that a certain amount of writing takes discipline and practice. Still, some part of me thinks writing is more like child birth. You scream, and bleed and perspire, and then bam, out comes a child. For better or worse, there it is. It isn't a draft. YOu can't erase portions of it. It is there, screaming in your arms, and you have just presented it to the world, covered in blood and ready to take a life of its own. No sending it back to be fine-tuned. No discarding it. No stuffing it back in. Of course, with that attitude, I'd figure I'd be more prolific. Or at least more productive.
Maybe to get more out of me, I should take up jogging. A friend of mine, tired of the length of her pregnancy, took up Thai food and jogging to try and urge the little bundle of joy out of her.
I guess I'm what is called the non-editing type. Funny. Every creative writing course I took, everyone always told me what a great editor I would make. (None of these comments are to reflect on my spelling, grammar or content here, as this stuff is just, you know, stuff) I was never sure whether to take that as an insult. I suppose everyone was quite thankful for insight into their writing (solicited or not...), but what about MY writing? "It's nice." That doesn't tell me anything.
So...
What now?
That is all.
24.5.04
I Wanna Rant and Rave, Too!
I was reading, as I tend to do. Just bopping around to other websites, other blogs, other emails, ad nausea. It was quite lovely. I was reading http://pussyranch.blogspot.com/ and thoroughly enjoyed the rant on reality TV eugenics. It got me thinking about an article in the MediaFile from San Francisco's Media Alliance. In it, the writer broke down news anchors and how they fit their roles. My friend Rebecca has a series of emails she has sent me (maybe soon to be posted, pending permission) titled "Rant #[Fill In The Blank]" that would expound about the many absurdities and inconveniences of her day-to-day life. Other people I know are able to hold vociferous conversations regarding idiocy.
And then there's me.
There are plenty of things that up my dander, irk me, rile my ire, and whatnot. Just writing the paragraph above goaded my guff. My heart is beating slightly more rapdily than it was two minutes ago. And yet, whenever I go into a rant about something, I sound like a pouty five year old pushing angst through tears and last all of two to three minutes. I generally blow my contrary wad too soon. In ranting, I'm a lousy lay.
So now what? Do I try to move slower, building to my point until climaxing in a witty and ironic rebuke of the object of my agression?
OR
Do I take pity on the poor saps who have something to say? Do I thank the stars that I am not obsessed with the things that fuck me up? Feel grateful that I need not pound tables and take up space with my antipathy? Maybe those capable of rants are really insecure, needing to pick apart external things to try and find their place in the universe. Where does that leave me, being so deeply insecure that I want to be like the people so insecure they develop the skill and need to rant?
The only thing I really seem capable of picking apart in an obsessive manner is myself. I'm not particularly good at figuring out my faults and defaults and adjusting, changing or discarding them for the purpose of general self-improvement and mature introspective growth. I just notice the things about ME that annoy ME.
Besides, I never actually seem to get anywhere. The closest to Debate Club I got was timing a match. It was big fun, not being a geek who actually was in Debate Club, mind you, but one who gave up a Saturday morning going to school to TIME Debate Club. How lame? So, when I start to run my mouth, my brain ends up taking many sharp lefts, u-turns and complete tangents, never completing a thought and generally ending up nowhere but exasperated. Without a conclusion, it doesn't seem like much of a point, does it?
There was a time when I thought I would make a hell of a lawyer. I loved to argue. Sure, I lost all the time. Sure, arguing a point was tiresome and draining. Sure, I often was won over to the opposing opinion by the seductive persuasion of the way other people argue a point. Sure, ninety percent of my desire to become a lawyer stemmed from the shock value of telling my parents I wanted to go to Law School.
As it turns out, I had a couple of the skills to make it in law. First, I have a knack for mind breaking tedium. I can fill out forms, wade through bureaucracy, sit on hold, make cold calls, sign people's names, paper clip and file without any thought to boredom or mind-rot. That is, as long as it has nothing to do with me personally. For some reason, if all this involves my life, I turn into a shrivelled, quaking mess. (For more on that, please refer to an, as yet, unwritten rant on Matthew's (Im)Personal Affairs). As long as it is impersonal, and generally for pay or some other form of me-benefitting reimbursement, I do well. Second, to make it in law, you must have an inroad, I've already been to jail!
There. See.
So where does that leave us?
And then there's me.
There are plenty of things that up my dander, irk me, rile my ire, and whatnot. Just writing the paragraph above goaded my guff. My heart is beating slightly more rapdily than it was two minutes ago. And yet, whenever I go into a rant about something, I sound like a pouty five year old pushing angst through tears and last all of two to three minutes. I generally blow my contrary wad too soon. In ranting, I'm a lousy lay.
So now what? Do I try to move slower, building to my point until climaxing in a witty and ironic rebuke of the object of my agression?
OR
Do I take pity on the poor saps who have something to say? Do I thank the stars that I am not obsessed with the things that fuck me up? Feel grateful that I need not pound tables and take up space with my antipathy? Maybe those capable of rants are really insecure, needing to pick apart external things to try and find their place in the universe. Where does that leave me, being so deeply insecure that I want to be like the people so insecure they develop the skill and need to rant?
The only thing I really seem capable of picking apart in an obsessive manner is myself. I'm not particularly good at figuring out my faults and defaults and adjusting, changing or discarding them for the purpose of general self-improvement and mature introspective growth. I just notice the things about ME that annoy ME.
Besides, I never actually seem to get anywhere. The closest to Debate Club I got was timing a match. It was big fun, not being a geek who actually was in Debate Club, mind you, but one who gave up a Saturday morning going to school to TIME Debate Club. How lame? So, when I start to run my mouth, my brain ends up taking many sharp lefts, u-turns and complete tangents, never completing a thought and generally ending up nowhere but exasperated. Without a conclusion, it doesn't seem like much of a point, does it?
There was a time when I thought I would make a hell of a lawyer. I loved to argue. Sure, I lost all the time. Sure, arguing a point was tiresome and draining. Sure, I often was won over to the opposing opinion by the seductive persuasion of the way other people argue a point. Sure, ninety percent of my desire to become a lawyer stemmed from the shock value of telling my parents I wanted to go to Law School.
As it turns out, I had a couple of the skills to make it in law. First, I have a knack for mind breaking tedium. I can fill out forms, wade through bureaucracy, sit on hold, make cold calls, sign people's names, paper clip and file without any thought to boredom or mind-rot. That is, as long as it has nothing to do with me personally. For some reason, if all this involves my life, I turn into a shrivelled, quaking mess. (For more on that, please refer to an, as yet, unwritten rant on Matthew's (Im)Personal Affairs). As long as it is impersonal, and generally for pay or some other form of me-benefitting reimbursement, I do well. Second, to make it in law, you must have an inroad, I've already been to jail!
There. See.
So where does that leave us?
18.5.04
Credit Where Credit Is Due
It would be rude, and selfish, if I took any credit for this website, at least at this point.
Fred, my love/main squeeze/guy/webmaster/teacher/etc. has very patiently walked me through the great big scary world wide web and html. He says he's not very good with languages, but how this guy speaks html is beyond me.
So here's to you, Fred
Love you.
Fred, my love/main squeeze/guy/webmaster/teacher/etc. has very patiently walked me through the great big scary world wide web and html. He says he's not very good with languages, but how this guy speaks html is beyond me.
So here's to you, Fred
Love you.
Booberhead Pirate Blogg
Hey weasel-heads!
Just wanted to take a few minutes to overthrow the humans on the website.
Today I woke up (three times already), went to the litterbox, went to the front door, pooped there, had a few gulps of water, and went trolling for treats. After giving dad the leg scratch and the adorable "I need treats" look, followed by that irresistably cute yawn that I do, dad gave me a chicken-snack. They're alright. They're not as good as the vitamin glop, but they sure beat those freaky-ass bacon things. And raisins: What the hell is up with raisins? I look fruit as much as the next guy, but this dried shit will kill you. My sister likes raisins, but she's got issues.
Next, it was time for my daily Winged Migration. Someday I will introduce you to my friend, Duck. He's a gas. Everyday, he needs me to take him on a migration around the domain. Sometimes, he likes to sit in the window, and I need to carry him up onto the couch, up over the lamp, onto the windowsill, and then into his perch on the blinds. Other times, he wants to hide out in the closet or under the credenza.
I love Duck.
Well, I'm bored now.
Bye.
Waldo
Vanity, Vanity, All Is Vanity!
So, many people ask a variety of wonderful questions.
"Well, Matthew, what are you going to do with your website?"
"Why do YOU have a website?"
"What kind of website are you going to have?"
ad nausea...
The answers:
I haven't the foggiest (the how or the what)
Because I'm privileged that way, plus I know a great guy who got me online.
Whatever comes to mind, within the limitations of my abilities.
In essence: vanity.
There's no other word to describe why I have this website, or what I am doing with it. I have no business. I offer no service. I'm not really that opinionated, at least in a way that anyone would care to know. When all is said and done, this is merely devoted to the general distribution of information regarding me. Well, only what I want people to know of me.
and speaking of vanity...there is a site devoted to pictures of me! Isn't that great. Not only multiple photos of yours truly, but it's restricted to photos of me at least three whole years younger than I am now. Talk about vanity!
You can visit...ME...or multiple images of ME at www.netjaunt.com/matthew.html
Through the magic of digital images, you will get to see why I am worthy of such vanity. Look at the grooming. Look at the pride and workmanship that went into my daily attire, hair-don't and general appearance. There are those out there who can even attest to a certain vain level of personal hygience not seem since medieval times (and I do mean serfs).
Well, all this vanity is making me hungry. I should go eat something.
Stay tuned...next week...one of the other seven deadlies...maybe greed.
"Well, Matthew, what are you going to do with your website?"
"Why do YOU have a website?"
"What kind of website are you going to have?"
ad nausea...
The answers:
I haven't the foggiest (the how or the what)
Because I'm privileged that way, plus I know a great guy who got me online.
Whatever comes to mind, within the limitations of my abilities.
In essence: vanity.
There's no other word to describe why I have this website, or what I am doing with it. I have no business. I offer no service. I'm not really that opinionated, at least in a way that anyone would care to know. When all is said and done, this is merely devoted to the general distribution of information regarding me. Well, only what I want people to know of me.
and speaking of vanity...there is a site devoted to pictures of me! Isn't that great. Not only multiple photos of yours truly, but it's restricted to photos of me at least three whole years younger than I am now. Talk about vanity!
You can visit...ME...or multiple images of ME at www.netjaunt.com/matthew.html
Through the magic of digital images, you will get to see why I am worthy of such vanity. Look at the grooming. Look at the pride and workmanship that went into my daily attire, hair-don't and general appearance. There are those out there who can even attest to a certain vain level of personal hygience not seem since medieval times (and I do mean serfs).
Well, all this vanity is making me hungry. I should go eat something.
Stay tuned...next week...one of the other seven deadlies...maybe greed.
17.5.04
City Nicknames
Once upon a time, I worked for an urban planning firm in San Francisco. While there, working on redevelopmenbt, affordable housing and other industry jargon, I got a crash course in California geography. However, more importantly, I also received an education in the slanderous nicknames often applied to municipalities.
I now live in Chicago. Maybe I'm running in the wrong circles (running in circles being one of my preferred pass-times), but it doesn't seem like people nickname neighborhoods and towns around here.
If anybody has any to suggest (in Illinois, or anywhere else), I would love to try and compile a master list of such things. Please email them to matthew@randamnation.com.
Some of these are pretty lame, but when we are belittling something/someplace else, how often do we (or really I) care about being witty and accurate?
AND NOW, THE LIST!!! -
Sacramento - Excremento, Sacramental
Palo Alto - Shallow Alto
Oakland - Smokeland
Berkeley - Berzerkely
Menlo Park - Menless Park
Sunnyvale - Smoggyvale
Petaluma - Pestaluma
Santa Cruz - Santa Crud
Modesto - Mollesto
Hayward - Haywire
Livermore - Littlemore
Colma (City of the Dead) - Coma
Redwood City - Deadwood City
Mendocino - Spendocino
Mill Valley - Spill Valley
Brisbane - Has Been
San Ramone - San Remote
Richmond - Bitchmound
Morgan Hill - Morning Pill
Foster City - Fucker Shitty
Milpitas - Mell's Penis, Deplete Us
Hollywood - Hollyweird
Indio - Windio
Pacific Heights - Specific Whites
Fremont - Speed Haunt
And in Illinois:
Lake Forest - Fake Forest
I now live in Chicago. Maybe I'm running in the wrong circles (running in circles being one of my preferred pass-times), but it doesn't seem like people nickname neighborhoods and towns around here.
If anybody has any to suggest (in Illinois, or anywhere else), I would love to try and compile a master list of such things. Please email them to matthew@randamnation.com.
Some of these are pretty lame, but when we are belittling something/someplace else, how often do we (or really I) care about being witty and accurate?
AND NOW, THE LIST!!! -
Sacramento - Excremento, Sacramental
Palo Alto - Shallow Alto
Oakland - Smokeland
Berkeley - Berzerkely
Menlo Park - Menless Park
Sunnyvale - Smoggyvale
Petaluma - Pestaluma
Santa Cruz - Santa Crud
Modesto - Mollesto
Hayward - Haywire
Livermore - Littlemore
Colma (City of the Dead) - Coma
Redwood City - Deadwood City
Mendocino - Spendocino
Mill Valley - Spill Valley
Brisbane - Has Been
San Ramone - San Remote
Richmond - Bitchmound
Morgan Hill - Morning Pill
Foster City - Fucker Shitty
Milpitas - Mell's Penis, Deplete Us
Hollywood - Hollyweird
Indio - Windio
Pacific Heights - Specific Whites
Fremont - Speed Haunt
And in Illinois:
Lake Forest - Fake Forest
13.5.04
This is all about Bob, today.
"It's going to be about me, right? I mean, isn't everything?"
That's what Bob said to me as I gushed about my new website. I said sure, placating him.
Once I figure out what i want to do with it, then figure out how to do that with it, and then actually do it with it (which in and of itself sounds...) I can just devote a page or something to bob. He can send his friends a little URL http://randamnation.com/bob.html
It would be so pretty. Not a fan page. Nothing obsessive and creepy. No. Just a little cyber-shrine to selfishness.
Being one to talk, having the rest of the site, and even underlying the not-so-selfish-devoted-to-other-people parts of the site really being all about me. Well...
So how are you?
That's what Bob said to me as I gushed about my new website. I said sure, placating him.
Once I figure out what i want to do with it, then figure out how to do that with it, and then actually do it with it (which in and of itself sounds...) I can just devote a page or something to bob. He can send his friends a little URL http://randamnation.com/bob.html
It would be so pretty. Not a fan page. Nothing obsessive and creepy. No. Just a little cyber-shrine to selfishness.
Being one to talk, having the rest of the site, and even underlying the not-so-selfish-devoted-to-other-people parts of the site really being all about me. Well...
So how are you?
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