I'm Mourning and Bloodthirsty

This is what you come across when you search youtube for "Count Basie Complete Album".

Naturally.

What Separates You From the Beasts?

So the wife was away this past weekend which meant that I got a little Netflix to myself – my wife and I have very different tastes when it comes to movies – so I was able to watch some of Cave of Forgotten Dreams. This documentary is about cave art from about 32,000 years ago that, because of a rock slide, could not be accessed and results in pristine, untouched art. 

It is 2015. Our “sense” of history and art really doesn’t emotionally go back very far. It takes mental energy to connect history to our present and so we typically don’t, which results in the sophomoric “(art) history is dead facts” syndrome.

But what this movie made me do is spend that mental energy and I sat in awe in front of the television thinking about an artist or artists, in that cave making art as mammoths roamed outside, as torches provided light, and the difference between life and death was so thin, and yet, the art was produced. And is it ever striking! 

Why? Why take the time to do this when just survival requires so much? 

At some point isn’t it art that separates us from the beasts?

Not Exactly David Lee Roth

Here you are trying to make some sort of headway with this quote unquote character. Good luck with that; you might as well play the lottery or enjoy having your gums scraped. It’s not like you have any sort of chance with such a personality. Let’s face it you aren’t exactly David Lee Roth. But this isn’t your fault; he came up to you. Sure, he may be drunk bordering on incoherent and he may have puke in his hair but he came up to you. Is he popular? Check. Does he have great hair even if there are specks of regurgitated gyro in it? Check. Would his breath smell better with a 55 gallon drum of tic tacs, ingested over the course of an hour? Probably. You might be better off if you were drunk or at least buzzed but you don’t drink. Does he know you don’t drink? Wait why would he know that? You aren’t exactly popular; some bathroom stalls are more known in the school than you…but here you are…at a party…with popular people, and him. He probably wants one thing but he needs a shower. And you didn’t think popular kids could stink. My my the funk on his preppy clothes. Did he just say something about homework? Does he want you to do his homework? Hard to make out what he is saying; he might be throwing up in his mouth every few minutes. Is that the one thing he wants? Sheesh! Time to make a break for it. Where is Brittney? She swore she wouldn’t leave me. Is that her microwaving hot dogs with velveeta? You should just walk away, he won’t remember anything. His friend left though. He was urging him to go streaking down to the gas station. Now it is just the two of you. He keeps looking at you. You haven’t said one word. Not one. What is he saying? Did he just sit on the couch next to you? Leave. Leave now. Brittney is eating two hot dogs at once. Was that his breath in your ear? Why is he still drinking? And a wine cooler at that? What was that last word, was it “alone” or “Al Capone”? Leave. Leave now! You are about to stand when Brittney punches him in the face and squirts mustard all over him. “He was going to tape this sign on your back” she says. She shows you a piece of notebook paper with intoxicated lettering reading french (kiss) tutor.

The Walls and Halls

She was bored stiff. Bored with people, with things, ideas, tv, books…you name it she was bored with it. She could be a bit of a misanthrope at times but she also hated everything at times, including herself. But at other times she could light up a room and fill it with laughter and even hope. He was rarely on the ends and he was steady; day in and day out you could set your watch by him. Even keeled, balanced, centered he was. Until the world turned him upside down and made east west.

He was working at a new construction site when she called his cell. “I’m leaving” she said. He figured for a second she was going shopping or something and was just kindly letting him know. “Ok, what do you want to do for dinner?” “I’m leaving for good and never coming back” she said. Then she hung up and he listened to the dial tone…till the beeping of the excavator oriented him. “Hey Fitz, we need you over here” a hardhat yelled. But Fitz walked off the site, got into his truck and drove off.

When he got home all of her stuff was gone. No note no nothing. Gone. All of her stuff. All of her. The pictures of happier times stared at him from the walls and halls. Italy, Lake Champlain, Christmas, parties…He rumbled out the door and got back in his truck. He called her on her cell but it went straight to voicemail. “Honey, where are you? I’m in my truck I can come meet you, just tell me where you are. I don’t understand what’s happening. Please call me and tell me where you are. I can get there wherever it is…” He realized he didn’t know where he was driving or where he should go. He pulled over and realized he was shaking. He twitched and his eyes darted everywhere and nowhere. He tried to think of where she might go but he couldn’t corral his thoughts. A driver shouted from the road “turn on your flashers!” He startled to and put the truck back into drive and drove to Wegman’s. He sat in the parking lot till the construction crew called.

Lebron James, Fascist?

So everyone and their brother is fellating Lebron James for leading the Cavaliers to a 2-1 lead over the Golden State Warriors in the NBA finals and don’t get me wrong, I am very excited about the possibility of a championship for my birthplace of Akron specifically and Northeast Ohio in general.

But answer me this, is it not the most boring thing in the world to watch the Cavs on offense? Lebron, brings it up, Lebron goes to the wing, Lebron…shoots. Next offensive possession: Lebron, brings it up, Lebron goes to the wing, Lebron…shoots. Next offensive possession: Lebron, brings it up, Lebron goes to the wing, Lebron…shoots.

Oh my Joe Pesci is this boring to watch. It’s like the Groundhog Day of basketball. Over and over. And it’s fascist.