Unsoft's List

l o v e b i r d

Every day now, since I’m five
I wonder what keeps us alive.
I grew up with Russian missiles
Hanging up above my head.

I built rockets, Sunday science
Fueled by all the fear inside us
Every day was cartoon monsters
Camelot was long-since dead.

Under blankets I would see
A future of uncertainty.
Another talking cartoon dog
Will help me shake this vibe

Another can of Ravioli
Waiting for my brand new box
of brightly colored plastic things,
I build a future out of blocks

I build a life based on belief,
On faith in finding sweet relief
From all the tightness in my chest
I only want to breathe

I know you will be here someday,
I wait for you to come and play
I left you back in that old tree
So many years ago

Feathers brush against my soul
Your fingers reaching out through time
My heart beats air like pounding drums
Or wings against the morning sky

Every day now, since I’m small
I’ve known two things were mine.
They raced toward me while I ate
And slept and passed the time

The string that ties us loosened
As I felt you coming close
I knew that you would win the race,
The darkness rounds out second place

We become the finish line
And all that used to steal my breath
Has lost its power over me,
My leggo future comes to be

And now I know that other runner
Still approaches just as ever
Thoughts that took my cartoon pleasures
Animated anxious measures

Fear that held me down at five
and smacked my face at twenty-nine
can do its worst now, I don’t care.
I’ve found my breath inside your hair

We’ll know when the race is ending
I’ll lay down inside your heart.
We’ll wait it out with our flesh pressed
And wake up in our treetop nest

---

for my beautiful wife, Mandy.

s i n c e r i t y

I don't watch much reality TV. Ok, I hardly watch any reality TV, unless you count Unsolved Mysteries. Robert Stack is a personal hero of mine because he manages to somehow keep it real even though his script contains no fewer than 3 repeated occurrences of the word "poignant" per show.

Survivor. Give me a break. What's the appeal of this show? Somebody educate me...This program has absolutely nothing to do with survival, and it makes precious little reflection of any element of the human condition. It's less "real" than the "Real World", for Pete's sake.

If I was creating a show which was called Survivor, and was being marketed to the viewing public as a show about human resourcefulness and endurance in the face of adversity, I would favor a format like this:

Contestants would be selected and dropped off in a remote wilderness location with the exact same supply package as everyone else. The only way a contestant could be eliminated from competition is by resignation or death. The last contestant in the competition wins the entire purse.

One component of the program most DEFINITELY NOT included in my proposed format would be formal group identity.

"Tribes", or any formal team selection of any kind would not exist. If alliances are formed and broken on their own, so be it. Strategy would be up to individual contestants. If a group of contestants decided to pool their resources and/or live in a communal arrangement, that would be their option. Conversely, if a contestant decided that isolation and toughing it out on their own was the best course to pursue, that would be fine too.

Extending this philosophy, contestants could decide whether to expend energy and resources making life uncomfortable for other contestants, thus choosing the path of conflict. In the end, it would be interesting to observe whether the "live and wait it out" mindset prevailed over the "make war and win quick" school of thought.

Another element of the program that would have no place in my conception is the formal event structure. As a matter of fact, the less "official contact", the better. There would be no rounding up of contestants to compete in retarded challenge competitions. If the idea is survival, then let the idea be the show. No crappy version of University Greek Week Olympics would be forced on the contestants, and no additional supplies, comforts, benefits, perks or bonuses would be made available to any contestant for any reason. If they didn't bring it, they can build it. If they can't improvise or do without, then they can quit.

That would be a program worthy of the name Survivor. The present incarnation is more aptly named "Retarded Junior High School Camp Out".

Then there's American Idol. For God's sakes, the ideal of an American entertainment idol isn't reflected in how precisely a performer can fit into a pigeon-hole stereotype. If anything, that might indicate a significant reserve of talent, and absolutely no freestanding direction or creativity with which to implement it. I refuse to believe that the ideal American entertainer is an automaton, so lacking in sincerity and vision that they might be easily programmed by experts in shoveling "product".

Watching Idol last year, I was somewhat encouraged by the notice taken of William Hung - the UC Berkley Civil Engineering student and ghastly performer who was struck down in preliminary auditions. Simon Cowel stopped his terrible rendition of Ricky Martin's She Bangs with the question "You can't sing, you can't dance, what do you want me to say?" Hung replied with dignity "I have given my best, and therefore have no regrets".

Evidence of Hung's 15 minutes still abounds in the media, and while the spectacle was a little disturbing, there is more value in it than a thousand seasons of Idol. He was the highlight of last year's "Worst Auditions" show and received audience questions at the end of the show. When asked how he was progressing through the UC Berkley engineering curriculum, he replied that he was struggling as an engineering student, as he seemed to be in so many of his ventures, but that it was important to continue to struggle, and to not give up, because it built the kind of character necessary to eventually suceed.

His sincerity and optimism make him the closest thing to an American Idol to have ever graced that shitty soundstage.

m a j o r h e a l e y

When I was a young'in, suckling at the flickering fountain of coldlight basic cable for eight and ten hours per twenty four, I wasn't aware of the significance of many of the symbols and shadows that were being projected up on the cave wall for me. Composing about half of my waking universe, the fuzzy two dimensional, hardly customizable, take-it-as-you-find-it, thirteen channel (minus five or six) distorted window of fascination was never as much of a companion to me as it was another aspect of my existence - as real and important as the balance. I was so immersed in the hybrid world of black and white comfort and colorful fantasy that was the limited television landscape of the late 60's/ early 70's that my active imagination just integrated it all into one seamless day-to-day thing.

When I visit TVland for a little catch-up with my old daytime friends, I am struck by the sexuality that escaped me in my youth. You ever get that? I had no idea that Jeannie was so fucking sexy. When I used to wish I was Major Tony Nelson, it was because he worked for NASA and got to fly in space rockets. Now that nobody wants to be J.R. Ewing for any reason whatsoever, I am left with the cold hard realization that Major Nelson was some sort of class triple AAA buffoon for not taking advantage of the magic he had there, and in this case I'm talking about the kind initiated more so by winking than by blinking.

How about Samantha Stevens? Although I never found myself wishing I was Darren Stevens (either one), I recall mostly pleasant times watching that television show during which I lamented the Darren way of handling things. He had this beautiful gift that he had no appreciation for. I mean, he seemed to be a really good husband and father, and he loved his wife very much, but he couldn't accept her for all that she was. Even as a young child, I found that sad.

Ironically, Darren Stevens seemed to appreciate his wife physically while Dick York was (semi-openly) gay. Major Nelson had some fine ass just going to waste all the time, while Larry Hagman was a notorious womanizer. These are but a few of the things that escape the awareness of the five year old boy, but seem to be underscored in red to one aged thirty-eight or so.

Yes, I am sitting here with a straight face, telling all you guys that I never noticed that Elizabeth Montgomery was hot. I never thought about making out with any of the Brady girls. It never crossed my mind that some scantily clad blondie who went around saying things like "your wish is my command, master" had any sort of unstated appeal, just above my level of maturity, perception and sophistication. They were just some of the sub-people who surrounded me. As real as Scooby Doo.

The first time I remember noticing a film or television personality whose appeal to me I recognize now as sexual/physical was Jodie Foster. Now that I think about that, she's intelligent, age appropriate for me (unlike Elizabeth Montgomery, who is older than my mom) and has tended to come across a little geeky in film and television roles, especially those of her teen years. (It's important to note here that I didn't see Taxi Driver 'till College.)

This all makes me wonder about myself. I seem to have somehow missed blatant, targeted, fine-tuned and painted-on, pop-culture sexuality, while picking up on the deeper aspects of what I know today to be my own sexual nature and the power of attraction, as it applies to me.
What a great theme - the power of attraction. It's the underlying theme of me and how my sexual identity was shaped. It's mostly all in there. I somehow miss the really obvious painted on stuff, I can't resist cleverness in any format, and I rarely fail to appreciate magic for what it truly is. My ultimate strength and my Achilles heel all summed up in one shaky weblog entry.

e r o s i o n c o n t r o l

Some things of mine are perpetually broken, and I just don't ever seem to fix them entirely. There are a few things I'm never far from on top of, but for the most part I'm never really chomping at the bit to get up and repair anything.

The broken things that have stayed broken over time now fit into my life as they are. Time and time again, I've found some element of my life that fits perfectly into the broken space. I'm not sure if, in my olympic quest for the perfect rationalization, I've just reshaped a piece to fit in there, or if the thing breaks in the first place because it's sticking out in the way.

I've said of myself that I elevate excuse-making to an artform. Most of them even work on me, I'm so good. Not being able to forget this, I aspire to cast blame on it. That's also very much a "me" thing to do. Still, I can't help from taking what I've gathered from my POV and at least dancing happily somewhere in the neighborhood of the conclusion that the perpetually broken elements of my life were actually sharp edges that overhung my path, and the force of my own energy of being and motion has eroded them away into a geometry more suited to the relationship I require with my environment.

Sounds pretty good so far, huh? Now, how do I get the broken gutters on my house to fit this scenario?

w a s t e d i s p o s a l

I have a theory that I'm trash. That may seem like a contrived, self-effacing, piece of comment-bait, left along the trail in hopes of soliciting kind feedback, but I assure you that statement came from Marianesque depths, where simple mechanisms like compliment-fishery would be crushed flat.

Nearly two years ago now, I attended the first family reunion on my namesake side in twenty plus years. Apparently, the general consensus among blood is that I am indeed trash. Also, if my opinion counts for anything in the matter, I believe most of them are trash too - adding important genetic weight to my argument. I suppose very loose definitions of people as trash are offensive, and that offense is actually multi-faceted. Human worth and human waste and all. Every human is intrinsically worth something, but all men aren't exactly created equal are we? So we have an admittedly variable base model price, and it becomes really difficult to account for all the dealer and after-market options, especially as we try to balance in appreciation and depreciation.

My cousin Mary, the MD, apparently finds my ghetto neighborhood and unkempt lawn distasteful. Well how do you like that? Not much of a surprise really. I recall an event in the very late 1970's - her brother John (we called him John-John, like he was some sort of Kennedy or something) was teasing my cousin Louie and me. He asked us what kind of lawnmowers our fathers had. Neither of us knew. I knew mine had a Briggs and Stratton engine, but that was about the extent of it. Anyway, apparently we were both hilariously uninformed and underequipped when it came to lawncare. His father had a Lawn Boy. A Lawn Boy with a Bag (pronounced more like BIG - in whiney Midwest preppy). After several minutes of this, Louie and I threw him on the ground, getting grass stain all over his white Izod, and Louie said "Ha, now You're a lawnboy!" "Want me to kick you in the BIG?" - I remember adding.

My cousin Jane Anne (Catholic family, all the girls have two names; i.e., Anne Katharine, Mary Beth, etc.) was standing among a gaggle of other two-names trying to turn sideways while still talking to all of them - so that she could maintain the constant visual assertion and reinforcement that she is the thinnest among their ranks. This apparently entitles her to some sort of position of privilege, but it also forces her to keep her neck constantly twisted up so that she can talk to you while you appreciate her barely existant profile. Her pencil arms flail around all the time she talks, striking anything in the immediate vicinity that threatens to come into contact with her giant teased hair. Apparently, it's a considerable offense to touch the giant teased hair of the crooked-headed skeleton princess. I wouldn't know for sure.

Then there's Mark. Mark is John-John's brother. He spent the whole time I was trying to get away from him rambling on about how he was never getting married or having a family because things like that would get in the way of his travel to professional sporting events and would even possibly cut into the money he desperately needs for his Accura storage. His assumption that my family situation (having no children at that time) was a matter of choice and some sort of intellectual bond he and I shared was enough to keep a really bad taste in my mouth until....well I'll let you know when it goes away.

When I look long and hard at what's left of my stock, this is what I see. A lot of people who have the collective depth and soul of one of those carnival machines where you try and grab worthless stuffed animals with a malfunctioning grappling hook. They think I'm trash, so there's prevailing public opinion. They certainly are trash, so there's the categorical evidence. It's ok. I've been fairly sure for a long time. That's why I never throw anything away.

p e a n u t b u t t e r a n d

The first Saturday in September 2003, I was obligated to spend the day on my father-in-law's boat, blistering in the sun on Summersville lake. I wasn't looking forward to going, for a few reasons. The main one was my mom-in-law, who I must say I love dearly. The problem is, she turns into an evil harpie the split second the boat drifts into even partial shade.

She's a sun worshipper of the first order (you know, the order with the fancy Latin name...carcinoma). After several hours of continuous exposure, I find that even the SUPER SUNBLOCK SPF 5000 I reserve for outings of this nature fails to adhere the charred blistering skin to my shoulderbones. I alternate from swimming to walking around the boat fully dressed (in wet clothes, by the end of the day). Ok, I sound like I'm whining. I was also really tired, given that Saturday, September 6, 2003 was my only full day home in almost 2 weeks, and I was further obligated to attend my brother's wife's birthday dinner later that evening. whine whine whine, get to the point.

On one of my requisite dips into the cool green water of the lake, I thought I caught a glimpse of a familiar shape under the water. I routinely swim down a few feet and open my eyes when swimming in fresh water. I am a trained SCUBA diver (not so rare these days) who's major diving experience has been industrial, in dirty fresh water, for work. The environment I'm primarily used to diving in is a muddy river with powerful current and next to zero visibility. Freshwater lakes represent the most hospitable, enjoyable environment I have any significant experience diving in, so I have some basic expectation of what I might find there.

I also really enjoy surfing, for a landlocked old guy. I still make myself a couple chances a year to really go at it. I've been at minimum, an annual traveler to some coastal area or another, ever since I was about 5 years old. This has given me a fairly decent feel (and respect) for what I might find in the ocean, at least the ocean closest to me.

That distant Saturday, when I was under Summersville lake cooling off, the mental line between those 2 somewhat related worlds became alarmingly blurry. It was almost enough of a shock to cause mild panic. Summersville is a mountain lake, at least 500 miles inland of any body of salt water. You might expect to see a good sized catfish in there. Maybe a few smallmouth bass. Some stripers, in the deeper water near the dam.

I saw the shape drift by, a little too far away to distinguish detail. It was almost unthinkable to me, but it sure looked like one. What was a jellyfish doing in Summersville lake? Then the inescapable following thought. What the hell was I now doing in Summersville lake? I surfaced, swam to the boat and began to watch the area beneath the surface still illuminated by the bright, mid-afternoon sun. I was still in a state of disbelief, and wasn't sure enough to start yelling "git out of there, there's jellyfish!" I was sure I'd be ridiculed.

I watched for about another half hour, spotting the occasional piece of flotsam, but becoming less and less sure of what I'd seen. Then, I saw it. Plain as day, and closer to the surface. I prodded my wife Mandy and showed her. Her eyes got wider, but she said nothing, for the time. A few seconds later, we both spotted another one and we started chattering over top of one another. This one was really active, and the propulsion action of its diaphragm was so intense that there was no mistaking that this was a living creature with an ambulatory agenda. This was a jellyfish, at least as far as I was concerned.

We instantly began to spot several more of them, and we began to point them out to our similarly shocked boatmates. Groups of them of increasing number drifted by, all apparently heading toward deeper water. Before long, we were in what can only be described as a huge school of them. We caught one in a coffee can and watched it swim back and forth. It was aware of the sides of the can, and avoided them. It just swam back and forth from edge to edge till we let it go, then it resumed its trek toward deeper water.

Of course, afterward I did a web search, and discovered that I had stumbled on nothing any more special than a bloom of hydras. Seventh grade science students everywhere are probably not surprised. I sure wish I had a seventh grade science student with us that day, though. He could have saved me quite a bit of puzzlement and fear.

According to the information I read, this was a fairly decent bloom. Hydras are common to most of the fresh water in the continental US, and have even been previously reported in the very same area we saw them in. Blooms are typically a late summer phenomenon. Opinions vary on whether a person can be stung by a hydra. Some say yes, and some say no. I don't see any reason why not to side with the "yesses", erring on the side of caution and all.

This was one of those experiences that leaves a mark. I found myself in disbelief of my own eyes, in fear for my epidermis, in fear of ridicule, completely at a loss to understand, and finally and anticlimactically, less informed about my own surroundings than any seventh grade science student. In that order. Then I had to go to dinner. What a day.