Capitalist Jedi Mind Tricks - Part I

                Don’t you just love the American Dream?  Do you subscribe to it?  If you’re an American, you probably do, despite your own conscious protests to the contrary, if you protest at all.  I mean, it’s so comforting to think that I can make it!  I can do it!  I can realize my dreams!  Just take that Soma Pill and believe that it’s all o-kay.  I like to think that I can enter that utopian state in my little mind, where things are all good and happy.  You see, if my glass is half-full, things in the world seem so much nicer.  Who wants to think about the shitty news that’s reported every day on television?  Who wants to be bothered, burdened with the thought that those drug-addicted bastards have anything to do with me?  (Insert your favorite racist term in place of “bastards” in the last sentence.  If you’re unable to come up with a racist term, just come up with some demeaning, dehumanizing term that best describes those “fucks” who use drugs or that you might see as part of the social wasteland that you’d rather not acknowledge: “Goodness me!  They’re a fucking menace!”)

                Ironically, you’re no different than those fucks.  You and me both.  We are all fucks, with exception to the so-called Power Elite.  If you’re one of them, the elite, that is, then you’re not a fuck.  You’re a controller.  You’re a Bourgeoisie.  Good for you.  You control what we think is real, you control what we think.  Impressive.  Most impressive.  Not unlike having superpowers.  Ain’t that somethin’?  This, my fellow Proletarians, is the active employment of the Jedi Mind Trick.

                So what do I mean by the powerful dictating “what is real”?  Perhaps it is more accurate to add that they dictate what is not real as well.  That which is valuable and good in society is generally what is good for the rich.  So long as the social order is maintained, in which the rich continue to control resources and ultimately, the collective minds of a people, the better off everybody else is, or at least that’s how the (un)thinking goes.  In other words, what comprises everyday reality is largely dictated and in turn, assimilated into a society’s culture.

                The “in” thing to have, those products that are sold in the marketplace, are imbued with value.  These items are given a general consensus, a head-nod if you will, that they are desirable and worthy of your money.  None of us are immune to this, as we are, after all, part of the greater society that has created this environment that we live in.  Case in point, I am using a computer and listening to tunes on my i-Pod (Hot damn!  Did you hear that riff?).  Without having a basic understanding and access to the computer or other everyday technologies (vehicles for transportation, telephones), I cannot effectively survive in this society without being dredged over to the side amongst the most poor, least educated, least opportune-prone citizens among us. 

                Monetary profits are the driving force that dictates this social understanding of what is valuable; you know, the basic economic tenets of least cost, maximum profit.  Profits are made from the masses that purchase largely unnecessary things, and the money is distributed disproportionately to the top-most occupiers of the social rung.  That is why it’s absolutely essential to maintain the seemingly “harmonious” social order, such that the masses remain in their lower class locations, yet are appeased through 1.) the belief that they can be upwardly mobile, and 2.) the distractions of new products that offer a false sense of power and happiness, i.e., coolness.  Indeed, I inevitably feel cool whenever I make a significant purchase that will have high use-value to me, such as my i-Pod and laptop computer.  And, let us not forget, my car!  It’s an econobox, but it’s sporty-looking and I purchased it new.  I still feel cool about it despite having had it for nearly four years (although the Capitalists would shake their heads in disappointment, as I intend to hold onto my car for as long as possible).

                Undoubtedly many things we purchase are “needs” - such items that fulfill basic physiological needs such as food, clothing, and shelter.  And arguably, specifically in the United States, there is a need for a car, where there is no adequate infrastructure that can support mass transportation in an efficient and realistic manner sans owning a personal vehicle.  However, there is an artificially derived motivation to have things that are really unnecessary.  Why do so many people trade-in their cars and purchase new ones?  How about the ingenious system of leasing a car?  Unbelievable!  And if you go over the mileage allotted, you pay even more before you’re allowed to have that new one.  Hoo-wee!  That’s a good one!  Nevertheless, there is an urge and desire to have it anyway, largely out of convenience and/or cool factor. 

I didn’t need an i-Pod, but carrying around a bunch of CDs wasn’t nearly as convenient as loading up data into a little device with hundreds of songs.  I’m a music buff, so I knew the i-Pod would get great use.  As a matter of fact, I got mine free by opening a bank account several years ago.  (Once again, the Capitalists shake their heads in mock embarrassment of my lack of coolness.  But worry not!  I will undoubtedly buy an i-Pod when my current 2-gigabyte Nano bites the dust.  I hope it doesn’t for a long while…  Those motherfuckers got me – it’s not unlike an addiction that will inevitably rear its ugly head.  I am not proud to admit it: I am dependent upon my i-Pod.)

                What I find most interesting, however, is that which is not real: those things that “they” don’t want us to know about.  The Power Elite are not strictly Capitalists, but members of government as well.  They go hand in hand, and if you try to buck tradition, you’re fucked.  Why are there things that can’t be known?  Why do things need to be kept “under wraps”?  Well, once again, it’s because if these things were learned by the greater public, it would potentially screw up profits for the über-rich.

                Some of the most common cover-ups revolve around health.  If activities can affect the health and well-being of people, especially children, then there is a stronger potential for public outcry.  Relatedly, this touches upon morals.  If deemed morally questionable, there is an increased interest by the greater public that can result in backlash.  The key word is “can”.  Examples include the Gulf Oil Spill, mountaintop removal, and disposal of radioactive waste.  Truly, who really cares about the latter two?  Do you?  Do the people who are directly affected by it care? The primary reason you might care about the first one is because it was so recent and still part of the collective public conscious.  Misinformation and parrying of facts, pay-offs and whorish scientists all contribute to convincing people to the contrary.  (Global warming?  What?  No way!)  Sadly, people of communities that are in harm’s way might be the most outspoken supporters of big business thanks to the mindfuck that is successfully installed by the corporations via the media.  Do you really think that all of that oil in the Gulf just disappeared?  Reminder: that shit’s not supposed to be in the oceans, but rather, miles beneath the surface of the earth.

The public gets (temporarily) upset when large corporations kill cute furry little animals covered in toxic sludge, that are subsequently bathed in Dawn (yay Procter & Gamble).  Yet, how quickly we forget as the news quiets down, as evidenced by the previous North American record-holder, the Exxon-Valdez Oil Spill.  Sadly, catastrophic occurrences are generally required before the masses give a shit.  We don’t hear about all of the other oil spills that occur, do we?  What about the 27,000 abandoned oil and gas wells in the Gulf?  Anyone worried about them?  If you’re a capitalist, you might, because you’ll go out on a venture to turn those into some profitable floating paradise.  WTF?

                In the above example, the cover-up is post-catastrophe.  We no longer hear about the incident in the Gulf of Mexico for the most part.  There might be occasional stories about it, but most people are pretty much over it.  Out of sight, out of mind.  Remember Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans?  A bunch of folks died.  Get over it: the Saints won the Super Bowl.  That city’s kickin’ ass.

As a testament to the power behind corporations and their endless slew of money, consider the Exxon Valdez spill in 1989.  Twenty years after the event, the lawsuit was still going on as more and more people who sued the company have died off (over 6,000 of the original 22,000 plaintiffs died before the final settlement was established).  The well-paid lawyers appealed the ruling, effectively lowering the financial payments and responsibilities, managing to successfully fight a 1994 settlement of $5 billion down to a mere $500 million in 2009.  ExxonMobil made an annual profit of $5 billion in 1994.  Now that’s some power right there.  Some legal battles such as interest owed still continue to wage in lower courts.  [For more details, check out Amy Goodman’s article here.]

Anyhoo, the above is one example of how crazy the world of information manipulation has become.  The powerful are precisely that: powerful.  Almighty, as a matter of fact.  And very few people notice just how powerful these select few are, since the American Dream is alive and kickin’.  Just make sure you’re an American.  After all, the DREAM Act was killed two weeks ago thanks to a Senate filibuster, Buster. 

As depressing as the above topics might be, stay tuned for more on things that don’t exist.  “These aren’t the ‘droids you’re looking for…”, says Obi-Wan Kenobi.  Similarly, those Capitalist Jedi Mind Tricks are pretty impressive… Most impressive.

Winter Hiking Colors and the Shape-Shifter

                Hiking through the wilderness offers a welcome respite from the daily bombardment of information and stimulation, at least temporarily.  I try to hike every weekend, typically 2 ½ hours every Saturday and Sunday.  The solitude and quiet is such a pleasant change and it’s nice to be away for those couple of hours from doing anything but hike.

                With the advent of winter and recent snows in this area, the views afforded in the woods are of course, wonderful.  However, one of the things that I notice this year in particular is the color that surrounds me, or more accurately, the lack of color.  It is akin to being in a monochromatic world of black and white.  I am reminded of Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, where she begins in a world of black and white, then enters color.

                The white snow far outweighs any other color, blanketing the visual space that surrounds me.  Furthermore, with the winter solstice approaching, little to no color exists amongst the vegetation, with exception to the brown leaves that hang gingerly onto their branches, awaiting the next wind that might blow them to their final destination to join the ranks of the ground’s fertile covering.

                In such a space of primarily white snow, the most noticeable hue is the dark, almost black-like color of the tree trunks.  In contrast to the white snow, the trunks appear exceptionally dark.  As I hike, the world appears black and white, in stark contrast to what the woods look like during the other three seasons. 

                I wonder why it is that the human tendency is to take things for granted.  The burst of color that seems to explode when I happen upon a grove of maple trees that stubbornly hold onto their dry, brown leaves can be a wonderment to behold when I am specifically looking for color in the quiet wintery world that is otherwise black and white.  If I am not being mindful, those brown colors remain anonymous and unnoticed.  And it should be noted that a wintery world seemingly devoid of color is exceptional in its beauty as well.

                The most startling color, however, is the unexpected red.  As I hike, it is not uncommon to come across blood in the snow.  Both yesterday and today, I saw drips of blood along the trail that are inevitably surrounded by deer hoof marks in the snow.  The snow makes things interesting, as there is a visual record of what has occurred, although it’s very difficult to decipher by my untrained eye.  Nevertheless, I try, and like to pretend that I’m some sort of badass tracker or something.

                Early in today’s hike, I took many trails that no other person had been on despite the nearly weeklong snow that has been on the ground.  It’s always fun to be the first to hike a certain area over virgin snow, and I can’t help but take some unnecessary pride in knowing about certain trails that not many others traverse and being number one for once.  I mean, I gotta be number one in something once in a while, don’t I?  There’s generally deer and coyote prints wherever I go, but the snow is still very much pristine besides some dirt that’s been tossed up, presumably by deer digging beneath the snow for something to eat such as acorns.  I’m just guessing that’s why there’s dirt that breaks the otherwise white pathway. 

                Anyway, I like the snow because it leaves a record of what has occurred in recent times.  This particular trail ended up revealing a hotspot for deer to chillax through the evening and bed down for the night.  There were several melted areas of snow that exposed the brown leaves beneath, each area an oblong shape about three to four feet long.  The deer all seemed to be facing the same general direction, overlooking a valley from a flat, tree-covered hilltop. 

                As I proceeded to hike, I ended up hiking away from the trails, and along a side of a, shall I say “hill” as the term “mountain” is a bit too exaggerated.  A substantial hill, mind you, but I don’t think I could say that I was hiking through mountains.  I was following a deer trail or “deer run”, where it is quite secluded and away from any of the trails.  I noticed that one other person had also been back here, so I decided to follow his tracks.  I assume that the tracks were made by a man, but of course, it could very well have been a woman.  No other person had been back here since the snowfall. 

                Again, the wannabe expert tracker in me was all excited to follow this dude.  For about a quarter mile to half a mile I was on him!  “Where are you going?” I’d occasionally ask this mysterious person who had been through sometime in the past day.  (This expert tracker would estimate it at 24 to 30-hours ago.)  Then, unexpectedly, the tracks disappeared!  What?  I doubled back about 10-yards, and sure enough, there were his tracks facing the same direction I was going, and then they were gone!  How is this possible?  I began to think about what could have happened.  How did the boot prints suddenly vanish, as though into thin air? 

                I had no explanation, especially since I retraced my steps even further back, and noticed no prints other than my own that would suggest that he had turned around and doubled back.  He simply disappeared. 

I got to thinking and the only rational explanation was that he was a shape-shifter!  He became a deer and must have carried his boots and clothes in his mouth or in his antlers!  That was the only explanation that was remotely feasible.  I wished I had superpowers to will the “Bloodhound Gang” to manifest, because this would have been a mystery that they would have solved.

                As I decided to hike and follow the deer tracks instead, which were obviously the shape shifter’s tracks, I suddenly came upon an explosion of color!  Blood!  All over the white snow was a huge patch of defiled blood-soaked red!  Oddly, very few tracks were around what looked just like an expanse of cherry-flavored snow cone.  There was also no fur to be seen, nor any dragging of a body along the snow.  Strange.  Usually there’s at least hair and fur that is noticeable, but this time, I noticed none whatsoever.  Clearly, some magical evil was involved!  Where is that damned Bloodhound Gang?  Man, they would love this mystery!

                I continued to hike up the hill, wondering what might have happened just 27.36 hours ago, and got back onto the main trail.  Lo and behold, once again I was on the shape-shifter’s tracks.  He had switched back to being human, back to wearing his boots.  I now knew that I was mistaken.  No doubt, he had shifted into a coyote, not a deer, and he had himself quite the meal just a quarter mile down the hill.  Actually, I will call it a mountain after all, to enhance this story a little bit.  Yes, it was over yonder about a quarter-mile down the mountain, along the western face.  And the wind was howling, indicative of the mountain spirits being angry, and there was an eerie silence that was broken only by the sudden chorus of crows high above in the trees, cackling about the morbid scene they witnessed yesterday of the shape-shifter consuming its prey.  Good thing he wasn’t hungry by the time I came around today.  He’s probably hibernating and chillaxin’ this afternoon in his shape-shifter cave hidden somewhere along the holler…

A Fight with a Loved One, But I'm No Michael Vick

                I got into a fight with a loved one yesterday evening.  I am not proud to admit it, but that little shit just got on my nerves!  First off, let me say that I am not a violent person, nor am I abusive.  But last night, I did get into a fight with my little black cat, who has graced me with his companionship and constant presence for over ten years now.  He is 12-years old, cute as always, young at heart and spirit, and still youthful in appearance and physical ability.  The only step he’s lost that I’ve noticed is his interest and stamina to chase something (a cat toy on a string, laser light, etc.) around the room, which has considerably reduced.  Now that I’m thinking about it, he doesn’t do the “crazy cat” routine, which is when he makes a little cat-revving noise, then runs all over the place from room to room, floor to floor.  Maybe he’s embarrassed to perform such acts in the presence of his younger sister, who joined the household two years ago after the remnants of Hurricane Ivan blew through the region having been downgraded into a big ass windstorm.  She just came to the house and was like, “yeah, this is where I live now.”

                Such accolades for this fine young man, and what, pray tell, led to a fight, you ask?  Well, he is just a talker, who doesn’t shy away from lecturing me with a monologue of meows, which I’m sure are complex, deeply contemplated theories of his as to why he feels compelled to remind me to feed him immediately upon getting up in the morning and returning from work.  I have never forgotten to feed the cats, mind you, but it is a daily routine for mealtimes as well as at snack time, the latter which is typically around 8:30pm or 9pm.  Without fail, he just goes on and on about it.

                Yesterday, when I returned from work, we had normal conversation as I took my snow-wet hiking boots off and collected the mail.  (Snow days are novelty days for me and I like to wear my hiking boots to work because they make me feel badass.)  “What?  Did you miss me?”  “Meow! (yes!)”  “Did you have a good day?”  “Meow! (yes!)” 

                Just when the conversation was going well, he launched into his tirade of culinary demands.  “What?” I asked him.  “Are you starving?  Am I not feeding you?  Am I neglecting you, you poor thing?” to which he no doubt responded that I was a sorry son-of-a-bitch for being away so long at work.  I kissed him and petted him, ignoring his asinine attitude: You, my wonderful cat, are so cute, I will not fall prey to your attempts to manipulate my emotions.  I am going to have a good day, so there!

                I filled the cats’ bowls and proceeded to prepare dinner.  I bought chicken this past weekend, so I best use it up.  I looked through The Joy of Cooking for a new recipe, but resorted to my staple Chicken and Dumplings, a deliciously simple recipe. 

                I prepped the veggies as well as the dry ingredients for the dumplings.  I then took out the chicken to rinse and cook in the cast iron skillet (these are great.  Try one.  You will thank me later, as long as you never wash it with soap.).  Somehow, as always, he-cat was on to me instantaneously about having flesh in my possession.  It’s like Gary Larson’s Far Side strip where the husband cat tells his wife to turn off the can opener because the neighbor cat couple was coming over for tuna. 

“Meow-meow-meow-meow-meow…”  He was going off on me! 

I ignored him and continued to wash the chicken and then threw the pieces into the heated pan with some olive oil.  He knew chicken was in play.  Oh, man.  He was being incessant!  I removed the chicken from the pan and let it cool while I fried some onions.  I then decided to pull off the chicken from the bones and cut them up into small pieces, and returned them to the pan taking some liberties from the instructions given by Irma Rombauer and Co.   In the meantime, I decided to simmer the bones with some raw flesh clinging to it in a separate pan to make chicken stock.  My plan was to pull off the meat and give it to the cats later…

Later indeed.  I finished cooking and turned off the small pot with the chicken scraps and stock to let it cool.  I proceeded to mess with the computer, which was also being my enemy last night by getting precious Windows Updates, and wasted time while dinner was cooking.  Where was he-cat?  I went to the kitchen to refill on some wine and… NO YOU DIDN’T!!!  There was he-cat on the kitchen floor smacking his lips, having successfully fished out a meat-infused ribcage portion of the chicken!  I grabbed him from the floor, “MEOW!” he protested, and moved him away.  I was mad as hell, since he certainly fished it out with his paw, which also goes into the litter box and shit.  There goes the chicken stock, you little shit!  I was so mad I grabbed his little ass and tossed him outside into the wintery air so I could figure out what to do with the chicken stock, although I knew it was done for. 

She-cat was all jealous, like, “Why’s he get to go outside in the snow and I don’t?”  So I relented and let her go out, although I was planning on giving her plenty of chicken as a reward.  (She-cat is never bad like that.  She’s bad by clawing at furniture, but not jumping up on the stove…)  After about three-minutes, I let the cats back in.  It gave me enough time to pull off the meat from the bones and onto a plate.  I gave up on the stock and decided to put it away in the fridge for the cats on a different day.  I let she-cat eat while I held he-cat to watch as a consequence.  I’m afraid it taught him absolutely nothing, and the silliness of what I was doing did strike me, but I had to admit that it felt somewhat satisfying.

After she-cat had her fill, which is never very much, I let he-cat have at the meat, which he demolished in seconds.  Ridiculous.  He didn’t even seem to appreciate it much.  Gone.  Just like that.

Later that evening, I heard he-cat trying to break into my chicken and dumplings.  That was it!  I grabbed him and took him upstairs and tossed him onto my bed.  He protested with meow-growls as I kept tossing him onto my bed every time he would jump down, in hopes that he would stay upstairs instead of going to the kitchen to attempt more break-ins to the vault-full of leftovers.  I don’t know why my patience waned so quickly on him, as I knew he couldn’t get the heavy cast-iron skillet lid off to get to the food.  But then he batted at me!  What?  You little shit!  I held him and kissed his head, while petting him, still mad as hell.  Maybe I was petting him a little roughly, but I was intent on calming down.  He was mad as hell, too.  “Asshole!” we seemed to say in unison, as we danced our elaborate love/hate-petting/growl tango. 

I laid on my bed with him as we both calmed down and I petted his head as he would push his head into my hand, purring, but still hyped up a bit.  We both calmed down and I realized that on this very day I had read about Michael Vick wanting to have a pet dog.  I had left a comment saying that he shouldn’t because I could see him cussing out his dog and hitting it for getting up on its hind legs and reaching the kitchen counter to eat human food, which would no doubt piss off the dogfighting champ-turned convict-turned comeback player of the year candidate.  My bad, Vick.  Do as I say, not as I do.  You still don’t deserve a pet dog.

A Late Night Visitor

                I generally get to bed at a reasonable hour, but on Saturday night, I indulged in watching mindless television, starting at what is typically my bedtime, 11pm.  The programs I watched were surprisingly entertaining, one series with a Sci-Fi storyline, the other, a relationship/comedy series which made me laugh with a guffaw at times.  I wasn’t sure if the programs were newly syndicated or not, but the end of the credits for the first show indicated that it was moving to a new day and time come January, so at least that one is a primetime show that was catching late-nighters such as myself that was doing nothing social on a Saturday night. 

I hate to get pulled into television shows because I always feel like I’m wasting my time in front of a box (I don’t have a fancy flat screen and use rabbit ears whose wires are held together with Scotch Tape and one of those heavy duty black metal office paper clips with the two metal squeezy-thing-a-ma-jigs that open and close the clamp) when I could be doing other things.  But these two shows were on late (for me) Saturday night, too late to do anything productive with exception to fixing me a cup of hot chocolate or a bowl (or two) of ice cream.

                One of my cats lovingly sat on my sprawled out blanket-covered legs as I watched television, but the other had slipped out and gone upstairs.  I could hear her occasionally jump to the floor with a surprisingly loud “thud”; nothing unusual as that is the typical sound cats make when they jump off a bed or dresser and land.  Maybe they're surprisingly loud when they land because they have small feet and they concentrate their weight onto their four small paws, landing on all four at the same time.  Come to think of it, they seem to land on all four paws together more often than not, rather than consecutive “thump-thumps” as if in step.

                What was unusual, however, is that I heard her jump off and land several times.  Typically, at such an hour, she might go upstairs and be sleeping on the bed or more likely, be on the couch with me making occasional cute noises as she yawns.  I thought it odd, but inevitably lost myself in the television shows.  See?  The evils of television?  Not only does it rarely promote one to think, but it has a sedating effect that distracts.  More on the evils of television at another time, because the shows served its purpose for the night: distract and entertain.  Thank goodness!

                I went upstairs and got ready for bed much later than I was used to: 2am!  Damn that television!  I started to undress when I caught a quick flitter in the corner of my eye, as my she-cat sat on the bed tracking this very same shadowy element.  What in the…?  Oh, geez!  This is no shadow or late-night induced illusion!  I ducked and moved away to avoid this wraith as my heart started to pound, adrenaline excreting thanks to the unexpected startling. 

It’s a bat!  Man, it’s winter, and cold outside!  Don’t you have a cave to go hibernate in?  I immediately put my shirt back on because I didn’t want some bat disease, you know?  A similar thing happened once before about five or six years ago in the summertime, and a bat that managed to get into the house landed onto my bare back while I was trying to capture it to release it!  Not again, Mr. Bat.  I will not fall for such trickery!  Since that incident several years ago, I recall coming across information that bats tend to carry diseases.  I suppose I could look it up and add a link as proof, much like I’m finding many of the proficient bloggers do as I join in this exhibitionist act of web logging.  But I don’t have the patience to figure all of that out right now.  Maybe once I start writing more socially consequential blogs I’ll give it a try, but this one is about a bat and my personal rants and raves for Pete’s sake.

I was surprised at the silence of the bat’s flight.  I expected to hear it chirp to echo-locate objects such as myself, the walls, etc., but it just fluttered around in circles silently.  The other remarkable thing was how long it just flew around in circles.  Round and round it went, like a child’s toy plane on a string that’s twirled around an axis.  It didn’t seem to run out of steam. 

Luckily, almost immediately when I came upstairs, she-cat left the bedroom, allowing me to close the door and trap Mr. Bat in the bedroom.  I truly have no idea if the bat was male or female, but I'll just make him a boy bat.  Mr. Bat continued to fly around, back and forth along the length of my bedroom, at times appearing to be making a beeline for my face, as I would back away or duck.  I finally got used to his false-charges and trusted that the bat would veer away at the last moment, which he did.  I proceeded to open a window, hoping he would somehow realize that freedom existed just beyond the two-foot opening.  No such luck.  He just kept circling and circling, hovering along the ceiling for the most part.  I grabbed a shirt hoping to catch him in mid-air as though with a net, but damn, this thing is not only elusive, but exceptionally agile in flight.  I guess that’s why bats can snatch insects in flight so proficiently. 

After over 10-minutes of constant flying, the poor chap started to lose his energy reserves.  He finally landed onto the right-hand corner of the door jamb after three attempts of bumping into it and fluttering about, doing more fly-bys around me.  But the instant I turned toward his make-shift perch, off to the races he went once again.  The next two times he landed and flew again it became increasingly obvious that he was getting tired, with his flight path veering closer and closer to the floor.  Finally, he landed on the floor – a bat’s landing is rarely graceful - and nestled beneath the electrical cords to my lamp and clock by my bed.  I tossed my shirt on top of him, and could see his folded wings and little hands exposed, laying still. 

I gently picked up Mr. Bat, who was negligible in weight.  As though an antitheft alarm, he started to chirp in constant staccato fashion that reminded me of some kind of secret government transmitter.  Peep!  Peep!  Peep!  Peep!  I hurriedly carried him to the open window, hoping that he would fly out to freedom, which I assume he did, because he did not fly back in.  I quickly closed the window and was pleased with a job well done.  I just hope he didn’t die in the night by freezing to death…  I think I will avoid learning about the winterization techniques of bats out of fear that I sent him to his death, although he would have met certain death had he remained in my house.  Good luck, Mr. Bat.

Yoga, posture, and zombies...

                I did yoga tonight for the first time in about two-months, maybe longer.  The last time I did yoga, it was still warm outside, and I did it in my backyard.  I did it regularly throughout the entire summer, despite the heat and mosquitoes.  It was nice to spend time outside, although I did finally have to resort to using some kind of spray like Off! that contains DEET and shit in it by the time August rolled around.  Terrible, but it did relieve me of a lot of insect bites while I did my half-hour yoga routine.  It made me feel good doing it - the yoga that is, not the DEET - both then and tonight.

                Tonight was the first time I did yoga indoors since probably early spring.  Wearing my typical lounging pants - long Adidas sport pants with three stripes going down the side - made one of my poses nearly impossible, despite the presumed athleticism that the sport stripes on my pants should imply.  I don’t even know what the pose is called, but it’s when you bend one leg and push the sole of your foot into your opposing thigh, and the bent knee protrudes outward to the side, kind of like a figure-four.  I was wearing hiking socks, and my foot would just slide effortlessly down my straight left leg.  “Damn!” I’d exclaim to myself in a mild whisper, as I would try and try again with the same result.  I finally took off my socks, which helped, but it was still tremendously difficult.  I realized that cursing while trying to do yoga defeats part of its purpose of maintaining calmness, and decided to control my frustrations by cursing inside my head instead.

                I completed my typical yoga routine of approximately 30-minutes, consisting of ten or so poses per side and realized that my body is quite unbalanced!  No surprise, really, since my body has always been unbalanced, despite the regularity of yoga throughout this summer.  Mind you, I’m in pretty good shape overall, but my back is curved with mild scoliosis, my core is flabby, and holding my balance in some of those poses took some serious effort! 

                Thus today, my thoughts center on the lack of balance that people endure on a daily basis, myself included.  I think about the mindless normalcy for most of us with regards to how we hold ourselves up, our bodies, that is.  We don’t often think about our posture, and our backs are rounded and hunched, much like mine was just now until writing this very sentence forced an adjustment.  The lack of consciousness regarding my back, head, neck… everything!  It’s absolutely appalling when I think about it.  I catch myself leaning forward at work in an awful posture, staring into the computer screen, my back all bent up in an S-curve that it shouldn’t be capable of contorting into.  Awful.

                On a positive note, I am in good health and am in decent physical shape, so I’m not hell-bent on hating myself or anything.  It’s just that I wish my overall physical presentation and posture were more clean and upright.  Perhaps it is more accurate to desire a more confident presentation.  It is my belief that one’s physical presentation is a direct manifestation of one’s internal happenings.  Meaning, one’s emotions, thoughts, and spirit, directly affect the physical self.  This includes things like general health and well-being, weight, as well as more momentary physical circumstances, such as posture.

                In this day and age, it is no longer necessary to take on physical demands in order to survive day to day.  Unless there is a total social meltdown, one can conceivably live each day with minimal physical effort.  Case in point, look at the average American who takes less than 3,000 steps per day.  I think that’s what the guy said in the documentary “Super-Size Me”.  That’s just unbelievable.  20-years ago, I used to joke how we would eventually devolve into a slobby organism that sits in front of a large computer screen with a built-in toilet, and have an automatic food dispenser punch out pellets, not unlike a hamster.  Except the hamster has its wheel to run in. 

Sadly, this is now a practical reality for many in the United States and probably the UK, too.  And this sickness is spreading worldwide.  It’s the McDonaldization of the world.  I’ve actually witnessed this nightmarish scene several years ago when I flew into Vegas in order to go backpacking in Utah.  I hated Vegas.  It was so crazy.  You couldn’t tell if it was night or day once inside these mind and life-sucking casino hellholes.  It truly didn’t matter what time it was.  It could have been 10am or 10pm.  And there she was, a 50-something or 60-something woman, cigarette dangling from her mouth in lieu of slobber, with a drink at her side, mindlessly staring into a colorful TV screen, drowning in a plethora of obnoxiously stimulating “music”, if you could call it that.  It was more like jingles of tones that persisted throughout the entire building, each successive machine somehow harmonizing with its neighbor, for the express purpose of melting away any semblance of the human mind that no longer occupied the mostly dead shell that was at one time, her body. 

Even more amazing was that she no longer needed to lift her arm to pull on the lever of the machine.  I don’t even know what to call it.  It was one of those “Jackpot” machines, where you used to pull a lever at the side, and if you got three successive whatevers, it was good.  Well, these machines don’t even have levers anymore!  Maybe some still do as functioning ornaments, but most people just sit there and push a button now.  It was disturbing to say the least.  She very well may have been in her 40s but appeared to be much older than she really is.  This, my friends, was a real life Zombie Land.  The walking dead do exist.  If you want to be scared, go to a casino and people watch.  Just don’t become one of them.  They will kill you…

Ah, I almost forgot.  What about sitting on toilets?  This apparently has not yet happened in casinos, at least not that I know of.  However, maybe that’s not a bad idea.  Apparently it's commonplace for casinos to throw people out every night for pissing or shitting themselves while they exert themselves pushing that button because they don’t want to get up to go to the bathroom, fearing that they will miss out on their “run” of good luck.  Maybe they need to run in a different way.  Save yourself.  Save your money.  It’s not recreational anymore when you’re willing to forego your basic bodily functions!  Now that’s scary.

Some alcoholism is relative. Some alcoholism... not so much.

                What to write about on this day?  I am sipping on a glass of wine.  No, wait.  I just finished my first glass of wine and am going to get up at the end of this sentence to get a second.  One moment, please.  Okay.  I’m back.   I just cut a piece of Gouda cheese with black pepper embedded within it, and some Ritz crackers.  Yum.  I’m experimenting with cheeses, and Gouda is tasty enough, but it doesn’t quite come close to my love of Brie.  I think Gouda as essentially a bourgeois version of cheddar.  I can’t really taste a difference as I chew and contemplate it now, and with exception to its color being a milder yellow than the cheddar orange, it is for all intents and purposes an expensive form of cheddar to me.  Oh, and I’ve never had cheddar cheese that comes with black pepper embedded in it.  A global conspiracy perhaps, to sell cheddar at a more expensive rate…  Those silly capitalists!  What will they think of next?

Wine… what kind, you ask?  Well, it’s a Shiraz tonight.  More specific?  Does it really matter?  It’s the $5 bottle kind, wine snob!  I’ve learned long ago that there are good wines out there that are costly, but there are good wines out there that aren’t so costly, too.  But it is good to share information, so I will divulge the make of this wine, or shall I say vintage?  I don’t even know if that’s the right terminology, really.  But I can say that this maker (or grower) has provided me consistent pleasure to my palate.  It is called Jacob’s Creek, with a perfectly unassuming, banal label.  White back with black letters, no fancy font necessary.  If you see this brand, I recommend it.  I can’t claim to be a wine connoisseur; however, this make has done me good for the past year or so.  I am very pleased that I get it in the $5 bottle bin at the closeout liquor store I frequent.  I go there so regularly the manager knows me by name, and commends me for reusing the same box that I fill with the wines that I purchase.  He even started putting slashes on it to count the numbers of times I’ve used this particular box: 15 and counting.  Damn, that’s a lot of wine.  The box holds a case of wine, which is twelve standard 750 ml. bottles.  I typically purchase 10-bottles instead of 12, so as to spend only $50 instead of $60.  Don’t ask me why, I just do it that way.

Speaking of wine, I heard on NPR the other morning that even wine rating professionals don’t consistently rate the very same wines.  They talked briefly about some blind-test of well-respected wine raters, and only something like one out of ten raters managed to rate the exact same wine at the same rating.  I couldn’t tell you the specifics about it.  Point being, the self-proclaimed professionals don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.  And that gives me the green light to claim that a certain wine tastes good, and yet have a fallback to admit that I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about without losing face.  If you don’t like the wine I suggested, you can go suck an egg, motherfucker.

Tonight was trash night.  I am an avid recycler and the trash I accumulate is minimal, with the majority of the trash coming from my two pet cats’ cat litter, both in bulk and definitely in weight.  I think it would take me about three to four months to accumulate enough trash to fill up a standard trash can, not including the recycling, of course.  I bet I could go three-weeks, maybe four, before I fill up one paper grocery bag full of unrecyclable trash.  Anything that can be composted goes back into the earth, you see, which removes any stinky trash from the kitchen, and it enriches the soil for my garden come spring.  The gardening process, admittedly, is still a work in progress, as is the wannabe farmer in me.  How cool would it be to be self-sufficient enough to produce the majority of the vegetables one consumes?  And let us not forget my most favorite vegetable-wannabe-fruit: the tomato.  Or is it tomatoe?  (Was Al spelling potato or tomato?  Tomato, tomahtoh, potato, potahtoh, let’s call the whole thing off…)

When I was collecting the recycling from this past week’s accumulation, I was proud to find only two 12 oz. beer bottles awaiting entry to the recycling bin.  That might be a record.  I am not too proud to admit that I have a semi-drinking problem.  I drink every day, almost without fail.  Now I don’t drink a tremendous amount, perhaps one, two, or three drinks throughout the evening of cooking and writing/reading.  However, it is a daily event, unless I am sick or under the weather.  It’s a rare thing that I am “drunk”, but I do drink every day with exception to the abovementioned circumstantial illness.  So, just two beer bottles in the past week!  Now that’s pretty good.  And I rarely go out drinking, and could probably count on one hand the times I have in the past year.  So I actually only consumed two beers this past week.

Whoa, hold on one second, you say.  You’re drinking wine as you write this.  Unless you were sick in the past week, you must have polished off a bottle of wine, right?  Wrong!  I polished off four bottles!  What’s this, a math genius investigator knocking at my door?  We got a gen-u-wine Sherlock Holmes here.  As a matter of fact, I just happened to have poured out my fifth bottle for the week.  What now, motherfucker?  What?  You self-righteous son of a bitch!  Why don’t you get off of your antidepressants before you come at me with that bull shit!  Yeah?  Well, go fuck yourself!

I am afraid that I know I drink more than the average person, or at least, I know I drink at home more so than the average recycler in my neighborhood who drinks at home.  I jog six-days a week, and when I jog on Friday mornings, I like to glance over at others’ recycling bins.  It is a rare thing to see more beer bottles or wine bottles in others’ recycling bins when compared to my own.  And I live alone and never have people over to drink with me!  Thus, my conclusion is, I have some form of drinking problem. 

Maybe my neighbors go out to drink more often and don’t have as many bottles to show for their alcoholism.  An equally likely explanation is that they not only go out and hit the bars, but they then come home and continue to drink at home.  They just aren’t eco-conscious enough to recycle their bottles and cans.  That’s why those drunk bastards’ trash bins are so goddamned full week after week!  I’m not terribly worried about my drinking, so I guess it’s not a problem after all.  Fuck it.  It’s not a “drinking problem”.  It’s just a fact.  Yes, I drink.  How often?  Every day.  How much?  Not enough to have a drinking problem.  So there.

Okay.  Enough of that.  I’m gonna open my sixth bottle of the week now.  Actually, it’s the first bottle of the week.  That’s the advantage of recycling weekly.  I just need to remember to put the fifth bottle in the recycling bin before tomorrow morning’s collection.  Then, it’s a whole new ballgame.  It’s a clean slate.  I’ve had no bottles of wine.  Just the one that is about to be opened and will be ¾ to ½ full by the end of this night.  Not bad.  Not bad at all…