Here Comes the Spring

The snow is gone now, save for a few piles of gas soaked sludge hiding out in the Kroger parking lot. The sun is out again, and its rays can finally be felt instead of only seen. On a day like this, when it is all but certain that winter is gone, I like to think of what I heard a fellow coworker say during the throws of the first Polar Vortex:

"I don't want to hear any complaining come July, when its 90 degrees out. If you want to say something, think of what you were doing January 9th, when it was -40 degrees."

I was wrapped in all the winter clothing I could find, feeling the beard on my face freeze over from the water in my breath. My legs ached, as did the foundation of the house. Both groaned in the night, when the winds were at their worst.

It was extreme. It was also amazing.

From NPR.org

There are not many years where you can say it was so cold you could see water crystals floating in the air, nor that you survived weather that would--and did--kill citizens from warmer states.

So when you look back, don't think on the misery of the season, but rather in the beauty of the extreme. Like a tidal wave rushing into the shore, or a hurricane swirling on the radar, the terror and danger also yield beauty like none other. A crystallized wasteland--we may never see it again in our lifetime. Think on that awhile.

That's all from Elliott at the Kitchen Table, drinking down his custom six pack from Kroger.

That Time Again...

Dionysus

That's right. It is that time again, folks. Spring is in the air. Birds are chirping. Squirrels are...squirreling? The histamines are blocking, and 50% of America lines itself up and pretends that our Easter celebration is totally NOT based on Pagan traditions drawn from everyone from Ancient Greece and Rome, to the Vikings and Goths.

The churches are packed, because--let's face it--liking god is OK for most of the year. Come Easter, you better fucking mean it, and I mean mean it with prayers, taking up a seat, and giving extra in the donation basket, because god only know when you're going to be here again.

If there is one thing that I cannot stand about the Easter holiday it is the refusal of so many mainstream Christians to admit that their holiday is--not just built on--but a patent rip-off of the celebration of rebirth that permeates so many ancient cultures. The use of rabbits to symbolize fertility, which is also the symbol of Eostre, . The hanging of a god on a tree, which was done by Odin and Krishna before Jesus. Both also rose from the dead, as well. And we cannot forget the lunar calendar in which Easter's date is decided.

Horus the Son of God and Isis

Odin

I wrote on the nonchalance of religion in the modern era before, and I still stand behind that. Despite the youth of this country growing less interested in three thousand year old stories and traditions, there is still a faction--mostly of the aged--that still contends to these traditions, and uses them as a means of waging cultural war of the silliest variety. Every year Fox claims that there is a war being waged against Christmas. In churches all across America there are preachers telling us that kids shouldn't be focusing on the chocolate bunnies or the fun of Easter--even though they DID come first--and instead we need to kick those things to the side and focus on JESUS.

Krishna, also the Son of God

But they WERE there first, and are no less important. Religion is, if nothing else, a combination of silly things that help us get through the day. Some people smoke. Others pray. Others still smoke AND pray. Why must the prayers be for destroying five thousand years of human tradition? If there is one resilient things in our world, it is the old traditions of the so called Pagan gods. At least they knew that they were ridiculous, and bought into it whole sale.

Jesus, another son of God

So happy Spring everyone.

That's all from Elliott at the Kitchen Table, looking forward to coloring eggs in the name of Dionysus, bringer of the Spring, who saved his mother from the clutches of Hades, raising her to Mount Olympus and placing her among the stars.

Hipster Manifesto: Two

I spent a month waiting for an email. Just one.

In that time I received several thousand, and on multiple devices and accounts. There is my personal and business emails. Both can be viewed on my phone or laptop. Let us not forget the piles of junk mail I also received in the physical world--I'm inclined to at least open that, if only for security purposes.

It only just dawned on me that, "I'm a hipster, damn it!"

I shouldn't be sitting by the phone waiting for an electronic letter. I should be sitting at the typewriter, or penning out the next great novel. Or at least playing some vintage video games and drinking craft beer.

Let Manifesto: Two be shorter than the first, in that I have one simple wish...

Hipsters should be able to turn off the chrome, the firefox, the gmail. There is no appreciating things that once were if we are constantly living in the "what is going to be."

Shut down that cell phone and spend some time with yourself, or the family, or your favorite goldfish. Just turn it off.

That's all from Elliott at the Kitchen Table, getting himself a Boston Lager and playing some Mega Man X

The Un-PC or Political Correctness

Opinion comes with ownership. And rightfully so. Everyone should have to stand by what they say and believe. Otherwise everyone of us would end up sounding like Mitt Romney during a high gear backtrack of his 2012 Campaign.

Then there comes the Qualifier--that person who needs to preface what they say with "I'm not a..." 

"I'm not a racist, but..."

"I'm not sexist, but..."

"I've got nothing against 'The Gays' but..."

Most people are not bad. Their heads are simply full of bad ideas without the means to edit and erase them from the decision making of their day.

In the living room with your kids, or in a backroom with some close friends, this might be fine. But it doesn't fly in the 21st Century Public Eye. You can't bury your beliefs by reassuring the world that you don't hate an entire block of people, despite what you're about to say. This is the age where everyone is a linguist. Everyone does deep readings of your syntax; there isn't a person left who has not heard of Freud, Barthes, or Nietzsche.

Instead of hiding your feelings behind an inadequate shield of grammar, take this moment to be introspective. In the words of Mr. Miyagi: 
Walk on road, hm? Walk left side, safe. Walk right side, safe. Walk middle, sooner or later [makes squish gesture]  

Walking the middle of the road gets nothing but trouble. Taking a side, being honest is the only way to grow. And who knows, if you're honest with yourself, maybe you'll find that your views cannot even pass the judgement of your harshest critic: You.

On Watching Salinger

There was a recently released documentary on J.D. Salinger, chronicling his life and career in a tangential way. It's probably the most direct way of dealing with the author who pretty much invented the word "aloof."

Indirectly.

It's hard to imagine being Salinger. Reading his work, seeing the reactions that people had to him, I cannot grasp being viewed as a deity--having my words be read with the same kind of exuberance that is usually reserved for extreme right wing readers of the St. James Bible. It's obvious that there was something in water all our mid-20th century writers were drinking. Between Hemingway, Salinger, Capote, Williams, Vonnegut and the rest, I don't think that you'll find a better group of writers. There are no better prose; no cleaner syntax.

Yet these were also men obsessed with creating their own image. Capote was a drama queen to the enth degree. Hemingway went on adventures, and intentionally put himself out there so as to maintain his bad-ass manly man image. And then there was Salinger, who was as an obsessive control freak over his words. He was renown for hating anyone who tampered with his stories. He threw fits and ended friendships.

And he was obsessed with remaining out of the spotlight. That, it seems to me, only exacerbated the public's desire to know what he was up to.

As a writer and father, I tend to believe the John Irving and Stephen King model of writing: that writing is a support system for life, not life a support system for writing; that writing should never come before family. John Irving has said in interviews that he never closes the office door, because he never wants his kids to think that they cannot come in.

Do they write as well as Salinger did? Well, the answer is a solid no. They have their great works, and have written some gooder-than-hell books, but Salinger is on a freak level. And to get there he destroyed everything that is supposed to make life beautiful: family, friendship, love.

I love to write. I love to read. And I hope that one day something of mine changes a life for the better. I hope to be a writer that attracts a fan base. But never at the price of having a life.

That's all from Elliott at the Kitchen Table, waiting with bated breath for a '49 Quiet Deluxe to come back from the shop.

Freelanced

To celebrate my second piece of freelance work, I'm posting a link to it here.

http://www.thenewsherald.com/articles/2014/01/02/life/doc52c1bf2e0c290840788382.txt

It was a labor of love, as all writing is.

There is more to come from Elliott at the Kitchen Table

Gore is Vidal!

It depresses me when I think of all the writers I am yet to read. Just when you think that you are catching up, along comes another great voice in our literary heritage that has the nerve to be completely unknown to you! Not only that but he is also a massive Olivetti fan! That's enough for me.

I am talking, of course, about Gore Vidal.

The first time I heard of him was an episode of Family Guy, to my eternal chagrin. But the show didn't tell anything about him, other than he didn't want to be on Brain's talk show. Stewie shot a hot dog in his mouth and that was the end of Gore's spot on the show. Once the credits rolled, I forgot all about him.

There are so many great voice to read and watch:  Kerouac, Updike, Woody Allen, Coppola. Vidal fell beneath the radar. It wasn't until I came across a photo of Vidal on an Australian blog that I started to pay attention.

The photo was up an aging Gore Vidal. He was at his desk with none other than an Olivetti Lettera 35l by his side. It was the first refurbished typewriter I bought, and my first Olivetti. The search that I was performing was for modern writers that used typewriters. Vidal was just one of the many, and that gave me heart, being the only person I know who is a journalist and still uses a typewriter instead of a computer.

Note the rounded steel body. That's a 35 without a doubt.

I still haven't read anything or seen anything by Gore Vidal. My backlog is just so massive that it wouldn't be possible with my current work schedule. Nonetheless there it is--an Olivetti at the hands of one of the greats. What more could I ask for in my little 35?