The blue moon factor!

It has long been noted that a blue moon has strange and mystical powers recognized clearly by the ancients. Over the years, the ancients disappeared and left of us wondering really what does a blue moon mean?

According to modern science, a blue moon is the second full moon in a calendar month. For a blue moon to occur, the first of the full moons must appear at or near the beginning of the month so that the second will fall within the same month (the average span between two moons is 29.5 days). May 2007 has two full moons (at least in the Western Hemisphere). The second full moon or Blue Moon is today (May 31).

Elvis knew the true meaning of "Blue Moon." Consider these lyrics:

"Blue moon,
You saw me standing alone,
Without a dream in my heart,
Without a love of my own.

Blue moon,
You knew just what I was there for.
You heard me saying a pray for
Someone I really could care for.

Blue moon,
You saw me standing alone,
Without a dream in my heart,
Without a love of my own.

Blue moon...
Without a love of my own."

Taken at face value, one would assume Elvis was saying that the blue moon evoked feelings of being blue. But further exploration of these lyrics lead to a deeper meaning: the blue moon creates the blue men who in turn form the Blue Man Group!
Note the photo above of a past encounter in Las Vegas where strange, blue men used to perform in, you guessed it, a pyramid. And what does this have to do with a blue moon you ask? Think about it...pyramids=Ancient Egypt. Enough said?

Elvis has given us the sign!

Bars on the windows

The full moon is knocking at my door again and I have felt it messing with my muse. It has also been unseasonably hot in Seattle and I do believe I am suffering an attack of the vapors.

I am having a hard time focusing on serious subjects, so out of curiosity, I browsed some of my own archives to see what I was up to a year ago. I was surprised to see that I was in Boise staying in a Shilo Inn next to the airport while visiting my mother and the graves of some ancestors. It doesn't seem like a year ago.

But in some ways it seems like ages.

A year ago I was also responding to a meme regarding quirky things about myself. Most of them seem to have been OCD type behaviours. For example, I wrote I can't stand being in a house without the doors locked and the shades drawn. If I was tagged to participate in the same meme today, I would refuse and say that I have determined that I am also morbidly afraid of memes (and mimes...but that's a whole different story). Maybe completing memes is a bit too much like sitting in a house with unlocked doors and the shades up.

I compromise a bit with my blog, though. I'll let the shades up, but I'm going to put up a few bars. That way you can peer in and I can peer out and everyone is safe.

What is the fascination with memes anyway. Everybody is always poking you with a stick and asking you to step outside your comfort zone and share. Sometimes I like being in my comfort zone. It is comfortable there. That is why is is called a comfort zone. I think that unless you are sitting in a room stacked with newspapers and empty MacDonald's coffee cups, surrounded by cats that you don't clean up after, people should leave well enough alone.

This is not to say that I have ever sat in a room stacked with newspapers and empty MacDonald's coffee cups and surrounded by cats. I don't like to read newspapers (which is odd for a journalism major) and I despise MacDonald's coffees. We do have three cats, so sometimes I do feel surrounded but we clean up after them...constantly.

While I'm sitting here with my shades up, peering out of the barred window, I will let you know that I have this thing about my garage door, too. Unless I consciously say, "The door is closed," after I've backed out of the garage, I start freaking when I'm a block away wondering if I remembered to close it. I've backed up several blocks just to check.

I don't like short sleeved dress shirts with ties, either.

I'm going back into my comfort zone now.

Defacing the masters

"I've just seen a face,
I can't forget the time or place"
--Lennon and McCartney

I obviously have an affinity for Van Gogh.We had this set of Child Craft books when I was growing up. One showcased the art of the masters, including Van Gogh. I was always drawn to his Starry, Starry Night. I would stare at it and just feel what Van Gogh was feeling when he painted it (or what I thought he felt). Years later when I was picking out wedding rings, I was drawn to a wedding set that was patterned after the painting.

In the early 90s I was visiting London and went to the National Gallery. I almost cried when I saw an original Van Gogh painting. It was Van Gogh's Chair and then his painting of Sunflowers. They were amazing. I had never felt such emotion in the presence of a painting before.

It was only recently through the miracle of Photoshop that I discovered a way to truly be part of Van Gogh's art. I've morphed my face into three of his self portraits. And for some reason it triggers some of the same emotions I felt when I first laid eyes on a Van Gogh painting.

I know that some probably view this as defacing a master. But I like to think that Van Gogh would be flattered that I admired his work so much that I literally wanted to become part of it. After all, Van Gogh would often taste his paints in an attempt to immerse himself in the color. And it's not like I'm copying his work the way an art student would. I'm immersing myself in it.

Let's face it, it's one thing to look at art from the outside. I like to think of this as looking at the art from the inside.

Is it hot in here?

Look who's advertising
Billboards everywhere
"See Hellacious Acres
Your tailor made nightmare"
Traffic is backed up for miles
Attendants welcome you with devilish smiles
Steady...steady...
Have your tickets ready
Steady... steady...
Go to hell
After dark
It's a sin-filled city
An amusement park
It's a one way ticket to the other side
It's a Dr. Jekyll and a Mr. Hyde
See Lizzie Borden, she's one of the stars
And Tricky Dicky barkin'
Flashin' you his pardon
Jack the Ripper slashin' your tires
--Paul Williams, Hellacious Acres, A Star is Born

I don't believe in hell, a place, but I talk about it alot. Though I wonder, as many people who follow the television series LOST do, if all the characters are in hell or at the very least, purgatory. The two-hour season finale last night left us with the impression that all of the plane crash suvivors were finally rescued from the island. But a flash forward segment left us thinking that they wish they hadn't left the island. So perhaps they jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire.

But if you don't follow the program, than you are terribly LOST by this discusson (lost, as in confused as to what I'm talking about, not LOST as in the television series). I must admit I am feeling a bit lost that all of the programs I like to watch have aired their season finales. Gray's Anatomy, Desperate Housewives, the Office, My Name is Earl, 30 Rock and Sons and Daughters are all over for the season. Men in Trees and What about Brian are missing in action. And there are only two more episodes of the Sopranos and then it is lost forever (except in reruns and DVD).

Summer sucks when it comes to television. They are bringing back America's Got Talent with David Hasselhoff as one of the judges again. It's hard to look at him after that pitiful video his daughter filmed of him rolling around on his bathroom floor in Vegas drunk and trying to eat a hamburger. Though even that video isn't as disturbing as his music video of Hooked on a Feeling.

Dancing with the Stars is finally over only to be replaced by Racing with the Stars where we pit celebrities racing NASCAR's against each other. Jewell, the singer with bad teeth will be pitted against John Elway (former Broncos quarterback with buck teeth), and William Shatner (the Shat) who is just bad on so many levels. I'm not one to wish accidents on anyone, but I can only hope all of the transmissions fall out of the cars and the series finishes the race early.

American Idol is finally over and I'm just glad.

I'm sick of Deal or No Deal, too. And I refuse to watch Bingo.

My television god, why have you forsaken me?

The learned

Although not a rocket scientist, I do not consider myself a stupid person. But the other day I clicked on one of those annoying Web banner things and ended up spending about 20 minutes taking an online IQ test. The irony was that the entire thing was a scam to sell you the results of the IQ test once you completed it.

Am I an idiot or what?

It just goes to show that, no matter your educational level or IQ, you still need common sense. This is not to say that I don't think education is important. I have a BA in Journalism. Once and awhile I'll scan the job listings out there and I can't help but feel a bit inadequate that I don't have a graduate degree.

In this day and age, it's pretty much crucial that you have the credentials of a college degree to get your foot in the corporate door. The people who adamently diss a college degree are usually those who don't have one. I don't care if Abraham Lincoln was self-educated and Einstein flunked math. If they tried to get a job today, they'd likely be asked to wear a polyester uniform and repeat the phrase, "Do you want fries with that" over and over.*

I also think that college does more than provide the credentials you need to get a job. I'll admit I didn't really know anything when I got out of college. But even if you don't absorb the stuff they are trying to teach you, making it through college and earning (and I do mean earning) a degree teaches you how to learn. When I hit the work force, I started soaking up knowledge like a sponge. College more or less opened up my mind to learning things.

Still, at this point in my life, I can't even imagine going back to school to get my masters degree. It's not that I don't think I could learn anything, it's just that I don't think I have the attention span to sit through a class anymore. I can bearly tolerate the umpteen meetings I sit through in any given week at my job. Plus I would much rather watch the season finale of LOST than write a paper on the joys of channel marketing and ROI.

Maybe my attention span is so short because my IQ is so high. I'll never know. I refuse to send the money to get my final IQ report.

I'm not that stupid.

*Author's note: I am not putting anyone down who does not have a college degree nor do I think there is anything wrong with working in a fast food restaurant (I draw the line at working in a Walmart, however). Hard work is hard work and we all have to live. I just think having a college degree makes it easier to get a job where you can actually afford to live. Despite this disclaimer, I am sure I will offend someone who doesn't have a college degree. I apologize for that, but if you leave a comment to that effect, I will ridicule you without mercy. I mean it. You just have to toughen up. You would have learned that in college.

Clues

I think it is impossible to write anything without leaving clues to your personality. How about a shopping list, you may ask. Yes, even a shopping list will tell something about you, or at least about what you like to eat and what personal hygiene products you use (or need). For example I buy generic dandruff shampoo. An astute observer would deduce that I am flaky and cheap.

But I digress.

Even famous authors put their personalities in their writing. For example, I'm willing to bet that Stephan King is one disturbed puppy. Just a hunch.

So after almost three years of blogging, I imagine you could paint a pretty fair picture of who I am if you weeded through the 600 or so posts I've made. For example, you would discover that my favorite color is blue, I'm morbidly afraid of those people who hand out samples in grocery stores, I hate telephones and I like 70s rock musicals.

Okay, perhaps there is more to me than that.

I hope.

Pulling a Faust one

Roll on thunder, shine on lightning
The days are long and the nights are frightenin'
Nothing matters anyway,
And that's the hell of it.
Winter comes and the winds blew colder
While some grew wiser, you just grew older
And you never listened anyway,
And that's the hell of it.
--Paul Williams, Hell of It, Phantom of the Paradise

I don't want this to be construed as taking requests. But in the vein of JC Superstar, it seemed only fair to give the devil his due and dwelve into the dark lord's realm as well (at least when it comes to 70s musicals)

The Phantom of the Paradise was the only musical I could think of coming out of the early 1970s that centered on satan. It was written and directed by Brian De Palma and starred Paul Williams who also wrote much of the music for the film. Paul Williams would later degrade himself in such classics as Smoky and the Bandit I, II and III.

The plot of Phantom of the Paradise is kind of Phantom of the Opera meets Faust with a little Hunchback of Notre Dame and Dorian Gray thrown in for good measure.

Williams plays Swan, a record producer who owns "Death Records" (get it). He steals a rock version of "Faust" from composer Winslow Leach who goes beserk and is hideously disfigured by a record press when trying to confront Swan. He ends up terrorizing a production of his rock cantata at the Paradise Theater but eventually signs a contract (in blood) with Swan, but only on the condition that a woman he falls in love with, Pheonix, gets the lead.

Long story short, the Phantom dies for his love interest but not until he exposes Swan for the monster he is. The devil never actually makes an appearance in the movie, but it is all his handywork.

As with JC Superstar, I listened to the soundtrack to this album over and over and pretty much memorized the lyrics as well. There's lots of stuff about selling your soul and the supernatural (see the lyrics to "Hell of it" above). There's even one scene where a transvestite diva named Beef sings "Life at Last." He inexplicably playing the role of the Frankenstein monster in Faust. My favorite line is:

I'm the evil that you created gettin' horny and damned frustrated
Bored stiff and I want me a woman now

You can't get lyrics much better than that.

Although I liked the Beef character, if they ever made a stage version of Phantom of the Paradise, I'd probably try out for the Phantom character, instead. One, I don't look good in high heels and nylons (which rules out me every starring in Rocky Horror either). But really relate to the Phantom character the most. I always felt ugly growing up and had crushes on girls from afar. Thus I'm a sucker for unrequited love stories. I also think the Phantom's songs in the movie have the greatest range and depth (though ironically most of them are voiceovers by Paul Williams). So I'd really like to be the Phantom.

Plus I'd get to wear a mask.

So that's all I have to say about that, too.

Show me the face you had before you were blogging

koanA puzzling, often paradoxical statement or story, used in Zen Buddhism as an aid to meditation and a means of gaining spiritual awakening.
--Answers.com

A koan is a riddle that isn't intended to be solved. Or at least you aren't supposed to come up with a literal solution. They are used to dope slap you out of your comfort zone and look at things differently. The answer to a koan should therefore be intangible.

Literal people aren't very good at responding to a koan. Ask them what the sound of one hand clapping is and they are likely to say, "Nothing, one hand can't clap." You response should be to immediately smack them across the face and say, "But one hand can slap."

This will probably piss them off, but teaching people how to look at things differently sometimes hurts.

Sometimes I like to approach blogging like a zen koan. It is an opportunity to write, illustrate or compose a thought without relying on traditional structure. And I'll be damned if it isn't a little like meditation for me.

Or maybe it's like a box of chocolates. I sometimes get those things mixed up.

I think this is where I say that is all I have to say about that.

Superstar

Since I was a teenager, I have wanted to be Jesus Christ. Let me rephrase that, I have always wanted to play Jesus... well, not Jesus in a Passion Play or Christmas Pagent. After all, I'm not a religious person. I really wanted to play Jesus in Jesus Christ Superstar, the rock opera by Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Though if I didn't get the Jesus part I could probably manage the Judas role. But I suppose I would settle for playing Caiaphas. Or maybe Pilate or Herod. When it comes down to it, I can sing all of the parts. Well, I know the words to all of the parts.

I am not ashamed to admit that Jesus Christ Superstar is one of my favorite musicals. I know that takes alot of guts these days. It was created in the early 70s and no one wants to admit to liking anything created in the 70s, especially by Andrew Lloyd Webber. But it was one of the first albums I purchased (after I'd purchased all of the Beatles catalogue). It was a double album and those puppies aren't (and weren't) cheap.

I listened to that album over and over. A lot of people at the time thought it was sacreligious. I actually thought the musical did a pretty fair job of presenting a rock version of Jesus' story. But I really didn't like the album for the story line. I loved the music.

I would sit in front of our stereo and listen to it over and over. Thinking back on it, my parents were pretty patient people. I even taped the album onto cassette tapes (when dubbing consisted of putting a microphone in front of the stereo speaker) and listened to it when I was taking a shower (which was quite often as a teenager).

Repetition burned the songs into my head. Years later when I actually saw a live performance of the rock opera, I had to fight not to be one of those annoying people you sit next to who sing along with the actors. Well, maybe I did it a little bit until the elbows in the rib caught my attention.

My version of of Jesus Christ Superstar was vinyl. I still have it, but I haven't listened to it in years. I don't even have a turntable anymore. But for some reason over the weekend the music popped into my head and I decided to go buy the album on iTunes. After nearly an hour and half (I never learn to say no to Apples continuous updates to the iTunes software) I had downloaded the 23 songs from the original studio recording and transferred them to my iPod.

So this morning, 36 years after I listened to Jesus Christ Superstar for the first time, I listened to it again with pure digital pleasure on the train going to work. And Jesus Christ it is still great! I was reminded how much I wanted to be Jesus in that musical.

The cool thing is now I can grow a beard. But unless someone kicks me in the privates, I'm not sure I could hit those high notes anymore. Christ you know it ain't easy living your dream.

It makes me cross.

I'm going to hell, aren't I?

Blog Bores

I realize that, over time, I have spent an inordinate amount of time writing about my blog insecurities, which puts me in the category of some of the blog bores I rant about on occasion. But it dawned on me that even when Luke Skywalker followed Yoda's advice to "do, or do not" Darth Vader cut off his hand and told him that he, the dark lord was his father. So even motivational platitudes can lead you astray at times.

I also don't want to retrace the "why do we blog" ground. More than enough has been written on that. We all have our own reasons. I started blogging almost three years ago because I stumbled into Blogger via Google and was intriqued by the whole, unfathomable thing.

But I must admit that it was much simpler in the beginning. As with anything new, I was giddy with the possibilities. There were no rules. So I wrote that way. And I was encouraged by the zero in the comments counter to keep on writing without rules. What difference did it make if no one was reading it anyway?

For better or worse, being read changes the way you write. It's like being able to run around your house nude and uninhibited as long as the shades are drawn. Then when one of the shades accidently goes up and you see one of your neighbors staring at you in all of your naked glory you run for your bathrobe (this is an analogy, not a confession).

Don't get me wrong. I love comments (some comments I love more than others). It is nice to have people from all over the world stop by. I just wish I could take off the robe now and then. And I'm sure some of you will say, go ahead, we can handle it. But when you get down to it, people say they want the naked truth, but in reality it looks better with clothes on.

But to overcome my occasional blogger's block, every now and then I'm going to have to let the robe fly open. Not everyone is going to appreciate it. But that's okay. I trust that everyone who reads my blog on a regular basis will understand and avert their eyes if necessary. I'd do the same for you.

Okay enough of the naked analogy or I'll have to dig out my Dirty Doughnuts masthead again. I think you get the idea. I just hope you can get the mental image out of your heads.

Blog, or blog not...there is no 'try'

I was thinking of calling this post, "I'm sick of blogging." But then I Googled "I'm sick of blogging" and there were about seven pages of hits on pages that said, "I'm sick of blogging." It's just as well, I'm sick of being sick of blogging anyway.

It's not so much that I'm really sick of blogging. I guess I'm more sick of trying to find something original to say and not repeat myself. I'm sick of trying to prove how clever I am and wondering if I am really not so clever after all.

But then I think about Yoda. When Luke Skywalker told him he was "trying," Yoda replied, "Do or do not. There is no 'try." So if I am going to blog (which I do), then I'm just going to have bite the bullet and do it, not try to do it.

But that doesn't mean I'm going to be original or clever.

Strings attached

Of all the instruments I've ever played, the guitar is my favorite. For one, you can always play the guitar without needing an entire band to a play along with you (like the bass clarinet). Plus you can accompany yourself when you sing (something you can't do with the bass clarinet).

I received my first guitar on my 10th birthday. I slowly taught myself to play a few chords. When I was 19 I bought a Guild 12-string guitar. It was the first thing I bought on time payments. It is a beautiful guitar.

I learned a few more chords. I would sit and play for my nephew when he was a baby and put him to sleep. I teamed up with a friend who had a great voice and we played at several weddings over the years. But I never became overly proficient.

Since then I have collected a couple of classic guitars, three acoustic steel string guitars (including a limited edition Elvis guitar by Epiphone), three electric guitars and a banjo. I am still not overly proficient, but I still play occasionally.

Guitars comfort me. They are one of the few things in my life that I am glad come with strings attached. As I slip into middle age, I can still pick up one of my guitars, open a songbook from my teenaged years and strum back time...

....at least as long as I can remember the chords.

TMI

I'm beginning to think that maybe ignorance really is bliss. I've come to this conclusion because I think we may have reached the point where we have access to too much information in the world.

Whoever really invented the Internet is to blame. They are followed closely by Google. Wikipedia isn't helping either. What used to take weeks (if not years) of research can now be queried in the blink of an eye. The problem is that although a simple Internet search can turn of an unbelievably amount of information, there is no way to know how much, if any of it, is true.

Wikipedia is a great concept. It is this collective sharing of knowledge. The catch is that it is difficult to screen out bogus experts. And for every expert Web site on any given topic there are a hundred created by crackpots wanting to spout "truths" the voices told them to share with the masses.

I also think I have proved many times that you can't trust photos you find on the Web, either.

The other problem is that when you used to have a really cool, original idea, you could bask in self-delusion that it was an original idea for ages. Now all you have to do is google your good idea and discover instantaneously that thousands of other people already had your good idea years ago.

This is especially problematic for writers, poets and artists. Now in addition to writer's block, when we do have a breakthru we have to have the fact that we aren't as witty and original as we always thought we were waved under our noses electronically at the drop of a hat.

This is also problematic for would be entrepeneurs. Google your idea for a great product and you are likely to find it is already being sold. If not, you can bet a hundred other people will steal the idea the minute you slap it up on the Web.

I suppose in retrospect that there has always been misinformation in the world. It was just easier to contain when it was produced by a mimeograph machine.

Blue

Picasso's blue period was when he painted the darker side of things. His self portrait at that time was done primarily in shades of blue. Why does blue always get a bum rap?

My favorite color is blue. My eyes are blue. My birthstone is blue. I think my aura is blue. So I don't understand why blue is he color associated with melancholy. Being blue shouldn't make you blue.

Nothing but blue skies is a good thing. The blue bird of happiness is always welcome. So why do people sing the blues, talk a blue streak and chase away the blues once in a blue moon?

It makes me see red.

Hören Sie zu!

Kat's comment on my "I scream" post made me think. She reminded me of a line from Pulp Fiction where Uma Thurman's character asks John Travolta's character, "Do you listen, or wait to talk?" John Travolta's response was, "I wait to talk, but I'm trying to listen."

I'd like to think that I listen. I want to believe that I can be quiet long enough to hear a person through on something without hopping around like a little kid who has to go to the bathroom just waiting to interject my opinion.

Sometimes all I want to do is listen. Meetings for example. I prefer to sit there soaking in everything that is being said, letting my brain take a mini-vacation. But inevitably, someone will ask me what I think. Nine times out of ten an honest answer to that question would be, "I think I'd like to be anywhere but in this meeting." But the nature of meetings is that people don't think you are making an effort to be engaged unless you are participating. So I am forced to say something on topic and rely on the fact that most of the people at the table aren't listening anyway.

So maybe not a good example of the advantages of listening. Let's see, I like to listen to stand up comedians. But that is more of a matter of survival. Talking instead listening to a comedian is usually met with swift retrobution like being pointed out and having the comedian say, "I was going to do my impression of an asshole, but this man beat me to it." Okay so this only happened to me once.

I'm beginning to think maybe I'm not as much of a listener as I would like to be. Part of the problem is that I don't have much patience for jibberastic people (someone who speaks in tongues and or in such a way that can not be comprehended). So when I hear something that is so obviously uttered by a jibbering blue-assed baboon I find it difficult just to sit there and nod in agreement. Because if you agree with a jibbering blue-assed baboon, doesn't that make you a jibbering blue-assed baboon as well?

That was a rhetorical question.

Okay, now I wish I was a better listener. I wish I could be patient and nod in all of the right places and give those sympathetic looks that encourage people to continue. I wish I wasn't thinking about whether or not I locked the front door or the price of gas or how many more years I have until retirement when people are pouring out their guts to me. I wish I could ask someone for directions and actually remember them the minute they are done. I wish I could watch television, type on my blog, and talk on the phone at the same time.

Most of all I just wish those voices in my head would stop.

I scream

I got a brochure today for a training seminar about the seven secrets of effective managers. It was the typical motivational speaker jibba jabba. They listed the seven things in the brochure, so I'm not sure why you would then need to go to the seminar.

The only one of the secrets I remember from the brochure was "Understand first, then try to understand." Okay, I kind of like that jibba jabba. I have been guilty of not trying to understand someone's point of view before trying to get them to understand mine. I suppose if you really want to communicate with someone you should try to at least listen to what they are trying to say first before you try to shove your opinion down their throat.

But then again I suppose if you do bother to listen to what someone is saying and still think they are full of shit, it is okay to force feed them your own opinion. Because then it is their turn to try and "understand first."

I don't think many people really listen though. Everyone is screaming to be heard, but no one is shutting up to listen. And when you realize no one is listening, you scream a little louder. But maybe, just maybe the way to be heard is to be quiet.

And god knows there are lots of people in the world I wish would just shut up, because I'm trying to be heard here.

Comfortable in my own skin

I got my tattoo when I turned 45. It was my birthday present to myself. Some would view it as the product of a mid-life crisis. I just viewed it as my time for a tattoo.

I found the design online at luckyfish.com. The designer is Pat Fish. She has a studio in Santa Barbara. You can buy her tattoo designs online though. That's what I did. Then I took the design to a local tattoo studio -- Slave to the Needle. It took the tattoo artist about four hours to copy the black portion of the design onto my arm. I went back three months later to add the green shading. That was another two hours.


The design has two celtic dragons intertwined in internal battle on my arm. It completely encircles my arm. And yes, the worst part was when the tattoo artist was working on the underside of my arm. But all in all, it was worth it.

I can't really verbalize why it was worth it, but I have never regretted getting my tattoo. I don't hide it. I am not self conscious about it. And I don't feel like a silly middle aged man for getting it. It is part of me and it will always be a part of me. It wasn't a whim. I thought about it a great deal before I got it.

Tattoos aren't for everyone. I probably won't ever get another one, but this one, well...this one is mine and it is me.

I like my tattoo. I feel comfortable in it and it helps remind me to always be comfortable in my own skin. That is an important thing to remember.