"I don't wanna see you bleed, I know what you need but it ain't what you deserve."

There are times in my job when I have to be a somewhat more aggressive personality type than I normally am. In fact, there are times when I'm a bit of a prick. If I know I'm going to be dealing with a particularly contentious situation or person, it helps to prepare by listening to certain songs on the way there. Here, in no order, are my top ten "Stop Being Such A Milquetoast And Kick Life In The Nuts" tracks:

1. "Takeover" by Jay-Z.

2. "I Want To Conquer The World" by Bad Religion

3. "Not Afraid" by Eminem (any Eminem song works, as well. Except for that one about his kid.)

4. "Get Up, Stand Up" by The Wailers

5. Anything from the Kill Bill, Vol. 1 soundtrack

6. "Holier Than Thou" by Metallica

7. "Talking Union" by Pete Seeger

8. "The Harder They Come" by Jimmy Cliff

9. "Monster" by Kanye West

10. "I'm Not Down" by The Clash

Bonus track, used after something doesn't go my way or when confronting Earth's general unpleasantness:

11. "Running The World" by Jarvis Cocker

"What kind of sign they need when it all come from within?"

It's been five years since I wrote a song. There's no real reason. Bands break up, friends move away, and priorities change. Songwriting is something I used to take seriously, although perhaps not as seriously as I could have or should have. At the time that I gradually stopped doing it, with no band to write for, there certainly was no agonizing decision. There was no decision at all, just the realization that songwriting was something I used to do, but didn't do anymore.

Still, I miss it. I miss being creative. I miss starting with a chord sequence or guitar riff and crafting it into something cohesive, adding lyrics and trying to get it just right. I've continued to play guitar on occasion, as needed and when requested, although at a diminished rate. My chops (such as they were) are fading, mostly vanished with the callouses on the fingers of my left hand.

There's no need to turn this into a tortured aging parallel. Yes, I'm older. I have more responsibilities, less free time, fewer opportunities to engage in "unproductive" activities. Like I said, things change. That's how life is and I've known it for awhile. If I wanted to expend time, effort, and resources on writing and recording music again, I could. And I do want to.

Therefore, my self-imposed and non-binding agreement with myself is to get back to where I once belonged. I will write and record an original song by the end of the summer. I have a guitar. I have a microphone, pens, paper and recording software. I have a song title. I'll either succeed or experience crushing failure.

Wish me luck.

"Well, your railroad gate, you know I just can't jump it."

Whenever I see somebody I know at the grocery store and I'm buying toilet paper, I feel a weird twinge of embarrassment. Oddly, it seems that this has happened several times over the years. And every time, it makes me uncomfortable.

Why? If anything, it confirms that I adhere to normative behaviors when it comes to bathroom cleanliness. Wouldn't it be worse if nobody ever saw me purchasing toilet paper?

And why do I spend time thinking about this?

"When your head gets twisted and your mind grows numb."

Recently, for the first time, I watched a movie in a theater that offered "luxury seating." For an additional $2.50 per ticket, you can pick your seat in the reserved section of the back few rows, enjoying extra leg room and lush leather seats. I didn't select this option (few people at this particular Saturday afternoon showing of Super 8 did), and the whole enterprise made me feel strange and a little gross.

Normally, the back rows of a theater are not my preferred spot. Yet having them off limits, with a velvet cord and an usher/security guard restricting access to an all-but-empty section of the theater, seemed divisive and wrong.

"Yes, we could have bought ridiculously comfortable seats for the entire multiplex and still made money, since we charge $9.75 for an evening show, and $12.25 for 3D. But if you want to ensure the best chance of not sitting right next to a sweaty guy eating $12 worth of popcorn and behind a bunch of kids under ten years old, we're going to have to charge you extra for it."

Maybe I'm too sensitive. Maybe the fact that anyone flush enough to pay the extra $2.50 is in a position to literally look down on those who can't or won't makes it seem worse than it is. But I felt like I was watching a movie on the fucking Titanic. If the theater burns down, does their extra cash get them VIP access to the fire exits?

The feeling faded as the lights went down and the movie began; once again I was just a person in a big dark room with a bunch of other people, watching the same thing at the same time. I think that's what I found most disconcerting: the extra shot of capitalism threatened to take that feeling away, and almost made going to the movies feel like another skirmish in this country's undeclared class war. Before, the Mercedes next to you in the parking lot could belong to anybody in the theater; you all bought the same ticket. If Daddy Warbucks got there late, he got the front row or the extreme wing.

No more. Now, the movie theater's become another place where those with more than you get to demonstrate that fact. A place where people go to be near each other, instead of with each other. An opportunity to emphasize what separates us rather than what unites us.

Or at least that's how it felt for a few minutes while eating Sour Patch kids and waiting for the trailers to start. It's not that big of a deal in the scheme of things, and relentless commodification doesn't surprise me. But the final straw, and the ultimate reason I don't plan on returning to the theater, is this: the regular, non-"luxury" seats aren't equipped with moving armrests, a feature that's basically become standard at any cinema built within the last ten years. Taking something away, calling it "luxury," and charging extra for it isn't progress, assholes. Poor people like to cuddle, too, you know?

"Do you have any faith at all? Do you have any love to share?"

This space, dormant too long, wants to be used. I want to write; the weather's getting nice and I feel I have something to say.

Also, today is Bob Dylan's 70th birthday, and that must mean something. More to come...

Note to Self #1

Darius,

When you decide to write blog entries while feeling sentimental, you become obnoxious. In the future, please leave a day or two between writing and posting.

Thanks!

Time Is Tight.

The more I consider it, the less certain I am that humans are well-equipped to fully accept the passage of time. We love it when it fits our assumptions about advancement and the lineality of progress. But what if progress (personal, social, financial, professional, etc) stalls and time keeps going? Then, it stings. Too often it becomes easier to push looming eternity to the background and replace it with platitudes and illusion.

Do animals have concepts of time? Does a bear wake up every day and know that his life is finite? When an antelope gives birth, is she aware that she has a limited amount of time with her offspring, or that it is essentially her replacement? Or does their consciousness only include the imperative to survive, to survive at all costs and for as long as they can?

I think about time a lot. Probably more than a healthy amount. Our helplessness in the face of time's inexorable pressure is one of my favorites. For instance, I'm older than I used to be. And while I don't feel too different than I did, say, ten, or even five, years ago, there are little hints.

I don't sleep as well as I used to.

I've begun to snore consistently.

I can see parts of my forehead that haven't always been visible.

There are more, but this isn't a "pity me because I'm getting older" blog. I've accepted the fact of aging. When my mother wasn't thrilled to be turning fifty, I reminded her that the only alternative was to die, and forty-nine was much too young. We all get older, unless we stop, and you can't fight that, so why try?

In six months I'll turn thirty years old. My life is basically nothing like what I expected it would be when I was twenty-five. Twenty-five was basically nothing like I expected it would be when I was twenty. Oh well; it's not my style to freak out about that. Every choice I've made has led me here, and that's alright, because I learned a long time ago to take ownership of my life. Where I am may not be where I want to be, but that's alright; I'll get there.

The clock is ticking, and the fuse is burning. I'm not an animal whose only goals are to eat and to not be eaten. But I won't become time's slave, either. Time is pitiless, merciless, yet the only way we can experience true love is through its passage.

Time is tight.