Getting ready for my upcoming move, I ran across a bunch of old journals that I’ve kept over the years.  I had picked them up with the intention of finding old story ideas and lyrical abortions that I know I wrote down off and on (but still can’t find, damn it).

What I got was a good couple of laughs at my own expense and a miniature bonfire.

I dig around here on the site occasionally, doing random keyword searches, and I have little twinges of horror at my own thoughts; I find that this sort of honesty, out here for the whole world to see, forces a stronger sense of self-examination.  Knowing that anyone can call bullshit on me for whatever goes on in my head gives me no choice but to constantly evaluate and re-evaluate not only my actions but the thought processes behind them.

The casual discomfort I sometimes feel reading over my old stuff on here is utterly incomparable to what I felt reading those journals.  Analogous to watching Scary Movie with the lights on, and then living through The Exorcist and The Shining.

The idea of synaesthesia has always fascinated me — the very real and quantifiable experiencing of sensory crossover. Sounds experienced as colors, colors experienced as varying degrees of hot and cold, shapes carrying different scents.

There is a little synaesthesia in each of us, even the ones without synaptic misfirings. Or perhaps there is simply a natural bleed across our senses; we have all experienced sensations that are too intense (bright lights, loud noises, or even touches or tastes that are overwhelmingly strong).  We describe both sounds and touch as soft, tastes and touches as light and delicate, sights and sounds as loud.

This doesn’t even touch on the idea that I have that there are other senses that aren’t counted in the common five, like empathy, or perhaps even (if you are willing to consider outside alternatives) telepathy.  And those, too, can be considered similar to the other senses in that they are tickled by outside stimuli, and that it is through them that we experience and receive messages about the world around us.

Why shouldn’t there be alternates?  We don’t possess sonar, which is an alien translation of sound into sight.  We don’t possess the ability to distinguish between scents like animals, leaving us unable to smell fear and even pheromones.

The ascription of only human traits to the entire realm of possibility is small-minded, and a large part of the reason that science-fiction is mostly dull to me.

This idea of synaesthesia has occasionally crept into my mind when poking around with a creative process.  I’m particularly intrigued with the concept of opening up new avenues in one medium by applying techniques from another (in my case, one with which I’m more familiar).

For instance, I’ve got plenty of experience with audio, and can understand the underpinnings of audio effects like delay, chorusing, phasing (both of the latter are just shortened extensions of the first), distortion, fitering, etc.   And all of these are present in some way in video — there is echoing, creating ghost trails of what you’ve seen, and noise filtering, and tweaking the color balance.  For someone who doesn’t have a thorough knowledge of the theory that underlies one or the other, though (my visual academic background lags far behind my aural), it seems like this approach might unlock some creative barriers, at least for those seeking a new and fresh perspective.

If you were listening to me say all this, my words would probably carry the distinctive odor of insanity. Or shit; I’m not sure how different the two are, but I imagine they’re at least distinct.

Continuing in my series where Ann Coulter is a shitstain on the tile floor of the bathroom of my life, we find this, the best possible Ann Coulter interview that doesn’t end with the roar of a thousand shotguns.

Dear Kate,

20 years ago today, I held your tiny little body in my arms.

Okay, that’s a blantant lie. I was at summer camp at Duke being smart and making out with a hot blonde nerd girl on the day you were born. But a week later, I did come home and poke at your fontanel to see if I could feel the ridges of your tiny postfetal headmeat.

I don’t think it had any permanaent effects. Do you?

Happy burpday, little one. I love you and miss you, and hope that Kansas is treating you well.

P.S. I know she acts all innocent and mature, but Mandy’s the one who told me about fontanels in the first place, and threatened to slit my throat in my sleep if I didn’t poke your soft spots repeatedly. So there.

Brilliant little piece of satire from our friends at DrinkatWork.com:

You get about the city by means of the aforementioned “webslinging.” And it’s fantastic to watch. It always amazes me when I hear nearby police sirens and there’s an audible gasp from everyone on the sidewalk. I look up and there you are swinging away. Used to take my breath away, Spiderman. But then one day, about a week into my tenure as a sanitation worker, I started asking myself all these crazy questions, like, “What happens to those web lines of his? Do they dissolve right away? Are they dangerous if left alone? Who has to clean them up?” It turns out I do…

From the New York Post:

Conservative scribe Ann Coulter cribbed liberally in her latest book, “Godless,” according to a plagiarism expert.

John Barrie, the creator of a leading plagiarism-recognition system, claimed he found at least three instances of what he calls “textbook plagiarism” in the leggy blond pundit’s “Godless: the Church of Liberalism” after he ran the book’s text through the company’s digital iThenticate program.

(Warning: that link contains the full story but also features a rather graphic and large picture of a hideous mythological creature that may induce nightmares and violent projectile vomitting in small chaildren and people with average or above intelligence)

It’s wonderful to know
That I could be
Something more than what I dreamed
–Dream Theater, Octavarium

I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and not just about the usual weird positions that I’ve seen the neighbors trying out through my binoculars (I salute you, by the way — my girl is creative and experimental, but I’m fairly sure even she wouldn’t be willing to do that thing you did last night with the shoehorn and the kitten). Thus far, 2006 has felt like a year of realization, of fulfillment, of life coalescing into something more … I don’t know, maybe right is the word I’m looking for. I’ve finally seen my writing published on a national level; I completed my first short film (emphasis on film; Chance’s constant elitist berating has made that seem important). Even the steps backward (returning to bartending, for instance) feel right and natural. It’s as though I’m finally clearing out the chaff of societal expectation that I’ve always wrestled with and becoming comfortable with what’s important to me.

I look around almost every day and I see people wrestling with the past, clinging to it with some sort of sickening justification. Many of my friends are embittered towards women, because they’ve gotten hurt in the past. I see people scared to chase their dreams because so many before them have failed. I see people “growing up” and leaving behind their creative passions because they aren’t “important enough” or “there’s not enough time in the day.”

I don’t dwell on the past. I think I used to, to great detriment; part of me is such a romantic, such a dreamer, that it is very easy for me to drift into a sort of selective nostalgia, ignoring the bad and fixating on the good, making me wistful for what I imagine used to be. I’ve let that go, by and large, learning to focus on what’s ahead instead of what I see in the rear-view. I also came to realize that it’s all water under the bridge, gone and past; there’s nothing that any of us can do to change what has come before, and to live as though constant obsession will correct your mistakes serves only to waste more of the present. I don’t hold grudges, I don’t torture myself over the things I’ve done wrong (to myself or to others); I do my best to glean lessons needed from my experiences, storing them away for future application, and move on.

I think that this — combined with patience, determination and a slow-burning hard work ethic, and maybe more than a little self-examination — is what has allowed this year to be so good for me. Rarely in life do we see immediate results; for those out there with an inflated sense of entitlement, instant gratification is rarely something that you’ll find.

I regret nothing that has come before. Done again, certainly, I would do things differently, avoid causing pains for which I am responsible, steer clear of situations that left deep and permanent scars on my soul (anyone who has read Vonnegut’s Timequake can understand this). But everything from then has taught me important lessons that have helped me make now better, stronger, easier.

And I wholeheartedly thank everyone who has been a part of my learning up until this point. To my parents and siblings, who instilled a lot of things both good and bad in me, but most importantly taught me that it’s okay to question the world around me (and in doing so granted me the ability to distinguish the good and bad). To my friends, past and present, even those that have long moved out and on from my world, because it is through them that I have learned the real meaning of friendship. To all the women that I have dated and crushed on and stalked (my lawyer assures me that once the case has been acquitted, it’s okay to use whatever descriptors I want), because I have learned a lot about myself through them.

And especially to Melissa, who more than anyone in my thirty four years helped me discover and change a lot of things about myself, who set the bar even higher than what I had imagined for what a relationship with a woman can be, and for raising my expectations and hopes about the world and the people in it. Some might see it as sad that we didn’t work out, but I suspect that, in a lot of ways, she’s in a much better place with the man she’s seeing now, and I’m incredibly happy myself. But my current state of mind and being is indebted to my time with her, beyond any quantification, and for that I will always be grateful to her.

When we were in the process of getting divorced, she came into the apartment one evening where I was sitting on the counch watching Buffy, freshly out of the shower. I don’t remember the exact words, but she pointed out the tattoo I have, of the Mandarin symbol for love woven into the letter ‘M’ that is over my heart, and noted that I was stuck with it forever.

She was right, of course. I hope I never forget everything that we had; without what came before, what I have now — so much more than what I dreamed — would not be possible.

Last night, we’re playing our usual unusual Tuesday night gig at Bailey’s, adding in a full set of patriotic (Eric called it Freedom from Terrorists day) songs like “Born in the USA,” “The National Anthem” (fine, but everyone loves some Radiohead) and my favorite, “Coming to America.” Seriously — what goes better with fireworks than a little Neil Diamond? Nothing.

Which makes me think of my favorite joke: What’s orange and looks good on hippies?

…

Fire.

So we play the first set, which gets a remarkably good reception (we should play holiday sets every week, as no matter how badly we mangle the songs, they get wondrous responses from the audiences). Short break to continue sweating profusely and chat with a few of the regulars, and then we’re back for a return to our usual programming. We blow through an original or two, then into our cover of “And She Was…”, and then, possessed by some demon that hates Eric, I launched into “Seven Nation Army,” which is guaranteed to both get the crowd dancing and screaming and also to make Eric vomit into my amp. After that was our always-rousing “War Pigs,” which — despite my expectations — never fails to get one of the best surges of energy from whatever audience we’re playing for. I guess people just don’t hear enough Black Sabbath on the club circuit in Birmingham.

Sometime in the middle of this set, I looked out into the crowd, seeing who was doing what. About two measures later, I realized that my bass wasn’t making any noise; I checked to make sure I hadn’t bypassed my amp with my tuner (no), that the battery in my active pickup hadn’t fallen loose (no), that a cable hadn’t come loose (three nos and the on-deck batter advances). And I realized suddenly that — aside from the fact that I was obviously not completely in the mix, as no one except me seemed to notice that the low-end had disappeared — there was no sound because I had stopped playing. I had found my girl in the crowd, dancing with her roommate and Eric’s wife, and I had gotten completely and utterly lost in her smile.

And for a few seconds, it didn’t even matter to me that I was pulling the most unprofessional musical move I’ve ever even considered.

These moments don’t come along every day, you know. You’ve got to learn to spot them and, more importantly, learn to appreciate them when they happen, no matter what it takes.

That woman has beauty enough to slow time, to change the course of rivers, to reignite forgotten galaxies.

Everyone should be as lucky as me, to stand witness in the glow of her smile.

But you’re not. Ha.

I’ve always been a fairly independently minded soul, as anyone who has seen me dress myself will tell you. I have my own thoughts about a lot of things: relationships, race and politics and religion, the arts… you name it. I consider myself very fortunate in these respects: while I won’t automatically discount something because it finds favor with the masses, I do try very hard to root out my opinions independently of other people. I’ve never found satisfaction in the thoughts and trends dictated to me by the people that surround me.

Our tastes and opinions and ideals are natural outgrowths of our backgrounds and upbringing. We are shaped by the things around us as we grow, and we should never be ashamed or embarrassed by the things that seem natural to us. Whether talking about your CD or DVD collection or your political or religious convictions, each and every one of us should be comfortable and secure in standing strong in support of what we believe and enjoy.

The past few years as an American have scared me, more than I’m willing to admit or discuss. On many levels, I’m not a political person, and it’s not just because of the obnoxious and ineffective two-party system that our country suffers underneath daily (seriously: if you don’t toe the party line, who out there really represents you? What if you count yourself a social conservative but a fiscal liberal, or a liberatarian? Sorry, but like me, you’re probably shit out of luck in the way of ‘taxation by representation’).

I’m fully aware that opinions, by and large, are just that: not facts, not scientifically verifiable theories, nothing but the beliefs of one person that stand equal in all aspects to that of another. Don’t confuse this with a weakness in my beliefs; I will fight more passionately and with more resolve than most people that I know to protect those things that I feel strongly about, just as I would expect anyone else to do. But I am the first in the room to admit that, yeah, I might be wrong. Perhaps exposing kids to sex and violence is psychologically damaging. Perhaps drivers should be forced by law to wear seatbelts, and adults should be kept from marijuana for their own health, and God exists. But you know, you might be wrong, too. And just because you refuse to admit that fact doesn’t make your beliefs stronger or more valid; it just makes you more of an asshole.

This country was founded 230 years ago on the basis that all of its citizens should have an equally loud voice in the governance and representation of the nation. There should be no rule by dictatorship, passed on through bloodlines, government by families and birth orders. And as much as I don’t consider myself a patriotic person, blindly saluting my flag, I believe in our government system, at least as an ideal. Majority rules; that’s a good way to run things. It allows for shifts in the status quo and the changing hearts and souls of its citizens. It ostensibly prevents (capitalism aside) a consolidation of power and the pushing of the interests of a small group of people from becoming the guiding force behind the attitudes of the people.

But I feel sad when the majority would back a group as strongly and seemingly blindly as it does the current administration. This is a gathering of politicians in the worst and foulest sense of the word, people who seek the power of the office for personal gain rather than the betterment of the people that they represent. There is no evident concern or care for the minority, for future generations, for even those that live outside of the inner circle that hold the scepter of power; and yet, the religious right and the small-minded bigots and those with money would have us believe that the nation has never been stronger, that we have never in over two centuries been headed in a better direction as a whole.

Janis Joplin’s rather famous for singing that “freedom’s just another word / for nothing left to lose.” I don’t agree with that, in statement or sentiment. At this point in my life, I’ve got more to lose than most: a comfortable lifestyle supported by two jobs, one that I love and one that pays me quite well. I have a beautiful and intelligent woman at my side. I have a band that allows me a strong freedom of expression. And in all of these areas, I am blessed with the comfort of being truly and unabashedly myself, with no apologies or shame.

And I am free, and a fortunate person to have been born in a place and time that allows me to not only feel contrary in many ways to the common man, but to feel what I do regardless of what any and everyone else feels. Freedom is not having nothing left to lose; freedom is having the voice to proclaim that you agree or disagree with the majority, that you feel the same as or differently than most, and using that voice without fear.

Whatever words you feel, celebrate today by using your voice, just in case it is taken from you tomorrow. Don’t ever think it couldn’t happen; the headlines of the past years tell us all otherwise.

I believe in love at first sight. I believe in true and hopeless romanticism, in treating women like friends instead of sexual objects.

I believe that metal and punk are just as valid in the world of musical expression as classical and jazz.

I believe that popcorn thrillers with Will Smith and Colin Farrell are just as valid as anything by Stanley Kubrick.

I believe that the religious right is the absolute worst thing to ever happen to our country — even worse than terrorists like Al-Qaeda and the American militias behind the Oklahoma City bombing.

I believe that we are infinitely beneath the universe’s notice, and that to think otherwise is awfully egotistical.

I believe that Bush and his cronies are criminals who should not only be removed from office but should be punished according to the will of the people.

I believe the war in Iraq is a travesty based on American self-importance, but that those men and women who fight overseas should be treated with the utmost repsect and dignity for doing their job with honor and civility.

I believe that most of you are sad and hopeless in your lazy and blind devotion to truths that you were taught, instead of those that you sought out on your own. I also believe in your right to think that I’m wrong, because I might very well be.

America: fuck yeah.

1. You are in the Witness Protection Program and must invent a new first, middle, and last name.
Dweezil Chewbacca Smithleejones.

2.You are in a threesome with two famous people, alive or dead. Who are they?
Ann Coulter and Hillary Clinton.

3. You are in charge of naming your new band. What’s the name of the band?
Catheter Hepburn. First album: Shoes that Match the Bag.

4. You are going to get a free tattoo. What would it be?
The letter “b” three times on the crown of my head.

5. You are being forced to listen to one song over and over, ad infinitum, as a form of torture. What song is it?
“It’s a Small World”

6. You are leaving your state/province. What state do you move to?
Illinois

7. You are leaving your country, where would you move?
France

8. You get to choose one book as the best ever written. What book do you choose?
CHOKE by Chuck Palahniuk.

9. You get to choose one movie as the best ever made. What movie do you choose?
L. A. Story

10. You get to spend one day each as a bird, an insect, and a mammal. What bird would you be? What insect? What mammal?
Hawk, spider, dolphin.

11. You get to relive one year of your life. Which year?
Age 3. I have so very few childhood memories…

12. Which would you least like to relive?
Age 31. I did a lot of stupid things that year, and while I wouldn’t change any of them, I sure as fuck don’t want to relive them.

13. You have a time machine that will take you backwards anywhere from 1800 to the present. What decade do you most want to visit?
1800 – 1810, Japan

14. You must choose to go skydiving or very-deep-sea diving.
Skydiving. This is hardly a forced choice.

15. You get to return to the past (using that handy dandy time machine we were talking about before) and have a sexual encounter with a rock star that is no longer alive.
Karen Carpenter. I’m fascinated with the idea of having sex with a kite.

16. You get to be a contestant on any game show, airing today or in the past. What show do you want to be on?
Battle of the Network Stars.

17. You are given $1 million dollars but you must give it all to one charity. What charity do you choose?
Something for animals, probably. Or dyslexics. It’s so sad to see people spelling backwards.

18. You must ban one word from the dictionary and all usage, to be no longer uttered or written. What word do you ban?
Sphygomanometer. If it weren’t for that damned word, I would have been sixth grade spelling bee champion.

(Edited to note: the correct fucking spelling is sphygmomanometer. Fuck.)

19. You can have 100 million dollars tax-free but if you take it, you’ll die at the age of 50. Do you take it?
Sounds like an acceptable gamble to me. It’s not as though I’m guaranteed life after 50 if I’m poor.