I’ve always had a fascination with the darker side of life — a lot of people do, which is why movies and TV shows like Hannibal and CSI and Larry the Cable Guy draw audiences. It led me to a degree in criminal psychology, and continues to dictate the direction of much of my writing.

The more I think about it today, though, the real villains of this world are not the serial killers and the terrorists. Not that I’m putting them up on a pedestal, mind you, but I think they get all the attention because we don’t see them that much, and so they seem more fictional to a lot of us.

The real evil in this world is all around us, much more insidious in its working and completely permeating most of our lives in one form or another. We study the Charles Mansons and the Osama bin Ladens of the world to understand what could bring other people to end innocent (I’m being pulled on a riff about whether innocence really exists outside of the womb, but I’ve got to get to the library to return a CSI DVD set) lives. But is ending a life really as evil as creating a long life filled with pain or sorrow?

Those around us who are emotionally or physically abusive and neglectful. People who manipulate our lives and our hearts for their own gain, no matter what the cost to us. Those who take advantage of the kindness and generosity of others without giving in return. These people exist in a tangible form for every one of us. You could argue that we have more control over these situations than a murder or bombing victim, but I don’t know that we do — I mean, in theory, yes, inarguably. But in practice? People rarely recognize the things that are within their power, much less taking control over those things. We’re conditioned to suffer for others, that causing pain to others in the short term is wrong, even if it means infinitely more suffering to us over an extended period. Some of us are even told from the start that we are bad, that we are to blame for anything and everything.

If I take my own advice and look at this from a different perspective, focusing on the good instead of the bad, then I have to admit that these people are the Nautilus Bowflexes of the spiritual world – but looking utterly ridiculous and costing far too much.. They help us to define and build character within ourselves, becoming stronger and less willing to grant them meaningless power over us. Certainly, I’ve learned to recognize and avoid these people, and my life is sincerely more drama- and stress-free since I’ve done so. These people have also helped me spot these same characteristics in my own personality, and do my best to eliminate (or at least keep in check) behaviors stemming from them.

But sadly, most people aren’t terribly self-aware. Most people, for reasons that are beyond me, are willing to keep the status quo rather than deal with a short burst of hurt from which they will heal. They leave the glass in the wound because pulling it out will hurt, when the reality is that the sooner the glass comes out, the quicker the pain and the healing as well. Leaving that glass in, though, is being okay with a constant throbbing pain, the anxiety of the eventual (and necessary) sharp pain, and — maybe worst of all — the increased chance of infection.

As much as I can’t understand the victim mentality, though, I’m left aghast at those who can be the victimizers. The abusive parents and spouses, the manipulative, the lazy, the freeloaders, the bullies. As much as I want to chalk it up to being human (albeit the weakest and most despicable elements thereof), I have to think there’s more to it than simply a cyclical pattern of learning how to make yourself feel stronger by being weak.

For tonight, I’ll drink, instead, and simply blame it on the fact that most of the human race are shitbags.

More here.

I think tonight’s entertainment may well include the idea of telling punchlines to jokes without telling the actual jokes. Like, “When mommy goes the store, honey,” and, “Garrrrr… It’s drivin’ me nuts!”

I find myself in a weird, weird mood today.  A little bouncy, a little out of it, a little bit country and a little rock ‘n’ roll.  And I think it’s the reappearance of the carrot on the stick in front of me.  The promise of better times.

I heard (and copied here, not too long ago) that false hope is better than none.  And I do believe that, but I also am realizing that enough promise taken away is the source of cynicism and — worse — pessimism.  Sometimes the promise is given freely by others, sometimes the promise is created by one who needs that promise to keep going — but either way, every let-down leads to a little more doubt, a stronger expectation that next time is not going to end any better.

In having this discussion with someone who needlessly got defensive with me on the subject — methinks the lady doth protest too much, Keptin — I tried in vain to make it clear that, in the end, for me, it’s not really about placing blame for the false hope.  On the one hand, it might be nice if the other person could always be at fault; the worst part about where I’m at right now is trying to figure out if there’s actually cause for excitement, or if I’m manufacturing it all in my head because I really need that right now.  But on the other hand, I’ve practically perfected the art of misinterpretting the subtle signals of humans over the last 34 years, so this may just be picking nits.

I know that if you cry wolf enough, you eventually get eaten when the hungry bastard actually shows up.  But what if you, as the one who hears the cries, are so desperate to believe that the wolf has finally come along? How long will you keep the faith then? Can you go on forever, not having to worry about anyone other than yourself calling you gullible and naive? Or does the crush of failure eventually knock that out of the way?

Once again, I say comfortably: For all that I have learned in my years, I don’t know shit.

Whoever is hitting my site using the search terms “prostitute” and “amputee”:

Stop it.

Seriously.

Unless you’re looking for the next creepy thing, and stumble across my mentions of surgical porn. In that case, I’m all for it. Go, go, gadget perverts.

The quickest way to drive some people insane is to have music playing ’round the clock. Those people should never live with me. Ever since i can remember, I’ve listened to music everywhere: work, the car, while I’m falling asleep, while I’m in the shower. I’ve got stereo equipment installed everywhere in my house, in my car, and now an iPod.

You might say I kinda like music. You might also say that Bush has been one of the worst things to happen to our country, or that rectal prolapse sounds like a really bad way to spend a Sunday afternoon in spring. In all cases, you’d be making understatements of the grandest degree.

I try to share this love with other people as often as possible. Ben over at helluvablog recently asked, “Has anyone ever seen god and Kenn in the same room?” after I turned him on to a few new bits of music (I will note that this time I didn’t have to pay anyone for the compliment, and that no, no one has ever seen me and god in the same room). He calls me a “musical savant,” though honestly I prefer to think of myself as a “musical pimp.” Because I promote my wares tirelessly, I sometimes beat the equipment when it’s not working hard enough, and I have this fat-daddy diamond studded cane.

Here’s your Thursday treat, a few things to swing by iTunes and check out throughout your long and painful workday. As Mozart might say, eine kleine nacht musik — or as we say here in Alabama, “Turn that shit down, man! I cain’t hear mah Skynyrd!”

If there is one band that has radically affected the way I listen to music — well, Porcupine Tree would be it if so many others hadn’t beaten them to the races. But that’s not their fault — they aren’t as old as Queen, or Steve Vai, or so many others.

They are, however, the best thing to come along into my CD collection in years. You’ve got a bit of Pink Floyd (the atmospherics, and a very British sensibility), a bit of early King Crimson — I think that, outside of Devin Townsend, PT have nailed the idea of cinematic music better than anyone ever could. This is music for surround sound, for driving through unfamiliar areas at night, for snowstorms and wakes. It’s music for whatever you want it to be.

If you dig experimental prog, their earlier stuff is really good, but I find myself returning to this, Deadwing, and Recordings most of all.

If you haven’t heard me rail and rant and speak obsessively and stalker-like about Devin Townsend, then either you’ve never read a word I’ve written, you’ve never met me, or you are deaf. If it’s the third in the series of choices, you’re kinda out of luck. But if it’s the first two — by god, man, get thee to a record store or Amazon nearest yourself! NOW!

Devin is one of the truly alternative, independent minds in music today. He’s been called a mad genius, and I’ve got to agree. His music is equally beautiful and angry, emotive and technical. evolution is a bit more radio-friendly, but Terria is the best from start to finish – particularly Canada, Fluke, and Tiny Tears. Cinematic, as much as PT, but maybe even moreso — three years later, I can still find something new in every song among the layers.

This will come as a shock to some people that know me. On the one hand, I love female vocals — I’ve always been a huge fan of Poe, Drill, Lacuna Coil, Alison Krauss — across the map. And Maria’s voice is no different — she’s got quite possibly the most seductive voice I’ve ever heard. It’s not as much sexy (that vote goes to either Sia or Justine Frischman) as much as, I dunno — beautiful, a siren’s call. I hear most music, and it stirs a lust in me; with Maria, I fall in love.

The shock will come from the style of music — this is far too “college rock” to fit into what I would normally listen to… Alterna-twee… Fuck, I can’t keep up with the lingo you hip kids are using today. Suffice to say that the music here is a cornucopia of styles, but all of it is topped with Maria’s angel voice, and that makes it all okay. Better than okay, even. It’s Marialicious.

And just for Ben, something that I haven’t recommended before: a little guitar hero worship. Hey, it’s better than jukebox hero worship, no?

Racer X guitarist Gilbert is a shredder, sure — and there’s plenty of that here — but he’s also a great pop artist. Look, he covered “Dancing Queen” live, and even put out a version of “2 Become 1” (yup, the Spice Girls) that didn’t suck. Here, he goes mostly acoustic, letting his somgwriting and vocal harmonies shine. And if you’re looking for a real treat, track seven has it — an all-acoustic guitar version of Genesis’ classic “The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway.” Yes, including the keyboard intro. If you have any appreciation of guitar technique, you will be left in the smoking ruins of your ability.

Yes, Yngwie, I’m talking to you.

A few other things to try, if you’re alone at home on a rainy Thursday with too much free space on your credit card: Dark Suns – Existence (gotta love those Europeans); Pain of Salvation – Be; Jellyfish – Spilt Milk (an oldie but a goodie); the Exhibit(s) – One Possible Outcome of Attraction (I’m such a whore — available for free download at www.averyellis.com); and Echobrain – Glean (Neil Young and the Kinks meet Radiohead).

All of these are available at Amazon, among other places. Now, stop wasting your week – go buy a new disc, something you’ve never heard. It’ll make your ears happy. And if you think you can, recommend me something I’ve never heard before. It won’t be easy, but if you can pull it off — and it’s something that I like — I’ll make it worth your while. Free prizes to the seventh caller, or somesuch.

Over lunch with Neely today, I did something that shocked the shit out of me, and that was even after trying a bite of the Cantina’s slaw based on Neely’s statement that it was spicy (mayonnaise, my mortal enemy, you may have won this battle, but the war rages on). Did I really tell Neely that, like myself, she has set her standards too high, and that what she’s looking for — and likewise, what I’m seeking — doesn’t really exist outside of movies and daydreams?Yeah, maybe so. That came from me, the same guy who has been telling everyone for as long as I can remember not to settle, to never accept anything less than everything that you want. Of course, I also think that Hudson Hawk is a great movie, so I’m not necessarily the person you should ever come to for pearls of wisdom.

I’ve grown accustomed to people around me chanting about the joys of being single. It rivals Scientology, sometimes. In fact, I think I’d rather go toe-to-toe with Tom Cruise on the merits of Zoloft than have another conversation in which I try to convince Garth that relationships are good. Granted, I’m three years out of my last divorce, and it’s been almost a year and a half since I dated anyone for more than a month; these zealots of bachelorhood are mostly awaiting their one-year chip from Bad Endings Anonymous. But even these people are only single in the barest sense: they’re all dating someone, even if they refuse to call it dating. And sorry, but just because you feel the freedom to sleep with someone else on a lark doesn’t make you single; it just makes you a Mormon.

Me, I’ve just lost… something. My sense of aggressiveness, for one. And maybe my understanding of dating — it’s not something I’ve ever really been good at. I like relationships — whether you know each other well or not, whether it’s going to work out in the long run, whether you are going to end up married or with restraining orders, at least you know where you and the interested other stand. But I’ve discovered that women these days (or maybe it’s just the women that I’m attracted to these days) are more traditional, giving someone like Wade the advantage.

I can ponder the design and placement of a tattoo for upwards of a year before I ever act on it, but I dive right into relationships. The road of my love life makes Lindsay Lohan look like a suitable candidate for Conscientious Driver of the Year, while I remain happy with all my ink years and years later. There’s a lesson in here, methinks.

But even if I were granted the gifts of a god for a day and allowed to Weird Science myself the perfect woman, I don’t know that I could. My desires are too defined in some areas, not enough in others, and there are some things that I collapse with option anxiety when I try to figure them out. For instance: when it comes to body type, I don’t really have one specific ideal. I guess I naturally lean towards thin, smaller girls, but there are more than a few Amazonian women out there who are stunning.

I know that I want someone artistic in some way — musical, maybe, or visually oriented. And yeah, the insanity that comes with creative is part of the attraction; also, though, I think I want to know that my significant other maybe understands my insanity, when it’s tied into the creative. I want someone with a good sense of humor, and someone who gets mine — you don’t have to laugh at Dumb and Dumber or The Aristocrats with me, but it helps if you laugh at my jokes (like, until your eyes bleed — my ego needs the boost). I need openmindedness — not just in a tolerance sense, but in a larger perspective, too. I want someone who respects that none of us know certain things, and accepts that. Intelligent conversation, which rules out most far-right conservatives.

But you know, all of these things are somewhat negotiable, too. Melissa hated a lot of the things I find funny (admittedly, not many people laugh at my three most offensive jokes), but we still lasted for almost five years. Openmindness is not something you stumble across in the South — not like grating accents or overemphasis on the importance of college football games — but I’ve let that slide a lot across the years. These are ideals, sure, but not deal breakers.

Honesty and openness — all relationships succeed or fail based on the measure of these two things. Passion — about what, I’m not even sure that I care, but something that makes you feel alive and capable of doing anything. A lack of narcissicism — which is to say, I hope you care about your looks, to a point. But when you’re spending more time at the gym than you are with your friends, or insisting on a makeover before a Saturday afternoon run to the grocery store, you care too much what other people think about how you look.

Oh, the kissing has got to be good, too.

And maybe this is why I think that I’m dreaming: we can all find someone who fits some or most of our qualifications, but we overlook things that should be dealbreakers — we let lies pass, or allow intolerance into our world, or convince ourselves that we’ll learn to live with the less-than-great sex or mean jokes. Worst of all, we allow ourselves to change to fit what the other person wants. And we do these things unconsciously, fearing that this is our last chance at love, that the world of the single guy or girl at whatever increasing age we’re at is a fate worse than settling. I’ve been guilty of it in the past, and who knows? Maybe I’ll still fall into that trap again.
Ideally, though — there’s that word again — not. Single is not my preference, but I’m okay with it. At least, until I meet a thin redhead who loves music and movies and learning about new things; who is eccentric and quirky; can be mature or silly, depending on the moment; and who dreams of sunsets all over Ireland and laughing as the waves roll in beside us.

Anyone? Seriously, let me know. I’ll trade you two cats, a CD shelf, and a framed poster from the 1996 World Cup if you know anyone even closely resembling that person.

I’ve been deluged with projects here at the Day Job, and so it seemed as appropriate a time as any to ignore all of that and spend my day surfing the interweb. I think I’m finally all caught up on blogreading, I’ve enlightened myself on current events, added twenty people that I actually know — and one really cute girl that I’d like to know — to my MySpace account, and briefly pondered the massive list of Things I Need to Get Done.

And suddenly, it’s 10 AM.

Anyone else in my position would probably have weighed the merits of a stable paycheck with good benefits against further tomfoolery, and at least taken a crack at a random item on the boss’s list. And I think at least one of the voices in my head probably considered the idea. The other voices are driving today, though, and so I spent some time shopping for things I’ll never buy, updating my links, helping a friend set up a blog, and finally, against anyone’s better judgment, playing the Meme game.

Real Ultimate Power You scored 67 Awesomeness and 40 Style!

You are a mammal. You like to flip out and kill people. Strangers are afraid to drop a spoon around you, for fear of your startled reaction. Combining the timeless awesomeness of the ninja and the deadly style of… the ninja… you are someone to be feared, admired, and kept a good distance away from. … If they can even see you. Glimpses of ninjas caught at : http://www.realultimatepower.net/

Oh God, why? Why did I take this?

You know, I could be updating my resume, adding factoids like “Neely calls me ‘The Vault'” or “Can perform spotless impression of my evil twin, Zyklon the Intimidator.” I could be getting some freelance writing done, like that piece on surgical porn for Penthouse (it’s just the Forum, but they’ve promised me a few captions if the letters are well-received). Hell, I could have been preparing my platform for Alabama Senate canadidate for this fall (is it bad form to run as a member of the Donner Party?).

But playing games is a great way to pass the time, particularly if you are — for purposes of appearance, if nothing else — chained to a desk for eight hours a day. If only there were a good version of online RISK available that appeared, to the corporate peon eye, to be a Powerpoint presentation underway, or a string of PHP code.

I’ve thought of spending my days more productively. There was a time when I used my time and this very blog to work subversively on my now-abandoned novel (if you go back here, for example, and here). Since the novel has been trashed due to my own inherent laziness, I don’t do much of that (I would work on screenplays, but I hate formatting those freehand, and besides, now that I’m an award-winning screenwriter, I don’t want to open myself up to copyright battles). I ponder throwing random ideas here, but frankly, I’m lacking inspiration these days.

So I play games, and ponder things.

Things like mindgames, and how without them, relationships would be so much simpler. Simpler to enter into. Simpler to extricate from. Simpler to live inside of. Simpler to live with.

Is that all the prepositions that I can think of with which to end sentences? For the moment, it’ll have to do.

Things like the dream I had two nights ago of Melissa (and Mark Lindsay, but we’ll leave that part out for the moment), and how it made me realize that I’m mistaken when I tell people that we’re still friends. We’re still quite friendly, I guess (such as our relationship can be with so mnay issues still on the table), but it’s been the filming of Muckfuppet since we’ve even spoken. You can hardly call that a friendship. Well, I can hardly call it that. But I’m sort of stringent about words like “friend” and “acquiantance” and “rectal exam.”

Things like the fact that Muckfuppet is almost done, for good, and left to stand on it’s on merits, and I think that makes me really nervous. Not for the least because I don’t know that I have anyone around me that will tell me if it’s worth a shit (I’m through with it, so constructive criticism is pointless; but an honest critique of the suck factor – or lack thereof – might save me a lot of money on press kits and festival entry fees).

And now I’m stuck making a mental list of things that I like that start with M. Madness. Moist – a great band from the ’90s, and Glenny’s least favorite word. Meaning. Moulin Rouge (fuck you, it’s a great movie, and gorgeously shot). Wonder Showzen.

What? M is just W flipped over. Who’s being stringent now?

Everyone who has been in the bar business for more than one March 17, that’s who.  Especially if March 17th falls on a Friday.

Holy Jagerbomb, last night was hardcore.  I had planned on showing up at 7 PM to get things prepared, but thanks to staying at Bailey’s until 6 AM on Friday morning and thus getting no sleep before the day job, I went in at 6 PM instead, to keep from passing out.  And it turned out to be a good thing, as the parade of future cirrhotics of Alabama started about 6:30.  And from there, it’s mostly a blur…

On the bright side, my bed has never — seriously, never — felt so good, nor the shower that preceded it.  And the second one I just took after waking up after a nice twelve hour nap.  And the ridiculous amount of money I walked away with (I doubled as a back-up bartender and mostly barback last night, working where most needed, so I figured my payday would drop somewhat; consider me pleasantly surprised) didn’t hurt, either.

To the friends that dropped by that I didn’t have time to say hello to — Andrew and Julie, Liesl and Kevin, Laura, Sara, Steve, Franklin, etc.: sorry.  Two nights during the year that I’m probably not gonna be able to speak too much if you’re not working beside me are March 17th and December 31.  But hey, I dropped your tabs as much as I could afford to pick up the excess, so hopefully that made up for it a little?

Back to work.  Tonight’s gonna feel like a vacation – with money, to boot.  I love those kind…

Irish Trash Can

1 Blue Curacao
1 Gin
1 Rum
1 Vodka
1 Triple Sec
1 Peach Schnapps

Fill pint glass with ice, add liquors and flash. Add Red Bull to fill – as it seeps down the side of the glass, it will turn the mix green.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day, you bastards. Now go get drunk. I am.

“If you want to celebrate St Pat’s today, eat a raw potato, build a house out of peat and get yourself shot by an Englishman.”

–Warren Ellis