Like that bastard Loki, life is…

This is my favorite time of year, at least from the standpoint of what I look forward to. Cooler weather, wind, and the feeling in the air, something that I can’t quite put my finger on but that I know is there. I spent nine months out of the year anticipating this change, from summer to autumn…

… and then I spend those three months wishing that I could hibernate, fighting myself for the energy to do anything other than sleeping or wishing that I was asleep.

SAD is funny.

Seasonal affective disorder, or course, is just one of the two things that I deal with on a daily basis (the other being a fairly mild case of bipolar disorder).

(I say mild because, aside from rapid and unpredictable mood swings — and don’t get me wrong, those can be pretty severe — I function as well as anyone that I know, and have for nearly thirty four years without medication or therapy)

It’s not a lot of fun, and it’s worse being aware of it in some ways. On the one hand, I’m never wondering why I’m feeling the way I do; I don’t have to try and figure any of this out. I know what it is and where it’s coming from (even that is a nowhere point that doesn’t exist outside of a chemical imbalance). On the other hand, I know wxactly where it’s going, what’s coming. It’s not unlike a yearly prison sentence (sans the shank-phobic showering and gang rape potential), three months in lockdown without the possibility of parole.

And I don’t shut down completely every year. There are moments of light, some of them quite long. But for the most part, until shortly after December 21 (when the days start to get longer again), those moments are exceptions.

But we struggle on, don’t we? Because we don’t have a choice, if nothing else.

My brother is planning on moving away shortly, and while I’m not sure that he’s being entirely honest with me (or himself) about how badly he wants to leave, to move away from all of this and on to something better, I think he’s doing the right thing. There’s a lot of baggage that you can accumulate in one place over time, and while leaving the situation won’t solve your problems (there’s nowhere to hide / with a sickness inside), a lot of those problems aren’t anything other than emotional memory.

But he mentioned tonight that he’s ready to move forward. That his recent trip to Denver gave him a lot of closure. That he realized that when he was out there before, he was lost and sort of wandering around, that he found his calling (his words) over the past few years back in Birmingham.

And it hit me that I’ve never really found my calling. Or at least, I’ve turned a deaf ear to the voice if it’s been trying to get in touch with me.

I look around and see everyone around me moving forward, whether the drive is internal or external. And I wonder what happens to those of us who don’t really have an external reason to push forward, and have grown tired of fighting for the sake of an internal drive.

These are the thoughts that make me wish for hibernation, in case you wonder.

After a high today in the 80s — is it really October 21? Does Alabama just not get the climate memos? — it appears that summer is finally over. The weather forecasts all point to a high in the 60s for the next week or so, lows in the 40s and below, and no return to dog days for a while. Once again, we skip over a full decade of degrees.

Driving home for lunch today, it felt like fall, too. Not in the temperature, not yet — but in the air, that gentle push that comes with cold fronts rolling through. That grayish tint that the world takes on throughout November. Leaves finally changing colors (bypassing the pretty colors that people travel through New England to see and heading straight for a lifeless brown) and starting to cover the streets and yards. That smell in the air that comes with fall…

The Farmer’s Alamanac (as inexplicably accurate as the Mayan calendar) predicts a cold winter this year, and we’re certainly due. I remember ice storms two or three years in a row when I first moved to Birmingham in 1980; then there were the blizzards (relative to Birmingham norms, of course) of ’93 and ’95. I vaguely recall some minor dusting a few times over the past few years, but no real significant snow. Not even any really significant cold temperatures, for that matter.

Hopefully this year will bring some change. But who knows?

The future is uncertain. Who would have predicted the worst hurricane season on record this year? Or even a summer that extended a full month into fall? Tsunamis and earthquakes and presidential scandals, oh my…

Somehow (somewhy), I found myself reading over apocalypse sites today. All sorts of predictions and signals that the world is ending. Everything from the Biblical Revelations to the Mayan calendar ending to Katrina hitting New Orleans to Nostradamus and Cayce and every nutcase that follows suit. Somehow it’s fascinating to me; behind all the insanity and miscommunicated ideas and flawed connections, I almost think there might be a glimmer of truth.

Not that I think we’re seeing the end of times. I think a lot of the evidence is valid, though. I think there are connections there that either aren’t being seen or are beyond our ability to comprehend.

InconTHEEVable.

No, not the end of times. A major change, though. And not brought on by gods or universal cycles or even major cosmic oopsies like a gigantic asteroid turing us into the next dinosaurs (though when you see the evidence and similarities of profoundly separated and different cultures, you should probably stop and ponder).

I think the major change coming is a day of reckoning for us humans, for our reckless and selfish living. We’ve been draining the world of natural and necessary resources for too long now, never giving thought to the consequences or alternatives until it was well past time to do so. We’ve poisoned our seas, introduced species into foreign ecosystems way too suddenly, clouded our air, blown holes in our atmosphere.

I don’t want to come off as an environmentalist, because I’m not. I smoke, I use plastic, I peed in the swimming pool when I was a kid. And if we’re heading for a major shift in the way we live, then that’s fine by me. I’ll adapt, as I’m sure the human race as a whole will, just as we’ve done before. But I swear I’m going to be punching people in the throat left and right when the whining starts.

We did this to ourselves, folks, and now we have to take responsibility for it. And on the off chance that it’s not our fault — that it’s some greater universal path that we have no choice but to follow — do you really think your complaining is accomplishing anything?

Other than giving me one more reason to punch you in the thoat, that is.

I’m going to go prepare to wallow in the cold air. Who knows how many more cool seasons we have coming to us?

I see us in you Nauticus
Came so late but I pray
At the last light of day
There might still be a chance
To save this beast of clay

I see us in you Nauticus
As you’re drifting along
Built to last
Young and strong
Will you find us the answers
Before we are gone?

It’s getting late in the day…

“Mapquest is so yesterday. Kennquest is the now AND the future.”

So says Mia, at least.

I was really hoping that would look a bit more like a physics term.

There’s something about me: I’m a nerd without the energy or drive required to become a real nerd. I have a great aptitude for science and math, but for some reason, I never did well enough in the sciences to feel like a real nerd.

I’m ambidextrous — evidenced by being equal parts right- and left-brained. Also evidenced by the fact that I write and play guitar right handed, and do almost everything sports-related with my left-hand. Anything else feels clumsy.

This is me, frozen in time. At this exact moment, my hair is darker (and more evenly colored), and about an inch longer. No more facial hair (that light bit of shadow on my chin). Other than that, pretty much identical. But in six months, who knows?

The internet is a great place to become someone different, to be more than you are, to be what you always wanted to be. It’s filled with the trolls and bullies who feel safe behind a screenname and distance. How many blogs actually use real names? Not many, because then Diane would know that you’re in love with her, or James might know how you talk about him when he’s not listening.

But I believe in honesty. This website is linked from any email that I send out from home, and I send a lot of email out — including a lot of business related email. I know full well that, as little as this blog is trafficked, it’s been read by co-workers and potential bosses, girlfriends and exes and people that I barely know. And I’m okay with that.

It encourages me to stay honest. And I mean that on a lot of levels.

Man, I really hate onions — I tell people that I’m allergic, though that’s not *technically* true. If I eat too much onion, I get fairly painful stomach cramps, so I might as well be allergic, but to the best of my knowledge, I’m “allergic” only to some unspecified pollen that rolls out every spring in Birmingham.

I also hate celery, and am not fond of Mayonnaise, tomatoes, eggplant, mushrooms, sour cream, and most of the things that make for really good recipes.

I believe that there are no rules, only expectations. This is much easier than trying to resolve the inherent paradox in the statement, “There are exceptions to every rule.”

If you don’t spot that paradox, let me know, and I’ll expound a bit. But it’s like an omnipotent being creating a rock so big it can’t be lifted.

I am one of the most easy-going people I know. But I have moments of extreme over-reaction to balance that out. And I never know when those will come.

Look — it’s me again. On the left, with the bass. The talented guys in the picture are Eric and Chance, respectively the guitarist and the drummer for The Exhibit(s). We’re not the best band on earth, or even in Birmingham, but we are the only band I’ve ever truly enjoyed playing with. It’s never work with these guys, even playing on a Tuesday when none of us is really feeling up to it. Eric’s a brilliant fount of creativity (songwriting, cover arrangements, guitar techniques). Chance is, like me, a jack of way too many trades, and the nicest guy you could ever hope to meet. Carlos — not pictured, possibly because he was making money that night — is one of the three or four best guitarists I’ve ever met (and I’ve met Steve Vai and Steve Morse more than once, keep in mind).

Somehow I seem to have this predestined hunger for knowledge
A talent for seeing patterns and finding correlations
But I lack context

I didn’t write those words. I quote them, from a band called Pain of Salvation. I find words in movies and books and music that connect with me quite often. I don’t feel like I’m being spoken to, unless it’s on a much higher level than I care to think about right now.

Whether I wrote them or not, though, I feel them.

My phone is ringing, right now, and I’m not answering it. I do this fairly often. Just because I have a cell phone doesn’t mean that I’m available or even interested in talking all the time, and that’s something to remember. It’s rarely personal if I don’t answer the phone — it’s not you I don’t want to talk to, it’s anyone.

If you don’t leave a message, I’ll probably not call you back. I’m not sure why I do that, but generally speaking, that’s the way I work.

I’m too lazy to create a list of 101 things about me. But that meme is all played out, anyway.

And I will spend the rest of forever
Trying to figure out who I am

Which, of course, is shorthand for Your Hand? Whose Hand?

It’s an old college drinking game. Best left unmentioned, probably.

In my random travels today, I stumbled across some interesting reading in Why Do We Believe In God? (the first half, at least; the second half deals a lot with genetic components of spirituality and twins research, the latter of the two being my loss of interest in psychology). And per usual, a few tasty samples:

The study was blinded, so that most of the research team involved with questionnaires did not have access to the final data. When they were asked which group they thought would show the most disturbed psychopathology, the whole team identified the snake-handlers. But when the data were revealed, the reverse was true: there was more mental illness among the conventional Protestant churchgoers – the “extrinsically” religious – than among the fervently committed.

And more…

A Harvard psychologist named Gordon Allport did some key research in the 1950s on various kinds of human prejudice and came up with a definition of religiosity that is still in use today. He suggested that there were two types of religious commitment – extrinsic and intrinsic. Extrinsic religiosity he defined as religious self-centredness. Such a person goes to church or synagogue as a means to an end – for what they can get out of it. They might go to church to be seen, because it is the social norm in their society, conferring respectability or social advancement. Going to church (or synagogue) becomes a social convention.

Allport thought that intrinsic religiosity was different. He identified a group of people who were intrinsically religious, seeing their religion as an end in itself. They tended to be more deeply committed; religion became the organising principle of their lives, a central and personal experience. In support of his research, Allport found that prejudice was more common in those individuals who scored highly for extrinsic religion.

The evidence generally is that intrinsic religiosity seems to be associated with lower levels of anxiety and stress, freedom from guilt, better adjustment in society and less depression. On the other hand, extrinsic religious feelings – where religion is used as a way to belong to and prosper within a group – seem to be associated with increased tendencies to guilt, worry and anxiety.

And I think this is my problem with religion — well, one of my problems. There’s a world of difference to me between sprituality and what the majority of the people of the world carry around. There’s a spirituality that seeks knowledge and truth, that helps one define oneself in better and stronger terms (call it morality, if you will), one that helps guide a person through the tough times and the unknown and gives hope. Perhaps you find this in prayer, or belief that there is a higher guiding power, or in karma, or simply in a convential belief that tomrrow’s gonna be a better day.

Then there’s what you mostly see, particularly in the public presentation, the Pat Robertsons and Jerry Falwells and Popes. It is a spirituality that has nothing to do with the spirit. It seeks knowledge as a form of power over others. It rules through fear instead of hope. It provides a base and a foundation for self-centeredness and judgment of others who are different from one’s own group and a sense of elite belonging. That’s the sort of thing that sickens me. It’s insidious, too, in that believers are taught that they must preach and convert, that they are responsible for the sins of the world, and that not converting those around you to your beliefs is as bad as believing like they do.

Which is particularly amusing in this context, noted by Richard Dawkins:

Thousands, perhaps millions, of people have died, often accepting torture first, for loyalty to one religion against a scarcely distinguishable alternative. Devout people have died for their gods, killed for them, fasted for them, endured whipping, undertaken a lifetime of celibacy, and sworn themselves to asocial silence for the sake of religion.

And don’t forget that bit about “a scarcely distinguishable alternative.” It may strike you as idiocy, if you’re one of those who follow closely to the Judeo-Christian or Islamic (et al) paths, but stop and think about it for a moment: strip away the rules and the rituals and the holidays, and what are you left with?

A scarcely distinguishable alternative. And yet, distinguishable enough that most of this country is ready to kill or die for it. Most of the world, for that matter.

I get the reasons that people seek out religion. I understand wanting an explanation for the unknown — where do we come from? why are we here? what is Ozzy Osbourne trying to say? — and seeking a better way to live. I get the need for hope, the fear of a void after death, the need for Heaven and unconditional love.

What I don’t get is the hypocrisy, the judgmentalism, the holy wars and the terrorism in the name of a greater being. I can’t fathom for the life of me why people need to belittle others to feel better about themselves. I don’t get importance of having prayer in the classroom or the Ten Commandments in the courtroom foyer — if your god is really all that and a bag of Wafers, your kids and co-workers are gonna be okay at the end of the day, right?

All this need to surround everyone, every minute of every day, everywhere, smacks of insecurity to me. Of fear that we’re not doing enough to impress god, or maybe that someone else is doing more and doing it better.

Isn’t faith enough?

I’m all for separation of church and state, if only because you Roy Moore followers better think about one thing next time you push to keep a giant rock in the Courthouse: what if the dominant religion in your area wasn’t Protestant Christianity? Can you really look me in the eye and tell me that you’d be okay with a giant and not-too-aesthetically-pleasing symbol of someone else’s religion in your government halls?

Really?

I don’t believe you for a second.

You can’t fight for a principle just because your favorite stands to gain, without at least considering whether you’re going to be okay when one day you’ll be in the minority, and the pendulum swings both ways.

Oh, wait; there’s that hypocrisy again.

And before anyone says anything, I think that the atheists out there who are intent on destroying the faiths of the world are just as bad as the missionaries. If you don’t believe in anything you can’t scientifically observe, fine (but be a man and finish the thought — ditch dreams, hopes, and fears, since those aren’t any more rational, either). If you want to believe in God, Allah, Jesus, Buddha, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, more power to you. In fact, I might even be a little jealous, since faith is a nice thing to have. And if you want to inform the world of your faith, of your belief, of the wonder that you feel in your heart and soul, that’s fine — after all, no one can know the wonder of Jesus or Tao if they’re not educated. But after sharing the knowledge, how about letting everyone else around you make up their own mind about what they believe?

If that seems like too much, throw on your most impressive suit and head back to your billion-dollar church with the massive, state-of-the-art sound system and newly renovated steeple, and talk about helping people that you never will with the Joneses. Your status is all good with someone, at least.

Oh, and I have a fair amount of belief myself, just FYI. Not that that’s any of your business, but I figured I’d make a response to potential comments in advance.

This test only has one question, but it’s a very important one. By giving an honest answer, you will discover where you stand morally. The test features an unlikely, completely fictional situation in which you will have to make a decision. Remember that your answer needs to be honest, yet spontaneous.

THE SITUATION:
You are in New Orleans to be specific. There is chaos all around you caused by a hurricane with severe flooding. This is a flood of biblical proportions. You are photo journalist working for a major newspaper, and you’re caught in the middle of this epic disaster. The situation is nearly hopeless. You’re trying to shoot career-making photos. There are houses and people swirling around you, some disappearing under the water. Nature is unleashing all of its destructive fury.

THE TEST:
Suddenly you see a man in the water. He is fighting for his life, trying not to be taken down with the debris. You move closer. Somehow the man looks familiar. You suddenly realize who it is.

It’s the President, George W. Bush.

At the same time you notice that the raging waters are about to take him
under forever. You have two options — you can save the life of the President, or you can shoot a dramatic Pulitzer Prize winning photo, documenting the death of one of the world’s most famous men.

THE QUESTION:
Here’s the question, and please give an honest answer…….
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Would you use high contrast colour film, or would you go with the classic
simplicity of black and white?

There’s a story on Salon.com this week by writer Steve Almond about a cyber-nemesis and his meeting with him in the real world. I won’t bother recounting the article, though it does make for an interesting read (and one that will be familiar to anyone that has been on the Internet enough to have eventually met an “online enemy” in person).

I bring the article up, though, because of some (admittedly out-of-context) points he makes in the article. To wit:

To be clear: Some bloggers, such as Wendy McClure, also happen to be terrific writers. They use their blogs to undertake the honest labor of self-reflection. The improvisational form activates their love of the language. More power to them.

But there are also bloggers who, like Sarvas, are simply too lazy and insecure to risk making art, to release their deepest emotions onto a blank page with no promise of recognition. So they launch a blog instead.

First, I just realized why I will never be a writer, no will I be allowed into the clubhouse: I’m not a language lover. I don’t find myself excited by new and amazing permutations of the English language (or any other, for that matter). If I am fascinated by language at all, it is as a vehicle for telling stories, for communicating; not much more than that.

Which is not to say that I don’t take a certain thrill in having a sizeable vocabulary, nor that I don’t wince visibly when other people — especially those that call themselves writers — misuse words, obviously unaware of what those words really mean. Spelling (not typing — pot won’t be caught calling kettle filthy today) errors drive me sideways. Grammatical nightmares — the kind you can find all over the blog-o-net — make me wish that I could revoke the computer rights of some people.

But I’m not a lover of language. I don’t thrill to poetry. I’m no fan whatsoever of the “masters,” of greater literature, of high art. Stephen King is more my speed — and you can guffaw all you want, but he’s one of the best storytellers I’ve ever read. Chuck Pahlaniuk, Warren Ellis, Bret Easton Ellis — there is certainly something literary about each of their collections of work, but at the core, it’s about ideas, about emotions, about entertaining and sparking the imagination.

My screenplays are not about amazing the world with clever cinematic innovation, creating characters so full of themselves that I can work twenty dollar words into their mouths. My novel is neither about nor a vehicle for celebration of words, of the sounds they make, of clever onomatapaeia or consonance. My short stories, my song lyrics — hell, this very journal — is not for me to show how little of the dictionary I have left to memorize, or even to get noticed.

And that handily brings me back to the main point of the quote that I wanted to note: How much of what we do as creators is driven by need to create, and how much by need to be noticed?

I wrote a few days ago about my need for validation, how I suspect that I’m fulfilling that with my dating life. And probably, large chunks of my art serve the same purpose, or aspire to do so. I’m in a band, and comfortable with the fact that I’m not on MTV or selling a trillion albums or getting my headshot on the cover of SPIN or BW&BK. The Exhibit(s) play local bars once or twice a week, and occasionally get the opportunity to play things like the Sidewalk Film Festival, and I’m grateful for that; I certainly would never turn down the chance to tour with a major group, or to make the late night talk show rounds, but I’m not holding out too much hope for it, either.

(One of the best moments from both Scrubs and Heather Graham’s career came in season four, when Graham’s character says, “Show me a guy who wants to get married, has a good job – and it’s like snoozeville for me. But if you know a 35-year-old who still lives at home with his mom and he still thinks his band can make it – tell me where to meet him so I can buy him dinner.”)

So I’m not playing music entirely for the attention, though it certainly doesn’t hurt. And I’m certainly not writing my short stories for attention, as the most reading they’ve ever gotten were from the people that inspired certain stories.

Screenplays — well, this is where we get into questionable territory. I say that I have no intention of ever filming a feature, and I mean it when I say it, but I’m very proud of the three features that I’ve completed writing, and I hope they get made one day (by me, I should add). The shorts — some of those are written just to get them out of my system, and some are written for contests (MUCKFUPPET, GOOD MORNING, APOCRYPHA and FIRST TIME AROUND AGAIN would never have been written except for the Sidewalk contests), and some are written specifically to be filmed (GOODNIGHT MOON). And of course — assuming that the films turn out okay — I want the movies to be shown.

But movies are expensive, and require a lot of work by a lot of people. So of course there’s some level of attention that you want to get out of something like that, if only to justify the expenditure when you don’t really have the money to spend.

But of course it’s about attention. There’s a competitive nature ot me, one that makes me want to hear my film spoken of in the same breath as those of the peers that I respect — locally, if not nationally or internationally.

And then, there’s this blog, which I don’t go out of my way to publicize (it’s linked from a Birmingham are group, but that’s about it). And I largely write this as a journal; the fact that it’s on my local computer as well as a server means that I have multiple copies of the thoughts and words, so I’m pretty well guaranteed never to lose this journal (unless I want to). And the fact that it’s on the Internet means that I can write from anywhere in the world, just by logging on. I don’t have to tote a physical journal around with me, no do I need a laptop.

But I could hide this, right? I don’t have to make it public. Never had to. I could drop it in a hidden directory, secured with a password, behind the eyes of the search engines of the world. Same end result: multiple copies, easy access. But no one else can read it.

And I can try to pass it off as altruism, hoping that my words and thoughts, my struggles and solutions, might help someone else. Or maybe someone gets turned onto a really good artist or author or film. And sure, there’s a little of that.

But I want page hits, and comments, and mentions in other blogs. And a book deal, based purely on what I’ve got online. And a trillion dollars, and a house with air conditioning and a car with brakes that work, and love and adoration from beautiful women around the world.

I’d settle for a Real Doll, mind you.

To begin with, not so many people read [blogs]. Instead, a very concentrated population of people read them over and over. Namely, other bloggers. They all read one another, in the hope something they mentioned on their blog will be cited on another blog. It’s a kind of Ponzi scheme in which the object is attention, and the shared illusion is one of relevance.

NOVA episodes online! Whoo!

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/programs.html

I’ve mentioned in the past about having burned bridges. This is a fairly significant part of my life, if only because the some of the bridges that I’ve burned were fairly significant.

It stirkes me as funny that people always talk about burning bridges as though the act were conscious. Most of the time, the bahavior is conscious, certainly, but the concept of not being able to go back ever again is not. That’s the accidental part, the unforeseen result of the behavior or decision. You call your boss a cocksucker on the way out of the building — that’s burning a bridge, but probably not intentionally.

The bridges I’m speaking of, metaphorical though they are, were quite consciously set ablaze. I may have poured kerosene and pumped the surrounding area full of fresh oxygen without thinking about it, sure… but the match was struck with full knowledge of what I was doing, and more importantly, why.

But not all parts of your life should remain accessable. And I think that a determined perspective can allow you to make good even the most accidental crossings of points of no return.

It’s all about perspective, though, innit? Feelings aside, we are capable of finding a comfortable point of view for yourself. It just takes a realization that there are infinite ways of looking at things, and deciding that you don’t want to take the angle that leaves you sad or angry or negative, in some way.

A really bad example, bordering on New Ageism, is that getting fired from your job leaves you unemployed. That’s bad, sure, but it opens up your job for someone who needs it more. It allows your enemies to find shallow joy in your misfortune. It opens doors for you to move forward, or perhaps sideways — but new and unexplored avenues.

It’s all in how you choose to look at it.

And watching TV and movies, reading books — you can find new perspectives in the dialogue and situation. In fact, you can’t help but notice some of them, if you’re open to that sort of thing.

Last night’s LOST, for instance — and finally, a sign of hope on that show! Not that I think everything’s gonna turn out okay; in fact, I think the two hopeful endings in this week’s episode are only setting up the survivors for a lot of pain. But you can only take the audience so far down without a breather before they start to get numb. And…

Thank god for rereading to figure out what I was saying. Hurley had a chance to overcome his fear by taking a different route away from what he percieved as a problem, by taking a different perspective. And it was a shiny happy moment, and I remember thinking that hope lives. Not in a LOST sense, but sort of a universal sense.

New Age Kenn. Available everywhere in time for Christmas.

And on Tuesday’s NIP/TUCK, a show that has really gotten hard to watch this new season with a severe undercurrent of The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell, there was a discussion of having hurt someone close to you, and having to pay for it. And knowing that things can get better in time, but the waiting — that’s the hardest part. That’s the punishment, waiting for things to get better. Knowing that the world will get more bearable, but having to wait while it’s not, while people get past their anger at you, or their hurt, waiting for your guilt to subside.

These are things that I notice.

I find myself occasional sad that I burned a bridge or two — the intentional ones — because I wouldn’t have been on the other side if there wasn’t something there worth visiting. And I like to think that I remain abjective about the people and situations on the other side of the chasms — perhaps not perfectly objective, but as close as any person can be, and much more so that anyone that I know. There are good things still there, on so many of those islands, but there were bad things, too, the things that I had to leave behind.

But then I remember that there were those bad things — things that outweighed the good, that even cynically optimistic me saw and couldn’t look past — and those good things are still out there, in other people or situations. I haven’t lost the good things, anymore than I’ve guaranteed myself riddance of the bad ones. I have, though, been able to recognize and catalog things in the world that I like and don’t like, that I want in my world and don’t. I’ve identified the things that are important to me and the things are important for avoidance.

And next time I’m faced with that situation, I’ll hopefully be able to find a new perspective, a new point-of-view, a new path forward… One with a happier ending.

Even if that happier ending is just setting me up for more pain in the next episode.

The Google ads (lower on the page, for those of you with non-really wide screen resolutions or less than two monitors) are not so much a play for money — I see my stats, and know full well that I don’t get enough hits to make money off of page views. In fact, I know full well that there are five or ten people who will ever notice the AdSense bar, and that’s if I point it out, like I’m doing now. And I can name all those people, and their birth signs, and their favorite diet salad dressings — but a strange experiment of my own design.

For those of you that followed the above sentence, grammatically strained as it was, give yourself a cookie. Or a handjob, if you’re lonely.

Most blogs — well, most blogs worth reading… Okay, popular blogs worth reading — are themed (moreso than “this shit was all written by me, except the stuff that wasn’t, and I just threw that in because it interests me and I need a central repository, and del.icio.us isn’t nearly as useful — fuck you, it’s themed ME and that’s theme enough for an abusement park, and yes, that’s intentional). Thus, the AdSense program should work really well for most of these people, in theory creating a hell of a potential revenue stream. After all, if I’m visiting your site looking for info about the latest tech toys or porn stars or Stephen Hawking memorabilia, and there are some ads to the side that point me to even more of the same, I might follow them.

Me? I get ads for conjunctivitis sites. Three of those, and one for information about cat and dog cataracts.

Happy surfing, y’all. Now get out there and earn me some money.