Tag: Blogger

God Believes in Irony

Indigenous People’s Day seems to have turned a corner.  What once was a regionally specific holiday has now become its own thing.  Thanks to this root canal of a year we’re having, people have developed a now-or-never mentality.  It seems that when enough terrible things happen in a short span of time, people reach a sort-of societal Terminal Velocity where fear – fear of discomfort or change or pushback – is marginalized: I call this the “IDGAF stage”.  Consequently, those things that used to cause a person to quietly and hopelessly dissent now evoke outcry and action.  Along with social justice reform outcries, there was a clamor for historical corrections as statues toppled because they were considered symbols of oppression and misinformation.  That’s where Indigenous People’s Day comes in.  

Originally adopted to celebrate Native American peoples, I.P.D. is evolving to embody the struggle of all those indigenous people killed, displaced and/or oppressed worldwide – usually without even a footnote in the history books.  Ironically, the holiday has taken hold because of a historical oppressor: Christopher Columbus.  Hidden among History’s many misrepresentations was Christopher Columbus.  A man now considered more of a buccaneer than a benevolent discoverer. Chris enslaved, dominated and killed up-and-down the New World.  Amid this groin pull of a year, the new historical perspective of Columbus show him to be torturous, commodifying and violent, which have revised his legacy from hero to a more pedestrian role for the time: brutal European colonizer.  All of this, ironically, worked to the benefit of Indigenous People’s Day, which now found itself nestled in a prime National Holiday timeslot!  

Once again, Timing proves itself vital in life. All it took was a perfectly terrible cocktail of disaster, disease and discontent to lead this country and the world into a serious – although I’m sure fleeting – interest in Justice both in the present and in the past. Perhaps, this raging hemorrhoid of a year had purpose after all or maybe everything will revert as soon as we can be sufficiently distracted once again.

Glazomaniac

​A Glazomaniac is someone that loves making lists.  I am a self-diagnosed Glazomaniac.  I make a list for the grocery store and then pop over to another list that gives me credit for a successful errand.  I have a list that is composed of “challenges”, which I monitor every day because I’m supposed to complete two a day, according to my Daily Requirement List.  I list things that I want and things that I need to get rid of.  I also list the outfits that I wore – so far, the value of which seems only helpful in recalling which pants got my headphones in them.

I have a list of the books I’ve read (I’m attempting to read 10,000 before I die…not completely sure why I set that goal).  I also have a list of books that I want to read.  I have a list of my writing projects and a list of goals for each project.  And, of course, I have a list that gives me “Writing Career” points every time I perform well in those other lists.

I once determined that I was losing entirely too much time in a day being efficient with my lists. Consequently, I resolved to start giving myself credit for checking and maintaining my portfolio of lists (that super list became known as the List Management List). Whew! That was a close call for my beloved lists, but problem was solved.

Musings

Musings is a section in Strip Clubs are Sad Discos about the things that make me chuckle. The importance of laughing has been measured by science and, more importantly, by the human spirit. Improve your health with that branch of Joy: the Laugh. Big or small, pieces of humor can inoculate you against the harsh realities of this world. I hope I can sometimes lend a laugh!

All in the Timing

The trick is to exhale when you’re thinking about your strategy or what you have or the many different combinations stemming from the next CARD. A good poker player will “run the numbers” or possibilities of all the paths to victory. I have a jack and a ten, both hearts and the dealer is about to put down the flop, which is the first three cards that can count for all the active players at the table. They are called community cards, but just by looking around, I can tell I would never want to live in this community. Each player seems more unseemly than the last. The far side of the table looks strung out on whatever popular drug Vegas is currently offering – it changes like every ten years. You got to remember to never look too long because a person in a mirror can hide as much as he reveals. I don’t need anyone picking up on anything. The dealer flips the cards: it is an ace and king of hearts. Before the dealer turns the third card, my head swoons for a moment contemplating a Royal Flush on the flop, but my mind quickly slows down to a gentle SPIN when a worthless deuce of clubs is revealed.

The game is on. Everyone aggressively bets in the first round. The pot swells to around fifty-thousand. I make a healthy wager also; my hopes pinned to those RED hearts that, due to the pressure of the moment, give my eyes the illusion that the hearts seem to pound against the very faces of the cards. I took a deep breath as I considered the odds of anyone holding a queen of hearts. “If I’m taking a beat, it will be to a heart not a club, spade or DIAMOND,” I thought to myself, while, around the table, chips crashed into the pot like breakers at a beach. I recalled a bad beat I took on a hand like this before. How could I forget?! I tried to destroy myself with dollar shots of grapefruit vodka and a half pint of off-brand over-proof rum. I looked down at my hand and remembered how wrinkled they were after two hours sitting in my extra-large bathtub of my comp’d room. I had planned to let it fill to the top and see what happened next. I was so drunk it took about an hour before I realized I never actually stopped-up the tub. Whatever fill the bathtub received was due to an errant washrag that semi-clogged the drain. By that time, I’d decided against my little experiment. A tap of the deck by the dealer interrupted my grim thoughts. He was reading the next card; all but two players stood in – we were a group of seven, LUCKY number seven.

​“Turn card is a queen of hearts,” an announcer whispered into his mic.  

I had to look twice at the card and I needed the announcer’s voice to fully comprehend what I was seeing. I’d won! It was over except the betting. Moreover, without a HAT on each round’s wagers, I could make a fortune or end the tournament right now.

This is what I deserved before. I didn’t have the cards before, but this time I do. I should’ve just bet bigger that day. Right from the start. I could’ve set the stage from the first hand. I could’ve played the aggressor. I lost everything in that goddamn hand and now I get it! Now when it’s only money and, worse yet, on a Royal Flush, no skill it’s a FLOURISH! It’s not a fortune earned through perseverance and talent, it’s a gaudy inheritance. I almost wish they’d all fold. But, of course, they all keeping tossing chips in. Goddamn morons! Fortune after fortune just tossed into the pot. They almost make a clapping sound; this mix of ceramic and plastic in the chips are giving me a round of sarcastic APPLAUSE. Surely, it’s a preview of all the fake cheers I’ll get after this is over.

This is the wrong win. I could’ve changed everything if this happened the first time. If the cards came before, I would’ve welcomed them. I would’ve rejoiced. That time could’ve led me away from these tables and these games and these people. I would’ve been who I needed to be and I would’ve been that to those that loved me and that I loved back.

“All In!” said a player at the far end of the table. 

“John Evers has just went all in.  The pot is now over one-million exceeding the tournament’s hand ceiling meaning the winner of this hand will have an insurmountable chip lead and so will be crowned this year’s Clover Texas Hold’em No Limit Poker Champion!” said the announcer.

“Two more players match the All In. Bet to …”

I might as well get this over with. No sense drawing a KNIFE and not using, “I’m All in too!”

There’s no DELICATE way to do this. Best to do it like a band-aid.

Twenty some-odd years later, and I still can’t find a way to really win

Welcome to Prompt & Circumstance

Prompt and Circumstance is a section of Strips Clubs are Sad Discos dedicated to writer prompts. Inspiration can be elusive for a writer. Why not try these easily acquirable (although occasionally cheesy) exercises? As I find them, I get them, use them and draw forth what I can. Enjoy this section and maybe try them for yourself!

Old Age and New Land Development

I’ve gotten older. The evidence wasn’t just the tiny inferno atop my cake this year. I realized I was older for different reasons. The first instance was during a conversation with my niece and nephew. On the bus, on the way to do some shopping, I kept telling them about what store or building used-to be there. They, of course, had no input or interest in local architecture and business trends through the decades; however, that fact did not dissuade my fascination. So, until I noticed my behavior, I was gleefully carrying on this one-sided conversation. Lightbulb…OLD!

​Second instance, was almost a badge of honor before I realized it was an indicator of my aging: a behavior I’ve labelled Food Triage.  In my late 20’s or early 30’s, I discovered the importance of seeking out all of the near-expiring food and creating some sort makeshift, CHOPPED-esque meal.  There was a strange sense of satisfaction when creating some sort of loose chicken, old vegetable and rando-cheese burrito.  It tasted mediocre at best, but I felt like a field surgeon making due with his supplies in order to patch-up an injured soldier.  Apparently, that tingle of satisfaction was just the gentle vibration of time passing.  Lightbulb…OLD!

Finally, and maybe the most damning evidence, is my newly found interest in the potential warmth of jackets and coats. I’m ALWAYS hot. And yet, I now find myself entrenched in the outerwear department asking myself and others, “how warm is this rancher jacket… really? Would a real Sherpa sign-off on this lining?” Also, at some point, I’ve become able to expertly rub my fingers against the inside of any outerwear and instinctually sense how it will stand up to cold weather (apparently, one of my new older person super powers). Moreover, I’m now not only concerned about my warmth, but also the warmth of others. An interest that has led my normally anti-social self to ask strangers about their coats. Lightbulb…I am OLD!

Gesellschaft

German words are frightening. They jam as much consonants together as they possibly can. And usually the most jagged ones. It’s like getting on the 6-train during rush hour, nothing but elbows, knees and those pointy edges at the base of every book bag and purse. Nevertheless, German words are very specific. Whenever they cram all those letters together, they usually come up with an interesting word.

Gesellschaft is a group made up of different interests, norms and concerns all gathered in one area. Usually, the gesellschaft has an overarching goal, but it’s loosely defined. You can find a good example of a gesellschaft in an office environment. Everyone in the office is pressed together from different walks of life and then laden with slightly different tasks for some vague goal set by a faceless company or agency. Due to those conditions, it’s easy to understand how most offices devolve into laboratories for petty behavior and/or studies in social Darwinism.

Don’t get me wrong; I do not blame gesellschaft. It’s not his fault; the word basically can be broken down to mean society. I blame society. Societies are tough nuts to crack. For instance, the sum of all those differences in an office building multiplied by a thousand could equal America. And America is pretty complicated right? Some many people from so many different places and so many different understandings. It wouldn’t take much to cause that kind of large-scale gesellschaft to aimlessly stumble into division. Conversely, I can think of only one thing that could make it blossom into a collective and agile force for progress, overcoming the differences we have. My answer would be a sense of purpose, not just individually by way of personal achievement, but in the pleasure one gets from contribution. Maybe one day America will stop feeling like this giant office building crammed to capacity with individuals but without an actual common point of focus. Maybe one day all the different threads of humanity that America contains will weave into a particularly strong tapestry made possible by a galvanizing and shared purpose.

Shades of Severity

Dr. Jekyll said: “…I led a life of such severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed the compensations of an approving conscience.” Robert Louis Stevenson – The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

What is the value of an “approving conscience”? At what point does the freedom of mind and action become a hindrance to the soul? Moreover, when does the soul become the restraint to the freedom of mind and action? Dr. Jekyll struggled with these questions in the novel, but we all find that understanding difficult. As severity – in relation to the use of self-discipline – can often instruct us subjectively, one can decide that the moral position is determined best when an external power or holy power is in control; however, what if that authority seems to have abandoned you. If we woke up tomorrow and authority – both religiously and politically – were gone, would we regret the discipline and restraint of action that we showed during our lives or would we be stalwart in the standards of morality we accepted.

We The Hunched Over Wordies

Have you noticed that no one wants the two spaces after the period anymore? Apparently, Microsoft decided to make it one – most likely for Its own convenience. There’s a whiff of that compromise in all things language and literature. It’s no coincidence that a tech mega-company decides what’s best for writers and readers. Sometime between the Scientific Revolution and when the term ‘Language Arts’ became obsolete, people began to discredit and disrespect the written word and all of us hunched over and vocabulary-laden wordies. Where were you when they came for our non-colloquial definitions, our leather-bound editions, our tiny notepads, and our odiferous library corners and, at last, our word-processing etiquette? “Tech Evolution” cannot take the history of the letter away by simply adding an E (E—Mail – excuse the pun, but I pun when I get upset)! So forgive my tedious and troublesome double space, but we’re a package deal.