Freneticism

I was running around a bit yesterday when I found myself while enjoying a brief moment of respite in the city hall parking lot, hoping to catch a mayor/council member on their way out of a closed session.  The Dodger game was on the car radio; I was wearing the appropriate garb (Garb should be a new age clothing store. Or a swear word) for a city council meeting, which is to say that I was far from my optimal Dodger game enjoyment outfit of shorts and a ripped shirt. 

It was perfect. 

Naturally, as soon as I made my way into the building to check on the progress of the session, some snot-nosed little ball of pretension asked me: “Can I help you?

Realize this: I have only ever given the most cursory of efforts to evaluate my personality type, but even these efforts have agreed with my own notions about my being judgmental.  I take some kind of perverse pride in my (probably overrated) acute ability to evaluate people from the moment of our first interaction.  I’m not unique in this way, to be sure.  To some degree, everyone picks up on intonations, inflections and body language in their relations with other people.  I simply prefer to exercise this act of observation on a more intense level than other people I know.  I would never deny that it is a rather arrogant thing to do, especially given the amount of times I have incorrectly pigeonholed those that deserved much better estimations of their value.  Nevertheless, I have found my observances and deductions to be accurate (to a greater or lesser degree) the vast majority of the time. 

So you can understand why I saw no problem in immediately pegging this guy in his late 20s as a patronizing ass from head to toe.

Upon seeing the main council chamber doors open and the room empty, I asked this fellow, the only person around, if everyone had already left for the evening. Thus continued our exchange:

“Yes, they’re all gone.”

 ”Oh, that’s too bad, I was hoping to talk to a few of the council members after their closed session.”

“Oh, are you doing a project for class or something?”

“I’m with a newspaper and I had a few questions about the new City Manager selection process.”

“Oh, what newspaper are you with?”

- Understand now, how annoyed I was at his line of questioning so far. He first assumed I was a student, which might have been excusable given my age alone, but my attire and demeanor both suggested, in my mind, someone who knew the drill, had done it many times before, and was not asking for a tour guide. He, however, chose to assault (and make no mistake, that’s exactly what he was doing) my justification for being in the public hall during normal hours and requesting to speak with public employees. However, I would have just written off the encounter had he not then proceeded to really irritate my sense of respect. -

“I’m with the City Insider.”

“Oh. Well, they’re in a closed session right now.”

“Yes, I know. I was at the meeting, but I was hoping to get a word with one of them afterwards.”

“Oh, well they’re going to be in there for a little while, but I can’t really say how long it will be.”

“All right, well I have a deadline to meet for some other pieces tonight, so I’ll just come back tomorrow afternoon and talk to some other people.”

“Oh, well you see, the council members don’t keep regular office hours.”

“Yes. I know. I was planning on speaking to the city clerk or someone instead.”

“Well, you could wait around here if you like; they might not be that much longer.”

–

At which point I told him no, thank you, I need to be going, and promptly walked out the door muttering rude epithets about his faux hawk under my breath.

Really, I have patiently endured belittling and flagrantly insulting people time after time; the sneer metrosexuals with an intolerable air of arrogance and implicit contempt, however, need do very little to drive me right to the brink of unprofessionalism and scorn. 

Also murder.

 

(Fresh and Easy’s delightfully priced wares proved to be sorely inadequate consolation for such an inane and demeaning encounter. Quelf, however, managed to reclaim my formerly affable nature through much more unconventional means.)

Math

I actually experienced this tonight:

Overwhelming odor of cheap body cologne

+

“Oh snaps, that is tight!”

=

Boy Robert Ocean Sams. Like big time.

Ebonics-laden Interjection

I’ve been a little heavy-handed lately; It be’s time to gets my groove on.

Striking realizations rarely present themselves as such until a few moments after they’re observed.  In fact, “striking” might not be the most apt term for these enlightening instances at all.  Strikes are instantaneous and forceful, unless they be from a weak girl or a timid umpire.  Strikes need to cause a reaction deep within the innards of the struck. Striking realizations should have an onset infinitesimally after their cause.

I submit that we refer to such realizations as “ruptured bladders.”

Ruptured bladders are impossible to ignore from the very moment they begin to afflict their host. (questionable medical terminology, but House doesn’t start up again for weeks — c’est la Robert.) Ruptures carry no doubt as to their nature; ruptures denote both immense amounts of cause and consequence. In fact, just hearing about someone who has a ruptured bladder provokes a response within the hearer akin to the death knell in a medieval village. Moaning, cringing and gnashing of teeth all find their way to the forefront of the cerebellum in a hurry, even when images of blood and death are paralyzing thoughts of anything but.

So, my ruptured bladder today presented with only one symptom:

Enjoyment of the Dean Martin classic, “Not Enough Indians” for more reasons than he could have imagined.

Lyrics posted below for your enjoyment and horror.

–

Wagon train of lovin’ moving slow

And I can see the peace pipe burning low

You criticize each little thing I do

But listen baby, I’ve got news for you

There’s too many chiefs and not enough Indians around this house

Baby I’m tired of this old game we play called cat and mouse

If you don’t give just a little bit more

We’re both gonna lose this race

‘Cause there’s too many chiefs and not enough Indians around this place

Trouble on our happy hunting ground

‘Cause you keep stepping too far out of bounds

It’s hard to run this reservation right

When you stay on the warpath day and night

Well there’s too many chiefs and not enough Indians around this house

Baby I’m tired of this old game we play called cat and mouse

If you don’t give just a little bit more

We’re both gonna lose this race

‘Cause there’s too many cheifs and not enough Indians around this place

Look at all the things I have to do

To keep this teepee running just for you

Well time’s are tough and wampum’s hard to save

Just remember who’s the squaw and who’s the brave

Well there’s too many cheifs and not enough Indians around this house

Baby I’m tired of playing this old game called cat and mouse

If you don’t give just a little bit more

We’re both gonna lose this race

Play it again? Sam?

I have got to find someone with a piano who doesn’t mind letting me in at odd hours of the morning.

Notice: Robert has an insatiable urge to delve into the keys more often. Help.

Crammed Varies Loose

Jacobean Ladder looming high up into space

Both of us avoid the void that calls us from the fog

Disconcerting glances chanced upon each other’s face

Two are none tonight when we affright with eyes agog

Beckoned to the greater, we say “later – first we play”

Knowing all the while that love’s stile shan’t be used

Fortuity is absent where now absinthe stakes its claim

Where once affections died, vexations and despair are fused

Crooked smiles can’t beguile sand-entombed emotion

For playgrounds only served to staunch insatiable devotion

Forward is the way to play today, or rather work

Untenable Jocularity reveals the jerk.

Netherworldly

I used to dream rarely; I can remember a handful of dreams (usually recurring) throughout my life, but they usually came sporadically.

Lately, though, I’ve been fairly well plagued by a few persistent images on a nightly basis. I don’t fall into that category of people who believe dreams always mean something important — a lot of the subject matter of my earlier dreams is a great testament to this, in fact. Whatever the cause for them, though, I could really do without them. At first I thought that I’ve just been waking up a lot closer to my REM cycle than usual; but it hasn’t really mattered when I wake. Weekends, travel days and even really short three hour nights have all held the common thread of this dream. Realize this, though: the fact that I can remember it every time disturbs me a lot more than the dream itself.

Maybe I should just eat a ton of pizza and Nyquil on the same night. Couldn’t make it any worse.

This Just In

Narnia still gets to me, every time. Kristen was reading some of The Voyage of the Dawn Treader tonight during TST, and I found myself (or lost myself) on that distant shore for a brief moment of bliss.

Aside from Randall’s poem, that had to be the highlight of the night.

Ability

Celery Stalks

Hounding my taste buds

Interment of my healthy appetite

Assuages anxiety

~~

Vague recollections fade into their respective compartments of remembrance.

For vague they have become, and lacking in utility. Nonetheless, they still reside here within my veins, struggling to break free far less frequently than they once did. What was once sharp now sits dull and nonthreatening, imploring me to take it up, to discern its nature for the thousandth time despite my all-too-clear knowledge of its dangers and uselessness. Indeed, uselessness is the greatest danger of the lot, as my taking hold of such a thing would sear the same sensory impulses that draw me to it beyond repair.

Even now, I doubt that my senses are what they once were. Have I willfully abandoned what was instilled within me? Perhaps the capital has been spent on the most faulty investment of all — reckless enjoyment. To be sure, there are those who would use the enjoyment as the only necessary excuse for the spending, but such is not my inclination. I see my spree as one of forgetful youth, oriented at justifying its actions through the mere execution of them; execution of something, certainly, has taken place. My only fear is that I know all too well what I have ordered, and that the orders have been carried out more swiftly and with more dire attention to detail than I would have imagined.

~

A little farther down the road

I happen on the wisdom lode

Mother of the sweetest joys

It sits abandoned by the boys

All of them went off to play

Hastened off to spend the day

To spend the hours, waste the time

Chasing skirts of every kind

Wisdom knows its beauty

Ostensibly, we too.

Enduring the Endearment

As China continues to ignore the Darfur atrocities, (even going so far as to revoke Joey Cheek’s visa) it’s hard to get excited about the Olympiad this year.

Every moment of the opening ceremonies was hard to swallow to some degree — isn’t this all celebrating the country that continues to oppress and silence those who dissent? More people than ever before watched thousands of Chinese citizens put on the most extravagant opening fanfare ever conceived, but the only thing that sticks in my mind is a short clip of Bush and Putin leaning over and talking animatedly. I wonder what about.

As my nationalism continues its battle with my conscience, I struggle to perceive China in a better light. Every image on Friday night seemed to speak, often literally, about replacing the old image of China with a new one; I heard the new message, but I don’t know if I will ever stop seeing the old messenger.

One of my friends was in China last year for some very low-key missions work. In every email he sent me, words and phrases that even hinted at Christianity had to be filtered and couched in such terms so as to make them innocuous. God was “father” and evangelizing was “sharing.” To the average Chinese citizen, Tiananmen Square was a place where “some bad people did some bad things.” Of course, these beliefs are due in large part to the fact that they are unable to even look up the protests on the web at all. Many reporters at the Games this year who have encountered the same preventative measures have received little response from a government that had formerly promised to drop all of its restrictions for the Games.

Of course, as Joey Cheek well knows, promises are easy to make when you don’t have the whole world watching to make sure you go through with them.

If you need me, I’ll be cheering for Lopez Lomong. (Thanks to Jesse over at Magnolia Mountain for this one.)

A Great Man Passes

Alexander Solzhenitsyn, 1970 Nobel Prize recipient in Literature and a vociferous critic of the former Soviet Union’s atrocities in the name of secularism, passed away this weekend.

A brief autobiography can be found here.

Yet another reminder of how Alfred Nobel’s prize was once far more eponymous (sort of) than it has become in recent times.

*EDIT*

The inimitable JMNR over at The Scriptorium has also published his surpassingly eloquent musings upon Solzhenitsyn.