COSMOPOLITAN STRANGERS: Globally Conscious Childhood Development, Without Ever Leaving the Country, Leads to Seriously Un-American Americans

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It's easy to tune out the rest of the world, in a - let's be honest here - rather isolated rural college community surrounded by the college-aged children of some of the wealthiest, most culturally sheltered Americans ten months out of the year.

Within the Oxford Bubble, hell, it's easy to tune out the fact that the median family income for the average Local U. student is estimated to be between three and four times that of the surrounding community, to ignore the economic and societal divides, the extreme wealth in the face of some very impoverished people...

Well, for some people it's easy. For me? Not so much, really.

A simple tour of the campus at three in the morning on a rather frigid Saturday had turned into a rather heated debate.

Personally, I blame the amount of booze we'd both consumed earlier in the night, the lovely bottle of Jack Daniels we were sharing to chase away the Hair of the Dog as we walked.

"Serious, J. - are you sure you're even a fucking American?" The Visitor said. "You don't have cable, don't know who [some pop star] is. AND NO CANDY. And working in this fucking Lalaland... I swear I'd shoot myself..."

Pfft. Struggling actors. Not only do they use me for a floor to crash on, but they just love picking arguments when they're out of work. Something about building up future emotional reserves for casting calls...

"Why do you say that?"

I was still laughing at the fact that it was the fact that I don't have cable television, nor knew who some apparently famous reality television guy was, that set her off.

"Because you don't act American. Not even like Eurotrash wannabes. What the fuck are you?"

* * * *

So here's the deal. I may BE, by birthright, an American, a citizen of the good ol' United States. But I've never really fit into my own country's culture.

In fact, during my formative years, I was relatively sheltered from it, tucked away in a remote corner of the country, surrounded by equally naturalized citizens who didn't exactly fit in, either.

But while I may have grown up isolated on a small family farm in rural Virginia, I was never sheltered from the world. In fact, if there was anything I can be accused of having been sheltered from, it'd be from the culture and customs of Mainstream America.

My father's parents - who technically owned 80 percent of the place - weren't exactly what most folks would associate with a Hillbilly-Cajun union. They'd spent four decades as diplomatic globetrotters, hitting every continent but Antarctica. After spending almost their entire adult lives in mostly developing countries, they really never seemed comfortable in retirement with the often frivolous, shallow culture of the Consumerist Patriotic Motherland.

Yes, I grew up in an isolation tank so much smaller than the societal bubble that surrounds my current home. But I was never sheltered from the greater world - my cosmopolitan kinfolk made sure my sister and I would grow up to be global citizens, without the crushing burden of Post-Industrial United States they themselves didn't fit into perfectly.

I learned to read on a steady diet of newspapers and foreign policy journals, English translations of some of the world's greatest writers, even NATO and United Nations documents. I had toys, sure, but often they were secondary to the 170-acre playground filled with barns to explore, ponds to swim and fish in, fruit trees to climb.

Growing up in the heyday of reckless greed and glut that was Mainstream 1980s America, my sister and I were probably two of the least American children in the country. We learned more about our own country's culture in the same way first-generation immigrant children learn it - in public school classrooms, through making friends with those for whom the culture was natural, through television and radio.

Imagine, if you will, being a man who though born in the United States and having never been off the North American continent, who grew up basically a foreigner in his own land, who matriculated within a culture as a child and teen but who never really was taught to look at it as his own culture.

In all honesty, it's made for some often uncomfortable, heh, assimilation issues for both my sister and myself, growing up surrounded by people who'd spent more time outside of their own country than in it. But, overall, I can't imagine it any other way, and I think I'm a better person for it...

Look at it this way. A retired high-ranking intelligence official once told me that I'd been given one of the greatest gifts any kid in the United States can receive: the freedom to be my own American without my own country's boundaries, cultural pollution, or baggage, to start with a clean slate.

My dad and his brother were given the same amazing gift by my grandparents - while their countrymen were obsessing over the Beatles and Elvis, they were climbing the Pyramids of Giza. While their peers here stateside were obsessing over Cowboys-and-Indians movies, they were running into Big Duke Wayne himself in five-star hotels after being evacuated from war zones.

Of course, well, I'm also a bit of a fuck-up, so I added quite a bit of my own baggage and the slate dirtied up fairly quick...

But, well, for every fuck-up in life, I can honestly say I did it to myself. The violence, the drug abuse, the hoodlum tendencies to gain street cred, the slackertude and solitude, even the occasional dive into either easy women, psychotic women, or, well, sometimes the occasional wife or gangbanger's old lady.

Without a net or a scapegoat.

Hell, I can't even blame the wicked metal, punk, and rap music I discovered as a teenager, the subversive literature I still read, or the fact that the closest thing to an abusive moment in my childhood came in the form of being required to watch the nightly news...

* * * *

I tried my best to explain, well, where I think the origins of my supposed American Un-Americanisms lie, how growing up in a secluded environment surrounded more by global culture than my own country's culture essentially made me a de facto Military Brat without the moving from base to base, country to country...

Sadly, I was fairly drunk by the time we made it back to my place, and my childhood tale ended up coming out a lot more rambling and long-winded than this writing.

"That's hella fucked up... so basically..." The Visitor laughed, throwing herself down on her sleeping bag on the living room floor, "... You were fucked up by your fam and you're still fucked up... but in a good way?!?"

I poured coffee into the auto-drip, flipped the switch, emptied out the rest of the bottle in the kitchen sink. (I don't keep booze in the house - and I don't like backwash liquor shots, either.) When I turned the corner, The Visitor was digging through my movie collection for a DVD to sober up to.

"Dude, you have no chick movies. This is why you're single."

"I dunno..." I reached over her shoulder and grabbed a film out of my Classics section. "How about this? The Italian chick sent it to me last year-"

" - Still single because you're nice to fucking ex-girlfriends, too."

"LOVERS. Or flings. Let's be classy here. Anyway, read the back of the case..."

Bertolucci's classic. The Conformist. Sex, death and a Fascist State.

The Visitor fell asleep 20 minutes into the film - subtitles, dammit. And too complex, I guess. No CGI, no overly choreographed action scenes, lots of talk.

I watched the film, sipped coffee, and waited for the sunrise. And afterwards, I put an indie rap mixtape playlist on repeat on the netbook, puked, had another cup of joe and a fried egg, and passed out myself.

A perfectly normal all-nighter for me.

I like being a fucking weird Un-American American.

- # # # -

SHORT TAKES & SUCH: Chitlin' Cough Hits Oxford Fucking Ohio, "OMG! Like, I Totally Made Out With That Online Library Guy" Stalker Moments, Etc...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- After a week of rumors, half-truths, and downright stupid urban legends floating around Oxford Fucking Ohio, the Local U. finally released a statement confirming what many folks already knew.

The dreaded (over-hyped) H1N1 virus - the Chitlin' Cough, the ol' Bacon Lung, the Pork Rind Plague of Mass Paranoia - may have indeed hit the local community, with as many as 25 suspected cases of Influenza A reported on campus by Friday afternoon.

Wow. Twenty-five whole cases. In a city of around 20,000 or so.

At a university with a slight on-campus housing shortage - dozens of students, at week's end, were living in temporary barracks-style units created out of residence hall lounges and cubbyholes.

Huh.

Imagine that.

A contagious disease that, well, flies around a college town full of not-exactly-hygienic college kids.

Imagine that.

Never mind that other universities around the country are reporting similar numbers, that there are 10 Alabama football players quarantined because of test results, that there are cases being reported at Colorado-Boulder, at Xavier, at other colleges and secondary schools who start classes before Labor Day.

Twenty-five kids reported. Probably two- to three- times that number currently infected who just don't feel well enough - or who weren't turned into ranting hypochondriacs last year - to rush off to the doctor or campus clinic to take a test for a virus that, really, has no 100 percent treatment beyond a few OTC medications and bed rest.

You know, as several members of the African diaspora in this country have pointed out since this whole thing began, the U.S. leads the world in pointless fretting over a virus that will, well, kill you if it kills you.

Africans should know. Hell, their home communities are dealing with cholera, malaria, genocide, starvation, AIDS, basic sanitation, lack of clean water that the Most Industrialized Nations have only given mere humanitarian lip-service to for decades ... and now the Great Super Power's media-saturated masses sweat the flu.

Some might call it irony.

Huh.

Imagine that.

Go figure.

- MORE -

UPTOWN OXFORD (ZP) -- I've decided to write off a recent occurrence as a blog lurker drinking game. Or as a really awkward momentary lapse in judgment caused by too many Red Bull and Vodka cocktails - and too much time online.

I've been dealing with Ohio's strangest stalker - a woman who hunts her prey by running up, grabbing a guy's ass while bumming a cigarette outside of a random bar, licking/kissing his neck mid-sentence, and then wandering off without so much as giving her real name.

Same very weird girl. Very cute but very, well, creepy.

At one point, we're talking three nights, consecutively. Three or four run-ins a night.

The only information she would give me was that she "knew my O-M-G, like, so not a secret," that she was an upperclassman who's "major wasn't important," and that '[Whispering] One night we're hooking up, right, like, here on the motherfucking street."

Same weird girl. At least a dozen separate run-ins in alleys, on patios, even, a week ago, at a soon-to-be demolished local watering hole during the local band Look Afraid's last set (Great show, guys!) in their favorite longtime, soon-to-be-demolished, college town venue.

Seriously, how fucking drunk and/or stoned does a junior or senior undergrad have to be to just walk up to a 31-year-old librarian leaning against a bar during a loud-ass rock concert, ask for a cigarette, then tell him she's "got a motherfucking mystery" she's planning on showing him at some future time, when he's drunk enough, and that I "can just call her Raylene" in whatever I write?

Um, yeah.

Just a little creepy.

In all honesty, it's probably my fault to some extent. I probably egged it on a bit at one point ... ah, um... well, okay... I was sorta tipsy enough to kinda...you know...

... Well, if a random 21-to-22 year-old licks your lips for you, while tipsy, most guys are going to lick back, okay? My bad. I was a bit tipsy myself.

But in all seriousness, I REALLY don't roll that way, Mystery Lady.

Ever try something like, "Hey, I hope you don't mind me saying this, but I like your blog... My name's ______?"

You know.

Something less creepy?

- MORE -

CINCINNATI (ZP) -- After years of being accused of ignoring folks in the Queen City - I rarely leave the comfy bubble of life in Oxford Fucking Ohio without some motivation, to cut down on my carbon footprint - I was finally talked into hanging out with probably the most fun group of college students in Ohio.

I'm talking, of course, about the Local U.'s longtime rival in football and in scholarship, the University of Cincinnati.

There's a whole houseful of absolutely gorgeous girls down there who, well, know how to make amazing vegan food, who picked my brain about all sorts of things, in terms of both my former community organizer and [admittedly vague/sketchy] "information analyst" consulting days, in person, over way too much wine and grilled tofu.

I forgot I promised those wonderful Bearcat ladies a shout-out.

So, well... here it is.

Here's the fascinating thing: one Local U. alum, upon hearing the PG-13 version of that tale from earlier this summer, accused me of "cheating on" Oxford.

Yep, local students, my Ex-Other Man nature does sometimes lead to stepping out on ol' Oxford and its residents. And, I guess I should be honest here, I've also "cheated on you" with kids in Muncie and Bloomington, Indiana, even up in Columbus and down in Lexington, Kentucky.

I'm such a bad monkey. I know. Please forgive my cheating ass.

But when you can grill organic farmer's market corn and discuss Post-Marxist theory, Global South debt to various Industrialized nations, and culture-jamming like those lovely ladies, well, call me. I may let you spank me...

QUICK BITS

• Welcome back, college students. Be glad you're still in school, else you'd be another degreed kid in the Unemployment Line.

• Don't drink the Kool-Aid. That's for corporate media news junkies. Put a little booze of truth in it.

• Why, yes, I have been too busy to blog a lot. Don't I get a summer vacation, too?

• Apologize for calling Democrats and Republicans terrorists? Um, why the fuck would I do that?
  

• When I see real "health care reform," I'll be sure to write about it. But until then, well, I'm content to watch the U.S. Congress and the owners of both parties' collective balls duke it out like bullies on a playground.

• I respect the Dead Kennedys, sure. Oh, you're not talking about the punk band, are you?

- # # # -

"THIS MACHINE KILLS FASCISTS" AIN'T EVER GONNA BE A CAMPAIGN PROMISE: Why U.S. Citizens, Leadership Are in Perpetual War with Each Other

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- I do not, nor will I ever, trust anything in this great nation that slithers its way up through the shit-coated sewer that is partisan machinery and into the hallowed halls of Washington.

I trust not one Senator, not one member of the House. Those in the White House, in the Cabinet, those sketchy appointees and backroom reactionary poll-and-rhetoric speechwriters & policymakers, those deviants who make up the Campaign Finance Infrastructure more worthy of the label "Raiders of State" than "supporter" or "donor."

And trust me here, ye Party Loyalists and Pundits - I am in the Majority on this one, if "majority" still means anything to anyone.

Every policy and law proposed, thus, is treated as a flawed policy or law, produced by a corrupt system that will not ever be reformed without a massive disassembly of the two greatest terrorist threats to the Yet-to-Be-Free World - the Republican and Democratic parties.

Yes, they are. As were the Stalinists who "saved" the Soviets by forcing the defense of the Motherland through the Gulags, anti-unionism, forced economics, and speech suppression, as were the Pinochets and the Amins, the terrible Ivans and the Torquemadas and the Genghis Khans.

Seriously. I challenge anyone to name any two political organizations other than the former USSR or the People's Republic of China's monopolistic Communist Parties, that, since the end of the Second World War, have sponsored more dictators and madmen in the interest of its elite interests, oppressed more people into inhumanity and poverty in self-interest of its powerful, that have poisoned and polluted more of the world, that have lied to its own people and the world, that hold the global community hostage with a nuclear arsenal and massive military, through unaccountable policies and Cover-Your-Ass diplomacy.

I love my country too much to feel otherwise. Not its bureaucracies, not its myriad periods of government imperialism and fascism, its state-created censorship and mob rules of the elite and powerful. Not its politics, its propaganda-rigged elections, its Hero-Vs.-Heel closed-race puppet presidencies and governors supported by Dumbing Down Corporate Media and their Advertisers.

No, I love the PEOPLE of these United States, just as I love Mexicans, Canadians, pretty much all of North America, as brothers and sisters. As in WE, THE PEOPLE. The rest is just a struggle by a self-appointed wealth-and-power minority that, well, for decades, has only been able to hold power by tricking the majority into believing that power and wealth really matter.

Love, perhaps, isn't even strong enough a sentiment - I worship, yes, our individualism, embrace passionately our often spontaneous communal events and assemblages and protests, would sacrifice my own life to preserve the fundamental liberties and protected freedoms that, despite being created 200 years ago by a group of Educated Rich White Dudes in the hope of pacifying a rowdy people with the table scraps of a revolt against a British Crown, hold some unspeakable, transcendental truth more perfect than any god man can imagine.

While my government will never give us viable health care of its own corrupt volition, my countrymen will indeed fight amongst themselves but will also fight against whatever the government pitches as unfair, or too socialist, or too capitalist. They're once again marching to protest pretty much all forms of government "aid" - the ones that send volunteer soldiers into wars to liberate oil for our industry and the ones that steal from those same people to save "too-big-to-fail" industries that led to the wars in the first-place, the ones designed to pit a small business, mostly struggling mercantile class against the working class, working-class against the poor.

Regardless of party in charge and regardless of which version of Big Transnational Business pulls the strings, all the U.S. government can do is to be "pragmatic," and "realistic," and "powerful," while the people, despite differences in opinion between right and wrong, morality and sin, still instinctively resist the State's by-force pragmatism and realism, almost subconsciously.

Those in Power, who trade their humanity in the moment they join the ranks of State Influence, are not THE PEOPLE. Let's be clear here. They are THOSE POLITICIANS, the pentultimate global threat, the nemesis of liberty and rights, of collectivism and even dissident socialism, keepers of all property through coercion, dominion, and capital, possessed of the same I Am Legion phantom that Christ fought, that imprisoned Mandela, that killed King and Malcolm, raped the Chiapas, killed the Lakota, Sioux, the poets on the Great War's Western Front, the union boys through their Pinkertons, the slaves of Rome in arenas and our own former slaves on Southern plantations.

But THE PEOPLE, yes, through the chaos of many voices of many differing arguments, keep the authoritarian hordes of Big Corrupting Evil at bay, fight through both entrepreneurship and communism simultaneously, through both free trade and soup kitchens, church suppers and investments, protests and marches.

The citizens of this country are, indeed, a splendidly revolutionary bunch, with a proud history of both pacifism and violence against oppression - and almost all of that often built-up explosion of resistance is the result of some marginally democratic government that assumes that its power and wealth came be stripped at any time.

At the end of the day, when all is said and done, the United States is nothing more than 300 million people crowded in between seas and shining seas, with THE PEOPLE being nothing more than a euphemism for "WE have no fucking clue what unifies the Montana rancher to the New York labor organizer, We have no fucking clue how a Hawaiian hobo is really that much different than a New York reality televison celebutard, how a Harvard-educated, sherry-sipping lawyer is similar to a West Virginia pro-gun and pro-family moonshiner."

The greatest thing to dwell on now, the most important perhaps since the massive outrage of the 1960s, the rambunctiousness of the 1910s and 20s, is the return of that wondrous sense of a vast majority of often silent Americans asking themselves, together or in groups:

"What the fuck is wrong with our country? And how do we stop those who fucked it up so bad?"

God bless them all and may they first find answers for themselves before ever again accepting partisan loyalties so blindly the true exploiters of the world, the great Pale Rider Elite upon their Manufactured Consent Horses.

God bless every one. Even the atheistic academic Trotskyist and furled brow humanist faculty, even the pamphlet-wielding Trustafarian college kids, the religious nutjobs convinced some International Banking Illuminati is planning to set up Elderly Death Squads to stamp out Jesus and Free Will.

Dissent. Ain't it grand?

Now THAT, my friends, is change you can always count on in this here Land of the Free Spirit.

When Woody Guthrie wrote "This Machine Kills Fascists" on his guitar, he wasn't talking about government, our politicians or transnational CEOs, Wall Street, Madison Avenue, or Hollywood.

He was talking about us. Each and every one of us.

- # # # -

THE OXFORD (FUCKING OHIO) DICTIONARY OF QUOTATIONS: Politics, Philosophy, Obscenities, Baseball, Sex, Virgins, White People, Economics...

"The revolution will not be televised, but it may be hungover the next morning."

- THE ZENFO PRO, April 2,
During a conversation at a bar

Amazing how alcohol can foster discussions about Marxism, Economy, Anarchism,Classical liberalism vs. Rousseau-esque points of philosophical individualism, Capitalism, Mutualism, Federalism, Jeffersonian ideals, Trotskyism...

Heh. Story of my life lately.

* * * *

"The problem with mass protests like [the G20 Protests] in London and [the NATO protests] is that half the folks who show up think there's such a thing as a bloody football riot for peace or circus sideshow for progress..."

- Fellow round-table participant,

At a recent "Anti-Conference"

Um, yeah. The biggest issue with mass protests is that they don't necessarily foster mass resistance to established policies in meaningful ways, often reinforce stereotypes of small-s solidarity by refusing to do anything more than wave a few signs for the cameras and brick a few windows to intentionally force the hand of an equally exploited-by-the-system police force...

* * * *

"So when are you going to quit being such a whore and hooking up with eighteen-year-olds?"

- HAMPSTER McSPACY,
Female friend, March 30,
Over usual lunchtime discussion topics

C'mon... I haven't slept with an eighteen-year-old in months. It's not like I go trolling for young women - it was my 30th birthday and, well, the Big Three-Oh does lead guys to make some bad calls.

* * * *

"Mom, THIS is Oxford's OMG BADASS librarian, the blogger guy Dad likes! He's like a [Local U] legend."

- TINY LIL GREEK, March 27,
Introducing me to her mom during
a Sorority Mom Weekend

I guess blogging for five years was bound to have some interesting side effects. Let me tell you, it is a very humbling experience to be introduced to an undergrad's mother, only to have the mother critique your "anti-conservative" influence on her traditionally Republican family AND buy you a round.

* * * *

“This crisis was caused by the irrational behavior of white people with blue eyes, who before the crisis appeared to know everything and now demonstrate that they know nothing.”

- LUIZ INACIO LULA de SILVA,
Brazilian President, March 26, London,
On who crashed the Global Economy

Well, it ain't like El Salvadorans, Algerians, or Mongolians were investing millions in overpriced Florida and California real estate, or buying into Ponzi schemes...

* * * *

"I AM.... SENOR BUKKAKE!"

- The strangest thing I've ever heard
a COMPLETELY SOBER FRAT KID
yell across a street at a woman

* * * *

"Economists are educated more in what doesn't or used to work than what will work today or tomorrow. It's like our policy is in the hands of everybody who ever failed a freshman econ class."

- FLEX FURY, economist, April 4,
On how our "the best American minds"
are "solving" the global recession

Said while Flex was rather lit up on Jägermeister. And it makes sense on so many levels.

* * * *

"At what point does a girl give up and buy stock in vibrators? Like seriously? All guys want is...ugh... pussy and a place to sleep."

- UNHAPPY SINGLE GIRL,
March 21, Hamilton, Ohio

Well, not all guys...

* * * *

"You have a marvelous virgin."

- HILLARY CLINTON, U.S. Secretary of State,
During a recent diplomatic mission to Mexico

No comment. Actually, still choking on my coffee. Hold on...

* * * *

"Age is like the ultimate creeper, dude. It follows you around, acting sketchy, and freaks you out at night when you think about it."

- VERY WISE SECOND-YEAR UNDERGRAD,
April 2, on why she's not as excited as her
friends at the thought of turning 21...

* * * *

"As the Reds go, so too goes Cincinnati. And as the Indians go... Cleveland will probably just set Lake Erie on fire again."

- ANONYMOUS, April 6,
On the start of the baseball season
for both of Ohio's major league teams.

You know, if there's one thing I love about Ohio, it's the wit, dedication, and warmth of the state's sports fans. Some of the best in North America...

- # # # -

OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: You Know... The "Radical Activist" Librarian... The One Who Looks like a Cop, Wears a Stetson, Likes Cold Beer & Tom Waits...

"Merciless criticism and independent thinking are the two necessary traits of revolutionary thinking."

- Bhagat Singh (1907-1931),
Freedom Fighter & Indian Independence leader

LOCAL U. (ZP) -- The crowded, cavernous dining area of the local student union building swallowed all of the outside world, and there I sat, waiting on a college student at seven in the morning and sipping horrible coffee.

Jesus Christ, I told myself, what the hell kind of advice can I offer a student who thinks I'm THE local radical?

I'm not, for the record, a radical - at least from my standpoint. A minimalist, an anti-consumer, sure. Well-read and thoughtful, too. And I do have certain political and social views quite askew from the norm for a generally ultraconservative college town. But most of my fundamental political philosophy is based on, well, ideals that have been fostered organically, are rather undogmatic and, well, more Whitman and Emerson than Che or Trotsky.

I'm not some half-petrified New Left yuppie stuck in nostalgic dogma wrapped in "Activism," not the stereotypical, media-construct Virginia-raised Good Ol' Boy conservative in a cowboy hat, either.

* * * *

Ever since I outed myself as something more, well, philosophically libertarian and collectivist than your average Democrat or Republican, I've been overwhelmed by the number of responses from younger folks concerning the exact nature of my politics. What is a "left-libertarian?" How does one become one, what does one read, study, believe?

And I don't look like the stereotype of someone with such views. The more one digs online into left-libertarianism and socialist libertarianism and anarchism, the more one finds images of mostly upper middle-class white kids sporting hemp-suits and dreads, bandito-style bandannas and quirky protest signs at rallies.

Ain't too many of us who, well, get mistaken for cops and Marines and frat boys more than hippies or stoned granola-heads, guys who hate hacky-sack and the over-commercialization of reggae, or who really believe that mass protest is less important than conversations between friends at bars...

* * * *

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself."

- Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910)
Russian novelist, Christian Anarchist,
Founder of the modern non-violence movement

Swallowed within a writhing body of unwashed students and building maintenance guys, faculty and vending machine delivery guys and cooks and custodians, I wait patiently, face buried in the day's Cincinnati Enquirer.

What the fuck am I going to tell this young woman? Worse, what does she want to ask about me, and what am I going to ask about her?

What about my personal philosophy does she find so damned fascinating?

The conversation I am to have involves yet another young woman from a rather conservative, unpolitical background... likes some group called the Jonas Bros., shoes, and sundresses... DVRs Lost and House and Gossip Girl... belongs to a sorority... mother's really religious... reads, duh, blogs in her boring gen-ed classes...

Yeah, what the hell is a chick like this doing seeking MY advice? I'm quite the fuck-up...

Fuck, I'm the librarian who used to date an adult entertainers and once worked as a bouncer at a friggin' strip club... watch Star Trek and Battlestar Galactica... have to be told by friends to watch "cheese" TV once and a while... and, yeah, I BLOG in my spare time...

I have no clue what my querent looks like, other than brunette. She's an online chat buddy, an electronic phantom. I told her I'd have a paper and my Stetson; she said she'd find me.

And she did, indeed, plop down at my table, a few minutes late, dressed in pink sweatpants and a printed white tee, purple bra strap twisted like a pretzel and poking out through a hole in the cotton. Beautiful young woman, looking quite stereotypical and so non-political, not even scenester hip but, well, everyday normal, un-radical American.

"Wow, you're really here."

"Yup. Kinda weird, huh?"

She paused, nodded, looked around.

"Don't sweat it. It's kinda, ya know, normal around these parts."

Haven't heard a girl with that sort of snicker-laugh in a while.

Sad but true... these days, I'm a lot less worried about my "public image" than I am about the privacy of my subjects...

* * * *

"So you're fascinated by my... politics? Why?"

And that was all it took to get a rather intriguing conversation going.

Despite her coming from a die-hard Republican family and having identified herself as a moderate conservative for most of her life, she'd been going through a crisis of political identity since she started college.

She can't relate to the Republicans anymore - too religious in all the wrong ways, too profit-driven at the expense of working-classes, not compassionate and no longer conservative. No way in hell could she side with the Democrats. She tried a campus Libertarian meeting during the last presidential election and, well, no go, either.

"I dunno, I just started Googling some of those guys you quote sometimes and said, 'Hey, these were some cool people... why don't we make cool people like that anymore?'"

"Really?"

"Yeah. Weird but I actually asked this professor last semester about that Zapata guy and the whole land and liberty thing..."

"What happened?"

"Ohmygod, she freaked out! Like, it had nothing to do with the class but she thought it was, like, weird coming from..."

... From someone in a sorority who likes the Jonas Bros. and shoes and sun dresses, who prays regularly and who tans almost as frequently.

I spent two hours chatting with a college girl about such things, over shitty coffee and a couple of pastries charged to her meal plan. About drug legalization (agree), legalized gambling (agree), over-politicization of the most absurd things (agree), and the tendency of academicians to bias their curricular material without knowing it (agree)...

* * * *

Tell them dear, that if eyes were made for seeing,
Then beauty is its own excuse for being

- Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

American poet, essayist, and orator,
from the poem "The Rhodora"

Amazing what a young woman who looks like a preppy collar-popper and a librarian who looks like a cop can talk about in two hours.

For the record, yes, I have the most attractive college-aged readers of any online writer in Ohio.

Brilliant, well-spoken, and fascinating.

And in that mass of people, of professors and custodians and students and food service folks, all of us wallowing in the cavernous belly of a rather ugly student union, I wonder what the casual passerby thought of the pair of us.

Dollars to those shitty pastries they thought, if anything, we were talking about Jesus and beer pong. Or, well, maybe they thought we were discussing a late-night hook-up, or a new prayer group, or a crush party.

Revolutions, you know, have this nasty tendency to start not with protests but with conversations.

- # # # -

THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EX-OTHER PROGRESSIVE: Of Bedridden Soul Searching, Emails from Sorority Militants, & Other Fuckings with the Man

Politics, the environmental crotch rot,
Whole forests destroyed while
the world's too hot to Live in...
Where the fuck do I begin?

A baby is dead from an overdose,
Mama tried suicide after suicide
But couldn't get close enough to meet
the Big Man in heaven,
The TV sliced and diced God down
to sweet meats sold in a goddamn 7-11.

- Spoken word performance notes,

"Unus Marx," Greeley, Colo., 1997

[Sick Week 2009 soundtrack by Demago]

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- In a previous life, I reminded myself recently, I was more of a free spirit, an artist and a troublemaker.

I spent the better part of last week in bed, burning up with fever and shivering inside a cocoon of blankets, trying to remember what that was like - to be full of wanderlust, radicalism, passion.

To be free again, an artist, a rebel...I really used to believe...we'd build our children a better world...

And as I stared at my netbook screen, blankly trying to recall that part of my past in an attempt to write something coherent, I was forced to acknowledge one of the most terrifying aspects of "adulthood."

Somewhere along the line, I sold out.

Sorta.

Man, just like the goddamn Baby Boomers and my own generation and every generation before mine. Like the Socialists and Anarchists who took refuge in the Democratic Party in the wake of Joe McCarthy, like free-market libertarians sought shelter in the Big Government Republican Party.

I simply did what every adult does when the status quo autopilot takes over - I took the acceptance cookies the established, entrenched powers-that-be waved in front of me, hopped in their van of conformity, and let myself get skullfucked by the blood soaked clown suits of industry in the name of some bullshit American Dream I can't afford.

We all sell out.

As I lay in bed, sick with the flu, I couldn't figure out if it was a high body temperature making me shiver, or if the ideas running through my mind...

* * * *

At one time, in what sometimes feels like another life, I was a poet, a painter of abstract curios and refurbisher of curbside furniture, a fun guy to invite along on a trip to the local cooperative for green tea and social justice debates. I played guitar, dammit, in punk bands and around campfires and on porches surrounded by Mexican women!

Potlucks with farmworkers and attending lectures by former Black Panthers! Volunteering to pick herbs for holistic practitioners! Working with street kids to help keep them from getting raped or to escape abusive parents!

Man, I was a bit of a radical back then... damn fever... messing with my head...

Once upon a time, I shared a stage with gay men who wore the most beautiful flowing dresses and proud dyke wordsmiths, performing spoken word in front of small crowds in equally small college student housing. I'd attend protests and riots and create my own scene, wherever and whenever...

I wrote for 'zines, published a small campus satire, held court in hotel rooms along the Central Coast with self-described Art Fags and performance artists and free verse fratboys and surrealist painters who worshiped Captain Beefheart and Brian Eno...

... Jesus Christ, all those nights talking to hookers and drunken fishermen... going back to a cheap motel room with friends to change American literature forever... God, we were such dreamers...

And then, yes, I sold out.

Writing for 'zines under assumed names gave way to writing for the better paying mainstream media, my own poetry became a rambling shit stain across a thousand spiral-bound notepads, and then, yes, I became a librarian when the last vestiges of my militant independence drove me from a rather amusing career as a sports broadcaster.

I shivered and shuddered beneath the sheets, fever raging through my body, thinking such things.

Well, then there's the blog, right?

You sold out, Jason, but that sweet militant bastard is still in ya, somewhere....

* * * *

After the fever broke for good, days later, by the time I'd caught up with work enough to even look at Zenformation Professional shit, I came across an email from someone who I'm sure will read this sometime soon - an undergrad lurker, a sorority girl and, simultaneously, a newbie campus agitator spurred to action by those "stimulating" clusterfucks the Man keeps peddling down in Washington.

Apparently, my double-fisted "Fuck You!" to the Bailout Buddies during Authoritarian Presidential Erection 2008 earned me some serious campus street cred with beyond-mainstream college students, especially those who thought that I only write about drinking, women, and other fucktardish things.

Yeppers, my political views make it hard (sorry Dems) to distinguish between two sides of the same Benevolent Dictator coin. And my opinion hasn't changed a lick - and I don't give a flying ratfuck about Aretha's goddamn hat, either.

Anywho...

The longtime reader, who I'll call Miss Panhell, wanted to share with me her own double-fisting tales, thank me introducing her to both open-source operating systems and a couple of really great bands that helped her get through a nasty break-up...

There's a sorority girl who's reading Emma Goldman and Noam Chomsky these days, exploring a world she didn't even know she could explore on her own, as a person and not as an output widget in some Higher Education Degree Machine.

Haha wow you're not old! You give me hope because you never sold out, a line in her email read. Sometimes I feel like I've been selling out my whole haha baby life.

And, as I sat in a coffee shop responding to her email, I laughed and remembered my feverish fits of self-doubt and fluish self-assessment:

We all sold out. You, me, everybody. If you think otherwise, well, you're a fool.

But we can always steal that shit back...

And the visual of a sorority girl going to a frat mixer and bringing up things like the international banking industry's exploitation of Third World workers and the rights to breastfeed in public I've got running through my head right now?

The perfect camouflage in this increasingly batshit Kapitalist Kingdom.

You go, girl.

If you hadn't emailed, I probably wouldn't have had the balls to write this.

- # # # -

THE OXFORD (FUCKING OHIO) DICTIONARY OF QUOTATIONS: Ringing in 2009 with Donut-Covered Boobs, Ranty Emails, and Destroyed Lucky Jerseys...

"I'm not drunk, I'm surreal sober. Now put that somewhere... wait... did somebody take my bra off?"

- Recently minted Local U. alumna,
On her last weekend in Oxford

Yeah, we'll leave it at that. Fun first weekend back in ol' Oxford Fucking Ohio, really. And I can honestly say that I've never eaten a donut off of a drunk woman's tits before last Friday night.

* * * *

"Hey, it worked in Blazing Saddles..."

- A Buddy's Facebook Status,
The Day After the U.S. Presidential Election

True enough. Maybe Hillary will unite the world by holding a chili bean fart-off in an effort to end the Iraq fiasco?

* * * *

"Until I was fourteen, I divided humanity into three categories: women, little girls, and buffoons."

- From Le Sabotage amoureux (1993),
by Belgian novelist Amélie Nothomb,
English translation, 2000

One of the most disturbingly hilarious French-language writers living today. A blog reader recommended this book to me before Christmas; I haven't laughed that much while reading a European writer in a long time...

Ha, while Tom Waits may be big in Japan, apparently I'm big in France...

* * * *

"Baltimore Ravens fans are all murdering egomaniacs. You suck, The Wire sucks, your team sucks, and you're unOhio for being a Ravens fan."

- A Cleveland Browns fan/Ex,
via drunken voicemail, Jan. 7,
On my choice of sports teams

Hey, it's not my fault Ohio's pro football teams are, well, pathetic. Blame the ownership. And while I may suck, The Wire is one of the best urban crime dramas ever. Thanks for returning my Ray Lewis jersey, albeit vandalized, after three fucking years.

Hope you enjoy the remnants of your Grady Sizemore jersey. The delivery driver who picked it up said his company often returns boxes full of ashes to loved ones. Especially Cleveland Indians baseball fans...

* * * *

"This presidential inauguration is brought to you by your starving friends at Corporate Welfare. Remember: for the price of a few hundred billion in taxpayer bailouts, you too can accomplish wallet-padding Change CEOs Can Believe In (by privately financing Rick Warren and Oprah's pet goat.)"

- The ZenFo Pro, via email,
To someone "shocked and appalled"
he "refuses to trust and accept change..."

The natural enemy of the People is the State, I told my Republican-voting mother over Christmas, And the moment the People's Hero becomes the State, he becomes not a savior but the same old incompetant tyrant in a new suit.

Best not to bring that subject up with someone who is completely not buying the Hope shit. I think I've made that pretty much clear as day. I'm, politically, a Libertarian Lefty - why would I change my views to accommodate yet another flavor of American Neoliberalism?

* * * *

"Just you watch - one day, those motherfuckers are gonna start having Martin Luther King Day sales...Free At Last, Buy One Get One Freedom sales..."

- Angry Black Activist,
On What's Wrong with MLK Day.

No explanation needed, really. And I wouldn't put it past retailers.

* * * *

"I think I may have broke my penis."

- C'mon, who HASN'T slammed
a that in the car door before?

-# # # -

CALIFORNIA CONFIDENTIAL: Ex-Cons and Killer Sea Creatures, Creeping Jeeper Moments, and Far Left Bourgeois of the American Fourth Estate

ALONG THE PACIFIC COAST HIGHWAY, Calif. (ZP) -- He stared off into the immense waves as if he were studying something, as if waiting for one of the world's most vicious killers to end his life.

He'd been explaining how, exactly, he'd come to live in his rusted late 1970s Buick, how he'd lost his first two wives but gained a dog and a kid. He'd spent 15 years in places like Soledad, Folsom, and Chino - five for his crime outside and another decade for his mutilation of a black inmate in a prison riot.

He stopped, mid-sentence, and went back to staring off into the tidal surge.

At first, I thought the old man was simply observing the water's edge, had noticed the emergence of the elephant seal bull from the ocean and the movement within the bull's harem a few hundred yards away. An elephant seal bull, you see, is much more dangerous than a older ex-con, even one who once sliced up someone in a prison war. Unlike a human being, an elephant seal will kill a human being simply out of territorial instinct, without so much as a rational thought or emotional response.

Every few years or so, some idiot gets too close, gets maimed or otherwise butchered along California's Central Coast...

No, he said, he was just staring at the Pacific, out into the Estero Bay, thinking about the past. The waves were hypnotic, rhythmic, beautiful - the perfect orchestral accompaniment. The killer elephant seals be damned! Three decades ago, he could've cared less about standing beside the sea again. A decade and a half's worth of jail time taught him to miss it.

"Man, life's too short to worry about which rich motherfucker's gonna be president. Fuck that political shit."

Typical rebellious San Diego kid, caught up in the world of 1960s counterculture hypocrisy. Spent the Peace, Love, and Happiness Decade selling dope to the rich hippie tourist wannabes. That beget selling junk and running coke to Golden State yuppies in the 1970s and 1980s.

Then, one day, he threw his old lady through a plate glass window during a fight. Cops showed up, found a few kilos of felony possession on the coffee table, and ended up choosing Aryan Brotherhood protection over being some Crip's vanilla bitch or some Norteno's turned-out chola.

Can't blame a guy for being nostalgic. Or for not being afraid of an elephant seal bull, either. Animals may kill, but they rarely do it because of race or out of obligation - even in zoos.

"But this country's fuckin' beautiful sometimes, that's for sure."

I stared out at the ocean, too, ignored the killer beasts along the shore.

"Yeah. Dangerous and beautiful."

I'd never met the old man before in my life. I'll probably never see him again.

But, hell, living on the beach, even out of an old Buick with a mangy old dog, sure sounds a whole hell of a lot better than life behind bars.

Murderous, blubber-filled wildlife and all.

- MORE -

NEAR POZO, Calif. (ZP) -- The jeep crawled up into the southern Santa Lucia Range, up towards the gap between Garcia and Hi mountains, at a retarded snail's pace.

One of the great automotive engineering travesties of the late 20th century?

The automatic-transmission, four-wheel drive vehicle. What a waste of power and skill, of fuel and time. The damned things virtually drive themselves.

As we drove through the trickle that, further downstream, evolves into the Salinas River, I suddenly realized how, well, boring off-roading can be in 21st Century America. Less than a century before, this particular pass had been only accessible by horse or mule, or by foot. And now the 23 mile trek down the back road takes less than three hours.

Sure, so few folks know how to actually drive an automobile anymore, beyond simply sitting in a seat, turning a wheel, stepping on a pedal. And sure, ease and comfort are more important than skill and knowledge in the Western World these days.

Why learn to drive stick? Manual transmissions are so... manual. Or why learn to read a map in the 2000s? Doesn't, like, everybody have some built-in GPS system now?

And speaking of GPS systems, those oh-so-wondrous little devices that can supposedly track a person anywhere on the planet and can supposedly make directional decisions better than most humans ...

The one we were using on our journey, well, sorta went haywire further on up the pass. For some reason, as we weaved our way, slowly, around the backside of a mountain, the device kept demanding left turns...

... Right off the side of the range, to a certain painful death.

Joys of fucking 21st century living. At least a pack mule never said things like Turn left... in ... one mile every five damned minutes.

- MORE -

SAN LUIS OBISPO, Calif. (ZP) -- The moment I voiced my support for a local resident's longtime fight to turn a pristine ranch into a drug rehabilitation work farm, I knew I'd hit a nerve.

"Quite frankly, we don't need that kind of service here, Jason. You know why, too."

Sure, I know why. It's called NIMBYism. In good ol' SLO, the important things in life are determined by one's neighbors, by their sense of aesthetics, decency, and righteousness. In one of the 10 most expensive cities to call home in North America, who really wants to, well, help the downtrodden, those from lower economic backgrounds? They may just move here with their poor, working class selves, right?

In San Luis Obispo, the image of a perfect community is more important than the smart and responsible development and care of a community. Preserving the investment value of overpriced real estate, preserving the supposed right to a nice view off the living room or to go jogging without worry while the rest of California burns, starves, and, yes, fights to survive, is more important than preserving people.

Period.

"It's not that simple."

Yes it is. It's also class warfare, too. I'm good at ending these sorts of arguments.

"So why don't you just shoot them?"

"Wha... What?"

"You know, shoot the addicts. Final solution. Like Hitler. That's what you really want, isn't it?"

"That's ... That's insane!"

Yes, it is. But so is ignoring certain cultural pandemics, like substance abuse.

"Why? Because they're still people? Because it makes you look fucking hypocritical? Stop bombing Iraq so you can get back to keeping my rich little ass safe from the poor people??"

The rich little ass thing was meant to hurt, to end a pointless debate. Amazing how so many folks from upper-class backgrounds, who've never owned a car older than three years old, who've never had to choose between rent or food, don't know how well off they really are.

Or that nobody really gives a shit, at the end of the day, what those rich little asses want to keep in or out of their own backyards. A community's wants and needs are rarely the same thing - tough shit, get over it.

"This conversation is over. You're still an arrogant self-righteous asshole, just so you know."

Aw shucks. Well, thanks, chica. And you're still the same ol' frigid, fake ass, Trustafarian Peacenik cuntbag I remember, too. Glad to see you can still afford to do nothing for a living, other than live off inheritance and jump behind just about every cause celebre on the Left.

Sure, let's end poverty, hunger, international crises, and the like - so long as it doesn't let the poor and hungry into the benefactor's kingdom.

Oh, I'm sorry. Queendom. She read a book or two, calls herself a womyn's activist these days. Goes to protests and rallies here on the Central Coast, in the Bay Area and Los Angeles. Wouldn't be caught dead, however, actually volunteering in one of the many local, impromptu homeless shelters - too many battered womyn who might, well, one day decide to settle in the area. Might drop the value of her home to under a million bucks.

And I'm not a supporter, really, of any one particular solution to drug rehabilitation. Just a former addict and former resident, who thinks that, yes, this service is needed.

While the city, county, and state wrangle over a government solution, one rancher invested his own time, money, and fortitude to help meet that need.

Some battles just need to be fought. And it's just as simple as realizing that battlefields sometimes look like quaint little cities, surrounded by wineries and mansions on rolling hills.

- # # # -

FIVE COMPLETELY BATSHIT THINGS FROM THE ZENFORMATION WORLD: Trips to the ER, Student Abandonment Issues, Etc.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- It's been more than three weeks since the Woeful Librarian @ The Library hit me up with a meme.

And for two weeks now, I've been trying to come up with something original, going through my usual routine of figuring out what's appropriate for an online audience, what I still need to keep private and what I'm comfortable discussing.

The problem?

I've already done this meme once in 2007. Jessica, The Cool Librarian, hit me up back in January.

The first time was way back in 2006, when I was inspired by Mizzy B's post (she didn't tag me, did it on my own). She, in her own Bohemian way, took the thing one step further, with six things.

So where do we go from here?

Oh well. Fuck it. Let's see what I've got...

5.

There's an abandoned beer pong table right outside my apartment door. It's been there for four days now, abandoned by my student neighbors. The unfinished plywood top reeks of flat Natty Light. One of its two-by-four legs, in true unskilled but educated fashion, bows inward and the table wobbles like nobody's business.

Rotten furniture lines the streets. There's busted futons clogging the curbs, busted plastic lounge chairs crumbling to dust in the gutters. Dumpsters around Oxford Fucking Ohio are packed with box springs and mattresses, busted plasma screens and junk MP3 players.

Walking about town this weekend, I found a perfectly good leather armchair left in an alley. There was one slight problem, however. The chair had been run through with what appeared to be a machete, the blade sticking out of the back. "Fuck FIJI" was carved into the upholstery by some very angry, artistic vandal.

And this is how the Academic Year ends - not with a bang but with a whimper.

4.

I spent part of Sunday night in the local emergency room.

It started last week sometime - I noticed that, well, I was having trouble taking a piss, pain and swelling in my testicles.

I called my physician Thursday to set up an appointment - the earliest available time was for a week from the time I called.

I figured I could wait. It's time for my annual physical anyway. I couldn't.

And nor should I have even considered waiting.

Testicular pain, shouldn't be ignored - ever. Men lose a ball or two all the time, as a result of trauma, infection, and illness. I've known two people in my life who've suffered from testicular torsions - one nut was saved, the other amputated as a result of a coach telling a kid to "just walk it off."

By Saturday, I was beginning to regret every "It burns when you pee..." or "I'd give my left nut..." joke I've made in the last, oh, ten years.

Fortunately, no trace of gonorrhea, chlamydia, or any other bacterial infection - the most common causes. Two separate urinalysis and culture tests were clean as a whistle. Unfortunately, neither the ER doctor nor the urologist seems to know what's causing it. No immediate evidence of hernia, either, but to be safe, again, it was recommended that I abstain from heavy lifting for a while.

To be safe, just in case, the urologist put me on antibiotics, and the ER guy slapped me with enough Motrin to make a gunshot wound feel like a pin prick.

3.

I had a confrontation with a local Radical Left blog reader a few weeks ago, over my silence on the issue of immediate troop withdrawal of "Imperialist" American forces from Iraq, why I don't use my blogging powers (ha!) for something constructive, like "raising awareness."

This young woman wanted to know - no, demanded to know - why I quit posting about politics and other things related to foreign policy. She felt the need to critique my blog's content based on my lack of "awareness raising" efforts to just about every progressive cause known to Man, only about half of which I support as, yes, an independent.

Completely batshit conversation. Nothing like an angry drunk activist.

Why oh why don't I blog about hot button political issues anymore? And what about "raising awareness" over this "immediate withdrawal" stuff?

Hmmm...

Well, it's simple, really.

First, I quit blogging about politics because, well, political blogging to "raise awareness" or to "advocate change" is a pointless exercise, a pseudointellectual circle-jerk of like-minded people reading only what they want to read, consuming opinions to merely justify their own opinions, or gloating with ideological glee at the slightest misstep of the opposition.

What's the point of blogging, really, if one just wants to scream from some bully pulpit? A personal blog should be, well, personal. And this is my personal blog. And I don't like it when people feel the need to tell me what I'm to put into this silly thing, based on their political agendas.

For the record, I don't support any of this current "immediate withdrawal" rhetoric pushed by pundits, activists, or, especially, politicians. To me, it's nothing more than the Democratic version of bread and circuses, thrown around to pacify and condition the masses, no better than the Republican posturing of the past four years. And lately, as a whole, the Democratic-controlled Congress hasn't been acting much different than the Contract with America era GOP-controlled Congress, spending more time attacking the new minority government Executive than actually moving anything past respite and petty bickering.

Ultimately, a hastily assembled retreat is nothing more than a momentary escape from ultimate responsibility. We, all Americans, bear some level of responsibility and accountability towards securing Iraq's future - there is no easy way out, no pointing fingers at the President or screaming that the opposition didn't try hard enough to stop it. We fix it, and then we can go. One does not enter another's house, burn it down, and then leave without paying for the damages done.

Most of the plans put forth seem to forget the legacy of the U.S. Civil War Reconstruction era, a time when hastily assembled, mob-rule ideas during a different sort of occupation played out as tragic comedy. While Reconstruction, in the end, did reunite the South with the Union, the far-reaching side effects still haunt this continent.

Reconstruction politicians and activists spent more time trying to figure out new and creative ways to expedite national healing with words and knee-jerk reactions than actually worrying about, well, the long-lasting ramifications. It is not mere coincidence that the bloodiest acts of genocide committed against this continent's indigenous tribes occurred during this period, that liberated former slaves earned physical freedom only to be faced with a century's worth Jim Crow terrorism and oppression, that political corruption and corporate influence blended industrialized, capitalistic expansion and influence to the concept of democracy.

Sounds familiar, eh?

Mark Twain called that period in U.S. history the Gilded Age. Lasted almost 40 years, and included the assassinations of three sitting presidents, an almost total restructuring of American diversity through waves of immigration and subsequent backlash, two economic depressions, the Plessy v. Ferguson decision, massive government corruption, labor revolts, and a Centennial presidential election mess that made the 2000 election look legit.

Welcome to the Second Gilded Age. By my estimate, we entered into this era of American History sometime in the last decade, sometime before this clemency petition was released.

Getting out of Iraq by the end of the year? Not happening. Nor should it, without some sort of practical, actual solution that leaves Iraq a better place than when we invaded against international law in the first place. Immediate withdrawal by this Imperialist America? Even during the Manifest Destiny era, immediacy was measured in dead bodies and decades.

The Iraqi insurgents there, just like Al-Qaeda, are much harder to kill than those pesky Dakota or Sioux, and smallpox tainted blankets are, like, so 1872. We've modernized to suit or Nuclear Super-powered status - we just torture people in secrecy, lock them away in Cuba, and have secret military tribunals in charge of separating terrorist from patriot.

And, besides, now that the Dems are in power, they'll need at least a year's worth of preening and gleaning to give all of those defense contractors, corporate lobbyists, and little old ladies from Kansas enough time to fill the ol' campaign war chests for the 2008 Freak Show...er... Election...

See. Like I said. Simple.

2.

Last night, I dreamt that I was having sex with one of my sister's childhood best friends, a woman I haven't seen or thought about in more than a decade.

Sex at my senior prom. And it was snowing.

It wasn't as good as I remembered, at least compared to the dreams I used to have about this woman when we were both in Mr. D's fourth period journalism class.

Hell, it's been 12 years. I wonder if she's still single?

Trust me. Much more interesting than waking up and thinking about Iraq.

1.

Favorite quote of the week:

I had a cat once, but every time I tried to give him a bath, the fur stuck to my tongue.

- Howlin' Mad Murdoch (actor Dwight Schultz), The A-Team.

- # # # -

IF THE ZENFO PRO HAD A BLOOPER REEL...Of Personal Moral Failings, The Unspeakable Blogged, and Bowling (Yes, Bowling)

MOOD MUSIC:
Everything in Its Right Place/Radiohead - DJ Technics Remix [MP3]
Hey, I'm a lifelong Orioles fan and one of the city's biggest fans ...gotta represent the Baltimore Boom.

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Late Tuesday night, I accomplished something wonderful.

Through numerous adjustments in posture and under the direction of those more experienced, good coaches all, I learned that I completely suck at bowling.

When I say I suck, I mean that I stink worse than a dead rat in an oven, worse than a port-a-potty on Fat Tuesday in New Orleans. I'm as directionally challenged as a Duke lacrosse player in a Women's Studies course. My poor ball spent more time cruising the gutter than most politicians.

I rolled an 102. Over two games. Finished dead last, out of six people.

There's no use in making excuses. Sure, I haven't bowled a single frame in seven years. I'm still babying my shoulder a bit, I'd been up since five that morning, etc. Any which way one looks at my score, a laughable 51 average, I still, at the end of it all, sucked rather large monkey balls.

So, ah, Jason, I think you'd better put that up on your blog there, one friend said, sending the rest of the group into snickering and general good-natured mockery.

Why wouldn't I blog about it? Hell, the whole scene was pretty damned funny.

Me, struggling to maintain even a tiny bit of dignity in a tiny, run-down bowling alley, way out in the middle of fucking nowhere, in Oxford Fucking Ohio. Even the "team" mascot, one of those creepy-ass Burger King bobbleheads, seemed to be laughing at how much I sucked.

There is so much from that evening I could write about, so many experiences I could document, so much fun and merriment.

But, well, I'm not. It's not because of bad behavior, any need for discretion, any request that I specifically not write about certain personal discussions or events.

There are some things I just don't put on the ol' blog. As much as I'd love to share, well, I just don't think it would be appropriate. Some things are private - yes, there are indeed things I don't discuss on the blog.

Earlier this week, I accomplished something, something wonderful.

I made it through another day alive, and I had a good time with some good people along the way.

Go me.

* * * *

I knew I was in for trouble the moment I decided to post about my less-than-innocent California fling. I knew that there'd be repercussions for both this ZenFo Pro character and in my offline life.

I knew I'd get scolding IMs late into the night, knew I'd get the "How dare you write such smut!" criticisms, even knew I'd probably lose a few friends, in Cyberspace and in the real world, if I wrote about this one particular experience.

One of the things that generally pisses off every critic, every amateur blog analyst, every cyber-preacher and other morality dictator, is the fact that even in the midst of an embarrassing faux pas, I still try to find the humor in almost every situation.

Well, I can make fun of myself or my situation, at least.

One example:

XXXXXX(1/18/2007 12:17:53 PM): just wanted to let u know i dont read your blog anymore
XXXXXX(1/18/2007 12:17:57 PM): ur so not who i thought you were. i thought u were different from other guys here in oxford.
XXXXXX(1/18/2007 12:18:04 PM): just another overgrown boy with a hardon
ZENFO PRO(1/18/2007 12:18:19 PM): sorry to disappoint you. thanks for reading anyway :)
ZENFO PRO(1/18/2007 12:18:37 PM): my hardon thanks you too. right now though both my hardon and i have to get back to work.
ZENFO PRO(1/18/2007 12:19:06 PM): Doing five things at once. and that's just my hardon. think it just applied for a teaching position. its the part with the brain. think it earned a doctorate last year.
XXXXXX(1/18/2007 12:19:11 PM): fuck u. you think ur so funny dont u everythings a joke. this is stupid.
ZENFO PRO(1/18/2007 12:19:15PM): completely agree. feel free to delete my no. already blocked yours ;) later :)

One of the most important skills I've learned is to never take anything too seriously.

Life. Death. Criticism. Praise. Sex. Love. Hate. Everything is fleeting when weighed against the whole of eternity.

* * * *

Since I've had a lot of folks decide that, well, it's okay to forget that behind every blog is a real, honest-to-God human being, that every single one of us human beings will never achieve any sort of perfection, will all continue to be hypocrites about something, will live certain moments of our lives as if the world were as serious as clown shoes and fart machines, I thought I'd clarify a few things.

"Tonya" and I were, well, both consenting adults. She took responsibility for her actions, told her spouse. Ya know, given the amount of bruises, cuts and scrapes we each left with, well, there's no hiding it. I decided to take responsibility for mine by confessing my sins on a very public online journal.

I'd hate to be blunt here, but, well, I blog for myself. This ain't American Idol. There's no voting on how I live my life, no panel of judges to tell me what's appropriate to write or not write.

The Zenformation Professional ain't a blogocracy. It's a blogtatorship.

The only person, at the end of the day, who takes responsibility for what goes into this damned thing is me. And I'm very careful with how I edit, the aliases I use, the identities and privacy I protect. I weigh each and every post carefully before I hit that "Publish" button - if I find out that I weighed wrong, that I somehow overlooked something or offended someone I care about offending, I pay whatever the price is.

Simply put...my blog, my rules. If you don't like 'em, well, nobody's holding a gun to your head. Close the browser window. Navigate away from the page. Find something that fits into your perception of the world.

* * * *

It was a cold Friday afternoon in Oxford Fucking Ohio. The ZenFo Pro, in the midst of a workday meltdown over unfinished compact shelving, missing furniture, and strange smells emanating from a company vehicle, hurried across the newly-renovated ground floor of the ZenFo Pro Library towards the elevator.

He really should've taken the stairs. He could've taken two or three risers at a time, could've avoided a potentially awkward situation, could've dodged a potentially humiliating conversation with a blog reader.

Instead, the ZenFo Pro played it cool. He was, after all, an information professional, on the job. At an ancient 28, in a community where the median age always hovers around the legal drinking age, he was also an old man who could always pull the more mature "I don't discuss the blog at work" rabbit out of his hat.

Instead, a busy librarian stood there, staring at the elevator doors, praying to all that was Holy, that some 21-year-old patron who'd once flashed him on a rather depressing Halloween night hadn't seen him hurrying down the gray tile.

He knew she was standing there beside him. He recognized the perfume. He didn't have to look to know that she was grinning from ear to ear.

The elevator door opened about 30 seconds too late. The Librarian and one of the Boob Girls boarded the car. He avoided eye contact when he asked her, in his most authoritative, librarian-esque voice, which floor she needed.

"Hey. Were you at P______ Tuesday night? I thought I saw you."

"Um, yeah. Floor?"

The ZenFo Pro continued to avoid eye contact. He could feel himself doing that eye-rolling, squinty thing, that thing "Tonya" had reminded him that he did often, that slow turn of the head and stupid grin, the first sign that he was about to begin rambling if he wasn't careful.

Head like a slingshot, he remembered. The adult performer ex had said once that one line was indeed the best way to describe him. She'd stolen it from one of his high school poetry notebooks, stolen it while reading his poems aloud one afternoon in a coffee shop. He started to remember how she'd gone commando that day wearing a skirt; she also had this nasty tendency to open and close her legs while seated and in the midst of a discussion.

Four male faculty that he knew personally had walked by them, had caught a view of his girlfriend's vagina that day. He'd caught one of them staring. Awkward. For some reason, standing in that elevator, squinting and eyes a-rolling, he thought about that.

And Britney Spears. He felt sorry for Britney Spears for some reason.

Head like a slingshot, indeed.

"Do you remember me? We met Halloween."

She stretched out her hand for a formal, less drunken introduction.

"I read your blog a lot."

Oh for fuck's sake, the ZenFo Pro thought. The elevator didn't seem to be moving as quickly as usual. Time froze as his heart raced. The librarian braced himself. He thought he was about to experience his first on-the-job patron bitchslap for his outside-of-work activities, for his online self.

"I really like your writing. Helps me think. Wish I could write about what you write about. But my roommates would kill me if people knew what goes on in our house."

The librarian, the old man in a young person's town, began to relax his tense frame as the woman continued. The elevator doors opened onto his floor, but he didn't exit.

"I just thought you'd like to know that. Must be a bitch sometimes."

The ZenFo Pro shook his head, certain he looked like a complete fucking idiot. The woman told him she hoped he'd continue writing, how she'd like to see more things about the "good" sororities, the ones not full of "skanks," and maybe something about how there are very few things for college students to do in Oxford after dark - besides drink, fuck, and gossip.

"Hey, I've got to get to class. See you around, okay?"

And the woman got off the car, on the same floor they'd just left. As the doors shut, the ZenFo Pro pushed the button for his floor, leaned against the back of the car, and finally allowed himself to breathe.

When he entered his office, his office mate smiled and said hi. He started to say something, something coherent and professional. But he felt his face starting to scrunch up, his eyes starting to roll.

He exclaimed to his office mate that his week had just gotten a whole hell of a lot better. He didn't know why, but it had. The ZenFo Pro sat down at his cluttered desk in the ZenFo Pro Library and read an afternoon's worth of email. He stared down at his arm and noticed a continuously shrinking scab staring up at him through his shirt sleeve.

Teeth marks, he thought to himself.

A few weeks earlier, a woman had accidentally, playfully chewed on his arm. He'd been too close to the edge of the bed and had slipped off while she'd been biting. The woman laughed her ass off as the old man from the young person's town fell to the floor, wedged between a cheap boxspring and a cheaper nightstand.

He composed email after quick, terse email. He remembered grabbing Tonya's ankles while she laughed, pulling her down to the floor on top of him. And he remembered how he did some biting of his own, how he'd enjoyed every damned minute of a fleeting moment.

And then, when he was finished reading and responding, he got up and headed back out of the office. He had to run across town to run errands. He was back into the hustle of a Friday, back in Oxford Fucking Ohio.

But he no longer felt like an old man at 28, stuck in a young person's town. As he drove around Oxford, around the Local U., he started composing a blog post in his head, NPR blaring over the company vehicle's speakers.

And then he remembered a friend, nights before, making fun of his horrible bowling skills...

* * * *

So I suck at bowling. But if I'm invited to roll a game or two in the future, I'll gladly expose the world to my suck-itude once more.

Maybe I'll bowl an 103. In a single game. Wouldn't that be something?

Sometimes, it's good to suck at something. Reminds you that you're still breathing, that there's always room for learning to un-suck, always room for change and personal growth and...

And, well, moving on through life.

And I might blog about it. Or I might not. Either way, it's my blog.

In fact, it's my life.

Wouldn't that be something?

- ### -

AND NOW...COMPLETELY RANDOM SHIT:Quick Bits and Other Crap to Fill the Holidays

CINCY POLITICIAN LOSES FIRST BATTLE AGAINST LOCAL U.; STILL SCARED OF GAY PEOPLE WITH DENTAL..

Gay employees of the Local U. will continue to have access to same-sex "domestic partner" benefits, at least for the time being.

A lawsuit brought against the university by state Rep. Tom Brinkman (R-Cincinnati) was dismissed earlier this week in a Butler County courtroom.

Brinkman, who is also the father of two students, had sought an end to such benefits, claiming the university's policy was a direct violation of the state's 2004 Marriage Amendment.

While the suit was dismissed because Brinkman and his legal team could not provide evidence that the university's policy damaged him individually or concretely, the judge did note in his ruling that the suit may still have merit if brought by a more impacted party.

Brinkman, of course, plans to appeal the ruling.

For a previous ZenFo Pro opinion on the subject, click here.

Anywho...

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BITCH-SLAPPING THE TASTE OUTTA CELEBRITY ACTIVIST MOUTHS ...

See...this is what happens when I get back to reading my usual four or five newspapers a day...

An interesting piece appeared in the Toronto Star Nov. 19, an editorial concerning the way Western celebrities approach "supporting" the developing world.

Special correspondent Dominic Hilton hits the nail on the head perfectly:

... Unlike Sir Paul McCartney, many African countries have actually got poorer since the '60s. Why? Well, for starters, because they're locked into a cycle of dependence on Western aid. The last thing Africa needs is more celebrity - encouraged Western guilt. The world's poor are not skint because Brad Pitt is loaded. The West has poured billions into Africa and the result is a continent described by Prime Minister Tony Blair as "a scar on the world's conscience." Most celebs look at this situation and demand... more of the same...

When celebs feel they have a duty to speak out, it is always we (the West) who are blamed for the fact that the world's wretched don't live in Beverly Hills mansions. You never hear a celebrity say, "What Africa really needs is a good dose of regime change." Why don't our rock stars organize a concert demanding African property rights or the scrapping of Africa's protectionist tariffs on agriculture and drugs? And when will we see a business-suited Gwynnie in our magazines highlighting the cancer of African state corruption? ...

- FULL ARTICLE HERE -

Nothing more to add, really.

I think Hilton read my mind, actually.

As did an editorial writer for the University of Virginia's Cavalier Daily earlier this month.

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MAYBE KRAMER COULD INSULT PEOPLE IN KATHMANDU NEXT TIME...

In the last seven days, Nepal formally ended one of its bloodiest civil wars and demolished its monarchy, a former KGB whistleblower died mysteriously in London, some dude tried to blow up Northern Ireland's parliament, Ethiopia's sent troops into Somalia to protect the Somali government from yet another Islamic militia, and Lebanon's losing anti-Syrian leaders left and right.

And I'm supposed to give a shit about what some comedian from Seinfeld shouted racial slurs at an audience?

This is what draws national outrage? This draws the media attention? A friggin' comedian says something that a group of people find insensitive and racist?

Racist comments and insults from Hollywood...who'd a thunk it?

Wow.

And people at a local bar were upset that a cultural geographer and I were discussing why a good portion of the world thinks Americans are too self-absorbed to even care about the rest of the world...

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PERSONAL NOTES...

• Well, seems I have another damned local cyberstalker. It's one thing to read this blog from the confines of Oxford Fucking Ohio, to enjoy the fact that, yes, there's a local librarian who says "fuck" a lot, who admits to doing things most librarians wouldn't in regards to their personal lives. But please don't leave me notes on my fucking truck. Very creepy. Don't do that.
  

• A friend of mine recently had her car keyed, presumably by an ex-boyfriend of hers. After getting the vehicle back from the auto-body shop (we're talking deep scratch here), her windshield was keyed. Days after discussing how insane it is for an ex-lover to damage a car, the ZenFo ProMobile was also damaged - and I'm almost certain it was done by one of my own psycho exes.

• I spent part of Wednesday night explaining to a high school kid how to properly use a condom, in the middle of a friggin' Wally World. The girl had about a mile to buy the condoms, because her boyfriend was too chickenshit to buy his own. Yes, it was rather embarrassing. And no, I don't regret it one bit. The last thing Rural America needs is another teenaged single mother.

• When the students are gone, Oxford ain't half bad, actually. I'll spend at least a portion of this weekend celebrating what locals call Townie Weekend - the one break between Labor Day and December when there are virtually no drunken preppy kids stinking up some rather decent local dives.

• I've had a grand total of six people this month tell me that they've always assumed I was either part-Latino or part-Middle Eastern based on my physical features. No fucking clue why, really.
  

• Recently, I've become addicted to Justice League: Unlimited, thanks to the release of a new boxset. And I've now watched Transformers The Movie four times since I purchased the 20th Anniversary Edition a few weeks ago. Still cry when Optimus Prime dies - just like I did in the theatre back in 1986.
  

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