I Told You I Was Trouble: Amy Winehouse RIP (1983-2011)

I cheated myself,
Like I knew I would,
I told you I was trouble,
You know that I'm no good,
 - Amy Winehouse, 'I'm No Good'

 He walks away,
The sun goes down,
He takes the day but I'm grown,
And there's no way, in this blue shape,
My tears dry on their own.

- Amy Winehouse, 'Tears Dry On Their Own'

What the hell's the matter with you?” is a question that's often been fired at me point blank in varying contexts, by an even more varied collection of people. Parents, sibling, employers, and colleagues have all hurled this inquisitive barb in my direction. My answer? Well, in general, I'd suggest that the question is moot.

To be honest, I think it's a strange question, because more often than not, it's a question that's asked through a veil of perception that gnaws away at the inquisitors' sensitivities... or expectations. In fact, I'd argue that it's not really even a question, but more of a statement of exasperation, spoken by a chafed few who have yet to fathom that there are just some things, situations or people that they can't control in life.

For better or worse, some people have self-destructive tendencies. Maybe the term 'self-destructive' is a bit overkill in relation to some, yet on the other hand, its an understatement in relation to others. Nevertheless, in our society's ever mangling penchant to label and pigeon hold everything, terms tend to have more function than brains.

Usually, when non-conformists fail to conform, as is their nature to do so, they tend to be embraced by some and vilified by others. Ok, so it goes without saying that we can't be loved by all people, all of the time. That's a given. Regardless of who you are are or what you stand for, some people will love you and some people will hate you... even on principle! For non-conformists, this seems true to the extreme.

Yet, there are those odd occasions, when some non-conformists actually succeed in breaking through into dizzying heights of mainstream popularity, much to the dismay of their detractors' bile. When this occurs, industries spring up around such new found 'celebrities' as everyone scrambles to jump on the grandstanding bandwagon to gain purchase, or stranglehold. But wait, it's gets stranger, as an eventual realignment of sentience takes place.

Our society has a bad habit of perverting 'the unique and different' in a profane attempt to remould them in its 'socially correct' or 'fashionably sensible' image. When that fails, then at some point it is inevitable that what goes up must come down... usually in spectacular flames. Indifference sets in as interests turn to seek out 'the next big thing' and the 'haters' are let out of the closet, and into the arena, to mercilessly pick, peck, poke and point fingers, in true vulture fashion. Ok, so I know that vultures don't actually point fingers, but well ... you know what I mean.

There are those who just enjoy stating the obvious. I don't. I've written before about defying the expectations of others and of engaging in self destructive career nullifying behavior. On that note, you can pout all you want, roll your eyes, and drop your jaws to express the best alveolar click (tsk) you can muster, but how do you really respond to the following:

 - "We're just on different wavelengths."
- "We live on different planes of existence."
- "We don't see eye to eye."
- "You just don't get me."
- "I don't need your approval."
- "I don't need your help."

Yes, some people don't want your help, advice, wisdom, or good intentions. Some people just want to be left alone to do 'their thing'.

Last night, I learned that Amy Winehouse shuffled off her mortal coil. She was a phenomenally talented singer and songwriter that bridged Jazz and Soul Music … and defied our expectations, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. Yes, she was troubled, she told us so ... and her death, though still unexplained as of this writing, is a tragedy. To me, one's death is tragic when you don't see it coming; it's horrific when you do.

Nevertheless, the media, eyes wide shut, has already begun to cliche ad nauseum over her initiation into the '27 Club', her life defining hit song 'Rehab', and her vices to which have already been attributed to her death, even before any facts have been revealed. But hey, that's what sells the news, right? On the CNN website, the marketing suits couldn't wait more than a paragraph into her obituary before inserting an advert to promote an upcoming episode of Dr. Drew titled “How can someone so talented be so self destructive?” Its pathetic. It's profane.

Amy Winehouse was an artist that many things to many people in life... and will continue to be as such in death. I mourn her passing, the loss of her talent, her art and her potential. Of course, there's much to be said about how she lived her life, but it's really a moot point now. So I prefer to remember her for what she left us. And yes, it's true that but for her legacy of music, no one was saved ... but I would argue, that the lives of those who were touched by her music were truly enriched.

Amy, Amy, Amy – you'll be missed for all that was and all that could've been.

PS. Thanks for reading. This is just one of those mornings, I really wish I hadn't sworn off Baileys in my morning coffee. For this post there's no questions, because the obvious 'why' thunders loudly. Here are some videos of what we lost. If you choose to see only what you want to see, then at least close your eyes and listen. Your comments, as always, are welcome.

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Red Moon Rising - A Cautionary Tail

“Here is my journey's end, here is my butt; And very sea-mark of my utmost sail.” 
 - William Shakespeare

Some days are screwy right from the get go. The other morning was one such example; I woke up and my butt was on fire. I'm not taking about the flames and conflagration type. I'm talking about the blazing kind of burning that smolders below your skin, that even a dead man would scratch. And that's exactly what I did.

Originally, I thought perhaps I had been bitten by some creepy crawler that had the nerve to invade the bliss of my sleep and the serenity of my bed. Still, there was no tell-tale signs of itchiness, welts, bumps, puncture marks or otherwise. There was only an inflamed hotspot raging on my left butt cheek. It felt feverish to the touch and dense to my groping. For a moment it occurred to me that the previous evening I had watched the Exorcist, but I quickly dismissed this mental digression.

Whatever it was, it had clearly manifested itself in such a way that it made its presence felt like a rabid dog in an alley. My right butt cheek, in comparison, was indifferent to its twin's histrionics. Yes, there was certainly a great divide between the two.

I hadn't completely ruled out being bitten, so I decided a closer examination was in order. This proved difficult, physically and mentally. Standing before a full length mirror, I held a hand mirror low trying hard to get an angle at which I could either see the offending heat patch or reflect it's apparition to the larger mirror. I leaned over, bent backwards and even attempted a half-pretzel type position that would make the yoga intensive proud and the Karate Kid nervous. Yet, it was to no avail. I was denied further inspection by both my gut and poor vision.

Eventually, I sauntered off to the bathroom to take my morning shower, hoping that a cascading stream of cool water might douse the blaze and can the heat. I stood for some time in the bathtub letting a deluge of water, soap and suds wash over my backside. I imagined the heavens had opened on me, raining down relief via my shower head. Temporarily, I forgot my pestilent posterior and the marauding hotspot fanning the flames of my fanny.

I stepped from the shower and began to towel myself dry. To my horror, I discovered that my entire groin and lower torso had turned red! It was a glowing red. I realized that it was time to panic, as my cortisol levels began to soar, my glands began to throb, and sweat started to form on the bridge of my nose.

Was this something new? How could I have missed this when I did my 'mirror contortion' number? For awhile, I've harbored a growing suspicion that I might be allergic to my tap water. Was this new outbreak related to the confounding hotspot, still undulating waves of heat on my derriere, or at least half of it? What intrasomatic conspiracy was burgeoning in the recesses of my epidermis? Why had things gone from rump to rumpus?

Mustering the courage needed to combat this affront to my immune system, I dropped my towel, donned my bathrobe, and proceeded towards my arms cache to combat this onslaught of inflammation; this affront to my immune system. I gingerly opened the medicine cabinet and perused the collection of creams, ointments, and pills. By all that is holy I would slew this pillaging invader of my flesh.

Hydrocortisones, antihistamines, galore! Antifungals, anti-inflammatories and more! And, then the slathering, rubbing and massaging, and pill popping began in earnest. A few hours later I would be lying on my couch under the droning of the air conditioner, an empty bottle of baby powder in my hand, its contents swirling in puffy wisps around my shorts.

The next day, my rash had faded and the hotspot on my bottom had receded from whence it came. I apparently was the victim of an insidious hit and run heat rash that threatened to consume my nether regions, as well as my sanity. Of course, questions still remain concerning the mysterious hotspot that waxed and waned like the moon, … you know the one in the sky.

Lastly, concerning this last of a long line ongoing struggles with my body, this whole predicament has left me scratching my head, which is better than scratching my butt, which is exactly how that morning began. In retrospect, I should have known better, but at least, as they say, hindsight is always 20-20.

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PS. Thanks for reading. Heat rashes are perfectly normal occurrences during heatwaves. Hydrocortisones usually work well, though people still prefer to sit in a bathtub full of oatmeal. Are you susceptible to heat rashes, or do you just embarrass easily?

For more 'Intrasomatic Conspiracy' posts, please click here.

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Google Plus Equals SkyNet: Social Networking And World Domination

Dave, this conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye.

- Hal9000 computer (Arthur C. Clarke, 2001: A Space Odyssey)

“Talk to me!”, says I.
“Who are you?”, says the stranger.
“I am no one!”, says I.
“Sorry, I haven't got time for your pain”, says he shuffling away. Or was it a she?

So have you been invited to join Google+ yet? As of this writing, I haven't, and it's probably a good thing, too, because I can only generate so many social niceties per day, certainly not enough to spread around to all the social networking platforms that currently exist in cyberspace.

As I wrote in another post, I 'did' MySpace, now on autopilot, and I currently 'do' Facebook. I also use Twitter and share my comments on the nonsensical news of the day there (follow me, follow me). But in terms of conversation, there's not much happening there. Yes, in other words no one will talk to me. Does that phase me, you ask? Not in the least. Though I might confess to being a bit irked.

Now I was told by a Twitter expert, who is wise in the ways of social media, that I needed to 'start talking' if I wanted to get the party started. I understand completely. Just as it is with real social circles, some folks are reticent to engage in pleasantries with someone who talks to himself.

“Hello!? Hello!? I'm alive over here!”, I might tweet. The silence is deafening. Not even a retweet.
An email soon finds it's way to my inbox with the subject line reading “follow me and I'll follow you”. It's from 'dudecashwise362'. “Where are we going?” I reply in an email. No response.

Ok. you all know how it goes. Having something interesting, witty, or life affirming to say won't get you very far in social networking, unless you are a celebrity and don't mind commenting in passing on what you ate for brunch. Though, if you really are a celebrity, you’d no doubt have someone else do the tweeting  for you, and eat your lunch for you, as well (#winning).

If you are a 'no one', however, then there is only so much self abuse you can take by 'tweeting' to a flock of 'we don't care' celebrity stools. Yes, celebritism is alive and well, and those who worship every celebrity dropping certainly have no time for you.

So, the big question, however, is do I really want to get the 'party' started, especially with celebrity intensive zombie types? I must confess that these days I'm not much in the 'party' mood; I'm in the writing mood. So, do I really want to put my creative energies into blithering banter, glib chitchat and all manners of cyber persiflage? I'd say no. If I did, I'd probably have no time for my blog ... which most likely no on reads, except for 'search bots'. Anyway, zombies, by the way, are not really big on conversation; they just want to eat your brain … which leads me to my next point.

Google+ makes me nervous. Honestly. Use of an arithmetic function seems less social oriented and more machine language enamored. Machines are not social creatures. They interface. Not very sexy.

We've seen this before with Google Wave and Google Buzz. If anything, Google+ seems a bit more insidious, especially in that Google already it's spindly talons into all forms of online services. Yes, Google's aim is to make this personal. It doesn't want to own just your email, blogs, videos, RSS feeds, surf and search habits, cloud based personal and business documents, and both computer and mobile telephony operating systems. It wants the whole ball of wax: your online social identity and that of our friends and business colleagues, as well as theirs, and theirs, and theirs, and so on, and so on, and so on. It also wants control of your applications and hardware. Sound familiar?

Cloud based computing? Give me a break! It seems that Google's intentions have gone far beyond creating its own version of George Orwell's dystopian society in his novel 1984. Pulling a “Big Brother is watching you” number on us by keeping up under surveillance and controlling our 'freedom of  choice' via media streaming (Youtube and Adwords, for example) is bad enough. But I suspect, that Google want's even more... or is even more.

Some of you have seen films such as the Matrix (Keannu Reeves: Whoa!) or the Terminator (SkyNet). Maybe you've watched Battlestar Galactica on TV and are weary of 'cylons' lurking around every corner. Remember HAL9000, the paranoid and homicidal sentient computer from Arthur C. Clarke's 2001: A Space Odyssey? What about the supercomputer, WOPR, from the film Wargames? I could even mention an odd film called Demon Seed, but that would be really perverse!

In these films, the names change and the plots may be different, but the one salient feature these all have in common is the subjugation of the human masses by an authoritarian body that knows all via technology.

Is Google a burgeoning SkyNet? Is Google really just taking names, numbers, and personal data, biding its time under false pretenses, waiting for the moment to attack?

My fellow 'Netizens', now is the time for a preemptive strike against what is no doubt some artificial intelligence lurking in the Google controlled and operated web clouds. Now is the time to send a clear message to all of humanity to pull the plug on Google and it's designs for world domination. At the very least, tell Google+ that we don't want it horning in on our social circles. I'd tell you to write your congressman, but he's probably too busy sexting someone.

Lord! And they say the hackers are the bad guys! (Cue the Love Boat theme)....
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PS. Thanks for reading. Seriously,  what is your take on Google+? Is it me or is Google really desperate here? Are you concerned about why you haven't received an invitation, or are you still trying to figure out what Tumblr is? Let me know.

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Not Born On The Fourth Of July

What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?

- Francis Scott Key, The Star Spangled Spammer

Today is Independence Day for the United States of America. It's also two days before my birthday. I thought I'd just mention that. Yes, I could have been a Yankee Doodle Dandy, born on the 4^th of July. My mom had gone into the hospital on the day with contractions. I once asked her about being in labor on the holiday, but she just claims she remember being sick with nausea, and throwing up while a trailer for the film, 'Mutiny On The Bounty', was being shown on TV.

Meanwhile, a little rambunctious bouncing baby boy, yet to be born, bided his time and stayed put, opting to be fashionably late. Mutiny on Bounty, indeed! Actually, this wasn't my mom's first brush with near-holiday births; years before, my sister was born on December 30^th, missing out on a New Years birth by oh so little. So near misses was pretty much par for the course for our mother, as was our penchant to screw with her timing.

Anyway, even though I am miles away from the land of my birth, I'll still celebrate, but not because I'm patriotic or proud to be an American. Mainly, it's because it's a good excuse to light some sparklers with my kids and then eat hotdogs, 'Boston' baked beans, potato salad, apple pie, and corn on the cob, with abandon and without waist line related guilt. Actually, I was thinking of macaroni and cheese, too. Maybe pick a few Beach Boys tunes on the guitar. Definitely do Starbucks later in the evening and fret over the fact that due to the NFL lockout, there still is no football in sight for the near future.

Yes, so this is apparently what my nationalism has been reduced to: food, football, sparkly things and rock n' roll. Oh, I forgot to mention one more item, angst. Relatedly, the other day, I ate at McDonald’s, which to be honest is something I rarely do. I had a Big Mac. It was tasteless. It was filling, but completely tasteless. It made me angry to think that this is what 'Americanism' has been reduced to: feeling bloated and completely unsatisfied.

The truth is that being an American has lost much meaning for me over the years, and it's not just because I happen to live abroad. I think it's because it has become harder and harder for me to identify

exactly with what 'being American' actually means, and for that matter, what 'America' actually stands for.

It's funny because if you ask some non-Americans to define the United States you will most certainly glean a clear stream of celebritism, fashion, and food: John Wayne, Blue Jeans, Marilyn Monroe, Hollywood, McDonald's, Sneakers, MTV, Coca Cola, Mickey Mouse, Starbucks, Elvis Presley, NBA, etc. But along with these highly marketed American icons, you'd also reap the following string of 'less than niceties': bourgeois capitalists, atom bomb droppers, communist bashers, purists, ethnocentric boors, gun-toting fanatics, flip-flop wearing heart attacks waiting to happen.

Now in truth, I can't speak for most Americans. In fact, neither can most Americans probably speak for each other. However, for this American, the definition of 'being American' seems lost. I grew up in very apathetic and coma inducing times. Torn between idealistic 'communitarianism values' of the 1960s and 'atomized individualism' of the 1970s, the 'Me Decade'*, I pretty much sought escape into music, television, radio, and science fiction. I was very interested in current affairs and so I devoured the newspaper daily, but spent much of my schooling years staring out the window. Patriotism to me was hearing the National Anthem played before watching a football or baseball game, eating turkey on Thanksgiving, and watching fireworks on the 4^th of July. Oh, and eating hot dogs, too.

Really, if there ever was any flag waving sentiment in me, it was most likely quashed by my understanding that television and radio was being censored in my youth, my seeing pictures of the Vietnam war on the news, my reading Mad Magazine, and my being bored terminally with the Watergate trials on TV. I also blame 'disco', but that's another story.

The point is that I understood that the mood of the country suggested that being Patriotic just wasn't cool ... unless you were Johnny Cash, who was very cool to me. Being indifferent was more the fashion. Being patriotic to some meant buying miniature 'made in Japan' copies of 'Old Glory' from Kmart to hang on their mail boxes on some national holidays. Yes, the American Flag became just another holiday ornament to be brought out on occasion, like Christmas tree lights and Jack-O-Lanterns. Of course, some hung from the wheelchairs of some down and out Vietnam Vets I remember seeing panhandling downtown. Not a very patriotic image, I'm sure you'll agree, but one that still lingers as a poor stereotype even today.

The 'dream' of the 60s became very commercialized in the 70s, and American life settled into 'let's go to the mall' to get a quality of life that only a credit card can buy, and the neighbors next door already owned. In many respects, that was fine with me and many other Americans, because the mall was just another avenue for escapism; a happy place to go to numb the numbness of knowing that we had all sold out.

How did we end up this way? How is it that we have such short memories? Our country is less than 250 years old, and still today, there are many political pundits who argue over interpreting just what it was the framers of our grand Constitution had in mind with certain words and phrases. What is it that caused this dementia of mind and spirit in some?

I'll offer that 'Big Business', government interest and backroom politics merged to ensure that the idealism of any form of alternative culture was replaced by materialism and self-interest. The mass media, conservative and liberal, became just another tool to manipulate the masses to consume, and also distract them from the reality that the 'powers that be' had become less a government for the people and of the people, and more something akin to a mega-multinational corporation, whose financial bottom line matters more than its citizens and the environment they live in. Liberty, freedoms, rights and even democracy don't really enter it.

The Statue of Liberty bears the words, "Give me your tired, your poor,your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" Those words on Lady Liberty should stand for more than just a sales pitch for McDonald's Happy Meals, Allstate Insurance, Ford Motor Vehicles and Shell Oil.

As I'm writing this, an undetermined amount of crude oil has been pouring into the Yellowstone River near Billings, Montana, courtesy of an ExxonMobil pipeline leak. Happy Birthday, America. Yes, there are many reasons why I celebrate my country’s independence day. Very few of them have anything to with July 4th and American Independence.

I could go on, but my hotdogs are starting to blister.

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PS. Thanks for reading. What does being American mean to you? How do you celebrate Independence Day? Do you feel feel patriotic or patronized? Let me know!

* Tom Wolfe, The "Me" Decade and the Third Great Awakening". From the August 23, 1976 issueof New York Magazine.

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