No Fun Intended

The vicissitudes of January in Maine bother the heck out of me. I will admit, however reluctantly, that I am grateful to be living on this frigid overcast unday, but just because my vocally espousing the alternative (i.e., not living) would abnegate all of the specific goodnesses, general greatness and so forth of this milieu, but today is like a hackneyed quip at which there is a perceived obligation to respond pleasantly, even though such denial is incrementally lethal.

This post was going to comprise bits that I'd begun but was too exhausted to complete, but no.

Instead, I'll talk about something else, in the hopes that it will improve my altogether-turdly disposition.

Ready? I bet you are.

I'm gonna write a book. (You don't have to read it or anything.)

"What kind of book?" is a rhetorical question that I refuse answer until the sentence that follows this sentence.

It'll be an encyclopædia that contains "facts" and "opinions" (including theories).

The subject? Popular music, because current studies indicate that popularity is sexier than intercourse itself.

Aaaannnd…because a claim of objectivity, like a clumsy generalization, is itself a recipe for betrayal on its own terms (never trust anything that identifies itself as "true" or "accurate," because I could broadcast the "fact" that I would bite myself if I were a dog, and the audience would have NO BASIS for dissension), there can be a caveat in the book's opening pages about the urgent importance of metaphor to describe "untranslatable" sentiments, events, trends, ad nauseam.


I posted an entry just now, for nobody's benefit, but then I removed it, for nobody's benefit. And I badly want to conclude this post, but first I'll tell you about young Desmond's new family of not-exactly-visible friends. What I find most thrilling about them is, I'll admit, a bit shallow. I will leave you with their names, preceded by household-member "type":

The Churches

Father: Sushi Church

Mother: Berkland Church

Child: Trash Night Church

Oh, how I swoon.

All the World's an Age

Aging occurs. At all times. Are we left with any choice but to embrace it? Frankly, no. But does that work?

As we’ve seen, in an age during which ageless stars perish at ostensible ages, most of us unwitting players in a left-behind series would scratch our wispily covered heads if only they retained any aherence to a commonly held belief that everybody actually lives an actual life. I know that I don’t have a lick of confidence in that system’s universal application. There’s too much perceived entitlement to exemption from decay. But none of us have that.

I would say that my parents’ generation—the “Baby Boomers”—are largely responsible for this mainstream resuscitation of the same “Fountain of Youth” fixation that led Ponce de Leon to “discover” Florida—which is one of history’s great ironies, considering. (The Baby Boomers have also made life extremely difficult for every subsequent generation, but more about that in other posts.)

Here’s my attitude about it: In order to be young, young people NEED for old people to BE OLD. And this boisterous denial of aging, while a feeble tendril of denying mortality, is the PITS for every beholder.

David Bowie (née Jones, it's been suggested), recently 65, had always conducted himself relatively honorably in this realm. He continued to have things like ideas, and when that wasn’t the case, he had the decency and good sense to run off and be in a play or what have you.

In 2002, however, he wrote a song entitled “Never Get Old.” I’ve never heard the song, but I was around near the time of its composition, and I believe that there was even talk of "Never Get Old" being the album’s title. Anyway, I have read the lyrics, and it’s self-aware and all that, but I can’t help but feel critical toward his even suggesting such a trite, stale idea. Just think of the ways in which the world could experience incalculable betterment with an attitude shift as represented by a song called “Get Old.”

Yes. Get the fuck OLD. Be as excited about turning 61 as you were about turning 7. Of course, you’re still able to be you—even more so, actually, now that you’re not trying to magically transcend the aging process.  

So, have a wonderful day becoming old, please. I will, starting now. Or then, I mean. Meant.

Watch and Observe

I have allowed my slothful typing skills to deter my posting to this blog. Also, the fact that my computer is captive to a nearby computer-repair store. But, it is no longer a single shit that I give about any of that.  

How does a person curry favor with the cosmos? I'm speaking in terms of climate. This winter, a brutal and surreal creature, has fragmented us, kinda. We're still very much ourselves and everything, but that's just such an unsettled milieu. In order to like winter, I think that we'd have to sacrifice all of the parts of ourselves that are unique and beautiful at the altar of some allegorical Voldemort. Our disdain for cold just means that we should fucking move. (It's not as if anyone would issue sincere protestation.) I tire of being jubilant when the weather doesn't punish me. I prefer nice things and nice people, and I really couldn't care less about what that makes me.

Sakes alive, have I ever digressed! The true identity of this posting is positive indeed, and I will prove it.

I HAVE WORK! Yes! Writing and editing and omg! From home!

WE HAVE OIL! It's mindblowing and miraculous. Molly and I have resolved already not to repeat this humiliating hand-to-mouth next year, by way of situating ourselves in a considerably milder place.

DESMOND AND IVOR ARE AWESOME!  Caught on tape, for all to enjoy, is their cooking program. It's posted on here somewheres via that link. As my beyond-awesome mother says, "Watch and observe."

http://s1204.photobucket.com/albums/bb411/mrfyfitz/February%20Love/?action=view&current=SAM_8069.mp4

Declining (in order) to Explain

2/5/2011, 4:25 PM

Ha!


February says that. It awakens me daily.

Mother Nature has undertaken a convincing portrayal of a redneck at a sports bar after his team loses and he discovers that an anonymous party has done something damaging to his truck.

I refer to myself unreservedly as "a fairweather friend." I'm very sad that I live in such a cold place. Isn't there some kind of natural law that at least suggests a need for the relationship between organism and environment to be free of adversarial attrition? As we await a winter deposit of all-too-typically colossal magnitude, it brings me dismay that people have evolved at all. I am sadder still that tenets of our evolution as a species essentially sanction delusion. People should just... I don't know. Only one force can abet my navigating this mock-polar grumpiness with anything approaching success. Whatever Man.


I'm sorry that I haven't been blogging, but I haven't been able to pony up the $255 to retrieve my computer. My apologies. I hope that everybody is well. Love, Benb xoxoxoxoxoxo