I'm wearing 29 like it's going out of style.

That's it.  I've wiped my hands of it.  I'm done with it and I'm not looking back.  28 can kiss my ass goodbye.  What the hell good did it do me anyway, besides getting me that much closer to 29?  And now it's just a slippery slide down to 30.  Sneaky bastard, 28.  You told me we were in it together, until the end.  And then you go and ditch me, like last year's birthday.  You lying sack of 365 days,  I didn't much care for you anyways!

So, dammit, it's my birthday.  Birthmorn.  Technically I don't know exactly what time I was born off of the top of my ever-graying head, but it happened on the 22nd of December.  And as of now it's sometime past midnight, making it that fated day, that glorious day, that day that the collective spirit of the World expressed some flatulence that coalesced into the form of the skinny kid that became the slightly less skinny kid that is me. 

It's my birthday!  I'm 29. Correction:  I have completed 29 years of life and am now barreling one minute at a time into my 30th year.  I'm well on my way.  I'm already stacking up the seconds that will inexorably pile up into the minutes that will callously add into the hours that will shamelessly become the 365 days (already less than 365 days as I type) that will make me 30 years old.  

Eek!

It's not really that big of a deal, I suppose.  They say that you are really only as old as you feel.  And though I don't know what credentials gives "them" the right to say the things that "they" say, I feel that there's a kernel of truth to that.  I really do believe that how you approach life truly affects your mental health, directly affecting your physical health.  And reader, if you know me then you know that I am far from "adult," far from sophisticated, far from bitter, jaded, or malcontent.  If you know me then you know that I like a good laugh.  You know that I like to play pranks.  You know that, despite the fact that I am clothed, not cloven hooved, and missing some horns and a pan flute, that I much relate to that merry-making, ne'er-do-well, demi-god, Pan himself.  You know, therefore, that I am a soul that is out to suck the marrow out of life and to enjoy, or at least appreciate, every last moment. 

So here I am, barely 29, already contemplating 30, and yet still quite youthful in spirit (not that 29 is old by any means.  Far from it!).  I'm consistently told that I don't quite look my age, that I appear to be on the younger end of the 20th decade of my life.  And this, I think, is directly related to that youthful spirit.  I'm constantly amazed by people that I meet that are younger than me, and yet appear years my senior.  Their relatively few years hang on their faces as a mask of a short life of stress and unhappiness.  And though I know that I have been blessed with a fairly good lot in life, and have therefor had more to smile about and less to frown over, I know that these lawyers, stock brokers, and otherwise prosperous folks could find more to be happy about in their lives.  Life, after all, really is just one large prank.  We start in diapers, spend a lifetime of living, loving, and learning, gaining wisdom and experience, only to end back up in diapers.  Show me the justice of that.  So what else can we do but laugh?  Laugh through life, enjoy your good health while you have it, and don't waste time allowing the small things to affect you so much that your youth is taken from you prematurely.  

So as I sit in this coffee shop, watching the skiers go by (it's been snowing for well over a week in Portland, and we now have over a foot of snow) down the street, on this, my birthday, I'm forced to reconcile with 29.  Maybe we can be friends.  Maybe we can learn to live with each other, 29 and I.  Maybe 29 won't be so ready to abandon me to 30 the way that 28 left me for 29.  Or then again, maybe I should just preemptively make peace with 30 and hope that it'll put in a good word for me with 31.  

Regardless, it's my birthday.  I just hope that the cake doesn't melt under all of those candles.  

Santa! I've beaten your game...

Kids need a reason to behave.  God knows that I did.  Well, I still do.  But fortunately, or not, I have responsibilities like a gargantuan (for a lowly dj such as myself) rent to keep me from straying too far into a delinquent lifestyle.  But regardless of my criminal tendencies, the fact remains that most people are, at their essence, good.  And there are reasons for their better-than-my-own behavior.  Some call it religion.  Some call it the village raising a child.  My communications professor would call it a transference of culture.  Southerners call it "I'm gonna learnya a lesson!"  I call it Santa.  

Santa, that bearded, jolly, gift-giving symbol of "behave, or else!"  Santa, that self-appointed judge and jury of who's naughty and who's nice, that fodder for children's stories, that deceptively like-able fellow who has the final say over whether or not you receive gifts or a stocking full of coal...  Who gave you that power anyways, fat guy?

For ages this over weight candidate for a heart-attack has been the symbol of what kept most kids in line throughout the year.  Want that new huffy bike?  Better keep your grades up!  Love that new Clay Aiken CD?  Keep being nice to your lecherous little sister!  Want to get a hold of that Wii?  Better stop stealing valium from mommy!  Have your eye on that shiny new Red Rider Bee-bee gun?  Ah!  You'll shoot your eye out, kid!  

The idea of Santa keeping an eye on each and everyone of us, tirelessly catching all of our wrong-doings, and all of our rights, is sinisterly reminiscent of 1984 and Big Brother, The Lord of the Rings and the Eye of Sauron, the Smurfs and Gargamel.  Ok, maybe not that latter, but you get my meaning.  Santa represents the idea of an omniscient being with the power to rip away the joy from the most important day in a kids life and replace it with a dirty sock full of coal.  

Now, despite the overall tone thus far of this posting, I'd like to submit that I am a complete sap when it comes to Christmas.  Hard to believe! I know.  But the truth of the matter is that I own Holiday Inn, White Christmas, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Elf, A Christmas Story, Charlie Brown's Christmas, The Grinch, and Polar Express.  Yes, I'm a complete cheese-ball.  Go ahead and yuck it up.  But here's the thing:  I love the spirit of Christmas.  I love the idea of spreading unconditional love, joy, peace, and happiness.  I love the damned sappiness of the cheesiest of Christmas songs (with the exception of Last Christmas, by Wham!.  Want to see that vein on my forehead stick out and throb?  Play that song.  I dare you.  I'll show Santa naughty...).  But, more than anything else, even more than the well being of my own ego, most of what I love about Christmas is my family.  And I love what Christmas stands for, in the context of family.  In essence, I do love Christmas.  Hell, I'm writing this blog by the lights of my Charlie-Brown-esque Christmas tree that I picked out from the field myself! (my friend Robin likened the chopping of the little guy to an abortion.  How's that for holiday cheer?) 

So why the tirade against Jolly Ol' St. Nick?  To be honest, I have no good reason except for my own misgivings for having played by his rules for so long.  Why, in the name of Pete (who is this Pete guy anyways?), would I waste so many opportunities for misguided, good-old-fashioned fun, just to appease the Christmas Dictator?  Why did I pass up all of those terribly tempting opportunities for mischief?  For stuff!  That's why!  I wanted stuff.  And what do we do when we want stuff in America?  We get it.  Just ask all of those McDonald-eating, Judge Judy-watching, I-got-into-a-car-wreck-and-want-my-money-now patriotic souls what we do when we want stuff.  We get it.  And ironically, somehow Santa is where it all starts.

So what do I say to you, Big Guy?  Here's what:  One full year, 365 days and nights, full of all the trouble my twisted brain can think of is well worth that measely, dirty, dingy, stinky stocking full of coal (I'll sell it to the train yard) that you give me in return.  

I'm going to Vegas.

Apropos of nothing...

It's been well over two weeks, and this poor blog space has suffered nary a note, a sentence, nor a scrawl from my hands.  If this blog were a pet, surely it would have long since passed and would be now well on it's way to an olfactory nightmare.  It's a good thing that I don't treat my cat the way that I treat this blog.  But nevertheless, I've neglected you, dear blog, and all of the opportunity with which you present me.  I'll try to be a better parent from now on.

To be quite honest, when I started this blog I carried in this hollower-than-most skull of mine fairly lofty ideals of what this blog would be.  I envisioned cutting edge commentary,  I imagined discourse that would be somewhat dangerous, terribly un-politically correct, yet informed and valid enough as to be un-ignorable.  I aimed to create a space that was controversial enough to spark an internal debate, if not a full-on cyber battle.  In the least, I hoped to avoid grammatical errors and obvious misspellings.  Sadly, I've failed.  

Mostly two months into my endeavors and all I've to show of my hopes and dreams of an online literary revolution is a couple of postings about an issue or two that were on my mind at the time, and not exactly new ideas. To be quite honest, I'm fairly disappointed in myself.  I have always wanted to write, have only ever wanted to write about what interests me (i.e., not school assignments, with the rare exception of a few), and now have an outlet in which to do so.  And what do I do with that outlet?  Why, ignore it of course!  Allow it to sit, unattended, collecting virtual dust and cobwebs, and hardly inciting any riots.    

Now, granted, I have numerous obligations in the form of a full time job (nothing noteworthy to write about there), part time schooling (a degree in communications is something that gets my juices flowing, but usually those juices are directed into papers), and a couple of DJing gigs a week that presently aren't much worth writing about.  After these few obligations have consumed whatever time it is that they require, I typically am wanting nothing more than a night at home with a good dinner that I've made for myself, a glass (or nine) of wine, and a decent netflix provided distraction.  If I'm feeling particularly sassy for my old age (I'll be 29 next month!) then I'll find myself out with some friends, tossing down a beer (or nine).  

So where does one find the time to blog??

You know, this isn't even so much of an issue of time.  I realize that part of the problem is that there is a lack of an actual problem, some sort of drama worth writing about, or political upheaval.  I'm just too damned content!  Even in my struggles, I am aware of the value of struggle, and am not fired up enough to find myself needing an outlet with which to vent.  The few occasions that may inspire some truly noteworthy venting are usually of too personal a nature and may involve others whom I don't wish to involve in my blogging venture.  

So where does this leave me?  Think Seinfeld.  Think a blog about nothing.  Think, in fact, about what you've been reading.  Instead of being fired up like a vengeful evangelist, spouting forth about fire and brimstone from my podium of this blog, I am now consuming your precious time, forcing you to read my writing about the fact that I have nothing really to write about.  But being that I have chosen to walk down a path of being an upstanding parent to my pet blog, I couldn't just leave it alone, shut out in the cold, wet Portland autumn.  I have taken the only option available to me, and have wrapped it in the loving warmth of my proverbial pen.  

Now go read something worthwhile.    

Edited to add:  A dear friend who actually inspired the title for this posting suggested that I use the random rants that she is periodically forced to listen to over lunch as fodder for future blogs.  So stay tuned, dear reader, for postings with marginally more content...

Separation of Church and State?

Unless you're a complete moron you are aware that we now have a new President-elect. The first black man to ever be elected to the most powerful office in the world, a true sign that this country may not be as much of a waste of stolen land as I was beginning to fear. Or it may just be a sign of desperation.

Days before the election I received an email from a family member with the subject line of "Who Jesus would vote for." Here are a few excerpts from the email:

Jesus is against welfare (the church should provide for people's needs).
2 Thessalonians 3:10 For even when we were with you, this we commanded you, that if any would not work, neither should he eat.

Jesus would not vote for anyone who has interests in other religions besides Christianity.
John 14:6 Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.

Jesus is not tolerant of the homosexual lifestyle.
Romans 1:27-28 And in the same way the men gave up the natural use of the woman and were burning in their desire for one another, men doing shame with men, and getting in their bodies the right reward of their evil-doing. And because they had not the mind to keep God in their knowledge, God gave them up to an evil mind, to do those things which are not right...

Jesus would not vote according to his "pocketbook."
1 Timothy 6:10 For the love of money is a root of all kinds of evil. Some people, eager for money, have wandered from the faith and pierced themselves with many griefs.
Philippians 4:19 But my God shall supply all your need according to his riches in glory by Christ Jesus.

For some Christians this email would be a very powerful message. They might believe that their vote should indeed reflect these statements and the supporting evidence. But as a scholar-in-training of communications, I am reminded of the meaning of all words and sentences with relation to their context. Take the political campaign for example. Both candidates took snippets of their opponents' statements, took them out of context of what may have truly been said, and then "spun" them to create a meaning to serve their own purpose. Have a view of the video of McCain below for a quick example. Essentially, words, and often times a full sentence, have no true meaning outside of the context in which they originated.

My point is that, given enough time and motivation, I could pull up enough quotes from the Bible to make one hell of a campaign for Barack Obama if I chose. It would be a simple matter to find a couple of sentences that, possibly taken out of their context, would prove without a shadow of a doubt Jesus's support of homosexuality. And, unless my Sunday School teachers were lying to me year after year, and if memory serves, Jesus was the first true Socialist. Did he not ask for those of wealth to distribute that wealth among the poor? Are not the meek destined to inherit the Earth? And are these not ideas that violate any Republican's ideas of fiscal policy? And, yet, are not the great majority of Republicans quite typically the more conservative of Christians? I'd like to pose to them a question:  What would Jesus do?

When Bush was elected into his second term of office, I remember someone very close to me saying that it was God's will. This was said very much in a celebratory manner, not in the way one might make this statement if you were to lose a family member. This was a praise and an offer of thanks for God working his way in our lives. And I remember my incredulity. To me, if we are speaking in a religious context, I would have given this credit to the folly of Man.  Did God not give us a choice between Good and Evil?  Does not God allow suffering? Does not God allow murder? Does not God allow recessions? Could this, then, not be more of the same? But since then, I've considered another option.  I've come to view the big picture, what might be God's scheme. And, true to form (this is God we're talking about here) it's quite ingenious. Here it is:

When did any of us think that we could expect to see an African American elected as President? Four years ago, what would have been the chances of such an event actually occurring? What exactly would it take to get the majority of Americans to not just see beyond color, but to see beyond a Muslim name in the aftermath of 9/11 and Iraq? Enter G. W. Bush. Enter 8 years of the most inadequate President ever to set foot in the Oval Office. Enter the necessary cancer of our great country to make us all desperate enough to do what many of us would never have dreamed possible. And so God set the stage of a desperate America, praying for change.  Enter then Barack Obama.  And this is God's plan.  This is why God allowed our country to go to shit.  And now I am a believer.

An explanation to a common question: Where did my accent get to????

When I tell people that I am from South Carolina, lived there for the majority of my life (22 years of it), and have only been in the NW for 6 years, invariably the first question out of peoples' mouths is to query why I have no accent.  I usually give a quick explanation as to my own theories, not wanting to bore anybody with a long discussion into identity and how we perceive ourselves.  But I figure that now that I have my very own blog, and that all of you are so terribly addicted to reading the pearls of wisdom that I choose to place here, that now is a good time to bore you.  

It might also have something to do with the fact that I'm taking an Intercultural Communications class at the moment, and all of this has been terribly relevant to my studies therein.  It may also have something to do with the fact that I've spent 8 hours out of today, and five from the day prior, studying for a midterm and now I can't get out of the habit of thinking in these terms.  So maybe a glass of wine and some free-association will be the prescription to cure me of this scholastic thinking so that I might go to bed dreaming of all of the glorious Halloween costumes I witnessed this weekend.  

But I digress.

South Carolina is a beautiful state.  South Carolina boasts some of the most extensive history in this, relatively speaking, very young country.  South Carolina possesses some very unique culture.  South Carolina is consistently at the bottom of the barrel in SAT scores and overall education.  Here lies my problem.  

I was blessed to be raised by two very intelligent and open-minded people (at first, and then there were two more added on in the form of step-parents of equal mind and mentality).  I was taught a deep empathy for people as a whole, despite race, religion, ethnicity, and gender.  I was raised with a mind held open to perceive the world outside of the Country that I have never left, and outside of the state that I spent the majority of my time.  I was given the benefit of being able to choose for myself (with guidance and a whole lot of punishment if I chose wrongly) what was right and what was wrong.  The product of all of this being the clever, free-thinking, charismatic, charming, intelligent, and (above all) humble creature whose written words you do so take pleasure in.  In short, I am many of the things that, in my mind (and this is entirely a subjective submission), are quite opposite of the majority of South Carolina.  And please understand that I know quite well that this does not go for the entirety of the state, and than I am more than likely wrong (please refer to the very first posting on this entire blog).  But in all honesty, the areas outside the cities (all three or four of them) are like pockets that time forgot.  They are racially charged, culturally challenged, and sorely uneducated.  

When I moved to Portland I knew that my life needed experiences beyond what I could receive living in South Carolina.  I knew that traveling wouldn't be enough.  And when I arrived here my suspicions were confirmed.  For whatever reasons, my mind had locked onto all of the negative aspects of the South that I perceived.  When I turned on the news there, it always seemed as though they found the most ignorant, toothless, backwards fool they could muster to give some opinion about whatever story they were covering.  And for whatever reason, the Southern accent always seemed most pronounced in these people.  And lets be honest, this isn't exactly the Queen's English that you're hearing there. 

I posit that somewhere in my devious subconscious I linked the Southern accent with all of the things that I saw wrong with the South.  In my mind it became a stigma of all that I didn't want to be, or didn't want to be associated with.  And because of this, I made a subconscious but complete effort to rid myself of this telltale trademark of being a Southerner.  

I do want to take a moment (or an inch of virtual space) to make clear that the South is not a Bad Place.  The South has so much to be proud of:  An ocean warm enough to swim in, the Outer Banks, Key West, Miami, New Orleans, Charleston and Savannah, cyprus trees, Gullah, the Appalachian Mountains (an area that will forever possess a piece of my imagination), Mammoth Caves, and the Mississippi River.  These are just a small fraction of what comes to mind.  There is a great deal about the South that is remarkably unique and that you could never find anywhere else in the world.  But I, for some reason, have chosen a personal identity that does not fit with much of the mindsight that I find there.  And since living in Portland, the differences have become glaring, like night and day, white and black, or Santa Clause and John McCain (I don't know, I said free-association didn't I??  And lets not forget the wine...). 

Essentially, the skinny of it is that because I wanted to assert this identity, one that is not racist, does not fear homosexuality or gay marriage, does not subscribe to a fundamental Christian belief system (though I do love God), and does not fear the unknown.  I wanted to distance myself from what I saw (whether right or wrong) as the regional embodiment of all that I disagreed in and found to be currently wrong with our Country.  

So there you have it folks!  The not-so-short of it, the explanation that I never fully gave, here for your viewing, cursing, criticizing, or ignoring pleasure.  

Where did the good music go?

This little rant may not be as light-hearted as anything preceding it, but it is most certainly relevant to the current state of affairs in our economy, and how it is affecting the lowly DJ.

I've been behind turntables for about 10 years now. I've had some highs and some lows, some incredibly busy seasons, and some really lame and discouraging times. Within in the last three to four years, however, I've always had at least one (sometimes two or three) place to play really great music at once a week. Not surprisingly, as the economy has taken a downward turn, these events have been drying up, one at a time, and with a greater momentum. So far, as one falls off, I've managed to find something to replace it. But as the options of venues become slimmer, the outlook becomes grimmer.

Another trend that I began to notice within the last year is an entirely new species of promoter and club goer that, until recently, has remained more in the mainstream clubs, and less within the environs of the four-on-the-floor aficionados. These characters seem to me to be entirely out of place in a scene that has always, for me, been baggy panted kids, complete music geeks, and those who were just too down to earth to get caught up in anything else; i.e., not the typical LA/Vegas imitators who have recently made their way into this genre of music.

The best DJ's that I have always known have been utterly geeky, completely eccentric, goofy as hell (me?), or just plain social misfits. Now the DJ's that I'm seeing invade my town are sporting fake tans, pluck their eyebrows, spike the ever living hell out of their hair, and where Prada shades while spinning. These alone aren't necessarily characteristics to judge a person on, but the impression that I have been overwhelmingly getting is that these DJ's are DJ's, not because of some geeky love for a wholly mathematically based music that they became obsessed with when sitting at home on Friday nights in high school because they were never invited to go out anywhere, but because the DJ is the new supposed "rockstar." There is a glamour to being a DJ in a super club in a city like Vegas, LA, or Miami that some of these clowns decided that they wanted a part of.

The result is a loss of quality of music and attention to detail.

All I want, all I've ever wanted as a DJ, is to have a place where I can play the music that when I hear it, it literally causes me to close my eyes in pure passion.  I want a place where I can go to play these tunes for people that really want to hear them, so that when they hear it, they close their eyes and dance.  I want a place of quality, with quality music, and quality people, who aren't there to snort coke, look cool, and dance to music they don't give two shits about, just so they can hopefully score that night.  These places in Portland are few, and dwindling quickly.  

A YouTube video I found to be funny...

I blog, therefore I am?

So, after an inordinately long period of time (like, a week) of thinking about starting my own blog, here it finally is, in all of it's unprecedented glory.  Now, if you're expecting something informative and parallel with the times, then I am afraid that you might be looking in the wrong place.  

Here's what you can expect from this blog in the future: updates on any travels, whether they be music related or not; random, and not so random thoughts that come to mind; and the periodic comment on the current state of political affairs and the efforts of two robots doing their damnedest to get elected as the Presidential Robot.  

I am no expert in any field, so if this blog sounds well informed, it's purely out of chance.  If you find yourself reading this blog, I imagine that will be purely out of chance.  In short, it's only through the grace of my abnormally large ego that I even entertain the idea that any of you will read these words.  But if you do, all the better.  

Now, until I actually have something worth saying...