The tip...

It's hard to think about tipping waiters and not to think about that most famous discourse of tip etiquette by none other than George Castanza... I don't even know if I spelled that right. As far as tipping goes, I tend to be generous.... that way, if the waiter/waitress did well, they get what they deserve, and if not, they hopefully will be burdened with shame and try to do better... What more can I say than that? This could have been better, but what can you do when you are unmotivated?

The Wandering Host of Heaven

So I am a little irked as I write this post... last night I managed to do something amazing, as is my wont, and quickly realized once again that no one really cares, making it as if I never did anything at all. Now don't get me wrong, I am not one of those people who feels that if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, that it doesn't make a sound. In fact, I do battle with relativists on a pretty regular basis. It's interesting to me that in spite of all my efforts to be confrontational, I am constantly in danger of falling into oblivion. Last night clearly illustrates this point. After work, I had nothing to do, so I dedicated myself to my music (unfortunately some chronically reoccuring injuries have largely kept me from playing guitar, so it was more programming.) I am currently composing an experimental piano album that will largely be instrumental. I started doing it by accident, having been inspired by the work that my brother has done. It is a story album, concerned with the relationship of the moon to the end of the world. Right now, the title that I have come up with is Wrath Enough to Silence the World. To my point, last night I wrote another song for it, which I feel turned out quite well. Almost immediately I wanted to share what I had done with other people so as to see if the song was as good as I thought. I made my roomate listen to it once, which almost seemed like as if he felt it was akin to torture... Then I posted it on my band site on facebook and the various other places where I warehouse my music. The point is this, why is it such an imposition to share music with other people?? I pretty much have to call up all the social capital I can muster just to get those closest to me to listen to what I have done. Which makes me think, is it really that bad? Have I no taste in music? But then, in the same breath I watch people literaly throw themselves at other musicians, if only for the sake of being connected to the music scene. I have been to my share of concerts in this town, and I have not been impressed at all. It reminds me of when I used to play at Jimbo's Bike and Coffee in Colorado... We would play original songs and what not, some were good, some were not... and then some olympic wrestler guy would go up and play lousy jack johnson covers and the girls would go wild. In this world, men are not judged by their works, so much as by their image... And I am getting really sick of it. One of these days I fear that I could find the cure for cancer and no one would bother to look into it because it came from me, and I have nothing to offer.

July the 3rd

I haven't written in a while, but today was a special day. July the 3rd, the day of silence... When I went to work today, it was as if the zombie holocaust had occured... three years ago. There was no one on campus. Just the occasional crying child and his/her BYU alumni parents admiring a statue of fake children... reminiscing (unboutably of that special time when children to them were about as real as the lifeless sculptured depictions that they are now staring at with almost idyllic fondness) Anyways, zombies and children aside, I made it to work and luckily had someone to talk to. On my way home, I made several stops, but thanks to technology, I didn't have to talk to anyone, and thanks to a public holiday, I couldn't pay my rent. The rest of the day was spent in an eerie silence. No one was home in my apartment, or in the complex for that matter. Furthermore, my roomate disabled the sound on the tv somehow, and so there was no hope of any virtual company. Days like this really make you think... about life in a post apocalyptic nightmare world where not even robots will be your friend... though at least they won't try to eat you, which is an unfortunate consequence of socializing with zombies.

Lucky Charms

There are few things as lucky as a shiny silver and green turtle... or so I was led to believe by Brittany at the hospital gift store... now, I am not so sure, yet still confidant in the nominal powers of trinkets to affect a lasting change in the world. Incidentally, that is why I eat Lucky Charms day after day... it is the only FDA approved method of ingesting shamrocks... and what could be more lucky than that? I had a lucky shamrock once that my band teacher had given me from Ireland. I kept it in a jar, hoping that it would grow... This must have been an unlucky shamrock, because it ended up getting eaten by our cat, who was then hit by a car (not lucky.) That is where karma comes in, sometimes it doesn't matter how lucky you are, there is no way to turn your luck around

Is this a joke?

Or maybe I should ask, are you a joke? because you sure aren't funny... that is the typical problem that I face. It seems that I am constantly forced to perform like a circus in order just to keep myself entertained. Left to their own devices, people can be quite boring... often letting their conversations drift in a downwards direction until before you know it, they are talking about UPS benefits. Now I know, what could be more funny than guys driving around in short shorts all months of the year right? Wrong, it seems whenever UPS is mentioned, I am one of the very few capable of making that connection and therefore enjoying whatever humour that can be had from guys dressed up like the hot cops. Sadly, the common man (whatever that means here, because trust me, these people are anything but typical,) has great difficulty seeing anything funny about the men and women in brown, and would rather discuss the alledgedly amazing benefits package that these daring heroes recieve for their incredible work. Needless to say, after several failed attempts to save the conversation and avoid utterly wasting my time, I had to bail on that sinking ship, by which I mean run out of the room screaming. I learned a lot that day about boring people... like, they are everywhere, and no, they are not your friends... also, they have a thing for bagel pizzas.

God Save the Romans

In the sixth century, the Emperor Heraclius mobilized his people in a desperate attempt to save the empire from a massive Persian/Avar/Slavic invasion that threatened it's ruin. Imprinted on coins made from the melted down treasures donated by the church, Heraclius inscribed the phrase, 'God Save the Romans,' knowing that only divine help could rescue his people from certain calamity. After years of fighting, Heraclius was able to defeat the Persians and drive them out as if by a miracle, only to watch the Empire fall apart only a few years later from the Arab invasions. So it is with life, one disaster preceding the next as the inexorable decrees of fate exert their will upon us mortals. In our moment of greatest need what can we say, having done all that we know how, except "may God save us..."

Home Is Where Your Heart Is

Ever since man left his cave... he has wondered why. Think about it... what could be more perfect than a nice and cozy little cave? I'm sure if Thomas Kinkade knew anything about anything, he would have started painting caves years ago, and not just in caves. Anyways, some might say that housing has come a long way since then. In ancient Rome, multistory shanty tenements held individual cell like cloisters filled with people and rats, but strangely no cave paintings. Luckily Nero burned down the city so that he could build his Domus Aurelius and blame it on the Christians. Now Nero's house had style, who could live without a collosal golden statue of one's self to greet visitors, or an artificial lake in the backyard? Jealous of Nero's crib, Vespasian eventually tore it down like a sore loser, and now the only way to get to it is to go underground through the grottos. How fitting that the greatest house ever built eventually became a dank, dark, dreary, cozy little cave. Our current housing market could definately learn from this... much as colonel Sanders did, and start building underground houses next door so that our chauffers can live in them.