Tis the Season for Innuendo

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Scentsicles.  That’s what I thought it said when I walked by the sign in the Michael’s Craft store. I have penchant for misreading signs so I walked back to take a look at what it really said.

But that’s what it really said. Scentsicles. I looked it up. It’s a real product. It’s a scented stick you hide in decorations or ornaments to deliver appropriate holiday waftings. I suppose the “sicle” part refers to popsicle or icicle. Clever enough.

I am sorry though, when I saw Scentsicle I did not think popsicle. I thought something else. I am not the only one who thought something else. You don’t want to think these things but sometimes you do.

It’s not entirely my fault. These marketing people have to think these ideas through. Sure it’s a clever play on words but you got to think about people like me. I am defenseless against such acts of ill-thought and ill-fraught word play.

The idea of scenting things up is nothing new. You didn’t need to create such a tantalizing word to sell it.

I’ve been guilty of scenting things up and I didn’t need a fancy word to do it. I remember in high school my friends and I scented up a friend’s car by pouring a twelve ounce tester of Chaz cologne into the heating vents in the dead of winter. If I recall correctly he thanked us with some appropriately themed word play. But they weren’t the kinds of words you used to sell smelly sticks.

Anyway, all I know is I don’t want any Scentsicles shoved in my garlands or wreaths. What would the neighbors think?

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Romantic Reanimation

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Whether I was born a romantic is hard to say. I am pretty sure I knew this by the time I was five. How I knew I could not say since the word “romantic” had surely not entered my vocabulary at that point.

I am not necessarily referring to the ideas of romantic love (though I am sure I have had some of those) but more to the romantic philosophies of the likes of Keats and Shelley whose poetry had an emphasis on the imagination and emotions and a predilection for melancholy, among other qualities. Perhaps some would call it idyllic without being sentimental, if that is possible.

I am not currently a practicing romantic. I see that as a problem.

The world, you see, over time beat it out of me. Granted the world wasn’t entirely to blame for my naiveté and over sensitivity.

The world also wasn’t to blame for my faulty belief that if I gave out romanticism I would get it back. And perhaps worse yet  that if I gave I should receive. Naiveté on full display. My ill-practiced romanticism was crushed over and over again. Understandably so.

It took a long, long time to realize that if romanticism was going to be rewarding it also had to be altruistic. You have to practice it without expectation of reward. You cannot hand control of what makes you happy to someone else. You cannot be apologetic for it. That will not do.

I knew this. Really I did. I had just never applied it to my dormant romantic spirit.

Now to come to this epiphany is well and good but figuring out how to reanimate a crushed spirit is a trickier proposition. Where is Dr. Frankenstein when I need him? Where will I find that lightning bolt?

Perhaps Jake Bugg Knows.

Lightning Bolt.

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Just One Little Thing

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It was awful. The character’s accent. It was so bad it ruined the whole movie.

To be fair, I know accents are not easy. Especially in English language movies whose characters would not be actually speaking English.

But the accent was awful and made the acting seem even more awful and each scene with that character doubly awful and topped off with this character appearing in every other scene. It was awful.

Funny how sometimes one little thing can ruin something much larger, whether in the movies or other art of life as a whole. It doesn’t always happen. Art and life are filled with errors and inconsistencies that are, well, just life.

I recently read a book that I really enjoyed. I thought it was inventive and well-constructed. It was set in 19th century France. A light-hearted and comedic period piece. Except that the author thought he needed to use the word “boink” when referring to characters’ having sex. I know it’s a comedy but “boink” was so out of place it shocked me (not in a prudish way) every time I came across it. I had to work to let it go.

Or like being at a concert and the patron behind you is overly effusive or unaware his or her dialog can be heard by everyone around them. I mean the actual duration of the annoyances probably only last two minutes over a two hour concert. But each two second infraction becomes more and more annoying.

Almost neurotically so. I’m not generally a nit-picky person. I don’t go looking for flaws. But sometimes they just find you. Well, I suppose these events teach us and give us opportunity to learn to let go. Just breathe.

But little things can be good too.  One minor character can make a whole movie worth seeing. That happens to me a lot. Like the scene stealer in an otherwise average movie. Makes you smile. Makes it memorable. Sometimes saves the whole thing.

Or a line or section in a song. Sometimes just one phrase or small series of notes lights up the whole song. I have songs where I am just waiting for that moment to happen. Sometimes if I am distracted during the song and miss the key part, I’ll rewind it. It’s what makes the song all worth it.

Perhaps for each of those occasional little things that get to me that I cannot seem to control, I need to actively look for those little things that make me smile. Who’s in charge of my brain anyway? I’d like to think it was me. I think I’ll go work on that.

 

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The Truth, She Hurts

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Self-referentiality. While one can hardly avoid it when writing a blog about one’s thoughts, I usually try to avoid writing about writing. And unless it’s a self-help article on writing, I don’t like to read writers writing about being a writer.

Now don’t be alarmed, writers. I also don’t like rock songs that go on about being rock stars. Rest assured though that one song or article does not incline me to dislike an artist.

Having said that I am going to be self-referential to my own writing in direct contradiction to my own rules, which is perhaps the subliminal reasoning for inserting the caveat in the previous paragraph. This is also in line with my passion for not following rules, even my own.

I was Stumbling through the Internet the other day and came across a writing style analyzer. The claim of the analyzer was that it would analyze a sample of your writing and tell you which established author you write like.

The analyzer claimed to use sentence constructions and vocabulary and such to make the comparison. I laughed when I saw it and so thought I would play along. I grabbed a recent blog entry and pasted into the analyzer. Now I don’t know that there is any validity to the method or even any real science to the method. I am sure there could be. Not sure that it matters.

So badda bing badda boom. I pushed analyze.

And my writing soul mate is: David Foster Wallace.

Another snorted laugh. You see David Foster Wallace (recently deceased) was most famous for his novel “Infinite Jest.” He was also a noted writer of shorter fiction and writing professor of some repute. Very highly regarded by the literary community.

The funny part is this: I hate “Infinite Jest.”

Now maybe hate is too strong a word so let’s say I am extremely not impressed by it. The book had a lot going for it before I read it. It was highly acclaimed and many people had recommended the book to me. I even tried to like it through three readings. I think it was only the second book I have ever thrown across a room. I could go on for days about it but that’s not the point here.

What is the point here? I suppose I am trying to learn something here. I remember in high school my English teacher indicated I wrote like Margaret Mitchell. I had no idea what to do with that having never read “Gone with the Wind,” but I am sure it was meant as an encouragement.

Now some Internet writing analyzer has compared my writing to one of the few books I have ever really disliked.

What? Have I become what I hated? Have I become my worst nightmare?  There are serious psychological forces at play here. This could force me to question everything about myself and about my writing. It’s like asking the Oracle to show you your future and then really regretting it.

One things appears certain though: the Infinite Jest is clearly on me.

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Fueling Change with Chocolate

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Habits require rewards. Incentives to engage in the habit, good habits.

That’s what I learned from the book “The Power of Habit.” So I didn’t make this stuff up.

Being a get-to-the-point kind of guy, I looked at the three components of a habit (cue, routine, reward) and skipped to the end.

Reward. What’s my reward? Isn’t that what’s it’s all about? I want to know what I’m going to get out of this. And yes, establishing the habit is important too. But really there was no point in moving on if I didn’t know what I was going to get.

I’m an adult (or at least technically not a child). I can pick whatever reward I want.

Obviously the reward must be within reach. I can’t be flying off to Paris every time I finish a work out.

Chocolate. That was the first thing that popped into my head.  I finish my routine. I get chocolate. It’s almost the perfect reward for me.

Why? Well, because I am almost always craving it. It’s almost always satisfying. It’s accessible and affordable.

Now the problem with chocolate is that I often use it to get energized as well: nothing like endorphins, sugar and caffeine to get you going.

But perhaps that is too much chocolate. That’s crazy talk. Done. Chocolate is officially one of my rewards.

Of course, if I eat too much chocolate it might be counter-productive to establishing the working out habit. But I would probably eat the chocolate anyway so I think I am safe.

But are there other rewards I should explore? Never hurts to have a variety. Maybe something without calories.

Well, I like going to the sauna. That would be a good reward for completing my desired habit. Though going to the sauna can take some effort and might need to be turned into a habit. Can you use one habit to reward another habit? Can you stack habits?

My whole day could be a series of stacked habits all culminating in getting the chocolate. I could get so much done.  It would have to be a lot of chocolate though.

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The Moment Left in the Cold

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She knows it’s cold. The snow is falling and the wind is blowing. She is bundled head to toe in good winter gear.

Except for her hands. Her hands are bare. They must be bare. She needs her electrically-charged hands to work her smart phone. Maybe her hands are cold. Maybe they are not.

She walks on. She is oblivious to the unshoveled snow on the sidewalk. She stops intermittently to stare at the smart phone screen even harder, perhaps the glaring brightness of the snow is affecting the visibility. Technology will not be denied.

A few weeks ago I saw a fellow riding his bicycle with no hands so he could smoke and view his smart phone at the same time. Around the same time I saw a young woman riding her bicycle but she had enough sense to have one hand on the handle bars as she stared at her smart phone. Though she was weaving so terribly I could hardly watch for fear of the accident waiting to happen.

I started thinking what ever happened to being in the moment. To just BE riding your bicycle. Or to just BE walking to the bus stop.

Then I thought maybe the definition of being in the moment needs to change. “Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?” comes to mind as I think this. I am sure there is a reason for this but the connection is fuzzy.

Perhaps being in the moment (I keep mistyping moment as monet as some sort of Freudian slip) needs to be more about being one with your technology, the technology that is now an extension of you. It’s the inevitable evolution of man and machine. The whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Being one with your technology is more important than being in tune with the mundane act of walking or riding a bicycle.

The fact that you even have to walk or ride your bicycle anywhere is lingering relic of old society. Perambulation will become obsolete so that in 20 years hipsters will return to it with their ever present quest to make the arcane cool.

I should write my prophetic near-future novel right now that I will name “Do Humans Dream of Perambulation?” A world where being in the moment will be something you need to escape. Is that future exhilarating or is it frightening?

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All These Little Things

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Many people have giving me this advice: Take pleasure in the little things.

I think it is good advice. I try to follow it. I find it’s profound advice about things that are not often in themselves particularly profound.

You smile at the child jumping in the puddle and then you laugh because there is a clearly frustrated parent a few feet away.

You clinch your fist and say “yes” when you flip the egg and the yoke doesn’t break.

You chuckle when you’re rushing to get ready in the morning and you have put two different shoes on.

You stop and say  “mmm” as you sip your hot tea with a splash of honey on a cold day. You know life is good.

You notice a curiously artsy pattern in the soap bubbles left when you drained the sink and wonder if Picasso was ever inspired by something so simple.

But then I discovered the Internet and wondered if I was misguided in following this advice. For there on the Internet I saw the exact opposite.

I see people take simple, little things and not seeing pleasure in them but instead injecting them with pain.

People apparently have heated arguments over what way the toilet paper roll is supposed to hang. And they apparently spend time being upset when the roll is not in the “correct” mode and heap scorn on those who do not wish to follow their protocol.

So many examples out there. You just have to start looking. It’s as if people have taken to noticing little details not to find pleasure but to find a chance to be “right.” These people are willing to sacrifice being happy for being right. And not just their happiness but yours. The small and brief boost to their egos is worth ruining any conversation just to be right, as if being right is such a simple thing to know.

And although this goes beyond ruining little things, it’s related enough to mention. I just wonder about people who feel the need to nitpick at technical “errors” in art.

My favorite was an exchange the other day I saw about a musical cover someone did on a solo instrument. First person: “That was just perfect. Loved it.” I presumed he meant it was wonderful experience. Second person: “Well, technically it wasn’t perfect.”

STFU! That’s what I have to say to that. Way to ruin a good moment.

Sorry people, art, just like life, isn’t about being perfect. And the more you view it that way the more unhappy you will be.

Not that your unhappiness is my concern, but you apparently feel the need to spread it. And that, however, is not cool.

Be happy.

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Be Vewy, Vewy Quiet, I‘m Hunting Solitude

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Elusive. That’s what solitude can be.

We all need some solitude.  Per psychologists solitude is a state of being alone without being lonely and is important for us to be able to explore our inner workings

What exactly constitutes being in solitude, though, probably differs for each of us. And getting people to understand we need solitude may be an even trickier topic and one for another day.

For some people solitude is exactly what it sounds like. A long walk in the woods. Sitting on the edge of a lake. Lounging in front of the fireplace. These are the more romantic notions. Sometimes it is simply being alone at home.

For me solitude is not being bothered. Not being bothered does not always require isolation but that’s good sometimes.

Sometimes solitude is being alone in a crowd. Like when I was at the art museum the other day. Lots of people were browsing about, but I was undisturbed, alone with my thoughts or the few that I was having anyway. Sometimes I looked at art.

Or when I was at the coffee shop today. Just sitting. Not being bothered. Had a book with me. Wasn’t reading it.

The not being bothered for me is key. When I am alone in a crowd, people bothering me is not an issue. I am pretty sure I have that “Don’t bother me” aura all over me.  The key is to not bother myself, which of course means no gadgets.

Background noise is OK. But no listening to music of my choosing. Just trying to be in the moment. Oh, and no TV either.

So then I can just think or ponder or self-reflect (though the self-reflect part doesn’t happen very often, though I suppose maybe it should). It’s not meditation. That’s different. This is just being solitary.

In this go go go world we probably need solitude more than ever and it is increasingly designed not to allow that.

You have to work for it. You have to choose it. Strangely enough you have to seek it out.

So be vewy quiet. The solitude is out there.

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There’s No Good Music Now Days

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You would think that there might an Internet Law #17 that states that any music found on the internet must include the comment “There’s no good music now days” or some other crude variation. The law is indiscriminate. The comments must appear on new music, old music, good music, bad music.

The comment can be made by old folks where it often comes off with a  “Kids these days” flavor. Or by younger posters trying to distance themselves from mainstream drivel: “I’m 17 and I love the Bay City Rollers. Justin Bieber couldn’t wash their bell bottoms.”

Now shame on me for reading Internet comments (my New Year’s resolution is to stop).

There are even people trying to make a living by expounding vociferously that all new music is bad.  I’m not sure what these gurus are listening too but I feel sorry that they cannot escape whatever tunnel of bad music they have descended into. Or they’re just bitter douche bags.

But either way the idea that there is no good new music is crap.

It may take some work but it’s out there. The challenge is probably more that there is so much out there it is overwhelming, and so much of it is obscured through the mainstream media fixation on a dozen artists and the pop music industrial complex.

So maybe it’s not all your fault you can’t find the good music out there. The needle in a haystack conundrum.

You need a guide. And you say there are already guides. Music magazines and websites that lead you to new possibilities based on your interests. The “you also might like” capability that is all over for any topic. That can be overwhelming as well but at least it’s a start.

Maybe you need a real guide, you know, a real person helping you. And you say, you mean like music reviewers?

And I say yes. Except that most music reviews I have read (and I certainly haven’t read them all) don’t’ really guide you very well.

The “reviews” are either too much about the artists or too much about the reviewer or too filled with insiders references or jargon that would make wine reviews seem clear. These can all be interesting reads but they seldom tell me whether I should bother listening to the band.

So I’ve devised a fool proof formula for evaluating bands that would be helpful for those looking for new music that doesn’t suck.

A good review can go above and beyond but must contain these key components:

  • Background on the band or band members. Why is this important? This provides context.
  • What does the band think they are trying to accomplish. Where do they succeed? Where do they fail? Why is this important? Context..
  •  What about this band might you like. Why is this important? It  focuses on what YOU like.
    • Corollary: If you like these other bands, you might like this band. The reverse of “you also might like.”
  • What about this band might you not like. Why is this important? Same as above.

And two parting pearls of wisdom to music reviewers:

  • The review isn’t about you.
  • Don’t judge music on what it is not.

That is all.

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Unicorn Peppered Bacon

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Has Mother Goose gone to the dark side? That was my first thought as I saw the grocery store sign out of the corner of my eye.

Has Mother Goose found a portal from fairy-tale land to Minneapolis? Is she trafficking in exotic meats? Or even other fairy tale delicacies, like mushrooms from beneath the Hookah Smoking Caterpillar or Miss Muffet’s whey or Three Bears Porridge? Will unicorns become extinct even in fairy-tale land?

I must admit that Mother Goose Meats and Purveyor of Rare Delicacies does have a good marketing ring to it. What magical things might Mother Goose procure? Jack’s Bean Dip, the infamous stone soup, Minced Three Blind Mice.

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We seem endlessly fascinated by rarity. Rare is good. Rare is even better if you happen to be in possession of said rarity. You become the lucky beneficiary of the laws of supply and demand. Rare painting, rare coins, rare almost anything.

We seem also to often think that rare is synonymous with quality, as if the objects rarity is some inherent part of its nature, as if its rarity is value in and of itself. Not unlike the average hipster who thinks obscure is synonymous for good.

Maybe it’s not a quality issue at all. Maybe that’s just what we tell ourselves. Maybe it’s an ego issue, a transference issue.

My ownership of a rare object or piece of knowledge distinguishes me from you. I have used the rare object to set myself above you, to elevate my ego.

So think twice before you buy the Mother Goose Jumbo Golden Eggs. Who are you buying those for? You or your ego?

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