New glasses

I'm in a bit of a writer's slump (as evidenced by the skipped week on this page, for which I heartily apologize to my loyal few), which usually puts me on the road to maudlin, but I'm not really there yet. I'm working on stuff. I should be content with the content I'm producing, but I'm not. Actually, tonight is the first I've really felt sort of down in the dumps. I don't think it's about the writing, though (for once).

So, why the long face? I think this is all coming from the fact that I took my oldest to get glasses today. It's a minor case of near-sightedness, and he picked out the coolest horn-rimmed Clark Kent-looking glasses, and he's unbelievably cute in them. On the way home from picking them up, he kept checking himself out in the rearview mirror from the back seat. About halfway home, he mentioned that maybe his estranged "girlfriend" would notice him again (the quotes are because he's in second grade and had declared her his girlfriend last year until she discovered that he still listened to the Wiggles and dumped him for his childish predilections, the bitch). He and I talked about how I had different girlfriends before I met his mom. We talked about how some of them hurt me and how I hurt some of them (more often the former, but that's another story). It dawned on me that my kid was getting older and wasn't just a kid anymore. He's beginning to experience what will become adult emotions. His eyes are opening to a world that's bigger than the one he's always lived in. As a parent, I know I'm supposed to be working toward the day when my children are independent entities, making use of all the wisdom I have imparted on them over their formative years to make true and wise decisions. It's supposed to be the whole reason for this endeavor, right? But I actually really enjoy them how they are right now. I love their dependence on me. I love their innocence and their unflinching, unswerving adoration for me and my wife. I love that they come running and leap into my arms when I walk through the door at the end of the day. I know it won't last forever, and I think that's what's got me in this funk tonight.

There are three ways to look at life. You can dwell on the past, basing all of your judgements on what has come before. You can live entirely for the future, which seems to be nothing but making plans all the time and never actually reaching a goal. Or you can focus on what's right in front of you here and now. Most people (myself included) phase in and out of these three states, but everyone is predisposed to default to one of the three for the majority of their time. I'm a present tense sort of guy. Sure, I'll make plans. I have dreams of where I'd like to be in five, ten, twenty years. And I get nostalgic, too. I see my childhood through a Norman Rockwellian soft focus filter. But when the reality of the past or the future confronts me, I get a little wigged out. I tailspin into downtown Downsville. It doesn't really last, though. I'll pull out of it and be back to form in a few days. For now, thanks for indulging my downward spiral. I'll try to keep this sort of navel-gazing to a minimum.

Miley Cyrus vs. Limey Stylists

Have you been following this feud between Miley and Radiohead? Apparently, she is (or, rather, was) a big fan of the English band and wanted more than anything in the whole world (in that particular way only a sixteen year old girl can truly want something) to meet them at the Grammy Awards a few weeks ago. Her agent tried to arrange it, but was met with a casual smackdown from Thom Yorke and his band mates ("We don't really do that," was the response). Of course, the spurned teenie-bopper threw a bit of a tantrum, resulting in a statement from Radiohead that she needs to "grow up".

So, my questions to Yorke & Co. are these: Is there a proper channel one should pass through to approach your ivory tower? Were you too busy preparing yourselves to mumble and groan your way through a set to take time for an earnest fan? Or was it something more insidious? Do you feel it would be beneath you to accept an audience with the current princess of preteen pop? Didn't want to end up caught in a photo op that might mistake someone to connect you with the rest of the music industry, did you?

Personally, I think it is just simple elitism, in its ugliest state. And I can think that, seeing as this is my blog and I am therefore contractually obligated to commit acts of uninformed speculation.

I have a real problem with elitism. An elitist has made up his mind about something, and sneers at any and all opposing viewpoints. Intellectually, it's cheating. It's a short cut. You can sneer down upon things you feel are sub-par, which saves you having to take the time to really consider it and find its value. And I've found that there's value in nearly everything. You have to dig a little to find it in most cases, and that value may not actually carry any weight for you and your corner of existence, but it has weight for someone somewhere, and it is our job to find and appreciate that weight in any and all attempts at art. Otherwise, we risk just looking like an asshole. Do I like Coldplay? Hell, no. But I can see that their music has inspired a slew of half-assed attempts to mimic their sound (would you be having the Keane or the Snow Patrol today, sir?). I know people who take great pleasure in their music. It strikes a chord. There's value in that. Twilight? Don't get me started on that train wreck of a literary "achievement". Still, I know several people (all girls, strangely) who find the drawn-out sturm and drang of a doomed relationship heart-flutteringly absorbing. I guess Whedon didn't scorch the earth with this theme enough on Buffy. I'll take time out of any busy day to mock the angst of "Twilight", but I'm aware I risk looking like an asshole when I do. Doesn't make it any less fun, though.

This brings me back to Radiohead. You guys look like a bunch of assholes. She's sixteen, and a fan. Of course she's going to throw a hissy when you guys diss her. You tell her to "grow up" because elitists can't possibly brook anyone with the slightest shred of innocence. Have you ever met an innocent elitist? Probably not. Elitism comes part and parcel with the wholesale surrender of innocence. I've been through a truckload of shit in my life, and seen a lot of harrowing moments, but I still cling proudly to whatever vestiges of naive idealism I can still dig my fingernails into. Meanwhile, I've watched good, intelligent people over the years push theirs away with reckless abandon, only to find sadness and melancholy seeping in to take its place. I'll take the peace and hope of my Peter Pan complex, thanks. The pirates of the good ship Radiohead need to get over themselves. Go for the photo op. Maybe even crack a smile. Maybe she'll let you on her show. Maybe you could meet Dolly Parton, and you could back her up on "I Will Always Love You", then she could perform "Creep". It'd be a choice set.

Just think, Thom, you might just restore a little of the naivete of a sixteen year old girl, and if that's not worth the trouble of doing, nothing is. Innocence is a fading resource in our culture, and once it's gone, the world is going to be a much more wretched place than any of us can imagine. One of the most sacred duties of adulthood is to preserve and protect the innocence of youth for as long as possible. So get off your lazy, elitist ass and restore a little innocence, will you?

Rhinotillexomania!

I pick my nose. I'm fairly discreet about it. If I'm in the car, I try to work the angles with the cars around me so no one has to see me doing it. I most often do it in the privacy of my own home, often in my bed with the lights out or during my "time with God" in the bathroom. I'm not sure why I'm so careful about it, though.

What is it about nose-picking that is so taboo? The typical reaction to catching someone in the act is equal parts revulsion and amusement. Is it because it is essentially the elimination of waste? In our minds, is it akin to witnessing someone urinating or defecating? Primates pick their noses constantly. They usually eat it, too, which is not part of my regimen. Although, to be fair, there is a lung specialist in Austria who claims the immune system is boosted in kids who eat their own boogers. I'll take his word for it.

I read somewhere once that people who pick their noses regularly are on the whole more relaxed, carefree, happy individuals. Why would that be, do you suppose? I have a theory on that, actually (of course I do; did you really think I was going to spend an entire blog talking about picking my nose?). See, nose-picking is a harmless activity. Sure, there's all sorts of talk about damaging membranes in the nasal cavity and increasing the risk of infection to the brain blah blah blah. It's not an activity that is generally accepted by society. It is possible, then, to define nose-picking as an antisocial behavior.

Now, if you ask me, it's just not healthy to follow the rules all the time. I think that's how sociopaths are born. It's necessary sometimes to thumb your nose (Hah! Get it?) at the mores and do your own thing. I encourage this sort of thinking. As long as you are bringing no threat of harm to yourself or another person, game on. Those who really get up in there and remove nuggets of joy are doing what they are doing despite what society says or thinks. Think of how repressive our society has become. What's an id to do? There is no room for a pleasure principle in today's world, and man cannot live with ego and superego alone. You can't pause to look at a beautiful woman's ass without being reprimanded, usually by the woman herself. We can't say what we think. We can't eat what we want. We can't fart or belch or laugh too loudly. We can't scratch our butts. We can't do anything that isn't in perfect lock-step with everyone else unless we have been elevated to the status of "celebrity", but then there's a whole other set of rules that apply (and a topic for another blog). Many in our society seem to have resigned themselves to the new world order, shambling along with their eyes downcast and tight scowls tugging at the corners of their mouths, dried mucus crackling in their nostrils, never to be plucked free. These are society's prisoners. These are the unhappy potential stroke victims. These are the ones who are worried about everything. These are the ones for whom Orwell is a work of non-fiction.

Chicken Little was not a nose-picker, but I'll bet Foxy Loxy was.

So, Rick's prescription for happiness? Pick your damn nose every once in a while. Trim your nails, sit back, let your eyes glaze over a little and let nature take its course. You're telling society you're the one in charge, and there's just no better feeling than that.