High Fidelity

Fidelity is really damn hard. It might be impossible, if one is to be completely honest.

Now, don't jump to conclusions here. This isn't a confession. Since puberty, I have existed as a sort of serial monogamist, jumping from one exclusive relationship to the next until finally striking the perfect chord almost a decade ago. In all those relationships, I never cheated. There were a couple of regrettable instances in which I was the other guy (knowingly, both times, I'm ashamed to admit), but I have never cheated on anyone. And while it's true I am a faithful sort of guy, I'm also pretty lazy. Illicit relationships seem like so much work. There's cover stories and sneaking around and finding ways to hide the expense of hotel rooms and dry cleaning (how else do you get lipstick stains and foreign perfume out of a shirt?).

Of course, I've never really been tested. Sure, I'd like to be able to say without pause that I would never be that guy. I'd love to be able to take the moral high ground and look down into the valley of amorality and sneer. I truly do believe that I am the guy who would smile kindly and gracefully brush off a proposition, all the while sparing the feelings of the one doing the propositioning, thereby making her go off into the night shaking her head in wonder at the fact that there really are good guys out there and maybe, just maybe she can meet a guy just like me one of these days. But the truth is, I've never been in the position to find out what would happen if a strange blonde slipped her room key into my pocket in a hotel bar while on a business trip. All I can say is that I adore (almost to the point of worship) my wife. I don't keep secrets from her and (as far as I know) she doesn't keep secrets from me. I just can't see risking something as right and perfect as what we share for a momentary taste of some strange, you know?

"But wait just one minute," you ask yourself. "He's making it sound so easy. I thought he said infidelity was nearly impossible back before this thing degenerated into a sappy love letter to his wife."

It's true. I don't think it's possible to make it through a lifetime alongside someone and expect them to stay true in heart, body, and mind 100% of the time, forever and ever, amen. When infidelity is in the heart, the relationship is done. Game over. Time to call the lawyer and dust off the prenup. When the act of infidelity is of the body, it could go 50/50. I've known couples who have been able to work through the fallout of one or the other gettin' down wit' OPP (know what I mean?). Just about as many crumble and fall apart after such an indiscretion.

Then there's the mind. When it comes to infidelity of the mind, every couple writes their own rules. There are women who get bent if their man's eyes linger on the hottie in the low-cut dress passing them as they walk through the mall (and god help you, man, if you're with one of these chicks). There are women who draw the line just short of (or just past) nudie magazines. There are those who really don't care if you go get a lapdance at a club with the guys, just so long as you bring it on home at the end of the night and stay out of the champagne room. What I'm getting at here is that every man has the impulse to look at the girl in the mall or check out the girl on the cover of Cosmo while at the checkout or pick up a copy of Playboy or hit that porn site or go to the titty bar or etc. etc. Any of these can be a tiny infidelity of the mind. Face it, if you're mentally undressing Jessica Alba, you're head's not being 100% faithful to the lovely lady holding your hand in the theatre. Here's where the line gets drawn, though. Is it cheating?

I don't really think so. But then, that's me. I'm confident that my wife is well aware of just about all of the women I ogle, but she knows my heart never strays (and so far, neither has my body). I don't really try to be all that sly about it, either. She knows I'm going to curl up beside her every night. She should realize by now that whatever spell she wove over me nine and a half years ago is still binding. I'm sure she noticed the pool of sweat in my palm during that sex scene in Watchmen (and good lord, I feel sorry for every boyfriend Malin Akerman ever had after seeing that scene -- can you imagine the implications to your own ego when coming to the realization that your ex could fake an orgasm that convincingly?).

But I digress. The way I see it, the bottom line is that it can be qualified as cheating when you cover and obfuscate whatever weird shit you're up to, solely because you know it will hurt the person you're with if he or she were to find out. If you don't tell her you were checking out youtube videos of cows fucking because you're embarrassed that you were watching cows fuck, I don't think that's cheating. I think that's just good sense. She'd probably only come to be a little bit scared of you. Face it, you're a fucking weirdo. In fact, maybe someone should let her know what a sicko she's sharing a bed with. On the other hand, if you're deleting your cache file because you harbor a burning desire to be the bull, you might just be cheating.

You wanna know what it all boils down to? Communication. I know it's becoming something of a theme on this forum, but I think it's true. When a couple loses the lines of communication, things start to crumble. Talk. Ladies, let him know when something bothers you. Have the damn conversation. It doesn't have to be an intervention. Just mention over the dinner table that you noticed www.banginbessie.com in the history on the computer, and it bothers you that he's looking at it. Have a conversation. Speak up and talk about setting some boundaries. The two of you might discover some common salacious interests, which can always be fun. Guys? Check what's in your heart. That's where it really counts. And dude, seriously, try to keep it in your pants.

It's all politics

So, I'm all torqued up this week about the way Business runs business these days. Here's my story, stop me if you've heard one like this before. A position one step above mine opened several weeks ago within my company. I was (we'll say) "encouraged" by my boss' boss (through my boss) to apply for the position. I jumped through the necessary hoops (including applying for the job through my company's website as if I had never worked for the company). The boss of my boss was supposed to interview me, then someone from HR, then the VP overseeing my division would be the endgame of this merry chase. So, I waited. And waited. Three weeks later, I've heard absolutely fuck-all from anyone, and my boss' boss introduces the new person he's just hired for the position on a conference call.

Now, don't think this is completely devastating for me. I'm actually quite content doing what I do where I do it. This promotion really only represented more money and a change of scenery for me. What's more of a source of consternation for me is the fact that I've come face to face with the undeniable fact that the company I work for is just exactly like every other company out there. And every company out there is run just exactly like every other job I've grown to hate over the years.

Politics. Not the flag-waving, baby-kissing, hand-shaking, promises of a better future sort of politics. No, no. There's a kind of politics even more vile than that pit of vipers. It's the politics of the workplace. These are the politics of power, manipulation, and selfish ambition. It's Bonfire of the Vanities on a macro scale. It's the one thing from the eighties that should have died even faster than Boy George's fifteen minutes of superstardom.

Business is people. It's working with people, and if the people aren't there, well, what do you know? The business can't run. We need a quantum shift in the way people approach business. Instead of manipulating, try understanding and inspiring people. Those in power need to come to the understanding that those immediately under their oversight are who they need to answer to. Rather than a boss administering yearly reviews to his or her staff, how about if we invert the process? The members of the staff can write reviews for their boss. This can go all the way up the chain of command, without fear of recrimination. The VPs review the President, and the President writes reviews for the Board, etc, etc. Annual raises, bonuses, et al. would be based on these reviews. How quickly do you think the communication lines would open up between you and your boss in this system?

And that's really what this is all about. Much of business suffers from the breakdown of communication. The vast majority of communication taking place in the workplace today is either faulty or non-existent. Ill communication is more than a Beastie Boys album, it's a way of life for most corporate office employees who couldn't thread together a decent sentence in an email if their life depended on it. Phone and email ettiquette needs to be a required course at all corporate offices. Day-to-day interaction has been so poisoned by the politics of business that it's impossible to trust anyone to act with any sort of honor or simple human consideration.

The president of any company has the exact same responsibility as the guy cleaning toilets in the office. That responsibilty? Make sure the company continues to run smoothly. As long as things continue to run smoothly, the company will remain profitable. As long as the company remains profitable, he can continue to claim a paycheck. Backed-up, dirty toilets in a field office are bound to affect productivity somewhere along the line. And it's even worse if the person at the top is full of shit.

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.

I spent over two hours last night setting up this blog. An hour and forty-five minutes of that time was spent trying to shrink that damn picture down to a reasonable size. For those of you who haven't set up a blog and are thinking of doing so, keep in mind that when they say "a few minutes", "a few" could be 133. Suffice to say, by the time I gave up on the exercise of shrinking down my overinflated head, I was no longer in any mood to contribute anything worthwhile to the page. Some foul language, no doubt, but nothing anyone would care to read. I had grand plans to get into an in-depth discussion of my thoughts on the development of religion (specifically Christianity) within our culture over the past fifty years or so through the prism of a Johnny Cash song. It was going to be brilliant and witty and thought-provoking and controversial and most likely would really piss you off, but now it may never be, and we can thank my technological inadequacies. I may come back to it, but it will lack the fire of spontenaity with which the original would have burned.

To be honest, I sort of took the inflated picture problem as a sign that maybe blogging isn't the sport for me. I've been on the fence about it, thinking I probably don't have anything noteworthy to contribute to the blogosphere at large. But over the past few weeks, I've become increasingly aware of the fact that I have way too many ideas strolling through my head and bones rattling in my closet for my own good. That, and popular demand (and by that I mean two people said that I should start a blog) has led me to take this step. So now, don't think for a minute that I really give a flying fig whether what I have to say means anything to you or anyone. This is for me to let the flying monkeys out and blow the dust off my craw. It's not for you, the reader. It's for me, the writer. I'm just cleaning the pipes. You're welcome to watch if you want. Just so we're straight.

And I can't think of anything more egotistical than that. The whole blog community, as far as I've been able to ascertain, is made up of people who think they have something to say. Maybe they do, maybe they don't. But you need a fair share of ego if you're going to put it out there under the assumption that someone's going to give a damn. And that's why I'm gonna say fuck it and leave that big-ass version of myself at the top of this page. It's the Druids building Stonehenge. It's the Greeks building the Acropolis. It's Eiffel erecting his gigantic phallus in the middle of Paris. It's Hitchcock's inflated belly wandering through the scene of one of his movies. It's Sting's thirteen-hour erection. Hell, it may even be the people of Babel building their tower for all I know (and we saw how that turned out, right?). That picture you scrolled past to get here is yet another example of simple human egotism run amok. It's me telling you that what I have to say is important enough for you to take the time out of your busy life to read it. This, this blog, this is me writ large. Give me time and I'll blaze my face across the Goodyear blimp and stare down at you during the Superbowl. I'll put it on the giant screen at Times Square, so Japanese tourists can point at it and snap pictures. Maybe I'll have it printed on a t-shirt and wear it everywhere I go. And you'll have to look at it. Or don't. I don't really give a crap. This is for me. It's not for you.

So if you do stop by, sit down and shut up. And feel free to get offended.