More Pain in My Heart

People seem to agree that we need pain.

We all say we are striving for happiness, but we keep doing things that keep happiness at bay. Theoretically, the commenters on my previous post say that pain is necessary so that we may feel happiness. At least the majority of the comments seemed to contain that thought. (To be fair, there are a few who seem ready to rise above this vale of tears.)

It sounds a little like the intellectual equivalent of hitting yourself on the head with a hammer, because it feels good when you stop. Implied in that old gag is the ironic reality that if you hit yourself on the head with a hammer, you will likely never feel good again, even if you do stop. May I suggest that if you go looking for trouble, you will get more than just a nice contrast to happiness?

We may think we need to have some suffering in order to know and appreciate joy, but I don't believe that any of us intentionally tries to experience misery, like, for our own good. I think we blunder into it when we think we are going to make ourselves happy.

Specifically we hook up with the wrong people. People who will hurt us, take us away from ouselves, distract us from doing what we really want to do with our lives. Sometimes we do this same foolish thing over and over, until our lives are spent, we have no more time, and we have known only this dark, self-inflicted sadness.

Maybe the world is just made like that. Maybe the possibilities that are available to any of us are distributed so that out of every thousand random options, 999 of them will lead to suffering of some sort.

Strangely, I feel fine. I'm just worried about everybody else. I guess it's my way of tasting the pain that will make my joy so much more intense.
_________________________________________
I'm buried at work, and The Corporation has found a new way to prevent me from getting anything done. I think of this as the ritual Tightening of the Screws. Every month they launch an initiative that makes no sense and causes us all to have to figure out a new way to accomplish the tasks they ostensibly require of us. I think their goal is to drive out all the real workers and replace us with fresh-faced, stupid MBA's who will play precisely by the book. This time they have really outdone themselves, and I find myself a week behind in certain critical areas, because I have generated - and been the victim of - an avalanche of emails, as I try to get the launchers of this latest initiative to get on board with the idea of taking care of the customers and, oh yeah, making money. Sorry I can't explain exactly what I'm talking about as I have given up my anonymity here and I could get fired if I get too specific, but rest assured it is Joseph Hellerian in scope.

And that's why I'm writing this sophomoric stuff, cuz my brain is fogged up. Hey, at least I'm not putting up memes and quizzes. Who is your Victorian sex doppelganger? Hmm. Maybe I'll do a quiz later.

Pain in My Heart

I probably won't be able to write much this week, due to work and social pressures.

Who am I kidding? It's due to work. I owe my soul to the company store.

But I've been wondering about this: Would you like to read a novel or see a movie in which all the characters have what they want in life or are happy with what they've been given? In which everyone is confident that they are loved, and no bad guys are around to upset things? If the protagonist surmounts all his daily difficulties with a smile and any little hurt is smoothed away by the end of the scene? Would such a story hold your interest?

Mostly we don't want to read or see that story, because we want to see conflict and the testing of spirit by adversity.

But are we looking for an idyllic world in our real lives? I think we think we are, and therefore we are always surprised when we - or someone we respect - goes and does something that can only lead to conflict and drama. Maybe they tell off their boss. Maybe they don't adhere to the dress code at the country club. Maybe they pick - or choose to stay with - a bad boy/bad girl lover, one who's sure to mistreat them, and hurt them.

Should we be surprised? Why do we do these things that lead us down the road to heartache? Do we need such pain in our hearts?

Rest Room Repercussions

I can take a hint.

Careful readers will recall that I broke into the empty towel and toilet paper dispensers at my office a few weeks ago and illegally refilled them. I did this because it was looking like no one else was going to do it, and they were empty, and I couldn't stand wondering how folks around here were managing to wipe their butts.

So today I found this in my mailbox at work:

So this is sort of a warning to you all, a corollary to the military axiom "Never volunteer for anything." Never step up and do anything that needs to be done, even if no one knows you did it, or you will find yourself shopping for toilet bowl cleaning supplies.

And a programming note: Tomorrow morning (Friday, August 26) on the Today Show (NBC), Joss Stone performs live. I first heard this kid when she was just fifteen years old. She sang R&B and soul like a 60-year-old black woman. At eighteen, she's still a little coltish in her stage persona, but her voice is dynamite. It looks a bit like some producer or manager behind the scenes is trying to make her into the Rhythm and Blues Britney Spears, but I don't think that will happen, since she is a bit too real. And her voice is a phenomenon. It's actually a little freaky to see and hear her. Your mind doesn't want to accept it at first. Check it out while you get ready for work.

The Deal I Made

My lawyer saw me right away.

Usually he makes me sit in the waiting room for an hour, so I brought one of the twins with me, Lila, I think it was, just to occupy my time. But we had barely begun to make out when the secretary cleared her throat. Lila was all over me and I started to extricate myself, thinking maybe the secretary was offended. Or, the way my luck was going, maybe she wanted a piece of me, too.

"Mr. Eckstein will see you now, Mr. Jones."

I was definitely moving up. I told Lila to go on back down to the limo and wait for me. She started to pout, but I said she could have anything she wanted from the bar, and then she was OK, but she still kissed me like there might be no tomorrow and told me to hurry, in that cute 19-year-old girl voice of hers.

When I got into Billy's inner office he was bent over his desk, which was just a huge sheet of plate glass, looking over the paper I had mailed to him. He motioned for me to sit, but other than that he ignored me. After another minute he stopped reading and looked at me.

"Where the hell did you get this?" he demanded. No "Good morning, Larry, how've you been?"

"Guy came to my door. Like a salesman."

"And you let him in?"

"Well, yeah, why not?"

He shook his head at me. "And you say you paid nothing?"

"Right. Well, there is that stipulation at the end."

"Did the guy identify himself?"

"No. Uh, yeah. Well sort of." This was embarrassing. "He said he was the devil. Said he'd rather not tell me, but felt like I should know before I bought."

"So according to this contract, you get to have whatever you want in life," Billy looked skeptical, "for as long as you live. Wealth, power, whatever."

I brightened. "That's the way I read it, too."

Billy flicked the document at me. It slid across the glass and came to rest at my edge of the desk. "This is bullshit. It's totally unenforceable. For one thing, no one can deliver on what this... devil is promising. And even if he could, how in hell could he take your 'immortal soul,' assuming you even have one." He glanced at the paper. "I like it, though. Simple and to the point. I wish some of my goddamned boilerplate was that clear."

I was thinking of the limo, and Lila waiting in it, and her sister Liza, whom we would be joining that very evening, for dancing, drinks and insane sex, if the past month was any predictor. I was thinking of the $230 million-dollar lottery I had won, the day after I signed the contract. "Look, I said, I might have an immortal soul. And the thing is, he seems to be delivering. You say it's unenforceable?"

Billy didn't know about the huge pile of cash, or the girls who couldn't get enough of me. He looked at me for the first time during our meeting. "Jesus," he sputtered. "Are you wearing a wig?"

I felt my head, and sure enough, hair was growing on the former desert of my scalp. I gave it a little tug, just to be sure. Whoever the guy was, I was liking the deal I had made with him more and more.

My side of the bargain was completely unenforceable!

Before I had to do too much explaining, I thanked Billy and strolled out of there. I winked at his secretary. I might come back some day soon and give her a little taste of The Jones.

The smirk stayed on my face until I stepped jauntily into the empty elevator shaft.

Galaxy

There is a moment - do you know this moment? - as you pass another, when, quite by accident, your eyes meet.

Maybe, just this once, for just an instant, because these moments are not really ours to keep, you see not just her eyes, but into her eyes, past the barrier that is always there, because we must keep it in place, we must protect our secret selves. Guile falls away like stained glass shattered and in that instant you can see worlds of hope and feel untold touches. And in that moment, too, you are revealed, your clothes and skin torn off, your fear, your need, your dark desire, even the smoldering beauty in your heart is exposed, for a moment.

You may not realize this has happened. You may mistake it for something else, a sudden chill that shakes you hard once. But for just that instant, sounds fade away and your heart, your breathing and everything else may seem to slow impossibly.

Then everything starts up again, the spinning, the chatter, the static and traffic.

Watch for this moment. It might be your chance to step from this world into another graceful galaxy. If you miss it, who knows if it will come around again?

Flag This

So now you can flag this post as objectionable.

I have written some naughty things on this blog, although more obscene things are said at White House briefings every day, if you ask me. Come to think of it, I have written some politically objectionable things, too. At the time I posted them, you could just click "Next Blog" if you didn't like them, or whatever you might have chosen to do in the privacy of your own workplace (because you were reading it at work, weren't you?).

You could have, would have, moved on and found something to read that was more to your taste, and left me and my perverted left-wing thoughts alone. And what I have written is mild compared to some others. You know who you are.

But now when you don't like a post, the personal thoughts of some complete stranger who is doing you no harm whatsoever, you can go to the top of the Blogger page and click Flag? I'm not sure what this will actually do. Maybe a censor from Blogger will stop by and read the post, deleting the bad parts, or maybe deleting the whole thing if it crosses some line. Maybe the author will get a cease and desist email from Blogger. Maybe the post will simply be flagged as objectionable, thus warning folks before they read it. Or maybe multiple offenders will just get kicked off Blogger. Yeah, that would work.

I know this: From now on I will be looking for flagged posts, as they will no doubt be the best reading on Blogger. I hope an index of them will be created, so I can find them easier. My idea - don't try to use it or I'll tie you up in court for fifty years.

But I predict not much will actually change. There will be flag wars, of course. People will flag posts, and those authors will immediately turn around and revenge-flag the other guy's post. There will be a huge number of posts that are flagged for no reason. Blogger won't be able to keep up, and a flag will become meaningless, or a badge of quality, to be displayed with pride. An awards banquet - The Flaggies - will be held annually to honor the authors of the vilest, most anti-Christian, work.

But most of us will censor ourselves, and thus lose a little more of our freedom. There will be no one to blame, because the whole flag thing is meant only in the best way. We should all think alike, just like in the old days. Never mind that were no idyllic "old days" during which everything was better. Transgressors should be flagged and gently guided back to the Right, toward the official truth.

I am going to flag this post myself, if no one else does.

Mystery Dance

What is the point of flirting on the internet?

Come to think of it, what is the point of flirting at all? I mean, when you have no intention of getting up close and making out, why wink and giggle and exchange sly innuendo? Flirting, or whatever you want to call it, is prelude to sex, isn't it? If, as I suspect, nine out of ten cases of flirting do not lead to sex because the flirter doesn't want to have sex with you, what the heck is going on?

If I like you and you flirt with me, I will want to take it to the next level, and the next, and the next, as quickly as possible. I can't help it. So in person, it's not really flirting. It's teasing.

But on the internet, it's far removed even from teasing. In most cases you are using your cute lines on somebody you don't know, who is responding from a place god knows where, and the chance that a next level even exists is down there right around - say it with me now - zero.

So flirting on the internet: Are you doing it for yourself, to show yourself that you've still got it or something? Does it somehow boost your ego? Are you demonstrating to others that you are a player? Have you just not thought it through and realized that it's going nowhere?

Why don't you tell me about the mystery dance?

Things I Have Done to My Left Hand

After the merriment sparked by the previous post, I thought everybody might enjoy this unnumbered list.

• Once I carried a kitten down a spiral staircase to meet a barking dog. This may seem to some of you to be the height of stupidity, and verily, it did turn out to be that. I don't know why I did this, and I soon wished that I hadn't. The kitten tensed up about halfway down, but I ignored this sign and kept going. At the bottom of the staircase, the kitten went apeshit, bit all the way through the web between my left thumb and forefinger, scratched the shit out of my arm and chest, and disappeared back up the steps. My thumb and forefinger swelled up to the size of ballpark franks, and throbbed for days. Since at the time I was a working guitar player, I had to learn how to play without those two digits. In fact, I had to learn how to do it that day. The good news was that, while playing, my left hand was elevated, so it didn't throb as much. Also, nobody much noticed the difference in my playing. But for a week or so I was able to easily make those contorted rock'n'roll faces.
• Another time I was building a recording studio, and my partners did not know that I am not allowed to use power tools. I should have been spackling the sheetrock or something, but instead I was attaching a heavy surface to a counter, a task that involved drilling some holes up through the bottom of the counter. Since the counter was not yet fastened to the floor, I placed my hand on the top of it to hold it down. While I drilled up through the bottom of it. See where this is going? Yes, I put an eighth-inch carbon steel drill bit through the palm of my left hand. Not all the way (hell, I've had carving forks in deeper), but quite a few revolutions of the big Makita drill went by before my sharp reflexes kicked in and I dropped the drill, thus stopping the carnage. That scar is about three quarters of an inch from where my new scar will be, from the fork incident.
• Are we having fun yet? I'll stop after this one. This involves a single-edged razor blade, a couple of car-alarm remote controls and a plastic tie of the type the riot police use when there are so many damn protesters that they run out of real handcuffs. Some stupid person had used one of these plastic ties to attach the remotes to the windshield wiper control stalk on the steering column of a car, and I had to get them off. Don't ask why - it's another story. I was crabby from lack of sleep and my first thought was to just grab them and pull until they came loose. But a tentative yank showed that the stalk would break first. Remember, this is a government-issue, handcuff-quality plastic tie, not some wimpy supermarket vegetable thing. Not only that, but it was tightened pretty much all the way down, leaving almost no slack. Those remotes were fixed to that stalk like Joan of Arc to her stake. So I did the only thing a man could do under the circumstances: I went and got a single-edged razor blade, the sharpest object known to man, a blade that could disembowel you before you even felt the bite, a device with no safety mechanisms built in. For a few seconds I sawed gingerly at the plastic tie, but the environment was cramped and the tie was thick, man, so I angrily hacked at my quarry and of course, stop reading if you're squeamish, neatly sliced most of the way through my left index finger at the first knuckle. There was no real pain, but I screamed anyway, because I was already angry and this pissed me off even more. And I have never made so much blood. It just kept spurting out. I ran and got the Universal Bandage - a piece of toilet paper - and wrapped it around my finger about thirty times. Fifteen minutes later I took it off to get back to work, and the blood was still gushing, plus the end of my finger seemed to be kind of... dangling. Somebody with a first aid kit put a real bandage on it, and I went to an emergency place. That part is a (lengthy) story in itself, so I will spare you, except to say: two hours of surgery, magnesium screws, six weeks in a hard cast, a pin that is at least three inches long, eight weeks of rehabilitation and a lifetime excuse whenever I make a mistake on the guitar.

There you go. You see how I have suffered for your many sins? How many times I have stuck metal objects into myself and spilled my blood? I only thank my father above that my right hand has been mostly spared, so that I may continue to touch myself in impure - but effective - ways.

Stigmata

Even though it is not officially the crucifixion season, I have poked a hole in the palm of my left hand.

I was trying to open a bottle of olive oil. Maybe it wasn't the finest olive oil in the world, as it had a metal screw top, like a bottle of Night Train (mmmm, Night Train), but it was all I had, and the damned cap was supposed to come apart at the perforation when you turned it, and the top part becomes the removable cap while the remaining ring, having done it's job of maintaining the integrity and security of olive oil on the store shelf, is just, the, uh, remaining ring.

But the cap didn't separate from the ring. The perforation notwithstanding, cap and ring were bonded. I could turn the entire assembly, but I couldn't get the top off.

Naturally I got me a big ol' carving fork to use as a tool. The squeamish should probably skip the rest of this paragraph. The Amish, too, maybe. I jammed one tine of the big fork into the perforation and heard a satisfying sound as the two metal pieces started to separate. It felt good, so I kept poking, prodding and digging. But the cap, while it would not come off, was able to spin freely around as I dug at it, so my efforts were getting me nowhere. To stop this, while avoiding the accidental poking of the fork into my hand, I placed my hand flat on top of the cap and applied pressure to keep the cap from spinning away from my fork ministrations. I was making some headway, but in no time my hand was sweating and the cap was spinning again and I was getting frustrated with the stubborn perforation, and I wanted me some damn olive oil! So I carefully wrapped my hand around the part of the cap that I was not poking at, and held it steady. And rammed the big fork deep into the palm of my hand.

"Shit!" I yelled. But that was just anger at having slipped. A few seconds later the pain arrived. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!!!!" I yelled, as my entire body broke into a clammy sweat and blood started gushing from the hole. I thought maybe a little piece of tin from the bottle cap might have got lodged in the hole. I stuck my hand under the cold water faucet, and the pain intensified. It was like the time that hooker pinned me to the floor with her stiletto heel that night at The Palms Motel in East Hollywood, only she weighed three hundred pounds instead of... Well, that's another story.

Why, at moments like these, does my mind project ahead to scenes of driving to a hospital, filling out two thousand forms, sitting in pain in a waiting room for nine hours, being ridiculed and clucked at by nurses, having the wound "cleaned" by a drunken, sadistic doctor and then undergoing two hours of microsurgery to remove the piece of fork and insert a pig's tendon and magnesium screws into my hand, and then be sent home with Tylenol "in case I need something."? Why is that?

I don't know, but I can tell you that if I had been the Son of God and had to die for the sins of all you evil fuckers, I would have chosen lethal injection.

So anyway, it's going to be all right, even without the pig's tendon. Call me a crybaby. And maybe I didn't win absolution for all of your sins, but you know that thing you did last night, with the cat and the electrical cord? You're forgiven.

Go in peace, my children.

Jackson 5 Sing Along With Me, Say "Doo De Wop"

A quick update, so no one has to worry about me.

So far, no one has noticed my maintenance work in the bathrooms at my office. I thought I was going to be in trouble for fixing the towel and toilet paper dispensers, but my meeting with The Boss turned out to be work-related (who could have guessed?). To wit, I now have approximately twice as much responsibility, spread across two locations, and no more money than ever.

As Emma Goldman has told me, I am exploited. But I'm voting Republican anyway, because I know I'm on my way to the top!

As always, my heart sways in the gentle breeze of your sweet, sweet gaze.

The Ultimate Failure

August 6, 1945.

That was the first time an atomic bomb was actually used on real people. One of those people is pictured above. Incredibly, it was not the last time.

Now, three generations later, the United States and other countries are looking into new technologies to make nuclear weapons more usable on the field of battle.

To my knowledge, no one is looking into ways to make the term "field of battle" obsolete.

I Will Never, Ever Grow So Old Again

I sang rock'n'roll.

I sang pretty, I sang rough. I didn't always hit the notes, but I always sold them.

I got full of myself. When I screwed up, it was always because I got outside of it, looked at myself bein' cool, and started to think how cool I was.

Little stands in the corners of smoky rooms. Outdoor festivals. Parties in Malibu backyards. Driving for days to get to the next dive, or crammed twelve across for 18 hours in an Air Siam L1011. Don't ask.

The funny thing is, I plowed through it all, showing off, trying to entertain, drinking heavily, making friends, making money, getting ripped off, getting ripped, and laughing at it all. But now there are some songs - a lot of songs, actually - that I can't sing. After more shows than I can remember, putting it out for people, I find now that I often can't even sing one good song to myself. I choke up, my voice breaks and I have to stop.

I am my main audience these days, and not a critical one. I always give myself the benefit of the doubt when I'm serenading myself. I can transpose verses, stop in the middle, change keys and start over, and there's no pressure, it's all good. I love to listen to me, and I love to play for me.

When I sang for crowds, maybe part of what I was doing was channeling. I was singing and playing great music by the great writers*, and the meaning, the beauty, the pain, the sorrow, the loss, the joy of that music flowed through me and out into those rooms, flooding them with those emotions, that people soaked up and used to their own ends. Dance, laugh, cry, think, hustle, no two alike, but everybody sharing in the flow, making what they could from it. I think there is a lot of power out there, and when you conjure it on a bandstand it needs a place to go.

When I play my guitar these days and sing alone, though, there's no place for it to go. All that power, all that meaning, all that beauty, all that pain, sorrow, loss and joy strike my soul and lodge in my heart, swelling it to the breaking point. I don't stop because I think I should, but because I physically cannot go on.

So I listen to the radio instead.


* For the record, I've worked with some great songwriters.

Saving Society, One Sheet at a Time

It's the small details that tip you off when things are starting to go to hell.

You think Bernie Ebbers woke up one morning and said "I think I'll cook the books about eleven billion dollars' worth today"? That's not how it happens. Little things go wrong, and get covered up. An investment that looked like a sure thing suddenly turns into a big loser. What's wrong with hiding that loss from Wall Street? After all, everyone is making money. Who cares if some of it disappears down a hole?

But when greed and arrogance and stupidity and corruption all get in the tub with you, get ready to take the bath of your life.

Every coverup involves someone else, a "friend," an accomplice, and then another and another, and pretty soon there are so many employees spinning plates in the air, trying to keep the show going and the plates from crashing to the floor that no one is there to take care of the details, like putting toilet paper in the rest rooms.

I got a copy of the email when The Corporation fired the maintenance company for our building. It was crude, blunt, almost cruel. It listed at least a dozen locations where The Corporation was "making a change," bringing in a new janitorial service, including at the place where I work. They must have found someone who'd do it cheaper. Just like that, 20 or 30 janitors are out of work, maybe their whole company is out of business.

The corporate structure allows for one and only one goal. Like a shark that must keep swimming ahead to keep eating, The Corporation must keep improving the bottom line. All the workers want raises, the managers need to demonstrate their skills (and get raises), the officers and the board have those pesky yacht and Maserati payments to make and the stockholders want growth or else they'll take their money and go home.

So all of them - us - spend our days cranking out more product and peddling it to whomever we can. The supplier corporations, the transportation corporations, the auditing and accounting corporations, the lawyers, the doctors, the consultants, the technicians, the advertising system - print, radio, TV, direct, web - they are all trying to beat each other and sell something to my corporation, while at the same time swimming like sharks and eating everything in their paths, making more and more money every quarter. It is a magnificent sight to behold.

Until a corner starts to crumble. Until someone hires a cheaper janitorial service and sends triumphant copies of the email to everyone who could remotely care about the cost-cutting involved. Until the old janitorial service packs up it's vacuums, mops and brooms and walks out with the keys to all the towel and toilet paper dispensers. Until the new janitorial service thinks it's someone else's job to refill those dispensers. Hey, if it were their job they'd have the keys, right?

In a few days, all the dispensers were empty. I don't know what everyone was doing with their wet hands and their stinky anuses. Maybe they were bringing stuff from home and keeping it in their desks. Wet hands you can wipe on your shirt, but the other...

I really did try to find a key. Why would you lock up toilet paper in the first place? OK, of course I know. Think of it as a Socratic question. I asked everyone on the staff, and I ransacked the storeroom and the broom closets, but the keys to the dispensers were gone. I got paper towels and toilet paper out of the storeroom myself, and placed them strategically around in the restrooms, the lunchroom, in locations where they might do some good. But the rolls kept ending up in puddles of water on the lunchroom counter, or puddles of urine on the rest room floor. Our facilities were starting to look like those of a bankrupt gas station on California State Route 99, a desolate and dilapidated stretch of highway that runs north and south through the great central valley, forgotten since the interstate went through thirty years ago. In other words they looked like the fall of civilization, the crashing of plates to the floor, the beginning of the end.

My theory, and the reason I did what I did, was that if I could stop this little detail from crumbling, if I could somehow keep up the appearance that whoever was in charge had his/her lights on, then maybe the whole place wouldn't start down that road to hell.

So what I did was, I got a big screwdriver and, emulating the 13-year-old kid who'd stolen my car a few years ago, I jammed it in the keyhole of the nearest towel dispenser and punched out the lock. Then I pried the door open and loaded the dispenser. Then I went into the stall and did the same thing with the toilet paper dispenser. I made no effort to conceal my activities. I was proud of them. Sure, the towels and tissues were no longer secure, but, goddammit, they were available. Also, the doors to these dispensers were now a little bent and flappy.

I had a little free time, so I did all the rest of the rest rooms in my end of the building, and I fixed the towel dispenser in the lunchroom, too. I was, literally, on a roll.

But now I have a meeting with the General Manager, at which I will have to explain my actions. It turns out that my helpful team-playing might also be seen as vandalism and malicious mischief, or perhaps a precursor to going postal. I'm sure he'll understand if I just tell him that I was trying to avoid the collapse of civilization.