Dear John (Meyer),

You, sir, are an idiot. No, not for the whole 'N' word thing, because let us all be honest for a moment, most men under the age of 40 have at one time or another called a buddy by that, regardless of race.

Sorry, rap music, you commercialized it, and in so doing, desensitized most of us of the age to have listened to you back when you were, you know, relevant. So, white, black, Asian, Aleutian, you name it, guys of a certain age and social standing (ie, not running for an office, nor working for a police/fire department) have used the 'N' word.

Strangely enough (now, apologies to the Black Caucus, the inestimable Revs. Jesse Jackson, Al Sharpton, etc), now it's a term of collegial respect. Most white guys I know have as much if not more respect for black guys who are as hard working and successful as they. And here's where I'm going to be classist, not racist. The main reason they have that respect? Because, well, you see, how do I put this? Brothers are cooler.

Not because successful brothers have overcome more to get to where they are. (Thanks Cosby Show! You totally screwed my opinion of the "Black Plight.") Really, it's because black guys are cooler. They get away with more in fashion, are most often better natural athletes, and dance better than white guys. Granted, these are sweeping stereotypes, but when I get labeled an obvious Italian because I'm a good cook, passionate individual, and like nice shoes, I take the stereotype in a complimentary fashion.

So, black guys, take note: The white folk think you all are damn cool.

No, my John Meyer note is this:

John, you were dating Jennifer Aniston and ended it. You, sir, are obviously an idiot.

Headlines 2/9/10

Some really quick thoughts from the news, world of entertainment, sports, and business:

People need to treat Palin like a non-terminal STD. Just accept she's here to stay, rub some salve on her, and she'll fade away. At least for a while.

The global warming folks are looking worse and worse:

• The Indian government is no longer buying in on their claims and openly challenging their statements.
• The Danish are pissed at the IPCC (the UN's panel on climate change) for saying the country is more than 50% below sea level. It's actually 20%.
• The claims that the glaciers are going to be gone in 25 years is based a popular UK magazine article with no scientific basis whatsoever. Even worse, the claim in the article was for the glaciers to be gone by 2350, not 2035. WTF???
• The survey stations in the US used to collect data to determine greenhouse gas emissions and temperature increases are supposed to be tightly regulated in their placement. And independent review has found that only 11% of the existing stations fall into those regulations. The rest are close to heat sources, exhaust vents, or cooling areas. Not exactly unbiased science.

Michael Jackson's father claiming that his son was 'murdered' is fairly accurate in his claim. He effectively killed his son almost 50 years ago and created a golem instead.

LaToya's insistence to get to the bottom of Michael's murder and the claim that there were more involved in the 'plot' to kill her brother than just the nefarious doctor is ludicrous. Most obviously, what would having Michael die on his watch do for the doctor??? Will people be lining up to be seen by the guy who inadvertently killed MJ?

How much more does Nancy Kerrigan have to endure? The poor girl deserves some peace and privacy, and it appears to be further away than ever.

While Fox News is open about its rightist agenda and bias, CNN makes one laugh with the attempts to be nonpartisan. Just checking the way many of their polls are phrased, the bias is apparent.

No one has yet had the ability to explain how government spending MORE money cuts back on deficits and spurs the economy. Isn't the money the government spends really just MY money? Taken by the government?

While no Bush apologist, it has to be pointed out that none of the big media players have ridden Obama for calling Corps men "corpsemen" not once, or twice, but three times during a recent breakfast. Had it been Bush, it would have been Leno's leading joke and Jon Stewart's running gag for a month. Maybe a commander-in-chief with zero military experience is not necessarily a good thing. And maybe there IS a big blind spot in the media.

The California Legislature is moving from ineffective to laughable in the recent round of efforts to reign in spending and pension-related problems. This in addition to the multitude of problems regarding prisons, water management, and budget shortfalls to last well into the foreseeable decade.

The Dow is currently surging. Do not believe the hype. This too shall pass. What is more, until the government adjusts the Nanny state mentality of entitlements just for surviving to a particular age, the economy will stagnate at an increasing pace.

China spends almost the same percentage of their GDP on educating their youth as the US does on taking care of its elderly. Start studying Mandarin now.

Google is taking on Facebook. Good luck to Facebook. Get ready to be MySpaced.

Forward, Ever Forward

Having been almost 5 months since a posting, it appears said writer has been somewhat lax in his duties as a 'blogger.' While no one has leveled any accusations, that could more likely be ascribed to a distinct lack of readers than anything else. Which, if one is not pushing one's blog, it all kinda makes sense.

Regardless, since last posting (yes, a post about gaming) the business has been good. New clients, new workloads, and new projects keep me fired up. After all, it requires creativity, passion, and interest to make these things sell, and more importantly, effective. Herein lies the challenge, however:

When a client is required to execute certain elements in order for a campaign to be successful, and the client does not do so, it is apparently easy to blame the "PR guy" for the lack of follow-through. Didn't really see that coming, quite frankly. Maybe more because of the client than the fact that repeatedly this has been my experience with clients. After all, they can flake and blame and then withhold pay, accolades, or even continued business. Meanwhile the good "PR guy" simply absorbs the blows.

This is why I consider finishing my novels and pushing my writing career. Tougher route, but infinitely more rewarding, it appears.

10 man OS /phail

Ugh, nothing worse than poorly running an instance. Actually, scratch that. There is something worse. Agreeing to a run when the gear is knowingly not high enough sucks far more.

Getting a PST from someone from a previously successful Heroic run asking if I wanted to join for 10 Man OS. Now, with buffs, et al, I'm only pushing 1500 tops. Nowhere near high enough. Fortunately, the other healer is another shaman, only he's pretty geared. We burn through the trash, no problem, get to the first mini boss.

The entire raid wipes saves myself, the other shaman and the pally offtank (who was in my group). The fight continues for minutes, I mean, minutes, a long damn time. Eventually, we go down, with that bastard rocking 6%. Come back and knock it out, no problem.

Well, there was a problem, and that was the entire raid complaining about the heals. Now, I'm no pro, but I do know that when something encircles me and is a flashing blue color, and looks unhealthy, that maybe I should step out of it. Unfortunately, the raid is expecting to just stand still and to be healed through it all. No one move, no no. "The shamans will just keep the main tank up and heal the rest of the raid at the same time."

Then, they bitch and moan. "What's wrong with the fail heals?" "Shamans are supposed to be the best healers." And, "Why can't they jesus beam the raid?"

We see where this is going. The other shammy and I are whispering back and forth. The dude who invited me is asking what's wrong and that the heals need to "speed up." Uhm, sure, I was dragging in those last fights. We were kicking back, sipping margaritas and laughing while you morons were dying.

So, the next trash uses Rain of Fire and melee has to move when it starts. Of course, they wipe because everyone expects to be healed through it all . . .

Ugh.

The Slender Margins

For 30 years without the savior who pried you from loss
Adopting a family that held thorns and roses in equal parts
Ignoring the tenets, skating on mores, and firing your own boss
It's impossible to tell someone what you meant in our hearts

Thank god it's over and that you have the break you deserved
I hope you find him there and that it all will now be clear
After a lifetime of letdown, hope for you was fully interred
Can't imagine seeing them all again and you not shedding a tear

We continue on, wondering why we failed and succeeded
The wall remains unbreeched, and we remain broken on it
The lies that protected us also forced us to be unbelieving
I sit and work through the years backwards, soaking in it
And yet, it still remains untenable.
Someday we'll sit beneath the shade, and you can tell me all.

That Day

On the road. 7 am. Listening to one of my favorite CDs when the phone rings.

"Is your TV on," asks my boss, Director of Operations for our little international startup healthcare firm.

"No, why someone get shot," I laugh with the ignorant machismo of the uninitiated.

"The company's done." The line goes dead.

Switch the audio from disc to KROQ. My normal irritation with morning DJs as soon as the tone of Kevin's voice hits me. Somber. Shocked. Nigh-hysterical.

"It could be anybody, I just don't understand, I mean, who could do something like this. . ." his words are no longer in his typical coherent syntax, rather he seems to be trying to assimilate an unforgivable reality into a carefully structured world through the medium of the sound of his own voice. Car crash survivors are much the same. People babble when nervous systems are on overload as a means of reinforcing their own existence.

The car drives itself to Claire's. At the time, my closest friend, confidant, and Grand Marnier cohort. She opens the door, eyes brimming.

Hand in hand, we silently walk into the living room and watch the replays of the jets colliding with the buildings. Tears fall unabashedly until shirtfronts are soaked. Today is one day where recriminations will find no hold and all tongues are silenced.

'Dear god, those buildings won't last,' ran headlong from my subconscious until it exploded, unwittingly and unwillingly from my mouth. Claire looks at me. I walk to the liquor cabinet as television ground crews capture the sights and sounds of people leaping from 90+ stories to their deaths rather than burning. Hell of a choice to have to make.

The collapse starts, the implosion is improbable, impossible, inadmissable. People running, screaming, hiding, covered in the ash of their fellow human beings, striving to make sense of it all. Claire and I are clinging for dear life and dearer sanity to each other, sobbing, wanting to look away, to ignore, and to find some coward's exit from the hell of it. But, we can't. We drink to forget.

Hours later, or maybe minutes later, my family calls. No one go to downtown LA today. Who knows what these crazy bastards will do next? We commiserate over a cousin who was visiting Gotham with her husband, and whose itinerary called for a WTC visit that very morning. No word as of yet. Like all others this horrid day, we pray. No atheists in foxholes, no agnostics on this day.

Later, we hear the details, the truth comes out, the story is told, and blame is placed. Many of Middle Eastern lineage openly decry the attacks. Shame that they feel the need. Sikhs and East Indians in many places are treated as though they've had a hand. Shame that our country felt the need.

For a week, tears wait in the wings. The cousin is fine, decided to spend the morning in bed. Thanks be to a loving God. The death toll climbs. Workers sift. The horror slowly subsides.
The scar is there, but the pain still remains. Who knew we could ever hurt this way?

Meeting Alexandria

The crowd is fun, upbeat, and joyfully sad. While we hug, Lindsey tearfully tells me Alex is here. She points out Alex's husband, strong, smiling, with a heart rent asunder. There is her father, whose pain is only evident in his eyes. There is Joss, who's done more than can be imagined to create an intimate, melancholy, and spiritually fulfilling experience that will remind friends old of, and introduce friends new to Alex.

The band plays, feet tap, heads bob, and a vibe embraces the group. Then an acoustic guitar, Joss dancing a dance of life. A life vibrant, filled with amazing people, as only amazing people can themselves attract, and a life herein shortened unnaturally. Her tall, beautiful, blonde figure stretching, flowing, ebbing, and finding structures to hug, and ultimately cease against. It's hard to recognize the physical pulchritude, when the soul speaks so loudly.

At first, I'm an interloper. A crude voyeur into serenity only the intimacy of dear friends, an avatar of someone of value. Suddenly, the gears -click- and I am here. And am embraced. The slides begin, and a life runs before me. A father to a beautiful daughter myself, the tears flow. I am suddenly robbed.

As we all are.