ZachsMind

Fire Walk With Me

"It is not the critic who counts, nor the man who points out where the strong man stumbled, or where a doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man in the arena whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs, and who comes up short again and again, who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause. The man who at best knows the triumph of high achievement and who at worst, if he fails, fails while daring greatly, so that his place will never be with those cold timid souls who never knew victory or defeat."
---Teddy Roosevelt

Woah I'm still drunk so if I make any spelling errors, screw it.

"Okay," I yelled into my friend's ear over the music, "I want you to look at her cuz you're aimed right at her anyway. Tell me if she looks this way. I'm just gonna look straight at the band!"

He asked me to repeat myself. I did. I stared at the band called Alan. Nice band. They need to work on their presence on stage but their sound is very crisp and potent. Before that we were watching FourSideCircle and as usual they were on top of it and kicked major ass. Michael Galante still impresses me every time he gets on stage. He plays the drums like he's piloting a starship. The whole band was on elevens tonight. Very sharp, and they packed the house. It was a great night and like I said I'm still running on adrenalin and alcohol. But at the moment Alan was playing. Nice band, but they should have opened for FourSide instead of the other way around.

I stare at the band. My friend observes for a couple minutes. Then he screams in my ear. "She just did that thing y'know where you look all around the club nonchalantly and then she looked right at you and then she looked away. I think she's scoping you out."

I freaked. This hasn't happened to me in a year. Girls don't check me out. Earlier I'd had a very nice conversation with her. I made a point to remember her name. Although I wasn't looking her way, I was still watching the band, but superimposed over them in my mind was the image of her face. Her beautiful, adorable face with the cute little button nose and those dark brown eyes and a smile that just melted me like butter. I really can't afford a relationship right now. I can't even afford to date. What the hell am I doing?

"What the hell do I do?"

"If I were you man, I'd go over there and talk to her."

"Uhm.. The band's too loud."

"You're making excuses again, man!"

"But I'm unemployed!" We're screaming at each other over the din into one another's ears. For all I know she can hear what we're saying, but to be honest it was so loud we could hardly hear one another, so I doubt our voices carried at all. I'm holding a straw in my hand as if it were a cigarette cuz I'm trying to quit smoking, but at the moment I could really use a smoke, "I can't afford to.. oh shit!"

"Dude! Just go over there and ask if she'd mind you sitting with her! What's the worst that could happen? She says no?"

Then it hit me. The lesson I learned a couple weeks ago at that seminar. When I walked on fire. It's not rejection I fear. I'm great at rejection.

"What would I do if I got her? I can't..."

"Tell ya whut," he said, "I can go get you a drink. You go over there and talk to her. You don't even have to talk. Just hang with her."

"Just hang?"

"Yeah like we're hanging. Just go over there! What are you afraid of?"

My stomach started hurting. I couldn't believe it? I was stressing over this. My upper intestines felt like they were in knots. "I'm not afraid of rejection. What if she said yes?"

"If you don't try, you'll never know." He walked away. I was sitting there. I looked over. She glanced away.

Shit.

"Mind if I sit here with you?"

"No! Not at all." She smiled and my eyes wanted to crawl back into the back of my head, "I moved over here from uh, where I was sitting cuz I didn't like people walking behind me.."

"That's okay!" I said, fortunately the band was between songs, "some years ago I dated a woman who insisted always on sitting with her back against a corner, facing the door. She was a freak like that."

She laughed. I laughed. We watched the band. Then a couple minutes later her girlfriend came over and made her follow her outside. I didn't get a chance to talk to her again until me and my friend were about to leave the door.

"Maybe I'll see you again?"

"Yeah! Maybe you will!"

I hate maybe. But it's better than what I would have gotten if I didn't dare to walk on fire. Recently I've gotten a few punches and knockdowns, but I'm in the arena. It feels pretty good.
3:26 AM | link to this post

Voyagers Still Active

This is completely out in left field but it's where my brain's at for some reason this morning and I felt like sharing it with people who might be interested in talking about it. Something I find interesting but maybe I'm the only person on the planet who does. Voyager Mission Operations are still active! They're not revealing very much but NASA is still in contact with them.

Back in the summer of 1977, NASA sent out two unmanned probes to get close up images of Jupiter and some of the other planets in our solar system. It was known back then that the Voyager probes were on a one way trip. There'd be no way to get them back to Earth. So rather than just crash them somewhere, NASA scientists decided to aim them roughly at some comparatively nearby stars and just let them go.

Now to try and explain just how far away they are, I should probably first explain what an Astronomical Unit (AU) is. I'm not a rocket scientist so someone else may be able to correct me where I'm wrong, but generally speaking an AU is the distance between Earth and the Sun, or 150 million kilometers. This distance is so far, it takes approximately eight minutes for light from the Sun to reach Earth, travelling of course at the speed of light - the fastest speed known to Common Man.

Today, Voyager 1 is about 84 AU away from our solar system. That's well over ten billion miles. Voyager 2 is over 34 AU away. Just last month, NASA did their routine contacts with the Voyager probes. They basically send the probes simple commands and then wait for the little unmanned ships to broadcast back confirmations that they received the commands. When they're not communicating with the probes, NASA literally turns everything off in order to conserve energy, so most of the time they're like dead floating household appliances in space. It takes three or four days for these commands and confirms to make the round trip from Earth to the probes and back.

NASA theorizes that somewhere around 2020, the probes will lose battery power, and we'll lose complete contact with them. By then they'll be almost twice as far away from us as they are today, but still won't be anywhere near the stars at which they have been aimed.
10:19 AM | link to this post

Oscar Hangover - The Morning After

I'm looking for links about Oscar critiques... FOUR HOURS AND SEVENTEEN MINUTES?

Billy Crystal once had a website up that was something to the effect of www.whyaretheoscarssodamnlong.com which of course didn't live up to its hype but it's also no longer up either so that doesn't matter. Has anyone seen new links recently made which either critique this year's Oscars or perhaps older links on the Web which criticize the Oscar award show as a whole and suggests ways that it could be improved? I'm looking for stuff like that myself but am coming up with squat.

Last night's Oscars were incredible. It was perhaps one of the best Oscars ever, but it was also one of the longest Oscars ever, and it really didn't need to be so long. Did we need to see Cirque Du Soleil? Did we really need all those lengthy filmclips which consisted of incomprehensible clips from previously award winning films?

One of the few really good entertaining moments of past Oscars is when they let the musicians nominated for song of the year do their thang. It's something usually spread out throughout the night, allowing each artist their own moment to shine, which ultimately takes much longer to do. This year what would usually be five elaborate performances were squeezed into one comparatively fast-paced performance like a three ring circus. The talent was formidible, with Randy Newman, John Goodman, Paul McCartney, Faith Hill, Sting, and Enya. Wow. However, the songs themselves this year were rather lackluster, so it was perhaps best that they squeezed them all together. Yet despite this Big Squeeze, the Oscars were longer than usual? How'd they squeeze it together yet make it longer?

Part of the problem may have been the new Kodak theater. It cost them millions of dollars to refurbish the theater, but it wasn't big enough to house the entire Academy, much less the other people who also wanted to attend. At times during last night's Oscars broadcast it seemed people behind the scenes were either befuddled due to something that went wrong which the audience didn't know about, or perhaps some producer somewhere was excited about how they were able to do something *really cool* that they perhaps shouldn't have done. The Kodak seemed like a tuxedo that didn't fit.

Like why were Donald Sutherland & Glenn Close the voiceovers of the evening and yet every possible chance they insisted we see their faces? Who was the host/ess last night? Glenn Close or Whoopi Goldberg? I couldn't tell.

Whoopi's moments of humor were lowbrow and limited in scope. I adore the Lady Goldberg, but every other punchline contained the word "black." This was the "black" evening, perhaps. I so look forward to the day when the question of black & white is no longer an issue. Racism is no longer a dragon to slay. It has become that bogeyman in the closet, or hiding under the bed. The only way to slay a bogeyman is to kill the fear upon which he feeds. Sidney Portier learned this forty years ago. Denzel Washington knows this. Halle Berry will learn this, but unfortunately she didn't learn it soon enough. Her speech was hypocritical. She said between tears that the moment was so much bigger than her. That it truly was a moment for all women of color, and that she has become "the vessel" *rolling eyes* who has blazed the trail for other black women to follow. However, in the same breath she began thanking everyone who has ever personally helped her directly, thus turning this moment bigger than her into a moment just as petty as most any other Oscar moment.

Denzel walked through that same door, but he didn't belittle the moment, nor did he inflate it. He was gracious yet unnerving. This was merely another step on the path to the journey of race relations. Denzel believed, and I share this belief, that he was honored last evening not due to his color or in spite of it, but that his skin color had nothing to do with his second Oscar. He is a fine actor, and that was what the Academy honored. Sidney Portier kicks ass and always have. Not because he's black. Not despite the fact he's black. He's just an amazing talent, and blackness is a part of who he is but it's not all he is. To celebrate the battle against the stereotype is to celebrate the stereotype.

It's the hypocrisy of Oscar itself which perhaps is why Oscar is too long, and too pretentious, and too unfortunate every year. Why are the Oscars presented? Whose moment is it? The build up of the evening is the Big Eight: Best Supporting roles, Best Lead roles, Best Director, Best Movie and Best Song. Then when we get to that moment, someone off camera is motioning for the winner to wrap up their speech quickly. That's absurd!

When the figure skaters won during the Winter Olympics, they were given an exhibition night where they could put on a performance in gratitude. The Oscars are the Olympics of film. It should not only be encouraged but required that the winner of an Oscar for the Big Eight should perform, and should be given all the time they want to perform. The evening should focus on the winners AND the nominees. It shouldn't have all that extra crap like people hanging from the ceiling or jokes or clips of films we've already seen.

However, the nominees should be told to come up with something more impressive than thanking their agents and lawyers. It should become a given that they thank the Academy. Who doesn't thank the Academy? From now on someone should only have to mention thanking the Academy if they want to make a point NOT to thank them. That's about fifteen minutes you can shave off right there, if you insist no winner thanks the Academy. If they want to thank people they know but the world doesn't, they should make a point to thank those individuals privately. Don't wait till you get up on the stage. Recipients should tell the world how they feel. What it means to hold that gold statue in their hands. Make the moment worth their while and that of everyone else's.

All the filler should be removed. They should go straight from one acceptance speech to the other. Oscar should only be two hours long, and more attention should be spent on capturing the afterparties, because that's all anybody really cares about anymore anyway -- whether or not Gwyneth Paltrow's top falls off her body.
9:35 AM | link to this post

It's the third season. I didn't have the balls to do it before. At least now I can say I've done it. I braved the unknown. I climbed the stairs. I walked into that dark room, and it wasn't so bad. It only had one unblinking eye and a man with no questions. It had felt like a walk of fire before, but wouldn't you know it? The bark of fear is always worse than the bite.

So we're standing there in line. There's maybe two dozen people mulling about. I arrived a little late but apparently it was to be an all day deal for the station. For me? It lasted maybe ten minutes. I'd already filled out my application and brought it with me. Some were not even that prepared. In years past they required one make their own videotape, their own polaroids, and mail them with the application. Only those called back would go to the station. This year, things were a little different and this year, I was out of excuses. Besides, I've walked on fire. I can do this. This is nothing.

A man walks down the line of people. He shakes our hands individually, attempting eye contact with each of us in line. The guy's in a grey windbreaker and bluejeans. He's a real nice guy. He gets to me, "good luck" he says, and shakes my hand. I wish him luck too. Then when he's done greeting each of his worthy competitors face to face, he walks back to the back of the line and stands there. His subtle but daring icebreaker starts the small talk going. He explained that this is his third time. I admit impressed envy: at least he's had the courage to try thrice. This was my first attempt but I've wanted to try this for some time. He said the third time's the charm. I wish him well. If they go on personality, that guy has the best chance of any of us in that line, I think. Then again, if they turned him down before there might be a reason I don't know about.

The time comes to go inside. My picture is taken, they photocopy my drivers license and social security card. The lady staples all my stuff together as I have small talk with the lady directly ahead of me. She goes up the stairs when they call for her. She disappears into a doorway I can barely see from my seat in the lobby. She's up there only a couple moments, then she comes back down, a mildly dazed smile on her face. She wishes me luck. I do the same. And now it's my turn.

I take the stairs two or three at a time. I just want to get this over with. As my eyes follow the stairs, my mind's eye overlays the memory of last Friday night, when I was standing in a parking lot outside a hotel near an airport. Thousands of voices screaming joyfully in cacophonic unison. Laid out before me were hot coals. I was standing there in barefeet. Cool Moss Cool Moss Cool Moss and then it was over. The worst part of firewalking is that first step, and here I am now pounding these stairs two or three at a time. This is nothing. I've walked on fire. I can do this.

I get to the room. A conference room with a single camera aimed at one of the chairs. The guy there gives me a couple simple directions. Sign my name on this placard. Show it to the camera. Give my name. Talk a few minutes. Then you're done.

"No Q&A?"

"Oh I'm not with the BB production company," he explains, shaking his head. "I just work for the station. You just speak your piece and when you're done you're done."

"What do I say?"

"Whatever ya want. I don't care. One guy brought his girlfriend in here and they danced for two minutes. And it don't have to be two minutes. The shortest so far has been five seconds. They just wanna see you."

"Oh. Okay.."

"Alright. You're on."

"Well.. Uhm.." I think maybe I glanced down at the placard, "Number fifteen. Robert Garland.." I put it down on the table. "I'm thirty-four years old. Divorced. I'm from Dallas Texas..." I looked at the camera. My brain locked up. "I uh.. guess that's it." I look at the guy.

The man with no questions behind the unblinking eye shrugged, "okay."

"No, wait. I guess I can talk about this." I look back at the camera, "My friends call me Zach..." And then I vamped. Just rambled foolishly for a couple minutes. I think maybe it was funny. Maybe it was not. It was all follow through. It didn't matter what I said. What mattered was that I said it. I didn't run from rejection. I didn't run from success. I just did my part to let it happen. It's out of my hands now.

I left with a smile on my face. I'm satisfied. The important thing was, I did it. I took the first step. Everything from here on out is gravy. From now on, if anyone asks, I can honestly say I auditioned for a reality television show. How many people can honestly say that?
4:18 PM | link to this post

It was five years from now. I had continued to believe the same petty beliefs and bullshit that had led me wrong before. I believed myself a failure, when I had been successful in many things and could have been again had my own petty beliefs and bullshit not kept me down. I had believed women caused me pain when truly every relationship had been a learning experience; I just misinterpreted some of them as painful. I had told myself I didn't care, when truly I cared so much the pain forced me to disconnect myself - disassociate more and more over a period of years from anything I loved - anything that might have caused me pain. The beliefs and the bullshit were thick. I was drowning in it all. Suffocating like quicksand. It was five years from now, and my own petty limited belief structure had killed me. Or rather, I had killed myself.

My soul was floating by my tombstone. I tried to scream. Tried to cry. I felt as if I were nothing but dry heaves. Then even that sensation subsided. I simply could do nothing but feel the emptiness; the loss and the pain that I had for so long run from when I was alive. I waited by my own tombstone, wondering if there would be visitors. For the longest time there were none. I suppose since I had committed suicide, those I thought I loved were forced to disassociate themselves from me to curb their own pain. Or perhaps prior to my death I had so successfully pushed everyone away, that there was no one left to even mourn me. Or remember.

Then I saw a black limosine pull up from the nearby road. It stopped several yards away on the pavement. A chauffeur solemnly stepped from the driver's side and walked around to open the door for a single passenger. She was dressed not in black - but completely white. A veil covered her face. She seemed to glow in contrast to the grey overcast sky. At first I had difficulty recognizing her. Then that empty place that I had once taken for granted as a heart shouted at the rest of my disembodied state. As she slowly walked towards my tombstone, I knew without seeing her face who she must be.

She kneeled before me, and delicately placed a dozen white roses on my grave. As what used to be my heart tried to explode out of my chest, all the pain and horror and lonliness quadrupled in my soul, because I realized that in life I had once thought she was real, then convinced myself I was wrong, then learned she was real but not in the context I had imagined, and not in a way that I had chosen. At this moment of clarity, I saw that even that was wrong. My soulmate was out there, shrouded in mystery and secrecy behind a glow and a veil even now, but my heart suddenly knew the truth even in death as deep down I had known in life - she was out there. She patiently waited, but I had never come. Had I not let my limited beliefs rot me from within, I might have had the chance to meet her for certain, but now I never will.

And then I woke up.

And now I can't sleep.

What do white roses mean?

...

Dear God..

That's not the entire story. After I woke up but before I realized I couldn't sleep, I was at a Denny's with two friends. We had recently shared an extraordinary experience which I am mildly embarrassed to admit to now. During a wild weekend which I thought was going to be a waste but even now has left my voice shattered and practically every muscle in my body dulled with ache, I came upon that revelation. We each had different revelations, and we were sitting together at a Denny's sharing what we'd experienced over coffee.

Our waitress was delicious, with an alarming smile that has left its mark on my retinae, skin like chocolate milk, and a voice that felt like it could melt my ears. I found myself doing something I have avoided doing for over a year: I was flirting with her. I wasn't interested in seriously persuing a relationship, but the mere fact I found myself flirting, and to my amazement she was coyly flirting back.. well it's the little things in life one must treasure. It's the most subtle of moments one must savor.

And I found myself experimenting with being alive again. My friends suggested I ask her out. I entertained the idea. Again, a remarkable action for me. I have lived for a long time with the assumption that I would never again allow myself the possibility of falling in love again, or even mild infatuation. Too much pain had been associated with it before.

I thought I feared rejection. Truthfully as I sat there drinking my coffee for the sheer pleasure of inviting her back to the table to refill the cup so we could wink and blink at each other, I realized that it wasn't rejection that I feared. What if I asked her out and she said yes? One of my friends looked at me with a smirk and suggested we go outside for a moment. He wanted to continue something that someone else had started within me only hours before.

We go outside and walk around the building to the back. I had no idea what his intentions were but we're long time friends and I trust him implicitly. He asked me to talk more about rejection. How does it make me feel. He took me back in my memory to a time when I had been rejected. Then in his own reiteration of my descriptions, he increased the memory with exagerration. I was reminded once again of Charlie Brown and the Little Redhaired Girl, an image that I've been able to relate to since I was very young. Then, at just the right moment when I was in state and fully immersed in that painful feeling of rejection, my friend reached down without warning and grabbed my crotch. Needless to say this took me out of state in a most unwelcome and discomforting way. I pulled back and stepped away, then I felt my right fist curl up and I damn near clobbered him, but managed to purposefully miss him inches from his face. I had to laugh at my own anger and embarrassment. He just stood there with a knowing smirk on his face, laughing.

Then he tried to get me back in that state again. He described examples of times when he's recalled seeing me rejected by a woman, and there have been many. The time when I got real drunk and made a fool of myself in public before a woman with light skin, dark hair, blue eyes and a demeanor that reminded me of someone I thought I had lost. He tried to get me to go back to that moment, and now I could do nothing but laugh at it and think, "next!" He described a couple more, and was very good at trying to get me back to that place in my mind but I refused to go. I couldn't stop laughing about the silliness and futility of the whole thing. So I've been rejected. Each time was a learning opportunity that I just equated with pain.

"Come on. Get back to that state. Let's think about how you feel when you're rejected again. Let's go back there."

I smiled at him with a certainty I didn't know I had within me, "you can't make me."

"No really. Think about it."

"No." No. There's no need. I'm not necessarily cured, but it is a step in the right direction. I chose not to proposition the lovely waitress but not because I feared rejection or success. She was lovely to be sure, but not what I'm looking for at the moment. I know where the place is. Perhaps I will go back there sometime and flirt with her some more, just for fun. Perhaps I'll look elsewhere. My standards appear to have been raised. I don't feel desperate any longer. I feel like I can pick and choose. For the first time in years I actually feel desirable. Definitely a step in the right direction.

There's more to this story, but I'm tired of dwelling on this for the time being. I simply put this here now, because this is a place where I put pieces of my brain, so I can refer back to them later. I sense this is a milestone that I am going to want to remember. A day when my lifepath is ...well... no longer written in stone.
11:45 AM | link to this post

I have a rat in my house. No I don't mean the chihuahua. I have another rat. I've only seen it once. Several months ago I went into the back bedroom, which after the divorce has become a cross between a storage room and a demilitarized zone. I saw this blue-grey streak in the corner of my eye as I turned on the light. It hid behind something and when I went to look for it, it disappeared. I haven't ever seen it since.

Recently though, I've learned it's still around, because it's leaving teeny little presents for me in my walk-in closet. So I found a big old rat trap - the kind that's fierce and is designed to break a rat's neck if it messes with it. I don't have any cheese, so I put some honey on it and some raisins. The next day the raisins and honey were gone, but the trap hadn't been sprung. So yesterday I put some peanut butter right on the thingy that's supposed to cause the trap to spring if the rat touches it. I just went back and looked and the peanut butter has been licked clean, but the trap hasn't been triggered. And all around the trap are new teeny weeny little presents for me. This damn rat is laughing at me.
12:56 AM | link to this post

Zac On The Crain

Zac Crain was kind enough to drop me a line. He happened upon something I'd written on the 'Net. I initially thought he was responding to an email I sent him several weeks ago, but apparently he never got that. It was about the same topic: the boner that is today's music industry. I thought about posting what he said to me here, but he happened to comment offhand about something that may or may not be confidential - I can't tell, and though he didn't name names, it's just generally uncool to post emails sent to me. Not that that's stopped me before. In fact he even said, "do what you want with this," so I guess I could post it here if I felt like it... but hey. He's got a whole newspaper column. If he wants his words seen publically in full context, he's got a better place for that. All I got's a weblog that nobody reads. I'm a nobody. He's a somebody. Ooh. I stand humbled in his presence.

Here's what I said back to him:

To: "Zac Crain" Zac.Crain@dallasobserver.com
From: "Zach Garland" ZachsMind@yahoo.com

Okay here's the deal. I'm in no position to make any change to the music industry because my life sucks. You are not in a position to make any dramatic change. You ARE in a better position than me to at least try to make a difference, but you choose not to. Or maybe you think you are making a difference, but you're not and I'll tell you why. You're not being a leader. You're being a follower.

The email you have responded to, I wrote several weeks ago. Apparently, reader response to your column is not very high priority for you. I have since had other more pressing personal matters. I still want to support local music but I'm not in a place right now where I can do anything. You are, yet you piss your potential away. There's too many people out there who think like you: that money's more important than community. My pessimistic idealism is drowned out by the pessimistic realism of people such as yourself. This is what leads to my frustration.

Metaphorically speaking, I'm stuck on the other side of a room and I can't get to the door, and maybe if I could get to the door I wouldn't be able to open it, but you are already standing by the door and you're just looking at me like a stupid git, and I'm waving my arms at you telling you to just open the damn door and you're like, "huh?"

"You should know this: Commercial radio stations follow the lead..."

I already know this. I also know that Clear Channel & Susquehanna are not the same thing, but a Salon article last year explained that one was trying to buy out the other. Maybe that deal fell through and I didn't hear about it.

I also know that the RIAA isn't really one big monster. It's five separate corporate entities run by different people who don't communicate at all do they? And Hillary Rosen's really just the custodian, isn't she? The RIAA's not a five-headed hydra dragon thing that's befriended a very small number of talented individuals and then keeps the teeming masses at bay. What was I thinking?

I know most of what you accuse me of being ignorant about. Yes I get details mixed up cuz I'm ..well, mixed up, but basically I agree with you about how the music industry today operates.

My argument is that it's wrong.

Y'know what might be fun? Spend a column going over all this: how the music industry works. Yes the majority of the world probably already knows all this but it can't hurt to describe it in detail again. Maybe some people need to be enlightened by your wisdom. Besides it's easy for you. It'll take up several inches. You practically already have that column written in your head. Easy money. Consider it a public service.

Then go back and read over your own words and honestly ask yourself: "okay so this is how it works but does that make it right? Should people just sit back and accept all this as a given and not question the insipid behavior of the radio stations and the music industry as a whole to be topheavy and support a very small number of marketable faces at the expense of all those artists out there who also deserve their 15 minutes? Isn't there a better way to do this?

Decades ago radio was where people went to hear a variety of new material. Now it's where people go to languish in the familiar. Why? Because it's what sells. Well, cocaine sells a hell of a lot too.

You are in a position to help change things. Instead, you use your soapbox with the paper to insult hardworking, talented artists because you personally think those talents are not 'marketable,' and you praise only what you anticipate will make the big time, so you can someday look back at your own words and tell the world, "I told you so."

You hedge your bets by following suit with bands that have already received regional or national acknowledgement, if not fame, leaving struggling local artists that deserve equal or better treatment wallowing in obscurity. Just like radio stations, you observe what's already popular elsewhere and jump on the bandwagon. If Kristy Kruger suddenly started getting airplay somewhere that you found impressive, you'd probably change your tune about her. What's the difference between your behavior and that of radio stations that only support bands that they're told to support? You're doing the same thing.

"One thing I do mind: Being called a corporate shill."

You're right. You're not a corporate shill. You're being a wannabe corporate shill. Real corporate shills get memos directly from the music corporate oligarchy and find more tootsie rolls in their Christmas stocking.

You can be a leader but you're being a follower. You support Chomsky & Old 97s for crying out loud. Why? Because you're told they're good. Who told you Old 97s were good? Dick Clark? Come on! And you question my appreciation of Kristy Kruger? You may disagree with my taste, but at least I support her because I personally enjoy the music, regardless of what people like you tell me I should like and dislike.

If all you want to be is a follower, I apologize for wasting your time.

I will probably put this on my weblog. Not to diss you. I mean let's be honest. My blog's audience consists of maybe three people and my pet chihuahua's one of those people. I just put my brain there so I can find it later. Don't take it personally.

Sincerely,
That Other Zach
12:11 AM | link to this post

With a friend's help, I'm working on a new look. Let me know what you think. Eventually I'll move to this new interface and leave Blogger behind. I'm thankful for Blogger's presence and have nothing but good things to say about it.
8:28 AM | link to this post

How long must we mourn? From the first twenty-four hours to six months ago, we still scratch at the wound refusing to let it scab over.

Following the model on this page:

Zach Garland is a divorced, unemployed, thirty-four year old ex-technical support representative in Dallas, Texas.

I was unemployed before it happened. Hundreds of resumes and "don't call us we'll call you"s later, I'm still unemployed. I've used up all my savings hoping the recession would rebound or I could find a new vocation. I'm staring at what might very well be the scariest future of my entire life. I could opt to step over the edge, or wait for the wolves to push me over. I cannot blame this on Nine Eleven. I can't look to Afghanistan and shake my fist and wail at the oncoming storm. Ultimately my petty downfall is my own damned fault.

Yet despite my personal fear and inevitable downward spiral, just when I thought I couldn't get any lower, my loss and life upheaval pales in comparison to anyone who had been walking those streets that morning, looked up to see the unthinkable, ran from that cloud of smoke, lost loved ones and neighbors in an instant, and faced that grey day with a maelstrom of emotions and responsibilities I'll never comprehend.

I would rather comfort their lives than fruitlessly continue to fix my own. I find myself compelled to hear their stories. Watch the footage. Hear the latest news and hope for them. My heart would have exploded from my ribcage had I found myself in their shoes, but at least I would have known what to do. I would prefer to have an enemy to my own happiness and satisfaction which I didn't see when I looked in the mirror. I want to blame terrorism for all that's wrong in the world, but it had nothing to do with what is wrong with me. I didn't work hard enough. I haven't looked in the right place for a job or said the right thing on an interview. I didn't appease my ex-wife enough to keep her here. Somewhere, somehow, I could have done something to fix what is wrong with my life if only I had known what that was. I took what was right for granted. I failed myself, and have no enemy to blame.

I envy them.
7:37 AM | link to this post

Zach Garland is a 34 year old divorced Texan with his head in the clouds, his heart on his sleeve, and his foot often firmly stuck in his mouth.