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6:14 PM

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Friday, March 06, 2009  
PLANET P, “WHY ME?”, AND ME.

I’ve been playing an “80s song of the day” via Twitter and Facebook over the past few weeks, purely as an exercise in fun and nostalgia. Despite the decade’s more… unusual excesses… it did manage to turn out some decent music. And some music that’s so awful that you have to celebrate the fact that someone still managed to get it recorded, published, and into stores. But it wasn’t until yesterday (March 5th) that I actually played a song that meant something to me. What surprised me, though, was just how much the music seeped back into my brain as it played, and the memories and feelings it would dredge up.

The song is “Why Me?” by the band Planet P (Project), a side effort by musician Tony Carey. The first Planet P album is a masterpiece of wonder and concept, and while Carey has only released two more records under that band name (the latest one after a twenty-year hiatus), they don’t compare to that initial effort. “Why Me?” is, on the surface, the lament of an astronaut launching into a journey and coming to regret the isolation that this duty has brought into his soul.

So what makes it special to me? I’m not an astronaut, after all. Simply put: it was probably the first time that I listened to a song and realized what it was REALLY about beyond the lyrics. Sure, there’s a deeper message about isolation in the lyrics, but that’s not what the song is about.

“Why Me?” is about someone fulfilling a destiny that they want no part of. About getting so caught up in a culture that pushes excellence upon its members that you can lose sight of what you really want and instead do what everyone expects of you. About how living within that culture becomes an addiction and realizing your addiction only when it has come closest to destroying you.

I understood what the song was about very, very well.

To say that my youth was spent in a culture that pushed excellence would be an understatement. I was part of an amazing group of fellow geniuses that thrived on pushing each other higher and farther in our intellectual pursuits. Billy, Eric, Tina, Jill and I found ways every day to raise our level of performance past the others, forcing the rest to take note and think about ways to keep up. It wasn’t just school. It was practically a sport. And even though I played sports incessantly, and worked as a sports reporter, our group made for the most competitive environment I’ve ever been around.

It was brutal. Whether it was a class presentation or the speed at which one completed a math test, there was an unrelenting pressure to be better, no excuses.

And like an addict, I craved it. A huge part of me thrived on it, because there was nothing better than the thrill of having a day where you felt like you had set the standard for everyone else. But there was also a part of me, a small one at first, that I began to see what was happening as a disease.

I was diseased.

So that’s how I went into high school. Feeling like a part of me was diseased. Wrong. All (not so) wonderful emotions for a 14-year old, for sure. But there’s really not a damned thing you can do about it at that point.

I couldn’t exactly say “Fuck this- I just want to be happy, find out who I am, and let academics go.” I was shouldering huge expectations from my family as well. I wasn’t going to get any sort of large college dollars from any of them. So the focus on scholarship money, etc. was prominent. But as desperate as I felt, I was also feeding the addict, because I didn’t know any other way.

Being around my friends (and I love them all dearly to this day- I was lucky to have them in my life, and know that it was a privilege) was like… like I was an alcoholic living in an apartment upstairs from a bar. Morning brought a new fix as I walked through those glass doors. How could I screw up my life that fresh, new day? I’d find a way.

Then the worst possible thing happened.

Each year there was an academic awards ceremony, giving out top awards in various categories, as well as a “Student of the Year” award (male and female) for each (freshman, sophomore, etc.) class. My freshman year, I won the award.

I was soooooooo fucked.

One, you could only win the award once. So there was this stunning feeling that I had maxed out and had nowhere to go but down for the next three years. Two, it simply demonstrated that my addiction to my own competitive nature had actually paid off. Talk about mixed messages! So after it was all over, and I was home and allowed to show my true feelings about what was happening to me (to my mirror, not to my mother- I trusted only me at that point, and even then, not very much), I had my first inclination to run.

It wouldn’t be the last time my fight-or-flight instinct kicked in. At least one other time I was really close, going so far as to figure out the logistics of how it would work. And, ironically, I suppose I sort of did in the long run by moving to the desert. But there no question that I had begun to crack around the edges, and that added a new problem: I was going to have to work harder to fake my way through it all.

Yes, the competitiveness encompassed emotional states as well. Never let ‘em see you sweat, and none of us ever did. Invincibility can be a curse, and I focused my energy to trying to make it look like my struggles could just be passed off as moodiness. And I’m reasonably certain that a good number of the people I went to school with would tell you to this day, twenty years later, that I am one of the moodiest bastards they’ve ever known.

Mom would be so proud.

Throw in some family issues to go with all of it, and I was in full retreat. I had my moments of joy, of course, and I had some wonderful friends who took the edge off of that feeling. Sometimes, I even felt a real sense of self-worth, not just the one I could fake like an Oscar-caliber actor.

Over the past six months or so, the internet has brought many people back into my life from back then, old classmates living their new lives. It’s been an incredibly rewarding and fulfilling experience in many ways, yet bittersweet in others.

As a person who left and had very little contact with anyone over the past two decades, I suppose when I began reaching out I was guessing that there might be some sort of mild curiosity factor and people might actually talk to me. For a short while, at least, until they remembered what I pill I was as a kid. Then I figured I’d get dropped and folks would move on. But that hasn’t been the case at all. I’ve had wonderful experiences with people. Time has taken us to different places, and while that time has taken the edge off of me and I’ve evolved into a wildly different man than they knew, old friends have also been open to seeing me in that light. For that, I’m enormously grateful.

The bittersweet comes from looking now and seeing all I missed. These extraordinary people (that tolerated my bullshit) have lived amazing lives, and being privy to some of it now, I feel the sense of loss that comes with time and tide having passed you by. Births, deaths, marriages, divorces, illnesses.

My first semester at ASU I floundered badly, earning the first “C”s of my academic career. I struggled with discipline, but mostly I struggled with motivation. It took me a while to figure it out, but it was because I was going through the DTs. I had no one to compete with. No one pushing me and keeping me moving forward. Ironically enough, I got what I had always wanted, but didn’t know how to handle it. It took me those first few months to settle in and begin to figure out who I was without my “drug.” Second semester, I got myself together and began to feel the disease slip away. My self-hatred began to calm, and my personality began to develop on its own (if perhaps a bit late).

So the question of “why me?” stopped being a lament. Instead, I learned how to add a word: why NOT me? Open for the first time, I could explore the world on my terms; live the life that I wanted to live. Which has brought me to here. This place in my mind, in my heart, where I am part of a destiny that I do not fear and can embrace.

A thousand other places to be? Sure. But I wouldn’t be anywhere, or anyone, else.

12:56 PM

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Monday, February 23, 2009  
HOLLY ELDREDGE...

... is not only one of the most attractive women you'll ever meet, she's also a damned fine chef and has redefined the concept of what a cookie should taste like with her amazing baking skills.

*(all of which was not said under duress. really.)
9:24 PM

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Wednesday, December 31, 2008  
TWO AND A HALF WEEKS DO NOT SAVE A YEAR

They just don’t. So I won’t be mourning the end of 2008. Instead, I’ll be trying to hit it in the ass with the door as it exits. That’s how much this year sucked.

Why did it suck? The reasons pile up. Death was a big one. First came the shock of Nikki’s accident and passing. 19 years old. A ridiculous freak occurrence. If I didn’t struggle enough with some of life’s insane complexities, this surely put me over the edge. I’d watch the news and wonder why an evil piece of shit like Dick Cheney was still sucking oxygen, and this wonderful girl that I had known since she was a small child was suddenly gone.

Justice?

No such fucking thing, thanks.

Then came the news about Dan. Dan Havens was one of the true good guys, and he was the first person to ever truly make my mother happy. And believe me, that’s no small chore- I was 32 years old before I ever saw the woman genuinely happy. That’s saying something. They were supposed to continue to grow old together, but instead, a third bout of cancer, this one with no cure, cut their story short.

Justice? Fairness? They left the building a long time ago.

My worklife became busy and fulfilling. By contrast, my personal life joined justice and fairness on a lengthy vacation. I have no personal life, honestly. I get out every once in a while, but I don’t move forward. It’s “tread, tread, tread the same old water” and sometimes I start to wonder if maybe I should just stop fighting and drown.

Even then, work suddenly took a jolt at the end of the year when the library announced that it would be laying people off. Will I be one of them? I don’t know, but even if I survive the coming purge, the blow to morale and loss of people we all know will forever change the environment.

Motivation? Check, please.

Creatively? Until the last two and a half weeks, I was so creatively stagnant that it was horrifying. I sealed away my personal creativity and applied it solely to work and to the online magazine I run. I suppose it was a case of almost willful denial- I couldn’t produce shitty work if I wasn’t writing.

Of course, you can’t really produce good work that way, either. Don’t know quite how I missed that part.

Writerboy? He used to live here, but he left. No forwarding address, sorry.

Were there things that went right? Sure. I had some good times. There were some triumphs. But all things being equal… things aren’t very goddamned equal. And the scales were way the hell out of whack in 2008.

I’ve at least woken up creatively over the past couple of weeks, and yet during that time, I have alienated a friend, perhaps forever. It’s amazing to see when someone has a gift for self-sabotage like I do- you should gawk at it, like seeing a twelve-car pileup on the freeway. Watch the rolling heads, everyone!

So there you have it: 2008 can go fuck itself. 2009? Well, I suppose that’s partially up to me. Maybe I can avoid fucking this one up/

Optimism? Never heard of it.

Now where did I put my margarita?
10:59 PM

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Monday, September 29, 2008  
My 20th high school reunion was this past Saturday. I didn't go.

Now, as recently as this past June, if you had asked me if I were going to go, I'd have snorted derisively in your face and looked at you like you were stupid. Plus, I live kinda far away. But later in summer I had an epiphany about my adolescence and my school experiences and my tune changed.

I realized that, while I carried around plenty of the traditional youthful angst and pain, most of it truly had nothing to do with school or my fellow students. Were there blips? Sure. But most of it was down to the people I was related to, their petty squabbles, and the smoke. Dear god, the smoke.

The more I thought about it, the more I came to realize that I was one lucky sonofabitch.

I had some amazing friends. We had some wonderful times. And I'm intensely grateful for every bit of it because now I know that there was no way I could have done it without them. They kept me sane. They kept me going.

And not just them. I was also lucky that some of those friends had parents who treated me like one of their own. The Beechlers. The Spencers. The Spanglers. Mrs. Kirkendorfer. The list goes on. I was able to leave an environment where I was struggling and go somewhere where I felt safe and welcome. That's a blessing. I took it for granted then. But I know what it means now, and I'll never forget it.

The circumstances we lived through... nasty car accidents... losing Danny Jenkins... gaining a new friend and a national spotlight when Ryan White joined us. I still take pride to this day in how we held up as class and as a school with the media watching us for even one false move. We showed the way for so many others. As seniors, it remains perhaps our lasting legacy: proving that you can educate kids about something important and they GET it.

So to my fellow '88ers, I can only say one thing: thank you. From the bottom of my heart, you made my life better. I didn't know all of you perfectly well, but even then: I was fortunate to walk the same halls with you. I hope you're all living happy, healthy lives, abundant with the things that mean the most to you, no matter what those may be.

And maybe I'll see you in five years. You never know.
6:40 PM

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Friday, May 02, 2008  

FLASH FICTION FRIDAYS: APOCALYPSE NOW?

The thin, balding man smoothed the creases in his shirt and sat down on the sofa. He loosened his tie, quietly sighing relief, and removed his loafers. Running his hand across his forehead, he realized he was sweating, so he reached for the box of tissues on the desk across from him, the man sitting opposite sliding the box towards him. Dabbing at his forehead, he removed the perspiration as if drop-by-drop. When finished, he took a deep breath and slumped his shoulders.

“Afternoon, Bob,” the man across the desk said, smiling at his patient’s attention to manner.

Bob shifted his rear end on the sofa, trying to sit up a bit straighter. “Hello, Charlie. How’s business?”

“Always good,” Charlie replied. “It’s always good in our business. After all- even…”

“Shrinks need shrinks!” the duo said in unison and shared a laugh.

Charlie leaned forward on his elbows and took off his glasses and began to clean them. “Rough week in the office?”

Bob nodded softly. “Oh yeah. I had another session with… him… again.” Charlie perked up and began rummaging through his notes.

“The court-ordered guy, right? Arrested for assault, conspiracy…”

“That’s him,” Bob said, shaking his head wearily.

Charlie leaned back in his chair. “As I recall, your first session with him was quite a whopper. He claimed he was a deep cover operative for the government and started telling you how we were already living through the apocalypse and we didn’t really know it.”

“Right,” Bob nodded. “That certain powers that be had worked to create the Biblical apocalypse through economic means, rather than nuclear or biological weapons. The creepy thing was just how plausible he made it all sound.”

“That’s what makes the difference between a raving paranoid and a functioning one. This guy easily sounds sane enough to face trial. He’s at least fueling his fantasies using something tangible.”

Bob ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “So today was his second session, right?”

“Okay.”

“And it got… weirder. Much, much weirder.”
“How so?” Charlie asked.

Bob leaned back into the couch. “He said he wanted to ask me a question, so I told him that I couldn’t guarantee an answer, but he could ask.”

“What was his question?”

“If you wanted to destroy a civilization,” Bob paused, “how would you do it?”

Charlie smiled. “Intriguing question. What was your response?”

“I told him I’d never thought about it, but I supposed large scale weaponry was probably the best way.”

“And how did he respond?”

“He laughed at me, Charlie. Laughed. Told me weapons were obsolete and unnecessary and that I wasn’t really thinking about things very clearly.”

“This should be good,” Charlie said, suddenly deeply interested.

Bob coughed and took a bottle of water from his briefcase and began to drink. “He told me to look at American civilization right now and think again. I did, but I was still baffled,” he took another sip from the bottle, “so he said he would lay it out for me. He called it the anti-Renaissance.”

“Fascinating term,” Charlie said.

“Here’s how he explained it. Weapons of mass destruction destroy the infrastructure, the farmland, leave bodies around to pollute the water. So you destroy a civilization by rendering it ineffective and moot. You attack the culture, destroy it, make sure it shows no progress that isn’t backward.”

Charlie jumped in. “And he believes this has happened here?”

Bob nodded. “God, yes. He told me that years ago, agents from terrorist nations began slowing buying their way into American newspapers, magazines, and television networks. They began shaping the agendas of the media. And rather than focus on positive, affirming people and news, they began shaping coverage of what we see in a different direction.”

“So essentially, there isn’t a liberal media bias? There’s an al-Qaida media bias?” Charlie asked, skeptical of what he was hearing.

“Precisely,” Bob said. “His point was that our culture has become so dumbed down, so inanely pointless, because it’s a plot to destroy us. That Britney Spears, Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Lindsay Lohan, the Simpson sisters, Brooke Hogan, Tila Tequila, and THE HILLS and the rest of it including the seriously creepy parents involved are all part of an over-arching plot to destroy this country culturally and render its citizens globally stupid and impotent. That VH1, US Magazine, MTV and their ilk are controlled by forces deliberately attempting to destroy us.”

Charlie laughed. “Well that sounds a bit more far-fetched than the apocalypse stuff. You must have gotten a good laugh out of it.”

“I did. At first. Then…”

“’Then’ what?” Charlie suddenly began to worry about his friend.

Bob stuffed the used tissues into his empty water bottle and threw it towards Charlie’s trashcan. “Then, I have to admit, I could see what he was talking about.” Charlie’s eyes popped open in shock. “I mean, look… Britney Spears gets more media coverage than dead and wounded soldiers coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan. THE SIMPLE LIFE ran for something like five seasons. Lohan’s mother got her own reality TV show. One of the girls from THE HILLS was on the cover of one of my MAXIM issues recently. Six million people watched the finale of Tequila’s show. And how many of those people is going to educate themselves on the issues and go to the polls and vote this year?”

Charlie looked befuddled.

“I’m just saying,” Bob continued, “that I could see it. Clearly. We don’t prize real musicians anymore, but samplers get Grammys. True artists are ignored, while the stars of JACKASS get rich for injuring their own genitals. ‘Popular’ and ‘quality’ are dangerously close to being exclusive terms. The Beatles would never have become the Beatles in this era- they’d have struggled to get their music heard through MySpace, and if they were lucky, maybe a single might have gotten airplay on some shitty show on the CW network.”

“Jesus Christ, Bob…”

Bob stood up. “I know, I know… it’s bullshit, right? It can’t possibly be a conspiracy. Our society has deteriorated on its own. It has to have, right?”

Charlie swallowed hard. “Right, right. To believe otherwise…”

“Is batshitinsane, I know,” Bob jumped in. “But as I listened to him talking… he just sounded so… so sure… and it was, for a moment, very, very credible.”

“Remember, Bob, he is an accused criminal.”

“I know,” Bob exhaled. “It just… it shook me, that’s all. These two sessions… he’s not your classic paranoid delusional nutcase.”

“He seems to be much more, that much is certain,” Charlie agreed.

The two continued talking for a few more minutes, shifting the topic of conversation to more mundane topics, such as Bob’s marriage and his affair with another therapist sharing office space in his building. Finally, their time drew to a close.

“Thank you, Charlie. I really appreciate your listening skills, especially on days like this.”

Charlie chuckled. “That’s why you pay me the big money, Bob.” The pair shared a laugh, shook hands, and Bob left the office. Charlie sat back down at his desk and wiggled the mouse on his computer so that the screen would activate. As it did, he checked his favorite news site and was immediately struck by the top headline: “Miley Cyrus shocked by sexual nature of photographs she posed for.”

Stunned and curious, he clicked on a link for a slideshow of the pictures and came across one of her draped across her father’s lap in disturbing fashion. Suddenly, his head began to throb, the beginnings of a migraine starting to settle in. He gingerly picked up the phone and paged his secretary.

“Janeane?”

“Yes, Charlie?”

“I’m not feeling well. At all. Please cancel my appointments for the rest of the day.”

“I’ll take care of it, Charlie. Sorry you aren’t feeling well.”

“Thanks. And Janeane? Can you call my therapist and see if he has any open slots for an emergency appointment?”

Tuesday, January 22, 2008  
CLOVERFIELD

They were in my head.

Sitting in the theatre back In July, seeing the first
teaser, I was capitvated, and more than a bit excited.
In one of those rare moments, the entire film had
snuck under the radar, and that little smidge of
footage, untitled, represented something that I as a
filmgoer was hoping for: another shot at redemption
for the American kaiju film.

God knows, it needed it. The 1998 "Godzilla" (and I
can only put it in quotation marks, because it was NOT
Godzilla) was the most colossal disappointment of the
past decade of cinema. Peter Jackson's KING KONG had
its moments, but pacing issues were brutal. And
frankly, the big monkey wasn't big enough.

Reaching back into my childhood, I was like so many,
addicted to watching syndicated movies on weekday
afternoons after school and on idle Saturdays. And
nothing captured my attention like turning on the
television and seeing Godzilla on the screen. This
hulking, green, fire-breathing monster, rampaging his
way through cities and battling other monsters his
size... God. I would curl up in my grandfather's
recliner and lock my eyes onto the screen, unable to
turn away, and in my own way, deeply in love with what
I was seeing.

But as we all know, love is a double-edged sword. It
cuts, and it makes us bleed. And as much as I loved
those movies, inevitably, I would go to bed those
nights, and my nightmares would come, filled with
giant monsters. And for my part, I was always trapped
somewhere, trying to hide. Yet no matter where I went,
it always seemed like I was stuck in the middle of the
fights, or that I was never far from danger. I'd wake
up panicked, sweating, shaking... disoriented and
wondering why I was still alive.

Hell, if I'm being honest, I still have those types of
dreams today, even when I haven't parked my rear end
in front of the tube and watched a giant monster film.

I'm certainly not the only one, of course. Plenty of
kids went through the same thing, the same nightmares.
Hell, for young geeks, it's sort of a rite of passage,
I suppose. It doesn't always become one of their
ultimate obsessions, but for some of us, it has become
a lifelong relationship. Some of you know just how
much the big G means to me, and that I'd sell every
one of your mothers, including mine, to get my hands
on the character creatively.

My friend Matt and I have differed wildly in our feelings about
what CLOVERFIELD would be and whether or not it would
deliver upon its promise. I get exactly where he's
coming from, and honestly, after the 1998 "Godzilla"
debacle, I'm the last person who should ever have
anything resembling expectations. But watching the
trailers and clips from CLOVERFIELD, I was absolutely
certain I knew what it was. And it was.

It was my childhood nightmares brought to life and
slapped up on the screen.

People trapped, chasing through danger to save the
life of another, and finding nothing but fear, death,
and horror, no matter where they go. No safety. No
moments to breathe. Panic. Loss. Captured to a "t" and
right on screen. I don't mind telling you, it kinda
freaked me out.

But as much as it freaked me out, I can only imagine
what a New Yorker who lived through 9/11 is going to
feel while watching it. The film baldly plays upon
imagery from our national conscience's day of imfamy.
Debris clouds, destroyed landmarks, toppled buildings,
people trying to evacuate Manhatten on foot via the
Brooklyn Bridge. Memories will be dredged up, and I'm
sure that many will feel uncomfortable. Can't blame
them, that's for sure.

I have zero clue what the ultimate verdict the
nerdosphere will render on CLOVERFIELD, but I can say
this beyond my personal reaction: when the credits
began to roll (and if you go, stay through the
credits- there's only one piece of musical score, and
it plays after the credits begin, and it is an
incredible tribute to every great monster movie score
*ever*) more people stayed in their seats than any
movie I've seen in *years*. I sat listening to the
chatter, hearing people discuss and dissect what they
had just seen. Good or bad, the film struck a chord
with the people in the audience, and they needed to
get their thoughts out *immediately*.

If you do plan to see it, let me make two
recommendations. One, see it in the theatre: the
handheld camera work is going to be extremely rough on
home video, unless you have at least a 42-inch TV.
Two: sit as far back from the screen as you
comfortably can. Or motion sickness is in your near
future.

/Mason
7:42 AM

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Friday, June 01, 2007  
So, I found out that one of my mentors died on Wednesday.

Mark Harris was never quite the great American novelist. For sure, he wrote a couple of great novels, and a few good ones. He also wrote a couple that stunk. But he was certainly a *writer*, through and through. He woke up in the morning, and his first thought was to write. During the day, he was thinking about writing. When he went to bed, he had the proverbial notebook next to it, ready to write something down if it popped into his head.

I took four or five classes with Mark, and they all worked along a similar line: he encouraged everyone in his classes to write two pages a day. They didn't have to be great pages. They didn't have to be pages to keep. Harris felt it most important to work on your craft; that, and that, in order to get to the good pages you had in you, you had to get the bad ones out of your system.
The university never quite seemed to give him the full respect that he deserved. There were always other writers around, younger ones capturing a bit more of the field's imagination (Ron Carlson, among others), and in the late 90s, he had begun to fade in his output and reputation. His major works, like BANG THE DRUM SLOWLY, were far behind him. But his passion for writing never seemed to diminish, and I respected that.

He had his quirks, and shamefully, early on in knowing him, they were easy to make fun of. He wore thick, bottle-bottom glasses, but with a twist: they had a flip-up element. While many people who wear glasses have a sunglasses element that flips down to cover their eyewear, Harris' flip brought down a second glasses lens that seemed just as thick as the bottom one. He also had one hand gesture that he seemed to prefer using, a "point" that never quite became a point. By the time I finished my final class under his tutelege, I found everything about the man charming; maybe I had needed to grow into my appreciation for him.

I never did quite get the hand of writing two pages a day back then, though I put it into practice when cranking out the first draft of my first novel a bit back. I'm also trying to put it into practice right now while working on another project. Have to get those crappy pages out of my system, after all.

He had left ASU a few years ago, and I don't think I ever really took the time to properly thank him. So today, I am. Thank you, Mr. Harris. Thank you for the interest and time that you gave me and countless other young writers. Thank you for the joy in the words you wrote. And thank you for the smiles you brought to our classrooms. Rest in peace... and may Heaven supply you with an endless ream of paper. Two pages a day in eternity should see you back at the top of your game in no time at all.

/Mason
12:17 PM

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Thursday, April 19, 2007  
WHAT NO ONE REALLY WANTS TO ADMIT ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED AT VIRGINIA TECH

There’s an ugly, unspoken truth about the massacre at Virginia Tech this past Monday, one that no one really wants to talk about or admit exists. And it is this: what happened isn’t really a shock. Anyone who says it’s a shock is a liar or someone living with his or her head outside of reality. No, the dirty little secret behind what happened is that the real shock value comes in that it doesn’t happen more often.

Because, let’s face reality, we know that we’re lucky it doesn’t. Looking at the killer behind what happened at V.T., he was a textbook example of someone ready to go off at any time. He had a long period of isolation and loneliness, his writings became more disturbed, there were reports of him harassing female students and a lack of a dating history, he had a history of psychological problems and medication for them… his paranoia and anger were mounting, and finally he exploded. Sad, horrific, but you’ve yet to hear a single person express surprise, have you? Nope. And they’re not going to, either. Again, anyone who actually does try to is in total denial or a liar of mammoth proportions. He was a known time bomb, and people blithely walked by him every day, ignoring the danger, like people who refuse to use condoms because they figure it can’t happen to them. Let this Monday’s events say it loud: it can happen to you, and if you aren’t paying attention, it will.

I’ve seen a huge rush to point the finger of blame this week, which is pretty standard at this point. I’ve seen video games blamed. Hollywood’s output. The little-known adverse effects of anti-depressants. Even the school itself. But those are simplistic reasons meant to get someone’s name in the headlines. No, I think the real blame lies in the root changes that have taken place in our society over the past ten years and how they’ve changed everything about how we live and one huge elephant in the room:

IT HAS NEVER BEEN EASIER TO BE COMPLETELY ISOLATED AS A HUMAN BEING.

Ever. I mean ever. The ability to become disassociated from the world is one we each possess, and it happens at a younger and younger age.

Think about it. Technology has finally made it possible to live your life without ever having to interact with other people in person. Need food? Grocery stores now deliver. Pizza delivery is a multi-billion dollar business. Hell, even sit-down restaurants affiliate themselves with companies that will pick up to-go orders and deliver them. Need gas in your car? Pay at the pump. Got bills or rent to pay? Use your bank account online to do it electronically. Need some sort of social interaction, but don’t have the skills to do it at a bar? Chat online. Even if you finally realize you need some sort of intimacy, even on a temporary basis, the escort services and prostitutes have joined the techno-revolution and do online-booking. You can move to a new home by booking a truck online, then using the web to set up your utilities and pay your deposits. Even renewing your license plate doesn’t mean a trip to the DMV anymore.

Compounding technology’s influence, it can also actively cause us to turn away from others even when using it to “communicate.” I work at one of the largest universities in the world, and many years ago, I was a student there as well. During my undergraduate years, it was a very different place; it was before 90% of the student population had a cell phone. Today when I walk around campus, I see people barely talking to or acknowledging one another; instead, they’re talking to someone else in their insular world and ignoring those around them. Or, barring that, they have earbuds in, listening to the songs downloaded to their iPods. Conversation between two living, breathing people has declined precipitously. Little wonder, in that environment, that those who feel isolated begin to retreat further into their own heads.

It compounds from there. The isolationist nature of our culture has bred even more superficiality into it as well. With our mighty technological gifts, the distance between the Haves and Have Nots grows. The Haves can enhance their physicality with expensive clothes, plastic surgery, the finest cars… the Have Nots, while not left behind by technology, lose ground as the Haves use that artificiality to widen the gulf. The sneers of those Haves who look down on those that don’t “fit” have never sounded louder; before, those sneers were simply part of a personality flaw. Now, they stem from a sense of entitlement- you do not belong in their expensive, perfectly constructed world, and you must be excised to the margins. Immediately.

I appreciate the irony that I’m sitting here writing this alone in my house, so eloquently and egotistically displaying the results in my own technological vanity space. But the truth is, I am writing this from a place of fear and worry, no matter where I am. Our society isn’t working towards solutions to bring people together; rather, we’re working to improve the technology so that we can streamline and automate even more of human existence. Ultimately, that means we’re going to keep breeding more and more discontent amongst those who feel marginalized and disconnected, and the violence they cause will escalate. You can try and offer up solutions like religion, but that’s not really an institution in good shape right now. Until we find a way to start reconnecting with one another and creating a world in which we can make the isolated join us and feel comfortable, the danger will remain, and the ticking sound in their heads will get louder and louder. We’d all damned well better hope we aren’t around when the mechanism fires.

/Mason
9:56 PM

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Friday, March 16, 2007  
THE SOUNDTRACK TO YOUR LIFE STORY/MOVIE MEME

Nicked from the always entertaining Kevin Church. Yes, it's a new Happy Nonsense entry. Try not to drop dead from shock, people.

Opening Credits: "Insanity” by Boingo. Might as well set the tone early.

Waking Up: "Virgin State of Mind” by K’s Choice. The hero should always try and start the long day with a clear head, yes?

First Day At School: "Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta" by The Geto Boys. Kids can smell blood in the water, just like sharks and convicts. Walk in like you own the place and don’t let ‘em see you sweat.

Falling In Love: "I Will Follow You Into the Dark" by Deathcab For Cutie. The best song in recent memory about loving someone forever.

Fight Song: "Looking at the World From the Bottom of a Well" by Mike Doughty. Mike Doughty is a god. Mark it down.

Breaking Up: "Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. For the distance never to be bridged.

Prom: "Upside Down" by Barenaked Ladies. I never went to prom. But this underrated gem has a lot of pep and gets the blood pumping, and I’d have danced my heart out at prom if the DJ put in on.

Life: "Pull Me Under" by Dream Theater. This tune always speaks to the part of me that is overwhelmed and wants to lie down and quit. Then the chorus kicks in, and I remember “I’m Not Afraid.”

Mental Breakdown: "Eraser" by Nine Inch Nails. Reznor has made a living out of writing anthems to mental schisms. This is his best one.

Driving: "Hell Above Water" by Curve. The song is nearly a cliché at this point, thanks to movie trailers, but it still makes my foot press harder on the gas pedal.

Flashback: "Existentialism on Prom Night" by Straylight Run. Yes, I didn’t go to prom, but that isn’t really what the song is about. “Sing me something soft, sad, and delicate” captures the raw emotional of the teen years exquisitely.

Getting Back Together: "Going Back To Cali" by LL Cool J. An outside the box choice. “Cali” is, after all, a metaphor in the song, not just a place or the girl herself.

Wedding: "Also Sprach Zarathustra" by Richard Strauss. Every flick should use *some* piece of classical music, dammit, and this is mine. If I’m getting married, I want something a lot more exciting than “Here Comes the Bride”.

Birth of Child: "Blue Collar Suicide" by the Refreshments. Having a kid isn’t always the happiest moments in people’s lives. Accidents happen, lives are detoured…

Final Battle: "Hangman in the Noose" by the Sand Rubies. First: the band named themselves after petrified shit you can find in the desert. Second: rousing, kick ass song that gets the adrenalin flowing. Solid choice.

Death Scene: "Why Me?" by Planet P. I expect my end to come as a sacrifice for the greater good, of course. This song’s lamentation on having to take on that exact responsibility is perfect.

Funeral Song: "Stockholm Syndrome" by Muse. Because I cannot pass up the opportunity for one last snarky shot at the world.

End Credits: "Royal Station 4-16" by Melissa Etheridge. Sure, it’s a train song/metaphor. But my father, a railroad man himself, died on the job, and if I could have convinced anyone to do it, I’d have played it at his funeral. It’s a terrific song, by the way, and one that I’ve never seen her perform live (having had the pleasure of taking in her shows three times early in her career).

Thanks Kev!

/Mason
9:04 AM

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Monday, February 19, 2007  
Still livin'...

Honest.

/Mason
2:45 PM

(1) comments

Thursday, December 14, 2006  
I'm not dead.

That is all.

/Mason
8:18 AM

(1) comments

Sunday, May 14, 2006  
PRANGE-D

A couple of years ago, I started making a concerted effort to watch less television. As it was, many, many other things were eating up my time, so shows I used to watch religiously were shunted to the side. But during that period, I also discovered a new show to watch, and there was no way I was going to be able to let it pass me by.

I’m a complete and total golf fiend, so when I discovered the Golf Channel’s THE BIG BREAK, I was instantly addicted. It was an hour-long pipe of televised crack, and it got into my blood. The premise is simple: a small number of scratch golfers compete against one another in skills competitions, eventually whittling the group down to a two-person, 18 holes of match play finale. No voting anyone off. Just play, and pray your game came with you to the course that day.

Season three was where I first found the show, and that version had women competing for exemptions into two LPGA events. Season four followed six men from the U.S. and six men from Europe playing against each other in a sort of Ryder Cup homage. But season five, which just concluded, was the best so far. It was back to the women, and it featured the best golf, and the most compelling personalities, so far.

Of the eleven women who began the show, seven of them are players on the Duramed Futures Tour, the LPGA’s “minor league,” if you will. Every year, the top five players on the Futures Tour get their LPGA cards and make the jump to the next level, and the next ten get exempted to the final round of Q school. Much like the men’s Nationwide Tour, the Futures has produced some outstanding talents on the LPGA, including Christie Kerr, Christina Kim, and Lorena Ochoa. So having seven of their players on the show meant a huge leap in the quality of what we saw on TV.

I got heavily invested in one player in particular, Ashley Prange. My ears perked up when I heard that Prange was from Noblesville, Indiana; years ago, in another life before I was a desert dweller, I was a sportswriter for the NOBLESVILLE LEDGER, the local paper. That was before Prange’s time, but still, it was the first time I’d ever had someone from my old stomping grounds to follow in a realty competition. It was briefly weird for a different reason, as I graduated from a rival high school to Noblesville, but I shrugged it off and cheered the Lady Miller on.

And the weeks passed… and she stayed alive on the show. In fact, she began to dominate the show. Her golf game was good, her attitude was tough, and she made it through challenge after challenge. And after earning her way to the final two on a day of shaky putting, she came out in the final show and won big, securing the exemption to the LPGA event later this summer, a development package including a sports psychologist, a new car, and other cool stuff. Unlike many reality television programs, the best player actually did win, and it was a gas to watch.

Now, being the golf junkie that I am, a few weeks ago, I noticed that the Futures Tour had scheduled an event in Tucson for the first time ever. Seeing that, there was no way I could pass it up. I had to go check it out, for sheer curiosity’s sake. I missed the Nationwide Tour event that was here last fall, but they’re at least on TV here and there. The Futures events never make the screen. It was time to see what life was like on the second level… and it would be fun to see the players who graced my TV screen this spring as well. Sold!

There is no question about it: the Futures Tour is markedly different from every other tour I’ve seen. Not all the players work with a caddy; instead, a golf cart with a scorer rides with the group, carrying the bags. Getting a grip on who in the group you’re watching can be difficult, too; standard bearers were reserved for the final few groups with the leaders, so it was a bear to determine who you were watching.

Galleries were very tiny; at the Safeway International this past spring, the smallest player gallery I saw was around 75 people; the largest gallery I saw at the Futures event was about twenty people to start, and it withered down to as low as two at one point. That gallery belonged to the most well known name in the field: one Ashley Prange of Noblesville, Indiana.

The Randolph Park golf course where the tournament was being played was a bear. It had more peaks and valleys than an issue of PLAYBOY, and some of the slopes were a torn ACL waiting to happen. Saturday, I arrived and decided to spend the first part of the day just wandering and seeing what I could see, so I started on the 9th hole and began working my way backwards. By the time I reached the 5th, I decided to stop for a short bit; I watched six groups play through, then, I followed the last group I watched until they finished the 9th. At that point, I went backwards again, to the fourth, and walked with them through the 9th again. At that point, I decided that I was going to let my writer’s intrigue loose and I was going to follow the TV star’s group through the afternoon. Tee time was 25 minutes away at that point.

I had some water and then spotted Prange and her playing partners Sunny Kim and Julie Tvede on the practice green, so I took up an observer’s position and watched them putt. It was obvious at the time that Prange was having trouble finding a rhythm with the flat stick. At one point, she missed three consecutive three-footers. It didn’t look to be a focus issue, so I was interested to see how it would play out on the course. Some players take that trouble in practice and push it aside and perform brilliantly during their eighteen. For others, it’s an omen.

After a par on the first hole, the second hole demonstrated that Prange’s troubles on the practice green were an omen. A three-putt dropped her to even for the tournament and began a roller coaster of a day that had an absolutely killer ending. There were occasional flashes of genius; on one hole, she put her drive into the left rough, and was a foot away from a small tree. She had a small angle to the hole, but took out a short iron and managed to drop it eight feet from the cup. The man I was walking with at the time just looked at me with his jaw open, and I could respond only in kind. But again, her putter let her down, and she missed the birdie. It was that kind of day.

Keeping track of scoring tournament-wide was difficult, so no one really had any idea where the cut-line was going to be. Julie Tvede wasn’t going to have a problem, though; she had played gorgeous golf all afternoon. But teeing off at the eighteenth, Prange was three over on her round, and had dropped to two-over for the tournament. I thought this might be trouble; the one thing I did know from my earlier walking around was that there were many players simply tearing up the course. But I figured that with a par, Prange would be fine.

She took a mighty rip at her drive on that final hole, and it again headed left. However, this was the one place she really couldn’t afford to go left; there was another course attached to the Randolph Park set-up, and that meant there were out-of-bounds stakes between the eighteenth and the other course’s first. The drive was about a yard to the left of the stakes, and a ruling from an official verified that the stakes were for both holes. Disgusted with herself, she picked up the ball and threw it to me, the one person who had made it all eighteen with her gallery, and headed back to the tee box, hitting her third shot thanks to the penalty. She finished the hole with a double bogey, five-over day… which was doubly brutal, because those two extra strokes on eighteen took her from what turned out to be the cut line to being cut. Just like that, her weekend was over.

It’s been a long time since I was a sportswriter. The one thing you learn as a sportswriter (or a media writer) is that you’re covering humans, and they’re just like you, even if they do this one thing better than most. Prange, having gained enormous exposure through TV, was perfectly normal; she talked to her playing partners, was pleasant to the gallery (she signed a ball for a little boy who had been following for a while, and did so without him asking her for anything), and pulled and dropped the flag like every other weekend duffer. For those who are curious about that sort of thing, she’s actually shorter than she looked on screen- I had thought she was maybe 6’2’’but she’s closer to 5’11’’; there were also a number of complete assholes on the Golf Channel’s message boards who made cracks about her weight, which I found distressing on general principle- what difference does it make how she looks: it’s how she plays that matters; what I saw on Saturday was a player who was fit and who displayed strength and power. Anyone who wants to dispute that needs to take a look in the mirror and examine his own issues, you know? In the end, this young woman was just one of many who was working hard to be her best and make her dream of playing at the next level come true. The rest, the exposure she got… just external.

Before I knew whether or not she had made the cut, I had decided that I wasn’t going to follow her group on Sunday. I had seen what I wanted to see, and who knows; she might have seen this old sportswriter as a jinx who had brought her the crummy round. Still, it was a terrific experience all the way around: I wound up walking close to thirty holes of golf, I got some sun, and I had a lot of fun. As I watched those players who made the cut preparing Sunday morning, I couldn’t help but wonder how their rounds would play out or where their dreams would take them; maybe next year, I’ll see some of them up here at the LPGA event; maybe I’ll see some of them on the next BIG BREAK. But if I had to guess, I’d bet I’d see most of them again at the very same place next year, grinding their way towards a better place and a better life on the Futures Tour. That’s golf as life: your dreams stay the same, but life keeps moving the tee box and letting the rough grow.
5:45 PM

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Thursday, March 23, 2006  
FORE!

Last weekend brought a first, and one that was long overdue: my first visit to a professional golf tournament. The LPGA plays the Safeway International out in the far eastern part of the Valley at Superstition Mountain (a simply stunning place). As much as I’ve always loved the game, I’d never ventured out to a pro tournament, being especially daunted by the size of the PGA tourney that takes place in Scottsdale in February- 100,000 people crowding the sides of a golf course holds no appeal to me. But the LPGA draws smaller crowds, even though the Safeway is one of the larger stops on tour, so I figured it was time to give it a shot.

Tickets were 2-for1 if you bought them at Safeway, so for only $10 I had a ticket. Parking was actually free (when’s the last time that happened at a sporting event?), and there was plenty of it. Free shuttle buses took you to the “front door” from the parking lots, and there was no waiting for the bus in either direction. What an amazing experience.

I shelled out an extra three bucks for a program, and pairings listings were given as freebies, so the day was nicely underway. The Safeway draws one of the best fields in the LPGA; all of the top 50 money winners from last year were in the event, plus hot rookies Ai Miyazato and Morgan Pressel were entered. It was almost too much; with so many great golfers to choose from, it was hard to figure out exactly who to follow and from where.

We decided to try and do a little bit of everything. The first paring of the day to get any serious scrutiny was Christina Kim’s. I became a huge fan of hers during last year’s Solheim Cup, finding her personality and passion on the course very appealing. I hate watching stoic golfers; give me a bright, vibrant person like Kim any day. I root for the type of player I’d want to play eighteen with myself. She dropped two birdies in the last three holes, and I hit the autograph tent and had her sign my pairings book. The day was off to a nice start.

Through the rest of the day, we alternated by sitting, then following. It allowed for the conservation of energy and yet plenty of exercise. We had the pleasure of watching Pressel (who had a miserable round), Annika Sorenstam, Natalie Gulbis, Paula Creamer, Lorie Kane, Stacy Prammanasudh, and many others. I was stunned at how fan-friendly the event was; when you’re watching a PGA event on TV, you can see that every single step the players take is roped off so that no one can get close. Not so with the LPGA; at one point, I we were watching Pressel’s group, and as she finished 15 and headed to 16, she was walking on the sidewalk two steps behind me. Damned odd, really. But cool. Very, very cool.

The autograph tent was a fantastic idea, and for the most part it worked pretty smoothly. The Japanese media waylaid Miyazato and prevented her from ever getting to the table, and I didn’t want to swarm her like so many others did. Other than that, smooth sailing. Christie Kerr had been in an overlong session the previous day, so she came pre-armed that afternoon, having signed a number of her trading cards to give away, rather than risk a repeat. Again, a very warm, friendly experience.

I can easily see me taking a couple of days off next year and following the whole tournament. This was more fun than I had imagined, and an experience I won’t soon forget. The LPGA has a marketing campaign this year centered around the phrase “These Girls Rock!” Damned right; and I’m ready for an encore.
9:21 AM

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