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7:50 PM

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Friday, December 19, 2003  
Fat guy. Red suit. Jolly, jolly and all that rot. I need a week off. Gotta finish shopping, or write some Christmas cards, or cry into a beer or something. See you after X-Mas. Happy Holidays, etc.

Marc@MarcMason.com

6:01 PM

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Friday, December 12, 2003  
If I Were A Woman...

I'm offended on behalf of (almost) all the women I know by one particular chunk of television advertising during the Christmas season. I'm referring, of course, to jewelry store commercials.

They may all be for different establishments, but that doesn't matter...they all have the same theme: women are golddiggers.

One commercial shows a woman floating around a party and noticing the jewelry being worn by the other women there. She is informed at every turn that the husband or boyfriend in question shopped at a particular place. The woman in question then proceeds to find her husband, drop trash in his drink and stomp away from, we are now to believe, the cheap bastard she married. It isn't far off to guess that he'll be in the doghouse for a while.

In most of the other commercials, we see the man in question give his girl a shiny bauble and watch her swoon into his arms. In one commercial, I'm pretty certain that you can see the woman's underwear slide off because they're too damp to stay up. It's horrible. What the Hell kind of Christmas message is that? "Buy her jewelry, and with any luck this Christmas she'll put out."

I guess I'd prefer a subtler, less offensive approach. Something with class dignity.

Hmmm. Maybe Carrot Top is available?

Marc@MarcMason.com

1:25 PM

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Friday, December 05, 2003  
Can Stop The Music

There's an excellent article in today's USA Today about the continual slow death of the album while interest in singles as downloads rises. They make a number of good points about the freedom to choose the type of music you want versus what's available, and there's some lip service paid to the idea that touring is really the only true way left to reach the fanbase anyway, but I think they gloss over the primary trouble spot, which is:

Not enough good albums are being made that will continue to support the format.

Look, you can't sit there and tell me that the disc Britney Spears released a couple of weeks ago has 60 minutes of interesting and worthwhile pop music on it. There's no fucking way. Anyone who buys that disc is likely getting two or three decent pieces of pop and seven pieces of wretched shit that, if possible, most people would edit off the damn disc.

So why bother? Wouldn't it be a much more brilliant move for someone like Spears to admit that they have no clue how to put together a full length album of quality (and even thematic) music, and instead just put out a new single every couple of months? Maybe every three years or so, put together a compilation disc? It'd be sort of like going from monthly comics to the trade paperback format. And best of all, she'd make money twice, not to mention from the touring. And think of the integrity involved: when was the last time a pop artist decided not to soak their fanbase for dogshit in digital? I'll give you a hint: it wasn't a hip-hop artist.

Leave making albums to those who really know how to make one. Peter Gabriel. U2. Nine Inch Nails. Neil Young. Bruce Springsteen. Quality performing artists. And leave the dogshit out of the other end of the equation. There's nothing wrong with good, solid, quality pop music, just the accompanying dreck that takes up the rest of the tracks.

There are any number of ways to save the struggling business of making music. This would be a great start.

Marc@MarcMason.com

1:23 PM

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Friday, November 28, 2003  
THANKFUL

Oh, come on! Who does he think he's kidding?

Waking up this morning and reading the news that "President" Bush traveled to Iraq for Thanksgiving with the troops was enough to make me want to vomit up the amazing meal I ate yesterday. I saw a bit of footage of it, and I think he spoke, but I didn't bother to turn up the volume. What was he going to say? "See, Iraq isn't nearly as dangerous as the newsmedia would have you think?"

I suppose we should just be glad that he didn't try and quote FDR: "We have nothing to fear but fear itself" has way too many syllables for him not to mangle it beyond recognition.

Having the Moron-In-Chief in Iraq yesterday and back in the U.S. today is a slap in the face to every poor sonovabitch in uniform still stuck back there. "Thanks for fighting and dying, troops! Maybe at Christmas we'll send Charo!" If Bush can haul his idiot ass to Iraq, then we can haul some soldiers home to spend time with their families...permanently.

But of course, the charge ahead for controlling the Middle East remains unabated. Our friends and loved ones continue to die on a daily basis. And Bush sat at his Texas ranch today in his little cocoon of safety, not giving a flying fuck about the deaths being charged to his soul, because he thinks God is talking to him (through Dick Cheney and Karl Rove, no doubt).

So while I had one of the best Thanksgivings of my life yesterday, one that will stay with me for life, I can't put the plight of my fellow Americans aside. So I continue to pray for their safe and speedy return, and hope that the end of the Bush Administration draws nigh a year from now. There's been enough death, thanks.

Marc@MarcMason.com

8:45 PM

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Friday, November 21, 2003  
Charge!

I want to see charges brought, and I want some heads on a plate.

Look, Michael Jackson crossed the line into a freakdom from which there is no turning back years ago. He's already been charged with the same crimes once before (and bought off his accuser), so there's no reason for any person with an ounce of sense to ever leave their kid alone with this guy. It wouldn't be so much of an issue if Jackson had been caught fucking one of the llamas on his property, but this is a kid, goddammit. So I reiterate: charges need to be brought against the real guilty party here: this kid's parents.

You wanna pimp your kid's ass to a freak? Fuck you. Don't bitch if the fucking deal goes sour. You want to give your kid a nice normal childhood? Fuck you. Don't send your kid off to spend the weekend with a forty-year old man who has openly admitted that he lets the kids who stay over sleep in his fucking bed. Either way, this kid's parents get the biggest "Fuck you!" that I can offer. Assholes.

But they aren't the only guilty party here. Looking beyond them, and beyond Jackson, how about the charities that still do business with El Freako? Look, I appreciate that charities need every little bit of help that they can get. But there's an ethical line that needs to be drawn. Would they accept a suitcase full of cash from a cocaine dealer? No. So why do they continue to accept the assistance of an accused child molester? Where is that little voice in the backs of their heads telling them that maybe there's a higher principle that needs to be followed?

Or maybe they should start taking the suitcases full of cash.

All I know is that there are assholes a plenty in this case, and they aren't all named Jackson.

Marc@MarcMason.com

9:49 PM

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Friday, November 14, 2003  
How To Drive Someone Insane In 3 Easy Steps

1. Take away their entertainment for three days. This week my satellite went on the fritz and I lost most of my favorite channels for the better part of three days. Live with a woman who has children who think TV is God, and you start to see the problem. I enjoyed having the time to read, personally.

2. Attempt to fix the satellite yourself by trying to use a combination of the recycling bin and a chair to get on the roof. So I don't own a ladder...big deal! It was perfectly safe as far as I was concerned.

Women. Hmph.

3. Dream cheat on her. Have her dream that she walks in on you nailing some other woman in the guest bedroom. Have her dream this repeatedly through the night. Take this as seriously as possible, because she's actually nauseous and hurt by how it made her feel, and laughing would be really fucking wrong.

So if you see Rebecca anytime soon, and you wonder why her right eye is red and twitching, now you know. And I didn't have to lift a finger to cause it.

Marc@MarcMason.com

11:14 PM

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Friday, November 07, 2003  
Potpourri

D-Day is December 14th.

I am a train wreck of heartbreak and sadness right now. I barely remember what happened during a day by the time the day is over.

I worked out a good chunk of the logistics for a writing proposal I've been mulling while walking the other day, and when I sat down to write it out it had all left me. Characters, situations, full story concepts; poof.

My brain is not firing on all cylinders.

Train wreck bigger than me: Average Joe on NBC this past Monday. Poor bastards making assholes out of themselves in order to get a hottie to pay attention to them, but instead of preening in a bar, they do shit like tapdance and give her action figures as gifts. Fucking horrible. But you couldn't take your eyes off of it. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. I kept thinking that it couldn't get worse, but it just kept sliding downhill.

My life is that of an average Joe. Fuck.

Marc@MarcMason.com

8:11 PM

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Saturday, November 01, 2003  
SHHHH. Sleeping. Long week. Kid had appendix out. Not a single trick-or-treater last night. Sleeping. Boo!

Marc@MarcMason.com

1:58 PM

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Friday, October 24, 2003  
This Thing I Love Without Reason

Maybe I’ve just had a hard time letting go of certain elements of my youth, but for whatever reason I am thoroughly addicted to VH1’s “I LOVE THE 80S” and its ilk (“I LOVE THE 80S STRIKES BACK” and “I LOVE THE 70S”). I just finished watching the final hour of STRIKES BACK, and already I feel empty inside because it’s over. Goddammit, where is the justice??? Why must this magnificent pop culture Cliff’s Notes be complete???

The show’s hour long looks at each year inevitably bring something back to mind that I have forgotten about, or something that I had very little familiarity with at all. Sure, I watched THE SMURFS, but I never saw a single episode of JEM. I owned a TRAPPER KEEPER, but I never wore L.A. GEAR. But I think we all watched MY TWO DADS at least once, so at least there are some cultural touchstones that we all share. God bless Greg Evigan.

I think what really makes the show fun for me is are the celebrity commentators that VH1 uses to help the reminiscing along. Rich Eisen, now freed from ESPN, really ups his humor quotient in STRIKES BACK. Juliette Lewis is twenty times more charming and appealing talking about her childhood and whether or not Samantha Fox was a skank than she’s been in any film she’s made since NATURAL BORN KILLERS. Virginia Madsen shows that she’s aged spectacularly and will likely be sexy until she’s seventy. But the real stars this time out are Hal Sparks, Donal Logue, and Rachael Harris.

Sparks has been charming in the earlier efforts, but this time around he manages to knock almost every single bit he does out of the park. Even when he has to discuss Rainbow Brite, Sparks finds a way to make me snort. I used to watch him do TALK SOUP, but he was never as good there as he has been in VH1’s little retrospectives. Donal Logue has always been a very funny guy, but for STRIKES BACK he seemed to kick it up a notch. He added a comfortable anger to his bits, never missing a chance to poke a hole in an inflated bit of pop or tip over a sacred cow. VH1 actually recognize his brilliance this time by adding a new segment to the show: “Donal Logue’s Unfinished Thoughts On…” A couple were a bit unnecessary, but for the most part, Logue batted for high average.

The third bright star of STRIKES BACK was Rachael Harris. I was pretty unfamiliar with her work, though a cursory look at her IMDB listing tells me I’ve seen her in plenty of things before. Harris is dryly witty, treading a constant thin line between mocking the topic at hand and admitting love for it. She gives off the impression of being amusingly embarrassed about her own personal participation in the decade, as we all probably should. I’ll definitely be keeping my eye out for further work from her. And yes, I did finish the ten hours of pop highlights crushing on her a bit, too. It’s the glasses. But she’s a comedy genius, dammit. So bite me.

Wisely, VH1 cut back on bits from the now over-exposed Mo Rocca and the annoying Michael Ian Black. Black at least doers a better job of reining himself in during most of the shows, but a little Rocca can go a long way, as those who saw The Smoking Gun’s television special can attest. But in the end, you just have to look past the commentary, and marvel that we survived those fashions, those hairstyles, and those music videos with our dignity intact. Well, most of us anyway. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my parachute pants and Vuarnet sunglasses. I want to look cool while getting my hair feathered.

Marc@MarcMason.com

8:48 PM

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Friday, October 17, 2003  
One Heartbeat

Talk about worry!

The last few months have produced a lifetime of stress. Sleep has come and gone. There’s been sniping, yelling, anger, and crying. But over the last few days, it increased a thousandfold thanks to one brutal and damning fact:

I live with a Red Sox fan.

Diehard Red Sox fans are a different breed. If I ever want to shut Rebecca up or just make her blood pressure go up, all I need to do is utter the word “Buckner”, and suddenly, her skin goes from pasty white to beet red. Much to the detriment of my karma, I actually find it amusing. But until this past week, I’ve never had to see and contend with her in full fan mode, including what appears to be an ulcer that grows with each opposition hit and run.

Now, I consider myself to be a passionate sports fan. I cheer long and loud, and I liver and die with my teams in loyal fashion. I’ve always felt like I’m a class “A” enjoyer of our national pastime. I wear the colors, but I don’t riot when we win. But I have nothing on a diehard Sox fan.

Being a Boston fan means being committed to living and dying at the drop of a hat. It means shedding blood and sweat over each batter that a Sox pitcher faces. And it means crying and hurting deep inside when the Sox lose.

So last night, when Manager Grady Little stupidly left Pedro Martinez in for three batters too long and cost the Sox a trip to the World Series, I adopted a new role in my relationship with Rebecca: I’m the guy who says “Wait until next year” and tries to make the hurt and the tears go away.

It’s sort of weird, actually. All the shit we’ve been through lately, and it was the Sox dropping game 7 to the hated Yankees that left me feeling the most helpless in trying to mend her broken heart. It’s just a game…indeed. But for a little while, it made life seem not so bad.

Marc@MarcMason.com

6:16 PM

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Friday, October 10, 2003  
Roller Coaster

It all got off to a bad start.

First, my privacy and space were violated in a very unacceptable fashion, and the perpetrator was not punished. Then the brass where I work decided to dump a shitstorm on me and my co-workers, right in the middle of our busiest month of the year. That, at least, has the potential for us to turn it into a positive somewhere down the line, but not at the moment. So by Tuesday, I was pretty close to losing my cool and start slapping the living fuck out of the next person who pissed on my Pop Tarts.

Thankfully, I was able to have a couple of positives by the end of the week.

Thursday afternoon, I went to an on-campus rally where Presidential candidate Howard Dean spoke. I haven’t been as impressed as many others have seemed to be by Dean, but I wanted to see the man up close and get a picture of who he was in person. I came away with a much better feel, and a much rosier outlook on the good Doctor. Dean was personable, forceful, and presented himself clearly. He articulated his feelings and his viewpoints well, and to my eyes it seemed like he had been watching video of Bill Clinton on the campaign trail and taking some pointers from it. If Dean can continue to be as well-spoken, coherent, and even-keeled as he was yesterday, he has a chance to make people really take notice, and the race in 2004 to dethrone the evil emperor and his oil cronies could get interesting and close. So the good guys might just have a fighting chance.

Today, I saw Quentin Tarantino’s return to the big screen, KILL BILL, and it is every bit as good as advertised. It is a kick ass action film, and insanely violent, but the artistic quotient of the film is so high that you leave exhilarated, not sickened. Choices such as shifting to black and white, or blue and black, or even an anime cartoon create an atmosphere of hyper-reality that has to be experienced to be believed. It was worth the six year wait.

So I guess my week was rescued by hope and violence. That may not be the most intelligent hook to hang your hat on, but I suppose in 2003 you take what you can get.

Marc@MarcMason.com

8:27 PM

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Friday, October 03, 2003  
Anonymity

I don't know who I am today, and I don't really care.

I remain totally unappreciated in my time, even for the simple things. Every task is a thankless one. I wish I knew why I even bother.

Can't I just tender my resignation and quit?

Marc@MarcMason.com

8:21 PM

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Friday, September 26, 2003  
I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On

Fuck. I used to want to be Robert Palmer.

Reading the stories of his passing this morning transported me back in time to another era, another Marc. As a child of the 80s, I was able to enjoy Palmer before he broke out as a solo artist, during his studio time with Power Station, and late through his last serious chart breakthroughs. In a decade marked by power pop from a man who would eventually go completely insane (see: Jackson, Michael) and hair-driven heavy metal (see: too goddamned many to count), Palmer stuck out like a sore thumb to me in the best possible way.

One thing that I think never changes for teenage boys, no matter the decade, is the desire to be in a band and achieve musical stardom. I think it’s imprinted in our genetic code; that, or it’s simply a response to the fact that guys in the band are the guys who get the girls, and that’s pretty much all we cared about. You can accept whichever excuse you like, but I was no different. In 1986, riding high on my newfound ability to drive an automobile, being a rock star was one of the things that really consumed me. If Hagar had decided to split with Van Halen after one album, I was fuckin’ ready, you dig? But then Palmer came along and my idea of the kind of rock star I wanted to be was forever changed.

Palmer was a man who seemingly didn’t know how to leave his house looking anything less than suave and cool. His sharp black suits and shiny shoes gave him the appearance of a singing James Bond; had he pulled out a PPK Walther and shot John Taylor in the video for “Some Like It Hot” it wouldn’t have been a shock. It would have looked as natural as him sitting down at the bar and ordering a cosmopolitan. But it was his videos for solo efforts such as “Addicted To Love” and “Simply Irresistible” that sealed his cachet. Those blank but gorgeous women playing as his band behind him not only held the attention of the viewer, but they locked you in to Palmer’s essence; you not only thought it was a great song, and that Palmer was a cool guy, but you couldn’t help but feel like it would have taken no effort for him to turn around after the cameras were off, grab a couple of the girls, and head off for the penthouse suite.

So what, you ask? Didn’t just about every rock star have that capability?

Sure. But Palmer was different. Your basic Vince Neil or David Lee Roth stood with their security guards and ordered up Heavy Metal Harlot #3 and Sister Skank #5 and slithered away to the back room, but that wasn’t who Palmer attracted. Palmer attracted women with a bit more of a mature and sophisticated nature, not ones you needed to de-louse upon stripping. It always struck me that Robert Palmer was the guy who’d play a club date and then wind up meeting the businesswoman and her friend who came to the show still dressed from that day’s meetings, and who then decided that they would try anything just once. Order that man another martini!

I also think that gave him the ability to sing his songs in a much more serious fashion than maybe others could have. Palmer could take a tune about turning down a woman for sex (“I Didn’t Mean To Turn You On”) and you believed that he was a guy who had to do it on more than one occasion. He was so sincere, and such a reservoir of cool, that there was no potential for self-mockery there, no falling into the trap that Dean Martin eventually set for himself.

So yeah, when I was 16, 17, 18-years old, I wanted to be in a band, and I wanted to be Robert Palmer. Eventually I let the dreams of music, but I never stopped being the guy who was attracted to mature and sensual looking women in great shoes. We all need something to carry us over, right? I’ve taken a few other things from him; you’ll rarely find me anywhere without the ability to groom myself. Change of clothes, mints, deodorant; it’s in my bag, baby, and it’s important to me. So today, I offer up a hearty thanks to Robert Palmer, and my best hopes for him in the afterlife. May he rest in peace. And may he look damned good in doing so.

3:48 PM

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Friday, September 19, 2003  
I'm kind of sick of talking about negative shit right now, so I'm stepping off for this weekend. I will begin a desperate search for the positive as soon as I can find the time and get back to you all in a week.

Marc@MarcMason.com
10:43 PM

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Friday, September 12, 2003  
”Death is everywhere…there are flies on the windscreen…”

Wow. I was hoping to get away from depression topics this week, but for fuck’s sake! The 9/11 anniversary yesterday rolled in, and then today the entertainment world was rocked by the losses of Johnny Cash and the eternal John Ritter.

Herein, I shall share a few thoughts about death:

• 9/11 Thing that pisses me off the most: the victims being used as propaganda fodder. Folks, no matter how much the Bush Administration tries to claim that those poor souls died for your freedom, it’s bullshit. The people who died in those tragedies died for someone else’s radical philosophy and their hatred. They died because there are millions of people who loathe the American way of life. But they did not die because they put on a uniform and went out and advanced our way of life (the Pentagon victims not withstanding). Dressing up insanity in any cloth is still insanity, whether it’s the government or Al-Qaeda. The 9/11 dead are in the afterlife because they had freedom. There’s a difference.

  
  
  

• Johnny Cash: He was 71 years old, and he still looked like a man you just didn’t want to fuck with in a bar fight. He was still making relevant and interesting music as well. We could all take more than a bit away from Cash’s full and rich life.

  
  
  

• John Ritter: This is the one that was a real gut punch for me. Ritter wasn’t even outwardly ill, he just collapsed on the set of his latest sitcom. Six days shy of 55-years old. Christ. Ritter helped define a generation of television comedy for me. He was a consummate professional who always seemed to be able to find a laugh in a script, even if there wasn’t one. Yes, Three’s Company launched him to mega-stardom, and rightfully so; the show had plenty of jiggle, but it was our ability to love Jack Tripper and follow him into the most absurd situations possible that kept it on the air. Later efforts such as Hooperman and Hearts Afire weren’t as huge, but they began to show us that Ritter’s talents were varied and mighty indeed. But it wasn’t until people began taking chances on him in drama, whether his excellent work in Sling Blade or his disturbingly creepy turn as a villain on Buffy The Vampire Slayer, that Ritter really began to get the respect he should have been accorded his entire career. Entertainment is lessened without him.

  
  

2:38 PM

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Friday, September 05, 2003  
Why Am I Still Alive?

A few years ago I was discussing some of my darker thoughts on our world with my friend Debbie, when she recoiled in horror at some of the things I had to say. “Why,” she asked, “do you even bother breathing if you really feel that way?”

Good question.

I didn’t have a good answer for her then, and honestly, it took me quite a few years to come up with one, because I wanted an answer that was truthful and full of meaning. So sue me. I also had no clue at that point in my life why I hadn’t already swallowed a bottled of sleeping pills or eaten a gun. But now I know.

The reason that I’ve never committed suicide, no matter how depressed I’ve been at various junctures in my life, is because I am a very arrogant son of a bitch.

What it boils down to is that I believe the world is a much more entertaining and interesting place as long as I’m in it, and it’ll suck for too many people if I leave prematurely. Nature has to take its course in order for my life to have the most thorough impact, and I’m a man who is rightly concerned with his legacy. Sort of makes me Presidential timbre, doesn’t it?

Plus, I’m not one for making and leaving a mess. Even before I met Rebecca, I was one of those rare straight men who was concerned with cleanliness and tidiness. Death by gun could ruin the paint and carpet. Bodily function failure at the time of passing could also do very unfortunate things to the carpet. That’s just not acceptable. If it happens by accident, that’s one thing. But to intentionally kill any chance my next of kin have of getting back a security deposit? That’s just rude.

I lost track of Deb years ago. I think she moved back to Maryland and got married. But if she was here, I’d make her read this so she had her answer. Now the rest of you all know, too. So if you ever hear that I died under mysterious circumstances, or someone claims that I committed suicide, don’t you believe it. Play amateur detective or do whatever you have to to discover the truth. Maybe you’ll even get a movie and book deal. Just make sure that Tom Cruise plays me in the flashback sequences.

Marc@MarcMason.com

10:33 PM

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Friday, August 29, 2003  
I'm in a rut.

I'm in a really shitty place right now, and I frankly lack the will and concentration to write. The world continues to spiral down the toilet around me, and I don't think I can offer any greater insight than that, and that isn't any insight at all. So, fuck it. I'm taking a second week in a row off. Please don't hate me or stop coming by. I promise I'll have my shit together again soon

Marc@MarcMason.com

9:07 PM

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Saturday, August 23, 2003  
I'm apparently so lazy that I'm even a day late announcing that I'm taking the week off. Brilliant, huh?

Marc@MarcMason.com

11:20 AM

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Friday, August 15, 2003  
Fair And Balanced

Today, bloggers nationwide are observing "Fair And Balanced Day" as a show of support and solidarity against FOX NewsCorp's stupid and vicious lawsuit against satirist Al Franken. Now, even though I post "Happy Nonsense" through a blog, I don't consider it one as such. However, for today, you can bet your ass that it's a blog.

FOX's stunningly snotty lawsuit, charging Franken with trademark infringement for making fun of them, comes as another dumb decision in a long line of them, the first being that they actually decided to refer to their broadcasts as "fair and balanced" with a straight face. With modern day William Randolph Hearst, Rupert Murdoch, owning and running the show, neither of those words even remotely describes the hawkishly conservative drivel that escapes the lips of a FOXnews anchor. For FOX to even imply that they have the remotest credibility as a serious news organiztion is quite the joke.

Murdoch's darlings have actually pointed out this week that they've never had a scandal hit their newsroom like CNN's "Tailhook" problem, or the New York Times' fiasco with Jayson Blair. You know what? They're right. Of course, you run plenty of risks when you're actually trying to report news that matters and that isn't dictated by one of the wealthiest Republicans on the planet, and eventually, you're gonna get burned. It's a fact of life. But at least those other outlets are trying. There's a recognition at CNN, the Times, and other places that maybe a keener eye must be applied to the world around us, and an eye that isn't filtered by money, political action committees, and greed. FOX, on the other hand, seems committed to promoting the continual deaths of American soldiers in Iraq as a good thing because the war mongers at the top of the American food chain count among them their own version of Citizen Kane.

I happen to think Al Franken is a damned funny guy. I've read most of his work, watched a large amount of his political commentary on TV, and I always seem to feel like he's someone that'd be a fantastic lunch companion. Interesting, lucid, and witty. He even has a good sense of humor about being a liberal and can make fun of himself and the rest of us who fall into that same category. He's someone you can respect for being who he is.

I dare you to ever find that to be the case for his humorless pursuers.

Marc@MarcMason.com

11:49 AM

(1) comments

Friday, August 08, 2003  
Today marks fifteen years that I’ve been in Arizona. That’s a helluva thing.

I suppose to a huge extent that I’m really a very lucky man. Many people go through life wondering and questioning where they should be, but I’ve been able to solve that. The first time I came to Arizona to visit, I knew that this was where I should be, no doubts at all. This place felt like home.

It isn’t just that my friends and the life I’ve created for myself are here, either. There’s a sense of comfort for me in that I’ve had the opportunity to watch the city grow around me and become something greater than it was when I got here. I feel very protective of it in that way. Many cities back east are constrained by their borders, never again having the opportunity to aspire outwards, merely upwards. Yes, at certain times moving outwards has inspired some bad urban sprawl here, but for the most part, this big, beautiful valley finds ways to include instead of exclude.

Then you move beyond our city and you see the rest of the state, and you know why I’ve never left. Stunning mountains and mesas. Rich, thick forests. Beautiful lakes and rivers. Arizona isn’t just a stark desert hotland; it is an enormous full ecosystem stacked at multiple elevations. You need not drive far to find snow in the winter (if you like that sort of thing), or if you live in the north, you can find warm sun in the winter when you’re tired of freezing. Plus you get the added bonus of a marvelous multi-culture thanks to our proximity to Mexico, and suddenly you realize how boring the Midwest really is. You can’t get a decent flauta in Indiana.

So here I remain. In the end, I may be here alone, but you’ll find me. I’ll be sitting on top of Camelback Mountain, basking in the glory of what God has created, looking at his works and despairing that nothing I create shall ever be as lovely as this place where the lone and level sands stretch far away.

Marc@MarcMason.com

10:26 AM

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Friday, August 01, 2003  
I'm suddenly in an unusually decent mood. I'm sure that won't last.

The week has come and gone mostly without incident. More U.S. soldiers are dying in Iraq every day, and hope grows dim that we will find an exit solution anytime soon because this adminstration doesn't seem to give two fucks about the soldiers they've sent over there. Every life that is snuffed out is a tragedy for someone left behind, and the growing legions of young widows left to raise small children and parents who have instantly outlived their children thanks to the naked greed of a bunch of idiot oilmen makes me physically ill. The lack of any worthy reason to be there has passed the level of mystifying and is rapidly approaching evil.

See? I'm pissed again already. You can depend on me!

My message from last week got to a couple of people at the minimum, which was nice. I was hoping to hear from more, but you take what you can get.

My mother, now to be known as "Robocop" (thanks to her kinky-special pacemaker), is on the road to Virginia and bored to death. I still think that's better than sitting at home in Indiana, though. She's training people for her company, which means she gets to show how smart and competent she is, even if she's doing it in the backwoods.

And speaking of "on the road to", Bob Hope died earlier this week. I watched all those NBC specials as a kid and never really laughed, but I adored him anyway. He was safe, and he meant something to our society. He also entertained both of my grandfathers overseas in the mid-20th century. But I think his biggest accomplishment was living a remarkably full life that we all can envy. May he rest in peace.

Marc@MarcMason.com

9:44 PM

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Friday, July 25, 2003  
A Message to the Hamilton Heights High School class of 1988:

I wish I was there.

I really wanted to be there this time. Five years passed, and you couldn’t have dragged me back there. Ten years hit, and it seemed like maybe it was a good idea, but I decided against it; the timing was poor, and my zest for the idea was pretty low. So I stayed home. But this year was going to be different.

I started dreaming about it, actually. I think the week I got the invitation, I dreamt about the reunion three days in a row. My subconscious added different facets to the gathering each time, but the point was clear in my head: show up. See some folks. Have some laughs about the old days. Let some shit go. It was sounding like a pretty good plan

Good plans have a way of getting kicked in the genitals, though.

For those of you who don’t know, I left Indiana about two and half months after we graduated the Hammy, and I pitched my tent in Arizona. I went to Arizona State University, got a degree, and then had a typical crisis for many of us when I graduated and realized that I didn’t want to work in my field. So rather than go back to work for the state corporation commission as an investigator, or work as a counselor at a shelter for battered women and their children, or go to law school, I delved into my school job and became an information and technical librarian. In short, I teach people in libraries how to use the technology, and I also do IT work, keeping up my department’s computers and working in the network. I also design web pages and other fun things like that. ASU has the fifth largest computing network in the United States, and what that means is that I almost always have the most up-to-date technology to play with, and there’s always something new to teach and learn. It’s challenging work at best, and stupidly boring at worst. Probably a lot like whatever job you do.

I met my beloved Rebecca in early 2000, and we’ve been happy together since. Before that, the romantic life pretty much sucked. Some of you got married right out of high school, some of you waited a while, and some of you are still single, but we’ve all gone through the pain of shitty relationships at one point, and we know how that goes. I think I was in AZ for eight years before I ever went out with someone who wasn’t a complete lunatic who made me miserable, so even waiting four more years after that to meet Rebecca (I affectionately call her “Monk”, which is short for “Love Monkey” – you don’t want to know) was worth it. She makes life worth waking up for every day. She had been married before to a man who had three daughters, and they all three consider her to be their mother, so she’s kept joint custody of them and two of them live with us. Jessica is a fourteen year-old attitude problem, and Krysten is a seven year-old little peanut who calls me “Daddy” since she was very young when she moved to be with us and really doesn’t know her biological dad very well. Those guys who have kids understand real well what it’s like that first time your child calls you “Daddy”; few experiences can ever match it.

But with kids come problems, and this past spring, we had a huge one with the elder one, and it completely ate our savings fixing it. Since then, we’ve tried to put the money aside so that I could catch a flight out there this weekend, but things like having to replace all four tires on our car kind of killed that, so here I am, sitting in the desert while you’re all there hanging out and having a good time.

I suppose what I’m really trying to say in telling you all this stuff is that fifteen years later, I’m simply a person doing his best to get by in our crazy world. Back at HHHS, we each had our sets of friends, our activities, and our struggles. We didn’t all like each other, and many of us had nothing in common then, but that isn’t necessarily true now. High school is a brutal and somewhat de-humanizing experience, and that’s difficult to accept. Frankly, I didn’t do so well with it, and it contributed greatly to my desire to move as far from Indiana and start over fresh when we were done. I felt like if I stayed there, I would never grow past the perceptions and the hurts I had when I was in school. So sweating in the desert was a good thing for me.

I was angry when I left Indiana, and I stayed that way for a while. In the fifteen years that have passed, I’ve been back to Indiana seven or eight times at most, and not once since Christmas 1998. But now I’m sorry I can’t break that streak this weekend in order to see you all. I was ready.

We’re all 33-34 years old. We’re grown-ups, like it or not. Families, jobs, bills, fears. You aren’t who you were in 1988. I’m not who I was then. For years, I didn’t care about that, but now I sincerely do: I wanted to know who you all were, and I wanted you to know who I was, too. I’m just sorry that I didn’t get that chance this weekend, and I hope and pray that I get that chance again in 2008. I wish each of you the best, and that you have a happy and safe reunion. Thanks for listening to me babble on incoherently for the last few minutes.

Marc@MarcMason.com

10:49 AM

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Friday, July 11, 2003  
If the world had ended this week, my feelings would not have been hurt.

In fact, if it had, I would have probably been pleased, because there was nothing interesting or worthwhile about being a human over the last seven days. I had the marvelous privilege of being reminded that, work-wise, I am nothing but a trained monkey without the benefits, because instead of me shitting in my hand and giving the turds a righteous fling, instead I am the target of flying shit. So, "thanks" to the complete fucking wastes of human lives who decided I was their toilet this week. May you all burn slowly in Hell.

By the end of Tuesday, my depression was nearly paralyzing. Today, it is coming and going in waves, so we'll see how that goes from here. In the meantime, this is the time of year when I genuinely get out of town, so next Friday, the 18th, this space will be occupied by this little bit of writing. I'll return on the 25th. Take care, all.

Marc@MarcMason.com

10:15 PM

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Friday, July 04, 2003  
Let Freedom Ring

The U.S. had a birthday today. I just wish she looked and acted younger. Unfortunately, she keeps taking more and more abuse from her leaders, and the old girl is fraying at the edges. Two more blows landed on her this week, and she’s wobbly. Somebody see how much time is left until the bell and get the cut man ready!

First, in “Of course” news, our faux-President apparently claims that God spoke to him and told him to liberate the Iraqi people. This leads to the obvious question, which is: which opponent of Bush is God speaking to and demanding that he liberate the American people? For fuck’s sake! Did one of the shrubs outside the oval office catch fire and Bush just start interpreting the crackling? Anyone out there who really believes that God is speaking to Bush Jr. must be someone whose lips are moving as they read this. It’s much more likely that Bush has returned to his drunken frat days and that the worm at the bottom of the tequila bottle told him to go check the tire pressure on the presidential limo. How the fuck can anyone take this moron seriously?

Then, the Bush administration announced that they were cutting off arms sales to 35 countries. Now, normally, this would be a good thing; selling arms to anyone is fairly dubious. However, the reason that these countries were cut off is because they support the International Court…you know, the one that holds people responsible for war crimes? Crimes like illegally invading a sovereign nation? Hmmm…..whatever could bother the Bushies about that? Say, where are those weapons of mass destruction again?

It used to be that watching fireworks go off and listening to semi-patriotic songs was fun. Now it just feels empty and hollow. Now it just feels like so much propaganda. Innocence is long gone, and hope is slipping rapidly away through the fingers of a very unstable man. It looms large that King George is ripe for overthrow once again, 227 years later. November 2004 isn’t that far away.

Marc@MarcMason.com

10:47 PM

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Friday, June 27, 2003  
Bah. I have the weekend to myself, I'm relaxing, and I don't feel like bitching about anything. So no new column this week. I'll be back with nothing but love next week.

Marc@MarcMason.com
11:09 PM

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Saturday, June 21, 2003  
Anal Rape Comes For The Archbishop
Karma is a harsh, harsh mistress. However, I’m very happy about that for once. You see, one of the world’s biggest scumbags got his this week, and happiness in Arizona abounds.

Bishop Thomas O’Brien, who spent thirty years as the head of the Phoenix diocese of the Catholic Church, was arrested this week on the charge of a felony hit-and-run accident. A pedestrian unsuccessfully survived a meeting with O’Brien’s windshield, and the good Bishop didn’t stop to bother and help. Oddly enough, however, if he had stopped, O’Brien would have avoided any charges at all, unless he was drinking, particularly since the pedestrian was jaywalking. Hmm…what was that I read that said he was at church before that performing ceremonies, etc, and hitting the sacramental wine? Can’t wait for those lab results! I smell a bigger felony charge coming!

Some might say that committing that crime hardly makes him one of the world’s biggest scumbags, and they’re right. It’s his other crimes that make him one of the world’s biggest scumbags. O’Brien had recently signed an agreement with the local prosecutor acknowledging what most of us around the Valley had known for years: he’s spent the last thirty years covering up rampant sex abuse, obstructing justice to make sure his abusive priests weren’t caught, and transferring them to other parishes without informing anyone, including their new bosses, that they have a kiddie molester on their hands. That allowed for plenty of repeat offenders, and he obstructed the truth when the lawsuits came, too. In short, he was just as much an advocate for pedophiles to find new prey as he was for people to find God. Good thinking there, Tommy…you waste of a fucking life.

Countless lives have been ruined by this piece of shit’s disinterest in doing the right thing. His failure to speak up and advocate for harmed children speaks louder than any sermon ever could. And then the son of a bitch had the audacity and luck to get an immunity agreement. Sickening. So, yes, he is indeed one of the world’s biggest scumbags. You can quote me on it.

Now, ol’ Tommy might have finally found a crime that he could run from, but not hide. A witness to the accident followed O’Brien until he was sure he had the license plate number, and the damage to O’Brien’s car was pretty extensive. Hit-and-run could carry up to four years, and if it turns out he was drinking, it goes up to manslaughter and more years. And then Karma kicks in

You see, child molesters and child killers are the one type of person even the inmates can’t stand. They tend to feel like they deserve extra punishment for being such wretched low lives. So I expect that O’Brien will find himself a marked man on the inside, and likely separated from the general population. Too bad. Because the right inmate would show him exactly what it felt like to be a child that O’Brien left unprotected from a serial molester. And that would be the best Karma of all…feeling the pain of your victims. Good luck sitting down, mister Bishop…and enjoy Hell when you get there.

Marc@MarcMason.com

9:18 AM

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Friday, June 13, 2003  
It’s been a helluva week.

I turned 33 on Tuesday, and I have to say that I’m pretty damned sick of getting older. Getting older wasn’t supposed to happen to me. It was only supposed to happen to those around me, while I Dorian-Greyed myself through the next several decades. Needless to say, I find the fact that I’m not to be totally unfair, and I’m looking for someone to sue.

I’ve also had some emotional ups and downs in regular life, too. I’ve begun to feel a great swell of guilt about Rebecca and I’s relationship, and I’ve been struggling with wondering if I am dragging her down from leading a better life. We’ve both made some sacrifices to be together, but more and more I’ve wondered if she isn’t sacrificing too much in order to stay with me and maybe she’d be better off leaving me and finding more happiness somewhere closer to her family. In short, I’ve felt like an albatross.

It took me until today to really talk to her about it, and even then I wasn’t sure what to say. Well, to begin with, I couldn’t say much more than “I’m sorry” over and over through my blubbering. I don’t want us to break up, but I don’t want to take the best years of the greatest person I know’s life away from her either. I had imagined for days what it would be like if she admitted I might be right and what it would feel like if I did the stand up thing at that point and let her go. I’m just grateful that it didn’t play out that way, because for the last couple of days I was pretty sure it would.

I also had a horrendous week at work, and my emotional distress at home caused me to overreact in some stupid ways about other situations as well. So 33 hasn’t gotten off to a real flying start. Maybe I should just hope that I turn 34 pretty soon.

Marc@MarcMason.com

9:19 PM

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Friday, June 06, 2003  
Cheating.

Just seeing the word can send a shiver up the spine. For some, it brings to mind sitting in front of an IRS form and looking for ways to keep money that should go to the government. For others, it will now be forever linked with the name "Sammy Sosa" and the words "corked bat". To most, the word conjures up images of themselves or their significant other getting hot, sweaty, and dirty with someone other than their partner. It isn't a pretty word.

A few years ago, I had to apologize to Rebecca because I "dream cheated" on her. How's that for guilt: I didn't actually fuck someone else while I was awake, but I still felt bad about it. But is that really cheating? No, not according to my definition. You see, that is what makes cheating so rampant: people can alter their definition of their behavior and deny that what they're really cheating.

You aren't cheating on your taxes, you're creatively maintaining your bank account. You aren't using an illegal bat, you're accidentally using a show toy in the real game. She's not screwing another guy, she's supporting the troops. He's not getting blown by that waitress, he's helping her quit smoking. You can find a stupid way to justify just about any kind of wrong you're willing to perpetuate if you try hard enough.

I generally chalk this kind of thing up to the modern unwillingness to take responsibility for anything. Blame McDonalds for being overweight or whatever. Now, speaking as a guy who has had weight issues his whole life, I can tell you that it isn't goddamned McDonalds' fault. It's mine. But a good number of people in our society seem to lack the "put the blame on me" gene. So we get rampant cheating and excuse making. Very unfortunate. Even Bill Clinton didn't try to say that his cock inadvertantly slipped into Monica's mouth while she was picking up carpet lint, you know?

But at this point in 2003, we're finally at a point where our leadership, even though it has found itself backed into a corner, can't just openly admit it and come clean about the fact that it lied, and it cheated, and that it did so in order to justify the illegal invasion of another sovereign nation and claim its spoils. So think about that the next time you reach into the cookie jar while you're on a diet, and you're looking for a way to make yourself feel better about it. It might just make you presidential material.

11:00 AM

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Friday, May 30, 2003  
Tired. Old. Fed up.

Each day brings more heat from the skies, more lies from our criminal government. There are no weapons of mass destruction, except those we used. The Iraqi museum wasn't looted nearly as much as reported. Jessica Lynch wasn't shot or stabbed, and appatrently never fired her gun at an enemy soldier. And the new tax cut will help stimulate the economy. Really, everything coming from the lips of our government officials is the equivalent of "Of course I'll respect you in the morning, and I promise not to come in your mouth." It's depressing. I want some truth, dammit.

The sun has started to blast here, and I swear it gets more difficult to deal with the heat every year. I think it's age settling in in a tangible way. That blows. Wasn't the gray hair and balding enough? Is gravity not a harsh enough mistress?

I feel bitchy, and you shouldn't have to hear that. Sorry. But I'm despairing right now, and it only looks to get worse, because the Democrats lined up for 2004 look like the biggest group of pussies they could find, and no one seems to want to make a stand about anything. And I'm still too young to run.

Marc@MarcMason.com

9:47 PM

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Friday, May 23, 2003  
May 23, 2003



My mother thinks I’m a worrier for some reason.

Now, I have no idea why this is so. I keep my worrying on a pretty low-key scale, saving it mostly for when Rebecca is not feeling well, mainly because it’s sometimes hard to tell what is sickness and what is her need to be babied when she doesn’t feel well. So when my Mom went in Wednesday morning and had her chest cracked open and her pacemaker implanted, I wasn’t worried.

When no one had bothered to reach me more than 90 minutes after her surgery was supposed to be over, I wasn’t worried. I was pissed, but not worried. That’s just who I am: the soul of calm and placidity in the face of most things.

After finally hearing that her surgery went well and that she was resting comfortably, I wasn’t worried then either.

Really, most things in life that are out of your control are things you shouldn’t worry about. If Mom had decided to give it up while on the operating table, what was there that I could have done? Not a damned thing. Of course that would have been beyond horrible, but as far as worrying about it, that just wasn’t going to happen.

That isn’t to say that I’m without hypocrisy on this subject (see the stuff about Rebecca above), but I’ve spent a great deal of therapeutic time in letting go of the things I cannot change. So I am holding out hope that she’ll stop worrying a bit. She’s afraid to worry me, and I understand that on a basic level, but eventually, I have to be the one who gets the serious details about the bad shit instead of getting it filtered through Rebecca. I’m a grown up now, almost 33 years old. Serious. Responsible. And I’m trying very hard not to worry about that.

Marc@MarcMason.com

10:15 PM

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Friday, May 16, 2003  
Dear God.

I wish I had something to say this week, or the time to say it, but I have neither. I'm currently working on another writing project that is requiring a great deal of energy, and that's mainly because I have an enormous level of enthusiasm for it. So I'm just popping by this week to thank the number of people who wrote and expressed their appreciation of last week's piece on the closing of Ed Debevic's. Thanks, everyone!

See you all next week!

10:56 PM

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Friday, May 09, 2003  
Goodbye, Ed.
Tonight was a night full of rich nostalgia for me. In Thursday morning’s newspaper, there was a front page, below-the-fold article that announced the closing of one of my all-time favorite restaurants here in the city. “Ed Debevics” has been an institution here in the Valley Of The Sun far longer than I have, and even though there are many who have loved it more than me, I felt like I had join them in marking its passing from our landscape.

The story in the paper noted that Sunday would be its last day, so Bec and I decided to take a crack at getting down there tonight, knowing that the lines of sad diners were only going to get longer. Thank God we did. Tonight’s wait was 90 minutes when we got there, and people only continued to pour in from the parking lot. Now, Ed’s always had a decent wait, but this was ridiculous. On the other hand, there was no way in Hell that we weren’t going to stick around and say goodbye. Besides, waiting at Ed’s was always worth it.

ED’s was a 50s style diner with real style, unlike the wretched “5 and Diner” chain, a place where the help was always dancing on the countertops and was marvelously rude to the customers. Service wasn’t quite as big of a deal way back when, and so Ed’s made it perfectly acceptable to have a waitress plop down in your booth, chomp her gum, insult you, then steal a French fry. In other words: it was Heaven.

I remember the first time I went there, around fifteen years ago. My friend Chad has just finished playing a hockey game, and, not knowing we were going out to dinner afterward, he didn’t have a shirt to wear except the t-shirt he had worn under his pads. So Chad reeked and he reeked badly. Well, I had no idea what this place was about and was just along for the ride until our waitress came to the table and plopped down in our booth. She made some idle chit-chat, then suddenly began sniffling, finally sniffing louder until her nose alit on poor Chad. The girl recoiled in horror, drew back and said: “Damn, you stink!”

I knew right then and there that any place that allowed their employees to be that honest was a place I’d return to often.

Years later I took Rebecca in, and our waitress was talking with us when she suddenly ogled Bec’s lovely pair of 38s. “Wow,” our server said, “Nice rack!” I thought Rebecca was going to keel over in shock. It was that kind of place. It was always, always fun.

The article in the paper said that the few restaurants in the nationwide chain were being hurt by the proliferation of trendy hotspots that specialized in sushi and such. To that, I can only shake my head and wonder. How can we have, once again, let modern living wipe out something unique and full of joy and replace it with something dull and spare? Did we really need another excuse for abstract art and crystal fountains. Is there really no room for a place with color, life and cool signs like “You’re Leaving Ed’s And Going Back To Grim Reality” at the exit?

Over the years, I danced with the help to the sounds of “Car Wash”, “Shout”, and probably a song or two by Prince, sadly enough. But tonight, my heart tinged with sadness, I danced only in my seat, singing along to the classic songs being blared by the DJ, and tapping my toe along to the beats. And as we sat there while the building prepared to close for the night and head into its final two days, that DJ stopped the dance music and put on John Lennon’s “Imagine”, and that is exactly what I did. I imagined all the friends gone and forgotten who I had spent my time with there in that building, and I did a quiet dance for them all. For that moment, at least, I was able to ignore the grim reality.

11:34 PM

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Thursday, May 01, 2003  
Well, I'm heading upstate to help my friend Brian give away some comic books, and will be gone for the whole weekend, so there's no new HN this week. Thanks for understanding, gang.

Oh, and speaking of comic books: I saw a screening of X-Men 2 tonight, and I can say without question that it is the best comic book film ever to reach film. Truly, a film that I've wanted to see since 1981, you know?

11:10 PM

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Saturday, April 26, 2003  
Yippie! Welcome to the new home of Happy Nonsense!

Marc
8:41 AM

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April 25, 2003


Two similar things got me to thinking recently. One was a joke sent to me on a humor list. The other was an appearance by conservative commentator Ann Coulter at my university this week.

Coulter gave, according to reports, a lovely little speech advocating the racial profiling of Arab-Americans and other Muslims. How quaint for the lovely little blonde girl. The joke was a “quiz” that supported racial profiling by listing some terrorist acts that had been committed by extremists and making it sound stupid to do anything but racial profile. Nothing quite so amusing as racism cloaked in humor, is there? Well, the more I thought about that crap, the more it bugged me. So I have devised a little quiz of my own, as a way of perhaps determining for myself whether or not racial profiling is acceptable. Please take it and tell me what you think.

1. President John F. Kennedy was officially listed as assassinated by:

a. A young African-American man who was unhappy about the civil rights movement.

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam

c. A white, Southern, redneck loner with a grudge.

2. Martin Luther King, Jr., was shot and killed by:

a. His wife, who believed he was cheating on her.

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam

c. A white, Southern, redneck moron with a heart full of hate.

3. The Federal Building in Oklahoma City was bombed by:

a. Los Angeles gang members

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam

c. White male assholes who didn’t like the United States government.

4. John Lennon, one of the last great musical prophets of our time, was shot and killed by:

a. An angry black man who likes Marvin Gaye a whole lot better.

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam.

c. A white male loner who was angry at Lennon for no good reason.

5. President Abraham Lincoln was assassinated while watching a play by:

a. Freed slaves who wanted to go back under the yoke of Massuh.

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam

c. A white, Southern male with a grudge against the man who ended slavery.

6. Ronald Reagan was shot while attempting to get into the Presidential limo by:

a. A young African-American man who had lost his financial aid because of Reaganomics.

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam

c. A white male loner obsessed with impressing a girl out of his league.

7. The United States has recently violated numerous international laws that we helped to write, simply by illegally invading another sovereign nation. That invasion and violation of international law, and the subsequent deaths and destruction cause by it, was authorized by:

a. A Columbian drug lord

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam

c. A white, Southern redneck alcohol abuser with “Daddy issues.”

8. If you live in the deep south and have a skin color other than pasty, and you wake up at 3am to find a cross burning on your lawn, the likely culprit is:

a. Geraldo Rivera

b. Arab extremists violating the holy teachings of Islam

c. The Ku Klux Klan, a group of hate-mongering white, Southern rednecks who do that evil shit.

I don’t know about you, but I sense a pattern here. And I’d better be pulled over for DWW (driving while white) next time I go out, because I am obviously a danger to the world at large. Clearly, racial profiling is a very good thing; it simply must be pointed in the right direction.

Marc Mason can be reached at: marc@marcmason.com
1:35 AM

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