Another Lazy Blog...

So I just found out that I get tomorrow off.

Some sort of Zombie Messiah holiday apparently.

So in lieu of a long and well-thought-out blog, you, my darling blogadytes, get to read the lyrics to a song I wrote at the ripe ol' age of 16. A song I can never remember the lyrics to (other than the first two verses) but recently found while desperately looking for my flutes.

Enjoy.

Or mock.

Probably mock.

Defiance Cry:

You’ve come this far no further
I will not stand idly by
I will stand here at the barricade
and my defiance cry!

I will raise my fist in vengeance
I will smash you to the ground
the death knell of you avarice
is my defiant sound!

With you boardrooms and your bombers
with your propaganda lies
manufacturing necessities
for the lives we have to buy.

Try to numb us with sweet poison
and march us to our deaths
forever fast consuming
til nothing else is left.

The time has come to rise up
No more fucking standing still
you cannot stand against us
you cannot fight our will.

I am one but I am many
I am stronger than the tide
I’ll blaze through your high towers
Incinerate your pride.

I will smash your heart of darkness
I’ll see you bleeding in the street
I am the roar of revolution
I’m the dawn of your defeat.

I’m the greatness in our spirit
that will never bend its knee
that will never suffer tyrants
nor their false authority.

(I have a name that you have slandered
I have a banner red and black
I am Anarchy triumphant
Now its my turn to fight back!)

I am billions now awakened
one voice rising to the sky.
Tremble you fucking fascists
at my defiant cry!

So yeah...it's more of a chant than an actual song...somehow I always imagined it with big drums and bag-pipes.

I'm a geek, what can I say?

If a picture's worth a thousand words, here's a friggin' essay.

Oaxca Mexico


Quebec City Canada

Seul South Korea


Seattle Washington


Reykjavik Iceland

God I'm bored...btw, the little girl in the pic is one of the kids I take care of. Her Dad thinks I'm "a hoot"... My thanks to Olga for the pic!

Scary Man Beast Epiphanies...Part the Second: Survival of the Fittest

So yesterday, after 8+ hours of running around with the kiddies in the bright spring sun, playing hours of tag and dodge-ball, climbing trees with them, teaching them exercises and Indian wrestling, and picking up broken paving stones and smashed glass from the playground, I hit the pool on my way home.

Now, maybe it was low blood sugar, maybe it was mild sun-stroke (it was warm, not hot, but I was out in the sun for nearly the entirety of the day), and it definitely had something to do with my stupid self-esteem, but as I floated in the pool, every time one of those guys walked/swam/strutted past, I was nigh-overwhelmed by jealous rage.

I mean, its easy to see the advantages looking like that grants. You'll get more sex, for starters. But you'll also be more likely to be hired for the better paying jobs, get better service in the shops, and generally be treated with more respect. You'll be less likely to fall victim to a violent crime (because you look strong and hence not easy pickings), and more likely to be given the benefit of doubt when you get in trouble, 'cause you don't look like a "bad person" oughta look.

It dawned on me at the pool today, however, that the V-shaped sixpack body is, like the silk tie and pressed suit, the Rolex, and the huge luxury SUV, just another of our fucked up society's status symbols.

Its a status symbol that's been with us for a long long time at that. The recent fetishization of abs is just part of an on-going cycle that's been around since civilization raised its snobby head in the Med.

Let's face it, rock-hard rippling stomach muscles are all well and good, but they don't occur that often in nature. When we westerners picture a "noble savage" the "natural" physically perfect man, we tend to mentally form them too look like a Greco-Roman statue. But people living aboriginal lives rarely have wash-board stomachs. Neither do people who do real labor for a living. Peasant farmers are rarely seen sporting abs of steel, neither are African tribesmen, South American Natives, etc. The reason is simple. For the most part, we don't use our abs that much when working, gathering, or hunting. In fact, as I mentally went through a catalogue of physical activities that require super-abs, the only ones I could come up (other than throwing spears) with were related to sports, if not specifically designed to shape abs.

Think about it, whens the last time your abs were sore after gardening? Building a house? Carrying heavy things?

The whole flat-belly washboard thing is a symptom of elitism. Ancient Greek and Roman ruling class men, when not busy expanding the empire or buggering pre-pubescents, would spend hours on hours in gymnasia, sculpting themselves into physical perfection. It was a symbol of their power; physical, political, and economic.

Of course today, its not just the ruling elite that's expected to look like Greek Gods. Nope, now we're all "equal", we gots us some demockcrazy. We got TV and movies and magazines. So now, everyone is supposed to look like Brad fucking Pit. To look like anything else is a personal failure, a sign that one is indulgent, weak-willed, flawed, and lazy. So the lucky few with the genetic disposition, the spare time (which is expensive these days), and the money, to achieve Greek-God-hood are elevated above the rest of us unwashed masses, and get to be a new sort of ruling class.

You could even argue that, from a ethnographic and sociological point of view, the fetishization of physical perfection and prowess increases in direct proportion to the amount of hierarchical control in a given society. So a relatively anarchistic collection of tribesmen will tend to be less concerned about having perfect abs and rippling muscles, whereas a group of goose-stepping Nazi fucks, much like their fascist fore-fathers the Romans, will be obsessed with being physically "perfect" .

So what does that say about our society and its fascination with the physique?

Point to ponder that...

Fuck it. Just makes me tired...

"Beggars" get buggered by bigots.

The last couple of weeks have seen a strange sight on the streets of Rvk, as about 20 some odd musicians began appearing outside grocery stores and along the main streets playing jolly little songs on accordions and smiling at people.

I liked it.

Rvk as a whole suffers from a horrible lack of busqueing.

I like busqueing. I like music that asks you to support it, but doesn't demand it. I like streets filled with sounds that don't come from over-grown Jeeps and honking horns.

I like people who smile.

In Seattle there is a booming busqueing scene. You've got your blues-singing vets, hippy drummers with flutes, rival Andean bands, even the occasional Chinese classical work played in the Pike Place.

But its never caught on in Rvk.

Partially this has to do with the weather, but it mostly has to do with the sheer mind-boggling bourgeoisie of law-enforcement and the ruling class of this city.

There are a few street performers, true. There's a guy that plays electric guitar and classic rock downtown, a resident juggler in the summers, and the occasional act like the incredibly silly "Indian" group that pounded on drums and Casio keyboards downtown last summer.

But for the most part, if your not part of one of Rvk's endless series of "cultural events", then, in the eyes of the law and most of the muckitymucks, you're "begging".

Its a combination of narrow-minded small-town mentality which labels anyone without a "real job" as a deviant, undesirable criminal, and cultural snobbery that refuses to see something as simple as playing music publicly, without a stage or tickets or anything, as art.

Case in point: Last summer, a group of musicians just assembled on the main drag here, in a little underused park near some of the more Indy bars, and right across from the Tabernacle of Snobbery known as Oliver. They were astonishingly good musicians, and the show they put on was a blast.

Of course, the cops spent the entire time trying to shut them down and ordering everyone to disperse. Seems that the only music allowed in Rvk is played in a bars, where you have to pay for it.

I mean, anything else would be anarchy, right?

Rvk has no problem with people performing in public spaces, but only when they are approved "artists" during one of the cities little festivals. So if you want to play a fire-spouting organ in a public park, no prob. Make giant puppets walk the streets, no prob. As long as you're a sponsored artist the city will pay you to walk around naked except for strategically placed cabbage leafs as long as your bullshit is convincing enough.

But if you want to say, sit on the sidewalk and play music for the passers-bye hoping to make a few coins?

Then they ship you back to Romania.

Which brings to light another issue, namely that Icelanders, like the old guy with the guitar, can busque. Nice pale British guys can attract crowds and cash with juggling. But "swarthy" Eastern Europeans best stick to building houses and dams and digging tunnels and dancing in strip clubs. Undesirables like that the Rvk authorities don't want clogging up their litter-strewn streets*.

Especially when they are being "sent by criminal gangs to beg in Scandinavia".

The park next to where I work has been set on fire three times this winter.

A disabled man recently had to move from his long-term home because a bunch of assholes were smashing his windows and threatening him with retribution for daring to press assault charges against a buddy of theirs. Even after repeated requests for police assistance.

There are literally dozens of unsolved rape and assault cases in Rvk.

But the cops aren't doing anything about that.

They're busy protecting Iceland from demonic dark-skinned foreigners who's evil crime-bosses have sent the to Iceland to *gasp* PLAY MUSIC!!!!!

So Rvk will be quieter this summer. Not safer. Not less scorched. But quieter.

Fuck.

*Here's an idea to "Green" Rvk: How about replacing all these shitty little trash cans, you know, the ones that kids can kick a few times and cause all the trash to drop on the street cause they're elevated? The little green things that fill up after a day even though they don't get emptied more than once a month? How about setting up some good old fashion big-ass covered trash cans?...There's more of this rant coming, trust me. "Green" Rvk is a feel-good bandaid that will cause more shit than it cures.

Girls, Girls, Girl.

So I started last night pub-crawling with the Ragnar. Had a beer here, a beer there, until he wanted to wander home. Then I hit Qbar.

So far just another Friday night, ennit?

But Qbar turned out to packed to the roof with cute girls last night, including my two adorably underage (for drinking, not for other stuff you perverted blogadytes you!) co-workers, who I spent the first part of the Qbaring dancing with. Well, dancing and trying to protect them from the little wanker they brought with them and the Craziest Lesbian of All Time.

First, The Wanker:

For starters, any straight guy who goes to a club wearing a white suit and skinny black tie is just sad. But it was his fucked up pick-up technique that that really iced the cheesy cake. He didn't do chat-up, didn't use lines, no! He ran up, literally tackled women to the floor and tried to kiss them. On any other bar he would have been beaten within a inch of his life, hauled outside, and then set on fire by the bouncers. But this being Qbar, the bouncers are too busy flexing in the windows and flirting with each other to notice.

The there was the Mad Dyke:

Her technique was only slightly less stupid than his, and basically consisted of running around the dance floor with a maniacal look in her eye fiercely gripping the breasts of any woman showing cleavage. Needless to the more well endowed of my co-workers had to be carefully protected from the Breast Beast.

The other thing I noticed at Qbar was that, while there was a refreshingly multi-ethic mix of people there, when it came to the women, the general rule seemed to be the darker the skin and hair, the more frightful the scowl and frown. Seriously, nice looking women, but SCARY!

Well, all except for the amazingly animated bouncing four-foot tall Japanese Dance-Dance Revolutionary.

She was having a blast.

But then something weird happened. Something that made me forget all about the co-workers and the Mad Lesbians and boogy-busting anime girls.

This rather lovely tall brunette started to dance with me.

Now, its been a long time since I danced with anyone with any sort of romantic overtones. In fact, the love-unlife of me has been non-existent since January. This caused me, the Sma, loud-mouthed camp-assed silly-bugger extraordinaire, to go all shy and fumbly. So there I am, dancing with her, and I know I have this stupid shy smile on my face, but I also notice that she has the same stupid smile on her face.

So I made a joke of it.

We went out on the deck and talked.

And well...

One thing led to another. It was unbelievably awkward and utterly lacking in grace, filled with funny moments and embarrassing silences.

It was wonderful.

Scary Man Beast Epiphanies...

So I had an epiphany this morning. Like most of my epiphanies, it didn't happen at any particularly momentous occasion, it just built up without my realizing it until it popped.
Kinda like a pimple on your back.

Only in a good and non-disgusting way.

I realized two things while standing on a hill, watching the kids play in the grass below.

The first thing I realized was that the major cause of stress, the thing that makes all the other problems seem unbearable at work is simply this: I keep doing other people's jobs.
So no more. "It's not my god damned job" is my new mantra.

The boss fucks up and doesn't schedule enough workers?

The boss doesn't show up for a week and there's nothing to feed the kids?

I can't do the projects I was hired to do because the boss isn't around to approve of and pay for the materials?

Applications and such pile up on the desk?

Emails go unaswered, phone calls aren't picked up?

NOT MY GOD DAMNED JOB!

Like all epiphanies (except maybe the one where a disembodied voice from the sky told some Aramaic chic that the guy who knock her up was "god") its painfully simple once one realizes it.

"Painfully Simple" could be my middle name.

The second epiphany was truly liberating.

I let my attempt at achieving 300-ness become an obsession.

I force myself to work out even when I know its getting in the way of more important things, even when I know I'm so exhausted that its doing more harm then good.
I've been working out like a mofo three to four hours a day, four days a week for three months and all I've managed to do is gain 3 kilos, hurt my shoulder, and stress stress stress about the lack of results.

What dawned on me is that last fall, when I started working out twice a week, more out of boredom than anything else, when I walked to and from work, and worked out at work so that it didn't impact my private time, I was getting much better results and was much much happier.

So I'm gonna go back to that. Get home by 6 and actually cook dinner in the kitchen I was so looking forward to using. Have time and energy to talk and hang out with my friends.
So what if I'm not a rippling Brad-Pit clone. I'm genetically prone to being barrel-chested and heavy and fuck trying to be a skinny-ass male model bitch.

I'm gonna start living again.

Work and working out can kiss my slightly pudgy Yankee ass.

May Day! May Day!

So yeah.
Went and walked the May Day parade, in the company of the only two Anarchists I could find, who turned out to be pretty cool.
Didn't think much of it though.
Icelanders, bless 'em, just ain't that great at protesting. The chants were trite, and the atmosphere, with the exception of the marching bands, was somehow subdued, like everyone was slightly embarrassed and/or nervous to be out at this annual crumb thrown to the Icelandic Left.
I stayed, feeling vaguely riddik myself (there's a picture coming that should some it up, whenever Olga sends it to me) until the same old speeches started, then I wondered around town for a bit. Met some people, walked to Anna's, grabbed the Embles and we went out for Grillhúsið fish and chips (yummmmmmmmmmmmmm) followed by Next , which I'd rate about a 3 out of 5, at Háskolabío (which seemed to be in the process of shutting down, all the vending machines shut off, minimal staff, empty concession stands...)
Not a world-rocking day.
Not bad, folk were met, fun was had.
But not rocking.
Not running through the streets, not confronting the cops, not fightin the man.
Just a day nearly like any other.
Bit of a bummer really.
I've got rant built up. I want to tear into Rvk's "green" program, maybe rip into the State Church again, raise some hell about idiots who's thinking cannot dive more than an inch beneath the surface.
Just wait for it. It'll come.
Bloggin is a bit like taking a shit, after all. Not very satisfying if you have to force it.