The Porn

The porn has got to go.

But its one of my few spaces of sexual fulfillment.

But the porn has got to go. 

But where else can I explore what I want?

But the porn has got to go.

Dammit, can't I have anything for myself?

The porn has got to go.

Happy Port Tuesday

Whether you are in a celebratory mood or not, every week Port Tuesday (PT) returns to remind us to stop taking ourselves so seriously and just enjoy this "ish". Since its inception here in Champaign, Illinois people have been taken aback by our embrace of the PT spirit. For the past few weeks I've been smoking a variety of the Sancho Panza cigars (unfortunately non-Cuban). They're medium bodied cigars with good flavor, better construction, and the best price point in town. Tonight I will tuck my issues neatly into my back pocket, cut the ringer off of my phone, pour up, and kick back. Port Tuesday: Champaign's biggest unofficial holiday since, well uhmm, Unofficial. (see what I did right there? Ah, never mind)

Marsha & Me

I have a lot on my plate these days. Though my time may be monopolized by "work", the monster still finds time to sneak out of his confines and find things to get into. That's what brings me here. There is something that has been nagging at me and I have to unburden myself of. So, are you ready? Okay, here it goes....I got played by Marsha Ambrosius. There, I said it (For those of you who don't know who she is, that's her in the picture up there). I know, it's both hard to believe and overwhelming at the same time. Let me start at the beginning and explain.

So, I have this “thing” for the chanteuse Marsha Ambrosius. Her debut album came out a couple of months ago and by happenstance I ended up going to see her live in concert. She walked on stage, opened her mouth, and I fell madly in love with her…passion, sexuality, and ear for music. It can be a strange thing falling for someone’s art as it sometimes blurs the line between their product and who they are personally.

I know it all sounds very crazy, me falling for a famous singer who doesn’t have the foggiest notion that I exist. Believe me when I say that I know that this scenario is neither original, nor particularly intriguing. However, about a month ago this sad, clichéd story took a dramatic turn when I met Marsha working at the gas station up the street from me.

Yeah, I said that I met a beautiful and popular singer working at a local gas station. I know what you’re saying to yourself, “Why is Marsha Ambrosius working at a gas station in a small town in the rust belt”. Obviously, I don’t have the answer to that. My only response to that inquiry is to remind you that stranger things have happened. In fact, anyone familiar with my back story could tell you that I’m kind of a curator of strange occurrences. My life’s like a “Ripley’s Believe it or Not” reality show.

I don’t know, maybe Marsha wanted to take some time off from touring and being high profile. Maybe this is her way of staying grounded and keeping things in perspective for herself. Maybe, blue-collar work inspires her song writing process, I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that one day when paying for my gas, a woman who has a shocking likeness to Marsha Ambrosius was behind the counter. She flattered me by calling me handsome (and being the mirror image of my musical obsession). I gave her my number on the spot and something seemed to spark between us.

Without cataloguing our every interaction and day-to-day exchanges, lets just say that we became friendly and flirtatious. She told me that her name was “Stephanie” and that she was in town temporarily, “to get herself together”. Her secret was safe with me. Every time she spoke to me it was like deciphering code. I felt like I was serving my country by keeping her identity a secret, I was an urban sentinel in her employ as she was hiding in plain sight.

One day I got bold and asked “Stephanie” if anyone had told her how much she resembled Marsha and she laughed hysterically. “Funny, I have heard that”, she said. “Only not since I’ve been in this small town.” What exactly did that mean? I looked at her skeptically as she laughed my inquiry off. I told her that I preferred calling her Marsha to Stephanie and she embraced it. She called it “our little thing” and we carried on that way until we were to eventually depart.

After a couple of phone conversations and some heavy flirting in the gas station, she began acting funny. She got “busy” all of the time and never had time to talk. Then, one day I got a phone call saying that she was working her last gas station shift, as she was going to be moving the next day. Marsha or no Marsha, all of the cryptic behavior can be off-putting and unnerving.

I understand that people don’t always behave in the manner that you may desire. I also have no problem in saying that it’s possible that my game wasn’t tight enough to draw her closer to me. Maybe my approach was wrong. I know from experience that not every woman wants to be engaged in intense and insightful conversations. Maybe I moved too fast. Maybe I seemed too intense. Maybe I just wasn’t her type.

Long story short, I show up at the gas station and she was from beaming ear to ear. As I walked up to the counter there was a strong tension between us that anyone within a half-mile radius of that place could feel. I got to the counter, opened my mouth, and you know what came out? “$20 on number 10 please. Thank You”. I never batted an eyelash. I put the money on the counter, turned, and walked away. Marsha or no Marsha, I’m dogmatic when it comes to "holding the line".

Like Bunk from The Wire said to Omar, “A man must have a code”. As such, a distinct part of my code is that I don’t make myself available to be shelved or play the background for anyone. I give no one my time who doesn’t value and treat it with the urgency that they give their own. I value my self, my time, and my goals too much to compromise on that issue.

Well, then Marsha disappeared without a trace. A month passed and as I walked into my local colonial pantry, a woman screams as if Gerald Levert just came through the door. Yeah, I know he’s dead (big homey r.i.p). What I meant was that she screamed like she saw the big homey Gerald without ever having any knowledge of his untimely passing. This isn’t a zombie story. It was Marsha. She rushed over and hugged me and as we stood in the middle of that store, she explained she was back again (albeit “temporarily”). As things would have it, I looked online and saw that her tour with R Kelly and Keisha Cole had just wrapped in Chicago. What a coincidence.

We reestablished contact but in light of what happened previously, I refused to pursue her (even though I’m starting to think that she really is Marsha). Finally, the other day while driving through my little town I saw what resembled her car parked in a random driveway. As I passed the house I looked up and saw her getting creepy with some goon looking fellow on a porch swing. All you can say to that is that my instincts were spot on, the game is the game no matter who’s playing. Never compromise...I don't give a fuck who it is.

EPILOGUE:

There are people who follow a rational calculus approach to relationships, for these people relationships are not organic - they're contractual exchanges. Still others follow their hearts and go with what "feels right". These people rarely find happiness, as they lack foresight, reflexivity, and usually any sense of what "feels right" for the other person. Then there are those who respect what is commonly known as "the game". I'm not referring to corny pick-up lines or how to fashion yourself to attract women. We'll get into more of the specifics of that another time. What I'm referring to is what we might call a "conduct of conducts". What I am referring to is a code by which one abides in order to protect their best interests, their feelings, and ultimately their good name. I recall the late Asa Hilliard saying that our good name is all that we really have. As the fictional character from "The Wire" (yes, again), Marlo, once said, "My name is my name". In light of all this I am pleased that I wasn't taken off my square even after being tempted by celebrity. My previous statement therefore bares repeating, "the game is the game no matter who's playing".

Game Recognize Game

The above newspaper clipping has been posted in numerous places throughout the internet and probably emailed millions of times. However, just in case you haven't seen it please read the above story and reply. I laughed at this for an hour, and for all the wrong reasons. The monster is everywhere...and (s)he doesn't want to go back into its cage.

These Are My Confessions... Part I

Greetings fellow Monsters. Sorry I’ve been away for so long, but I’ve been trying to fit in again, trying to pretend that I don’t have a raging, mauling beast inside me that I must use every spare ounce of energy to keep in check. The prospect of feeling just like everybody else, of fitting in, safe in our little lives and comforted by our little relationships, of being made content by all that our own two hands have brought us is a very seductive, very appealing myth indeed. And I’ve been out there chasing it, to no avail. As F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote in The Great Gatsby:

“Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgiastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter – tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther… And one fine morning – So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”

It other words, we’re never going to be able to reach back into the past and acquire that which will make us happy and content. But that doesn’t mean that we as humans should stop trying. In fact, one could argue that the very nature of humanity requires that we try, insists that we pursue that which we cannot achieve: A pure articulation of love; the sense that we as humans have been fully recognized and understood by our fellow humans, a pathway back to Eden. Frankly dear readers, I don’t know how I got off on this tangent. I started this post wanting to talk about affairs. At first I was going to write about mistresses, but I’d like to think that I use my words carefully, and dictionary.com defines a mistress as: “a woman who has a continuing, extramarital sexual relationship with one man, especially a man who, in return for an exclusive and continuing liaison, provides her with financial support.” Let’s face it people, that’s simply too narrow a definition to get at what we’re talking about here. One doesn’t have to be a man to have an extramarital affair (with or without money), and one doesn’t have to be married to have a mistress. A more accurate definition would be something like this: Affair (noun), an informally structured (and often clandestine) physically or emotionally intimate relationship, performed simultaneously or in parallel against another more formally structured, publicly recognized relationship. And I was going to write about affairs because I was thinking about having one, or rather trying to start one (it still takes two to tango, even in our internet age). But before I jump head first into the shallow end of the cesspool, I wanted to run some things by you dear readers. Before you start burning up your keyboards trying to persuade me out of doing this or that, let me just say that I don’t think any of the classic arguments against affairs are going to work with me. And it’s not that I don’t think those classic arguments don’t have merit, it’s just that I’m in a place where I don’t really give a fuck. What I do give a fuck about (and therefore want to write/talk about) is why I would start this affair. Believe it or not, I think it has a lot to do with sadness. I know, not exactly the first rationale for an affair that pops into everyone’s mind. But I arrived at it through a pretty rigorous process of deductive reasoning. In the words of Sherlock Holmes, “Eliminate the impossible, and whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” Walk through this with me for a minute, will you?

First off, let’s eliminate the impossible. I am not starting this affair because I want sex with a new person. Honestly, for all practical purposes even the possibility of sex is irrelevant. Sex is the Stanley Cup, the Larry O’ Brien, the Vince Lombardi or Commissioner’s Trophy. It is the thing that is symbolic of a victory, but not the victory itself. And mere symbolism is not at all what I am after, though I do admit that people often confuse the climax of stories with their denouement, the theme of the story with its moral. I can go to my wife for sex. No, what I’m looking for is escape, escape from myself. Most days I am filled with an incredible, enormous  sadness. And being filled with this incredible and enormous sadness leads me to great shame, for after all, what have I to be sad about? And realizing that I have a great shame which itself emerges from my enormous sadness causes within me a raging storm of self-loathing. These storms seem to last for days on end, and the hardest part about them is the brave face I must present to the world while it is raging on inside me. I must appear to be happy, and well-balanced, optimistic and content. Sometimes I think that it is from these storms that my inner monster emerges. Riding high on the sea of my turmoil, he appears and encourages me to do the most destructive thing possible, in the words of a kindred spirit, “to destroy something beautiful”.

But I don’t want to destroy something beautiful. I want to run. And so for me, having a mistress is all about creating that place to run, maintaining a space to hide from my own demons. With a mistress I don’t ever have to pretend to be happy, or to have it all worked out, or to be in control. With a mistress, I can just be a ten car pile-up on a drive-in movie screen, replayed endlessly in slow motion. A mistress would never tell me to cheer up, would never ask me when am I going to get my shit together, never pout because I’m not quite the man she hoped I would be all those years ago when she first decided to fuck me hoping it would turn into something good. I know what you’re thinking, that scenario really doesn’t sound like too much fun for the mistress. And I certainly see your point, from a distance it doesn’t seem as though I’m really offering much – save misery – unless what she also wants is also a place to hide from the expectations, the desires, the plans, the promises she made to herself of her own life. I promise that I would never tell her to lose that weight, fix those teeth, be more confident in herself or to just pull herself together for heaven’s sake, she’s not nineteen anymore. As her mistress, that’s not my job. All we’d be asking for is the chance to be mutual witnesses to our own desperate acts of self-loathing, that and a little comfort. Kind of like Leaving Las Vegas, but in my town, with me as the star. Perhaps that’s it. I’ll put up an ad on the local craigslist: ‘Male lead actor seeks female costar in a local remake of Leaving Las Vegas. Oscar worthy performances only please. Live takes only, no edits or re-shoots. To be filmed in black and white, or sometimes Technicolor, as appropriate.’

So you see, I guess I wasn’t really looking for a mistress at all, at least not in the way folks normally talk about them. And yes, I know when it is all said and done folks won’t make a distinction between what I wanted and what it looked  like, won’t make a distinction between what they think to be true and the depth of the reality the surrounds them. I’ll just be another guy who was fooling around on his wife, risking everything (as if they knew what ‘everything’ was to me) for sex. They won’t know what you know true readers, and I won’t bother to explain to them because only here, in the space of the monster’s inquiry, can I present

my confessions…

On Destroying Something Beautiful

A friend reached out to me recently through instant message. His spirit was broken. For one reason or another and he was looking for an action or activity that could serve as an emotional Band-Aid. There is a significant difference in age between us and he was trying to draw upon my experience in this area to point him in the right direction. The what, where, when, and who are virtually insignificant though. The point lies in the philosophy of the answer I provided him, and his response, “why?” As conversations go, it was as straightforward as it gets:

Him: I cannot seem to shake these feelings of sadness and melancholy, what should I do?

Me: Have you tried drowning your sorrows?

Him: Yes, but drunkenness was not the answer I was looking for.

Me: Have you tried doing so in the presence of strippers? Better yet, alone at a strip club on a slow night?

Him: I have but did not find a solution. Now what?

Me: Sounds like destroying something beautiful would do you some good.

Him: Why?

The last question provides the turn in the conversation, which prompted this writing. My friends and I have been using this phrase to describe a specific set of actions for years now. However the practice and understanding behind the words have gone without intense scrutiny and critique. For us, destroying beautiful things is just something that monsters do. If you acknowledge that you have the capacity to be a monster from time to time, you therefore take with that sometimes, beautiful things get broken.

The phrase itself is probably most notably coined in the movie “Fight Club”. One scene in the movie depicts Edward Norton’s character beating a young Jared Leto’s unmercifully in a spectacular display of pugilism. The two characters aren’t drastically different except that Leto’s character is younger, with dyed blonde hair, and more well liked because of his perceived attractiveness. Though the amateur match was semi-organized and understood to be consensual, the display was unsettling and gratuitous. When questioned about his actions Norton’s character retorts unflinchingly that he felt like, “destroying something beautiful”.

That scene is so memorable because of its embrace of such a drastically irrational behavior explained through such a whimsically abstract and poetic sentiment. To focus our critical lens further, it could also be said that Leto’s character was a symbol of cultural standards of beauty and normalcy, and that destroying something beautiful was an embrace of deviance and alienation. It stands to reason that the beating was a symbolic embrace of being culturally imperfect and ugly; it was an affront to such notions a challenge to the foundation of such widely held beliefs. Finally, the act could be understood as a statement that the beauty of Leto’s character was not natural, what was natural and pure was actually the desire to subdue and destroy him.

But let us not stop there. The concept of destroying something beautiful is more than a line in a popular movie (or the book that provided the foundation to script said movie). The concept of destroying something beautiful resonates with many who hear the phrase. It’s not meant to be taken as literal as much as it is a general sentiment toward embracing deviant behavior. To destroy something beautiful is an affront toward our very nature and all that we know is right, ethical, moral, and upstanding. The act in whatever form it takes is a gesture that mocks rationality, modernity, civility, and the order of things as has been ingrained in us since our youth.

The process of destroying something beautiful assumes that the actor is rational, that (s)he acknowledges the subjective worth of the individual/object that is to be harmed. The actor knows full well the ramifications of their actions and follows through with them because of this knowledge, not in spite of. It is this methodical and calculating nature that makes the notion and practice of destroying something beautiful both cathartic and utterly monstrous.

The actions associated with the term amount to more than defacing art, or nature. This blight that we speak of is an emotional crime. It isn’t enough that you know what you did, others (if only one) must know what you are capable of and the actor looks to feed off of the reaction such knowledge brings. You see, (s)he carries an interest in the feelings of the other, as in this instance the actor is a voyeur manipulating the other for their own entertainment.

The process has many forms, like when you pick up the phone and ring a known admirer. In and of itself this is not bad, but it is when you do so with the intent of inviting them to an event that will surely end with a crushing heartbreak. This is the very essence of destroying something beautiful. Taking an innocent on a ride that will cause their heart to flutter and mind to wander for only the sake of breaking that person irreparably.

Few of our philosophical and literary giants have been noted as being more adroit in this systematic process than Soren Kierkegaard. His account as laid out in “The Seducer” tells of how a man (Johannes) courts a woman (Cordelia) to this end of destruction. Through working his methodology Johannes finds great pleasure in pushing Cordelia to fall further into a state of euphoria and irrationality.

It is said that “The Seducer” is somewhat autobiographical in nature, though details of the passionate affair with the love of his life stack up somewhat differently. Regardless of how much of the tale was based in reality, his reasoning and method were sound. His destruction of someone beautiful had to do entirely with himself and his desire to exert power and control over another to a satisfactory end.

He pushed her until she wanted nothing more than to submit completely to him. When that was her one and only desire, when her total understanding of love, life, and happiness was based upon this…he slowly undid everything he had done. As methodically as he had drawn close to her and carefully weaved an elegant tapestry of sentiment, he emotionally and intellectually withdrew. This action sent poor Cordelia into a panic, a state of painful lonesomeness and confusion. Satisfied with his work, he ended his affair with Cordelia and coldly stated, “[I]t is over now, and I hope never to see her again…I will have no farewell with her; nothing is more disgusting to me than a woman’s tears and a woman’s prayers.” As you will note in his statement, he even denied her the satisfaction of understanding what had happened. There was no closure or tidy conclusion to the fiery romance they shared.

Though Bertrand Russell doesn’t write about this topic directly, as an admirer of his rationality and insight I often include his work in discussions such as these. Russell would point out, this person that Kierkegaard describes to be a megalomaniac. Like narcissism, megalomania is a condition that may or may not be associated with the lunatic who has lost touch with reality. Though it could be argued that Edward Norton’s character in Fight Club was insane, we have no reason to believe that Johannes was.

Russell goes on to state that many of the great men in history such as Alexander the Great and Napoleon were megalomaniacs, but more of the excessive insane variety. He states, “The megalomaniac differs from the narcissist by the fact that he wishes to be powerful rather than charming, and seeks to be feared rather than loved.” I think this holds true for the character from Fight Club, Johannes, and our own purposes here.

He also makes the observation that one commonality that megalomaniacs share is some form of excessive humiliation in their past. This of course was true for the sickly Soren Kierkegaard and certainly true for our fictional movie personae. However, while this may or may not be true for us as individuals who want to destroy something beautiful, it more than likely holds true. Humiliation may not come at the hands of another it very well could come from a failure to capitalize on our own aspirations and expectations. Hence, cultivate a love of power over others because we have failed in cultivating the same ability over ourselves.

Russell continues, “A man may feel so completely thwarted that he seeks no form of satisfaction, but only distraction and oblivion. He then becomes a devotee of “pleasure.” That is to say, that he seeks to make life bearable by becoming less alive.” I find this statement so eloquent as it harkens back to the very nature of the beast for whom we began this discussion. The monster straddles a line that Kierkegaard (in Either/or) describes as laying between the aesthetic and ethical. This simply means that the monster itself is not one or the other, but walks the line between the individual using others and the world around him/her as entertainment, and being content in one’s own company.

The monster both knows the repression of the mask and the freedom of mastering himself without it. Though I think that social inequality has no rational basis, I believe that due to social circumstance there are several caste of monsters. Regardless, in walking the line between the sacred and profane some beauty and innocence is bound to get broken. All that we’re saying is that there is no need to seek permission.

Happy Port Tuesday.

In honor of Port Tuesday I am posting this banner that were used as event reminders via social media outlets. For the uninitiated, Port Tueday is a celebration that originated as the brain child of the storied A-Team (also referred to as "the seven madmen") at Jon's Pipe Shop in Champaign, Illinois. This local tradition was meant as homage to the spirit of generousity and the culture of sharing that had been long cultivated in the shop. However, it is also well-know amonst the regulars that the tradition also began as a joke. The very first Port Tuesday was held to spite shop employee, Michael LaDue, by enjoying his favorite adult beverage and having a good time while he was away and unable to partake.

Beginning in 2004, every Tuesday by 5pm a bottle of port would be shared amongst the Jon's Pipe Shop patrons and from that gesture a grand celebration would develop. In the years that followed, the Port Tuesday celebration would grow to include: food, events sponsored by tobacco companies, events held at local bars, etc. The original members of the A-Team may only rarely make appearances at Port Tuesday, but the recognition of the day and ensuing tribute goes on regardless. This day is the lasting legacy of Jon's A-Team and the culture specific to that shop. No matter where we go, every Tuesday is Port Tuesday. Starting in 2004, Tuesdays in Champaign have made Saturday look like just another day of the week.

Salute to all who can't be here with us to celebrate today. For some reason today I was thinking about the time when Family (aka Panda, aka Fruit, aka The Big Homie) so graciously passed me my first Lusitania (or "loosies" as we so affectionately call them). I will never forget that day he "traded" me for a La Aroura 100 Anos (possibly my hands down favorite cigar) in order to give me the opportunity to smoke what would become one of the best sticks I have ever experienced. It was only a trade on face value though. He had received a package containing an exquisite selection of cigars and let me choose the one I wanted. In return, I gave him what I had.

I remember taking my time with it and accompanying the flavor of the aged tobacco with a strong cup of coffee. I smoked it like it would be my last. It strattles two worlds as it is both a delightfully complex cuban and truely full-bodied. Family is a true friend not just for that but for many years of trust, compassion, and loyalty. On this Port Tuesday I raise my glass to you homie, to the seven madmen, and to our institution that seems to have taken on a life of it's own, ching-ching.