Love

A common understanding of love is caring for someone more than you care about yourself. This is not the same as the altruism issue but it’s related. I don’t deny that such a feeling exists. I just think that it’s potentially self-destructive.

Of course the phenomenon we call “love” is nothing more than a chemical reaction in the brain in response to certain stimulii which correlate with biological advantage of procreation and the strengthening of filial ties. But who wants to see that shit on a hallmark card? So I will narrow down to interpersonal interests.

Inasmuch as biological advantage is aided by this emotion, there is clear benefit. But in cases that don’t involve reproduction, the emotion comes with attenuating baggage that is without counterbalancing benefit. In this case, it can be useful to remind ones self that it is a biochemical trick which must not be allowed to derail rational thought. In short, one should counsel with the mind rather than the heart.

This should not be read as an indictment of emotion. Feelings are, of course, part of the human condition. The point , however, is that emotion should be used to serve existence, not the other way around. If you end your ass up in a tree at 3:00 in the morning spying on your ex-wife who divorced you three years ago, that’s probably a case of existence serving emotion.

Since I’ve decided I’m done procreating, I’ve determined that the love emotion will serve my own personal entertainment. I’m not going to go as far as to actually comingle my existence and finances with someone else because when things go sour the extrication part can be like having a conjoined twin removed with a butterknife.

I do enjoy the infatuation stage, the brain releasing endorphins or whatever. In that respect I’m kind of like the rat in the laboratory hitting the endorphin button over and over, to the exclusion of food and water. I mean, I don’t go out of my way to waste time on pointless activity (pool exempted), but when the opportunity presents itself I take advantage.

It’s kind of like someone giving you a grenade. The first thing you do is start looking for shit to blow up. It might even be some shit that don’t need blowin’ up but you blow it up anyway. Problem: the next door neighbor parked in your spot again? Solution: blow it up. The cat won’t come out from under the couch? Blow that MF up. The possibilities here are endless. It begins to become what problem can’t be solved with a grenade? You see how this goes?

But you’re supposed to be more selective with emotion. When emotion don’t serve a greater good, you’re not supposed to act on it. You’re supposed to KILL IT and BURY it. SUPPRESS it and when it starts to make its way back up to the surface (and it will, in dreams, fantasies, and other subconscious manifestations), you’re supposed to grab a plunger and JAM THAT MOTHERF*CKER back down in the toilet, not matter how much water and mess you end up covered in. Remember, suppress, repress, and lie. Because THAT’S how civilized people are supposed to act.

Vacation

Ahhhhh. . .. I’m taking a vacation day. So instead of being at work recovering from a night of shooting pool at Leroy’s, sitting at my computer listening to Evanescence and drinking coffee, I’m at home recovering from a night of shooting pool, sitting at my computer, listening to Evanescence and drinking coffee. Sometimes it’s nice to do something different.

I’m also coughing up clumps of yellow stuff. I like to imagine that it’s concentrated evil that has proliferated to such an extent that it can no longer fit within the confines of my body. But it’s probably just clumps of yellow stuff. Maybe I got the SARS.

Note: If I die at some point in the near future (blaze of gunfire, beaten to death by a toothless old pimp, or acute boredom), I don’t want anything stupid in my obiturary. I hate stuff like “Ben’s soul was plucked by the Loving Hands of God and he was been raised among the angels, puffy clouds, white babies with harps and blah blah blah.” I want mine to say something like:

Michael is gone. Heaven or hell? We really can’t say. But what we can say is that apparantly it’s not a good idea to kick in the door to a Chinese restaurant and challenge the waitstaff to a kung-fu fight while mouthing words off time so that it looks dubbed. Dumb m@#*%$a. Owed Ken twenty-five dollas. That’s why we pawned his cue stick. He will be sorely missed. . . by Paulie. And that 250 lb girl who was lookin’ at him like he was. . . a damn sammich, or somethin’. He was survived by five babies and three strong possibles. To God we belong and to Him is the return.

Something cool like that.
Oh yeah, I thought of one more haiku:

My balls are tangled


in a damn slinky again


This is sooo not cool

You Gotta Be Kidding

Lionel Richie’s wife is claiming that she and her husband spent in excess of $20,000 a month in her gold digging expedition seeking spousal support in their divorce proceedings. Among other things, the article claims that:

Diane Richie, in a written declaration published on the Smoking Gun Web site (http://www.thesmokinggun.com), said her monthly expenses include $15,000 for clothing, shoes and accessories, $3,000 for “dermatology” and $1,000 for laser hair removal.

The 37-year-old mother of two, who filed for a divorce in January, said that each month she spends $600 on hair, $250 on nails, $150 on electrolysis, $450 on facials, $500 for her trainer and $600 each on Pilates, massages, and therapy.

Of course all this fabulous information is relevant because in American jurisprudence an ex-spouse is entitled to support under the premise that during the course of a marriage they have “become accustomed” to a particular lifestyle. I understand the theory but I have never agreed with it. You became accustomed to this particular lifestyle because you were married to Lionel Richie. Now you’re not going to be married to Lionel Richie any more so your choices should be get out there and become an incredibly successful music artist or get accustomed to not living that lifestyle anymore. Things change with a divorce.

If I were Richie’s attorney, I would point out that during the course of the marriage Lionel had become accustomed to getting some p%&*y now and again too. Is this trick going to be compelled to get up offa that too? If not, why? Why is it right to take something from someone without their consent in one instance but not in the next?

This is not like the O.J. Simpson or Kobe Bryant cases. My viewpoint is not skewed due to being a fan like it was in those cases. I’m not a fan of Lionel Richie in any respect. It’s just that right now I’m even less a fan of his wife.

By the way, I beat Ramiro once and Lex twice yesterday! Wasn’t gonna leave that out!

Michael Haiku

I’ve written a little poetry here and there in this life, and some of it is rather good. I don’t talk about it because I live in the ‘hood so if anybody asks I’ll just say they’re raps. But I’ve never taken a shot at writing specific metered stuff like sonnets or haiku. I’ll be damned if I get my ass kicked for writing something called a sonnet so I thought I’d take a stab at haiku.

For those who don’t know, traditional haiku has 5 syllables in the first line, 7 in the second line, and 5 again in the third line. A little different but what the hell, it’s Japanese. I’m writing about everyday stuff for me which includes a little bit of pool among other things. Here’s what I have come up with so far:

Gaylord is cussing
because I just hid his balls
. . . . that didn’t sound right

Ok, maybe that one wasn’t so good yet. That’s ok. I’m bound to get better. I try again:

I hate Stephen I

hate Stephen I hate Stephen
Good game (you bastard!)

That one is a lot better. I’m actually warming up to this stuff. What now. . How about. . . . an emotional, heartfelt one. One to touch the very soul:

She pours gasoline
On my heart and has matches
She’s laughing at me.

Ha ha! Tricked you into my world! Fire and singed hair! Fire! FIRE!!

My life is over. . .


I didn’t get to shoot once


No one hears my screams

Now for a traditional Japanese Haiku:

AAAAAAAH! IT’S GODZILLA!!!!
GODZILLA??? WHERE? (then mouth moves)
HE’S KILLING KENNY!!!!!

Hmmm. . . That’s my best one yet, but If you’re not impressed, rest assured I’m not either. I don’t feel bad. I have better poems at Better Poems. Read it, delete it, repeat it . I don’t really care. Just remember. . . . if anybody asks. . . it’s a rap.

INTJ Like Me

Ok, those of you who have not yet taken the Myers-Briggs Personality Test should do so now. Not only will it improve your life one sixth of a percent, it will also enable you to understand the rest of this blog.

My type (allegedy) is INTJ (Introverted iNtuitive Thinking Judging.) In a nutshell, while we’re supposed to be good with systems, logic, and analytical stuff, we often come up short in the interpersonal skills area. Add to the mix that while I’m not just introverted, I’m also rather antisocial in many respect (introversion and antisocial are actually two entirely different monkeys, it’s possible to be one without the other), then it’s no wonder that I don’t relate very well to most people I meet.

My friend Stephen is one of the few and now he’s moving back to Detroit from whence he came. I don’t think he’s taken the Myers Briggs test but if I had to guess I’d put him somewhere along the lines of ENTP. Dave? I’m guessing ENFJ. Mike Ryan? INTJ. I would type Ken but I don’t think he reads this blog. I don’t dare try and type chicks because if I understood them I wouldn’t be divorced three times by now. So hopefully my known acquaintences are reading the blog. Learn your type. Post your type. I want to know how close or off I am on typing people based on my own subjective reasoning. I’m tired of wondering how often I miss (no pool jokes on that last one Dave.)

I’m not even going to edit this before I post it because dammit I’m tired. I have to go to sleep because tomorrow I have to drive to the D for work and then come back for pool league. Live long and prostitute yourselves!

Chicken Wars Continue!

I had intended to blog primarily about politics, economic theory, and religious commentary chok full of polemic dialectics and angry diatribes, but I found that it’s more fun to blog about pool. So dammit, here we go.

My mortal enemy Dave Marion took a 3-1 lead in the chicken wars the other day (I didn’t blog about that. When I lose I blog about international affairs or something). Last night was not his night at all. He couldn’t win a damn thing. The way things were going I woulda had $50 he couldn’t have won a Dave Marion lookalike contest. I know the feeling of an off night so I kind of felt bad for him, but looking at him sit there looking mad as hell made me crack up. The pool gods must be Mexican because he had me on our first game but he scratched on the 8.

I don’t remember a next game but Dave seems to think it’s 3-3. If we didn’t play a next game then he’s up 3-2. I’ll leave it up to his memory (mine is pitcher of beer fuzzy) because I trust to our integrity. The chicken war race to 100 is beyond cheating. This is death and life, not to mention I’m certain that the loser will move out of the contiguous United States from humiliation. I’m checking out the cost of living in the Phillipines just in case.

At some point I’m going to add a link to Ramiro Sanchez can’t play pool and make up all kinds of ridiculous and untrue stories for him to find when he googles himself (and you know he will, as all pool players are egomaniacs, it comes with the territory.) Dave told me not to make the page but that’s like daring me not to run into the tunnel to see if I can get to the other side before a train comes. You know I gotta do it. Anyway let me go, the kids want to use the computer. Chicken wars WILL be continued!

Introversion, Materialism, and the Existentialist Dilemma

I’m not opposed to materialism. I’ve just never been one for wanting to have all kinds of stuff (nice car, fly gear, etc.) Therefore I’ve never had a 20 year financial plan, a five year plan, or even a one month plan. As long as I had enough money to do the things I wanted to do I’ve generally been all right, but now that it’s coming back to bite me I actually have to make some moves to get some stuff accomplished. How annoying.

Chicks generally don’t dig dudes who take their paycheck, divide it by the 14 days until next payday, and say “Here is how much money I can spend at the bar.” They’re funny like that. So I’ve tried not to have to deal with them for a while, not chasing women, just doing my own thing. I’ve been repressing for some time but that’s starting not to work anymore. If you try to buck your instincts, they have a way of making their way back to the surface. Suddenly that chick in the wheelchair at the end of the bar starts to look pretty damn good. A doctor’s assistant grabs your arm to put the blood pressure cuff on and the touch is electric. You wanna know what’s really fucked up? You dream you’re making love to a midget, you wake up, and one of your kids is in bed with you. That can be bad news.

Last night I was feeding the mind and not the body (shooting pool but not drinking beer.) I was getting all edgy but I was going to prove to myself that my will can overcome my desires so I kept declining to order beer. After a while though the karaoke girl was leaving and she offered me the rest of her beer which I was glad to accept because I’m secretly in love with her (ha! that’s the good thing about the net, I can say what I want. The only people who know about this blog are the INTJ lists, my homie Phelps in Texas, the blog pages, my pool buddies Dave and Ken, and the karaoke girl. . . . . oops). Anway once I had some beer then I was balancing body and mind (albeit with a wobble).

Life requires a balance and you gotta feed both parts of the dichotomy. You can’t ignore the body and live only in the mind because before you know it you’re shaken out of your philosophical reverie because you’re half starved and freezing to death. You can’t focus only on your physical desires because then you’re not much different from a farm animal. It’s like Mr. Miogi told the karate kid once, “Kiss my wrinkled yellow ass Daniel-san. Kiss my wrinkled yellow ass!”

I’m losing my point. What was I saying? Oh yeah. I don’t think I had a point. Work is stupid. I can’t wait til 9 o’clock.

Mexi Changeover

The MexiMuslim is undergoing a metamorphasis. Beer drinking mode is set to ‘off’. Cue stick attatchment will not be enabled. Exercising and reading of computer manuals and literature classics is set to full steam ahead. Negativity vanishing, replaced with Truth, Justice, and the Pursuit of. . . . of. . .. .. damn. Here’s where it gets tough. I need a mission. . . a long term goal.

Maybe to get a pet monkey. That seems relatively attainable. And it’s a lifelong dream. No, that’s not noble enough.

I don’t mean noble in the sense of ‘the greater good’. I mean something befitting the real me. i, oh wait. . the phone.

OH shit, that’s Ken. I have to go shoot pool and drink beer. I’ll check back in tomorrow.

Bucket’a Chicken Wars!

The Bucket’a Chicken Wars have begun! Last night, unbeknownst to the rest of the free world, but beknownst to those of us at Leroy’s, my sworn enemy Dave Marion and I began a marathon race to 100 game pool contest for the highest of stakes: a bucket of Popeye’s Chicken (Dave, if you’re reading this, I like my chicken spicy). It is a grudge match to end all grudge matches. The winner will go down in Lansing pool history, while the loser will live the rest of his life in ignominy (no, that’s not a small town, it’s a word, look it up.)

The series started with a packed to capacity crowd anxiously awaiting the break. It was so quiet you could have heard a drunk woman’s beak hit the table. The action was intense from the first break ’til the last 8 ball went down. The masses were not let down, streaming out of the bar in wonderment and awe last night as the series stood tied 1-1.

The pressure is definitely on. After the first night’s play, Dave had this to say:

“I knew I shouldn’t have took this bet. If I was ahead like 97 games to zero I would begin to think I had a chance. Now that it’s 1-1 I can cancel Christmas.”

Other quotes are as follows:

“Goddammit I tried to talk him out of it.”
– Rever

“I don’t know what Dave was thinking. Mike can miscue better than most people can shoot.”
– Ken

“I barely even come into Leroy’s anymore. Sometimes I wait in the parking lot and pay somebody to stroll through there to make sure Mike’s not there cuz I’m too a’scared to play him.”
-Lex

“Fuck you! Bank the 8!”
– Gaylord

“Look at me, I’m Mike Ryan.”
– Mike Ryan

These ominous statements aside, it is certain that every game will bring more blood, shrapnel, and smoke than. . . . than something with a lot of blood, shrapnel, and smoke in it. We’ll be fighting over this bucket’a chicken like Michael Jackson and a Catholic Priest fighting over. . . . . . never mind, that was gonna be bad. To be continued. . .

Michael Bernard Davis Leroy’s team 12 Quincy Briggs Aaron Wilson

Feed the Homeless?

I have a question. Why is it that whenever some corporation or multi zillionaire individual decides to invest in some megabucks business venture, you’ve always got some clown on the sidelines saying ‘oh with that kind of money you could have set up a soup kitchen to feed the homeless!’ ?

Two issues actually. I’m not big into acts of altruism myself (there is no selfless motive) but as long as you’re talking about helping the homeless, wouldn’t the logical thing be to house the homeless? Why do people presume that homeless people have no food? Go observe them sometime. This nation’s homeless population probably packs more pounds per capita than any other demographic I know of except maybe white women who exclusively date unemployed black men. Missing meals doesn’t seem to be an issue, especially since they’re not spending 30% of their income (or whatever the percentage is) that most people spend on their rent or mortgage payment.

Two, you can feed people for a season but what happens when the money’s gone? These people are back at square one except maybe now a little bit worse because they’ve become accustomed to being tossed some bread so now they’re gathered expectantly with the idea that it will happen again. Now they feel entitiled. This sounds like a recipe for class warfare.

Why not instead skip altruism, build that ballpark or swanky hotel which will require construction workers to be paid, hotel staff to employ, food to be brought in, and it will ultimately bring paying customers into the area, business to flow, and money to keep changing hands. This brings dollars into the area, not for a season, but until it ceases to be profitable which might be dozens of years. It’s more efficient than altruism, you get to satisfy your own motives (make money), and who knows, maybe even some of those homeless people will get jobs out of the deal.