On Time, Points and Screaming at the Sky

I read the following passage on the way home from work. It comes from Michael Thomas Ford’s Full Circle.

Now that I’ve almost certainly passed the halfway point in my climb up the mountain of this life and am coasting down the other side with a tailwind at my back, I sometimes wish I could slow time to a crawl. I think that is why many of us, as we age, require fewer and fewer hours of sleep. It is not that our bodies have become more efficient; it’s that we’re afraid we’ll miss something by wasting precious hours in slumber when we could be eating ice cream, reading Shakespeare, or scanning the night sky for falling stars. How many times have I wished for just two or three more hours in a day, not in which to accomplish a task, but simply to enjoy being?

I think Mr. Ford has a point, a point with which I seem to be becoming more and more familiar with each passing day. The point, however, is not completely applicable to my life. The point is slightly flawed.

I do not wish to merely “slow time to a crawl.” Rather, I wish I could just stop time in its tracks completely.

I want to stand in the middle of everything, tilting my head back so that my eyes are facing the vastness of the sky. I want to raise my arms and I want to scream.

“STOP!”

I need to take a break from so many things. My mind and my heart and my body are all running at a pace I can no longer afford to keep up with. Something has to give. Something is going to give whether or not I like it.

I wish I could just stop it all. I wish I could sit alone for as long as it takes and just figure it all out. I need time to think about my life and the decisions I am making. I need to process my situation. I need to make sure I am doing what is absolutely best for me.

And yet, I can’t. I can’t slow down long enough to think. Life keeps coming at me regardless of how much I wish it would just stop.

It’s not going to stop. It’s never going to stop. It’s going to keep coming and keep coming and keep coming until I finally just crack.

Screaming at the sky is not going to make any fucking difference.

On Hollywood, Stars and The Race for Fame

I saw a poll online yesterday (forgive me for having forgotten the site) that asked readers to vote on the worst Hollywood parent. The choices consisted of Jon Gosselin, the father of Balloon Boy, Octomom and Lindsay Lohan’s father. I didn’t vote, but Jon appeared to me taking an early lead. I can’t say I disagree with those results.

My first thought upon seeing this poll was that I have no clue what Octomom’s actual name is. My second thought was that none of these people, with the possible exception of the man who sired Lindsay Lohan, should be considered Hollywood parents.

Then I stopped and thought about it for a moment and I realized that this is America. In America, anyone can be a celebrity. All it takes is a little screen time, a lot of audacity and people like me to write about you. Make a few bad choices and – BAM – you’re a star, baby.

It seems everyone wants to be a star these days. Be it reality television or blogs or YouTube, there are so many options available for the average Joe who wants to cash in on the fame craze. I can’t help but wonder, however, what the appeal is.

The minute one crosses over the line from being a regular person to being a star, everything changes. And from what I can tell, it doesn’t usually change for the better. Look at Jon Gosselin. Sure, he’s famous now. He also happens to be one of the most detested men on the planet at the moment. Complete strangers are voting him the worst parent in Hollywood. His marriage is in shambles. His family is falling apart. Every mistake he’s ever made is up for public judgment. His life is no longer his own.

I sure hope it was all worth it, Jon.

And yet, I wouldn’t be a very honest person if I didn’t say I wasn’t at least the tiniest bit intrigued by the idea of being famous. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to checking the stats of this blog religiously to see just how many people are reading my public thoughts. I admit to fantasizing about being discovered someday and becoming the next big thing on the Hollywood writing scene.

Seems I’m as caught up in America’s race for fame as the next guy. I’m not nearly as despicable about it as Jon Gosselin, but the seed has been planted. I’m far from innocent.

What separates me from the likes of Octomom, however, is that which separates human beings from, say, fungus. I have self-awareness. I completely recognize that at least on some level I blog in the hopes of being famous. I also completely recognize that I’m never going to become famous for keeping this silly blog.

And yet, I’ll play along in my own delusional mind. And I’ll continue to judge those who have faired better than I in the race for fame. For, that’s what we do. We build you up to tear you down. And then we throw our hats in the ring to be the next person who is vilified by all of America.

Ain’t fame great?

On Leftovers, Drones and The Mundane Nature of Life

I’m having leftovers for dinner. I absolutely detest eating leftovers for dinner. If it weren’t for the starving kids in Africa, I’d never keep even one scrap of leftover food anywhere near my place.

I realize my deep hatred toward leftovers may seem a bit unconventional, but I find this hatred is a merely an indicator of something greater. It means more than just my not liking to eat old food. It speaks volumes about my psyche.

I hate leftovers because I hate the mundane nature of life.

Think about it. Everything in life is just one big repeat of the last thing that happened.

Every morning my alarm goes off and I hit the snooze for an hour. I eventually drag my ass out of bed, plug in the iron and then pick out something to wear to work.

I brush my teeth. I shower. I shave.

I dress and commute to work, taking the same route I’ve taken every day for going on three years. Half the time I see the same people on the same trains.

I get to work roughly ten minutes late. I sit at my desk, open my email and check my voicemail. Almost immediately the requests start flying.

I spend the next eight hours doing a bunch of things that are very important in that particular moment but that will soon be forgotten. At some point I eat an unsatisfying lunch.

I leave working roughly thirty minutes late. I commute home the same way I commuted in. I arrive at my apartment, check my mail and kick off my shoes and work clothes.

I usually take a shit right about now.

I turn on my computer and check a variety of sites on the internet while I debate what to eat for dinner. Will I go out? Will I stay in? What on Earth will I eat for dinner?

Dinner is the one thing in the day that tends to vary. Unless, that is, I am having leftovers. When I am having leftovers, I am doing nothing but completely duplicating the day before. All variety is gone. I’m a drone.

I’m a drone eating leftovers.

On Scenarios, Psychosis and Considering the Fact that I May be a Psychopath

I fear I’m a psychopath.

To the outside world, I come of as mostly jovial and easy-going. I tell lots of jokes. I laugh easily. I like to eat and dance and play with kids. People always smile at me on the street. Salespeople are kind to me. I’m always the guy that strangers stop and ask for directions.

As far as everyone else is concerned, I’m a happy friendly fellow.

And while I wouldn’t necessarily dispute those claims, I do have to admit that I’m far more somber and pessimistic than the world gives me credit for. I’m totally seeing the world through mud-colored glasses.

For example, as I fall asleep at night, I often imagine horrible scenarios. I think about getting a call that someone I love has been in a car accident. I play through situations involving my getting my heart brutally broken. I pretend I’m in a coma and people are coming to visit me and tell me disturbing secrets because they think I can’t hear them.

Clearly I’m a psychopath.

I don’t imagine these things so that I can play them out to the conclusion that I am some sort of hero. In fact, the scenarios usually end badly. That person in the accident dies. My heart is shattered. I never wake up from my coma and die knowing that everyone has secretly hated me for years.

The odd thing is that I don’t usually become upset by these images. In fact, they usually help lull me right to sleep. For some reason I find all of these really sad situations comforting.

Something’s definitely wrong with me.  Or perhaps I just watch too much Gossip Girl.

I should probably see someone about my psychosis. Unless, of course, this is all perfectly normal. Maybe everyone smiles on the outside and imagines insanely sad things in their minds. Maybe I’m just like everyone else.

Or maybe I’m just plain batshit crazy.

On Kylie, Comparisons and Being a Pop Superstar in Her Own Right

If Kylie Minogue is at all pissed that she’s struck out on her first US tour in order to play humble venues like the Pavilion at the University of Illinois at Chicago, she sure did not let it show last night. The venues and the crowds may be smaller than anything Kylie is used to dealing with outside of the United States, but the show was just as extravagant and bubbly as you’d expect from one of the biggest pint-sized pop princesses on the planet.

For those who may not know the woman who drew every gay man in a tri-city area to the UIC campus last night, here is some background for you.

Kylie released her first single, The Loco-Motion back in 1987. It went on to become the highest-selling single of the decade in her home country of Australia. Her debut album, Kylie, reached number one in the United Kingdom.  Over the next two years, her first thirteen singles reached the British top ten.

She’s released ten studio albums since exploding onto the scene. All but one of those albums hit the top ten in both the United Kingdom and Australia. The woman has sold more than 40 million albums worldwide.

She’s compared to Madonna. She’s compared to Britney. It’s only a matter of time before she’s compared to Lady Gaga.

But Kylie is a pop superstar in her own right. There are bound to be comparisons, but after seeing her live during her first tour of the United States, I can say with the authority of an amateur pop music connoisseur that Kylie most certainly stands on her own well-sculpted legs.

Her show was just as visually stunning as any I’ve seen. Her songs are just as catchy as anything you’d hear on the radio here in the States. She may not be able to dance like Madonna, but Madonna wishes she could show up to a venue and sing live the way Kylie did last night.

This Australian is tiny but mighty.

The proof is in the pudding. Toward the end of her set, Kylie’s bassist had technical difficulties and the show stalled. With a giggle, a twirl, and a wink, Kylie began to banter with the crowd to fill the empty space. When a few fans in the front row began to chant the name of one of her older singles, Kylie obliged. She launched into an off-the-cuff a capella version of Your Disco Needs You. I think even Kylie was surprised at the addition to the show. The crowd ate it up. Kylie fans worldwide raced to the internet to find video and audio clips of the moment.

I’d love to see Madonna or Britney pull off something half as spontaneous in their tours. It was pretty damn spectacular.

I’ll never quite understand why Kylie has never made it big here in the United States. She’s got more going for her than most of the tartlets on the Billboard charts. And yet, she just can’t crack the market.

Then again, maybe that’s not such a bad thing. It was certainly a treat to see Kylie in a rather intimate venue and not have to pay the kind of ticket prices Lady Gaga is sure to charge for her next venture. Perhaps a little obscurity is not such a bad thing.

It sure as hell hasn’t hurt Kylie any.