Merle the Branded Man: Letter to the Editor

In response to David Cantwell's piece in the New Yorker on the musical legacy of Merle Haggard, available here:

I am always pleased to see growing recognition of Merle Haggard, but was disappointed to read David Cantwell's conclusion that the continuation of Merle's legacy rests in the hands of "mainstream radio stars" who will transform his songs into "twenty-first century styles."

At a recent Sturgill Simpson concert, Sturgill announced that there would be no encore because he didn't think it was an authentic experience if everyone expected it. Instead, he walked off stage, and Haggard's "Living with the Shades Pulled Down" came on the speakers. Hearing that album version (horn section included!) perked up my already-ringing ears more than a cover of his song or an encore would have. I left the concert appreciating how country music had evolved from the lonesome blues of Jimmy Rodgers to the Bakersfield sound of Merle Haggard and Buck Owens and finally to the rocking thrum of Sturgill Simpson.

There is a growing category of older country singers who become more relevant either after death or in the fading years of their career. Shoehorning Haggard into this or any other category of country stars does a disservice to the breadth of his recordings and his talent as a musician. Live recordings of Haggard demonstrate his own inimitable talent (although imitations of other country stars were one of his own talents) and the obvious joy he took in sharing a stage with other musicians. The mentioned covers of Jimmy Rodgers, Lefty Frizell and Bob Wills seem to place Haggard in the rich tapestry of American traditional and folk singers, while his famous "Okie from Muskogee" and "Big City" recordings apparently drop him squarely in the middle of the straight-laced conservative country singer category. I believe it would be a mistake that to think that those songs are more representative of his views than "Irma Jackson," a song from the perspective of a black man who can't be with the white woman he loves. Untangling Haggard's views solely by interpreting individual songs is doomed to failure.

One of the keys I have found to unlocking Haggard's music and appeal to his fans is that his songwriting is often from the perspective of one of his own fictional characters. Haggard's voice is not limited to his own experiences, but he retains a vibrant authenticity. That authenticity stems from the fact that Haggard encountered these sorts of people in his own rough and rowdy life while bouncing between prisons or hopping trains. Haggard's legacy should be based on his powerful songwriting, his musicianship, and the influence he has had on those who follow, not on the commercial recording industry's willingness to rebrand his songs for modern audiences. After all - Haggard is already a Branded Man.

The NFL's Safe Spaces Need to Go

I'm taking some time out of my busy life as a grad student to jump on a new bandwagon. Criticizing safe spaces at universities has been a fun hobby for anyone who is looking for extra things to be angry at, and I've got some anger to spare these days, so I want to criticize them too.

I'm vaguely familiar with safe spaces. I recently played tag with a friend's 5 year old, and I was reminded that when playing tag, you NEED to set up a base where tag doesn't count. 5 year olds are really arbitrary about where and when bases exist, but let me tell you this - she put them everywhere, and playing with her was annoying. Losing at tag to a kid who makes the rules was humiliating. A place where you are "safe" has no place in tag or in life.

Which brings me to the most offensive secret safe-spaces in American culture, and I'm honestly shocked this has not been discussed more.

The NFL is absolutely chock full of safe spaces, and it is downright un-American.

The other team's end zone is an absurd place to have a safe-space, but there it is.  Defenders are allowed to clobber whoever is holding the ball until that slippery eel touches the safe zone and is totally off limits.

Take a look at this pansy taking advantage of a safe space. 

At the very least, defenders are allowed to try to stop the other team from getting into the end zone. What's worse are the sidelines. It only looks like football is an anything-goes sort of game, but it's not. Sissy safe-spaces pervade. In fact, most of the world is an unfair safe space - as soon as a player steps 'out of bounds,' he can't be hit, which frustrates defenders to no end. Imagine trying to slam someone's face into.the grass only to find out you can't touch him because he's in a giant safe space with all of his friends standing in a line sticking their tongues out at you.

No wonder Rex Ryan tries to stay on the sidelines

Compare that to a real sport like professional wrestling, where once you knock your opponent out of the ring, you do whatever it takes to finish him because that's how life works. Don't like it? Tough. Eat a steel ladder.

Real men have no use for boundaries

Football isn't immune to the politically correct trend, either. Some players are somehow "different" and hitting them is a foul. Touch a kicker the wrong way and a defender gets flagged, even when the kicker is in the middle of the playing field.

Quit acting like the rules should be different for the vulnerable among us  

These rules insisting that kickers, exposed receivers, or throwing quarterbacks somehow deserve different treatment destroys the integrity of the game. The nerve of Cam Newton appealing to referees because defenders aren't respecting his safe space on the field! 

Don't think of it as brain damage, think of it as a quaterback's rite of passage

I firmly believe that everyone should have a place where they make the rules and feel like they are in control.  For me, like many American males, that is my home. I should not feel like anyone else is imposing their arbitrary and oppressive power structures when I just want to relax and not deal with other people making me feel crappy. My safe space is the football season, so please get your safe spaces out of it.

ed. note - the opinions above do not represent the actual opinions of the author. He is simply grumpy about recent events and decided sarcasm was an ok coping mechanism. 

That Mamapalooza Not Be Forgotten

I write this post because I think it is important that there exist an accurate description of the Mamapalooza event that took place in New York on May 15, 2016 . Ah, yes; the Ides of May. No wonder. In the future, having a record of his event may be deemed relevent (to what, I do not know). As Herodotus said (paraphrased), things that seem small in the present may seem important in the future, and vice versa. Let this serve as an honest record of an eyewitness accound. All of these things are true as I have seen them.

I should have you know I was attending Mamapalooza as a vendor. Without incriminating my (now former) employer, just understand that I was essentially trapped there. "What is Mamapalooza?" you might be asking yourself. I asked myself that as well before I left in the morning, but I didn't care enough to read the description I had received. I just assumed it would have lots of people discussing how wonderful mothers are. Some of those people would probably be interested in the eco-friendly product I would be there to sell. I didn't think I would need to know more. While observing, I managed to pick up some of the history surrounding Mamapalooza. There have been Mamapaloozas in the past; someone might have said it was the 15th annual Mamapalooza. I overheard someone else saying that it had rained torrentially for all but one of the last 6 Mamapaloozas.

I arrived by bike to a pier on the Hudson River. A cold southwesterly wind blew over the temporary bandstand in the center of the pier while some cold, fellow vendors stood off to the side. I unpacked and set up my table to the tune of an upbeat children's version of "You are my sunshine" performed by a singer-songwriter on the stage by herself. There weren't many people there, so I started listening to the music more closely. When the song ended, she  told the audience that she was a mother herself, and that her son was learning so many new words, and she was going to perform a song about that process.

The song that followed was a collection of words such as "banana," "hello," "sorry" and other things you frequently hear coming out of two year olds' mouths. I definitely heard some of the words more than once, but I can't remember them, because there weren't any actual thoughts expressed. Periodically, she would encourage everyone to sing along, and then launch into a new string of unbroken and unpredictable words. "Perhaps I'm too old to understand," I thought to myself. Her next spoken introduction talked about how sometimes it can be difficult to be a parent. To be honest, at this point, the rest of her set blurred into one large advertisement against ever having children, because she touched on themes like how difficult it was to make any time for her husband (and how when she does she's always tired), what good manners look like ("we ask please, please, please"), and in another song she addresses a newborn and attempts to convince it that it should sleep 7 hours straight and everyone might be happier. Any fears I had of fatherhood in the distant future were intensified, and I feel fairly certain that Mamapalooza has added a matter of months to the time before which I will be mentally prepared to have offspring.

When she left the stage, a rock band set up. The MC stood up and enthusiastically introduced the vendors to the audience, and really gave a great pitch about what each of us did. Unfortunately, at the time she gave it, there were maybe 15 people milling around the pier so most of the vendors just ended up waving at each other as they were called. The rock band performed afterwards, and they played some crowd pleasing rock. I didn't really listen to it to closely; mostly, I just noticed that it was pretty loud. The speakers were really cranking now, and with the cold wind and loud music, it was hard to have a conversation with anyone who approached my table. Most of the vendors were just tapping their feet to the rockband. One guy had a bunch of small beach balls which he was giving out; kids loved them. Occassionally a beach ball would get carried off by the wind, and a toddler would chase it down. This was probably around 2 pm now, and the weather wasn't getting any warmer. The band played a song by Prince to close out (I forget which).

The next band at Mamapalooza was a hip-hop duo. I think they sounded fine, but they also were singing songs accusing bitches of being gold diggers. Another vendor heard lyrics with different curses. There was almost no one in the audience, but I was rapidly losing track of the theme of the afternoon in the performances. Things were getting really bleak; throughout the day, performers and announcers were grabbing hold of every ray of sunlight and insisting that it was going to stay if not get better. It never did. I hadn't sold anything. I talked to two people. Off on the side, some soccer coaches attempted to keep toddlers interested in the soccer station they had set up to advertise their soccer camp. The toddlers weren't buying it. Some dude with a video camera was walking around fillming everything, so  I tried to look busy. The music stayed loud, then a pause, and the next band introduced themselves.

I sincerely recommend trying to find the official Mamapalooza website and finding out who the fourth performer was, because  my description will never do them justice. In brief, they were a Brooklyn based heavy metal band. The lead singer had red hair, a matching sequined tank top and fishnet stockings; she also played a flute for melodic interludes The drummer was wearing a tank top (my legs were cold; my legs never get cold). The lead singer was running around the stage singing energetically. I think some of her friends showed up, because I can't otherwise explain why there were a handful of twenty-somethings hanging out on the pier that day for this set. The music was deafening. I saw one four year old girl in the audience in a bike helmet looking confused and lost. I felt bad for her. The lead singer had jumped up onto a chair and was thrusting her pelvis at the face of someone in the next row. It might have been a dad, I don't know. I turned around, and looked again to see her flat on the ground, thrusting her hips up in the air to the beat of the music. It was terrifying. I took a picture discreetly; I worried that if she saw me taking a picture, she might mistake me for a fan and come sing at me. At some point she announced that she had time for 2, no, 3 more songs, and the audience let out a terrified gasp.

The metal act. I wasn't comfortable getting any closer to the stage without drawing her attention. Note the empty chairs. Not pictured are her face-humps of audience members. 

I cannot remember the rest of the afternoon clearly. The weather got worse. Vendors started packing up. The final band got on the stage; they were an Ecuadorian fusion band, the MC announced. They started soundchecking. The rain started falling. All the vendors made a beeline for the shelter of the elevated highway while the band announced that maybe it was over. We froze for a few minutes. I overheard the soccer coaches talking about how they had been told there were going to be 3,000 people at the event, and we had maybe seen 80. The sun came out, and the band went on. The lead singer was a mother, and they played stuff that sounded like a good Santana cover band. Not that I could actually appreciate any music at this point - I had been too overwhelmed by the previous acts of Mamapalooza to appreciate the closing act. But when it ended, all the vendors disappeared. Immediately. And the park staff was helpful, and they ferried heavy equipment up to the street.

The MC was apparently satisfied. The person working for the parks announced that Mamapalooza was one of over 200 events that would be a part of something called "Summer on the Hudson." That was it - Mamapalooza 2016 ended. If you have more information, please, please, please, comment below.

Why "John Henry" is Still Important

Do you recognize the name John Henry? I do. I remember his story from when I was younger. I knew he was a black man who worked on the railroad driving spikes, and he died proving that he could beat a machine at his job. I haven't heard him mentioned on the news recently, but I have listened to his story many times over the past few months, and if you haven't, you should. Here's a good clip of Bruce performing it after he recorded it for the Seeger sessions.

This song is an artful lecture on traditional American values, and it belongs in the current political debate now more than ever. Here's why. Fate, human dignity, capitalism, feminism - all discussed in this song. John Henry, the baby who claims "This Hammer's gonna be the death of me" isn't any different from Joe the Plumber. We identify him not by his family, or where he comes from, but by his profession as a hammer-swinger.  If there is a villain, it is the nameless captain who brings a steam drill to do a man's job. John Henry deals with the questions that arise when profit comes before respecting each human and their role in society. Fortunately, American society has long determined that protecting workers' rights over the right of large companies to cut costs is the correct thing to ... wait, we haven't? Ok, then this song is still relevent.

There are countless versions of this song floating through America; some emphasize different aspects of the story, but the arc is the same. Burl Ives has some wonderful records of this song, as does Woody Guthrie, among others.All of them center on the work ethic, grit and strong spirit of John Henry. Also noteworthy is John Henry's wife, Polly, who "drove steel like a man" when John Henry is sick in bed.  The American folk tradition affords the same respect to women and men based on their willingness to work hard. I reccomend finding a few versions and comparing. Find a version that speaks to you, and hum it while you're in the shower.

This isn't meant to be a history of the song, but to draw attention to how stories like this shape our cultural identity. In this election year, before we attempt to make America great again, it's worth reflecting on what qualities make us great, who displays those values, and what we can learn from John Henry.

A Modest Proposal: The future of Drones

Drones are here to stay, so I've been told, so it's high time I became part of the process in determining what our drone-filled future will look like. It seems foolish to me to imagine that they will not be used for violence - law enforcement springs to mind - so I've also accepted that. But I think if they are going to be used for violence, there should be  noble final goal in mind, and I don't trust the police to do this consistently.

I would like to propose a way to use weaponized drones to curb noise pollution in cities. Picture this - explosive drones hovering 10 meters above city streets, patrolling randomly. As someone honks their horn, the drone triangulates the location of the horn and approaches it at a constant rate. When the horn stops honking, the drone returns to its hovering altitude. Perhaps it takes 5 seconds of constant honking for it to reach street level, at which point it latches onto and detonates the honking car in such a way as to only harm the driver. As a side benefit, these drones would need to be regularly serviced, and occasionally replaced, so I do believe this would have a net positive effect on job creation.

Honking to express your disapproval of another driver's actions would still be allowed, but prolonged honking long past its utility would be swifltly eradicated. Traffic jams in which everyone attempts to solve the issue by honking would become deadly games of chance in which the risk of honking far outweighs the potential benefit of... actually, there's no benefit of honking in traffic jams. Everyone hates you when you do that, and it solves nothing, so it really becomes a more exciting game of hot potato.

Perhaps this seems like an over-reaction, but I guarantee that unnecessary honking would decrease rapidly within days of this programs implementation. Of course, the drones would need to learn to recognize car alarms and sirens so that it does not hit unintended consequences, but that could be easily programmed.

Better still, as surveillance technologies such as microphones, high definition cameras, and AI that can monitor and react to situations without human oversight improve, this technology could rapidly be expanded to other behaviors that need curbing, such as smoking in public, clipping your fingernails on public transportation, or talking during movies. So please, write your mayors now, and inform them that you think this is a great idea, and with luck, our own government will implement it soon. If not, don't worry - this technology may soon be available at your local Walmart!

Split Laundry Personalities

Because of my own limited experiences and my exposure to fictional characters such as Two-Face and Jekly and Hyde, I always thought of split personality disorder as a largely fictional disease. Even then, I imagined that if were real, it would have dramatic symptoms. Alter egos were evil beings who love destruction, who revel in chaos and who fiddle while Rome burns.

I've begun to suspect that split personalities are not so rare, nor so dramatic; I even worry that I might have one. I realized this just this evening after returning from the laundromat. I placed my clean clothes on the floor and grabbed my towel off of the door hook only to find a used undershirt hiding there. "I have no idea how that got there" was the first thing I thought, but, deep down, I knew that I myself placed it there.

This is not the first time something like this has happened. In my experience as a (pretend) grown up who does his own laundry, it's a rare occassion that I return to my room not to find an extra sock or pair of boxers hiding in a dusty nook, waiting desperately to be found and reunited with their generation of dirty clothes.

And that bugs the crap out of me. Laundry is already a sysiphean task; it's as if Sysiphus realized reached the crest he had been aiming for only to find it was was actually only a plateau, and the hill continued! So I find it strange that my natural aversion to doing laundry hasn't trained me to clean every possible under(shirt/wear) and sock so that I can get every last day out of that laundry load.

With that in mind, what if I do have an alter-ego who loves destruction, who hates order and efficiency, and whose ultimate goal is to hasten the entropy of the universe? And what if the way that he manifests that is to hide my laundry from me? That would explain the socks tucked inside pillowcases, the shirts hidden in instruments and the underwear disguised in a stack of magazines. This would also explain why my split personality is so well hidden from everyone else, and even myself.  His mission is so discrete and precise that he can afford to snooze most of the time, only awakening at key moments. But then, in an instant, he can appear to tug open the doors under the sink and flick an undershirt in before he disappears without me noticing.

I tell you, it's a scary thing once you realize what your alter ego might be up to. I fear I may be trapped in a battle of wits with him till the end of my days.

One Sentence Review: Die Hard

You can watch it before July though.

That's how I want to die, too.

Airplane Productivity

I recently was on a flight that lasted about as long as it took the Romans to build their number one city, and I found that the longer I sat on that (those) plane(s), the more I hated people. 

My hatred wasn't evenly distributed, however. It was specifically targeted at some people. In case you should ever be on a flight with me, I've created this useful flowchart so that you can tell if I hate you or not.

A simple flowchart to determine if I want you to play outside on a flight

Hamlet on Facebook

A while back I sent McSweeney's Internet tendency a submission which, unfortunately, was not accepted (for reasons I can only attribute to  poor taste). The benefit to this is that I now can post this here, for you, dear reader.

Without further ado, I give you the soliloquy of Hamlet, as adapted for modern times.

To click, or not to click- that is the question
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to ignore
The breasts and gossip of the outrageously fortunate
Or to read of the sea of their troubles
And by indulging, generate revenue. To stare, to think
No more, and by reading we end
The heartache, the constant daily drudge
That office life is made of. ‘Tis a bliss
Devoutly to be wished. To zone out, yes,
To gaze – perchance to dream, yes, that is the hope
For in that celebrity gossip rag what dreams may come
When I shuffle off this mortal deadline
Gives me pause ere I e-mail my boss.
There’s no respect I hold for the lives
Of those who bear the whips and scorns of Baldwin,
Th’ oppressive boar, the proud lout’s contumely,
Or report the  pangs of Anniston’s most recent love,
And, yet, my click increases their income.
It does even their occupation support
At no apparent loss to me. Who would grudge
The weary life of a journalist, who grunts
And sweats to uncover, to celebrities’ dread,
The undiscovered secrets of who sleeps with whom,
And no voyage to the E.R. unnoticed,
Puzzling which ill drugs did dispatch
Ms. Lohan to a rehab center we should not know of.
But  conscience does make cowards of us all,
And the unexpected visit from my boss,
Tarnishes the luster of the link,
Turning my mouse away ere with a click,
I turn the link a dark purple the rest of the day.
And thus, fair work project, I return to thee!
Be all my procrastinations so fruitless.

Recipe for an Existential Crisis, vol. 1

I've had several occasions these past few weeks in which I questioned some major life decisions I've made. The sinking feeling that comes from suspecting that you've squandered precious years of your life only to end up in your current situation is really a special blend of dread, despair, worthlessness and self pity that is not easy to achieve. In order to share this remarkable feeling, I'll have a series of recipes you can try to recreate that fever pitch of existential angst. Without further ado, here is the first installment in Recipes for an Existential Crisis.

Ingredients: A stack of papers, desk, a cold room, sad country music, one or two indifferent students.
Prep time: 1.5 years.
Serve with: Career uncertainty.

1) Become a teacher.
 I can't give advice on how to do this because I'm not sure how it happened to me.

2) Teach a subject as clearly as you possibly can and give a mid-year exam that half of your class will bomb.
This is easier than it sounds. Heck, I can do it.

3) Grade them while sitting alone in a relatively cold room and listening to Townes van Zandt (or any other country blues songwriter) sing the blues.
If you can add in some unrelated emotional turmoil as a garnish to this and choose a song that matches the feeling well, your Existential Crisis will have a personalized, unique touch that others may find hard to immitate!

4) Question what the point of teaching the material if your students weren't going to pay attention, anyway was. 
If you are having trouble finding appropriate questions, try starting with "What's the point, I'm not telling them anything that's not in the textbook anyway," or "Would it have made a difference if I had simply read 50 Shades of Gray out loud instead of lecturing?" and go from there.

5) Let that uncertainty spiral into an Existential Crisis! Enjoy!*

*step six is to blog about it

How to Deal With Bike Problems

Note that this flow chart does not work for brake issues

Yes, I would Like to Eat My Cake

People often accuse me of wanting to have my cake and eat it, too. I used to accept this as a criticism until I actually thought of how I relate to cake.

I don't know about you, but when someone hands me a piece of cake, the first thing I think about doing with it is eating it. Then, I eat it.* I'm pretty sure it's a normal thought process, and it goes like this: "Ah! Cake! My cake! I'll eat it." Generally, I find this pretty satisfying. As a matter of fact, this isn't something I explicitly think about; it's just my normal reaction to having cake.
*This takes place whether or not I have a fork, if you were wondering.

How I feel about having and eating cake

How society apparently feels about having and eating cake

Which is why I'm confused when people tell me that I want to have my cake and eat it, too, as if it were a bad thing. "You can't have your cake and eat it, too," I'm told in the same voice that you might scold a dog who is wandering around under the dinner table alternating between humping diner's legs or making puppy eyes to get a piece of beef. But really, if I can't have it and eat it, what's the point of having it in the first place? What am I supposed to do, just sit around and let it get stale*? If I were to list the top ten uses of cake, I'm pretty sure number one would be "good for eating."
*Unless it's a twinkie, in which case I could just let it sit around and... be a twinkie, I guess.

This list took longer than I thought it would take.

So in short, I plan on unapologetically desiring to have and eat cake.

Great Balls of Fire

I was blessed enough to get to spend a few days in Hood River, Oregon. More precisely, I suppose I should say around Hood River - there was a good deal of camping in the woods, far away from anything resembling a town. I spent the night of August 11 around Bulo Point, i.e. some really dark woods on a hill, following the recommendation of someone I met in a bar (classic Brendan move, by the way. Taking the advice of strangers in bars is probably what will kill me).

If you want to feel really small without taking hallucinogens, go out to someplace with zero light pollution when there's a meteor shower, go to sleep, wake up at 2 in the morning, crawl out of your tent, think about how far you are from other people, then stare at the sky for a while until you get cold. It worked for me.
Anyway, I started thinking about that argument against the existence of God that says humans can't be that important because we are so tiny in comparison to the rest of the universe that to think we play any special role in the plans of an omnipotent being is foolish. From there, I pondered on how those tiny flecks of glitter in the sky are actually flaming balls of gas undergoing constant nuclear fusion, and hey, that's pretty cool.

Flashback to all those times my mother shouted at me for sticking magnifying glasses between (mostly) flammable objects and the sun. I'm an admitted and unrepentant pyromaniac. Do not ask me for a light if you like your eyebrows. 

There I was, watching the twinkling of violent explosions light years away, thinking "Cool. Fire!" And then I had another thought. "I really like the idea of a God who makes gigantic glowing orbs of destruction and energy and flame for fun." Because if I were an omnipotent being, I'm pretty sure I would make those, too, and I'd never get bored of the things, so I'd make sure they lasted a long time, and I'd also keep churning'em out in giant fire factories so I'd never run out. Unlike humans. I'd probably get bored of those after a few thousand years and stop making the things. 

I initially meant this to be a comforting post, but now I realize that the conclusion to draw is that either there is no God, or if there is, he and I think alike, and I'm not entirely sure which one is more terrifying.

The most terrifying Venn Diagram I have made yet

Why I Will Be Blogging More

So I got a tablet that allows me to draw and share venn diagrams easily.  This has lots of ramifications,  one of which is that I will be trying to blog more again. Prepare yourselves!

Grid paper at no extra cost!

Today's Grammatical Invention

I will be the first to admit it; I abuse and over-use semicolons. But really, I can't help it; they are far and away my favorite punctuation mark. I'm pretty sure if I had to, I could go on like this for a whole blog post; fortunately, I don't have to, and I recognize that it will become annoying by that last sentence*. The point is, I love semi-colons and use them as often as a proctologist pokes two of them.**
*Unfortunately, I don't care.
**see what I did there?

Earlier today, I ran into a problem I had never had with a semi-colon; it didn't convey the excitement I wanted expressed in the first sentence, and the second sentence only warranted a period. I was in the jaws of a grammatical dilemma. I decided to stop whatever I was doing* so that I could make the world a better place by meeting its recently found need for a new gem of punctuation mark. You're all welcome. Except if you're a grammar fascist, in which case I mean your welcome.
*which, apparently, wasn't that exciting, as evidenced by the fact that I forgot about it two minutes later.

First off, there has to be a good name. I call it the "exclamacolon." That sounds catchy, and relatively self descriptive. True, Exclamacolon does sound like it could be some weird, painful step in a juice cleanse, but until I hear a better name, I'm sticking with that.

Second, I'm going to start work on designing one. For the time being, it will just be an exclamation point before a semi-colon, but someday, you'll all recognize it just like you recognize the ampersand, tilda, the dash (as opposed to the hyphen), guillemets*, you know, all the useful punctuation you use in ever-day life.
*bonus points to you if you actually know what all of these are

Most importantly, I'm going to start using it. I think I've figured out how to use it. My trick is to start with something exciting or dangerous, something you wouldn't expect. That's the first half of the conjoined sentence. The second half is the letdown -- you know, the part that reminds you just how boring the conversation really is. In short, using these may actually make people hate you.

Here are some examples of situations you could use an exclamacolon:

1) Jeff fell down the well!; Lassie would have gone for help, but she was eating grass.

2) When I was in eighth grade, I was elected class president!; then, the administration found out how I rigged the vote.*

3) I can't believe you're arresting me for this!; honestly, Officer, I had no idea you were even watching me.*

4) I eat shits like you for breakfast!; at the same time, you should know that I frequently exaggerate my dietary habits.*

5) I beat the stuffing out of a tiger once!; the owners of the toy store were really angry and tried to get me to pay for it, though.*

*all things I may have actually said as two sentences before inventing the exlamacolon.

You are now free to become the most popular, innovative writer of the 21st century!; all I ask is that you credit me for inspiring you to write just so you could have an excuse to use the exclamacolon.

Today's Scientific Discovery

       I know it's true because Science told me so

Caps (not) For Sale

Through what I can only imagine was a mistake in the paper-work of the cosmos, I recently convinced a reputable outlet of information to let me write for them. That's right: I'm a staff blogger for Inside New York. As far as it stacks up against other jobs I have had, I can't complain; the pay is ok (nothing), but the perks are high (invitations to events I would never be allowed in otherwise, like free concerts) and the office space is pretty good as well (I get to write from home). But really, it's a good step for me. Last week, they gave me my first assignment - I went downtown to check out an event called New Era Introducing. It turned out that the cosmos had caught up with me, and knew what I was up to. The subway car I took downtown was plastered with ads for the very same New Era hat company.

A hat for people who identify as under-performers with an identity crisis

I had a great time at the event, so thanks to everyone who helped set it up and run it. Here's the review (actual post here)!

“New Era is all about self-expression,” Ben Ewy, the creative director of New Era explained to me.  If you want proof, head to 82 Mercer Street, where New Era is hosting New Era Introducing, showcasing the work of dozens of artists who used New Era’s 59Fifty cap as a canvass. When I arrived at 8:45 Friday night, the spacious venue was comfortably packed with a cool crowd checking out the craziest caps I have ever seen. There was a lively beat from the DJ, and people were wandering around the gallery, helping themselves to tasty hors d’oeuvres  and the open bar (watch out for the New York Mule, a dangerous cocktail that involves vodka, ginger beer and magic, as far as I could tell).

This is the second annual New Era Introducing contest. The artist of the winning cap is awarded $10,000. Marconi Calindas took the honors this year for his cap “A Little Too Late.” An identified LGBT artist from San Francisco, Calindas was inspired by the recent tragedy of Eric James Borges when he came up with the idea for the cap. Don’t let the bright colors fool you – the hat tells a tragic narrative of a victim of bullying driven to suicide. He will be using the prize money to publish a book on the same theme.

Marconi Calindas (left) and "A Little too Late" (right)

I got a chance to speak with Evan Jones, CMO of New Era about New Era Introducing. He loved the and wide range of ideas that had come in, and was obviously enjoying the great vibe at the event. Sporting a plain white New Era cap, he told me, “When you go out, the last thing you put on is your cap. That’s what New Era is all about – finding a way to express yourself, and that’s what these artists have done.”

It’s doubtful that any of these hats will ever get make it onto anyone’s head. I asked around a bunch, and while there were some obvious favorites, there were few people who would think of wearing the pieces of art. I asked fellow hat-appreciator Reggie (sporting an all-black New Era Yankees cap) if he would ever wear one, and he just said, “Nah, man, these hats aren’t for wearing. I’d keep them in my collection.”

 Here are a couple of favorites from the night.

This cap was caught off- I mean made in Bellingham, Washington

This will happen to your cap if you leave it out for too long.

If you travel 88mph while wearing this cap, you travel to a time when people only wore fedoras

This one fell off a pagan god's head

One of the more popular hats, and a favorite of the crowd

I'm pretty sure I saw this guy in an episode of Samurai Jack

Adventures in Dentistry

I had a relatively large adventure (by my standards) last weekend. It all started Sunday after breakfast. I was  generally expressing my satisfaction concerning the existence of bacon and running my tongue over the inside of my mouth, and then I stopped both activities. My tongue had found a large bump on the inside of my lower mouth underneath my teeth. It wasn't a bump I recognized, so I went to a mirror and examined it. My tongue had told the truth - there in my mouth was a large bump that I was previously unaware of.  I won't gross you out with the details (if I haven't already), but it looked unnatural and out of place.

I immediately took the best course of action. Namely, self diagnosing. Two things went through my head.

1) Oh my God, it's gum cancer. A large, painless lump. It has to be. I knew I shouldn't have smoked all* those cigars** during my lifetime! What if I lose all my teeth and have to eat applesauce for the rest of my life? How will I chew on ice cubes ever again?
*like, five.
**well, cigarillos, actually

and...

2) It's an alien. Or a bug. Or an alien bug. Where could it have come from? It must've been all that swimming in lakes out west. It has a bony feel, just like how I always imagined the exoskeleton of an advanced, sentient, parasitic alien bug would feel. I wonder how long I have to think independent thoughts? What if it's already been controlling me this whole time?

So first thing Monday morning, I went to a Doctor to ask some questions. After looking into my mouth, he told me it everything looked fine, but that if I really wanted to get it checked out, I should go to a dentist. This didn't make me feel any more at ease. By this point, I had narrowed my two initial diagnoses down to just one. I eliminated gum cancer, because the Doctor would have recognized that. Also, the fact that everything looked fine seemed to be more evidence that it was an alien bug, because naturally it was in the invader's interest to keep me (the host) healthy as long as possible so it could do whatever it wanted with me.

Despite my reluctance*, I made an appointment with my dentist (whom I normally avoid despite his office's harassing phone calls asking me to confirm appointments I never made) for that morning, and went down to see him.
*which I attributed partially to the alien bug wanting me to avoid the dentist, and partially to my fear of being stabbed in the mouth repeatedly

Sitting nervously in the torture chair, I informed him that there was a terrifying bump (I wasn't calling it an alien bug yet - I wanted him to reach that conclusion for himself) in my mouth, so they took an x-ray. The dentist came back into the room and asked me where the bump was exactly. "This is it," I thought to myself, "he's going to tell me that its fibrous tentacles have worked their way up my jaw and are almost in my brain." I opened my mouth and pointed.

"That?" he asked? "That's normal bone growth, it happens in about 40% of people. You probably had that the last time you came in, it's nothing to worry about. But as long as you're here, why don't we give your teeth a cleaning." And so he sent in his apprentice torturer* who stabbed me in the mouth with sharp objects for the next half hour.
*I'm pretty sure this was her official title

All in all, I have to say, I didn't leave the dentist feeling much better, despite my squeaky clean teeth and the free toothbrush he gave me to make me feel better about having been stabbed in the mouth. I think the reason is I'm not sure I trust him. I still think it's an alien. And I think my dentist has one, too. If it's already taken over his mind, of course he would try to comfort me and tell me it's nothing...

So please, if anyone has had a similar experience and had the alien bug removed, or knows someone who has been completely taken over already, let me know. I want to know what to expect.

The Wit of the Hunt

One of the differences I noticed between the West and New York is that in the west, people really like taking pictures of themselves with dead animals. In particular, with an animal that is dead because the person in the picture killed it. I saw a lot of those photographs in restaurants or rest stops (Restaurants in New York prefer to take pictures of their food, or perhaps of the owner with celebrities they are about to kill with their food, but rarely dead animals). Unless there's only one deer that has modular antlers that everyone passes around and makes slight modifications to for their trophy picture, there's a lot of hunting that goes on out west. I won't judge the hunting; I'm not for it, but I understand some people enjoy it, some people need to do it, and some people can turn live animals into jerky, which is a good thing for everybody but the animal. So, don't worry, people who take pictures of themselves with recently dead animals, I'm not judging you.

What does bother me is when people refer to hunting as matching wits with an animal. I'll judge those people. There's a lot that's wrong with saying that. To begin with, animals don't have a great sense of humor and won't appreciate witty jokes, but most people who attempt to match wits with animals are trying to accomplish their goal by shooting the animal, which no animal finds amusing regardless of whether or not it has a sense of humor.

More importantly, if you really want to match wits with an animal, you need to do something that gives the animal a level playing field. I could suggest a few games. For instance, you could stand by a river next to a bear and try swatting fish out of mid-air. Whoever gets more fish wins (I would also suggest losing, because bears are notorious sore losers). Alternatively, you could hang out with an elk until one of you gets eaten by a wolf (the winner being the one who does not get torn to pieces). Or, you could play Uno with a mountain lion. Whatever you want.

However, hiding behind camouflage structures and shooting at an animal from a half a mile away does not constitute a level playing field. If I hid behind a friend's furniture (being sure to stay downwind of the fan so as not to alert him of my presence by my scent) while he was out and then shot him as he walked into the room, I doubt he would refer to that as "matching wits" with him. "Haha! You jokester you, you out-witted me!" would probably be the last thing I would expect him to say.

So please, in the future, be honest with yourself. You're not matching wits with an animal just because you're hunting it. If you're looking for ways to describe your relationship with the animal, how about stalking? Sure. Spraying bullets at? Ok. Ambushing! All acceptable way to phrase your activity.

And whatever you do, don't get me started on people who feel the need to match wits with fish.

Conversations with the TSA

While my absence in the blogosphere has become a less than startling event, my most recent disappearance has to do with a trip I took for the past three weeks through the Northwest/west. Perhaps some details will follow, perhaps not. Still,  I would like to share the last conversation I had out west.

I ended up in a security line at the airport manned by an underemployed TSA agent with a mission to amuse himself. As every person in the line went up to him, he examined their name, and wondered out loud which of their names they went by. Some were fairly straightforwards, but I could see he was confused when he looked at the boarding pass of a man with three first names, and disappointed when one of the girls on line lacked a middle name (where's the mystery in that?)This whole time, I expected I would breeze through without question or conversation, but that was not the case.

He looked at my pass, and without skipping a beat, said, "Oh man, if I had your name, I would change that H to a C."

"Huh?" I asked, surprised that he had something to discuss about my name.

"Yeah, you could be Brendan Cannon."

Tempting. I thanked him for his input then walked on. I don't think I will change my own name, but upon further reflection, I realized that should I, by some slip up in the galactic paperwork, become a parent, I would like to name my child (regardless of gender) Cannon, so he or she could be "Cannon Hannon." Should I also have a spouse through a similar clerical error, I hope she approves.