As Terri Schiavo lay slowly dying, I'm struck by how, amongst all the punditry and debating about this story, no one to my knowledge has brought up the fact that we, as a culture, have a love/hate relationship with death itself. We fear it, yet are fascinated by it at the same time. You know, there's a cliché in the media, and I'm sure you've all heard it before that, "if it bleeds, it leads". Sure, one can argue that it's an important case that deserves the attention it's getting, but let's cut through the bullshit. We're a God-fearing Christian nation of looky-loos who just can't get enough of the grim reaper's work. We want our apocalypse and we want it now! And all the better, if we get to watch it on the tee vee. Whether it's to see someone whither away and die like some slow-motion lethally injected death row inmate, or to watch the carnage and aftermath of the most recent school shooting, we can't get enough of death. After all, who doesn't love watching a police chase live on the news, because maybe we'll actually get to see somebody bite the dust. Cool! We love to participate vicariously as jurors and pundits in whatever murder trial-of-the-week happens to be on the news. We love murder stories, crime scene investigations, serial killers, terrorists, war, and all manner of death and destruction because it makes life less boring. We wait patiently for the end of the world. From the safety of our homes, we can participate and fantasize about the most horrific things, and experience them knowing that it isn't happening to us. Hitchcock knew this well and manipulated us for it. And so does our media, so you can't blame them for what's going on, as they're just a reflection of who we are as human beings; a mirror of the dark side of our own collective soul. After all, they do have to sell that soap to pay the bills.

Of course, Christian fundamentalists are the experts on death and destruction, and really, isn't that why they truly love God. After all, He kills more people everyday than the worst and most vile criminals man has ever produced, so they must get off on it. Look at the apocalyptic literature so popular these days. The synopsis: Billions and billions of people will suffer and die from the most horrible things you can possibly imagine. And Christians can't wait for it to happen. Because, like the tee vee viewer, they'll be spared. But they'll get a front row seat to the carnage. It'll be like the coolest movie ever. So, it's ironic then that so many Christian fundamentalists would jump into the Schiavo fray to try and keep her artificially alive, when if God had his way, she'd have died years ago. After all, it's man's interference that's kept her alive for so long. Why shouldn't she be allowed to go to the Lord. Why be afraid of her dying. Surely, if Heaven exists, then death's not so bad. But then, irony never was a Christian trait. Christianity doesn't rhyme with insanity for nothing, you know.

Much has been written about the hypocrisy and shamelessness of these so-called Christians, and their scumbag representatives in government using this tragic case for their own gain, so I'm not going to reiterate them here. However, if you want a good dose of reality and find out how deep the psychosis goes, then check out these articles:

No Life Support for You!
Tom DeLay Pulled the Plug on Dad
Persistent Legislative State

Meanwhile, I'll be watching television, and channel surfing the apocalypse. Should be a good show.

Oh, and happy fucking Easter.

i'd like to announce that i have been bamboozled yet again...a few weeks ago (maybe it was a month?), at the suggestion of a friend, i decided to enter 2 poetry contests by submitting past writings i entitled 'Dismissile' and 'Lunar Lullabies.'

i figured what the hell? for i hadn't seen these particular contests before. i thought they just might be legit?

now let's go back 11 years, i entered a poetry contest...of course, i didn't know any better, but sure enough, some time after my submission, i got a reply from the Poetry thing-a-ma-jing stating they loved my poem and that i was already picked as a semi-finalist with the chance to win $20,000.00 and a possible contract to become a Pro. Poet.

they provided me with details and such along with a sheet of paper to a. ok that this was my original work and b. i'd agree to have my poem published, for me to edit my own poem for any errors etc, and there was another sheet of paper that offered me the varying price options to purchase the 'volume' or 'book' that my poem will appear in.

to add insult to injury, they allow you to buy as many volumes as you'd like, i guess to hand them out as gifts for the entire family, eh?

and worse, they also offered me the option to pay for a photo of myself to be included with my poem and to pay for a little BIO if i so desired to talk about myself?

aha? such clever intentions; they raise your spirits by telling you that you are already a semi-finalist against all the other thousand upon thousands entries, so why wouldn't you want to write a check out or whip-out the credit card and buy that volume that you may very well be the winner of right? yeah, add more money to throw in a photo and give'em a BIO.

i can't recall the name of the Poetry Contest, but i know that it was based out of Owing Mills in Maryland.

maybe it's as simple as the poetry.com one because they still bombard me with emails and entry forms every year a new contest gets shaped up?

so now that i was a SEMI-FINALIST already, what was an excited freshman in college to do?

you bet.

i purchased the volume that i was to appear in with other distinguished amateur poets. and sure enough, i opted not for a photo but i instead paid for a little BIO tid bit about myself; explaining who i was and such.

to this day, i don't where i lost the book, let alone the name of that particular volume that year too boot?

in any event...i was excited.

then i got another envelope in my college mailbox from them a month or so later and it apologized that i didn't win the contest. they went on to reveal who did win the prize and money along with his or her winning poem...and in my eyes, the winning poem sucked, not as if to say that my poem should've won, but the winning poem was aweful.

it was trite, very old style writing etc.

hard to explain, but you know these kind of poems about nature or the colorful scent of morning dew and birds fishing by the water? oh the nonsense?

and these contests' always tend to limit your poem into 20 or less lines...so you figure, oh i'll send them a tidy short one?

but when you read the winning poem, it's like an epic somehow cropped into 20 lines or less.

consequently, they never truly tell you how many letters you can fit into one line or what the actual margin measurements are enforced, which is a bit unfair but seems to always favor the contest winner?

much to my chagrin, the same contest mailed me again the following year and so on...just to see if this contest was hog-wash...i submitted my same poem 3 years in a row and kept getting the same option offers and that indeed, i was a semi-finalist yet again and again!

and as the years progressed, the 'contest' began to hold a 3 or 4 day poetry forum thing-a-ma-jing down in DC...with price-packaging hotel and travel accommodations...and that you’d get to learn from Pro. Poets that will attend the forum etc.

i thought, wowsie!?!, they are really turning this farce into a money making machine?

it got better too, they would offer you a plaque and instead of the contest being national it was now on a global scale level which made you feel more invincible and worthy of poetic accolade to the highest degree!...

along with the volume set you could now also 'purchase' the audio cassette or actual cd of your poem spoken by a Pro. Poet!

of course, they would lure you in by saying that your poem was automatically selected along with only 20 others for the spoken poetry tape or cd, in a sense, just like being selected as a semi-finalist in the contest to begin with. a white lie.

furthermore, they also offered you the chance to read your own poem before the forum too. yipee.

do you see where i am going with all of this?

i'd personally liked to have gone to the Forum at least once, and paid out my ass for hotel accommodations etc. just to see who the hell ran this operation and what thumb-suckers actually showed up for this hoopla?

and who were the Pro. Poets arriving like Prodigal Sons to teach you the best way to write poetry? as if there is a best way?

i'd liked to have shaken the hand of the eventual weasel who would win this contest!

to discover if they really received the cash prize and the hefty writing contract?

and where are these poets now? still penning their thoughts for the right price?

back to present day, the contest for which i entered Lunar Lullabies turned out to be as true as a cloudless day, the same Owing Mills operation down in Maryland is 'what came in the mail over the weekend.'

so, i just tore up the mail and shook my head in disbelief.

on the other hand, the one for Dismissile, well, this one was based out of Talent in Oregon...is that an actual name of a town? they provided a zip code...97540. i must check that out after finishing this rant?

the contest was entitled Famous Poets or that is who you make a check out to or credit card order to!?!

here's how their letter read and i will spare you the $ options for purchasing the volume, and so on:

Dear Eric:

I love your poem, Dismissal *note: (they actually had the audacity to edit my poem's title Dismissile, which clearly had they actually read my poem in the first place, the morons would've figured out the pun i intended with the missile reference)

Thank you for entering it in our Free Poetry Contest. Our judges have already moved your poem into the semi-finals. I will personally let you know the results of our contest as soon as the judging is complete. *note: (you see, i'm already a semi-finalist along with whoever placed an entry to this contest, you dig? and wow, they will PERSONALLY let me know that i didn't win but some other fortunate has right?)

Our joy is to discover new talent like yours. I request permission to publish your poem in 'Great Poems of the Western World' - and trumpet your talent to the world! *note: (now i'm great? and worse, the cover of the book is a head statue of William Shakespeare)

Please be kind of enough to sign the permission form on back and fill out order form below. You may have my promise we will publish your poem error-free. We will send you a copy of the publisher's proof before going to press. You have made my day. Bless you! - Lavender Aurora *note: (i've made her day? i love it. really? c'mon. fill out the form below are for purchasing the book, illsutrations and if you may wish to include your BIO and photograph all for prices ranging from $20 on up for each. my God? and they have the sincerity to Bless you!?!)

*it gets even better, since this was a 21 lines or less poetry contest, they somehow allow you to add more lines to your poem at an additional $1 per line...i thought the contest was 21 lines or less? what the f--k?

bottom line, it'd be something to win these BS contests, but like winning the Mega-Millions Lottery, you may as well have better luck taking/capturing a photograph of Bigfoot flying a UFO in Area 51.

eb (03/07/05)
click here for more from this author

A lot has been written about Hunter S. Thompson since he decided to blow his brains out a few weeks ago. Many were surprised to hear about by his execution-style exit, but I wasn’t surprised at all. Violence was a way of life for the gonzo journalist. So, it was only fitting for him to splatter his gray matter all over the kitchen as a final “fuck you” to a world full of bullshit. And if Thompson stood for anything, it was against bullshit.

It was a little strange and synchronistic when I read the news today oh boy, as I had just recently finished reading Hell’s Angels and The Rum Diary. I’d always known of Thompson, reading many of his articles and, of course, watching pretty boy Depp try to imitate him, but I hadn’t really read his novels. I’d always meant to get around to it, but never found the time. I finally did in early February, and I remember feeling truly alive while immersed in his work, more alive than ever. Ironically, he was obviously preparing for death. Yet his spirit was still there in the work. Few writers can make their words jump off a page and grab you by the throat. Hunter achieved this almost effortlessly. Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was a bona-fide asshole, not some wannabe asshole like every other aspiring wordsmith. He was the real deal. Most writers, in fact 99.9% of all writers, are pretentious boobs who want to impress you with their wordplay or knowledge rather than be honest about anything. They’re wannabe assholes, penning fluff piece after fluff piece that makes no goddamned sense whatsoever, is in fact meaningless, but looks and sounds important and thereby impresses the insecure editors and hopelessly moronic readers. You can feel these so-called writers patting themselves on the back for being so fucking witty and clever. The urge to beat the shit out of these pseudo-intellectuals is strong. In fact, I hope a few respond to this diatribe, so I can smash their fucking faces in. That would certainly put a smile on my face.

I’m sure Hunter felt the same way about these sycophants. And though they all praise him now that he’s put a bullet in his head, none of them probably really liked him, or even respected his gifts. So, I’m here to cut through the phony eulogies and tell it like it is. Hunter, wherever you are (and I sure hope it’s in Hell as you worked too goddamned hard not to be invited to the party), I just wanted to say fuck you, you selfish fucking bastard for killing yourself. You were an asshole in life, and now you’re an asshole in death. Thanks for the fear and loathing, and showing us all what it meant to be a real man of the pen. Crack open another bottle of Chivas, and save me a seat at the table. If I’m half the writer you were, I’ll be meeting you in hell soon. And say hello to Poe, Hemingway, Bukowski, Kerouac, Burroughs, London, and all the other drunken fucks who’ve faced the blank page with courage and cowardice. We should all be so goddamned talented, self-destructive, and beautiful. God knows we need it now more than ever.

Okay, so I have more than a little vino in me, but so what. What else is there to do on a Sunday night in Santa Barbara, California. I could sit and lament about the fact that all around me is new wealth and old money, but fuck it. Why brood upon what I don't have, when I can sit and fantasize about what could be instead. As I sit here and write this, my thoughts turn to the puerile and insipid idea of the awards show. You know what I mean, those obnoxious broadcasts that all come at once every year on the boob tube reminding you that you're no closer to the "in-crowd" than when you were in high school. Let's face it, the award shows are a popularity contest, but with loads of money at stake. And they suck.

I was going to write this column a week ago, during the actual Academy Awards ceremony, but my first draft got lost when I tried to publish it, and I got suicidal about the whole affair. So, I drank to try and forget. There's almost nothing worse for a writer than to have lost an inspired piece of writing to a computer glitch. Anyway, here I am trying a second draft in a desperate attempt to recapture the spirit of the first. It'll never be as good.

A few days before the ceremony, my sister e-mailed me with a request to help her pick the Oscar winners. Apparently, there are Oscar parties all over the country in which people actually vote on the nominees, and the one who gets the most right, wins. Whether or not money's involved I have no idea, but it wouldn't surprise me. After all, gambling on big events like these has become a national pastime. My sister asked me to provide a list of, "who's going to win, not who should win". That got a smile out of me because, as most people know, these awards are not about who should win, but who's going to win. Since I hadn't seen any of the movies nominated, I instead went to the web to see what the "buzz" was, and then compared this with my own intuition and knowledge of the industry. By the way, I've always been able to pick the winners with almost 100% accuracy, whether I've seen the movies or not, for at least a decade. How am I able to do this? Easy, if you know Hollywood-think. Anyway, I went through the ballot and picked who I thought was “going” to win and e-mailed the list back to her. She was very grateful, as she bombed out on last year's awards, she's so not-Hollywood, and wanted to redeem herself in front of her Oscar Party friends. I got all but four correct. Two were technical (sound editing & sound mixing), and the other two were categories where no one's seen the films anyway (Best Short Live Action Film & Best Documentary Short). Needless to say, she was ecstatic after the ceremony. I just shrugged, "another year no one will remember in the next".

I think what pisses me off most about awards for artists, is that it's treated like a sporting event. As if there are clear-cut winners and losers. For a sporting event, this makes sense. If one team scores more points than the other, they win. It's simplicity is reassuring in a not-so-simple world. That's why people like sports. That's why people like Bush. But that's for another rant. Art is not so clear cut. It's subjective, and open to nuance and interpretation. Sure, every once in awhile someone comes along and creates what is clearly a masterpiece. But it's rare. Yet, year after fucking year the industry bestows upon its few lucky-enough-to-be-the-it-boy/girl-chosen-that-year, the award of "best", as if it actually existed. Of course, when announcing the "best" winners, they say, "...and the Oscar goes to...", as if this somehow makes it more palatable to the losers. It's all bullshit. I'd have more respect if they went back to saying, "...and the WINNER is...", because after all, they are the winners aren't they? And winning means money. Which is why studios keep the machine of the awards shows going. After all, this is a business right? So, the studios push for their films to be considered for all sorts of awards to reap the additional box office benefits. Hence, the proliferation of award shows. Awards are a marketing strategy. A racket. Artists go along with it, because who doesn't like being recognized for their work. Just don't ever take it seriously, because you're an idiot if you do. It's akin to taking the homecoming queen crown seriously. Nice for the ego, if you're into that sort of thing, but ultimately meaningless.

So, I'm happy to keep picking the winners for my sister, as she could really care less about the so-called art. All that matters is, "who's going to win". And that about sums up awards for artists. Who's going to win. Well, who really gives a rats fucking ass. Not me. That is until I get one myself. Then I can be popular and rich, and my life will finally have meaning.

Before I begin this rant, let me say that I understand that there are millions of people that sitting cubicles every day with their bodies angled in such a way that their noses are practically in a corner except for the fact that a glaring computer monitor is blocking the way. 9 solid hours of sitting, staring, clicking, waiting... and every so often feeling a bit motivated to try and make a difference.

I’m luckier than most because my position allows me an hour or so each day where I actually interact with others away from my cube, but not so much today and it's killing me. The snow is falling outside and I only know that from the conversations I overheard from other cubicles. The snow, the space, the poetry in the air as those frozen flakes of goodness float around outside are what we should be experiencing and enjoying.

29 more minutes until I can go and play.

Sometimes I get dizzy spells looking at this screen and it scares me. Is this dangerous? This cubicle life is not natural. How did we 'progress' to this?

Just yesterday I was laughing at the insanity of it all in the middle of a meeting. It was clear that the artificial energy from these computer screens, mixed with the stained beige fabric of our cubicle dividers had sucked all of the logical and creative thinking ability from our brains. A room full of professionals deciding after a two hour debate to accept that we're not living in reality and that is our top priority.

ummm.... ok. I guess I’ll walk my conditioned path back to my corner cube and start clicking away again.

21 minutes to go.

How do people sit in their cubes for years? At least I have a corner cube. These days it's more common to see a 'pod' which is actually just an enlarged cube where 4 people share it -- each one staring into their own corner with their backs to each other. Take a look sometime at the postures of people in pods. You’ll see their shoulders all hunched in as they try to find just a pinch of privacy. I was there once and had to quit my job because of it. I fought hard for my corner cube.

14 minutes...

I’ve had it. This is all I can take today. Will the cameras here send an alert employee tracking database if I leave now? There’s a camera right above my head. It’s crazy these days the way companies track your every move, your keystrokes, your phone calls. If you haven't yet, please read 1984. You’ll understand.

8 minutes to go...

For what it's worth, finding this poem online today actually inspired me to write this rant. I better go delete the cookies and history files from my browser now.

To a Friend who sent me some Roses

As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert; - when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields:
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; ’twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excell’d:
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me
My sense with their deliciousness was spell’d:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whisper’d of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell’d.
-John Keats