Racist?
http://mediamatters.org/mmtv/201106140022
This is an audio clip from a man named Neil Boortz, a syndicated talk show host from the south. The text of the monologue is below it if you’d prefer to read, but I think you should listen to the words come out of his mouth.
Why should you listen, rather than read? Well because if you read it, you might miss all the racism it contains. Maybe you’re smarter than I am, but every time I see something like this that makes me feel hope that there may be people in this nation that still have a brain, I scroll down and read the comments and that feeling gets sucked out of me like [insert Bill Clinton joke here].
Generation-Y
You might not like Glenn Beck. I am not a fan personally. You may not be a conservative. I am not one personally. This video description of a recent experience Glenn Beck had in New York is something that disturbs me in a very real way. Watch (or just listen) to the first video on this page and then read my comment below, if you’re looking for time to kill. I think it’s important, though you may not.
http://www.mediaite.com/tv/tearful-glenn-beck-describes-how-he-and-his-family-were-attacked-in-new-york-park/
After listening to that account of a ruined evening for Glenn Beck, there are a number of conclusions that you might come to, depending on your own opinions of him, his beliefs, and his motivations for telling such a story. Maybe you sympathize with him, or maybe you feel that he deserved it.
No matter what your reaction, it is more than likely that your political affiliation weighed heavily on the formulation of your opinion. Glenn Beck is a conservative voice, one that is particularly fanatical and overzealous. If you are of the same political ideals as Glenn Beck, then you’re more than likely appalled at the behavior of the liberals that abused him. If you are of the polar opposite political spectrum, then you likely assume that Beck left some things out, and is using this as a tool to control people and further woo his following.
Personally, I tilt more to the conservative spectrum than the liberal spectrum, and consider myself neither. I consider myself an individual, capable of making decisions on a case by case basis, analyzing candidates and proposals by their impacts on me and my family and friends. As I listen to Beck outline his evening, I am disturbed by my generation and our tendencies, and I fear for our future.
The wind began to howl
Outside in the distance, a wildcat did growl,
Two riders were approaching, the wind began to howl.
His hat began to pool water as he sat motionless in the rain. With a soft flick of his ankle, he was moving again, and the water rushed passed the brim of his hat and down his back. He didn’t notice the rain anymore, because he’d been riding since dawn and night had fallen long ago. His horse was exhausted, and probably wouldn’t last through the coming sunrise after the death march she had just been through.
Below him about a mile away was a soft light, barely noticeable through the driving rain. The only other light in the black night was the fires burning on the towers above him at the top of the twin peaks of Dale, and the occasional blinding strikes of lightning that came every few moments. How his horse was making it down the narrow pathways ahead of it in this darkness was almost a feat of supernatural power.
Absent-mindedly his hand reached carefully into his coat, checking the dryness of the revolver strapped to his ribs. Satisfied, he ran his hand down the neck of his horse, trying to comfort her in her final sprint.
“It will all be over soon, beautiful.” He whispered. It was true. The town below him was getting closer, and every flash of lightning gave him a clearer picture of what to expect when this ride was finally over. He couldn’t hear his pursuer anymore, and whether that was due to the growing distance between them or the rain drowning out their sound, it didn’t matter. He was here, he could see salvation just a few hundred yards away.
His horse heaved and lurched underneath him, her lungs burning and her heart thudding beneath him. Her eyes were wide and glossy. In them he could see the terror of this ride in violent struggle with her loyalty and love for her rider. It occurred to him that he wasn’t sure which the more terrible feeling was, but they were in a death-lock that would certainly be her end. He had to swallow away a lump in his throat as he felt her body seize suddenly. Her front legs went under her and her chest slid suddenly into the soaking mud. She had finally given out, and he was glad he had kept his gun dry.
Get off the couch.
I’m on the couch. I’ve watched at least two hours of TV without interruption. Dinner was long ago and the dishes are still cluttered in the kitchen, flour all over the counter. I am in a state of complete daze and lethargy. I am literally moments from drooling, when all of the sudden a song is played in the credits to a television show I’m barely watching.
It’s like lightning. My daze is ignited and instantly vaporized, without even leaving a hint of smoke. My body crackles with unexplained energy and I’m on my feet. I get to the desk and dig for a pencil, but I struggle to find one. Once I do, it takes me another 2 minutes to track down a suitable sketchbook, and the first time the pencil touches the paper, it snaps. Now I’ve got to find the sharpener, and once I do, it’s finally time to get whatever it was that hit me on paper. I’m frantic now; my movements are clumsy and rushed. I don’t know what it was, but something in that song struck something in my brain like a… big heavy object… hitting something … less big and heavy. Whoa… Where am I?
SHIT. It’s over. I stare at that blank page for at least two minutes, refusing to believe that I’ve lost what I just tore my apartment apart for without knowing what it even was.
The Tiger
I know I've not put anything up in a while. I wish I could tell you that it's because I have been busy with my schoolwork, or my other creative endeavors... but I can't. I have been lethargic and complacent, bitter for no reason. I was as high a month ago as I think I've ever been. That wavelength's high point was quickly followed by the low point I'm currently residing in. I've spent a lot of time trying to understand what has sent me to the valley of the wavelength, where creativity and energy fall to freezing temperatures, and I have had little luck.
Personal failures are my only thoughts, the slightest of which will send me into a tailspin. I'm almost done with the quarter, and I'll be back at the top of a wavelength and this will seem silly to me. But now, it makes sense. I am speaking of this poem I wrote on the inside of a notebook last night as I walked the streets trying to get a grip on myself. I'm not sure what I think of it, and I've never thought myself a poet, but here it is. I am curious as to how people will respond to it.
Oh Tiger, Tiger, you stand alone; glistening coat, eyes of stone…
You’re body calm, your movements stilled; you lay beside the prey you’ve killed…
Oh Tiger, Tiger, you’ve no regrets; take no chances, place no bets…
Your choices made before they arrive; accepted the cost to ensure you survive...
But Tiger, Tiger, no regrets? Can you not see what existing begets?
Infallible, simple, beautiful, pure; always deciding, always sure…
But Tiger, Tiger, what about me? I cannot fathom your predictability.
No change, no doubts, no falter; I’ll have to sacrifice you at my altar…
Oh Tiger, Tiger, you stand before me; glistening coat, eyes of stone…
I cannot allow your insolence; I don’t understand your confidence…
Oh Tiger, Tiger, I want your armor; I cannot stand the pain of failure…
I’ll take your skin, your eyes, your body; I’ll wrap it around me, leaving you bloody…
Oh Tiger, Tiger, I look through your eyes; I see what you are and who you despise…
I pretend to be stoic, to stand with your stature; but inside I’m fearful, a foolish actor…
Oh Tiger, Tiger, forgive me for slaying you; I just wanted to be a tiger too…
But I am not a Tiger, no matter how I cry; I’m just a man who wanted to try.
The Conflict
This morning a friend of mine sent me a youtube link. It was a music video by Frank Turner, a song called The Road. Great song, the lyrics for some reason were too much for me this early in the morning. My mood was altered; my shower took forever because I stood in there staring at the tile, thinking to myself about the conflict.
The conflict is frustrating and seemingly unsolvable. I’m certainly not the only man to face it; in fact I think every man has in some way at some point in their lives. I don’t think I should have to worry about it yet, because the moment of decision is still so far away I can’t even see it.
Yet I do worry about it. More often than I would like to admit.
The Wanderer
I left my hard drive at Kinkos after printing this book, and I just recovered it. That means I can upload the digital copy! I have some photos here that show the size and look of the book, the pages are slightly yellowed to imitate age, and it's very simple in stitching and the covering. There is a clamshell book case that goes with it but I didn't take any photos of that part before I turned it in today.
As for the story, it's something I originally wrote in 7th grade and have not altered in any way since. I changed a few minor things for this production but that's about it. The illustrations were a bit rushed, but for my first pen and ink stuff I think they came out to my satisfaction. Enjoy the story and ignore the small errors and occasional repetition and overuse of some words, I was 13! 
So There I was…
As I sit here on the picnic table in front of my apartment building, the first and likely last cold beer of the evening sitting beside me, I begin to reflect on th…
Fuck. It’s raining.
The Writer and the Reader
It has been a long time since the Denver Outsider has seen any updates. Looking at it now, through the lens of its original ambition, I see why there was such a sudden and abrupt lack of my own attention to its content. I pigeon-holed myself in this guise of city explorer, everyman’s guide, venue reviewer, ect.
That was a mistake. I am not any of those things. I do not aspire with these writings to someday be a critic of any kind. That statement raised the question in my mind however, of what I did aspire to achieve with these writings. This I pondered over the last few days, and is the topic of today’s post.
The November Commute
As I careen down 12th street on my bicycle this cold November morning, I begin to daydream. My thoughts drift from future art project ideas, holiday plans, pretty girls I’ve met, and on and on in completely unconnected random bursts of brainwaves. I’m late for my class, and I’ve got to hurry. It’s 7:25 and I am in my highest gear and I am pounding the petals like Nichole Richie on an exercise bike after eating a pint of ice cream. (My beautiful 1972 Schwinn Speedster caps out at 3 gears, but it’s never been about how big your gear is, it’s how you use it.)