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  • hardie karges 6:51 am on October 31, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    Of course in every thing is the seed of the ‘other’, 


    like thesis, antithesis, and synthesis, or more like fashion du jour, and the 60’s and 70’s were no different. No sooner had psychedelic band-oriented rock captured the airwaves, than it was trumped by an expanded singer-songwriter acoustic-folk style that it itself had replaced only a few years before and an improved blues-rock format dominated by jazz-inspired technical virtuosity. This in turn was couped by gender-bending glam-and-glitter rock turning to disco when left to rise and baked. Enter a revitalized cosmic-cowboy style of country music and the re-discovery of bluegrass and some feel-good laid-back island-rock from Jamaica and you’ve just about covered all the easily accessible options for adaptation to album-oriented rock. Of course commercial singles-oriented rock just kept jingling along mindlessly in the background all along. Despite the soundings from apparently different corners, all this happened relatively simultaneously and the net result was money, Big Business, which, when combined with the corporate takeover of the film industry, re-defined the entertainment industry. Hollywood suddenly went global, with ramifications still felt to this day and probably far into the future. When Thais think of American music, they still think of it as they first received it, with the Eagles, John Denver, and the BeeGees listlessly ruling the charts, and Bob Marley still poster-boy number one for the disaffected. Still, the system worked, and antithesis saved the day from utter boredom. The punks and new wavers came along and of course said, “Fuck all this,” and started banging out kick-ass rock-and-roll once again, with a nod to the Beat poets thrown in for good measure, as if that were the one hand left to be played. There is a God.

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  • hardie karges 6:54 am on October 30, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    I miss the experimentalism and spiritualism of the good ol’ hippie days. 

    It used to be that everybody was either on a fast or meditating or Rolfing or tripping or getting head or going homosexual or something all the time. People call it the “60’s”, but really what I know was the “70’s”, and that’s probably more accurate for the experience that was inspirational to me. Though I was hardly old enough to get the full 60’s experience up close, still I got it, even in Mississippi, ESPECIALLY in Mississippi, if you really want the full dose of early ‘60’s racial politics also, and it was violent, revolutions per minute. Riots were literally a way of life, first racial, then anti-war, but mostly anti-draft. The long hair hippie thing really didn’t hit with full force and full extent until about 1970, anyway, and it was mostly drug-oriented and superficially political at first. Woodstock occurred in 1969, remember, and we were out of Vietnam by 1973. Still ‘the Movement’ carried its weight until at least 1980, when long hair became more of a symbol for rednecks and heavy metal ‘hair bands’ than hippies, who, losing their hair anyway, either went straight or low-key. Meanwhile a new generation of non-conformists ‘went punk’ or listened to alternative ‘college rock’ or reverted to hard-core Grateful dead hippie nostalgia. The music and other cultural aspects were really what it was all about all the time, anyway. Nothing can compare with the 60’s and 70’s for that, and I doubt ever will, though I keep listening.

     
  • hardie karges 5:23 am on October 28, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , God thought   

    Abstract thought begins with the God gene, 


    the need to get beyond oneself, the need to go ‘out there’ to explain the unexplainable. The logic gene remains as a vestige of some prior need, for events to have cause and effect in a mechanical universe, the need to survive in a world of danger, the need to find order in chaos. Scientists now tend to find chaos even in order. The urge to find God is the same as the urge to ‘get high’. That’s what separates us from the great apes. The fact that pygmy chimps use the missionary position and give blow jobs (I hear) removes sex as the mark of human distinction. We must have evolved from some semi-erect stoner mutants that got ostracized from the group and just kept going. The Celts invaded Italy to get the wine, even though their Bohemian brethren had long perfected beer and spread it around the continent, as the Celtic word cerveza suggests. Boredom and the need for novelty might be a related distinctive mark of humanity. Cannabis has long had many adherents and other stupefiers their users, but alcohol has always been the drug of choice for the vast majority. Of course the real fruit is abstract thought itself, to be found in the arts and sciences of no other species. It’s not hard to imagine language itself evolving out of a drunken reverie gone transcendent. Three-quarters of the earth’s surface is covered in alcohol. The battles with bottles come later.

     
  • hardie karges 6:36 am on October 26, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: fame,   

    If you got a killer line, then use it once or twice. 

    You may never get another chance. When the fickle foot of fate chases you down and kicks your butt, you’ve got one chance to deliver, two if you’re lucky, or fame and fortune pass you by, and your fifteen minutes are up. Fame runs on fleet feet, if and when it runs at all. It’s a societal disease, not a social disease, a disease of the soul, the collective soul. I don’t believe in the collective soul, except in the minimal sense. It’s the floor you walk on, the carpet you clean. It does little to inspire you, even less to fire you up into a truly higher orbit. Only the individual can rise above the crowd.

     
  • hardie karges 8:53 am on October 25, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: death,   

    I was brought into this world kicking and screaming, 

    scared of the darkness and scared of the light. Neither fluorescent, incandescent, neon, or ultraviolet are like the clear white light back home, unbroken and undifferentiated. Children are closer to God. The things that old people can barely get a glimpse of, children can still remember. I remember the abstract dreams of shadow and light, the penetrating darkness, the distances that could not be traversed, and that light on the other side of the divide receding into the distance. I remember the act of dreaming more than the dreams themselves. I’m homesick for the void, lovesick for the high priestess of darkness. Loneliness of the child becomes suicide daydreams for the adolescent becomes a way of life for the adult survivor. In all these years, nothing’s really changed. I still get a lump in my throat at a woman’s glance, a lump in my pants at a woman’s touch. Everything else is hypothetical. Everything else is mere color splashed on the screen, light diffracted through a prism, sound run through a synthesizer.

     
  • hardie karges 9:56 am on October 24, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    Tang and I are getting along just swimmingly, 


    whatever that means (I hope it’s not like the salmon in Eagle Creek lying dead after the 1000-mile trip upriver just to drop trou and lay some eggs). The Food Fights (FFI & FFII) have nearly ended and an eerie peace settles over the land. Thank God for other people’s mothers. It was touch-and-go for a while. I knew when she called in her mother that the tide would soon turn in my favor. Mama don’t bite the hand that feeds. We almost split over irreconcilable similarities- selfishness, stubbornness, childish expectations, etc. It could have been another case for the epicanthic folder, file it away and try to forget. We now realize we’re made for each other, I the blue-eyed lightning to her brown-eyed earth. Understanding comes little by little, though theoretical physics would probably be easier. At least there’s no three-body problem here. She doesn’t even get jealous now unless I flirt with Death. That’s her turf (Forego the antibiotics until you need them. You can kiss a TB victim on the lips in her deathbed and still not get it if you play good defense). So finally we signed our own little Treaty of Tortillas of 2547 (Buddhist Era), based on Spain and Portugal. Basically, she gets Time and I get Space. I get to work on projects on four continents without a moment to spare. She gets a three-bedroom house in Chiang Rai with all the time in the world. Hell of a deal. She gets egg fritata in a tortilla a la Espanola; I get corn flour hydrochloride in tortillas a la Mexicana. Talk about papal bull… We meet at the crossroads in the hypothetical fourth spatial dimension of a flat universe curled up over itself in the shape of a torus, also known as the Krispy Kreme theory of the universe. I guess it’s better than an anniversary dinner at Stapleton airport in DEN while taking mutual stopovers on separate flights, like with one of my previous exes. People ask me how I can dabble in the UK while working in the US while staying in Mexico and living in Thailand; my only answer is, “practice.” Hopefully I can insinuate myself into a side-trip to Turkey and maybe dip down to Greece next year (hold the Macedonia) if I can play my frequent-flyer cards right. Hey, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em. The combination of cheap flights and vanishing oil and lingering traction-era-phlebitis in my right foot (soon to be a major motion picture) sends a clear signal to me.

     
  • hardie karges 7:00 am on October 23, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: intelligence,   

    Nonay the wonder dog was the original Buddhist, 

    not the elaborate ritual performed under the watchful eyes of golden graven images, but the real thing, giving much, taking little, thinking nothing of self. Nonay was living proof that dogs have feelings. Even though she wasn’t even mine, just the neighborhood rent-a-dog, she’d be at the door every morning, ready for another day of fellowship. She never even took food, until she got pregnant. Things changed when we got a cat, and instinct created an ugly scene. But she learned, actually learned, to subdue her instincts in deference to the public good. No matter how much she wanted to chase that cat, she’d detour to the other side of the room to avoid its gaze and any potential conflict. She could control herself, but she couldn’t control events. Her catholic eating habits lead her astray when she tasted the rat poison, the free dog’s hemlock, extra sweet to attract them. The last thing she saw in the emergency room was my face assuring her that this was simply the way it was, not cruel, but not forgiving, either.

     
  • hardie karges 1:57 am on October 22, 2008 Permalink | Reply
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    My life is a countdown, to what, I don’t know. 

    I only know that it seems to be happening in reverse order. I was born an old man, grumpy and set in my ways. Then I entered school, even though I already knew everything. It was a mere formality. I retired at age 21 from a job I never had to live as a country gentleman in an estate that didn’t even exist. I hated cities with the zeal of a reformer and the intensity of a zealot. They were an obstruction in my pastoral lifestyle. Finally I resigned myself to go into business, the gravity too overwhelming to resist. When I finally broke free, my adolescence began and I was ready to truly learn. Now I’m a child, bald as a baby’s butt without all the powder, playing in the fields of the Lord and watching a sunset that never ends. My childhood was sketchy. Adolescence was a disaster. My twenties were good and bad. My thirties were my lost decade, lost to business. The forties were better, an intellectual revolution. The fifties are looking better and better. And I’m not even losing my memory; it’s just getting full.

     
  • hardie karges 6:48 am on October 21, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: , ,   

    I love my wife, though I don’t mind being gone half the time. 

    That keeps it fresh. Hunger makes the food taste real good. If I’m there all the time then it degenerates into that husband-and-wife behind-the-scenes sort of fussing-and-fighting that they never showed on Ozzie and Harriet, tending to favor smiles and sighs and bedroom eyes, while the kids become rock stars in imitation of real life. In very few species does the dad actually hang around with the wife and kids after the consummation of the marriage, so I figure I’m way ahead of the curve. Thai women are more obsessed with security than they are with finding the ultimate soul mate anyway. So Thailand works for my sci-fi style of life. Stupid me, I had to learn the language. Big Mistake. Normal Farangs live with their Thai wives in a state of eternal bliss, speaking Pidgin Shit and drinking beer. Farangs are Westerners, white ones. The term is a Thai pronunciation of the name that started off as ‘Franks’ and dates back to the Crusades era, when all white men were known as ‘Franks’ in the Middle East and Byzantium. It seems we’re on a new crusade now, and Thailand is the Promised Land that needs rescuing. Older Western guys running short on erections get to spend their remaining days with a beautiful younger Thai woman, full of smiles and spice and everything nice. Japanese and other wealthy Asians opt for the same retirement plan, and more than a few Arabs, too. There’s something for everybody.

     
  • hardie karges 2:13 am on October 20, 2008 Permalink | Reply
    Tags: ,   

    My dear is caught in the glare of her own headlights, 


    signals sent to an approaching hunter, too scared to flee approaching danger, too glad to be noticed in the passing crowd. Asian women are born to bear and bred to breed, the weight of centuries pinning them down to the bed of forgiveness. Tang is in way over her head with a husband trying to inspire her to self-fulfillment and professional achievement in a country where the highest goal of most women is to be a housewife. It’s a time warp, like ‘Pleasantville’ or something; wives stay at home and so do many of the men, too, if they’ve got activities they can do there. It’s not like there’s zoning or anything fancy like that. The cost of living is so low that middle-class Thais can hide behind their locking fences playing with their kids like fat cats playing with their chew toys. Their only problem is me, expecting life to have some meaning or something, a path to glory, or at least a life’s work, or something. Everybody’s scared to take initiative for fear of what everyone else will think, so everyone copies everyone else’s work rather than create something new. It’s almost like Tang doesn’t even see herself as an actor in her own life, as if she were watching a movie about herself. Conformity may save Asia a lot of Latino heartache, like protests in the street and revolutions per minute, but at what cost? Asia has cast its lot with business at the expense of politics, while Latin America wrestles with the decision, looking with alternate jealousy and disgust at Mexico, sleeping with the enemy US and the FTA Fresh Tits Agreement, to see who gets fucked and who gets sex.

     
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