Poems XVIII

Ancient Plants

There's a little beam of sunlight in the conservatory,
It speckles and glimmers in turn,
Illuminates that ennobled, ancient leaf,
Once megaflora, now known as the fern.

They've moved this fern to the New World and to Oz,
They've transplanted this plant to Japan,
But her chlorophyll grows greenest, replenished, and strong,
When her roots sink in to her homeland.

The fern has a noble (pre)history,
Grandiose and loved in the era of dinos,
But now she sits in a sterile glass room,
And her dreams intertwine with her woes.

But low scents still draw the butterflies,
Landing as happy strangers and not out of pity,
Fear not for the fate of the fair-fringed frond,
The same sun shines in conservatory, country, or city.

When I was a child in Larkspur's canyon,
The ferns would pop vibrantly after the rain.
Cold tears from the sky rolled off verdant faces,
The sacrosanct beauty seen only in pain.

There's a little beam of sunlight in the conservatory.
Warm, warm, warm-
The fern.

Pizza and a Seal

"What I really learned from being a Navy SEAL," he said, "was to be humble, and confidence."

Uh-huh, I thought. Which is why you just showed me a video of you jumping out of airplane. Why you prefaced the comment on your humility with "I didn't just learn to kill people, or to make kill shots with sniper rifles from miles away." You said and did these things because you're obviously humble. You're so incredibly confident that the only reason we're having this conversation is because you wanted to act macho when I started talking to your girlfriend.

I could have said those things out loud. When you pretend to be a Navy SEAL, though, you might just fight a man ten years younger than you for daring to illuminate the truth. And though reality is on my side, an impervious head and fighting reflexes are not. So I kept my mouth shut and instead tried a different tactic: Sycophancy.

"Dope. I'm gonna go eat that pizza."

Ah, the pizza. The reason I went over to his girlfriend and her friend in the first place. That Domino's crust had wafted into my nostrils from across the bar, and I had nothing to lose. I waltzed over there and my wish was granted: a steamy slice. Veggie, but whatever. I paid nothing. I almost thought I might pay with my face- a Navy SEAL boyfriend? This could get ugly.

Not with this guy. I doubted his credentials when he was my height but not noticeably athletic in any way. He came in so hot to talk to me when he noticed me saddle up to the ladies. I noticed that and immediately played friendly, over-the-top in my obsequiousness, and smoothed over the situation. When you're smart, play oblivious. Strangers don't know you're not really dumb. Simpletons gain leeway.

That leeway worked its way into more pizza. I called Jason over to Gary and me, when the women were gone, and said we each wanted another slice. Well, Gary had never had one to begin with and I don't think he truly wanted one, but I wanted two. Channa called Gary up to sing. Leaving me to be asked by Navy Sea Lion, "Who's Gary?"

"Uh, that's Gary."

"Yeah, but who's Gary?"

"He's that guy? Who you just met, Gary?"

"I mean, I've killed people." Ok, sure dude, really relevant to the conversation. "Who is Gary? What's he do, where's he from?"

"Well, he crushes it at karaoke." That's as far as I got. Mr. SEAL got fed up with my inability to put two and two together, I guess, and just let me have the whole box of pizza. Straight up.

Then he showed me the video of him jumping out of a plane, real Smoking Gun evidence of his war record, and we wind up at the beginning of the story. A small, aggressive man. And a smaller, more aggressive but only in the pursuit of pizza, me. What a strange night.

Poems XVI

Many a girl there were, there; But none of them were you.
I can sing "She's A Lady." I can sing "Delilah." And only in that order- 
Because of you.

I had no attached notions of grandeur
To see where we were going,
Whether bold, guarded, wickedly demure,
What was best in you was the unknowing.
Eila,
Though I said it wrong or spelled it poor,
Thy name held so much hope.
Either Fate could've been knocking at the door,
Blissful garden, or knotted rope.

And I didn't know! But
It's what I wanted to see,
But in the end you nixed us,
No love, no heartbreak, no
Sordid passions- for, soon,
The ocean shall be betwixt us.

Poems XV: Sonnets

WORD SONNET

Paradise

is

sitting

abeyant

in

a

new

friend’s

tent-

the

slapping

rain

plunging

down.

ITALIAN SONNET

I approach, rudderless, the darkened moor,

Where the crooked lighthouse normally sits,

Be there it may, but completely- unlit!

Yet I must set my course on her shore.

The coward caretaker trembled at the door,

The storm hammered in hellish, ghastly fits.

The mad tempest ran away with his wits,

His initiative drowned at the floor.

But hot winds have pushed the thunders away,

Brought new clouds that surrender to the moon,

Beautiful mistress! She dapples the bay-

Renders my damp night a glorious day-

Some cloud puffs are friends, some winds are a boon,

And fools full of fear should never hold sway.

SHAKESPEAREAN SONNET

I scoffed as I heard of love at first sight

Thinking it’d never happen to me-

I tried to reason with all of my might

Love with calculation, not fallacy.

But logic be damned, it’s every time,

Exponentially harder and faster.

It is reason I shun instead of rhyme,

My pupils dilated in disaster.

That’s what my brain claims, but maybe he’s wrong,

For although eyes see superficially,

The nose sniffs out hormones subtly strong,

Chemical love coming naturally.

I’ll let this infatuate garden grow!

Plant yellow Dutch tulips as Cyrano!

COURTLY LOVE

I.

I have a Platonic love, of a different sort-

My Pallas Aphrodite, Goddess full of wisdom and beauty both,

She is the ideal

The rest of us poor reflections

The only Form to Grace our Earth with unveiled presence

A shapeliness no circle can equal

Perilous to my sanity to behold the face of my abstract Everything

To marvel, quake in awe,

Wail and quiver at not having

Plato’s Athenian,

Come to us mortals in Troth.

No man can harness the sun or even stare too long ‘fore going blind

Blind as love

Part of perfection sits in me and raises me up,

Eudaemonic,

For even daring to dream of loving Forms of You.

II.

He who is not jealous can not love.

I am not jealous.

I am envious.

For I do not have.

I covet but do not covet love, which I hold in brightened, dark secret.

My passions invisible and obvious,

My Guinevere!

I am tired, tired of being ashamed,

For who I am is a lover.

A deep devoted fool,

Knight of motley and bells

That jingle for you, no errancy,

And herald a maddened gladdening heart.

I am more me because I don’t have you.

Poems X

I think I've figured out my type; it's AAWG: All-American White Girl. The kind that would make me a pie. That's, I guess, first on my list of criteria for a life mate. Pie-making. Question 1: Would you make me a pie? Question 2: Will that pie be delicious? Question 3: Would you get jealous if I eat someone else's pie, like at Thanksgiving? If the answers are Yay, Yay, Nay, you've passed. This next poem has absolutely nothing to do with any of that.

"Cualacino"

I'm not drinking anymore,
he says,
Until I am.
I'm not eating carbs anymore,
he says,
Unless I want a donut.
I'm going to be a better person-
But not quite yet.
I'm going to clean the whole house-
Tomorrow.

Everything starts tomorrow,
It's the first day of the rest of your life.
But if that fails,
There's still the day after that.

A man sits in a chair
A woman lies in bed.
The room's a mess
And so are their heads.
The wind blows outside,
And the garage door creaks,
The front door slams,
They left it ajar,
A glass on the table,
Two on the stairs,
And all the while, it piles up,
Piles up, piles up-
Until it's too much to handle
Nowhere to begin
The wind chimes, again
Like an alarm
Blaring, the people like sheep,
Bleating, hating themselves
But they can't stop! Or rather, start.
Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of everyone's lives,
Not just yours,
You're being selfish,
self-indulgent, because
Being selfless is scary.

It doesn't matter,
Fear never goes away,
It just changes-

So why can't you?

Why not me?
Why not you?
Why not?
Why?

Ned Stark (You're A Fine Man)

To the tune of "Brandy (You're A Fine Girl)" by The Looking Glass. Lyrics copyright Jimmy Davoren, about George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire. Do not read if you haven't read Dance With Dragons. SPOILERS

There's a war in Westeros
And it kills a hundred men a day
Lonely soldiers miss the Starks who were slain
And say how Winter Comes

And there's a girl in a harbor town
Across the sea, laying justice down
They say, Arya, kill another clown
But enough about her now

Because Stannis said "Davos! You're a fine man (such a fine man)
What a good knight you would be (Onion knight)
But you smuggled, so your fingers belong to me"
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Davos wore a pouch and chain
Carrying his fingers, luck, and shame
He lost it, on Blackwater Bay
For King Stannis whom he loves

He went to Wyman Manderly
To beg for a king's fealty
Wyman made it clear Rickon lives
White Harbor was his home

Jojen said "Brandon! I'm a greenseer (creepy greenseer)
What a good warg you would be (straight wizard)
But Beyond-The-Wall is where we need to be"
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Yeah, Brandon saw a crow with three eyes
Who told him magic stories
His dream were real, one day he would fly
With the Children of the Forest
But now he was connected to the trees, lord, he was a weirwood man
Brandon does his best to understand
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Davos is sent to find Rickon on the sea
Brandon walks through history
Sansa wants lemon cakes
And Arya's a Faceless Man

Melisandre says "Azor! Ahai! (Lightbringer)
Stannis it should be (for the Red God)
But in these fires, it is Jon Snow who I see"
(dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit-dooda-dit)

Jon! You're Rhaegar's son! (and Lyanna)
A Targaryen you should be (Song of Ice and Fire)
The Prince that was Promised, not just the LC
(George-RR-George-RR-George-RR-Martin)

Poems IX

It's smoky out here in Mammoth because of a fire that can't reach us. It's smoke, on the other hand, is not making my lungs happy. I hate wildfires, and it's high season here in California. Drought and years of dryness have turned out beautiful forests into tinder. All we can hope is that El Niño brings a wet winter for the upcoming year. But really, we can't change the natural processes of nature to our liking. We have to accept what happens, while still doing all we can the right way. We only have control over ourselves, so that's where we need to start, "I'm starting with the Man in the Mirror/I'm asking him to change his ways." Please conserve. Please, be the best you that you can be.

"Wildfires"

"Healthily" trapped in a cabin, in a cottage
A haze outside
And a ruby sun.
We have freedom from the flames
But the smoke assails us still
Assaulted with ash,
The secondary details,
The ripples and Vulcan echoes, are we.
The fire was fanned by "other"
Lightning or lighted fag,
I fear a man with no remorse
More than nature which just is.
The worlds consumes itself
And needs justify nothing.
But I cough and hack and wheeze and burn,
My eyes tear
For beauty and solemn truth.
We will be long gone
Before the last of the fires die, out or down
But still we can mourn and cherish
For that's the gift that's been given us.

"Through the fire and the flames/We carry on"

Poems VII: Love Poems

Here are some love poems, and they're not all about the same person. They're all to remain a mystery, as they strike burnishing with the unrequited, unrelenting flame, lain cold.

"To Love a Love"

O! To be smitten,
That's the word;
An ode to being smitten-
Takes flight on a bird.
A lark as 'twere,
But always there,
I'm constantly flying,
Butterflies for a mare.
Bewitched in any hour,
By the heart's sweet power-
Has there ever been a time it's just been me
With no marathon running of fantasies?
I'll guess on answer,
Sweet Jeopardy-style,
And say no, not a chance, from checking
Mental files.
I love love
And always will
Being heady and drunk,
Drinking in my fill.


"M'lady"

A poem of love (a terrible one)
Yes, that's the way to do it-
One written by me
That you'll never see
Though your laughter did accrue it.
I might as well let my emotions forth,
(In paper form, at least)
Because it's wrong, I will not act-
I am no lustful beast.
"The pert and nimble spirits of youth,"
Your strawberry flowing tresses,
And of course the way you make me feel,
When my jokes are all successes.

Smartness goes a long way,
Dorkiness even farther,
I hope the best for the rest of your life,
May your blushing radiance grow ever larger.


"Fireworks of the Doubly Drunken Heart"

Hey!!! So...
I'm sorry,
But it turns out I love you.

And I ain't a fan

Of emotions,
Or notions,
But there are enough fireworks
In the world.
Not between us or nothin',
Cuz we friends,
And friends is dope,

-Haha-

There it is.
Damn straight,

Motherfucker.

Puttin'
Motherfucker on its own line?
Crazy as shit.
But:

Motherfuckin' worth
It.
Byaa.

Not this one. This one is more recent and that was her real name, a girl who lives in Vietnam. On two different paths, yet the fates let me have one blissful night of conversation. I do not live in Vietnam.

"Love In Sadness"

Danielle.
Forever,
And just for a nigh.
Love is a fickle thing
And it can happen in an instant
And last til the end of time.
When there's truth to it
When the connection is reality
It doesn't even matter what you say.
Because the content is deeper,
Its an elder compulsion,
An attraction of minds,
A gravitational pull,
Two bodies, one absolute,
Danielle.
You'll be gone,
Already fading,
Never again to meet.
But our hearts met,
That's all that matters.
One day, if the gods be good,
We'll be together knit in the universal consciousness,
That beating heart of humanity's entropy,
The math that holds the universe tight.
Tendrils of happiness
Of the true twinkling beauty
Starstruck and striking out gem-like stars.
A knowing.
An actual knowing.
No grok but yes.
A sure thing for a surety of passion.
Your hair that falls over earrings sweet,
Sweetness falling over thin smiles.
A leg up, on my shoulder,
A leg up, on the competition for my desire:
Full desire.
No singularity but wholeness
Of every fiber, every ounce.
A lingering hope
But I care not.
I accept you now as a part of me,
Though apart from me.
I wither and thrive in flux.

The Life Of A Hater Hater

I am a hater hater. What does this mean, exactly? It means that I can't stand people who hate for no reason other than to hate. Chapelle's Show's Haters Ball is my nightmare. Studies have shown there are people who are predisposed to hate, and that's a shame. They take offense to impersonal things that happen halfway around the world. But the problem with being a "hater" is not that they hate. It's that they hate for the wrong reasons, or with the wrong evidence. Either way, they don't care. Haters choose to always hate. Haters carry a wholly pessimistic worldview, but also a very self-centered one. Haters internalize. What they hate on is incorrect. What they don't is acceptable. It's based on the hater's opinion, and they refuse to see it as so. They see it as fact. Where's the empathy?

I'm talking about haters because Lebron James just announced he's going back to Cleveland to play for the Cavs. I am stoked. I woke up to that news and I've been watching SportsCenter all morning, even though I did not want to. It's an important story. "Where were you when you heard Lebron was returning home to the Cavaliers?" I was in Mammoth, excited that the city of Cleveland is ready to welcome him back. One of the pundits said it right. "Cleveland was the only place that offered him redemption." In a lot of people's eyes, he needed to be redeemed. Those were haters. They became haters. But many of them won't be haters anymore. They'll forgive. The true haters will keep their back turned on Lebron. Some of them never liked him in the first place. He's one of the greatest basketball players of all time, one of the most tremendous athletes I've ever seen.

Pasha tweeted, wondering if he could still hate Lebron because the Cavs knock out the Wizards. He's good now. That's a valid reason. I hate the Seahawks, because they're in the Niners' division. Pete Carrol coached USC, and he's smiles the smarmiest smile. Hate for a reason is perfectly fine. You can't choose to hate for the sake of hating. Cleveland burned Lebron jerseys when he left. They hated him, because he left. I don't agree with thoughts of "betrayal," but I understand the hate. Now, they're sorry. But Miami fans are all "betrayed," and are hating. That I don't get as much. Come on. He came, he left. That's just standard pro sports. The history and emotion doesn't exist like that.

The only reason I ever wanted the Heat to win championships was so the haters would get what was coming to them. Also, the Spurs are boring. Mostly, though, I loved Lebron because everyone else hated him.

The other thing I want to talk about is all these chicks being vilified for posting pictures of themselves hunting in Africa. Oh my god, you fucks, you can't attack a girl for posting her big game pics. The Texas Tech cheerleader shot a lion. They're majestic! Well, the way that kind of hunting works is that you pay. And that money goes back into supporting wildlife conservation and stopping poaching. It's not the Wild West out there, where you get to shoot buffalo from the train. Poaching is like warfare, and it's important for the economy to have hunting occur. Don't call a woman a coward for shooting something. Don't become indignant about something you know nothing about. I support hunting. Sure, I'd like to see it all be bows and arrows. They're are ways to improve everything. But you don't get to call for a human's head because it doesn't agree with your "morals," ones you don't have until there's controversy and it's time to jump on the hate bandwagon.

And the Belgian shot a prey animal! That stuff is edible, that stuff is acceptable beyond belief, and that's important. Haters don't get the concept of culling the herd. Killing healthy, powerful lions can be bad. I has stayed away from all the vitriol for the Texas Tech girl until now, but I looked it up. Male lion, controlled area, killed to make sure he doesn't kill any cubs. That's a thing that happens so that the male can make sure HIS cubs are the survivors. It's not like the lions are super aware of their numbers or the system of evolution and survival. It's a progeny thing to them only. But remember how they brought back the wolves in Yosemite, and then they ate and scared the deer, bringing back a better, thriving version of the Yosemite ecosystem? African savannah can be corrupted too if you have too many antelope. So shoot 'em. Give the money and the dead to the local community. Everyone thinks they're so cultured and advanced for condemning any and all hunting. No. You're simply wrong.

I am not a preservationist. I am a conversationist. If you want to leave everything "pristine," you're getting mad at beavers and fungi. Everyone can agree that sounds ridiculous. Humans are in the animal kingdom. We should be one with it, not apart from it. We can be above it on either side: We shouldn't crush it beneath our feet, and we shouldn't be high and mighty as its protectors. We need to accept our role as part of it, as it.

But fuck Thoreau though. I don't hate how I hate him.

USA out of the World Cup

Hamstring injuries. Two broken noses. 19 and 20-yr-olds playing for the national side. I couldn't be prouder of our team, but I could be happier with them, if they had won.

There were a few opportunities we might have been able to capitalize on and win with. But they had more, that they didn't get to. Tim Howard was too locked down in goal. He had 16 saves, the most going back 50 years. Or maybe more. They only started keeping track 50 years ago, meaning Tim Howard might have had the most saves in World Cup history. I think it's sad. Tim Howard might, for the rest of his life, not remember those 16 saves. He's crying right now on TV. Those two goals they scored, though, those are the ones he might remember forever. Let's hope not. We're all in awe of him. It's not like the Brazilian goalkeeper everyone hates from 1950.

2-1. So heartbreaking. We could have won. On penalty kicks, I'd take none other than Timmy. So sad. He was on fire. But he couldn't be flaming enough. He got mad at his defenders tonight. He had to do so much.

You have to realize how I don't watch soccer. I thought I literally could not watch a whole game. I sat there enthralled. I was up and down, out of my seat, pacing almost like a Niners game. Everyone in the United States is on that page. That's at least something to have pride in, too. That we cared. I actually cared and I actually understood what was going on. I'm terrible at FIFA.

Also on Tv, they keep saying "He stood on his head." Is that a real reference? Or is that a soccerism? All these association footballers don't normally stand on their heads.

2005 O. Henry Prize Stories, In Order from "Best" to "Godawful Worst Holy Crap Sphinxes Almost Made Me Vomit"

I read all these short stories to try and get a feel for different writers, juxtaposed against each other. I wanted to see what I'd like, and what I wouldn't like. Hope is important. Shitty endings and feelings of isolation with no resolution- why would you write that story? Why would you enjoy it, and why would you expect anyone else to? Every ending doesn't have to be happy. Every ending should, however, make sense, and be satisfying or cathartic. A terribly sad ending can be the best ending if it's right, if it fits. It shouldn't just be blah. Here's my ranking. 1-5 are fantastic, 6-9 good reads, 10-13 okay, 14-16 acceptable, 17-19 not good, and 20 should be stayed away from on all fronts unless you want to want to punch Timothy Crouse in the face.

1. What You Pawn I Will Redeem: Sherman Alexie

2. Fantasy for Eleven Fingers: Ben Fountain

3. Mudlavia: Elizabeth Stuckey-French

4. Christie: Caitlin Macy

5. A Rich Man: Edward P. Jones

6. The Hurt Man: Wendell Berry

7. Tea: Nancy Reisman

8. The Tutor: Nell Freudenberger

9. Refuge in London: Ruth Prawer Jhabvala

10. The Card Trick: Tessa Hadley

11. Speckle Trout: Ron Rash

12. The Drowned Woman: Frances de Pontes Peebles

13. The Brief History of the Dead: Kevin Brockmeier

14. Snowbound: Liza Ward

15. The High Divide: Charles D'Ambrosio

16. Grace: Paula Fox

17. Dues: Dale Peck

18. The Golden Era of Heartbreak: Michael Parker

19. Desolation: Gail Jones

20. Sphinxes: Timothy Crouse

Plugged

Can we watch something else?

It’s what’s on. You shouldn’t change it, that’s rude.

But he’s not watching.

You’re not watching either.

Technically. But I know it’s on.

So does he. Maybe it’s soothing.

It’s aggravating.

Why?

Why? That’s the question, isn’t it.

So answer it.

Ok. I will.

...

Fine, here goes. These people, they’re not doing anything. Nothing worthwhile. And yet, you’d never know that from listening to them. Every moment of their lives is so exciting, or heartbreaking. At least they play it that way for the cameras. You get the impression that their very lives hang on the balance of the next five minutes. The five minutes, which of course, take up twenty minutes of TV time.

Franklin looked over at his roommate. Mark had his laptop open to BuzzFeed, a listicle of pug dogs that Franklin had disgustedly scrolled through the night before, a listicle he had scrolled through until the end, scoffing and hating and yet finishing, eagerly rushing to the comment section to express his disdain. Mark’s eyes weren’t on the pugs, but rather his smartphone, as he loaded up Clash of Clans. He had just finished exclusively liking hot girls’ posts on Instagram, and now he needed to win virtual glory. Mark had turned to the History channel when he awoke.

Franklin had returned from his early morning bowel movement to find Mark getting ready to watch “Pawn Stars.” Franklin had already sat through an hour and a half of Sportscenter when this happened, meaning he knew a half hour of sports content well, and another half hour extremely well. He still made a peevish coughing noise of offense that Mark had not noticed. Franklin felt Mark never noticed his annoyances or passive-aggressive comments. Mark felt Franklin needed to stop wearing shoes in the house.

Franklin loaded up his Instagram feed, looking at Mark’s Likes with disdain and not liking anything he came across. Two of the pictures he did like already had triple digit likes, since they were posted by sorority girls he had known tangentially in college. Franklin refused to become part of the sea. He wanted his Likes to stand out, as they did in real life. Quinoa and ketchup embodied Franklin: too off the beaten path even for those who fought the current. He incorporated cultural norms in ways that went against the grains of normalcy. He was better than the heathens, especially the people who try to sell cars to Rick on “Pawn Stars,” instead of selling them themselves like everyone else does.

Mark ripped a bowl one-handed, and had moved on to a video on his iPad. Many men multi-tasked with two or three tasks. Mark’s record, though he didn’t keep of track of those things, was eight and a half.

Carlos, the third roommate, was asleep. He had a night job but maintained himself in pretty good physical shape for that one night a week he had off. He’d go to bars. Mark and Franklin would complain that his room smelled of sex, or that they heard him the night before when they were trying to watch videos on their computers- Netflix for Mark, torrents for Franklin. Carlos simply smiled when later in the week they’d complain about their personal lack of sex lives.

Thoreau (Is the Worst)

I read another post off of Brain Pickings, which I love, about Henry David Thoreau, who I do not, and who I think is the original hipster. Thoreau is a hipster in the negative sense. I really couldn't stand him by the end of Walden. He wrote a whole book about living by himself in the woods when he was like a mile out of town and made his mom do his laundry for him. Anyone who looks up to Thoreau is mistaken. He's a fraud, not "one of the masters of the art of living," as Ms. Maria Popova put it. He's a pretentious hypocrite and I do not like him. I mean, what do you expect from someone with the worst facial hair neckbeard of all time. He is not a role model in any way. Except for hipsters.

BREAKING NEWS

This just in: 2014 is going to be a great year

How do I know this? Because the Niners lost, there is no snow on the mountain and I'm basically unemployed, and I gave up on pining after a good friend who will only ever be that.

But Jimmy, that sounds like 2014 is the worst year on record!

Yes, accurate.

But I have nothing left to lose. Which makes a man very dangerous. Alternatively, not dangerous at all, just optimistic that things have to and will get better.

I'm excited. No longer down in the dumps. Nothing to hang my hopes on, just me. It's liberating and a little cheesy. But it's gonna be great.

Stay tuned, spam sites that are my only hits on this blog. Because life is looking up.

Wild Animus

Wild Animus, Rich Shapero's self-published artistic effort, has sat untouched on my bookshelf for about four years. It was handed to me for free freshman year, in the space between UCLA's Northern Lights and Campbell Hall, and I finally decided to give it a go last night. I read a chapter and restarted tonight. I stopped, just now, after the first book section because I don't have to keep reading. Believe me, I wanted to. I felt like I should.

But I don't have an obligation.

Wild Animus is bad. Very bad. Some of the songs on the accompanying CDs are okay. I'm listening to them now. They're disturbingly similar, but taken as a concept album could go well with drugs. Drugs, you see, are a main theme of Wild Animus. The main character does a shit-ton of LSD and apparently goes crazy, thinks he's a Dall ram, and dies. I say apparently because I only read the first book section, which details this guy's meeting of a girlfriend, them moving to Seattle, and then visiting Alaska. The ram imagery, however, has been shoved down my throat since the third page. They have a secret ram language, Sam and Lindy, by the second time they're hanging out- which is also when they do acid together. That's stupid.

I described the prose to myself last night, when I decided I would definitely tackle it (sorry, me) as ham-handed and heavy-fisted. Really, I think that it's ham-fisted and heavy-handed, but it's incessant metaphor and blatant hippy-speak really addles the brain. It's way too much way too quickly, like every line is supposed to be some revelation about the world and nature. There's no "a-ha!" epiphany moment, just endless LSD drivel that fellow Amazon users have described as coming from someone who has never taken LSD.

But that's not the problem. I could deal with poorly written sentences, or rather overly "well-written" sentences that gag you. The problem is that I don't give a single shit about the characters. Because they are terrible, and terribly written. Their physical features are described too specifically, and their emotions are spilled out every two seconds. Their emotions change too drastically though. These aren't real people. Amazon reviewers say they are interchangeable or cardboard. I'd disagree. Cookie-cutter characters at least make sense in the stories they dwell. This girl goes from in fear to enraged to lovey-dovey. On a page, with no real explanation or build up. I don't like the protagonist. he names himself Ransom Altman at some point. What the fuck kind of a name is Ransom Altman? He wants to be surrender's ransom, he says. What? Rich Shapero has heard of metaphor, definitely, he uses it too much. Yet he completely fails on using metaphors for symbolism. Everything is spelled out.

Now, I've been writing a novel. And I've put in some blatant symbolism and written references too out-in-the-open. But not like this. It can't possibly be like this. This is bad. I had to stop reading! This got published as-is. I'd want an editor for some of the stuff I spell out. It's there as a placeholder, to take up space and keep my mind going. Shapero doesn't hide anything. He rubs your nose in it. And it's shit.

The good takeaway from this is that I can use the bad example to get better with how I write. I don't want to be anywhere close to Shapero's example. It starts with the characters. They have to be consistent. Now, Matilda is consistently useless and not a strong female character, which is a shame but that's kind of her role. And Bill grows a bit, but stays a hipster half-douche. Ava is underwritten. I know this. That's why she's cool, but injured and stolen. That way I don't have to spend too much time on her. I want her to kick major ass but that's not where my life experience lies. Joe changed probably too much in the well, and Geoffrey could be more consistent and foolish, but does relatively well as a character.

Those are my characters. They grow the story. George R.R. Martin has his gardeners and architects of writers. I half-architect after gardening, and sometimes the gardening destroys the building I've designed. My characters do the things they're supposed to. It makes sense for them to perform actions, and I just fit those actions into the story. But Rich Shapero? Rich Shapero said fuck it. He said, I've got a story and I've got some acid. These characters are going to do everything and anything to get to this plot point. Because they suck and do nothing to inspire empathy.

Or maybe not. Like I said, I couldn't finish the book. I might be able to, as a cautionary tale. But do I really need to? There's no prize for finishing bad books. It's a pride thing. No. I can't do it.

A Quick Note on "Millenials"

I do not put myself in the same "generation"as 30 year olds. That's stupid. If anything, rapidly increasing technology changes the generation timeframe by shrinking it. Would a 30 year old really identify with me? No. At least they shouldn't. And that's what everyone is getting wrong during these Millenial debates. As you age, yes, the distinction lessens. But when we're talking about the young, we have to understand that the young have small bands where they identify themselves. Remember, a 50 year old married to a 40 year old isn't weird. 40 and 30 year old? Fine. A 30 year old and a 20 year old actually starts to sound pretty iffy. A 25 year old and a 15 year old is a statutory rape case, and horrific. We're not even going to touch on 20 and 10. So when that "generation" is 30-15? We shouldn't be considering them very similar at all. Eventually, we can generalize, when that 15 year gap doesn't seem like anything, like for 50 year olds to 65 year olds. Even then though, I'd have my apprehensions. 65 year olds and 50 year olds now had similar levels of technology growing up but I'd claim they still think of themselves differently. Think about the increase in cell phone usage and smart phone access in this generation. The debate exists, and I can't for the life of me figure out why we think it's saying anything of substance.

-Jimmy

Sorry about the convoluted method of thought if you find it so. I had to get that off my chest.

Origins

Hallo.

Deciding to create a blog while watching Jean-Claude Van Damme's 1996 action flick Maximum Risk may seem like a silly endeavor. Realizing that you already created a Blogger blog 2 years ago makes it even sillier, especially when you happen upon its name- Blogota, Colombloga. Well, I've decided to go through with the blogging and to never change the name. It's awesome. I changed the URL though, since jimmydavoren.blogspot.com is a lot simpler to spell than blogotacolombloga.blogspot.com if I ever want any sort of internet traffic.

With that wonderful lead-in, I give you all the first post in Jimmy Davoren's blog. I am excited to start posting here, but even more excited to share the things I have learned from Maximum Risk:
a) Natasha Henstridge is utterly slammin' and has Grade A boobies, and
b) apparently in the 80s and 90s what constituted the female posterior started a solid foot higher up on a woman. Great butts were a joint project embarked upon by glutes, lower backs, and genetics.
c) in comparison to Carl Weathers' Action Jackson, it would seem that a badge pales in comparison to a gun for commandeering a vehicle, even for police officers.

Here some things I didn't learn from Maximum Risk:
a) JCVD is awesome
b) I wish I could be a JCVD character, kicking ass all over the place with a European accent and a karate-sculpted body.

Why did we not learn these things from Maximum Risk? It's not that they're false. It's that we already learned both lessons the first time I ever watched a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. 80s/90s action stars and Will Smith give immediate, personal "box office" pull to any movie. Animated features do the same these days, if I understand the plot. Turbo is not something I want to ever see. And if we're listing stuff I like, Hot Dog The Movie is true tops. It's on Comcast again, for free. What a (possibly softcore) film.