The Now Progression: Zeroed In.

Cavorting with a pair of comrades this evening we briefly discussed the progress of my novel, at which point I mentioned my “Now Updates”. Each of these will be followed by a number, from ’00-’09, providing a balance statement of sorts for that particular year. Those of us who have come up in the Zeroes have witnessed both immense progress and radical decline within a period less than half of most of our lives, technological and economic respectively. I can see the almost baroquely designed picture upon the cassette to Michael Jackson’s “Dangerous” vividly in my mind and remember the spilled mess of pasta upon the tape to “The Spaghetti Incident” from Guns’n’mfn’Roses well. Superman II and The Empire Strikes Back were VHS tapes watched so often as a small child I wore them out entirely, horizontal lines and gravel all that remains. “All Eyes on Me” from 2-Pac was the first CD I listened to in my personal CD Player, and afterwards pieced together a rap-library by borrowing and burning my friends music onto writable CD’s upon my custom-built and home-delivered Dell computer. That is, until at a speed of 56K I downloaded whatever music was necessary through first Napster, then Limewire and Bittorrent, until broadband and license certification swept in across the wireless networks used to jack my Vaio lap-top into the Net.

“Down for Whatever” by Ice Cube was the first song ever purchased legitimately upon iTunes, and I can assure you, given particular prerequisites, I most righteously am. My shelves filled with the new technology of DVD’s from across the globe, amassed through online purchases, as I wrecked Mario 3 with a raccoon-tail in 8 bits, stepped it up as Ken in Super Street Fighter at 16, double that and on to Tony Hawk II as I played Playstations and X-boxes, going full circle and stepping up to the next level as HD and Blu-Ray came into play. Ecstacy came and rolled off into the shadows. Marijuana is rapidly being decriminalized while tobacco is publicly demonized and same-sex marriage is banned after having been voted in to such progressive states as California, indicative of the contemporary conservative backlash, but a majority of that demographic is aging, and the tides are turning in our favor.

This is the last year of the Zeroes people, the progress that is made in the eternal and historic Now is all that matters. An acquaintance told me of a recurring dream she has, in which she’s hiding, trapped, within the musty walls of a great concrete building not unlike an elementary school amongst likewise distraught strangers, seeking refuge from a firefight outside between parties she neither knows nor cares to, hoping only to maintain safety within the uncomfortable, unfriendly environment. This is not the way to live and to think in such a way is tomfoolery, as it is a mandate of life to step outside, check out the scenario, pick a side or maybe create one, and start busting shots. One may only hit a target if they first have one, and my sights are on point.

The Tissue Theory

Having options in all facets of life is pleasing; articles of contentment. Speaking to a friend today on the topic of the feminine potentials presenting themselves in these budding days of spring, he presented to me his "tissue theory". Take heed: this particular individual is involved in a serious relationship, is not nor ever was a player, sorry guy, but the validity and illustrative quality of the theory is nonetheless present.

"Girls are like tissues man. Use them once, and throw them away." He said.

Feeling a twinge of distaste at the statement, I consider, and present the question to a female acquantance, also on the scene. She smiles, a wry look spreading over her face as she glances to the left and down.

"Sure, I don't see a problem with it, as long as they get wet in the process." She said.

Such tasty dialogue is a treat not often found amidst otherwise common conversational fare, and experiencing the growing nastiness of some women, to me, is taboo, but nonetheless I encourage it. The tissue theory does present some insight into the minds of a niche demographic of misogynistic men, but given that it came from a hankerchief kind of guy, is to be taken with a grain of salt.

The William Decision

Within Generation Zero the protagonist, being fleshed out in quite contemporary times, was named Michael, however henceforth is to be represented as William. Feeling a distance necessary from the character to effectively verbally paint him, sharing the same name seemed untoward, not proper, unacceptable. A means of previewing the book is being considered, but in the interim the short of the first chapter is up here, http://www.worcestermagazine.com/content/view/2990/ check check it, and heed what I've just written as it is relevant. Rock and roll.

Reverse Samson

I've chased the spectre of corn-rows twice now, reaching a curlish fro upon the first attempt and a Nero-esque Roman emperor front-comb the second, and have learned something of biblical proportions. Hair, to me, functions in a sort of inverse-Samson situation, in that the longer it grows, the weaker my mettle and on-pointedness becomes. I need worry not of some Delilah steeling into my quarters in the dead of night, taking care to walk and not run to my place of rest as the scissors are not the rounded-tip ilk and we know she's all careful like, only to take my hair and with it my power in some sort of perverse Highlander quickening. Rather, I simply need to ascertain that the razor and clippers of my often blunted barber touch down upon my dome every nine-eleven days. In these waning days of the zeroes as the spring ushers in a new energy, it is proper that one stay sharp.

Touching Down

Is it the peak of the trip that one remembers most vividly in the time after the fall, or is it the rise? What part of whatever act does one derive the greatest amount of glory? The length of the crescendo is what I'm driving at here, as in fucking, the moment of blast off may be quite pleasurable, however the time taken and momentum exerted to get there is what counts, the determinant of whether we have an Apollo or Challenger type situation on our hands. (one reached the moon, the other exploded on the pad; come now, a general knowledge of aeronautic history is after all essential to being a spaceman, in whatever form) One never knows where the peak is until after they've hit the pinnacle and either come down, or moved on to a different plateau altogether, only likely more on top than simply a bucket and a mop and that illustrated book concerning birds. The reality of the situation is, it's how you savor the trip that determines the satisfaction of whatever peaks may rise and fall along the illy journey. I considered the options of the military recently, inquiring as to the potential of a cash sign-on bonus and what benefits I may inure, being a university grad and relatively on point. Upon finding out eighteen months in a hot-zone is the bonus within the branches of primary interest, I considered whether it made sense economically and opportunistically, and said fuck it, got a skin-tight fade and line-up, hustled a glut of academic papers, copped the means to construct a conical fiery machine, and took off with my associates, as I am, after all, a rocket man. This extends to our generation, in that the century is increasingly ours; we've begun in the zeroes, and have no excuse nor possibility but to continue getting higher.

A Basic Sensation

When discussing the art of hooking up with a homie, one of those from back-in-the-day individuals, the topic of boyfriends came up, and whether or not they are a stop sign, an obstacle, or an afterthought when in pursuit of a fit hottie. Trudging through the subject my contemporary proudly stated that he'd gotten brains, to use a modern term, from some girl he knew in the parking lot of a pool house while her boyfriend waited inside. This act of oral pleasure was due to his having been extending a bit of that Miami sand, and her desire to get a dub off the top, a discount, a deal, but not quite a steal. Inquiring as to how he felt copping head in such a capitalistic fashion, he looked up and left, expression calming, stating, "It don't matter. I get my dick wet. I bust a nut. It feels good."

Work-Out Etiquette - Seriously.

So today I'm at the gym doing a bit of intensely variable cardio on the treadmill to warm up. Having raised it to the highest incline and sprinted all Drago-like, crunching the limit, I began my gradual descent, slowing from a dash to a casual jog. Having settled in to the mid-session chill-out, I feel a rather obtuse tap upon my shoulder. Looking to my left a porcine white man with a receding line of white hair is staring at me with a forced and rounded smile. "How much longer do you have?" I stare blankly for a moment, then scan to my left and right, taking care to make it obvious I'm noticing the many empty pieces of equipment as I remove my skullcandy ear-bud; "I'm not quite sure, I'm sort of in the midst of things here sir." I respond with an excessively friendly tone, trying to turn back, but he persists. "Well I like using this piece of equipment, so I'll wait. Thanks." The obese man who simply walks upon a treadmill for a half hour before resuming the gluttonous maintenance of his excess body-weight says, turkey-gobbler wobbling. "And thank you very much for interrupting my work-out, particularly considering how few pieces of equipment there are available. Have a nice day dude." Recognizing my distaste, he at first postures, hand searching in vain for a waist to place itself upon in indignation, "Well now, no need to get nasty, I was just askin-" "Yes, and I am just trying to work out. Again, have a nice day guy." Ear-buds back in he is forgotten and I take my time finishing the first act of what would be an epic training session.

The point: please do not interrupt someone in the midst of training, it is wrong, like a sort of induced blue-balling of the flow. Wrong.