Sun-Dried Eyes

Excel Is For Lovers

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sat, 02 Feb 2013 06:18:00 +0000

Look, I'm an Excel nerd. And I know for a fact that there are millions of Excel nerds throughout the world. That's why I made these for you. I love you and our nerdy brethren.

If you love a fellow nerd, make this Valentine's Day special by giving them one of my cards. It's a complex way of showing them how simple love can be. Trust me, they'll understand.

Get it here.

Debata-balls 2012 Part Duex: Live Blogging the Final Presidential Debates

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 01:03:00 +0000

I like that they went to the most bat-shit crazy state in the union for the final debate.

Whose show is this Bob? STFU

Everything Romney says is funny not on purpose.

Romney still doesn't know what we already know happened in Libya. Stay in (public) school, kids.

Did a Republican just say we can't kill our way out of something? Blasphemy!

Obama is so dreamy.... zzzzzzz

Obama draws first blood. "Strategy"!

Economic development of a Middle East country? Blasphemy!

Obama is glad about a lot of Romney/Al Qaeda things.

Obama is on the offensive... damn.... wipe your sword off before you stab him again, you're blood all over Bob.

Romney's feelings are hurt.... sad panda got attacked...

Romney forgot his speech last week. Must not have been in a Rose Garden.

Obama: Romney would have a draft!

I think Romney just said the exact same thing as Obama. This talk is foreign to me.

Obama is attacking again! Romney's gonna be whine! Bob is scared and peed slightly!

Bob: Obama, did your foot taste good?

I want to hear Romney retort on female education!

During Egyptian leadership conferences, at the Friday dance, do they ever play the Bangles?

Cutler goes three-and-out. Wait, wrong screen.

Notice how Mitt never wants people to be happy without also being prosperous?

Why does Mitt think that the right principles for the world are all the ones in our Constitution?

Romney: I will have a bigger military that won't lose one penny because it must ~~govern~~ react proactively.

Romney - man of the future!

5 Simple Romney steps to an awesome future America: more fossil for fuel, exploit Latin Americans, build schools that kill their teachers in front of dumb parents and dumb kids, invest in America (?), and champion small business.

Obama to Romney: Talk to the hand cause the teacher unions ain't listenin'!

Thanks, Bob, for bringing it back to bombing brown people.

Obamacare, the largest threat to foreign policy ever always.

Yeah, Mitt, that's unwanted military spending you're shoving in my camo g-string.

How's Utah doing now, Mr. Olympian?

Obama just launched an aerial assault on a drone(ing) Romney.

Obama <3 Israel; Romney snickering from under the bleachers...

Mitt: Send uranium to Uranus!

You can't call him "Chavez" until you've kissed the ring!

Obama to Burger King: You owe my $10k for saying "whopper".

I like how Romney gets all set to say something profound, and then drops the same Rove-created talking point verbatim.

Romney hates hypotheticals! Are they brown/black too?

Romney said "withdraw". He has five kids! Yeah? Nothing? ...whatever.

Bob just owned Mitt. Mitt took it well. 5 points.

When did we marry Pakistan? Was it an arranged marriage?

When boring people say "extreme", it's even worse than when old people say "awesome".

"Devastating".

Romney will have a STRONG America. But no steroids.

That's what they get for buying foreign, Mitt!

Barry finally pulled out the job shipping shit! It's getting heavy in the later rounds!

Sure, I get up to pee and they start fighting. Damn!

Mitt's losing it. He's becoming unraveled like the Joker.

We all love teachers!

Uh oh, Romney has final closing. Get the fact books out. Got a feeling this is going to be a record-setting bullshitfest.

Did Romney actually say anything in his closing statement? It sounded like a Funny-Or-Die lip dub.

I'm done de'bating. Gonna grab a towel and nap. Thanks for listening.

Debata-balls 2012: Live Blogging the Presidential Debates

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Wed, 17 Oct 2012 01:14:00 +0000

I think Jeremy thinks he has to build cars for the rest of his life.

Romney, you got a detail anywhere in that plan?

Romney came prepared with defense, not offense. Must be a Ravens fan.

"Magic Gas" ... how did he know I'm making curry for dinner?

Romney came to fight. Literally. He just squared up the POTUS.

I thought Mormons are supposed to be polite, not just rich.

Why does it take an old Midwestern woman to pin Romney down on his budget details?

Is it me or has Romney denied everything the POTUS has said except for him only having one plan, to make more money for the richest?

Teleprompter or not, Obama really.... has a lot... of... weird pauses.... wait, what?

Count down to Republican bitching about the Big Bird reference in 5... 4...

Romney is someone who ran businesses.

The "Road to Greece" is paved with _____________.

I didn't think Obama would be the first to pull out the personal story. Nothing screams "smoke screen" like the debate parable.

Never say "afford college" again. Taking on crippling lifetime debt is never affording something.

Romney helps women one job at a time. So did Clinton. He created a surplus. Then spilled it on women in flexible positions.

POTUS just owned Romney on the Women=Money equation.

A disappointed woman that can't tell a Mitt from her Bush.

Romney came through small business the way Galactus came through the galaxy.

"Governor, you'll get tough on China like a bull in a Japanese shop."

Obama to Jones: "In four years, I did a bunch of shit. What have you done for me lately?"

Four Obama years: another thing Romney thinks we can't afford. First Big Bird, now my Afrikkan creamy crush?!?!?!

Romney's dad is Mexican?!?!? Not that that's a surprise, but HE VOICED IT?!?!?

Obama: Romney hates (poor) Mexicans.

Romney: Do not (specifically)!

Obama is following the Romney plan of bulling people over!!! And Romney has a new plan of asking off-topic questions repeatedly like a drunken frat boy!!!

Kerry Ladka: Obama... Libya... what you do?!?!?

Romney just placed 13 Rove-approved talking points in one 2 minute response. He is awarded 10 meaningless points.

Hunter Romney poked the Papa Obama bear. Papa growled.

Will Obama finally talk guns?!?!?! *gasp*

A broader conversation? Way to pussy out, POTUS. Guns for everyone!

Mitt Saves The Guns! Guns for all mentally ill!

How did guns turn to single parent homes? Mitt just yanked the wheel and threw everyone out of the golf cart.

Oh, I see what he did. Fast and Furious. The Big Bird of the GOP.

Every time Mitt flops his dick out unnecessarily, Candy happily tucks it back into his pants for him. Thanks, Candy.

Romney knows jobs goes to China? Who told him?!?!?

Mitt's going to make America more attractive to create jobs in. To his friends, anyway. You know, they guys who shipped the jobs overseas to put more money in their pockets.

Top of the 9th and Mitt has a man on second and one out.

Question from Barry: Mitt, why are you a god-fearing robot that cares about people you can make money off of?

When Obama goes off on dreamy tangents, he sounds like, well, Mitt Romney.

Yup, Obama just hit a grand slam in the bottom of the ninth. Goodnight, Irene.

Diffusion Theory and the Liberation of Mortimer Spänket

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 18:10:00 +0000

It was at 2:15pm on a Thursday in 1984, in the dead still of an august heat wave, when Mortimer Spänket first discovered a phenomenon that would inextricably change society for the remainder of human existence. Mortimer, a 38-year old CPA with dark-rimmed bifocals and thin, auburn strands that tried in vain to cover his near-bald crown, was building an oak chest for his brother when he struck scientific gold. While moving a sawhorse from one end of the garage to the other, the awkward manner in which it was carried chafed the inseam of his favorite corduroy pants. After he set the sawhorse down, he noticed something strange about his body: he had an erection. Mortimer had not experienced one of these since Rebecca, his wife of seven years and the love of his life, left him for Bill Northrup, their Schwann’s delivery man.

The ideas surged through his simple mind, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. “When the sawhorse rubbed against me, the feeling was faintly reminiscent but thoroughly enjoyable,” he thought. Upon further experimentation, he discovered that massaging himself triggered a physiological response similar to intercourse with his former wife.

Mortimer quickly realized the advantages of this activity. What freedom, he surmised, in being able to enjoy that same feeling without having to suffer Rebecca’s innumerable excuses and demands. “Where was this ten years ago,” he quipped to Lemmy, the persnickety tabby cat he purchased six years before from the local PetSmart. It was something everyone could enjoy regardless of gender or race. This was a universal cure-all, a Chicken Soup for the Lonely, with no risk necessary for the reward. He knew deep in his heart that once people saw how easy this was to perform, they too would adopt this amazing routine and utilize it to find peace in their lives as well. And that maybe, just maybe, he would be recognized for this monotony-shattering invention. Fame was something Mortimer had always daydreamed about but never once considered. “Just imagine…” he pondered, but Lemmy never broke concentration from the birds outside his kitchen window.

Unfortunately for Mortimer, he was neither a man of authority nor influence. From birth, he matured well behind universal standards. Bethany Dinkleman ridiculed him in front of the entire class 3rd grade class when he asked her if she had “an ouchie”; the spot was actually a birthmark, a fact even Stinky Andy knew, and no one talked to Stinky Andy. It took him until junior year of high school before he successfully tied his shoes without reciting “loop, swoop, and pull” aloud. Though never clinically diagnosed, he was generally regarded as slow.

Now living alone in the modest, ranch-style two-bedroom he and Rebecca bought after their honeymoon, Mortimer maintained a quiet life separate from the denizens of Pine Valley, a bustling suburb in Eastfield, IL., where Mortimer had lived his entire life. How was he, a portly man prone to crippling anxiety attacks, to tell the world of his creation when his voice was softer than a mouse’s and no one in the universe knew he existed, let alone the good people of Pine Valley? His only chance was to convince Chad Young, Eastfield High’s 1963 football standout and Mortimer’s former nemesis, to adopt his innovation and help him spread the word. But this would not be an easy pill to swallow.

His hesitation was justified: From fall of 1960 until graduation in June of 1964, Chad Young had found new ways of terrorizing Mortimer daily. The memories of these teenage pranks bored deep into his psyche, leaving scars that slowly reopened throughout his adult life. To make matters worse, Chad had not suffered the “former high school jock” fate portrayed on television. Instead he exceeded his athletic expectations by crushing NCAA rushing records before an MCL tear ended his career, then amassing a small fortune by way of successful investments. He and his wife, Erica, owned the largest house in Pine Valley, a six-bedroom estate perched atop Simon’s Hill facing southeast, soaking in all the morning sun 3.5 perfectly-groomed acres can. In fact, that previous May, Chad was the first Apple Macintosh owner in Pine Valley. By July, every house from Sparrow St. to Brookside Ave. had one.

Mortimer cringed knowing his fortune lay entwined with Chad’s. If his message were to ever reach beyond the okra-colored walls of his bedroom, it needed to ride on the booming, cocksure baritone that Chad maintained with admirable consistency, from the Life of God church pews on Sunday to the Eastfield High booster seats on Saturday he and Erica possessed lifetime tickets to.

With every ounce of resolve he could muster, Mortimer approached the motorized gate that ushered visitors to and from the Young’s home and requested a moment of Chad’s time from the intercom. Once through the gate and trekking the 100-yard driveway, he realized he had yet to name his invention. “I must be remembered,” he averred in his newfound confidence. “Spänket is too weird. Perhaps an Americanized version will suffice…” And with that, Spank It™ was born.

Chad listened in silent discomfort as Mortimer began explaining his adopted maneuver. Though the awkwardness of the situation was palpable, his keen eye for investment potential twitched. There was no denying the significance Spank It held for the future. In a flurry of brilliance and horror, Chad’s den became a lab for experimentation that all but sealed their destiny. Covered in sweat and painted with the grins of a mad scientist, they agreed to not shake hands until tomorrow, and from that day forward their mission was to share this beautiful discovery with the residents of Pine Valley, just as Prometheus delivered fire to the people of Olympus.

Chad wasted no time in disseminating his message, first inviting the Rochman’s over for dinner Friday night, and then the Hornicker’s on Saturday. He knew that with the right introduction, as well as a bottle or two of Eastfield Market’s finest cabernet sauvignon, these couples would use their tremendous reach and influence to pass on the bliss of Spank It.

Cyrus and Dinah Rochman, both successful podiatrists and social butterflies in Eastfield’s nightlife, were never without the latest trends, as indicated that summer by their purchase of the newly debuted Sony Compact Disc Player. Tom and Judy Hornicker owned Hornicker Hardware Supply on the corner of Maple and Huxely. Tom was renowned for similarities in look (and dress) to Magnum P.I.’s Tom Selleck. Judy, an athletic blonde with family ties to President Reagan, would curiously develop a Nordic accent after her third glass of wine. By Monday morning, both the Rochman’s and Hornicker’s would Spank It with delight. Come September, all of Pine Valley’s prominent couples were “Spanking It”.

The rest of Eastfield was unsure just what was happening in Pine Valley. Hearthwood Hills residents heard through the gossip mill (A.K.A. Arcadia Sun Yacht Club) that Pine Valley folks had “flipped their collective lids” over some new dance they would not disclose the moves to. However, the rural commoners of Norwood had a far different understanding. Sally Bergenheim told everyone before Sunday mass at Our Lady of Perpetual Jealousy, the largest Catholic Church in Eastfield, that everyone in Pine Valley was possessed by demons, effectively directing 97% of that weekend’s prayers toward its inhabitants.

With confusion and misinformation flooding the minds of their small, Northern Illinois community, Mortimer and Chad realized there was more work to be done. With all of Pine Valley fully assimilated to Spank It, it was now time to quell the fears discomforting the rest of Eastfield. That October evening, the two men devised a plan: a publicity stunt, which by today’s standards seems ordinary, but in the prudish Midwest of 1984 was downright insane. They planned an elegant gala that would double as the public debut for Spank It.

Invitations were sent to all corners of Eastfield, bringing only the most influential people of each neighborhood to the historic event at Pine Valley’s Community Center. Every suburb was represented: from the cream of cosmopolites in Hearthwood Hills (including the annoying-but-filthy rich Roose couple), to the more progressive families of the Norwood farming district. There was all the music, food, and ado of an average black-and-white affair, but the highlight of that evening would be its guest of honor: Mortimer, the ordinary man with an extraordinary message. “Spank it.”

Chad confidently took the Robert P. Chast memorial stage, tapped the microphone twice to gather attention, and then began his presentation by disclosing the evening’s true purpose. Disgust swept over the crowd like food poisoning. The mob was outraged, screaming at Chad to leave the stage and repent. Chad reeled in confusion, stunned at the visceral, violent reaction to something he considered simple and perfect. In that moment, his first taste of repugnance, Chad finally understood why Mortimer was who he was. Being subjected to four years to public humiliation day after day forced him to form the protective bubble he had lived in since high school; a protective layer between himself and the world he was convinced hated his very existence. Chad finally realized Mortimer was broken, and that it may have been his fault.

Just as the hostility reached a fevered pitch, Mortimer burst onto the stage wearing nothing more than argyle trouser socks, his best Sunday loafers, and a layer of sweat that could be seen from Chicago. The crowd fell silent, startled by the stout, bare-naked man before them. He knew this was his only chance to convince the proud people of Eastfield that his discovery, Spank It, was the revolutionary concept he believed it to be. Right then and there, at 9:16pm on a brisk November evening, Mortimer Spänket held the first-ever, public demonstration of Spank It.

Not a soul in attendance ever spoke of that night, the gala, or what they saw on the Robert P. Chast memorial stage. The rumors of what happened following Mortimer’s daring feat twisted and turned through Illinois until they took on a life of their own. One thing was for sure, though: the night was a smashing success. Within one year of the gala, everyone in America was hooked on Spank It. Mortimer became a hero overnight, proudly accepting the Nobel Peace Prize in 1986 for Spank It‘s role in the reductions of global atrocities and creation of new international treaties.

Mortimer remained in that modest, two-bedroom house on Pine Valley’s northwest side. Eastfield had always been his home, and he was finally able to live there free of fear and regret. He and Chad regularly met for coffee and chess, their past awash in a sea of bygones. The shades to his living room window were no longer drawn permanently shut, allowing every passing neighbor to wave to him with genuine delight. Content with the strange luck fate had dealt him, Mortimer spent his remaining days in front of that window, completing the daily crossword puzzle or skimming the local newspaper. He had been given a very special gift, and in turn selflessly gave that gift to the rest of the world. Although most of the rumors about the 1984 Pine Valley Gala were false, one was unequivocally true: from that night on, Mortimer never went another day without smiling. Lemmy gently purred in approval.

The Weakening of American Minds: Language and Technology

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 18:24:00 +0000

The American mind is weakening from a compromised language and the replacement of needed thought processes with technology. I will support my theory with examples of recent changes in society created by media and technology, the medical repercussions of the changes and the overall effects of cause-effect relationships on Americans.

The aggregation and dissemination of intelligence by modern media fare is the primary benefit of technology in First World countries. The average American’s ability to summon any information to a handheld device within seconds only solidifies the need for an internet possessing all known information and history, a 24-hour news cycle in an array of niches and perspectives, and endless mediums for user-generated content. The more customers there are with devices, the more content is needed to sate the diverse customer base. This cycle embodies technology and media’s integration and necessity in the twenty-first century and is known as Global-Lateral Omnipotence Propagation (GLOP).

With affordable access to up-to-the-second world news and centuries worth of knowledge, companies offering mobile connectivity or Wi-Fi-enabled devices are creating demigods of all individuals with means to purchase the service. Within a couple decades, GLOP will have bred a race of humans who can answer any question faster than history’s greatest scholars without ever using their own memory. The only secret to intelligence will be the ownership of a device and a monthly access service charge.

At its core, GLOP is the media giant’s agenda to monopolize the news and information we receive by creating a deep, personal need for “all-in-one” devices that gives them a direct portal to individual consumers. This portal, bridged by our blind trust of innovative technologies, will be their direct access to our eyes and mind; a disencumbered chute to funnel advertising, media and information to us while clandestinely implanting advertising and censoring content as early as its source. The plan is simple: in order to keep the cycle alive, it must be self-sustained and self-contained; therefore, collusion between the content holders and device makers becomes paramount. The more parts of the GLOP cycle they own, the more control they have over the end user.

Our crippling reliance on technology has already weakened children’s minds and chipped away at our lackadaisical education standards. Our ability to retain information has been compromised by devices offering direct access to more information than any one person could dream of retaining; access so simple it undermines the need for retention completely.

Try summoning a phone number you call daily through a speed-dialing system in your mobile phone. If you have trouble remembering it, or even a phone number you have known for years, it is possibly the onset of a condition known as Semantic Atrophy of Sense and Significance (SASS). SASS results from a lack of memorization, usually regarding important social and historical events, that leads to a physical shrinking of the brain. The most aggressive cases have been found in viewers of reality television shows and audiences of conservative news organizations.

The suggestion that a machine is an acceptable replacement for human practice seems absurd, yet the calculator has been so deeply integrated into our business and educational systems that rudimentary arithmetic is suffering a fate similar to our native language, an issue I will address later on. That the technology is apt is irrelevant; we are substituting the rehearsal of long-term memory by leaning on GLOP instead of utilizing our brain’s potential. We are slowly investing more and more of our intelligence to the cloud, blindly confident that our future will never lose signal to the server we have entrusted our futures to.

There are other dilemmas with having a generation plugged solely into one database. As it is now with news and entertainment, there are only a handful of corporations controlling either the source of, or our access to, entertainment, media, and our internet-based wealth of knowledge. In fact, the majority of our current and historical information already trickles through the fingers of media conglomerates before it ever sees our eyes. As the source-to-absorption pathway moves dangerously more vertical, it begs the question: how can minds grow if they draw the same datum from the same database? The culture and diversity of our society will lie in the hands of the few who can kink the hose; corporations so intoxicated on power they can alter the past, present, and future with mere say so. They will run empires that only provide content if it bears financial benefit and destroy anything that challenges their political alliances. With all minds homogenized, the future will be bought and sold back to us before we realize it.

The last twenty years have yielded amazing advancements in technology, and along with a new industry comes a new canon of vocabulary. The internet alone has added a sizable nomenclature to the English language. From search engine optimization terminology to computer-mediated communication (the compounding and acronymous alteration of words), all citizens now freely use terms a person in the 1970’s would think were gibberish. This swift, simultaneous expansion and contraction in language is called the Lexical Invert/Evert Dynamic (LIED).

Yet, with unmitigated access to centuries of knowledge, including English’s immeasurable complexity and expanse, we have not only chosen to cull the already-thinning volume of commonly-used words, but also to cheapen a rich, historic language with lazy shortcuts. Where dictionaries are no stranger to the gradual integration of slang, this blending of lexicon and informal web-jargon is more likely a circumvent of education than a universal acknowledgement of acceptance, and it is proving a troublesome challenge for our teachers to control thanks to media’s further reach and tighter grip on America’s youth.

The ripple effect of this lingual shift is more than just confused parents and young adults appearing mentally handicapped; there has been a resurgence of a rare disease known as Idiom Cessation-Kuru (ICK), where the brain and CNS are critically impacted by a lack of decipherable, intelligent interpersonal communication. The cessation stems from continued overuse of computer-mediated communication, such as “LOL”, in day-to-day conversation. Kuru is prominent in individuals who substitute the description of an “emoticon” (e.g. saying “sad face” aloud) for the muscle reflexes and chemical reactions our bodies require to maintain emotional homeostasis.

In summary, based on the cause-effect relationships of GLOP-SASS and LIED-ICK, the American mind is substantially weaker due to our apathetic response to the rape of the English language and the collusion of media conglomerates and mobile technology manufacturers to outsource our individual intellects and cede control of the world’s knowledge database to the highest bidders.

Circling the Drain: A Love Story

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 04:43:00 +0000

In my lap she laid, gasping for breathe through blood-filled lungs, staring into my soul with that cold, dead gaze I had come to know intimately. I loved her more than I ever loved myself. In many ways she was the beginning of me. Had my life stayed its course she would have been the end of me as well. It’s the details we remember afterward that come to define our experiences. It’s the sensations we can’t forget that determine who we’ll be when all is said and done. There is a reality that sets in when the handcuffs click into place.

In the days since I have had ample time to scrutinize my life. What I found was logic similar to M. C. Escher’s Relativity. The embarrassment boils my guts like sap in a maple log fire. Our long-term, public romance ended as dramatically as it began. I disappeared before word got out to avoid the squinting eyes of judgment locking down on my every move. A once prolific and fiery love affair became my misery and shame, my poverty and grief. My only choice was to become a shadow in the town’s memory, the discolored paint where a picture had hung for years.

My first true love was a slow-drip of poison and I stood by her all the while. Weightless in the gravity of my consequences, I circled the drain nightly convinced it would never run out of water. No one ever said she was wrong for me except my mother. Damn… why didn’t I listen to my mother? We always think we know better than our parents. Now I eat humble pie at the table quietly. It is filled with my words, every last one of them used to praise my former lover, topped in dollops of regret for embracing a life that relied too heavily on her and barely on me.

What’s lost in the controversy of our relationship is what she meant to me. We were never really partners of a committed sort. She was an escape from reality meant to ease the sting of shortcomings I eventually came to realize she enabled. Every night I found myself wrapped in her arms and intoxicated by the warmth and acceptance; a mosaic of comforts massaging my body and mind until I awoke to the emptiness of my bed and existence.

More and more I looked forward to my nightly respite in paradise. The anticipation of her inside my every cell grew to become a necessity. I could have normality by day and liberation by night: a functional, unassuming day followed by an evening of hijinks and debauchery. Each day ended in bliss, having reveled with my comrades and thoroughly enjoyed my sweetheart.

The truth of it is, I loved her but I didn’t respect her. Not enough, anyway. She was my beloved but never really my friend. Our relationship was killing me and I knew it in my heart. She spent all my money, toyed with my emotions, and led me so far down a dark path I lost my identity and all sense of right and wrong. I’ll never fault her, though. I blame myself for being so goddamned foolish.

Weakness is hard for any man to admit, though I can honestly say I was never addicted to her. Now that she’s gone I barely think about her. The lust to have her in control of me has subsided completely. But when I held her… I was my frailest. I loved the escape more than any day of reality I could remember. It was never her substance I was attracted to; I was drawn to the environment in which she dwelled and the fantasy I entered the instant we touched.

Deep down I knew I would never quit her until something larger than me forced my hand. Guess I always imagined it would be a doctor stepping into an examination room, a furled brow with various colored papers on his clipboard, setting his hand gently on my shoulder and telling me with certainty that if I continued on this way I would be dead by forty. This would set forth an astonishing reversal of lifestyle, first by marrying the only woman who stuck by me through the worst, and ending with nice kids and retirement from a mid-level career. An Oscar-worthy role, no doubt, but this was no movie and the reality was that a judge would be handing down my ultimatum instead.

There is a reality that sets in when the handcuffs click into place. For me, I was finally free. I could never leave her willingly so I killed her with the very negligence she instilled in me. A coward’s path, I know, but one never knows how they will react when trapped on a hamster wheel and suddenly aware of it. The bravest souls walk away and wash their hands of the cycle. The rest of us pull the plug and pray the strainer keeps us from disappearing.

Love Conquers Thyself: Conspiracy, Christianity, and Our Chemical Voice

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Wed, 07 Dec 2011 02:52:00 +0000

A Google search on the word “love” produces roughly seven billion, thirty million responses. Love is mentioned in nearly every movie and book created, and is, if not about the absence of, the inspiration for art of every medium. We use this word every day to describe our affection for any manner of person, object or situation. But do we really know what love is? The answer is no. Love is a myth, and what was a comforting fabrication has snowballed into a worldwide delusion of expectations that undermine our biology.

First, we need to view love in the abstract. Because a mere four-letter word supports a multitude of definitions, both personal and communal, we must remove ourselves from the idealism to see it objectively for what it is; a simple creature burdened with representing our every motive for existence.

Let us establish a few baselines to ensure we agree on the definition of love. We agree that: love represents support - “If I love something I support it.”; that love represents acceptance – “If I love something I accept it wholly and welcome it into my life”; that love represents caring – “If I love something I honestly worry for its welfare and will care for it”; and that love represents comfort – “If I love something I choose to comfort it and take comfort in it.”

Let us also agree that there is no empirical chemical or physical evidence establishing the existence of love. There are no documented, confirmed connections between brainwave patterns and thought processes associated solely with love. All “proof” is anecdotal at best.
The biggest weakness in love’s myth is the lack of clear definition. Every dictionary requires a host of explanations to capture its substance. Thesauruses are just as beguiled, associating an array of words from “attachment” to “cherish” to “yearning” to “glorify”. This broadness leads to interpretation, and interpretation leads to confusion and fallacy. Woody Allen best captured love’s circular logic in Love and Death:

To love is to suffer. To avoid suffering one must not love. But then one suffers from not loving. Therefore to love is to suffer, not to love is to suffer. To suffer is to suffer. To be happy is to love. To be happy then is to suffer. But suffering makes one unhappy. Therefore, to be unhappy one must love, or love to suffer, or suffer from too much happiness. I hope you're getting this down.

As described through generations of literary expression, the idea of love is pure; an altruistic expression of whole acceptance and, in the mating sense, an opting for more intimate interpersonal relations. The fabric of it comforts people from beginning of life to the brink of death. It is the balancing opposition to evil, providing a shelter from hatred and sound reason to forego violence. It is the marathon of devotion, a commitment to everlasting fidelity after the physical expression is gone. Although these are positive aspects of love, we must also recognize that these are the main expectations of religious tenet.

Love, as an entity, holds so many similarities to modern Christianity that it is difficult not to consider it an integrated belief system. It views itself as a uniting force while downplaying its destructive potential and history. Thousands have killed in the name of it. Millions profit from it daily. Love is heaven for the lovers and hell for the lonely. We need only look to the bloody crucifix and the breaking heart-shape to see congruencies in their symbolic idols. The most defining similarity, though, is the millions of people the world around who believe firmly in love’s presence in the absence of pragmatic proof. Believers claim “feeling” love, just as Christians attest to “feeling” God inside of them, but neither claim provides a commonsensical explanation nor can authenticate existence. It is its own religion, complete with cryptic messages, twisted variations and an intangible existence.

The only proof given that love exists is anecdotal; situations in which a person experiences extreme emotion, typically of a devotional sort, that is so powerful they find no other words to describe it. It not only transcends language, but the physical response is also bewildering and indescribable. But becoming clammy, ashen and bereft of proper descriptors when in the presence of an important person, or bearing an unyielding responsibility for family, does not necessitate an oversimplification in order to understand and provide comfort. When is it solely the innate response, through the bonds of shared DNA, to protect the species? When is it merely a person with limited vocabulary experiencing natural physiological stress symptoms associated with homosapien mating habits? By combining beautiful human interactions, like romantic yearning and kindred accountability, into one general “feeling” we trivialize our intricate chemistry and relationships.

The danger of love’s presence nowadays is the same danger archaic religious modalities pose on modern society. It was constructed in an era when life necessitated moral law and the commandments were gaining behavioral control of the masses by way of fear. Monogamy encouraged marriage, a man-made institution critical in building the family structure we would eventually shape our laws around. Now marriage, more specifically the wedding, is a multibillion-dollar generator in the U.S., binding two individuals legally for shared health benefits and tax purposes. Sitting atop the celebration and commerce is the figurehead of the industry: love, a puppet master pulling the strings of 5,690 joyous occasions per day (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services).

If love is the basis of marriage, why is there no standard for verification that a couple is in fact in love before they get married? The only qualification for this privilege is a litmus test of one’s current emotional state, which is essentially a collection of chemical reactions to internal desires and outside stimuli from their environment. Love is, for all intents and purposes, made up. Yet we rest such powerful implications, from spousal privilege to U.S. citizenship, on the shoulders of an oral tradition.

We are taught early on to find our Prince Charming or Cinderella. The values bestowed upon us in childhood are the same our parents and their parents were raised with: delusions of potential grandeur in monogamy, a lottery of sorts that could bring prosperity and life-long happiness to you regardless of your station. Neglected in this utopian vision, however, are the lovers forced to sacrifice their indoctrinated expectations when they learn perfection is not a likely scenario. To account for the majority of people failing the fairytale standard, we have painted over the margin of error with an industry of surface reinvention.

We still praise characteristics of fertility and health, but the metaphysical has been replaced almost exclusively by aesthetics. We have effectively reinvented secondary sex traits and placed an emphasis on possessing them. Primary sex characteristics are now enlarged surgically to represent ancillary virility and femininity. We have perfumes to mask our natural pheromones, designer clothing to label our bodies, and money and notoriety to distract from shortcomings. Qualities that lead one to find “true love” have been purchased by corporations, manufactured, and sold back to us as “true beauty”. People are now scientifically engineered and adorned to trigger the feelings attached to love spontaneously, further diminishing the effectiveness of our natural chemistry.

Love implies rules unnatural to the human organism. In its ubiquitous form, it belies warranted negativity and unreasonably suggests peace in matters too complicated to lay down arms. As its romantic embodiment, it encourages monogamy for the sake of commerce when coupling is no longer necessary to the species. It perpetuates a grandiose idealism that builds false hope, compromising our ability as youngsters to differentiate lust from long-term, and compromising our ability as adults to merge our expectations with the realistic landscape of society. In the end, the term “love” marginalizes the complexity of human emotion by squeezing our romantic yearnings, our nurturing impulses, our mating habits and our aversions to violence into a simple, single word incapable of translating even one definition thoroughly.

Love does not conquer all, it only conquers those foolish enough to place their faith in a myth. Turn off the fairytales. Learn your physiology. Let peace happen. Enjoy your companion and tend to your kin. There is no need to translate emotion verbally because we are built with senses capable of communicating with one another. If you truly “love” someone, they will know how you feel in every touch, in every glance, and with every minute spent in their presence. When all the words are gone we can finally break the chains of language’s contraint and enjoy the subconscious whispers of our anatomy, as the only language left will be spoken by our bodies.

Works Cited

Allen, Woody. Love and Death. Los Angeles: United Artists, 1975. Print.

U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Births, Marriages, Divorces, and Deaths: Provisional Data for 2009. Vol. 25.: National Vital Statistics Reports, 2010. Print.

Same-Sexism Marriage: A Tragedy Made in History

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 03:26:00 +0000

The battle for civil rights burned over centuries, eventually forcing the hand of government to produce multiple legislations making human rights a reality for millions of Americans. Blacks became free to pursue a mutual existence in America while women secured laws protecting their jobs, safety and bodies. Now we turn our attention to the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) community. Homosexuals are the modern minority, and the current momentum of their civil rights movement has made federal recognition nearly inevitable. That being said, gay males will be allowed to marry legally before lesbians.

Although this seems impossible considering the temperament of feminism and unity we currently live in, the idea that males will precede females in constitutional freedom is not only plausible, it is the more likely scenario, and for one primary reason: History repeats itself.

In the current climate of gender-unified thinking, it would be easy to assume that legislation will encompass gays and lesbians as a whole. However, civil rights can be dealt exclusively by sex, and we need only look to the late 1860’s to find evidence of such provision. The struggle for black and women’s rights endured collectively until the Fourteenth Amendment, which broadened the definition of U.S. citizenship and negated legislation that intentionally neglected male minorities. This cleared a path for the Fifteenth Amendment to permit voting rights regardless of "race, color, or previous condition of servitude"; a huge step for our country, but one major detail was omitted: gender (US Const., amend. XV, sec. 1). Men of every color could now vote because the Fourteenth Amendment specified “male citizens twenty-one years of age”, but women remained sidelined during elections because the Fifteenth Amendment ignored any correction of their slight (US Const., amend. XIV, sec. 2).

This development not only fractured relations between the women’s rights movement and the black rights movement, it split suffragists down the middle. “Many abolitionists initially advocated universal suffrage, for both African Americans and women. When that was made impossible by the insertion of the word male in the 14th and 15th amendments, [they] campaigned against any amendment that would deny voting rights to women. Among their opponents were former allies… who argued that it was “the Negro’s hour” and that women’s suffrage would have to wait.” (Hewitt)

White women had always possessed more rights than blacks, including “… the right to own real property in their own names, make contracts, speak freely, and so on” (Amar 5). However, with the Fourteenth Amendment snub and the Fifteenth Amendment’s 1870 ruling, all women took a back seat to all men. Color barriers fell but women’s voting rights were set on the backburner, simmering until the Nineteenth Amendment in 1920. It took women fifty more years to find gender equality in voting. Therefore, it should be no stretch to imagine gay’s marriage rights preceding lesbian’s rights in an upcoming amendment.

This was not the last time women would wait longer for rights. One of the last frontiers is an ongoing battle for equality that rages to this day, and it is one freedom they wouldn’t start making progress on until the 1940’s.

Black men had fought in U.S. wars since the American Revolution. The first step in acceptance of the black soldier came by way of a speech from Gen. Andrew Jackson in 1814:

Through a mistaken policy you have heretofore been deprived of a participation in the glorious struggle for national rights in which our country is engaged. This no longer shall exist. As sons of freedom, you are now called upon to defend our most inestimable blessing… To every noble hearted, generous, freeman of color, volunteering to serve during the present contest with Great Britain… there will be paid the same bounty in money and lands … Due regard will be paid to the feelings of freemen and soldiers. You will not… be exposed to improper comparisons or unjust sarcasm. As a distinct independent battalion or regiment… you will, undivided, receive the applause and gratitude of your countrymen. (Proclamation)

Women have been a part of the U.S. military since the Revolutionary War as well, but only in an auxiliary capacity. Forbidden from nearing camp or combat, they were forced to dress as men in order to sneak their way onto platoons and into battle. The first was Deborah Sampson, who enlisted as a Continental Army soldier under the name of her deceased brother, Robert Shurtliff Sampson (The New York Times). Women went so far as to offer their services to the President personally, as documented by Annie Oakley’s letter to William McKinley:

Hon Wm. McKinley, President

Dear Sir, I for one feel confident that your good judgment will carry America safely through without war. But in case of such an event I am ready to place a company of fifty lady sharpshooters at your disposal. Every one of them will be an American and as they will furnish their own arms and ammunition will be little if any expense to the government.

Very truly,

Annie Oakley (Oakley)

Unfortunately, the lack of female involvement in the Union army played cleanly into the hands of their antagonists. “Part of the justification for excluding women from the Fifteenth Amendment - under the theory that it was "the black man's hour" - was precisely that women had not served in the Union army. We now begin to see an interesting link in Section 2 of the Fourteenth Amendment between the presumptive militia - male citizens over twenty-one years of age residing in the state - and presumptive voters.” (Amar 5) The Fourteenth Amendment specified military requirements for the purpose of giving black male adults civil rights and in doing so facilitated the omission of women from the Fifteenth Amendment.

All through American history women have played vital roles in our wars, but they were not recognized officially until July of 1943 when a bill allowed the Women's Army Auxiliary Corps to drop “Auxiliary” from its title, thus making it a part of the regular army. Although progress has been steady in the fight for female soldier rights, larger achievements have been elusive. Women account for only 14% of the active military and, to this day, are still restricted from positions of combat. And it’s not for a lack of evidence to the contrary (Department of Defense). An excerpt from Sect. IV, Part B. of the Defense Advisory Committee on Women in the Services, 2010 Report (16):

Recommendation:
[Department of Defense (DOD)] should eliminate the 1994 combat exclusion policy… thereby ending gender-based restrictions on military assignments. Concurrently, DoD and the services should open all related career fields/specialties, schooling and training opportunities that have been closed to women as a result of the DoD combat exclusion…

Reasoning in Support of the Recommendation:
Opening up all… opportunities that have been closed to women will contribute to national security and to the readiness of the forces by permitting commanders to fully employ their personnel without regard to gender. In addition, eliminating gender-based assignment restrictions will promote equal opportunity because the restrictions bar women from certain military assignments without regard to their qualifications... As has been apparent for a number of years, women are performing direct ground combat jobs and performing them well. Whatever may have been the basis of the combat exclusion policy in 1994, it is no longer warranted.

Yet the Department of Defense remains defiant in their justification. “... [R]easons for continuing the ground combat exclusion policy… officials said they believed that “integrating women into ground combat units would not contribute to the readiness and effectiveness of those units” due to the nature of direct ground combat and the way individuals need to perform under those conditions. The DOD official providing the briefing said that physical strength and stamina, living conditions, and lack of public support for women in ground combat were some of the issues considered.” (United States. General Accounting Office 6)

The phrase “living conditions” is mentioned repeatedly in the DOD’s reasoning; a reference to women needing separate barracks and facilities from men. The tacit implication is the threat male enlistees are to women in the service. According to the study Factors Associated With Women’s Risk of Rape in the Military Environment, out of a 640 current and retired female soldiers, 79% reported sexual harassment and 54% reported unwanted sexual contact. 30% endured at least one completed or attempted rape; of these victims, 37% experienced multiple attacks while 14% were subjected to gang-rape (Sadler 266). Regardless the strides in equality the military makes, the most important achievement will be extinguishing the continued, and well chronicled, mistreatment of female soldiers. This evidence clearly shows that the U.S. military is nowhere near a functional integration of women as they have yet to provide adequate protection and indiscriminately prosecute sex offenders within their ranks.

It has been a long, brutal struggle for women to get where they are today. After centuries stripped of rights equality has been achieved, and there are more freedoms on the horizon. Unfortunately they remain on the far side of a thicket dense with briars: lower wages, objectification, rape. Although civil rights efforts for male minorities were also wearisome and costly, freedoms came to fruition far more quickly. With the next big civil rights push in America being LGBT equality, history will repeat itself, allowing gay males the federal right to marry before lesbians.

Works Cited

Amar, Akhil Reed. “The Fifteenth Amendment and Political Rights.” Faculty Scholarship Series. Yale Law School Legal Scholarship Repository, 1996. Web. 2 Nov. 2011. .

“Deborah Sampson: How She Served as a Soldier in the Revolution - Her Sex Unknown to the Army.” The New York Times 8 Oct. 1898: Print.

Department of Defense. “Female Active Duty Military Personnel by Rank/Grade.” DoD Personnel & Procurement Statistics. Department of Defense, 30 Sept. 2009. Web. 2 Nov. 2011. .

Hewitt, Nancy A. “Abolition & Suffrage.” PBS. Public Broadcasting Service, Web. 3 Nov. 2011. .

Human Rights Campaign, comp. “Same-Sex Relationship Recognition Laws: State by State.” Human Rights Campaign. Human Rights Campaign, 25 June 2011. Web. 2 Nov. 2011. .

Jackson, MG. Andrew. “Proclamation.” Head Quarters, 7th Military District. 21 Sept. 1814. Niles’ Weekly Register 3 Dec. 1814: 13. Print.

Oakley, Annie. Letter to President William McKinley. 5 Apr. 1898. Records of the Adjutant General’s Office, 1780’s–1917, Record Group 94. N.p.: n.p., n.d. N. pag. The U.S. National Archives and Records Administration . Web. 2 Nov. 2011. .

Sadler, Anne G., et al. “Factors Associated With Women’s Risk of Rape in the Military Environment.” American Journal of Industrial Medicine 43 (2003): 262-273. Print.

United States. Defense Advisory Committee. “IV. 2010 DACOWITS RECOMMENDATIONS AND REASONING IN SUPPORT OF THOSE RECOMMENDATIONS.” Women in the Services 2011. Washington: DACOWITS, 2011. B. ASSIGNMENTS. Print.

United States. General Accounting Office. Gender Issues: Information on DOD’s Assignment Policy and Direct Ground Combat Definition. Washington: GAO, 1998. Print.

Active Listening: The Modern Couple’s Al Qaeda

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sat, 25 Jun 2011 23:07:00 +0000

“It’s like you don’t hear a word I say anymore. Like you’ve grown tired of understanding me.”

This was what Anna said before she moved out five years ago. Technically, she said a lot of things before the door finally shut, unfortunately this is the only statement I remember and I just remembered it Thursday.

While holding up the alley wall of a downtown dive, I was lucky enough to share my cigarette with the millionth arguing couple of the evening. Being only the three of us in that damp, reverberating tunnel of early-twenties angst, I was an involuntarily witness to the dramatic reenactment of every breakup I experienced between ’02 and ’07, including Anna’s.

She wanted to leave earlier.

He didn’t know because he can’t read minds.

He should know her by now.

Blah, blah, blah.

This continued on through the myriad of classic problems all of us experience when communicating with the opposite sex.

When you no longer yearn to know what the other person is thinking, the relationship has run its course. It’s harsh but true.

We have filled our lives with subterfuge to the point where we can barely identify the needs of the person closest to us. I stopped caring what Anna thought or said. Not rudely but complacently, seeing as two years prior I was hanging from her every syllable. I allowed the minutia of life to blind me from the responsibility I assumed when I told her I loved her and would do anything for her.

“We have communication problems because you’re phoning it in half the time,” Anna once texted.

We’ve all heard the comedian’s riff on relationships: what she says vs. what he hears. It’s exaggerated, but what makes it funny is that it’s rooted in truth. Now, what if that same routine included how our communication issues stem from inflated self-worth, impossible needs and expectations, and an entertainment industry selling dishonesty and sexism dirt cheap? It probably wouldn’t go over like gangbusters because the truth is never funny. In fact it’s ugly and its mother dresses it funny.

Anna: “You should have known I wanted a red coat. How do you not know by now that I love red? Everything I own is red.”

Atticus: “Exactly. Everything you own is red. Thought you might want to step out a bit and try something new. Oh, and about the coat, you’re welcome.”

The degeneration of intersex communication is almost Pavlovian. Early in a relationship we are starving for sex, comfort, sex, companionship, sex; a hungry kid hears the ice cream truck a mile away. As time passes, the fragments of reality reassemble and we get lost again in the mundane. The hunger that drove us was rewarded with companionship, and like a kid that eats ice cream every day, we begin taking for granted the deliciousness of love because we are no longer thankful for it. We have been conditioned only to expect it.

How do we right the ship? Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus is absurdist guruism that complicates our instincts. Besides, the title is caustic and tantamount to an anatomy teacher reciting, “Milk, milk, lemonade…”. In my opinion, the solution is far simpler than we believe.

The ability to communicate well with your partner is a free choice made every day. Tear yourself away from the reality show and ask your boyfriend how his day was. Stop playing videogames for ten minutes and clean up the kitchen with your wife. Take a night off from partying with your friends to cuddle up on the couch and take in a movie. If you genuinely want this person in your life, you need to make them an active part of your life. We assume the roles of mother/father, cook/handyman, cleaner/provider, but we forget that the person making us dinner or working fifty hours every week needs to be listened to and loved just like us.

The best part about Anna was her smile, and in the clutter of everyday life I stopped trying to see it.

The American Buffet Is Dead

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 01:14:00 +0000

The American buffet is dead. The buildings still stand and the food is still (self) served, but what was once a hallowed hall of family bonding, work gatherings and friendly strangers united by gluttonous excess, has become a dilapidated house of subpar food, feckless service and a complimentary malaise that consumes you well before you have prepaid for your food.

Many of my favorite memories have taken place in buffets: family night at Ryan's Grill Buffet, Thanksgiving at Old Country Buffet (OCB), taking grandma to Ponderosa. If memory serves, my last great buffet trip was during college. My colleague from the health center, a married Latino woman in her early forties, would take biweekly trips to the OCB. These were wonderful days filled with laughter and heaping scrumptiousness. During our last visit we took pictures memorialize the occasion. Little did we know it was the end of an era.

I recently patronized two local buffets: a Ponderosa and an Asian all-you-can-eat. Both experiences fell well below the few expectations I still had, devastating my nationalism and inner-child in under five plates.

Firstly, the depression I felt upon entering each establishment was not mine alone. Drab carpet, drab wallpaper, faux-“country house” décor. Ponderosa appeared as if the cast of Mama’s House came over for dinner on the Bonanza set and nobody swept up after. The Asian place was drab as well, unkempt and a ghost land to boot. If your town has an “old mall” that was replaced by a new mall, these resembled the old mall’s food court. I have eaten at livelier senior centers.

Where both houses equally failed was service. When the staff outnumbers the patrons, yet you have to retrieve and refill your own beverage, it is easy to see why buffets have fallen on hard times. Eating around filthy plates and stealing napkins from nearby tables are not problems any restaurant should put you through, let alone a buffet. I realize this comes off as terribly lazy, but that is the point of the buffet: you pay out of your nose to eat unlimited food, and the server’s only purpose in the whole joint is to swiftly whisk away soiled plates and napkins and keep your glass from ever being empty. When the manager cannot even muster a smile as you pay or offer an “enjoy your meal” as they hand you the receipt, the problems may be deeper than we understand.

What disappointed me most was how every person in the building seemed completely dead inside, as if carbon monoxide had been leaking into the front house all day. Eaters heavy and small avoided eye contact with me. Each server an unoiled robot in permanent rape gaze. Even the food looked embarrassed to be there. We ate silently like someone at the table was asleep and we didn’t want to wake them.

Granted, my buffet heyday was before 2000, which predates 9/11, The Biggest Loser and Kirstie Alley fat jokes, but I fondly remember a time when you entered a buffet with your head held high. You were excited to consume as many as twenty different foods in under an hour. You were thankful your family was able to afford such a lavish Friday night out. You could unabashedly strut down the aisle holding two heaping plates of food because everyone else was eating the same way.

The American buffet was our Roman bath house; an orgy of limitless delicacies and Caligula-esque foodie perversions. You ate to excess because you lived to excess. It was our town center, hosting business meetings and family reunions. It was the place to be.

What caused this tragedy? Is this how it always felt at a buffet and I was too young to understand? Is the decade long assault on fatty foods and fatty people ultimately felling the modern buffet? Some phenomena we may never understand. I can only hope that all quality buffets survive this slump and one day reclaim their rightful throne. This is no longer about all-you-can-eat, it’s about all-you-can-believe-in.

Poor Son Of The Year

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 00:58:00 +0000

Mark Zuckerberg being named Time Magazine’s Person of the Year is yet another example of our misplaced priorities in heroism. Has he changed the way we live? Yes. Was it a necessary improvement the future of the human race was contingent upon? Not at all. Mark Zuckerberg is an intelligent individual that should be lauded for his business achievements and the quality of his product. However, he is not deserving of such a title when folks like Julian Assange, Hamid Karzai and Michael Pollan have altered the future of the world politically and digestively.

Entertainment Weekly’s Entertainer of the Year is, and should be, Taylor Swift; she is the consummate performer and class act. A real standout in a landscape strewn with talentless attention-seekers and reality shit piles on film. However, when using a bold phrase such as “Woman of the Year”, I don’t care if it is People Magazine, Reader’s Digest or Highlights announcing it, it should not used be to describe someone who has endured an emotional year personally.

Sandra Bullock got screwed around on by her bad boy husband and then won an Oscar. Ahem. Clinton? Warren? Pelosi? *choking back vomit* …Palin? At least she once straddled the blurry line between CSPAN and E!. Sandra is an entertainer that can buy all the foreign kids she wants but will not actually change the world one iota. Elizabeth Edwards was cheated on but still found the time to become a best-selling author and activist for healthcare reform, all while battling cancer until her passing this month. But no, People Magazine, it’s cool. Sandra was totally amazing in Blind Side.

Take some time this holiday season to reflect on who the real heroes are in this world. If you’re having trouble making the list, stop at a local school and meet some teachers, or read up on the folks creating our scientific future, or drop a case of beer down at the fire station. You’re not going to find many people worth looking up to on TV. No, television programming is almost exclusively entertainment these days. That’s why you know who Snooki is but not Luiz Inácio Lula da Silva.

Zuckerberg brought the world Facebook and for that I dig him, as I dig Milton S. Hershey, William Grant and Steven Hirsch. However, I will not abide this notable achievement being handed to a kid that merely simplified our communication abilities. Steve Hirsch didn’t invent porn but he made it awesome. Mark Zuckerberg pimped our Myspace. What did the guy that invented the cordless phone get? Not a god dammed thing but a patent and a pat on the ass.

My tumult is not aimed at Mark as a person but rather as a Person of the Year. the significance of such an honor being given to an overnight-ish success is almost shameful. Is this whom our children should believe is the most influential, important and praise-worthy individual of 2010? We all want to invent the next Pet Rock, but wouldn’t you rather have your kids looking up to the man closing in on a cure for AIDS? Call me old fashioned but it is my belief this distinction should be given to an actual hero and not some guy who built a cool toy and got filthy rich because of it.

For The Blizzard In You

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 23:39:00 +0000

The great blizzard of 2010 has arrived and I am officially snowed in. I could pop the Bronco into 4x4 and knife my way to the pub tonight… and I still may, but nonetheless I am snowed in now. What does that mean for you? Calm down, spaz, it’s better than you think.

Here is your gift, America: a raw post! All I want in return is a picture of your tits.

Today I won’t even bother to make this rant pretty. You will get my free streaming thoughts as if we were on the phone and your baby kept crying in the background making it hard for me to hear which ultimately pisses me off. Or as if we were Skyping and I forgot my webcam was on allowing you to witness how often I unknowingly dig in my nose and massage my genitals. Think of this as long form tweeting.

Football is more important than most things

In the midst of my current singlehood I would like to take this opportunity to remind folks that football is more important than most things that happen in the winter. If it is not dead, on fire, under the ice or at gunpoint, it can wait until the game is over.

Winter driving is for mildly smart people

Find X.

(snow + road) - temp = hazardous = X – (money + pride + pain + potential death)

Answer: X = your dumb ass. Be patient, drive safely. Don’t be the asshole in the snow bank or ditch. It may take longer to get there but at least you’ll get there, numbnuts.

As for black ice, well, I’ve had my terrible accident this lifetime… which means now I can laugh at yours:

Christmas is gay

The War On Christmas… shit. Look, I’m going to make some hot chocolate and let BBC4's Marcus Brigstocke handle it.

You spend hundreds of years infusing your belief system deep into our government, yet when a few non-Christians mention they’d rather not be praising Christ with every visit to the grocery store, the moral majority decide they are being attacked by the “politically correct” in a “war on Christmas”. Of all the volatile hot buttons (e.g. gays, abortion) that supposedly align Christians with mass politics, they outwardly state the over-Christmas-ifcation of ‘Merica is in direct opposition to political correctness. So it is incorrect?

I’m too exhausted to riff on store-bought Christian traditions, the Jesus myth and how the GOP and Fox will sacrifice days and millions of dollars this month to protect the sanctity of a holiday they lost control of a long time ago. They are points reestablished each year in defense of the Annual Fox News War On Atheists.

I am a tried and true Humanist (RE: Atheist) and therefore my arguments in most minds are considered malicious, so I’ll leave it at this: I like the holiday season for our ability as Americans to spend extra time with our families, embrace charitable acts and treat one another more kindly than we apparently choose to eleven months out of the year. Your ability to feel persecuted by harmless signs, quiet non-Christians and “Holiday Season” celebrations probably means you’re not focusing on what is important, such as family, charity and kindness. Be a better Christian and you’ll never notice the difference between us.

And why did I state that Christmas is gay? If I’d said it was retarded you’d be offended.

_______________________________

I was out of hot chocolate so I made cold beer. Six of them, to be exact, and am now officially more plowed than my driveway. Enjoy your particular holiday with your designated family in the nonspecific way you choose to celebrate it.

Begin Again

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Wed, 24 Nov 2010 00:47:00 +0000

No one said changing your life would be easy.

When comfortable, we spread our lives into every nook and cranny around us, our limbs like tentacles that not only support but attach.

We do this in relationships; the complexity of our entanglements becomes more apparent as we attempt to unravel them.

We do this in our work space; our chairs indented to fit, our tools worn down after years on the workday rollercoaster, a lifetime’s achievements that fit neatly into an 11" x 17" copy paper box.

We do this in our homes; the many corners and closets we craved when moving in become tombs for memories, keepsakes guarded closely in the webs, more or less forgotten until we move again.

Some say the hardest part of changing your life is the little things.

Like looking at the city you’ve fallen in love with for the final time; the bar and its patrons, the bus and its denizens, the streets and their personality.

Like finally accepting that she isn’t coming back, no matter how real it feels in your dreams, and allowing love to find you again.

Like relearning to say yes to chance opportunities, to leave your comfort in the car while diving head first into the myriad of fortuitous moments, both brilliant and life-changing, that are always awaiting you on the other side of fear.

Some say letting go is the hardest part, but once you learn to release, freedom is no longer difficult, like jumping into Lake Michigan on a moderate August day, enduring the shock that will ensue to enjoy the fun after your body acclimates.

Some say the hardest part of starting over is facing the adversity and judgment while never compromising your pursuit of happiness.

Happiness, like love, is a fabricated description of chemical reactions. There is no medical evaluation to find it, no handbook to achieve it, no purchase to experience it. It is vague and inexplicable.

Although it is the antithesis of sadness, sadness is a far more tangible ordeal. Melancholy devours one’s will, feasting upon confidence and pummeling motivation as it ravages the soul. Happiness is not nearly as physical. It is more the absence of sorrow, the void of pain.

Some say the hardest part is recognizing the sadness and consciously choosing to pursue happiness, squaring your shoulders to the mountain ahead and taking the first crucial steps.

Some say they know the hardest parts. Others say they know what happiness is. Most will tell you they have seen the worst. But no one said changing your life and starting over would be easy.

A Letter To My Future Children

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Mon, 07 Jun 2010 03:38:00 +0000

Dear future children,

Hello, ___________, ______________, ______________ and _____________. *

If you are reading this than I have done a great job raising you, because according to current trends one of every ten of your classmates is illiterate, therefore I am pretty much the greatest father ever and deserve a silk-screen t-shirt in honor of the accolade. Unless I’m dead, in which case your mother or adoptive family did a decent job bringing you up and it wouldn’t kill you to say “thank you” now and then.

Now that I think of it, I hope I’m not dead when you read this letter. The intent is to capture a period of time in my life before you were born so you can see what I was like when I was younger. If I die this letter will be crazy sad like that movie My Life.

Either way, another year has trickled down the hourglass, time spent in free fall toward my inevitable station as a crotchety old man, landing me even further from the coveted 18-24 demographic I prefer to party with and see naked.

If any of you are daughters, please disregard the last paragraph and listen to me very carefully: If you have sex anytime before twenty-two years of age I swear to god, dead or alive, I will haunt you mercilessly. All guys are assholes and literally only want to get in your pants. There are no exceptions. Any attractive guy who says otherwise is trying to chink your arm and make you easier. Any unattractive guy who says otherwise is flat-out lying. Avoid them all until after college and then only date good men. They are hard to find but you will know them by how kindly they treat everyone they meet.

Alright... now I am officially questioning the possible posthumous delivery of this note. What feels organic and beautiful now could come across creepy and impossible like Back To The Future III when Marty receives that lost, yellowed letter from Doc Brown.

Nonetheless, getting older isn’t all bad. Thanks to life’s insidious unpredictability I am chock full of revelations regarding human behavior. However, being adept in anticipating reaction is an albatross unto itself as it begets a greater sensitivity to the untrue, the stupid and the wrong. I hope I have imparted upon you most of the lessons life taught me. I realize we learn best when suffering ourselves but if even one scar is avoided by my words it could mean the difference between a positive, adventurous life and a jaded, scared existence.

In other news, we currently have a black president of the United States, though by now you’ve probably had… well, you probably haven’t had another one but at least you weren’t subjected to the infantile political antics, the confusing and inconsistent braggadocio of supposed revolutionaries, or the barrage of blatant racism we have seen from every pore of media.

It is my sincere hope that as you read this I am still with your mother, happy and espoused so many years later, though the chances are slim and dwindling of me even being alive by then since I am currently single. Not to be morose but to error on the side of percentages.

Look at it this way: I am a spry thirty-one years of age. The average life expectancy for a male in the U.S. is 75.8 years. Not having taken great care of myself I must allow a ten year margin of error; removing the extreme leaves us at 65. If we include miscellaneous environmental factors (i.e. smoky bars and houses, stress from jobs/women) it would be safe to assume that I am halfway through my life. Since for whatever reason I envision you reading this as a fifteen-year-old I have roughly fifteen years left to get off my ass and knock your mother up.

Honestly though, it’s not a given that I know your mother well before you are conceived. Don’t get me wrong, I want to spend my life with a women who makes me happy... it just may be someone other than your mother. I am prone to haste, especially when affairs of the heart or genitals are concerned. All I’m saying is don’t mistake my intelligence for self-control. Even my rabid mysophobia couldn’t keep me from schtupping that stripper in the VIP room of the Kalamazoo Déjà vu. If you appreciate nothing else I’ve done for you, thank your stars she’s not the one spit you out.

There is so much more to say but I fear this letter already resembles a schizophrenic degenerate’s 2010 almanac. My purpose for writing this was so you would know that the old man hollering from the living room to turn your goddamned music down was at one time a young man who liked to play his music really loud. He did all the wild and crazy things kids do. In fact, he did them until his early thirties.

What I’m trying to say is that I understand what it’s like to be your age. I may not know how to use your newfangled technologies or slang, but for a brief period of history I was considered a cool dude. I know you’re going to make mistakes and I accept that, I just want to talk with you about them to be sure you’ve absorbed everything there was to learn from the situation. You are always welcome to kneel by my chair and chat. Or by my grave. You know, wherever I am at the time.

Sweet dreams, kid(s). The future is wide open. Let nothing hold you back. Live to dream. Impossible is nothing, and whatever else you hear in commercials. Simply disconnect the tagline from the product and apply it to your life.

My eternal love and many child support payments,

Atticus L. Winston

*(please fill empty spaces with “N/A”)

Emotional Packrats Anonymous

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sun, 18 Apr 2010 20:43:00 +0000

Hello. My name is Atticus…

Hi, Atticus.

… and I am an emotional packrat.

When did I know? The dozen or so storage bins filled to the brim with possessions baring little worth or practicality should have been my first clue. Instead it was a confluence of self-realizations, the first of which was that I am not a hoarder. I don’t keep garbage in foresight of potential usefulness. My collection has one extrinsic value: to help me remember.

I realized early on my memory was broken. Even before my partying phase I frequently forgot names and numbers, boiling everything I learned down to paraphrases since I failed to recall any quotes verbatim. What politicians consider straight talk I defined in my formative years as creative explanation, constantly taking artistic license because I understood the theories but for the life of me could not remember the words.

Retention grew more and more difficult as years passed, which became frustration, then embarrassment, and finally a full-fledged complex. During this transition I acquired habits that leveled my forgetfulness, the most prominent being an obsession with photography, but hidden behind the walls was a growing collection of all thing Atticus. A Museum of Modern Winston, if you will.

You see, this complex was not merely a learning disability. It was a herpetic cancer consuming moments that should have been calming for me, like the seconds before drifting into peaceful sleep. Hundreds, maybe thousands of nights laying in darkness, unwaveringly convinced I will soon forget everyone and everything I have ever known, increasingly more paranoid each time of what I have already forgotten. Prolonged exposure to foreboding does strange things to a man.

The first effect of this madness was my aforementioned photography lust. I am often intent on trapping time, rendering a split second eternally to 5x7 purgatory. A single glance can fast track me to the nooks of my brain where memories hide. It may seem trite since most folks do this to remember a day on the beach or a vacation. When I do so it is to recall where I have been, who I know and what it is I want to do.

The anxiety was compounded with pressures of perishable information such as appointments, homework and promises. More stress was added for meaningless data, like anniversaries and birthdays. It takes brass ones to admit to a woman you don’t remember what she was wearing when you first met or what song was playing when you first kissed. As deeply as we believe in honesty it only ever results in disquiet.

The most recent incarnation has been my engagement with social networking. The rush I received recalling a one night stand from a stranger’s perfume is now multiplied by thousands with the click of a mouse. This is my drug in its purest form; everyone I have ever known stapled digitally to my hip, histories documented, futures tracked and notated in real-time, never missing a moment of anyone’s life anywhere.

But like all good drugs the side effects are never as advertised.

I knew I had a problem when what began as the preservation of physical items with attachments became a 24/7 infatuation with the online warehouse storing my mental menagerie. My time was spent collecting, scrapbooking memories instead of making them. I collected everyone I knew, like a house overrun with cats someone accumulated to the point of infestation. Obsessively hunting and gathering persons in volumes which I could never properly care for.

By the time I realized my neurosis the friends and trinkets had piled higher than I could see. This was my perfect creation, a monster of faces and time glued hastily together by irrational fear. Before me was a complex and impenetrable database of my life, an inhalable timeline to relieve the anxiety of losing touch with who I am and where I came from.

That’s why I stand here before you today admitting I am an emotional packrat. I finally get it. This is bigger than severing thick ties to novelties purchased at Niagara Falls in 1987.

It’s about letting go, a fundamental I have failed at my entire life. There is a long war ahead but I have strong will and nothing but time.

Good first meeting. Thanks for the cigarettes and coffee. Same time next week?

See You Later, Tolerator

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sun, 28 Mar 2010 01:47:00 +0000

Take a seat, sport. I have something important to tell you. It will feel wrong at first because it opposes everything you have ever known, but soon you will feel a tickle just beneath your cerebral cortex, the part which still wants to fling poo but also values honesty over integrity, and you will then begin to understand what I am about to say.

You don’t have to love anyone of any race or religion anywhere.

The future of the world does not hinge on my nonjudgmental affection for all things human. Frankly, I don’t understand most cultures and religions, and most I plain don’t give a rat’s ass about. And that is just fine. I don’t hate anyone either. I’m just here eating my steak and watching my network television. No one died, no “hate crime” laws were broken, nobody different than me had their feelings hurt.

Look out the window. See? Nothing changed.

We cannot be the pro-individual, moral pillars we advertise ourselves to be if we deliberately ignore the hypocrisy of feigning support for a.) anyone you don’t know, b.) anyplace you have never been to, or c.) anything you don’t fully understand and respect.

The aggressive expectation of all Americans to love everyone and speak well of each other was a Petri dish of ripe bullshit cloned and forced into the public vein during the 80s. We were brainwashed with unquestioned utopian affections and are now finally experiencing the backlash.

The hallucination of a “perfect world” resurfaced in the 70s as a post-war fear of future confrontation. The lowly hippies eventually came to one groovy conclusion: love everyone.

Reenactment:

Middle-class hippie #1: [while being blown by underage runaway] “If everyone loves each other no one will fight, man.”

Middle-class hippie #2: [after exhaling massive cloud of marijuana smoke] “Yeah, man.”

With that exchange the revolution of illusion was born, and thanks to Hands Across America we passed the germ on to every man and child in the country.

The raging fire of hatred we were warned of in elementary school was not nearly the murderous apartheid it was two generations before nor was it close to the Crusades centuries ago. As a cultured people, clad in neon spandex and slap bracelets, we were far removed from that neanderthalian existence by the VCRs and Simons that kept us busy. Folks still loved to slur but it had more to do with culture and image than building an Aryan Nation.

Since the 80s, we have been under full propagandized assault, told by TV and churches and politicians and soft drink companies to love everyone equally, spiting our confusions instead of nurturing them. This forced appreciation grew fear where curiosity should have been, and as it remained hidden, uneducated and unventilated, it slowly steeped into hatred. Much how the "war on drugs" turned us into closet potheads, the "war on hate" only succeeded in pushing the hatred underground.

Now we have the backlash. Behind the cue card reading “Unstable Economic Climate” was a broken GOP that wanted its toy back. Like after a tsunami hits and grotesque creatures from uncharted depths begin washing ashore, Republicans flicked their tongues and launched a tidal wave of publicized dissent against the black president that dragged the entire sea of already frightened masses. What has washed ashore since is that mutated fear/hatred, more virile and illogical than ever.

What the answer should have been was tolerance. Instead they began systematically shoveling blind-unconditional-love-for-all-living-things down our throats and covered our mouths until we swallowed. Tolerance became the implicit default, though the word itself was shelved for lack of fanaticalness.

Now we walk on egg shells that crackle with threats of litigation. We are a nation of emotionally fragile pussies that need government to police our social interactions. The societal rifts that divide us today are the collateral damage of a civil rights movement that went limp late in the century, taping a handwritten sign on its locked front door that said, “Shut up and love someone”. Thirty years later our political rally cries have turned derogatory as the hate mutants descend on Washington, confused by media interpretations and foreign to the idea of supporting a black man.

The entire “one love” movement was grossly negligent but not irreversible. We can change our political and educational aspirations. We can teach our children that acceptance is about reference not preference. We need to answer the questions of the culturally confused and religiously frightened no matter how sensitive the issues may be. If you are Beatles fan, choose Let It Be over All You Need Is Love. More than anything we need to talk about our differences thoroughly and often, never again resorting to the lazy parental go-to “because I said so”.

What I am trying to say that I don’t like you. I am not going to pretend for one minute that I do. No one can tell me I have to or that I am wrong for feeling the way I do. But I tolerate you. If you choose to tolerate me, we will get along just fine.

Providence Vice

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Fri, 12 Mar 2010 06:01:00 +0000

Since moving to the East Coast two years ago I have yet to review my vices and assess their progress and performance to identify points of improvement. What better place to do this than on my public blog.

The Sauce
The spirits are well, continuing to provide for me the Technicolor existence I so crave. Drinking, for me, is like having a wardrobe that leads to Narnia. I don’t look forward to imbibing poison but throughout the day small explosions of excitement do pour over me at the notion of disappearing into my fantasy, pulling open the cabinet doors and pushing through the bottles on a mission. Reality rarely fails this mission as afterwards I often find myself cold, eating chocolate and talking to animals.

The Whores
Sex is the creator of life but is also the calmer of nerves, relaxer of minds and connector of souls. Now entering my longest dry spell since pre-pubescence I am considering the options most single, thirty-somethings face at this crossroads: become career driven, a priest or gay.

The gay thing is out due to my penis allergy. Priesthood hopes are kaput because, well, Jesus exists (only) in your hearts and I’m still allergic to penis. The only area left to focus the ire of my spoiled seed is on work. If only I could brag to my friends about increasing profit and get high-fives for lowering costs.

The Porn
Exemplary.

The Blue Humor
I have no doubt lost my grasp of “time and place”. The execution is continually perfect; when it comes to inappropriate puns I am still the worldwide leader in double entendres and self-deprecating quips. Where the structure becomes weak is in social settings, during my intoxicated entropy in relaxed, public atmospheres. Where humor had previously brought beauty to my embrace it now only brings a foot to my mouth.

Overall my proclivities rate 68 of 80 potential points. I could definitely stand to shut my mouth and get laid more, since the two are not mutually exclusive. All in all I am right on course with where I want to be ten years from now.

Life After Tyranny (Revisited)

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Wed, 06 Jan 2010 03:24:00 +0000

Two years ago Thursday my journey was sidetracked by events chronicled in these very pages. What ensued afterward was one wild ride after another. Most were good, some were ugly. The remaining events were what my comrades described as “shit that would only happen to (me)”.

My foundation did not change one iota. I still threw myself haphazardly into love, mercilessly into the bottle and ultimately into another state. Another U.S. state, that is. Not the metaphysical or transcendental kinds I had strove so violently for.

But one thing definitely has changed. My faith in small business has been restored through a company that took me in when my options were limited and finances depleted. After the myriad of crushing experiences dealt by businesses run emotionally and barbarously I was welcomed into the open arms of an employee-centric, personality-nurturing work environment that stressed transparency, honesty and accountability without floating the dark cloud of termination overhead.

I could gush about the perks or fun but they are inconsequential to the most gratifying benefits. Every day the owners greet me, earnest and genuinely happy to have me there. Mistakes have never been rubbed in my face. I have never been lorded over by anyone. Titles have never superseded humanity.

Coming from a company whose employees were publicly castigated and subjected to startling levels of insensitivity and malice, and from an environment that tamped personality and withheld needed benefits, starting over in a system where morale is paramount is an astonishingly liberating experience.

The company has been made ours to grow and personalize; therefore we employees are fundamentally improving the company by making life in the building we spend a third of our life in enjoyable. The synergy of this cycle is the core of our undeniable success.

The bottom line is that it is possible to be content in a place of employment. Granted I jumped from worst-to-first in employers, I have also developed as a person. My daily regime of assertion, compromise and discipline is the counterweight to my workload. It’s still a job but I don’t dread going to work. Sometimes that is all you can ask for.

Work is not supposed to be fun. However it should never be so evil as to torture your psyche throughout the day and disturb your soul into the night. Draw a line in the sand between tolerable and detrimental. And don’t wait for them to show you the door. Find it on your own because you deserve better.

The Inner Turkey: Life is Gravy

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Thu, 26 Nov 2009 19:18:00 +0000

My first “Happy Thanksgiving” text came at eight-thirty. Hungover or not, my first response to any inconsequential communication that awakens me before I want on a day off will always be replied with “Fuck you, Satan”. For a little holiday spirit this morning I added “I’ll be thankful when you don’t have my number anymore”.

What I hadn’t expected afterward was a hundred and seven more minutes of uninterrupted sleep. This surplus of time allowed my brain to catch up on its processing, which included an episode of Heroes, a Cole Porter album and a Claire Danes interview which had all been consumed recently. They appeared in my dream in incarnations integral to the plot, which was fine by me as I love a random dream as much as the next sot. Unfortunately this was no random dream. It was a moral dream and I very much dislike moral dreams.

The abridged version:

The time traveler said I could travel back and change any one thing I wanted from my past. I was more excited than a nerd nailing the head cheerleader. In fact, I considered going back and nailing a cheerleader myself. This was it, old heart of mine. My chance to right a wrong, right a left or right whatever turned me into the sour old bastard I had become.

Then I woke up. Not literally, but you know what I mean. I stood there before the man who would help me alter my destiny and was paralyzed. Some people would know right away what to do, saving a life or ending a bad night before it began. The rest would be confused about where to begin, which butterfly flutter to affect and wondering if it will change things for the better. I harbored those ideas too, but they were not what kept me back.

It was obvious my jump back would be an attempt to prevent one of the ones that got away from actually getting away. Only I had spent the last few years coming to terms with those mistakes and adapting to the bed I made many years ago. I learned to accept all realities, understanding everything changes constantly in an organic creation such as our world.

Were I to go back in time, what could I possibly do that would help me now? I was never going to keep a woman longer than she wanted to be with me. The few that I left would have outgrown me sooner or later.

My lovers have all moved on to better lives since me. Now I had the chance to make myself happy but at the expense of their current and possible overall happiness. Long nightmare short, I told him “Thanks, but no thanks” and decided to continue fighting through life the hard way.

When I rose at eight-thirty I thought to myself, What is there to be thankful for? The thousand blessings upon my back have dwindled to six or seven.

When I rose at ten-seventeen I knew something had changed. It was the first time I had seen my life so objectively as the naked, vulnerable substance it is. I made the good choice, which is not unusual but never had so much been on the line.

I grabbed the phone and texted a Happy Thanksgiving back. I was thankful the sleep assassin had shaken loose this afterschool special for me to chew on along with breakfast. I was thankful for the breakfast itself and everyone over the last thirty years, including those I have loved and lost, that had a hand in my reaching this meal in one relatively sane, healthy piece.

Tonight I raise a Boddingtons to everyone in my life past and present, to your health and the health of all you love. To say I was thankful would be an understated injustice to your infinite love and patience. I live this life the hard way for you.

An Open Letter To All News Services

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sat, 07 Nov 2009 21:28:00 +0000

Dear News,

I apologize in advance for my tone and abruptness, but this letter is already ten years overdue.

News, you have been allowed to run helter-skelter through our mediums for too long. The reigns must be pulled hard, once and for all. It is past the hour of reform, no time for apologies or justifications. You must cease this tomfoolery and start fulfilling the purpose you were created for. It is time you begin reporting actual news again.

First, keep in mind this valuable nugget: Celebrity opinions DO NOT matter. They have no idea what is happening outside of their set trailer, tour bus or wherever they convene to burn money we will never see in a lifetime. They are vapid, narcissistic monkeys that already float through the day with an inflated self-worth. Leading them to believe their thoughts on an international military strategy have any value whatsoever is just unnecessary.

Have you noticed how the eloquent, philanthropic performers are not on TMZ discussing politics? It is probably because they are doing something about it. Bono, the Pitts, Clooney, McCartney, Winfrey: Doers. Actions far outweigh any opinion.

Point being, if Chris Brown shows his true psychotic colors, and we would know instantly because there are 3,000 cameras surrounding him before and after every car ride, why would there be any valid possibility Usher, Kanye West, Jay-Z, Will Smith, Gayle King, Roseanne Barr, and Angie Stone have valuable input on the subject? Pretty sure there are no psychological or sociological PhDs in the bunch.

When did the Entertainment section become the Gossip section? Perhaps I’m one of few people left in the world who only wants to know what programs are on the telly and which moving pictures are playing in the theater without being inundated by menial facts regarding an overpaid ingénue’s personal life.

Here is a second nugget, free of charge: If you are going to refer to someone as a “celebrity” because their terrible behavior or tragic life has been inexplicably documented, nay exploited, by your colleagues, then you must find a new term for people that possess actual talent.

The fifteen minutes of fame should never have been extended to a three season reality show. Perhaps the word 'reality' in the moniker confuses you. However, for the same reason uninformed citizens do not realize the Federal Reserve is not an actual federal institution, it is high time we segment this information from real news so as not to confuse the general public between what is important and what is entertainment.

Do you think we laymen do not understand what your mission as a news source is? You have turned your integrity over to the sponsor, selling your soul to tug-of-war with the rest of the crap outlets over viewers who have resoundingly asked you to dumb-down your efforts to catch up with our rotting educational system.

Yes, remember how a large percent of America’s public schools are producing below average children and burnt-out teachers because our government has systematically funneled needed funding away to squander frivolously on wars and other freedom stomping activities? Where was your story on that? Rihanna hadn’t had the spit beaten out of her yet. Michael Jackson was still kicking the air and screaming. Where was your sense of duty?

Of course we want to know when a celebrity passes away. If proven truly entertaining, they become part of our household and we would like to have a day to mourn the loss of their entertainment value in our lives. But what happens to the family after the death is strictly none of our business or yours. This is no longer a curiosity with the famous; it is an outrageous exploitation and should be prosecuted as such.

You have the damned nerve to say, during a five-hour telecast about the person’s life, rise and fall, criminal allegations, live coverage of the family, children, mansion, neighbor’s mansion, street full of news vans and photos of the childhood home, that you believe it must be incredibly difficult to mourn with all the attention. You? That is tantamount to poking a tired bear with a stick while expressing sympathy that it isn’t sleeping well.

News, your sensationalistic ways have perverted true journalism, raping it mercilessly against our flat screens until it is now nothing more than a bloody pile of catty, objectifying, morally crushing hearsay performed nightly by soulless, smarmy louts. Because of your shady practices and soft news, America feels it should be more concerned about the President’s personal habits and body than about his aspirations and accomplishments.

I look forward to a day when journalistic integrity is renewed, when truthfulness, accuracy, objectivity, impartiality, fairness and public accountability can overpower the conflicting sponsors and crush the politically slanted owners that manipulate the words. A time when stories will be chosen for their importance to American life and not through calculations of potential viewership. A day when squeaky-wheel attention seekers are left out all together, no longer littering the front page with poor choices and amoral behaviors.

When that day comes, I will read your papers, peruse your sites and watch your newscasts once again. Until this renaissance is realized, however, do not bother factoring me and the thousands of intelligent Americans like myself in the viewership numbers you boast to potential sponsors.

Sincerely,

Atticus L. Winston

P.S. Tell your networks that their programming sucks harder than the hooker in Charlie Sheen’s dressing room.

Phallacies Of The Gay Tendency

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Wed, 14 Oct 2009 23:21:00 +0000

With all the gays marching on Washington and the inherent shit storm of media dildos barfing up stupid on their polarizing TV shows, it was only a matter of time before I lost enjoyment in my bowl of Blueberry Morning due to something said that confused and incensed me simultaneously.

Seriously, what the fuck are “gay tendencies”?

Tendencies are defined as “an inclination, bent, or predisposition to something” by that smut-filled tabloid Dictionary.com. All of those descriptions are pert for the pun but all invariably contradict gayness in terms.

This seems more of a witch hunt word than a specified collection of behaviors depicting homosexuality. It is so broad in reach that it paints almost any act not saturated in machismo as gay. Boys are taught from a young age that playing with dolls is wrong; they are for girls only, along with the EASY-BAKE oven and the Skip It cankle building set. In retrospect, we all realize this mentality was meant to suppress the embarrassment of parents who may have a gay child. Little did they know that he would grow to be more successful that the football captain, head cheerleader and stoners combined.

Since when did gayness include tendencies beyond same-sex sodomy? Well, I did what any other American does when they are stumped by life’s little puzzles: I took to the internet.

Lo and behold, there were many others tickled by the gay-tendency giggle stick. Unfortunately, most were women anonymously asking strangers if their boyfriend/husband was gay on account of previous experimentation, metro-sexual style or cross-dressing fetishes. The resounding answer of all twelve-year olds trolling Yahoo Answers: He’s gayer than a sitcom.

Do you know what a gay tendency is? When I hear the phrase I think of my overwhelming need to mount any person, statue or ass-shaped object for the sole purpose of laughs and/or pictures. It brings to mind my rap sheet of pointing out every phallic symbol I see. But these are not gay tendencies. These are douche tendencies for when I’m experiencing a not-so-bright feeling.

I holed up in my apartment for a weekend and watched six movies. Two of them were romcoms featuring Hollywood’s hottest guys learning to find love or define love with one of Hollywood’s hottest actresses. These viewings could easily be described as gay acts. But I rarely watch these types of films, so it wouldn’t be a tendency per se. Is this event really grounds for questioning one’s sexuality? I also watched zombie and action flicks. Plus, the collective three hours were spent with my hand in my pants, whiskey in my glass and a tacit hope for gratuitous nudity. Can the paradox be thicker?

As far as I’m concerned, labeling anything a gay “tendency” can only perpetuate the stigma that homosexuality is a choice. If a white guy acts black, you don’t say he has black tendencies because black is only black and there are no exceptions to its beholder. A wigger doesn’t cease being white just because he kicks his hat sideways and listens to rap music.

Just as well, gay is gay, and no amount of tanning, chick flick watching, college experimenting or Manilow loving will ever equate to the good old fashioned need for dude-on-dude action.

Dating And The American Expectation

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 00:40:00 +0000

Due to the sage advice of friends whom I may learn to hate as a result of the advice, I have taken my first stab at online dating. This digital hook-up pool of youngsters and angry mothers is a sea even Nessy would think twice before swimming in. But I’m already ahead of myself. Let me recap, as a caveman would scribble in powdery stone on a cave wall.

Atticus single. He look at people in vicinity. They look away. He too far away to dig up bodies from past. Atticus in city of collegians and gays. He only know taken women and girls with inflated self-worth. Atticus settle with VoyeurWeb.com and Puffs Plus with Aloe.

Back to the lecture at hand. Erection is deflected, so I'm 'a let 'em understand.

Before I dove into the new American dating scene of Craig’s single-fish-harmony-match dotcom’s cyber world of promised promiscuity and masseuse killers, I figured it prudent for a bereft thirty-something clamoring for familiarity to venture back into his old stomping grounds, a lush garden of primitive emoticons and staccato video feeds.

If your only internet experience to date was Yahoo chat rooms, you would pretty much assume there are no humans left in the world. Like Signs except slightly more exciting and with Mel’s anti-Semitism onscreen.

I visited the Yahoo chat room world for the first time since I was eighteen. Alright, maybe I peeked early in the new millennium, but I assumed things had been cleaned up some Times Square-style. Right away I was inundated with cyber whoredom (or as we used to call it, drive-by sluttings). Seriously, not a single fucking human there. I felt like an extra in a Terminator 3 future scene, where the world is a landscape of crunchy bones we use for sod in our turf war with constantly evolving robots.

Perhaps the captcha upon entering the room set my heart temporarily at ease, as if no porn purveyor had found their way around that Mexican border fence. Luckily for the economy, it has. A veritable skankfest instantly exploded. I had more fembot IM windows open in my first thirty seconds of entering than I did chubby freshman IM windows opening in my first three months of college in ’97. Before a sixtieth cyborg could ask me to “chk my (their) profile fr nu pics” because “ur (I am) 2 kewt”, I ran screaming from the chat window and back to my desktop.

The place I was advised to explore was the free PlentyOfFish.com, which boasts “900,000 Daily Active Members… (that) will go on over 18,000,000 dates with other users this year.” Now, I’m no mathematician, but my calculator is and it is telling me that through this dude’s Chemistry Test I should be averaging 20 dates a year with the various women its twenty-six algorithms churn out in that time span. Not a bad average at one or two a month.

Here is the reality: I’m certain there is a curve; however, that curve would not be in my favor.

Here is why: a few questions they asked and a few they do not ask in the profile.

(Bear in mind that, mentally, I live in a sick, twisted world where people tell the truth and that grey areas are best left rounded down. So basically, if your comments are all, You’re doing it wrong, You gotta lie, etc. then don’t bother commenting. I get the strategy of filtered truth. I just feel better knowing my cards are on the table. Someone out there has to respect that.)

Pigeon Hole #1
Body Type – answer: A Few Extra Pounds

If you have a picture posted, it should be a no-shit-Sherlock thing. What amazes me are all the chubsters out there claiming an “Average” body size. Compared to what, your morbidly obese friends? Pictures don’t lie. I put it out there that I’m holding some extra size and you should too. Besides, my fat face doesn’t exactly scream average, nor does the bacon restriction limit placed on me by doctors.

Pigeon Hole #2
Religion - answer: Non-Religious

This is the Northeast. All I can hope for are fallen Catholics, cutters and women too uneducated to ask why.

Pigeon Hole #3 & #4
Do you drink? – answer: Socially
Smoker? – answer: Occasionally

First off, Mr. Match-‘em-up-chemistry-guy, stop sending me profiles of people who are athletic and love outdoor activities. Between my photo, answers #1, #3 and #4, and answer #2 not being Wiccan, one of your algorithms should pick up on the fact that, aside from a nice walk and picnic, I’m not going to spin class or climbing a mountain with these chicks. Stop marching out all the hard bodies as faux prospects. Haven’t I suffered enough?

As for the vices? Again, just putting it out there. I have learned over time that true love is more valuable than any drug available. But until then, kampai!

Pigeon Hole #5
Do you want children? - answer: Yes*

I know, I know. It screams desperate. But I’m not looking to impregnate someone within the first few minutes of meeting them. I’m just taking the question at face value. Do I want kids? Someday. Just enjoying the practice sessions right now. If they had a “Not until we’re married or the condom breaks” option, I’d be all over it.
*recently changed to Undecided/Open after holiday flight experience

There are other stupid questions, like Marital Status, Profession and Smarts (education), but those are just for you to check if the married sales clerk you are fucking attended college or not.

Here are three questions I think they should have on the profile and incorporated into the matchmaking technology. It would keep results vetted and more accurate.

Great Question #1
Have you Ever Cheated On Someone With Their Friend?

Pretty much everyone has cheated in the eyes of a God or two, but this speaks more to integrity and respect. If you screw around with someone completely unrelated to your relationship, like a coworker or one-night stand, you are most likely blowing off steam accrued from a bad choice in mate and you are too stupid or afraid to walk away. If you screw around with your significant other's friend, then you are just a filthy, soulless whore undeserving of love.

Great Question #2
What Is The Worst Thing You Have Done Out Of Anger?

Called him a “limp dick ragamuffin”? You are adorable.
Keyed his car? Meh.
Urinated on his possessions? Hey now…

For even the greenest psychology novice, this simple question will grant you unmitigated insight into a person’s soul. Fifty different profile views later you could have a thesis paper on the human condition.

Great Question #3
Can You Be Attracted To Fat People Or Do You Have Aversions To The Bulky?

This is for all the marbles, folks. It’s elephant in the website. Granted, everyone wants to end up with the ideal mate; attractive, healthy, seemingly rich. You know, the ones on the commercials. But not everyone has had their ego beaten down with rejection. Not everyone has learned to let go of what I call the American Expectation, the indoctrinated belief that you can have what the people on TV have.

I feel this answer would clear up most confusion and help avoid embarrassing rejection. Hell, you could set up the program to filter these people to a special page you cannot access. Realize the value of knowing that the people you are matched with have stated they can look past your girth and get to the good times. That, my friends, is how you profile someone.

~ ~ ~

My newest suggested website is Craig’s List. I surfed it for a while today, between football and laundry. Not exactly the Promised Land but is land nonetheless. The advice came from someone who, in thirty tries, had yet to meet a normal person there.

Elizabeth Ann: “Worst thing that happens is you end up on a date with an ugly chick.”

Atticus: “Worst thing that happens is I end up chained to a radiator and forced to rub warmed cooking oil on the loins of a gargantuan, sweaty woman. That or meet a psycho like you did.”

Elizabeth Ann: “Well played.”

Atticus: “I don’t mind ugly chicks. It’s the dumb ones I watch out for.”

My Ideal God

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 22:30:00 +0000

If I could build God like a teddy bear from one of those factories in the mall, I wouldn’t make him in my image. No arms, no spine, no cock. He’d be a gob of lightning-web circulating around a purple orb of energy, whose only purpose is to make things nice for us. He would be intense but never violent. Just really concerned, like Mr. Belvedere. And educational, like Mr. Huxtable.

I would call him him because it sounds better and not because I’m misogynistic.

There wouldn’t be this crazy back-story full of holes about his younger days as a restless, destructive deity. You could ask him what happened to the dinosaurs but he would only waive you off, staring silently out of the window at a world he so indiscriminately crushed and rebuilt like Lego’s. Eventually you’d realize the past is the past and all that matters is the future.

He wouldn’t be angry at you for doing wrong. He would just expect you to do better next time. You may not improve right away, but the fear of disappointing him never lets you stop trying. Plus, pleasing him has its rewards, namely a soft little lightning bolt that reaches out to you and massages your scalp and rubs your back while you bask in his glory.

The world would still be full of terrorists, pedophiles and assholes. People would still shout at the heavens in confusion, How could you do this to us, which they would know why if they bothered to download the transcripts and liners of his yearly State Of The World address on sotw.gov. And even though the carefully chosen words laid out his natural reasoning of balance and utopian fallacy, the creed would still fall on the deaf ears of our “Me = Victim” society.

I’d also make God funny when he drinks, because so few people remain cordial in a blaze of sauce.

His SNL guest spots would be epic. His scotch would always be top shelf. Even his commercials would be entertaining. But the most important spec I would build in him: I would make him into a really cool dude.

You could ask him anything and he would tell you honestly because he knows that people grow best when fed truth and watered with support. If you were wasted, he’d float you and your car home safely. He would do anything for you, give anything to you, as long as you followed the simple rules he set that help make life gratifying for each individual.

My God would be so much better than all of the other gods being churned out at the factory store in my mall. After I built him and paid the angry teenager working the register, I would reward myself with a cheese steak and chocolate malt in the food court. Just God and I; he across the table in the Build-A-God box with the receipt stapled to it, and me with my beard full of crumbs and a destiny fulfilled. Two buddies at the beginning of an amazing journey.

It’s too bad I’d forget him in the theater when the movie let out.

Dropping Bombs Like Your Moms

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Mon, 10 Aug 2009 00:56:00 +0000

This beautiful holiday weekend is finally in motion, thanks to my consumption of food rich in fat and beer rich in self-retardants. This holiday is a time dedicated to celebrating our victory over Japan (thanks to a couple well-placed atomic bombs) thus ending WWII and letting us all get on to greater things, like Urotsukidoji and Ichiro.

In homage to this great event, I’m going to drop a few bombs of my own.

Not everyone is like you.

During the early eras of civilization, it would make sense that limited education and sparse scientific understanding would ultimately lead humans to assume that anything else deemed intelligent must be, well, human-like. Worst yet, we’ve perpetuated this senile anthropomorphism for centuries, and there are no attempts to slow our species-centric ways.
Think about it this way.

God made humans in his image = A tree shaped like a cock

Aliens with homo genus characteristics, such as bipedalism = Your cat saying “I love you”

In each equation, the unseen factor is A, which is equivalent to how bad you want to believe something is true.
Here is another example.

The artist who rendered this beautiful portrait near my breakfast joint shares the same pathological ideologies as most of the world. Although the intent was to create an alien, they simply couldn’t imagine a creature being semi-intelligent unless it has two arms, two legs, saucers for areolas and cock and balls. This is simply a drawing of an unfortunate human with a crazy eye and antennae. Where is the blob-like torso above the cilia that are shuffling it along while one of its seventeen tentacles itches its retractable nose/ass?

If something greater than humans exists, give it the benefit of the doubt and assume it doesn’t look like we do, built with the same flaws and susceptibilities as we have. Use your imagination, since that’s the part of you that lends credibility to all the gods, aliens, angels and faeries you believe in. I personally believe God has mega-supersized areolas and that Florida was made in his penis image.

Nobody cares what you think.

I’ll keep it simple. You are surrounded in a multitude of mediums that beckon for your input; your MySpace/Facebook status, your Twitter tweets, your forum threads, call-in shows and the comment box following every single thing you read and use. These are all relatively healthy communicative aspects of our new Web 2.0 lives. Our unprecedented ability to process and share information sets us far apart from the goldfish.

What I hope you keep in mind is that nobody cares what you think. Not your friends, not your parents. Nobody. And this isn’t my opinion; this is a fact substantiated by how little you care about what everyone else thinks. That is what makes this “everyone has a voice” ~~marketing ploy~~ generation flawed. 100% is talking but only 20% is listening. People who love to shove their opinion in your available holes rarely make an effort to hear other opinions, even regarding the same subjects.

I post opinions everyday knowing that not one person in the world truly cares. Try it. It’ll sand down that destructive ego of yours.

You are not cool.

First off, the word “cool” was violently ripped away from hip blacks by jealous whites, pummeled like Jodie Foster in The Accused and is now a bruised, stretched out shell of its former descriptive self.

That being said, you still do not fit the definition because the definition is going to change again. I’m taking the word and running off, reintroducing it back to the Earth so it can heal and find its true meaning.

Coolness will now be defined as your ability to be yourself. How much you don’t act like someone you’re not and how little you spend to be accepted by others are just a couple of the qualifications for the new cool. It will be revolutionary. We can change the world one independently strong outcast at a time, and you better believe I’m starting with that man in the mirror.

Have an amazing holiday weekend and get your own personal VJ this Monday.

The Modern Plight of the Newly Single Thirtysomething

sundriedeyes@yahoo.com (Atticus L. Winston) — Sun, 02 Aug 2009 22:36:00 +0000

Seems lately many of my friends are saying goodbye to a partner. Marriages, long-term live-ins, short-term freaks. Most are doing so late in life, sometimes for peace, sometimes to return to school or pursue dreams, but always for freedom from a relationship hollowed by pain and miscommunication. They have given up on trying, on caring. They have given in for the last time and are no longer willing to give.

I am sensitive to this trend because I am currently embroiled in the slowest, most gut-punching, childish, mentally tormenting breakup I have ever experienced. Although none of my friends are tolerating the ridiculousness and despair I have endured, they nonetheless have their reasons and scars. The more I speak with them about their experiences, the more I begin to understand the modern plight of the newly single thirtysomething.

Although breaking up is always difficult, rarely is it the same experience after twenty-seven as it was before. What complicates things more are the millions of invisible strings you have tied between yourself and them, strung throughout your shared possessions, your habits, your friends, and even your memories. This is why a clean break is better; the time and energy needed to untangle each strand will painfully, deftly siphon your faith in humanity clean from your bones.

By the time you reach thirty, you have already lived a few years as the “you” you will retire as. Your habits are set and ideals are in place. But when you are coming out of a long relationship you find yourself back at square one, like a confused teenager. All that has defined you, from your partner to your mortgage, is gone. You stood on a mountain years ago and screamed to the world how you loved this person, perhaps even let them put a ring on you and change your name, and now have to climb back up that mountain, with no help and a hundred people asking you how they are, just to reach the top and scream that you’ve made a mistake, a mistake that cost you years of your life and all of your identity.

It’s almost no wonder why our thirty-and-up dating pool is filled with the bitter and the angry. If you are fresh from a separation, your bitterness and fear will take much longer to clean up than you think. If you have gone most of your thirty years bouncing from love to love, then you are probably doing something wrong and will no doubt be angry from the constant frustration and failure. There will never be a shortage of advice on where to go and what to look for, but facts are facts, and the fact is that you do not want to be the creepy old person or the sexual focus of the creepy old people in the bar. Nobody talks to each other in a library and singles attend church with either their parents or parole officers.

Dating is extremely hard late in the game because you have lost your identity and faith in love, plus you have social handicaps, like children or desperation, preventing you from wandering through the crowd with needed confidence. You are so entrenched in your routine that you are either forced to wear your needs on your sleeve or become someone you are not just to bait interested parties.

I’m not going to bother delving the new “American family” and how our collective societal values have rotted marriage at its core because, well, you already know why and how and what. It’s not hard to see the influences reflected in our media; however it is extremely hard to identify people that are going to be more prone to drama than others.

So far our collective dating experiences have been a quagmire of annoyance, inefficacy, fear and stupidity. Those of us brave enough to swim the troubled seas of the dating pool leave with nothing, unless they popped into an adult store or pharmacy on the way home. And it’s always the same stories: He freaked me out, she seemed more interested in herself than me, he was nice but didn’t have time for me, she has a bad past and took it out on me, etc. Most of us are waiting for that Mayflower-type vehicle to float us to a new land of opportunity and single inhabitants, or a bridge that leads directly to a civilization of normal thirtysomethings we’ve been cut off from for centuries, which may or may not happen, but I’m not holding my breath. That kind of belief requires commitment and I’m fresh out.

I considered writing about my ex and the madness I have lived since February, but the truth is I am afraid to. For the same reason a person in a terrible car wreck doesn’t want to converse about the traumatic accident right away. The details are saddening and ludicrous, which gives way to embarrassment about the whole matter. Worst yet, we have been living together since February and, as of press time, she is finally leaving in four days. For me, these six months could easily be broken into a three-piece pie chart, each piece being two months long, with the labels Trying, Angry, and Done. I no longer bother with what-ifs and simply put my head down and walk ahead. I no longer argue my points or wish she would make better choices, and I have no energy left to be hurt that she has ruined some of my friendships and is dating a (now former) friend.

Perched at the end of the diving board and staring deep into the dating pool, sick with the regret and fear I ate less than a half-hour before. Like they always say: Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt.