The Rhi-Post – Edition 1

Welcome to the first edition of  The Rhi-Post! This will be a collection of editorials from my friends, who I have come to know very well and are from a wide and varied background. I hope that you will enjoy a peek into their lives as I do and I am excited to share their thoughts, editorials and expertise.
If you have questions for our contribitors please send to therhipost@gmail.com and follow me @Rhian73.

Please be free to follow on twitter and/or facebook, or other social media if our authors shared their links. Thank you for being a part of The Rhi-Post!

-Rhian


In this Issue:

Tales from My Shame-Ber : Why I like the Twilight Saga
by Lushrain

This will be a  recurring column highlighting the items in my Shame-ber. If you are not familiar with a Shame-ber* it is a room with no windows in which you can enjoy your deepest darkest guiltiest pleasures.   Each time I will let you learn about the things I love that I shouldn’t love but are oh-so-awesome.

Read More….

 

About bitheadturnedtrader
by bitheadturnedtrader

I’m an Information Technology (I.T.) Director for the Canadian division of an international business process outsourcing company. Essentially I’m responsible for everything technical in Canada – networks, desktops, servers, software, and programming – to support the day-to-day operations and future growth of the business. I’m the interface between business and technology.
Read More…

 

Lament for the Loss of my Big, Fat Camera
by Shaughnessy

Like a favourite traveling buddy, my 38 – 105 mm Samsung zoom camera accompanied me on treks across North America, China, Hong Kong, Spain and Ireland. It, or its earlier versions, were always at hand for generations of family events, occasions and just for nothing moments. It documented my nature walks, adventures and trips to find beauty in unexpected places.

Read More…

 

Heartagrams
by  Andrea Costanzo aka @TheJunkenstiein

In troubled times, when black waves of depression are hidden behing every corner, daily, one needs to keep his emotions alive. And my personal and addictive emotion inducing drug is music. Its the direct language of the heart and soul, translating the bursts of adrenaline, tears, passion and laughter that made the grey routine less desperate into a sound that can move with you and wrap you in its comforting blanket of vibes.

Read More…

 

Handmade Revolution
by Kataish

Hi. My name is Kata, I’m 28 and I’m a craft addict. Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been obsessed with making things and “crafting”. It all started with drawing and taking art classes, and through the years turned into sculpting, pottery, beading, doll-making, crocheting, and then knitting. Currently my main hobby/obsession is knitting.

Read More…

 

Photography by Uncast


Rebel Without A Pause
by BrotherDarkness AKA Butch Rosser

s1c3: You Can Lead A Club To Culture, AND You Can Make Them Think (A Costanza’s Goodbye)
Dear Planet Earth,
If you’re reading this, I hope somebody has had the decency to cut me down from the ceiling fan this note was placed under.  It should be noted per previous discourse that everyone get their crying out at the wake and that Christine has her choice of who to sleep with at the afterparty.

Read More…

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Tales from My Shame-Ber: Why I like the Twilight Saga

by Lushrain

This will be a  recurring column highlighting the items in my Shame-ber. If you are not familiar with a Shame-ber* it is a room with no windows in which you can enjoy your deepest darkest guiltiest pleasures.   Each time I will let you learn about the things I love that I shouldn’t love but are oh-so-awesome.

So for my first Item I bring to you the Twilight Saga:

I first heard about Twilight from my sister-in-law. She being a teen at that time had read the books and had just gotten the latest and final book in the series, Breaking Dawn. I looked at its shiny black cover with a red ribbon across the front of it and I was intrigued. I am a girl that is attracted to shiny things. I made a mental note to read the books at some point.

Cut to a year or two later and now the Twilight phenomena is in full force. The first movie is out and on DVD already and the second is slated to come out shortly. I finally decided to read what all of this was about. I caved and bought Twilight the first in the series. I was prepared for it to be bad. I wanted it to be bad.

Then I realized that as my soul died a bit when I picked up that first book and I when through the stages of grief:

Denial: I was only going to appreciate Twilight series ironically and never seriously. I hated the first book. It was a teen romance sprinkled with vampires for conflict. It had everything a teen girl would love: a boy that loves you so much he doesn’t sleep, eat, or do anything without you. Oh and he sparkles.
I watched the first movie and it was worse than the book. The main actors play sad and conflicted as constipated/almost crying.

Anger:   I hated that I wanted to watch all of the movies and really wanted to read the books.  Why was these stupid vampires bringing me in and making me want to secretly host a Twilight party?

Bargaining: I was just reading the books and watching the movies to see how it played out. I would never be one of those people who really liked it. I would never be apart of a team.
I will only watch the movies if they happened to be on my TV. I would only read the books once and nothing more. I wouldn’t look up anything Twilight related on the interwebs.

Depression: Why do I want to see Eclipse the weekend it opens. Dear god what is wrong with me? Why am I dragging my husband (who has to be fair read all of the books) to see this movie. I am just going to sit here and wallow in the Twilight airing on Showtime.

Acceptance: Fuck it. I like it and i am going to squee like a girl when it is on. I think I can free up room in my Shame-ber to add the series. I never wanted to be an ironic hipster anyways.

So there I am. I haven’t finished Breaking Dawn (but plan to shortly) I am counting down the days till it comes out in the theaters. I own two soundtracks and desperately want the one for Eclipse. I want the movies on DVD so I don’t have to wait for them to be on Showtime. I have a Twilight problem and I don’t need anyone to cure me. I like my vampires and I am okay if sometimes they sparkle.

*The word Shame-ber was coined by Luke Burbank of the Too Beautiful to Live Podcast

bitheadturnedtrader

by Bitheadturnedtrader

I’m an Information Technology (I.T.) Director for the Canadian division of an international business process outsourcing company. Essentially I’m responsible for everything technical in Canada – networks, desktops, servers, software, and programming – to support the day-to-day operations and future growth of the business. I’m the interface between business and technology.

Over the past 17 years, my main interest outside of family & I.T. has been Personal Finance. It began very modestly with the purchase of our first home, paying bills, reading books like The Millionaire Next Door, reading the business section of the newspaper, establishing a relationship with a Financial Planner, and investing in mutual funds. Through subscriptions to financial periodicals, and doing my own research and analysis, I began investing in individual Canadian and U.S. stocks. And, after some initial assistance from a Tax Accountant, I began doing our personal and business tax returns each year.

In January 2010, I came to the realization that working for an employer in the I.T. field was getting in the way of my true passion – trading the market. My passion for, and interest in Trading and the market eclipses anything that I’ve ever felt about I.T. So, after discussing my aspirations with my wife, I began one of the most comprehensive, complicated, and exciting research assignments that I’ve ever had the pleasure of undertaking … answering the question, “What would it take to become a successful Professional Trader?”

Fast-forward 11 months to November 2010 – I had spent countless hours (and some sleepless nights) learning all that I could about Trading and the markets. I was extremely fortunate to find a career Trader who offered to be my mentor – to help guide me towards realizing my dream. Soon thereafter, I enrolled in a year-long professional Trading course that will give me the skills and confidence I need to make the jump from I.T. bithead (geek) to professional Trader. I now interact daily (and sometimes hourly) with my mentor and with my course instructor. I’m committed to making this happen.

You can follow me on my journey via my blog and Twitter, and can contact me directly via e-mail.

Blog: http://bitheadturneddaytrader.wordpress.com

Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/mr_bithead

E-Mail: bitheadturnedtrader@gmail.com

When Rhian approached me about contributing to The Rhi-Post, I immediately thought about all of the people that I’ve met over the years that have absolutely no idea about money or investing. Most admit to having invested without understanding where their hard-earned money was going. Some can’t balance a cheque book, and others pay way too much in bank and ATM fees.

Now, before we proceed, I’d like to state for the record that I’m not certified to give financial investment advice. I won’t be publishing stock picks, or specific investment recommendations. My intention here is to help answer your questions about money, and to point you in the right direction.

Please send your questions – in as much detail as possible – to therhipost@gmail.com, and I’ll try my best to answer them in a future edition of The Rhi-Post.

To get the ball rolling, and to give you a flavor for the kinds of questions I foresee answering, I thought I’d pose and answer the first question…

Q: I want to invest in stock of XYZ company, but I have no idea how to do that. Where do I start?

A: In order to buy and sell stocks, you need to open a “Brokerage” or “Trading” Account. The bank that you deal with likely has a brokerage division, or they partner with a 3rd-party brokerage firm that offers Brokerage or Trading Accounts.

Just like a standard Chequing or Savings Account, there are choices to be made about individual or joint ownership of your Brokerage Account. And typically there are Standard (unregistered) and Retirement (registered RRSP or IRA) versions of a Brokerage Account. Standard vs. Retirement will affect how deposits and withdrawals into/out of the account are treated on your tax return, whether or not profits are taxable, and often Retirement accounts have some limitations on the types of investments you can purchase (but that’s unlikely to apply to a beginner).

A standard Chequing Account can contain only 1 thing: Cash. But a Brokerage Account can contain many different things at the same time: Cash, Stocks, ETF’s, Bonds, Mutual Funds, Options, CD’s, REITS, etc. If you don’t know what all of those things are, that’s OK – you don’t need to. For simplicity, you can think of a Brokerage Account like the “junk drawer” in your house; you could have a few dollar bills in there, some coins, but you could also have scissors, elastic bands, and stamps floating around.

When you open a Brokerage or Trading Account, you’ll probably start by transferring cash from your chequing or savings account into it. This is usually accomplished with a cheque or by electronic fund transfer. Once you have cash in your Brokerage Account, you can buy stock of XYZ company.

At the end of the month, your Brokerage Account Statement will list “how much of each thing” you have inside your junk drawer… I mean, account… and provide you with a total.

There are Discount and Full Service brokerage firms, which affect how much you pay to buy & sell stocks, bonds, etc… but that’s another topic for discussion in a future edition of The Rhi-Post…

Lament for the Loss of my Big, Fat Camera

by Shaughnessy

Like a favourite traveling buddy, my 38 – 105 mm Samsung zoom camera accompanied me on treks across North America, China, Hong Kong, Spain and Ireland. It, or its earlier versions, were always at hand for generations of family events, occasions and just for nothing moments. It documented my nature walks, adventures and trips to find beauty in unexpected places.

The pleasure was enhanced by removing the film and taking the little white canisters to my favourite photo shop and then counting the days until they were developed. Best yet was picking up the envelopes of memories and waiting the additional tantalizing minutes until I was home to open and enjoy the captured images. To hold the photos in my hands and, eventually, to add them to the photo albums and adding full captions to further tell the story of the world around me and the people in it.

Ah, but then I dropped this loyal, second-pair-of-eyes friend and it broke. Sad I was but thought I would just take it to the camera doctor and it would be fixed with no problem. Alas, it could not be fixed, “We don’t see many of these old ones anymore,” said the unhelpful man. “Old?” I thought, “Heck, it’s not old. I only bought it, what…thirteen years ago? It’s practically new!”

Resigned, I went to the camera shop to purchase a new one just like it. I was shocked and disbelieving to be told, “Oh, we don’t sell film cameras anymore. I don’t think they have been made for years.”

“What??? Tell me it ain’t so!”

“We have some good buys on digitals now…”

Digitals? I can’t see through the viewfinder and when I click a shot the whole camera goes down and shakes. Gosh no, I can’t use a digital camera! I can’t frame a shot, adjust the zoom or hold onto this little, light thing that can never become my friend! I am mortified. Then another terrible thought as I look around the shop. “Uh, does this mean that you no longer sell albums?” “We have a few,” he says, “but the big thing now is…” My eyes glaze over and a loud sound like breaking waves permeates my ears.

Hesitantly, I ask, “Do you still sell film?” “Yes,” he responds, “but only with processing included – $16.37 a roll.”

I realize I am the last person in the world to not adapt to digital or phone cameras. There is probably a word to describe me. Dinosaur comes to mind.

But I have lost a trusted companion and, with it, a favourite pastime and hobby.

Since everyone else in the world has moved happily to digital, I wonder if one of these discarded relics in excellent working condition is sitting forgotten in someone’s sock drawer. I still hold out hope that I will find one to purchase and two relics will unite in photographic bliss!

Handmade Revolution

by Kataish

Hi. My name is Kata, I’m 28 and I’m a craft addict. Ever since I was a small child, I’ve been obsessed with making things and “crafting”. It all started with drawing and taking art classes, and through the years turned into sculpting, pottery, beading, doll-making, crocheting, and then knitting. Currently my main hobby/obsession is knitting.

When I was about 7, my Oma tried to teach me how to knit and crochet. That young, I didn’t quite have the dexterity and mental capacity to understand how the needles (or hooks) and yarn worked together, but when I was re-introduced one slow and boring night shift at my call-centre job, a co-worker convinced me to try again. It clicked, I “got” it, and that was it. There was all of my free time and money. Now, six years later, even my husband has developed an interest in knitting and crafting, he knits the most beautiful and amazing socks that I’ve ever seen. We often go out and knit in public (at Starbucks or other coffee shops), and people are constantly coming up to us and commenting about how they remember their mother/grandmother/aunt/etc. constantly knitting and making everything they could. Where has that part of society gone?

Families used to pass down heirloom crafted items, and the art and knowledge of crafts. Now everyone seems to want to take the easy way out, buying everything and never putting any effort or thought into gifts. In my household, the majority of gifts are handmade – knit, drawn, or baked. I don’t have a large family that I exchange gifts with on a regular basis, but my immediate family have all told my husband and I that they love to receive gifts from us because they are handmade. My step-father loves socks, my mother loves gloves and decorations, my brother and sister-in-law both love hand-knit socks, even my niece and nephew do too! It brings me a lot of pleasure to create something special – knitting love into every stitch – that can be enjoyed by the recipient for years to come.

People often ask me how much particular items cost to make. How much is a skein of yarn that I can knit a pair of socks from? Approximately $10-$30 depending on the type of yarns you like. Yes, it costs WAY more than a pair of socks you can buy in a big box store, and yes, it takes hours and hours of knitting to create a beautiful pair of socks, but they will last longer, they’re more interesting, and I manage to entertain myself for hours in the process of knitting the pair of socks.

I can’t imagine my life without hobbies, and so many people “these days” just want to take the easy road out. What does everyone do with their free time if they don’t have hobbies? That’s what I don’t understand. If you’re reading this and don’t currently have a crafting hobby, why not try something you’ve been interested in? I promise you that crafting is worth the effort, it brings us back to our roots of taking care of our own, and you’ll feel more productive in your free time!

Mushroom Pillows from Stone Brewery.

by Uncast

Rebel Without A Pause- s1c3: You Can Lead A Club To Culture, AND You Can Make Them Think (A Costanza’s Goodbye)

by BrotherDarkness AKA Butch Rosser

Dear Planet Earth,
If you’re reading this, I hope somebody has had the decency to cut me down from the ceiling fan this note was placed under.  It should be noted per previous discourse that everyone get their crying out at the wake and that Christine has her choice of who to sleep with at the afterparty.
But after years and years of debating what was the point of it all, I just couldn’t see one after the following appeared in my timeline:
1) Train, “Hey Soul Sister”
2) Katy Perry feat. Snoop Dogg, “California Gurls”
It was just too hard living in a world that seemed not only to disagree with me, but take up ridiculous positions just to be in opposition to mine (see also: Beck, popularity of Glenn, Uggs, Glee, Avatar, no reruns of NewsRadio, etc.).  I mean, it was bad enough the Klan sent Waka Flocka Flame to destroy the fragmenting Black culture such as it was, but that 1-2 punch was like coming home from early to find your house beginning to catch fire only to find out the reason that it was catching fire was that your fiancee was too busy getting double-teamed by your father and grandfather for them to notice that flames were beginning to erupt.
When that came up as the most popular 1-2 punch for the year 2010, I knew my time on this earth was short.  I suppose at the end of the day it simply comes down to this: trying to slog through top 40 radio for me the past few years is like trying to swim in the Gulf Of Mexico — at this point, the difference between that and swallowing 47 pills or doing a chin check with a loaded .45 or taunting the police and making threatening motions towards them with a harpoon is just all aesthetic.
I suppose that I am the one to blame here, as like with one of the oldest axioms in my history a cynic is really a romantic that’s just gotten burned too many times.  My friend Daniel had an awesome term to describe a Grumpy Young Man — a Costanza.  And before, where the radio was one of my best friends and a gateway into a more in-depth and nuanced world it had just bogged down into indescipherable lexicon and posturing.  This isn’t to say that those things are bad, but as with an all fried-food diet if that’s all your body is taking in at some point it will revolt by doing something whimsical like exploding your heart or the blood deciding staying in place is better than running to your cererbral cortex.
I became a Costanza gradually, of course.  But the thing of it was, I didn’t want to become one, and I sure as shit couldn’t imagine a future where it was who I was as a human being.  (I also didn’t imagine a future with auto-tune, so I suppose in a way this is all Cher’s fault.)
In reading a series of reviews of classic #1 hits of the late seventies and into the eighties, I remembered vividly listening to the top 40 songs.  It went farther beyond a catchy chorus for me, and it definitely had something to do with my youth.  It made me think.  I started extrapolating wildly, as kids do.  But I think what seperated me from a lot of my contemporaries was that hearing these same songs as an adult didn’t give me a sheepish grin at the bar or a headshake over my former wayward ways; I not only felt even more enmeshed with the songs in question but looked back on young me surprised that for an absolute lack of context (relatively speaking, as per direct inverted proposition to life experience) that while I’d only been able to form sentences for a few short years then I still somehow found the “soul” of a song, or at least one possible soul.
It’s in this moment I’m thinking of one of my first radio friends, George, and hoping he’s not too disappointed in me for not hanging in there (what a horribly bad choice of words).  George was the first British guy I ever met, and even for a kid I could see he was dealing with Adult Problems.  The first words he ever said to me were questions–
Do you really want to hurt me?
Do you really want to make me cry?
It turned out George was also the first gay British man I’d ever met (in a really bitter irony, by the time I got done with the elementary school we’d first made acquaintance in he wouldn’t even be my favorite gay British George who sang about his problems on the radio all day), and his relationship–jeez!  No wonder people around me were divorcing left, right, and center.  While I merely worried about where the next cupcake was coming from this girlfriend or wife of his was clearly driving him to a breaking point in every depth of his being.
(Sidenote: I did realize after the fact he was a gay man but that was quite a few years away.  At the outset, there was no such thing as gay, not even as an insult–hell, I wasn’t even allowed to play with the “big kids” in the other six grades same as the rest of my class, so I drew my own context based around what was around me and what I’d seen on TV.)
WIthin 3 minutes of meeting me, a kid and complete stranger, George was just fed up to his eyebrows with the whole damn thing.  IF it was love that was wanted from him, then take it away!  I would’ve thought that was simple enough, but in the next breath he sternly intoned that everything wasn’t what it seemed.
Why would he do this to himself?, I would think, occassionally getting lost in my own head while snacking on Fun Dip.  He doesn’t like this person, he can’t possibly.  Either they want to hurt him and/or make him cry.  He was offering his love, which they seemed to be lukewarm on at best — whoever this skirt was that was putting him through the Double Dare of Love, she was no Clair Huxtable.  And yet everything wasn’t what it seemed.
George gave me a lot to think about in those four minutes.
And when I heard him again, it seemed weird.  He was still in the relationship with this woman, but not only did she come and go, she strung along (something I’d suspected but was good to hear come out of George’s own mouth).
So here’s what it’s like being a sandbox genius: not knowing that the leader of Culture Club is gay despite video evidence to the contrary, but at the same time has enough mental synapses firing to assume that in this relationship the karma chameleon is some sort of pet barometer that points to the entire relationship at large, since you are too young to have heard the word metaphor yet.
Loving WOULD be easy, warned George, except the scenario he had painted for himself in his head wasn’t reflecting what was actually happening.  You know, you bump it forward 25 years and scrap George and toss Regina in instead, find a couple of affable-looking brunettes, and you have arguably the best scene in (500) Days Of Summer.
Expectations.
Reality.
And every day is like survival.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is some inescapable shit about life.  It doesn’t recede into the background like wanting to be an astronaut or a Big Wheel or Growing Pains, it merely gets stronger and comes into life with more focus and clarity the older you get–it’s kind of the way the likes of Miss Bliss and Minkus fall prey to the Zack Morrisses and Corey Matthewses (Matthewsi?) over days and months.  At one moment you can be off the show like that.  Of course you can!  What is it — and for that matter — what is all art except an exploration of everyday interaction in human relationships?
And sometimes your lover IS your rival.
When I went back to look at top 40 radio’s biggest hits of my nascent youth when I was still a cherubic golden boy, I thought maybe I’d just blown George out of proportion.  He was the Outlier, the anamoly, and while his pop confection had stuck to my teeth about two decades longer than it did in the mouth of a normal human being, there was some sort of top secret Culture Club blind spot that I’d festered and the cavity had nobody to blame but its wayward owner.
Within 45 seconds, I could see that that wasn’t the case at all.
I am astounded the Human League didn’t win Nobel Prizes for the three of them in 1981, as they seemed to describe accurately every failing relationship in the history of mankind, which was most of them: people meet, fall in love together, sure, that much is true.  But then there’s a power inequity and the person with the upper hand looks around and in their next fell swoop moves for the exit, out the door, and it’s not even a moment of victory or ultimate joy if the alleged singing in the second verse was any indication.  I guess I never really got over the fact that the female aspect of the League didn’t have a rejoinder to my rejoinder of “If you love me so much, then why are you leaving?”  Even as an adult, sometimes that question was too much to bear in the situation where I had to be the girls!  But when women are right, they’re right: sometimes it’s just something that you must do.
HA!  Tell that to the roughly 585 kazillion people who’ve sung this ever since!  It’s like all this heartache and pain and self-doubt never even happened, because they can sing the chorus.  They built something for five years and now it’s all going down the shitter, and people are treating it like it’s freaking Piano Man or something!  They’re all singing along!
I guess I shouldn’t be amazed by people’s willingness to sing along to something that was really a gigantic cry of pain, though.  Sting was stalking his ex-wife, and despite the fact that I didn’t know the words stalk, ex-wife, or for that matter Sting the first hundred times I heard Every Breath You Take I nominated it for Creepiest Song I’ve Ever Heard In My Life.  And to be honest, it’d probably still be in the discussion.   He can’t sleep at night, he can only see her face, so he watches every move she wakes?  And they let this man TEACH!?  It sounded to me like the reverse of my parent’s marriage, which it was–but what was crazy was in the depth of this despair, the complete totality of this guy’s crazy mind being distilled into a 240-second essence, I knew he was going through a divorce.  If the opposite of light is dark, then the opposite of love and marriage is apparently Follow Somebody All The Time and Divorce, right?
The kids in New Edition looked the most like me and were responsible for my first cassette purchase, but it only took about 10 minutes for their lives to get ruined the same way George’s was: they take a taste of the Candy Girl, all their friends tell them to Cool It Now, except they’re waylaid by the awesome feeling of that first taste and in their desperate attempts to recapture it they’re left complaining–alone–to Mr. Telephone Man.  It suddenly occurs to me that that sort of thing happened in the urban community in the eighties a lot and it explains crack exploding.  One minute you have a girl who’s your own personal peanut butter cup and the next the guy from AT&T can’t even get back to you to tell you he got your message?  I’d throw it all away for a piece of rock, too, boys.  Those girls are poison.
But there were all sorts of these tiny lessons to be learned and thought over, and it was tragically all the relationshippy ones that went through.  I mean, it was nice that this Olivia woman wanted me to get a certificate from the President for physical fitness and the Men at Work had formed some sort of Australian Board of Tourism singing group, but at the end of the day (around 9, maybe 8:30 if I was tuckered out) it wasn’t their words that I was worried over–all I saw was a world of maneaters with Bette Davis Eyes, a bunch of Billie Jeans after you just because some little kid had eyes like yours.  It was a real head scratcher to put next to how to remember to seperate out primary colors from secondary.
I felt bad for all involved, obviously.  But I was only a kid!  I couldn’t help them.  That said, they gave me something to think about.  And the something they gave me to think about became the axis around which not only my world revolved but seemingly the planet at large.  When Foreigner or Nu Shooz would talk about the joy they’d found, the Winwoodian Higher Love, I always wondered in the back of my head if it was going to end up worth it.  I ended up sharing Tina’s distaste of love, and it didn’t take Ike swinging at me for 15 years to get there.  I was still trying to figure out the hows and whys, but the big stuff I got down: you could end up like Sting, or even worse, in a relationship where you were always kinda-sorta halfway out the door–say this for the estrogen soaked second verse of Don’t You Want Me, but when they broke they BROKE.  How were you supposed to see your way through growing up under these clouds of stuff like blue and orange and purple when in your heart you kept seeing red, gold, and green?  Who could put those in their proper places of primary and secondary when your brainstem was getting worn down like that?
The radio was giving me life homework, and truth be told I was always a fan of thinking about things.  I was learning more, which could only be good.  The More You Know, y’know.  But over time that sort of sensation of being mentally challenged by the words I was allowing in my ears went from almost total in scope to almost obsolete.  I couldn’t even get out of the nineties without a hailstorm of ballistics cutting down the two men who had challenged me with their worldviews the most.  Holes opened up in the universe of popular music, and Chris and Kurt made way for Ja and Issac and Taylor and Zachary (my apologies to the latter three).   I supposed once that sort of thing began to happen, spiritually I was already set to pull a Hutchense; Katy & the boys were just kind enough to hold the chair for me.  In this brave new world, success has been so easy for them.
I understand that listening to Tears In Heaven, Blue Monday, Nothing Compares 2 U, or the Boys Of Summer (especially considering my relationship with that last track, which has passed its silver anniversary and yet is the only song I can find that changes feeling based on my own) doesn’t put one in the mindframe of recovering three seconds later to reflect on what purchases will improve their life, but once the radio got in the one set of hands they pretty much managed to anesthesize the way that we feel.  Which is totally their right as a corporation, and I suppose my wish for them to provide a playlist that reflects a majority of my sensibilities is akin to 1984 me wondering if the girl hurting George so bad was somebody famous or just somebody local to him.  I suppose this is just another story of another failed relationship, only top 40 has broken up with me in my mind.  It’s let me down, given me up, and I no longer have any faith in the sound, so the amount of good things that I’ve got is now none.
Makes sense to me.
I do not do this for the purposes of martyrdom; I do this simply because once a man opened up the world for me with a mere two questions, and I fell in love with the world as a result.  And that world and this world might as well be Earth-1 and Earth-2.  I can answer the questions, George: I didn’t, to you.
But the radio did to me.
And this is something I must do.
You want this world of Grey Anatomy background music, of faux-soul and misspelled girls, you all are more than welcome to it.
It suddenly occurs to me that all you precious people might tell me that this is a step too far.
And yet.
Butch

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